A Wednesday Morning at Clapper's Pad
Holy crap, how long had it been...
It was Guy who delivered the news that Wednesday morning, around 10. Clapper, as usual, was asleep. It was a phenomenal contradiction of nature, to sleep as much as he did. In the early days, when Clapper was active, it seemed that he wasn't a man that NEEDED rest. But like a bear in the winter time, Clapper finally got tired to sitting next to the phone, waiting for the phone call.
So he decided to take a nap, and just... didn't wake up. Twice, Guy was convinced he was dead, until a loud snore broke a day-long silence. He got up on only a few occassions, either to eat, piss, or ask if the Pay Per View had been set up yet.
"Anything?" Clapper would ask in the daily routine.
"Nope," was Guy's usual answer, and Clapper would moan as he fell back on his pillow, back to sleep.
But today wasn't that sort of day. Today, things were going to be different. A week ago, Guy watched Revolution air on television after a long wait (pumping the volume to drown out his host's wretched snoring). But today, he got the call. And as expected in the mailbox downstairs in the lobby, there was a package and an envelope.
Hoerneman could hardly contain himself as he ripped the envelope open and read the line-up sealed within. Crap... crap... crap... bahh, OH, there it was! Clapper facing off against the likes of Dallas Winston, and David Allen Black. And, of course... the Xtreme Title was on the line.
The corner of Guy's mouth stretched into a smile. Clapper wanted nothing to do with titles... but when it came to anything with no holds barred (even with a corny title like 'Xtreme'), he was glad to hop in and tear up the competition. Especially when it came to Dallas Winston.
Quickly, he ran upstairs to tell Clapper the good news.
===================
(We fade into... wait, how the hell are we fading in when there's no cameras in the room? Well, here's some advice: don't ask how this fantasy sh*t works, just watch, listen, and learn, maggot!)
(It's a standard apartment, well behind in being kept clean. One the couch against the wall, below the dawning morning light, Clapper snores noisely, trench coat pulled over him like a blanket. The door opens and slams shut. Guy Hoernemen runs and and starts shaking the shoulder of the resting Clapper.)
Guy - Clapper... dude, wake up! We got it! We got the line-up for Global Warfare!
(One arm shoots out from beneath the trench coat pulled over the sleeping man. Guy's reflexes come to his benefit, as he ducks out of the way just in time to avoid having his head taken off by a stray blow. Instantly awakened, Clapper shoots up into a sitting position--which only takes half a second to lead into a standing position. He stands stomping around on his own couch for several seconds, muttering intangible lines as Guy Hoernemen cringes away to the other side of the room. Finally, Clapper speaks one articulate sentence
Clapper - ...FOR THE LAST TIME, I DON'T WANT TO PLAY ANY GODDAMN HACKIE-SACK!!
(And falls silent. He looks around, as if he is unsure of where he is. Then he comes off the couch, sitting down and rubbing his sweat-streaked bald head. He throws Guy a glance, then takes a sigh of relief.)
Clapper - Holy sh*t, man... what a nightmare.
Guy - What was it?
Clapper - Hippies... goddamn hippies, everywhere!
(He takes another sigh, then looks around again.)
Clapper - Sh*t... how long have I been out?
Guy - Oh... about two months?
Clapper - What?! You mean it's been two months, and the goddamn line-up for Global Warfare has yet to be announced?
Guy - Two months... but no more waiting.
(Bearing a smile, Guy holds up the envelope. Clapper reflects with his own smile, his eyes shrouded under the sunglasses. He has been sleeping all this time with them in place.)
Clapper - Great...
(Guy hands him the piece of paper. He looks it over, his eyebrows raising slightly as he comes across the match he is involved in.)
Guy - Do you ever tire of jobbers?
Clapper - Heh, never... you could say I never get anywhere that way, but... who gives a sh*t about going anywhere. Titles are won and lost... luck comes and goes. But if you're like me, killing jobber after jobber and working up a near-flawless record, you'll go remembered as never having as many troughs as peaks... you go off remembered as an ass-kicker.
(He nods to the package.)
Clapper - Video?
Guy - I guess... it doesn't seem we were meant to speak first.
Clapper - Whatever... set it up.
(Guy moves to the TV, getting things ready. Clapper takes a deep breath.)
Clapper - Woah... what's this hollow sensation of cold, lifeless energy flowing through me when I breath in?
Guy - It's probably clean air... two months off smoking have probably cleared your lungs.
Clapper - Oh...
(Without another word, he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, lights one up, takes a few drags, then falls into the chair. Guy presses Play, revealing...)
Clapper - Bah! It figures...
(Dallas Winston.)
DW - "Here we go again... It’s as if my life in this wrestling world has went full circle. I came into this wrestling game, so green, not giving a sh*t this or that... Dallas Winston came into the game to have fun and kick a little butt while he was at it."
(Clapper fidgits uneasily.)
DW - "But, as I molded winning title after title... Match after match, drowning myself in bottle after bottle. I bought into the hype. I bought into all of the fame, fortunes... Hell, can you blame me? A poor little white boy from--"
(The voice is quickly cut off as Clapper pressed down on Fast Forward.)
Clapper - For f*ck's sake... get on with it! Oh, here we are...
DW - "...Per View, Global Warfare. Four corners match with the Extreme Title on the line."
(Clapper looks to the piece of paper again, counting the number of contestants with his fingers. Himself... Winston... and Black. He ends up with three fingers. He looks at this, then to the TV bearing Winston's face, then raises an unsure eyebrow.)
DW - "The three hundred and sixty degree circle is complete... and no we won’t see 'The Messiah', or the 'ooooh everyone owes me something' Winston, no we’re all going to see a man that has been fighting to get out since I started three years ago in this business... the hungry Dallas Winston is back."
(Click. TV turns off.)
Clapper - Gee... where have I heard this speech before? OH YEAH! It was that punk called ROCKO DAYMON shortly before I kicked his ass into retirement.
(He takes a moment tittering to himself, another drag from the cigarette.)
Clapper - "Full Circle"... "New Chapter"... "No More Messiah"... blah, blah, blah... I've heard the same sh*t come from Damian Stone every time he came back to the world of wrestling, usually recovering an idiotic injury he put on himself.
(He shrugs.)
Clapper - This turning a new leaf... what the f*ck is that supposed to mean? Philosophers once said, everything is in flux. But some things don't change. Once a "Messiah", always. Likewise, once an untalented jerk-off, always an untalented jerk-off... still the same Dallas Winston, no matter what he says.
(He stands up, removing the tape from the VCR and putting it in the one place it belongs: the trash.)
Clapper - He could promise what he wants, say what he will... tomorrow, he could be Dally "The Good Boy" Douglas, for all he care. An image change won't change the way to fans look at him... it won't change the way I look at him... and most importantly, it won't save his ass at Global Warfare.
Cause while he might be a new Dallas Winston... a "TRUE", or "REAL", or "BETTER" Dallas Winston (God knows there's enough homonyms for the word), I stand as the same old Clapper. Same old, dangerous as a motherf*ckin' apocalypse, death incarnate, pain-torment-and-suffering bearing Clapper.
(Shaking his head, Clapper grabs a box of Cheeze-Its, and mows down.)
Guy - Suppose he'll refer to another three-way match in another Pay Per View and another federation...?
(Clapper shrugs.)
Clapper - What, you mean that match where he sat with a thumb up his ass while watching his goal slip away? Why SHOULD he bring it up? That was his own dumbass fault... he let that one slip away, and I wouldn't be surprised if he did the same for the Xtreme Title.
(He stands up, a smile on his face.)
Clapper - You know... I'm not big on belts, or Pay Per Views... but beating champions is so fun. David Allen Black... man, what a poor sap. He's going to wish he was still with that halfwit tag-team with the equally cheesy and untalented gimmick fodder by the name of Jevon Alexander White...
(He pulls on his coat, and heads for the door.)
Clapper - We got work to do, Guy... let's roll.
(Guy follows him out the door as we fade to black.)
Ryan - Ian, how do I get to the morgue?
Ian - Just drive away from the YMCA.