The Spirit and The Soul
"You want to answer my cry for help, when you didn't even hear the question. I mean you asked enough questions, and hell, you nearly hit the nail on the head. Want to hear the question?
Wait for it.
Where's the soul, Troy?”
“Oh, I just heard you don’t worry, but I don't mean where's the love, caring and feeling part of you. The waaanting part, of you. F*ck if that's existed in any way, whether you want to admit or not, since the late-90's, for anything that didn't have a dollar sign on it. When I say soul, I mean when do I care about what you have to say? When can I feel what you're actually trying to get at, past the name dropping and plug-and-play 'cockier then though lines'? Where's the substance, rich man? Or did Eli Flair break it off of you after he was done with your fingers?"
Alias was dressed decidedly more casual then his suit and shirt get-up from the first taping, and instead, wore the black track pants with the white stripes down the side and the red anarchy “A” hoody. The same get up that he had worn in his first appearance on CSWA television, when he was seen talking to Mike Randalls in a promo for there first round match-up, as he ran across the Golden Gate Bridge. Now the Original Pulp Hero was set comfortably in the seat of a stadium. Front row. At the venue in Portland where the CSWA would be holding there next show this coming Monday. The red hood hung over his head, entirely covering his messily spiked blonde mane but only partially obscuring his bright blue eyes.
“I’d go right into calling you the ‘walking b*tch box’, but then again, Sonny Silver has got that one trademarked, and atleast he makes things entertaining with his fare share of expletives. You though? You seem so afraid of offending your focus group, you couldn’t dare slip in a few cuss words. Then again, I’m sure you’ll say something like ‘I don’t need to say four letter words to be a REAL man’ and then connect it in some way that seems clever to you, about my awful smoking. Yeah sorry to bust your bubble, bub, but I’ve heard the smoking jokes before. So deal with the fact that we all have vices and some of us… can’t rely on excess.” His eyes looked forward towards the blank spot in the center of the stadium, almost building the squared circle with his eyes, going through the events that would transpire in three days. As his eyes scanned this ring, playing through that match against Windham, Alias’s was deftly wrapping his rough hands with white tape. A ritual he had done so many times by now, he didn’t even have to look down.
"Then again face it, it's almost been a decade since CSWA drew anywhere near the amount needed for every Dick, Joe, and Mark Windham to get an expensive sports car to size up their receding hair lines. No wonder they called you the 'King of the Slackers', you've stopped trying and just continue coasting on the beach... oh, and keep the $5,000 suits. They hold as much importance to me, as you do, which is only fitting I suppose. Putting the idea out there that a price tag puts importance on something, or gives it any real meaning of perspective. Of style. heh, Troy, you're just lucky that you can see the Atlantic off the end of your deck, coming off so very short-sighted." Alias snapped the tape off one hand, finished, before he then started on the other. A grin grew across his face. Hell, you could almost call it a snarl.
“It’s not like I’m going to let myself get riled up about you however. Hell, my schedule is a bit to full to mark off any allotted time to fully get into any mud you want to throw my way. There’s one thing you had to say though, that I’d just love to reply to. It’s not about the lessons about being a REEEAL man either, so don’t get yourself all riled up as you get the stamps ready for that care package o’ suits. I mean come in, the real man bit is a comedy piece at best. Even with that though, it wasn’t even the funniest part. It’s when you come off calling me part of some new crop of kid wrestlers. You’re talking down to me like I’m some sort of green kid coming into the business and suddenly making waves with my angst…
Lord knows I shouldn’t be surprised, but let me assure you, I’m about as green as that Centurion AmEx I’m sure you’ve gotten your hands on by now, Windham. If you don’t watch it, then that underestimating will be biting you in ass on your way out to the ring.” The second hand had been finished and Alias slipped the tape back into the pouch of the red hoodie, for a moment he methodically rubbed his knuckles, pressing the tape down into his hand. Finally, the Tin Angel broke his gaze on his ring, his future battleground, and addressed the camera. Alias rarely got himself riled up when quoting poetics... but Troy Windham just that vein of voice-box to do it. As he continued talking, the more animated he got.
“Troy, it’s easy for me to admit that yeah, I’m controlled by my past sometimes, and by those ghosts in my past. Does it rule my actions or set me down an vengeful path though? Hell no. You see, as much as I know the power of my past, I know it means sh*t all to dwell on it… the good things and the bad. Which leaves me wondering while you’re stuck in the past? You’re so busy talking about how you changed the sport, oddly enough in those air-brushed ‘dirtmall’ shirts yourself, that you – you can’t be showing anymore, how scared you are of your own future. Finally your brother retires, finally Eli Flair isn’t coming back for your ass in the CSWA, that you’re left gravely over compensating for yourself when you’re speaking to men like me. Like you’re trying to impress! You’re scared that it’s becoming more glaringly obvious that you’ve lost perspective by already making your shot at the top before seeing what was on the field. Making such wide strokes… already calling your shot, pointing out to left field as this big man with both the belts of the CSWA and NFW already in his hands! HA! You’ve already lost, because you can’t see any other outcome, you’ve lost perspective.
You’ve got no scope.”
Alias was now on his feet, his hood having fallen around his face, revealing intense eyes but an otherwise assured look on his face. Not cocky and care-free. Ready.
“No substance and scope. No spirit and no soul. Yeah… this ‘overly-poetic’ alliteration is sure easy to come up with, with source material like yourself, Troy.” FADE OUT.