[Pete Whealdon is sitting in front of his computer, which is on a desk of the nondescript variety. The keys are actively chatting away. Pete stops to stroke his mustache thoughtfully. As he types he begins to narrate aloud.]
[As is usually the case, the Coporatemedian Damien DeSett is in the room with him, doing power squats. with a camel back likely filled with the mysterious “protein” drinks that have driven him to look like a cross between a greek god, and a late nineties baseball player. you know, all natural.] It’s an exciting time in your life, you’ve discovered you want to be a professional wrestler. A lot of young men at the tender of age eighteen have looked down the barrel of possibilities and chosen the fine form of tights based combat. Kudos to you.
[Whealdon nods to his computer as he types and speaks. DeSett for all of him, decides now is a good time to show off the largest, and arguably the most natural arms in the business today. His Mark McGuirian Biceps look ready to explode in fury and what has been described as Horse Growth Hormone, yet if you ask either of the ****/b/olts, they’ll say it’s simply better genetics.]
I know that when I was younger, and I hadn’t grown such a fine mustache, that I wished someone had taken the time out of his long, exciting day, to tell me a little bit about what I was getting into.
[Whealdon looks wistfully out of the window I failed to mention earlier.] Well, you’ve made the right choice. Your entry into the ULTRATITLE, is a good way to get your name out there. Let’s talk about that a little bit. I know I had a choice of names, I looked at winners like Terra Fying, Jumpin’ Jack Johnson-Johnson, and Locker #2.
[Pete strokes his mustache nostalgically.]
I laid awake for long hours at night, thinking over the importance of, “Who is Pete Whealdon gonna be, Daddy.” I didn’t say Daddy back then, but back then Daddy, I wasn’t nearly cool enough for such things. No, like you, I rubbed my head, My training horrendously inadequate at the task of deciding.
What EVER shall I call myself?
[Pete Whealdon looks back at Damien, who again decides the best way to interject himself is by flexing hard, driving his arms downwards as muscles explode in bursts of adrenaline/testosterone overload of Power. Almost. They’re close.]
[Quick cut to Pete Whealdon sitting inside of a motel. it’s bland, bland bed, bland walls, bland wood two drawer bedside table.] In moments of desperation and confusion, and trying to find myself in the world, I know I also looked deep into the soul of the Super 8 I wasn’t staying at, and I know I popped open that top drawer. I saw the redeeming comforts of the Bible, and Gideon. I know what it’s like to be a confused young man. So I also took the name Gideon from the wonderful People of Gideon international.
[Now Pete Whealdon is holding up the bible removed from the top drawer, opened to the front cover. bright red ink slightly smudged reads “Gideon’s International.” Pete casts aside the Bible and goes back to typing on the laptop he has with him, and continues narrating aloud. Pausing briefly he lights a cigarette.] Now, I know, I know. You’re saying “but Pete, I needed a name for wrestling!” or “but Pete this is the name my navel-gazing mulleted parents saddled me with!”. Tut Tut. I have thought of this as an issue. Now we can’t all just dream up a good name for ourselves, and we certainly can’t have the kind of wonderful affectations like a german accent.
[Cut to a German man waving. In a field. In lederhosen. Damien DeSett slowly rumbling at him from over the dell. Cut back to Whealdon in his office typing.]
But we can think a little bit. “Do I want to be associated with the fine fine accommodations of non-premium domestic motels?”. If the answer is yes Gideon, Let me try to convince you otherwise! because while, looking for the deep answers of life, carpentry, and metaphysical questions across the universe of middle america.
[Cut to a quick blast of images. The Eagle Nebula, a Carpenter, a Carpenter CGI'd in to the Eagle Nebula building a rocking chair. Super 8 Motels being built by a carpenter in space upside down. The Apollo mission. A Door Frame in a field. Damien DeSett potatoing a German guy. Posies in a vase on the back of a galloping horse.] Now, we all can’t be awesome and grow the kind of mustache that makes Tom Selleck look like a hobo.
[Cut to a close up of Pete Whealdon’s fine mustache.]
Now, we can’t all wear pink like it’s black, and mesh like it’s wool. and we can’t all gyrate ourselves into the hearts and loins of everything we come across.
[Inappropriate gyrations. followed by images of Whealdon doing the same in a Yellow Mesh hoodie, hood up with a pink LED Dolphin flashing on the both sides.]
But don’t despair Gideon, I like yourself was once not such a fancy lad, I once was from middle america, I once could be described using single syllable pronouns. I also once entered to music that was both intense, and emotional.
[Cut to a young metalcore band, more hairdos than notes, in the middle of what they are calling a break down. heavy e-string chugging. Damien DeSett blasts through the wall Kool-Aid Man style. Pete Whealdon types amidst the maelstrom.] You see, as a gifted young grappler from the middle zero’s all you needed were a few hard kicks and an animal avatar nickname. You could be a Lion, a Tiger, or a Bear! And you could wear a mouthguard and kick pads, because Daddy, that’s how educated your feet had to be.
[Cut to Pete Whealdon pre Mustache wearing a mortarboard, the little gold rope dangling a pair of feet.]
[Cut to Pete Whealdon typing away in a bar. A Glass of Pappy Van Winkle seated next to him, and the cigarette dying in an ashtray.]
And you need a faux hawk, and and bad barbering. You need to look as bad as you were. Times have changed, Now you can roll in calling yourself the first thing you see in your first motel on your first roadtrip.
but Daddy, there is a reason I’m telling you all of this, why I’m letting you know how the greatest technical wrestler alive today came up, because it’s not all headlocks, armbars, cool nights and Ladies.
[Cut to Pete Whealdon rubbing baby oil on himself and leering at two women. They look on in horror.]
Daddy, the important thing is, someday when you’re sitting at a bar not nearly as fine as this one, drinking whiskey not nearly as good. And you’ve tried and failed many times to grow a silken mustache of man flannel. Sipping your drink and telling the other non mustached stiffs around you how hard a racket Pro Wrestling is, and how you couldn’t quite just find your way out of the potato sack you got stuck over your head in the game of life, that no one tried to take you under their very very cool wings.
Suite Corporate Dolphin Pete Whealdon, Esquire.
[Whealdon finishes tapping as Damien DeSett dressed as a bartender walks through the flip down counter to give Pete some more Pappy Van Winkle.]
Supplemental notes – Gideon has started writing a web log (‘Blog’) at the urging of his sister. I feel this might be cathartic, and the impersonal nature of the communication means he may share more than he does in our appointments.
The following is a verbatim print of his first blog; all spelling errors and/or grammatical affectations are his own.
hello my name is gideon and this is the first post on my new blog nadia suggested i write out my thoughts as a way for people to get to know me and understand me but she also wants to be able to change what i write and fix the syntactical and grammatical errors i will not let her do this as i like things the way that they are capital letters seem wrong to me and so i refuse to use them the same way i refuse to use punctuation this angers nadia but right now i am doing what she calls getting ahead of myself even though i do not know how you could get ahead of yourself unless you were a ghost in a video game or similar and i am not that but now i will explain a bit about myself
i am a professional wrestler despite having a syndrome that makes me different from other people and makes my view of how things should be quite divergent from what is considered normal even for those with my syndrome i am seen as being unusual because my job takes me into contact with people on a physical basis all the time and people who are like me but not like me do not enjoy being touched i also do not find pleasure in being touched but i have made a decision to try to surpass the expectations that people have of me and by using my natural distaste of being touched i can react and move people into positions from which they cannot choose to have an effect on me i actually find this easy and nadia expressed surprise at how good i was when i first tried out at a local company i beat their best gentleman wrestler in forty three seconds and from there it has formed a repetitive series i like repetition and i like angles i know levers and fulcrums and pivots and i find it difficult to understand how others can neglect them i find it hard to understand why these opponents of mine would leave their center of gravity so unbalanced as if inviting me to spin them around and force them to be supine before me i asked nadia if this had all been staged for my benefit my syndrome does not affect me as much as it does some who possess it but i still retain difficulty in gathering the motives of others nadia insisted that all of the matches i competed in were genuine and that she was not doing this to make me feel better about myself i am still not entirely sure of what she meant
i have received no special training for this role i play as a professional wrestler i have not taken a course or a lesson so i am still learning but i am a quick learner they commented on this regularly when i was growing up and taking classes on languages and mathematical equations apparently i am a genius but not the right kind to be popular or accepted i am fine though i have a good time with nadia and now that i have entered the ultratitle competition she thinks i could impress people and get signed with a proper wrestling company i would like that as the patterns i see within the ring are pleasing to me
my first opponent will be suite pete whealdon i do not understand how one man can be a set of things that belong together or a room but perhaps he can explain it to me more fully when we shake hands before the match starts i do not enjoy shaking hands but it is the correct thing to do and it shows respect nadia told me that suite pete whealdon has recorded a promotional video and she said that he was ****ing mental but that he had a nice moustache i wanted to see the video but nadia did not think that would be a good idea i was disappointed but nadia wants what is best for me and she is more experienced since our parents died she has looked after both of us
some people find it strange that i feel no apprehension about walking in to a wrestling match with people i do not know and trying to defeat them and yet the very idea of recording promotional material or being interviewed fills me with something between fear and anger i cannot explain adequately but i am not comfortable with attention where i am required to speak i do not like to talk a lot nadia said that suite pete whealdon talked a lot but that it was mostly about his moustache i cannot grow a moustache i tried once to do so but my hair was too light in color and did not have enough volume to cover a sufficient part of my face this was a shame as i do not like to scrape the hair off my face but nadia insists that i do it or else i will look unusual i do not mind looking unusual as i am not a person that would be considered normal or usual but nadia cares about what people think she is very clever that way even though she says she is not a genius
so i will face suite pete whealdon and we will have a match i will win or i will lose but i think i will win because that is the way it should be i like systems and i like repetition and i like things to feel right to be right i have no degree of malice or ill feeling towards suite pete whealdon but i will be forced to hurt him and win because that is the way it should be
A whitewashed wall. Followed by stuttered zooming, and quick circular panning. Stop. Smoke twists in to view.
“Point that camera over here.”
Pete Whealdon is lounging in a floating pool chair. In a Kiddie Pool. In what appears to be a basement. A cigarette hangs from his lips and he is rubbing his chest in a manner that would be considered rudely grotesque to civilized folk.
“mmmmmhehehehahahaha.. Satan thought he was Michael Bay.”
Pete Whealdon considers the words coming from behind the camera for a moment, before cleaning his luxurious lexus of a mustache with his forefinger and pinky. Behind Whealdon is the ruin of a desk. Damien DeSett is sitting at it. Or in it. As it were. Damien is busy inspecting his hands, and then the desk, and then his hands, and then the desk, and then his hands.
The camera quickly spins around and the visage of a man who like a dog could only be described in vague niceties such as “Loook at you! Look at you!”. Thick black rimmed, completely non-ironic, and not even remotely hip coke bottle glasses, and a hood pulled tight around his head. two devil horns come off of either side, and a hole has been cut, his ear sticks through and a blinking bluetooth ear piece sticks out.
“Daddy, point that camera back over here!”
The camera swings back around, Pete Whealdon is now standing out of the pool, legs spread and hands on his hips. Aside from wearing the finest mustache in the history of humankind, Whealdon has chosen to wear a yellow mesh shirt, with a pink dolphin embroidered on the chest, as well as a bright pink speedo. Suffice to say it doesn’t leave nearly enough to the imagination. Whealdon casts his cigarette into the kiddy pool.
He turns around to look at the desk, and you’re gonna wish he hadn’t done that as his ass cheeks are now gracing the screen, grabbing the ficus tree nearest to him, he turns back around, plunking the ficus down in the kiddie pool.
The Ficus happens to be made of plastic. And fireproof. Lately there has been an issue with ficus trees burning in this particular location, but this ficus tree also has what is supposed to pass as a copy of the ULTRATITLE draped from it.
Pete turns around again. Buttcheek city. Satan giggles. DeSett walks through the desk KOOL-AID Man style over to his bowflex, where he promptly flexes, and gets at it.
“Daddy, How come no one told the Suite One, Gideon was retarded?”
Kevin “Satan(now with more Evil!)” Alloy is about to respond, raising a finger in front of the camera.
“But more importantly, how come no one told DEFIANCE’s coolest wrestler that retard gideon had a hot to trot sister.
Daddy, how could you not see the dutch rudder implications?”
“mmmmmm.. Satan hadn’t considered your buttcheeks before.. Satan feels ill Suite one.”
Whealdon spins around, more jostling of goods happens.
“No time for that, because Nadia. I don’t know if you’ve ever rubbed baby oil on the chest of a real man. A Dolphin Man. But I suggest we just leave Gideon tied to the bike rack and go have some sex and then you can get me some fish sandwiches and we’ll see what happens.”
“Now Nadia, you see I printed out your brothers weblog, and it’s in my desk here somewhere..”
Whealdon turns around again, and bends over and digs through the wreckage. Somehow the fact his ass is tanned was missed earlier. Finding a single piece of paper, he spins back around, his ermm... package jostling. He returns to the kiddie pool. He pulls a pair of vintage aviators, otherwise known at the coolest shades in the business, they also double up as Whealdon’s indoor reading glasses, he slaps out the wrinkles from the print out.
Whealdon murmurs to himself a bit, trying to work out the tangle of writing that served as Gideon’s first appearance to the world.
Whealdon raises his eyebrows.
Thwapping the paper some more.
“Gideon, named by parents, who couldn’t even get giving birth right and popped out some kind of autism hamburger, and Daddy, Autism Hamburger? It sure as hell don’t taste good. Further damning proof that Nadia needs to up and leave her brother in a bag with a rock in the river Daddy is delivered not a mere.. runonsentenceaway.”
Whealdon drops his sunglasses down.
“Gideon. Can. Not. Grow. A. Mustache”
Satan gasps rather audibly. Damien stops bowflexing the fuck out of his bowflex.
SNAPCUTTO now trending worldwide on twitter: #AUTISMHAMBURGER
The German Guy is now sad in his field. In his Lederhosen. Damien DeSett stops rumbling towards him.
“mmmm... Satan is confused.”
“Daddy, Satan isn’t the only confused one. The Suite One sat down, and wrote out a thoughtful letter, hoping to reach out the next generation of superstar, he poured out his feelings, OVER the internet, the most emotional place to pour out emotions. He took time out of his day of Long, Hard, Thurstfilled Day. He thought he was laying down some pipe, and some wisdom. He “borrowed” a laptop from his BAWS, Who also happens to have a very very sexy assistant. Who The Suite One failed to impress.”
Whealdon stroked his mustache in disappointment.
“But Daddy, When, The Greatest Technical Grand Wizard Dolphin, planned all of this out, He thought he was dealing with a man’s man. A real Mans Mans Mans Man. The Kind who can put a little Veeeelour on his lip, the one who can put the lass back in class. Daddy, I thought I was talking to a man who could at the very least put some fuzz on his upper lip.
Whealdon holds a hand up.
“I’m not saying that some you won’t be able to put a flavor savor on that lip of yours, but let’s face it a man without a mustache is like.. well. It’s like a star without a twinkle. It’s like Eric Dane without a mane. It’s like Dan Ryan without grizzle. It’s like Rich Mahogny without a bowtie. Daddy it ain’t right.
I also heard men without mustaches attract sasquatch, and I gotta ask the people who run ULTRATITLE, exactly what they were thinking, letting in this hairless wonder. You’ve flagrantly endangered the entire tournament letting him in.”
Whealdon shakes his head in disgust. He doesn’t even want to touch his mustache. He drops his piece of paper, and it floats down, landing on the arm of his pool chair. Whealdon turns around and bends over again. Satan audibly sounds like he’s about to vomit.
DeSett flexes to fill the time.
Whealdon having finished looking, well longer than he should have for the paper, has popped back up and turned around.
“Gideon. I tried to take you under my wing. I tried to feed you my knowledge as though you were a baby bird, and I was giving you the easily digestible goods Daddy Bird Dolphin style.
But you couldn’t even get it right. I’ll even be a little sad when Nadia is giving me that long awaited Dutch rudder post match, and if you’re really lucky, I’ll even let my man here Damien DeSett”
DeSett Flexes again.
“give you a little water and dog food while you’re tied to the lamppost outside. But at Ultratitle, it’s gonna be time for the slippers and daddy, even though the Suite One rocks velour slippers, he intends to metaphorically whip my new retard dog into shape before I take your sister home and knock some very very sensual boots with her.”
Sunglasses up. Baby Oil out. Running down the center of his mesh shirt.
“Toothpicks. Two hundred forty six in total... there are four left in the box.”
“Shut the **** up, Gid. You’re not the ****ing rain man.”
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Nadia Matthews, brother to and legal guardian of Ultratitle’s newest, least socially able wrestle, Gideon Matthews. Nadia is, as most women involved in the wrestling game appear to be, a bit of a looker. She has lustrous black hair that cascades to the level of her chest; a sight itself that has made grown men weep and drool. Her skin is tanned, and her features betray a hint of her Indian immigrant grandfather. In contrast, the man, or perhaps boy sitting behind her is paler than a ghost who’s seen a ghost. Maybe it’s the Irish in him, or the Polish, or the American, but the mongrel strain of his genetics is the land that melanin forgot. Gideon tries to smile at his sister, but it comes off looking more than slightly manic.
“Was that funny?” he asks.
“From a normal person, no. Coming from King Asperger, you did good, kid.”
This seems to please Gideon. He often has trouble understanding jokes.
“By the way,” he adds, “I saw Pete Whealdon’s promotional videos.”
Nadia sighs again. It’s a good sigh, and one which she appears to have had some practice at.
“I told you not to watch those, Gid. You’ll just get confused and decide you like your opponent.”
“He does seem nice,” replies Gideon. “He offered to take me under his wing. He must have known that I like jet engines, and will show me the ones attached to his aeroplane.”
“That’s not what he meant, Gid.”
“It was a figure of speech. He was offering to act as a mentor to you. Show you the ropes.”
“I should be able to find rope in a wrestling ring.”
“Another figure, Gid.”
“Ah, I am sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
For all her sighing, Nadia has near infinite patience for her brother.
“So if he was offering to be a mentor to me, that’s even kinder. I like him.”
“Look, Gid, I don’t think he was being serious. And if he actually did want you to get closer to him, I think it was more in the fashion of a sexual predator than a wrestling coach. Look, you don’t need to worry about him being nice; the guy is a creep of the creepiest variety. He even has an aversion to those without moustaches.”
“Why would that be?” asks Gideon.
“He says that they attract sasquatches.”
“That makes no logical sense. Firstly, there has never been any real evidence that the sasquatch is a real creature. Secondly, if they were real they would likely not be attracted to people with less hair on their lips. If anything they would be keen on those with as much body hair as possible, to make them feel welcome and amongst equals. Does Suite Pete Whealdon have new evidence from a peer-reviewed journal to suggest that his supposition is more than just an unlikely hypothesis?”
“No,” sighs Nadia. “I think he was just being an ass.”
“Oh,” says Gideon.
“Just stick to what you know best, Gid. Study tapes, look for the pattern, then beat him. That’s the way it should be.”
“That’s the way it should be,” echoes Gideon, happy as ever in repetition.
“Now get out of here and train. The gym is on the ground floor, remember?”
“I remember, sis.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.”
“You too, sis.”
Gideon grabs his training bag and leaves, closing the door slowly until it clicks shut. Once it does, Nadia Matthews counts to ten, before turning to face the camera. She smiles knowingly.
“So, Suite Pete, you want to have your wicked way with me? I don’t think that’s going to be so easy, you know? I mean, whilst you have a tremendous moustache, truly a work of coiffured genius, you’re not really my type. I prefer gentlemen to be a little more in shape, and whilst round is indeed a shape, it’s not one I prefer. So I shall have to do as many other women have done before me and turn you down.”
Nadia shrugs her shoulders and smiles.
“Of course, you could attempt to take me by force...”
A coquettish grin appears on her face momentarily, as if to tease.
“But then by the time you get to see me after the match, I don’t think you’re going to be in the position of forcing yourself on anyone other than a blow-up doll.” She pauses. “And even then I think it’d be fifty-fifty.”
The Asperger’s Ass-kicker’s sister gets to her feet and walks to the foot of the large bed that adorns the hitherto under-described room. She indicates the four gym bags present.
“You see, nobody you have faced before will have prepared as much as my brother. Nobody will have been able to both train and study your style with a single-mindedness so keen that I even have to remind him to eat. My brother is special, and not as you so eloquently put it a ‘retard’. He’s off-the-charts smart, and just because he has trouble talking to people that aren’t me, and he has a few quirks, people like you will write him off time and time again. Gid has frozen in the past, when caught in an awkward situation, where he does not understand the social ramifications of what he should do. But he’s never, ever, frozen in the ring. He will simply take you apart, learn your pattern, and destroy you.
“All of these bags contain the exact same kit. Gideon likes to have things around him that are familiar. Repetition and patterns; those are what he likes. So he’ll train, and he’ll look at you time and time again until you’re barely there other than as some kind of equation bouncing round his ridiculous cranium. And then, when he’s ready, he’ll pick you up, smash you around, and walk in to the next round of this Ultratitle Tournament.”
Nadia kicks back, picks up a remote control, and smiles seductively at the camera.
“You can’t always get what you want, Pete. You want me, and you can’t have me. You want to beat my brother and make it to the next round of the tournament?”
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