(“Southern Discomfort” by Eyehategod. Sludge from the southern swamps, in case anybody down there needed a comforting sound to keep their spirits up during the storm.)
(...seriously, though, you crackaz be safe.)
(Our scene opens up yet again in San Francisco, along an overpass bridge that merges onto the freeway leading down south to San Diego. The side of the road is riddled with California’s homeless all-stars... a crack-addict, a jobless drunk, a one-armed Vietnam veteran, and at the far end of the line, a prophet of doom we immediately recognize as Empire Pro’s own Escape Artist, REZIN.)
(We’re greeted by the sight of the Goat Bastard leaning up against the handrail, shades over his eyes and mouth gaping open. On his lap there’s a cardboard sign that reads “BROKE-ASS PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER -- NEED RIDE TO SAN DIEGO!!” For a moment, our collective hearts skip a beat as we think, “Jesus be praised, the pathetic bastard is finally DEAD!” Our hopes are shattered when the guy in the weathered marines jacket sees the camera and taps him on the shoulder. Rezin jolts awake and immediately begins raking his arms and shoulders.)
Rezin
D’AH!! THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!! GET ‘EM OFF!! GET ‘EM OFF!!
(When he finally realizes it was all a nightmare, he shakes his head and looks to the maimed soldier that woke him up.)
Rezin
Ugh... ferrets. I hate those sons-o’-bishes...
(The ‘Nam vet gestures to the camera and Rezin suddenly notices that he’s on.)
Rezin
Oh, jeez... guess it’s that time, huh?
(The vet grumbles something.)
Rezin
What’s that? His partner finally posted a promo? Damn... it’s ON now.
(Getting his shit together, he pushes himself back up to his feet, cracks his neck, takes a rip off of a sludge-packed one-hitter, wastes another ten seconds of our time as he hacks up a lung, and addresses us all in a manner that can only be described as agonizing.)
Rezin
So did you hear the news, my happy little lambs? By royal decree, the ol’ Goat Bastard that’s kept jumpin’ and bumpin’ across every corner of the EPW ring is a
JOKE.
Personally, I’d prefer to the term “bohemian”... but whatever, let’s roll with it. I’m a joke... a guy that makes you laugh when I stand up and try to make something happen, because the irony of my situation can’t help but draw the emotion of hilarity.
Now... I pretty much thought this was already established, but... it apparently took a “king” to come out and make it official, just in case there were a few people out there that still had it in their heads that this sludge-sucking and Nihilistic rogue of the ring is an elite-level professional wrestler. I figured a man on a throne would have more important things to talk about in his royal address to the masses other than a mere insect that he apparently “doesn’t care” about... but hey, what do I know? I’m not a king.
And I never said I was. Two tournaments ago, I declared myself
the JOKER of the Cage. There’s a difference in those two, clearly. A joker is a court jester and a clown... he doesn’t have the flair or the recognition of a king, but that’s quite alright with him, because while the court laughs at him, he can only laugh back at them. People see a fool... but the fool doesn’t see people. He sees ANIMALS.
He doesn’t see a king on a throne. He sees only a child strapped into a high-chair... squealing for attention, drunk on his own ego and power, and yet... imprisoned by the duties and expectations of his position. The fool sees the the king as a child living in a perpetual state of fear that he ignores and hides from... a fear of making that one false step... that one fatal error... and giving all those braying beasts that fill his court room all the reason they need to leap upon him and rip him to shreds.
So yeah... I don’t got a problem being a joke, instead of being whatever the hell people consider “elite” these days. I mean, when you think about it, pretty much all of professional wrestling is a joke. Grown men dressing in flashy tights engaged in non-violent combat with each other for the entertainment of poorly educated lower-middle-class consumers, all the while trying to maintain it as a “serious sport”? Yeah, sounds like a joke to me...
Here’s another joke for ya: Sentient life appears on a small blue planet in an insignificant corner of the galaxy... a true cosmic miracle. It thrives and evolves... surviving numerous setbacks, ranging from climate changes to senseless conflicts and wars amongst its own kind. It triumphs over these obstacles, modernizing itself into languages, cultures, and civilizations. It builds a unified EMPIRE meant to last forever. Then it all comes crashing down under the weight of it’s own hubris... and the desire for immortality and power. The life dies... the planet dies... and the sun dies. An entire cosmic anomaly, born, alive, and dead in the eyes of God.
That life is humanity... and that planet is Earth.
(The line of hobos chuckle in unison... maybe not necessarily at his “joke”, but maybe because he sounds funny going into such a diatribe... or maybe just because their brains are so scrambled and their lives are so ruined, they’d laugh at anything at this point.)
Rezin
...seriously, what better punch line is there?
Wrestling is a joke...
LIFE is a joke... READ WATCHMEN and WATCH THE DARK KNIGHT, you dumb muthafuggers.
(He takes another hit off his one-hitter to finish it off, and manages to hold it in without going into a fit coughing this time. He brazenly does this in broad daylight, in front of Friday rush hour traffic. And if somebody narcs on him, then so what? There ain’t a cop on the West Coast that can stay standing after a Damascus Heel to the face.)
Rezin
I find the humor in the dark things in life. Likewise, I find the ugly things in all that’s good. But because that runs counter to what the majority of good ol’ Jesus-lovin’ ‘MERICANZ believe in, people have this tendency to drop all of these names on me. I guess it’s the hip thing to put down the people who are already out on their asses.
Back me up here, guys, am I right?
(He gets some supportive grunts from the other homeless people, although they could also be confused mumblings.)
Rezin
They call me things like COWARD... LIAR... QUITTER...
But how am I a coward? I was the ONLY MAN to step up and challenge the Hall of Famer, “Triple X” Sean Stevens, when he came back to Empire Pro. Where was Cameron Cruise that whole time? How about Impulse? Was there something more important going on at the time that kept them from the opportunity of wrestling and possibly defeating one of the most imposing figures in this industry? I really can’t say... but I can say plenty for myself. Even knowing the odds were stacked against me, and I was guaranteed at least ONE epic superkick to the face... I FEARLESSLY walked into the lion’s den with my hair and pride on the line... sacrificing all that I had left just to have a chance to prove that I can fight the “elite” even without having to BE “elite”.
And how am I liar? I’m the only man in this federation with the balls to say things like they are! Yes, I admit I have weaknesses... I confess that there’s always that unseen risk while swimming through the ether of chaos... I concede that I am a human being, with skin that can tear, blood that can spill, and bones that can break... and by saying this, I’m only trying to be honest. Anybody else who denies these things or pretends that they don’t exist are flat-out LYING to you people. Consequently, that can be said about the majority of the Empire Pro locker room. So many people here are diseased with a self-absorbed God complex, you might as well call this federation Mount Olympus. But there are no gods in that ring... just people acting like gods... and I’m the one person trying to show this world the truth.
As for being a quitter? I think I touched upon that already. The fact that I’m still here pretty much proves what a load of bullshit that statement is.
But despite the fact that it’s nothing even close to the truth, the haters out there have dumped these names on me... and sadly, for years, I would believe them.
(The homeless entourage audibly give their sympathies. The crack-head gives an obligatory “That is WHACK, yo!”)
Rezin
As I’ve explained many times, I didn’t have an easy upbringing. It’s hard for a shrimpy kid with no father figure and no love in his life to grow up with positive self-esteem. And every time I had the chance to prove all those haters wrong, I fell short. Either I didn’t have it in me, or I couldn’t be there in the right place at the right time.
And really, THAT is what makes you “elite”... being there, in right place, at right time, and KNOWING all the right things that need to be done. Being LUCKY, in other words. The truth is, most people do the right thing, but get nowhere for it... because it wasn’t their time or place to move on up. We call these people FAILURES... which doesn’t really justify all the years of hard work, effort, and commitment they put into doing what they love.
For example, I look at my career of eight years, my modest accomplishments, and my under-appreciated matches, and the black core of my heart, there’s a satisfaction knowing that at all times, I was giving it my best, regardless of where it got me. At the same time, balancing that satisfaction is a hunger... a desire to keep going out there and doing the things I do in the ring. Because regardless of what people think about the things I’ve done, I’m much more interested in the things
I WILL do.
But personal success, evidently, is inferior to PERCEIVED success. It’s all about how you twist things around. Realities can change, and all you have to do is alter the way you’re looking at it. “Triple X” Sean Stevens can call himself the greatest professional wrestler in the sport, and back it up with his results in the ring... but can you call a man “the greatest” if he doesn’t invest every spare moment of his life to the thing he represents?
(A car honks as it breezes past behind the camera. Rezin briefly holds up his sign, but his grimace shows that he’s no closer to getting a ride. He drops the sign to reveal another one being held behind it. This one reads “GIVE A BUM A RIDE AND I WON’T KICK YOU IN THE FACE -- CTHULHU BLESS!!”)
Rezin
You want another example? Okay, try this on for size...
Many years ago, I was just a kid growing up in a cornfield, back-flipping off my momma’s garage through every object I could find that would -- and in some unfortunate cases, would NOT -- break in half. Wrestling was my passion... and the wrestler I always adored and looked up to was none other than...
...you guessed it...
BOOGIE SMALLZ.
Yeah, I know... BIG surprise, right? Who would’ve thought that the kid who would one day grow up to call himself “Dopesmoker” could be a fan of the guy who took bong hits before every one of his matches?
But what can I say... I was young, impressionable... most of the time STONED... and not to mention, the sport was very different back in those days. It was a time when you could smoke dope in this business and be considered cool and rebellious in the eyes fans. Smoking weed before you stepped through the ropes made you the James Dean of professional wrestling.
It was a time when Global Xtreme Wrestling reigned supreme, and you couldn’t finish a match without hitting somebody with a chair, or at the very least putting him through a table. In fact, you didn’t need any wrestling ability whatsoever to win matches and get ahead... all you needed was enough size and strength to toss the other guy around for a bit, finish him off with a generic powerbomb, and holy shit, you’re a wrestling LEGEND.
It was also a time when you didn’t really need to make any logical points in a wrestling promo. All you had to do to impress people was talk a bunch of shit, stroke your ego, and make a bunch of shots at your opponent’s sexual preference. And whoever did the most shit-talking, ego-stroking, and gay-bashing on the stick, people would just assume he won the “argument”.
The young, purist
wrestlers of today’s era of wrestling turn their nose up to these extreme years, passing it off as a circus of “garbage wrestling”. I don’t know if they understand that at the time, this is what people were PAYING to see. It wasn’t our fault that the fanbase that this business depended upon had a thirst for blood... but many good men gave theirs, and would have given more... just for a chance to be immortal.
Immortality that many would never find, sadly...
(He sighs. The veteran with one arm next to him notices that he fades out for a few moments, and knows the feeling right away. When you see a man pause like that, you know he’s reliving those own moments of his life... moments that will never leave him... moments that will haunt him until his dying day.)
Rezin
I’m not proud to say it, but Erik Black the wrestler was born in this era of wrestling. But as the industry changed, so too did he evolve... eventually becoming the dastardly and dangerous figure you see before you today. All the skills of a technical wrestling Escape Artist... all the grit and guts of a daredevil Goat Bastard.
Needless to say, as those years passed, and that transformation went by, my favor of the great Boogie Smallz waned when I realized just how NOT great he really was. The only reason he was considered great back then? He was in the right time, in the right place... doing all the right things. Global Xtreme Wrestling... the early two-thousands... throwing things around, talking a bunch of shit, and hitting a lot of bongs.
But Boogie Smallz did not evolve with this industry. He was apparently frozen in time, and with his return, brings with him everything that was once great ten years ago... but not so great anymore. Boogie Smallz has walked right into the WRONG time and WRONG place... and worst of all, he’s doing all the WRONG things.
Newslfash, Boogie: It’s 2012... you’re in Empire Pro... and while you’ve put the bong down, you’re still sitting there, talking a big game with nothing to show for it, ignoring the valid threats we’ve made to maintain a frail image of badassedry, and all the while stroking your fattened ego to the point where it’s practically cumming in your face.
...but there’s jizz on MY stache, right?
(He shakes his head.)
Rezin
Take a long look in the mirror, you rehabilitated relic...
You think I’m pathetic and weak... just like everybody else in this company... but to be honest, I’m thinking the exact same thing about YOU every time I see you in front of the camera, pulling the same shit you used to pull ten years ago and thinking you’re still going to have the same level of success.
“Uhhh, you ain’t SHIT, Rezin! I don’t care about who you’ve beaten OR what you’re done in the ring!”
That’s too bad, Boogie... because being a guy who’s only professional wrestling win in the past eight or so years is over an equally washed up relic from the past, the people I’ve beaten and the things I’ve done in that ring are the only frame of reference you have to who I am as a wrestler. You should be studying those things you don’t care about in order to understand who I am... as a competitor, and as a man who is willing to go to any lengths to
HURT anybody who stands in the way of his path of destruction.
You’re not focusing on the wrestler that I am. All you’re focused on is the mentality... the image... the words... the philosophy... the things, these DISTRACTIONS that everybody else who got their faces kicked in by this heel couldn’t look past. Agents of chaos like myself just LOVE distractions... because it keeps people from understanding our capabilities in the ring... and you’ve bought into it, hook, line, and sinker.
I’ll admit that I live in my own little world... but honestly, who doesn’t? You’re beyond fucking retarded if you don’t think you’re living in your own. In Smallz world, people are distinguished as “bitches” and, I would presume, real “men.” Apparently, because I decide that it wouldn’t only be a waste of time to flaunt my own ego and give some much needed verbal praise to man who hasn’t received even HALF the attention he should have had by now, I fall into this latter category.
Is that what makes me a “bitch”? If so, what would I have to do in order to get the Boogie Smallz Stamp of Approval to become an all-out “man”?
If I came out and said that nothing could stop me, you’d call me out on being overconfident. If I gave you praise, you’d accuse me of trying to kiss your ass. If I said I was the undisputed BEST wrestler in Empire Pro, you’d point to my lackluster resume as proof of otherwise. Regardless of what I say, I’m pretty sure it will all draw the same conclusion in your head. Apparently, the only way not to be a bitch in the eyes of Boogie Smallz is to simply not get involved in a match with him.
(He rolls his eyes at this logic.)
Rezin
You know, Boogie, the reason why I come out and show you my humility and lack of any pride or ego whatsoever is not because I’m weak. It’s to show you that I live free from the shackles of physical and mental boundaries.
I don’t believe in maintaining the “elite” image, because I don’t believe it exists. There’s no point in coming out here and lying to you by saying I can’t be beaten. Anything can happen once that bell rings. That’s the entire basis of
CHAOS. When you leave your fate in the blind hands of the Cosmos, you can’t complain about where you end up.
Yet, you still bitch and moan about having Oreo Atari, or whatever his name is, for a tag partner. But hey man, you had the same chance as everybody else to find somebody reliable in your corner, but you were evidently too busy convincing yourself that you were just simply too BADASS to have to rely on somebody else. You can’t blame Dan Ryan for your own arrogance. Maybe finding somebody to buddy up with would have been considered gay, or maybe that would have made you a “bitch” by Boogie Smallz definition. Honestly though, you’re bitch in any case... because bitches tend to bitch, and along with a lot of pissing and moaning about how much people are holding you down, you’ve done quite a bit of that since you came back.
Speaking of your partner... OH JOY... here comes ANOTHER guy with a “I’m gonna kick you in the head” angle. First Teddy Alexander, now this guy. Bossman must be getting desperate fishing all of these guys from outside leagues. I mean, I thought it was pretty clear that
I was already established as THAT guy ‘round these parts, but hey... when it comes to thinning the herd, I’ve had a tendency to outlast the wannabes. Stalker and Mr. Sunshine are gone, after all.
I always wondered what it would be like to get in a fight with one of the guys from Goodfellas... and now, I guess I’ll have the chance to realize that life-long fantasy.
Anyway... just when I didn’t think I’d ever find somebody shorter than me this far north of the border... in walks this gremlin-lookin’ dude from a place called Defiance. Never heard of it, personally... I don’t see much outside of the federation while I’m living life in the gutter... but hey, just because I don’t know it doesn’t mean I’ll underestimate that lingering unknown factor. That’s living a life of
CHAOS... never knowing what might come at you, and being ready to take whatever it may bring.
The unknown, you can’t control... but it never hurts to dive in with a degree of preparation.
Will YOU be prepared, Boogie? Can you say in all confidence that choosing to go with a random partner was the best choice you could possibly make?
I made the mistake in last year’s tournament of putting my name into the hat and seeing where it got me. My partner ended up being Impulse. You’d think with a guy like that on my side, we couldn’t possibly fail... but alas, he was yet another victim of his own ego. Impulse didn’t wanted to take the cue from the Escape Artist and escape the cage when the opportunity to win the match and move on was right there and staring at us in the faces. He had to go back into the ring and try to win it the “true” way. He had to maintain his false image of elitism... and for that reason, my path in last year’s tournament was cut short, when he subsequently got his ass double-teamed and kicked to the canvas.
Before that tournament, Dopesmoker was on the fast-track to the top of this company... then along comes this asshole Marathon Man who struts his shit out, throws his own partner under the bus by telling the fans he doesn’t do things the “easy” way, rides the whole martyr angle after the dumb fucker LOST, uses all of my hard-fought momentum and marijuana moxie as a stepping stone, and cruises his way into a title match that was all but a guaranteed win for him. The stone was already teetering on the edge, but it was this catastrophe that gave it good solid kick and sent it on its way. Eventually, that stone would burn all the green out of Dopesmoker... leaving the hideous lump of
REZIN that the world sees before it today.
(He grins, and mothers shriek, covering the eyes of their children.)
Rezin
Not that any of that matters any more. This year, I’m walking into the King of the Cage with a partner I KNOW I can trust... a partner that won’t put me down just to make himself look more appealing to the fans. A partner with a track record for SUCCESS... especially in the cage, of which he is ALSO a king. The only “king” I would willingly kneel to, and ironically, he rejects the crown.
Yeah, I speak highly of my partner,
ANARKY... because he rocks a cause that I support. No pompous claims... no ego... just one match after the next, and a growing trail of bodies behind him. I’m not saying that makes him ideal, or “elite”, or better than anybody else by any stretch... after all, this is just the opinion of a lowly Goat Bastard... but the results are there on the tape.
You can watch it yourself, Boogie, if you still have your doubts. Fuck whether or not you’re “impressed” by any of it... you haven’t BEEN HERE the past couple years, so you don’t have room to talk. All you need to do is compare it to any other stooge back in that locker room, and you’ll see for yourself that while the elite image and mentality were never there, he proved that they were never important. Without any selfish interest in being the pinnacle of this federation whatsoever, he represented this Empire as its World Heavyweight Champion... and held onto it so hard, it took a masked man and his equally masked wife to pry it away.
Why would he want to bank in on the rematch clause on his contract? The debacle at Russian Roulette only proved that the EPW World Heavyweight Title is
NOT the symbol of professional wrestling excellence everybody thinks it is... it’s simply a token to be desired by every self-infatuated jackass out there who is desperate to be acknowledged as special... superior... “elite”.
Vain little attention whores, all of them... when will they learn? A belt doesn’t make you... YOU make the BELT.
And that’s exactly what Anarky is doing with the Television ANTI-Championship, and what I hope to do with his help in taking the Tag Team Soon-to-be-ANTI-Titles. We will PROVE to the millions across this doomed planet where the “true” superiority is in this federation. You don’t become an ANTI-Champion by simply calling yourself the best. You just go into the right and PROVE that you’re the sickest muthafugger to crawl out of the back.
If I gotta kick my childhood icon’s face right through the back of his head in order to fulfill that vision of doom... then hey man, sucks to be you. Same goes for Your Cousin Vinnie.
I couldn’t kill the King on my own. No shame in that... especially considering the HUNDREDS that came and failed before me. But this tournament is the last shot I have left... and Anarky is the Ace in my hand to trump that goddamn King. And should ‘Nark fall, well... that’s where I come in. I’m the
JOKER stuffed into that deck... the wild card that trumps all.
You think I’m just tagging up with him because I’m motivated by FEAR?
(Rezin giggles like a madman. A normal person would be feeling fear right now, just seeing someone so twisted taken up in sickening delight. The Goat Bastard pulls out an orb surrounded in tin foil, the great ball of black hash he earlier purchased from the medical marijuana dispensary. As he pulls away the layer of foil, the black mass underneath almost seems to cast a shadow on his weathered face, as if the very substance was diminishing the light of the day. He stuffs his one-hitter into the mound to pack it up, and puts his stash away as he lights up once more. No coughing this time... not even a clear of the throat. The smoke clears, and Rezin is still grinning on the other side.)
Rezin
You don’t know what FEAR is, Boogie. But believe me... I do. For fuck’s sake, I was MANAGED by FEAR!!
(True story.)
Rezin
What the fuck do I have to be afraid of, Boogie? What do I have left to lose?
I fight in every match like it’s the last match of my career, and live every day like it’s my last. I take the risks that you and so many others are unwilling to do, because you’ve always got the thought on your mind... “What if I seriously fuck this up? Am I going to bounce back?”
You can mock me all week if you want to turn it into an extended gay joke, but the fact is, I don’t care whether I bounce back or not. All I care about is whether or not the impact leaves a black STAIN that you just can’t wash off, no matter how hard you scrub.
(He holds up his hand, the stands tips of his middle and ring fingers clenched together in a manner that suggests he’s about to clamp on the Cottonmouth.)
Rezin
I’ll SHOW YOU Fear, Boogie... once these nasty-ass fingers find their way into your mouth. FEAR lies in the world of revulsion and pain I will put you in. Fear lies in the
CHAOS... and it’s in that dark cloud where I forever live.
When the cage is surrounding us... when the bell rings... you’ll see for yourself what the Boogie Smallz generation has devolved into after ten years of watching a passion degenerate into a pissing contest. If I don’t outright KILL YOU, Boogie, then I’ll at the very least bring you to the brink of death.
When the darkness overcomes you in that moment... hope to see a light... but don’t be surprised if you find nothing but the VOID...
(Signalling the end of his speech, his homeless audience breaks into light applause. It’s perhaps the best ovation he’s had since crossing over to the dark side.)
Rezin
Thank you, San Francisco... it’s been a blast. Now can you fellas do me a favor and tell me if there’s actually a camera in front of me, or if I’m just hallucinating, and have been talking to myself for the past hour or however long it’s been. Come on, can I see a show of hands here?
(He gets two out of three votes.)
Rezin
There you have it! Majority rules, and the ol’ Escape Artist is once again the SANEST person in Empire Pro!
(Two bursts of a car horn catch his attention, and we can hear a car skid to a halt up the road. Rezin looks legitimately surprised.)
Rezin
HOLY SHIT! FINALLY!!
(Tossing his cardboard sign aside, Rezin quickly marches down the line and shakes every person’s hand one by one.)
Rezin
So long, Tyrone! I sincerely hope you pursue your dream of a full recovery and publishing a children’s book!
And goodbye, Butch! Don’t worry about that bitch of an ex-wife... I’m sure she’ll get run over in traffic someday!
And farewell to you, Sarge! You are a true American patriot, and don’t let a single one of those red Commie muthafuggers tell you otherwise!
(Rezin hurries over to the vehicle, an ordinary yellow cab. As the rear window pulls down, we can see somebody already in the backseat. It’s the face of EPW reporter KENNY LOMBARDO, on his way to San Diego, and his expression immediately deteriorates into dread as soon as he sees who just ran up.)
Rezin
KENNY!! Bro! Cthulhu PRAISED!!
Kenny Lombardo
Oh God... GOD IN HEAVEN... IT’S HIM!! DRIVE!! DRIVE!!!
(The cab driver slams on the gas. Rezin, with one arm on the door handle and another reaching in through the narrow opening above the window, is swept off his feet and dragged.)
Rezin
GODDAMNIT, KENNY, YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!!
(The vehicle picks up speed, and Rezin is shaken free, with the momentum causing him to tumble across the asphalt in a whirlwind of yellow dust, black threads, and a barrage of obscenities and pained groans. The taxi disappears in the distance as Rezin pulls himself back to his feet in a mess of pain and rage. Blood on his forehead, he shambles to the cameraman.)
Rezin
Okay, fuck it... we’re getting to San Diego! Where’s your van?
(Before the cameraman can react, Rezin’s hands shoot past our view, and the shot abruptly cuts to static.)