NotorisSTD
League Member
(CUTTO: black ‘n white footage of a slightly disheveled Felix Red standing slouched against a brick wall, leather jacket, faded “Leftover Crack” T-shirt and black dickies, puffing on a cigarette, making occasional glares at the camera as he speaks…)
FELIX RED: I lost everything that made me important. No title, no cum-dumpster with political power, no lackeys, no money, no vision, no sanity. And everyone still just wants to be me.
Something Chuck Klosterman wrote about the Hawaii season of the Real World….There was Ruthie, the pathetic, f(bleep)ed up alcoholic. And then there was the rest of the cast, which strove to be f(bleep)ed up, which was even more pathetic. They were just banking that the further they could fall, the more interesting their story would be, and the more screen time they would get. The more club-nights they’d be paid to hang out at after the show ended. The more autographs they’d have to sign. The more people would remember their names…
I’m not champion anymore, and I didn’t even make it to the Ultratitle finals. But I’m still the most famous person any of you could ever hope to touch. Even Kin Hiroshi, this company’s supposed figurehead, catches himself talking about my “fanbase,” and the “respect I garner.” As if he’s so imperceptive he genuinely believes I even quantity that sort of nonsense…The way he does.
Kin wanted to be me, and he almost was. He wanted my title. He got it. But he still isn’t me. He’s champion, but I’m still the “man to beat” as they say. I’m still the center of attention, and this doesn’t make Kin Hiroshi very happy. Tricky part is, and while this obviously hasn’t always been the case, I’d prefer to not be bell of this particular ball. My wings are growing, and I’d like a nurturing veil of shadow to nestle under, for a bit. I’d like a quiet place. But I…can’t conceive of how to find one, and even if I could, you sons of b(bleep)es wouldn’t let me go there…
It’s sort of one of those “be careful what you wish for” things…
But Kin will drop the belt, if not to me, than someone else, probably right around the time I decide I don’t want him to be champion anymore. I’ll be champion again, there’s no questioning that, and for all practical intents, I might as well be. Nobody would want to be the surrogate Kin Hiroshi, except that this would put them in closer proximity to me…
See kids? I really don’t need Kin Hiroshi as much as he needs me. In fact, the unsettling truth is, I don’t need Kin Hiroshi at all, except as someone to brutalize, but I have so, so many of those…
Like Maggot. Is anyone interested in knowing why there wasn’t a Felix/Maggot match last season? Because why would I waste time on something so brazenly mediocre, when I had so many interesting and challenging things to break? But something…shifted, somewhere buried under certain defensive mechanisms I once supported my self-image on. Something I realized…Maggot is a hopeless booze junkie of bellow average intellect, who would’ve died alone in a gutter years ago had he not somehow stumbled into pro wrestling, an industry that rewards arbitrary acts of excessive violence. There was a nano-second, when I looked past Maggot’s *****, bruised veneer and saw something to be afraid of. And so, I dealt with the situation the same, and possibly only way I know how to deal with anything.
That’s why I tried to kill someone I had ignored for months.
Maggot, predictably, now wants his revenge, wants to beat a submission out of me. Make a statement, show the world what happens when someone messes with him, blah blah, so on. The chances of this ever transpiring are quite negligible, but I wonder if pummeling Maggot until he begs for mercy will sooth me. Does proving I’m the superior thug make me more than just a thug? If I drive Maggot insane, convince him he is a squid, not a man, or get him off the sauce and convert him into a born against Christian, would even any of that make me anything more than a well trained sociopath? Do I care either way? We’ll find out, I’ll accept the challenge, give the baby his blood bath, but not just yet. Somebody beat Maggot to the first dance.
What I know about David Tui is his personal life plays like the sit-com Entourage, without Jeremy Pivin. In other words, Entourage, without a reason for anyone to care. But David Tui doesn’t realize this, because he thinks a high alcohol tolerance, an ability to take bigger bong rips than the next guy, the amount and quality of women he’s slept with, these things make him a tough cool guy, and someone we should all be impressed by. Like how when I started bumping lines on camera, everyone decided I was really special and important, and I should get the spotlight I had deserved for years. David Tui signed my open contract, because he suspects I can drink more than him, smoke more than him, and screw hotter women. But he can’t know for sure, and if he can beat me, he’ll prove that he’s even tougher and cooler than even he realized…
Tui’s right about the booze, the drugs, and the sex. But he doesn’t see the big picture. He doesn’t understand true hedonism, which is to revel in hate and madness and fear and pain. He doesn’t comprehend that self-entitled meatheads like him take ambulance rides, daily, because of me. Not so I can prove I’m tough or cooler. Because of, what I’m beginning to think is my innate nature. And yes…this is where I’ve known true joy.
Tens of thousands of times. Got to destroy what I created, so I can build something better in its place. The frathouse must be demolished, starting with the late-arrival. The um…party’s over?...(bites his lip. Awkward silence…)
Again, it’s one of those “be careful what you wish for,” things. You all wanna be like me, more f(bleep)ked up, because f(bleep)ked up is more interesting, and more deserving of attention, as it is certainly an aberration when compared to its opposite…not f(bleep)ked up.
So when what used to be the bridge of your nose cuts through the part of your brain that stored your ability to read and move your arms, you’ll be very f(bleep)ked up, and that’ll make you happy.
Really, I’m just here to give the people what they want. (fake smile, “peace” sign.)
(FTB)
FELIX RED: I lost everything that made me important. No title, no cum-dumpster with political power, no lackeys, no money, no vision, no sanity. And everyone still just wants to be me.
Something Chuck Klosterman wrote about the Hawaii season of the Real World….There was Ruthie, the pathetic, f(bleep)ed up alcoholic. And then there was the rest of the cast, which strove to be f(bleep)ed up, which was even more pathetic. They were just banking that the further they could fall, the more interesting their story would be, and the more screen time they would get. The more club-nights they’d be paid to hang out at after the show ended. The more autographs they’d have to sign. The more people would remember their names…
I’m not champion anymore, and I didn’t even make it to the Ultratitle finals. But I’m still the most famous person any of you could ever hope to touch. Even Kin Hiroshi, this company’s supposed figurehead, catches himself talking about my “fanbase,” and the “respect I garner.” As if he’s so imperceptive he genuinely believes I even quantity that sort of nonsense…The way he does.
Kin wanted to be me, and he almost was. He wanted my title. He got it. But he still isn’t me. He’s champion, but I’m still the “man to beat” as they say. I’m still the center of attention, and this doesn’t make Kin Hiroshi very happy. Tricky part is, and while this obviously hasn’t always been the case, I’d prefer to not be bell of this particular ball. My wings are growing, and I’d like a nurturing veil of shadow to nestle under, for a bit. I’d like a quiet place. But I…can’t conceive of how to find one, and even if I could, you sons of b(bleep)es wouldn’t let me go there…
It’s sort of one of those “be careful what you wish for” things…
But Kin will drop the belt, if not to me, than someone else, probably right around the time I decide I don’t want him to be champion anymore. I’ll be champion again, there’s no questioning that, and for all practical intents, I might as well be. Nobody would want to be the surrogate Kin Hiroshi, except that this would put them in closer proximity to me…
See kids? I really don’t need Kin Hiroshi as much as he needs me. In fact, the unsettling truth is, I don’t need Kin Hiroshi at all, except as someone to brutalize, but I have so, so many of those…
Like Maggot. Is anyone interested in knowing why there wasn’t a Felix/Maggot match last season? Because why would I waste time on something so brazenly mediocre, when I had so many interesting and challenging things to break? But something…shifted, somewhere buried under certain defensive mechanisms I once supported my self-image on. Something I realized…Maggot is a hopeless booze junkie of bellow average intellect, who would’ve died alone in a gutter years ago had he not somehow stumbled into pro wrestling, an industry that rewards arbitrary acts of excessive violence. There was a nano-second, when I looked past Maggot’s *****, bruised veneer and saw something to be afraid of. And so, I dealt with the situation the same, and possibly only way I know how to deal with anything.
That’s why I tried to kill someone I had ignored for months.
Maggot, predictably, now wants his revenge, wants to beat a submission out of me. Make a statement, show the world what happens when someone messes with him, blah blah, so on. The chances of this ever transpiring are quite negligible, but I wonder if pummeling Maggot until he begs for mercy will sooth me. Does proving I’m the superior thug make me more than just a thug? If I drive Maggot insane, convince him he is a squid, not a man, or get him off the sauce and convert him into a born against Christian, would even any of that make me anything more than a well trained sociopath? Do I care either way? We’ll find out, I’ll accept the challenge, give the baby his blood bath, but not just yet. Somebody beat Maggot to the first dance.
What I know about David Tui is his personal life plays like the sit-com Entourage, without Jeremy Pivin. In other words, Entourage, without a reason for anyone to care. But David Tui doesn’t realize this, because he thinks a high alcohol tolerance, an ability to take bigger bong rips than the next guy, the amount and quality of women he’s slept with, these things make him a tough cool guy, and someone we should all be impressed by. Like how when I started bumping lines on camera, everyone decided I was really special and important, and I should get the spotlight I had deserved for years. David Tui signed my open contract, because he suspects I can drink more than him, smoke more than him, and screw hotter women. But he can’t know for sure, and if he can beat me, he’ll prove that he’s even tougher and cooler than even he realized…
Tui’s right about the booze, the drugs, and the sex. But he doesn’t see the big picture. He doesn’t understand true hedonism, which is to revel in hate and madness and fear and pain. He doesn’t comprehend that self-entitled meatheads like him take ambulance rides, daily, because of me. Not so I can prove I’m tough or cooler. Because of, what I’m beginning to think is my innate nature. And yes…this is where I’ve known true joy.
Tens of thousands of times. Got to destroy what I created, so I can build something better in its place. The frathouse must be demolished, starting with the late-arrival. The um…party’s over?...(bites his lip. Awkward silence…)
Again, it’s one of those “be careful what you wish for,” things. You all wanna be like me, more f(bleep)ked up, because f(bleep)ked up is more interesting, and more deserving of attention, as it is certainly an aberration when compared to its opposite…not f(bleep)ked up.
So when what used to be the bridge of your nose cuts through the part of your brain that stored your ability to read and move your arms, you’ll be very f(bleep)ked up, and that’ll make you happy.
Really, I’m just here to give the people what they want. (fake smile, “peace” sign.)
(FTB)