REZISTANCE IS FUTILE
(CUE UP: "Good Hearted Woman" by Waylon Jennings... for a few seconds anyway.)
You think what I do is easy
Pff-huh... you have no idea what "easy" is, little lamb.
(The shot opens with the camera weaving through the labyrinthine hallways of the house Erik Black grew up in as a boy... the house he now owns, with the passing of his un-dearly departed mother. As the comforting sounds of country music fades into a din of static, screams, and chaos, we can see just how much the dwelling has fallen into ruin under the watch of its new owner, with walls showing rampant slash-marks and black smudge stains. It looks as if hell itself farted in here.)
Try standing up on that top rope for once in your life... knowing that everything could seriously fuck itself over if you don't land right, but also knowing that if you don't go all out, you'll never be able to live with yourself for as long as you live. Do it a thousand times
, knowing you're only increasing the risk every time you take that chance with your body.
(The trail of destruction leads us into the den itself, where the ruined antique armchair is pulled up in front of a small tube television set, currently set at the static channel. A bucket of black sludge sits nearby.)
Try living your life without your friends and mentors there to pat you on the back and tell you you're doing the right thing. Try getting by without that pretty girl of yours stroking you off when your ego needs a bump.
(Somebody sitting in the chair notices the camera, and REZIN stands up to face the camera. On his chest, the words "REZISTANCE IS FUTILE" are smudged across his chest.)
But I know you won't... because for as much as you enjoy looking down on anybody who might need that extra equalizer just to get by
, you yourself are too proud to admit how just easy it is to be Randall fucking Knox.
(The music abruptly cuts out.)
RIGHT NOW I WANT THE UNDIVIDED ATTENTION OF EVERY GOD-FEARING AMERICAN CITIZEN...
(CUE UP: "The Man Who Loves to Hurt Himself" by Today is the Day.)
What YOU do is easy, Impulse.
Being a great professional wrestler, when you've been trained by one of the greatest professional wrestlers the sport has ever seen, is not exceeding an expectation. It's simply living up to a standard.
No-selling the last move, kipping up to your feet, and kicking the other guy in the face to end a match is what some might call a cheap, easy way to win -- in fact, it's downright cliched. Yet, that pretty much sums up the bulk of your thrice-damned "wrestling
" in the final moments of the majority of the matches you've been in.
This is to say nothing to the fact that virtually every situation you've been in has worked favorably your way, win or loss. Pretty easy to live your life with the mantra of doing things the hard way. That way, when things work out for you, you can have your gratifying "I told you so moment", and when they work otherwise, you can always argue that the other guy only won because you faced a greater challenge.
Been pretty much the exact opposite for me, in case you haven't noticed. When I lose, I always seem to lose clean. And in the rare cases when I actually DO win, it's always seemingly because the other guy got roughed up before the match, or he had a weak tag partner, or some other reason.
Funny, how things turn out that way. Going into pretty much every show for the past year, and being consistently faced with the task of trying argue what you're worth to this company? That ain't easy, Impulse...
(He holds his arms out and glances around his childhood homestead.)
Growing up in this house wasn't easy. Growing up in this shit-splat town in the middle of a hick fly-over state, getting pushed around all those years by the over-sized and the over-privileged like a scapegoat for their insecurities... that wasn't easy. Ending up in Japan, and scraping by just for any opportunity to get a few minutes in the ring... there was nothing easy about that either.
There was nothing easy about crawling my way out of the hell that spawned me, into the greatest professional wrestling promotion that ever existed. I had to bust my ass
just to make it this far. I had to withstand pain
that you can't even begin to conceive. Even after all that, I still consider myself lucky...
But even then, it's a funny kind of luck... because despite everything I've survived all these years, it still hasn't gotten an easier for me. And I can tell you right now, Impulse... there is nothing
easy about waking up time and time again in this filth, completely alone and unloved, looking forward to another day of more assholes like you belittle me and spit on me, because no matter how much I want and try
to change it all, you know
there's little I can do to fight back.
And yet, you'll still probably look for every reason to brag about it.
But think about that, Impulse... put that stellar college education of yours to use, and do some deductive goddamb reasoning for once in your life. What would you and MJ2 really
be accomplishing by winning this match?
After all, the two of you have already done a splendid job of depicting the First and myself as either cheaters, liars, miscreants, cowards, or complete wastes of potential. And if that's really the case, then I guess it should be a fairly easy task for a beefcake like Malcolm and a golden child of wrestling like yourself to just steamroll over the two of us.
On the other hand, if the Painted-Up Freak and I were to somehow rally together and beat the two of you supposed juggernauts -- and did it clean -- that would be something nobody would see coming. And everybody would understand that we overcame the greater challenge to get it done.
(He stops himself by rolling his eyes, as if his mind is shouting to himself, "Idiot! What the hell are you talking about? When does anybody EVER understand ANYTHING?!")
Or, you know... maybe MJ2 will just spin it around by saying he was once again held back by his partner.
(He reaches down and picks up the bucket, long enough just to dip his two fingers into the black muck inside. With his quill inked, he turns to a blank wall in the room and begins smearing the sludge into rudimentary letters.)
Here... since you apparently need of clarification to feed your bullshit.
(He steps away from the wall to reveal the message "Z = S, U F-N A-HOLE".)
I'm not promising revolution, Impulse. If anything, this is a resolution
. The point to a pointless endeavor. The meaning to a meaningless existence.
Although I also like to think of it as the END to all revolutions... the silencer of all statements. It would perhaps be more appropriate to say that I am REZOLVED to spoil everything that the likes of you and Malcolm Joseph-Jones could ever hope to accomplish.
Simply because Empire Pro doesn't need another revolution. Apparently, you missed the part where I said that revolutions were worthless. Then again, you also missed the many occasions where Anarky came out and deliberately said that the destruction of the Empire was my
idea and not his.
But it's the same old sad story. The oppressed revolt... and they become the oppressors. Look at yourself now, standing on top of the world looking down at everyone, compared to how you were when you first walked into this federation with something to prove.
You say the people want this pure, no-bullshit wrestling
you keep selling... but it's not like it was never there to begin with. The likes of Cruise, Westcott, Sands, and Daymon had you beat there by a number of years.
Truth is though, that for as much as you like to make people think otherwise, you really don't
know what those people want. Hell, even THEY don't know what they want! One day, they're cheering for guys like Anarky and spitting on Adrian Willard, and literally a week later, it could suddenly be the exact opposite.
Seriously... walk into the nearest trailer park you get a chance, Impulse. Ask the first guy you see in an ICP t-shirt what he'd rather see: two guys trading holds for a half hour, or two guys beating the shit out of each other from pillar to post. Sure, he's just some trailer park scum, who probably doesn't matter as much as the "people" you're talking about... but I'm sure Dan Ryan wouldn't mind having that guy's dollar.
(He glances longingly out the window, looking down the street of his hometown of Lebanon. Small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things... but still the home to the lifesblood of the American machine.)
See, there's a reason why this sport attracts a more blue-collar demographic than any other. It's because professional
wrestling offers to them what amateur wrestling can't deliver. Professional wrestling gives them the drama... and that's what sells.
We're talking about simple hard-working people know exactly what it's like to be oppressed by assholes who will always have the money, the intelligence, and the support to keep them under their thumb.
People don't just tune in to Aggression just to watch wrestling
, you misguided simpleton. They tune in to watch the great things that good, exceptional wrestling
can accomplish, even in the face of adversity. People want to watch their heroes overcome that which cannot perceptibly be overcame.*All those people really want is to be told a story. Specifically, one that gives them the hope and meaning they can't otherwise get out of their miserable and insignificant lives.
And now they're watching your stand there, patting yourself on the back about what a great "wrestler" you are, even in the light of your failure. You're standing there coming up with reasons to justify WHY you failed, seemingly unable to fess up and admit that your great and all-powerful wrestling
just wasn't enough to overcome the greatest schemer in the game. You promised to give those people what they supposedly wanted, and all you could give them was the same disappointment they could have just as easily found by living through the course of their regular shitty lives.
Sure, Impulse... you're a great wrestler. Nobody ever denied. Carmelo Anthony is a great basketball player too. But all the same, the both of you failed to bring any World Championships to New York this year.
Championships that matter
, in any case.
(It seems like the moment he'd flash a smirk, but for some reason, he doesn't.)
All that talk about how other people "need" to swing chairs and "need" to take short-cuts and "need" help in their corner... and all you could do is prove that you need something yourself. You need a match without distractions.
And you've got a two-hundred-and-seventy pound distraction standing right there in your corner.
And don't worry, MJ2... I haven't forgotten about you. Hope you don't take that as disrespect, since you apparently find everything offensive.
I mean, sure, you're miffed because I said I don't take you seriously, but it's not like your partner takes me serious as well. In any case, how could ANYTHING be taken seriously? All of existence is a joke, and regardless of how many times we define this sport as the azimuth of human existence, there's always some group of douchebags out there guffawing over how gay we all are for engaging in a contact sport.
That's the ultimate paradox of your existence, Malcolm. Your idea of "greatness" is another man's idea of "gayness".
It's not that I won't credit you for being a big beefy badass. You're good at what your do, otherwise you wouldn't have worked your way up to the Television Championship. But pray tell, when you achieved your ultimate image of absolute badassedry... what comes next?
Will you pick up the pieces and move on? Will you move on up in the world? Or will you just be another beaten Television Champion slipping into the cracks of obscurity?
Explain to this poor, misbegotten waste of existence just how you are you going to be different from all those that came before you, tried, and failed?
I mean, look at the line of previous Television Champions, and notice how many of them actually built off of their stint with that title. Cameron Cruise made it happen... after many, many diligent years of persistence. Adrian Willard, Cthulhu bless him, is still trying.
I don't know, to be honest... but I DO know that you're not going to convince me otherwise by telling me things I've already heard.
And yeah, I know you're tired of hearing that... but don't blame me. Blame the legions of losers who came to this place before you, getting our hopes up with all their hollow promises and leaving us disappointed in the end.
That's not say you can't pick me up and choke me out, or whatever. There have been a lot of guys that have come through and kicked my ass. But they didn't stick around... which pisses me off, because it felt like I just sat there and took an ass kicking for nothing.
You hope I die quicker... and frankly, I'm right there with you. But life has a tendency to hand me a number of disappointments. I can't die quickly, it seems... not before watching the last things left in this world I have any affinity toward die first.
The jury is still out on whether MJ2 is the real deal or not... and given the circumstances of this being a wild card tag match, we may not even have an answer by Aggression 73. I guess we'll have to wait until you finally man up and put your new title on the line. But whether there's any weight to your promises, or if you're just another pretender promising changes and the making of statements, you couldn't have come into such a position at a worse time.
Why is that? Well, it's like this, Malcolm...
(He removes his shades, to show he's being serious... even if one does find it hard to be serious about anything.)
I'm tired of being walked over by bullies like you. I'm tired of people like you calling me a waste of potential, when you have no fucking idea what REAL
potential is in the first place.
You've got size and you've got strength, and you've got some motivation... but I'm willing to bank that you're desire to kick my ass isn't quite as large as my desire to kick the ass of every person who keeps on doubting me as nothing more than a burn-out. Desire isn't everything, I realize... but when desire is all you've got to go by, you learn to take it for what is.
You don't think it could be done? That's fine... years ago, people didn't think The First could beat "Triple X" Sean Stevens. All the same, he found a way to get it done.
Of course, it wasn't all that legit of a win... but you knew that already of course. How could you not, by the way your partner keeps spouting off to the entire world what I've already known and been trying to tell people for years?
(He picks the bucket of sludge up again, swinging it around in his grip as though he's testing the weight.)
Frankly, though, I no longer care whether I can win convincingly, or legitimately, or however else. It doesn't matter to me what people have to say about my ability as a wrestler, or what they might say about my lack of a record. I don't care about the gratification I'd get if all this suffering somehow one day paid off.
Truth be told, I don't even care about wanting destruction anymore. I think everybody knows by now I'm not capable of anything like that.
But even with the whole world rooting for my demise, I keep on fighting... even when I know in all likelihood I'm just going end up being humiliated and beaten again, I keep fighting... just to show the world that I can still hurt
the people that piss me off.
(He grabs the bucket by the base, showing the audience the black mess within.)
And the two of you have given me plenty
of reason to be pissed off.
(He tosses the contents of the bucket directly at the camera. Beneath the sound of slopping, we immediately go to black.)