Round 3: "Too Cool" Chris Hopper vs. "Suite" Pete Whealdon

[Chad]

Roleplay begins Thursday and ends next Thursday. 3 RP maximum.

You may submit a card segment for use on the card by private messaging it to the following usernames: Chad; Ford; User Poets Not all segments may be used (i.e. we might only include winners, just depends on the amount of craziness).

 

[TheHopper]

A black background fades up with the words "Recorded on May 28, 2012" showing for a couple of seconds before it returns to the original black screen.

The scene fades up from that black screen and slowly shows the green leaves of a large tree. The sun finding a way to pierce through it and give special highlights to the brilliant color. As the shot widens and pans downward, we see the mighty trunk of the tree that sits in the middle of a cemetery. The camera pans to the right and we see a variety of tombstones in all shapes, sizes and even colors. There is even an above-ground tomb of sorts with a cross on the top that says "Farlow" on it. As we see the picturesque burial ground, a voice is heard.

"In the end, we all end up in a similar place... "

The camera continues panning across the field of stones and we see a man standing on the grass next to one of the medium-sized markers. The screen's shot zooms in and gets closer and we see it is "Too Cool" Chris Hopper. Chris is wearing a business suit and a black, leather trench coat as he stands with his hair slicked back into a pony tail and a reverent look on his face. He continues to stare at a tombstone as he speaks.

"I once heard an old man say that the most important mark on a cemetery marker is the dash between the dates. The dates are only two points. The starting point and the point where it all ended on Earth. All they tell is when your life began and ended, but they don't say anything else...

"...but the dash...

"...the dash says it all."

Hopper turn his head to look toward the camera, with a stoic expression on his face.

"The dash contains all the hopes and fears of life, the successes and the failures; the suffering and the ecstasy. We see names and dates on a tombstone, but the lucky few are known for that dash. It is the things within that marking that define a person and make them great or make them a fool. It is the moments within the dash that people discuss years after your death and that are passed down to future generations of your family.

"The dash matters to me...

"...especially this one."

Chris slightly points toward the tombstone as he returns to focusing on it. The tombstone has a large name on it that reads "HOPPER" and under it the individual names. On the left it says Orville, while on the right it simply reads Edna.

"My grandparents. My father's parents who met and married during this country's worst period and forged a life. I knew my Grandmother for years and she was always kind to me in her own way, but she was never a happy person after my grandfather's death.

"I guess that happens when you live nearly twenty-five years longer than your spouse."

Chris pauses for a second, face still stoic.

"I never knew my Grandfather. He died almost a year to the day before my birth. My parents always told me that he would have been proud of me and would have loved teaching me the way of his farm. He eventually became an alcoholic for years and died of a heart attack not long after finally beating the bottle.

"Despite all I know about my Grandfather and his shortcomings...I still respect him. I still feel a sense of honor when claiming him as my ancestor.

"Because of this..."

Chris steps back and points to the ground. The camera's view quickly moves over to show what Chris is pointing at. There is a bronze plate at the foot of the grave that reads like this:

VETERAN OF
WORLD WAR II
U.S. NAVY ​

Along with it are engraved pictures of the Navy seal and the years he served during the War. Chris begins to speak.

"He served as a gunner on a supply ship in the Pacific Ocean. All I have are pictures of him in his Navy white uniform when he was home before deployment. I also have an "official" picture of him in his dress blues, which we put in the paper every year to memorialize his death.

"He served our country and protected us from the evils the world would loved to have thrown upon us.

"I never knew whether he fired his guns and actually killed anybody. From what I understand, he came home from the war and dove right into the bottle. My Dad was only a baby at that time. I'll never know the full extent to what that measure of devotion to the United States affected him."

Chris reaches and quickly wipes his left eye, trying to be quick about it...but the camera still caught it.

"I suppose I'll never really know how it all made him feel and react...but I do know that no matter what may have became of his post-war existence...

"...I respect that dash."

Chris stands upright and stops standing in that reverent tone. He turns and walks back to the paved road that is winding through the plots. He starts talking as he walks, the stoic nature still on his face.

"My Grandfather is only one individual soldier that has served throughout the history of our country. I am but one family member proud of my name's military heritage. Now, as we fight a war against an enemy that knows no boundaries and even less about morality...more men are standing in the gap to keep our country safe from attacks and future disaster.

"More men are manning guns on supply ships, flying under the radar and lazing the targets to keep us safe here at home.

"They have my respect and my admiration."

Hopper pauses in thought for a moment. After a few seconds he returns to speaking.

"Memorial Day always makes me think about my Grandfather. Not because he died in battle, because he didn't. It makes me remember him because he fought for what was right. I like to think that kind of characteristic can be passed down through the generations even when those generations never interact.

"I like to think I'm a man of principle and honor. I have not always acted that way and, for those times, I will always be eternally regretful. However, I have desired to be that man every moment I have drawn breath. From my days starting out in small Southern Indiana towns to wrestling in front of thousands in Yankee Stadium, I have always desired to be the kind of guy fans can latch onto and cheer."

He pats the tombstone belonging to his Grandfather with his left hand.

"I guess you can say that I have a streak of my grandfather in me. That doesn't mean I'm a hero like the men in uniform. It just means that I walk out there and perform. I do my job and I do it damn well. I don't mess around with what people say about me or what they think of me in the locker room.

"Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of being liked and respected in the locker room like most guys, but I just don't fret over it for endless hours or strategize how to achieve it. It comes naturally to me. I think that part of me is what is confused right now. That warrior legacy I come from is at odds with the basic issue of my third round match in UltraTitle.

"Pete Whealdon isn't feeling as 'suite' on the tournament as he once was."

He shakes his head in near disgust before continuing.

"Pete, I know things feel a little down at times when friends of yours are eliminated from the tournament. Hell, Jesse Ramey is a good friend of mine and watching him fall short was something that saddened me. However, it doesn't mean that my desire to win the tournament has faded.

"If anything, it has stoked it even more."

A sly smile comes across his face.

"You see, Petey, we fight each round, giving it our all because we desire to win the crown that sits waiting for the victor to hoist into the air and claim as his own. Each round has its own dangers that must be overcome.

"For me, I had an unruly Mayor from a tiny town I hadn't ever heard of to start it all off and then the TV Champion of the EPW in Rd 2. Each match gave me challenges to overcome and ways to test myself. I look forward to each one so that this old dog can prove his bite is as strong as his bark. That is what I have enjoyed most about this tournament is the tests."

He stands up, emphasizing the point.

"Life is full of tests, Pete. Some are tests of will, such as when you face someone bigger, stronger, faster or what have you inside the squared circle. You have to find ways to physically overcome the force you are dealing with and find that opening to get an advantage. Sometimes you can't and you fall short, but you still try as hard as you can during that time you are within the battle.

"Other tests are mental. You can understand this because you travel around wrestling like the rest of us. There is a mental strain that comes with our industry. It weakens you with mind-numbing travel and schedules. You give so much of yourself that you end up collapsing in a hotel room of exhaustion. You lie on that bed and sometimes say to yourself, 'I can't keep this up any longer.' But the next day, the alarm sounds, your grab your bags, and move to the next stop."

"You do it because there will be one kid there who wants, more than anything else at that time, to see you perform. That smile, laugh, squeal and burst of excitement you get when they finally watch you walk into the arena...that makes it all worth it."

He pauses for a moment, as if in deep thought. His eyebrow slightly raised in a perplexed notion.

"I guess that is why I don't understand you, Petey."

He begins walking away form the tombstones and back toward the main path as he speaks.

"You are about to step in against your toughest challenge that UltraTitle has offered you. Not because I'm inherently better than your past two opponents, but because I'm next in line. The next match is ALWAYS the toughest challenge because it offers the chance to advance.

"You have the toughest challenge coming up and now you are having motivational issues?"

The eyebrow raises again.

"Are you kidding me?"

He shakes his head again before continuing.

"You defeated Jason Murray in a great contest. Murray pulled off one of the greatest upsets of the tournament when he stepped in and bested Sean Stevens. You beat the giant killer and you....aren't excited?

"The hell is wrong with you, son?"

He takes a few steps before he speaks again.

"You don't hear me complaining that I have to take on somebody who obviously likes Disney Channel Television programs because of his awkwardly-used nickname instead of getting one of the favorites to test myself again, do you?

"I could be very angry right now. I could start railing about how this was supposed to be my big breakout moment against Sean Stevens where I had a chance to shove it to every critic who said the sweet sixteen would never happen because of the draw. And now instead of that monumental contest, I'm stuck with you.

"I didn't do that. I won't do that.

"Because this tournament is deserving of my all and each round is worthy of respect and preparation."

He reaches his Cadillac Escalade and opens the driver's door. He then turns around and stares coldly toward the camera.

"Petey, you better come prepared and ready to perform because if you give less than your full effort, I'm going to embarrass you. Not because of hatred, nor because of any need to feel superior; but because that is exactly what you will deserve if you walk into round three with that kind of attitude.

"Either way, I'll be sending you right back to the 'suite life' where you belong and you can leave the UltraTitle to the MEN who are willing to fight for it and win it.

"I'll see you in the ring."

He gets in the vehicle and starts the engine as the screen fades to black.

 

[Aaron]

Pete Whealdon isn’t reclining in Hollywood, the strength of that alone should show the gravity of the situation, instead he is at a gas station, staring at a map. Damien DeSett was next to him, drinking from a camelback.

Kevin “Satan(Now with more EVIL!)” Alloy normally trusted with all video functionality for Fuck/b/olt International, has turned this duty over to a very trusted intern. He is trusted solely because he has been duct taped to an office chair for a great deal of time. A long time ago he developed Stockholm Syndrome, and dutifully tapes himself to the chair after taking care of the various human functions one can not simply perform while taped to an object.

“Satan believes we should have commandeered a hot air balloon.”

Whealdon spread the map on hood of the official ford econoline panel van of fuck/b/olts international. It’s a majestic beast with an airbrushed scene of a pleasant meadow, featuring a very familiar looking fellow in lederhosen(See Letters to a Young Wrestler, or Adventures in the typewritten word.), as well as a Dolphin seemingly with a unicorn horn jumping out of the meadow as though it were the sea.

It also has wings.

Whealdon annoyed pulled a cigarette from the chest pocket of his mesh hoodie. patting his jeans for a lighter, he has quickly come to realize that wearing shredded jean shorts, though revealing, may not be the best for maintaining any type of material. His hand shoves picklishly through the hole in the bottom of his pocket.

He chose this moment to frown deeply, cleaning his mustache in annoyance.

“This isn’t the right map.”

“Satan was certain we were going to Sinaloa Mexico.”

“Damien, Dudebro. Can you get me a light?”

Damien FLEXS~! and kool-aids the entry door to the service station, he quickly emerges through the rubble holding an entire stand of lighters, as well as twinkies, and ding-dongs. Whealdon pulls a light and a twinkie off, shoving the twinkie in his pocket, it falls harmlessly on the concrete.

The gas station attendant had followed Damien out of the door, shouting and waving a broom about money and damages.

“This scene sucks, lets beat it.”

All three men piled into the van, leaving a cloud of burning oil exhaust as they rocketed out of the lot at a scorching twenty-five miles per hour. Whealdon was an expert behind the wheel of this particular model of van, and judging by the beads, bed, and interior shag carpeting, these boys were traveling in style.

Easy Rider.

Satan sat in the passenger seat, poking at his non-functioning bluetooth, and Damien DeSett had chosen the bed as his point of lounging, though he looked mildly out of place in his workout duds. Though his muscle definition was certainly striking, his wooden movements did not bely a certain lack of grace.

The intern, though still in a chair, had been locked down with seatbelts handicapped style. Whealdon got the idea watching gideon lope about the ring one night.

Smoke rose in a lazy haze about Whealdon, as he ashed his cigarette out the window of the moving van authoritatively, occasionally cleaning his mustache in disagreement as his eyes scanned the horizon.

“Daddy, I just need to know where it is.”

“Satan believes he should know the location.”

Whealdon pulls the van over on the side of the road. Stroking his mustache patiently.

“Well?”

“Satan is trying to use the powers of darkness to find the location!”

By powers of darkness, Satan is attempting to deduce how to use his iphone. As time passes slowly, with the reducing length of Whealdon’s cigarette. Damien FLEXS~! to pass the time. Whealdon lights another cigarette.

As Whealdon dozed with a lit cigarette hanging from his snoring mouth, Satan finally had devised how to turn on his iphone.

“Satan thought he was Steve Jobs.”

“Fucking Badgers... wait. what?”

Whealdon snaps back to life shaking his head, and tossing his cigarette onto the side of the ring.

“Satan has found what you were looking for.”

The sun shone brightly. Whealdon took his sunglasses off and rubbed his eyes.

“Daddy, just tell me where we’re going.”

“Satan believes that we are two hundred yards away. Satan also feels compelled to shave his beard.”

Satan does not have a beard.

Whealdon restarted the van, petting the leopard print fur dash board as it roared back to life, and ripped off of the side of the road like a turtle taking off attached to a rocket powered by molasses. Satan raised his fist to the sky as he chortled.

“The Hunt for the Ultratitle is on!”

Whealdon seemingly intent on driving.

“Mmmmmhehehhahahahahahaha... When Satan devised this scheme to hunt for the Ultratitle, he wasn’t certain that it would lead us to it quite so quickly. Satan believed it would require more searching. Satan thought the Suite One would have to do something felonious!

Breaking and entering!

MMMMMMhehehahahahahahahhahahaha!”

And now Satan has a lighter in his hand.

Pause.

For those not in the know. When Kevin “Satan(Now with more EVIL!)” has a lighter in his hand, it functions as foreshadowing. A lot of burned ficus trees have been the result of a lighter in his hand, as well as several desks, and a Barbeque.. Yes. He burnt a Barbeque down. Coleman was sent the footage, to which they responded with “This is not possible in the realm of physics.”

Satan was pleased.

“Mmmmmhehehahahahaha. Satan knew it was here.”

Driving slowly, looking seemingly for something very specific, Whealdon continues to eye the horizon ahead of him. Trees of various non-descript varieties are ahead of him, and small low grey markers are everywhere.

Slowing further. Whealdon turns off of the road onto the verdant turf itself. Driving Slowly. He stops, the van rocks a moment on the grass as it stops. Everyone in the van looks at Whealdon, who drops his sunglasses a bit and looks. Grabbing Satan’s iphone, Whealdon quickly brings up a video of Chris Hopper at his grandfather's grave site. Whealdon smirks and nods, tossing it back to Satan, everyone piles out of the van, and make their collective way to a medium sized marker.

Whealdon takes this opportunity to pull a fresh cigarette from the inside pocket of his pink mesh hoodie, yellow LED dolphin flashing on the hood as he pulls it up.

“Looks like I’m early to the party.”

Whealdon smiles revealing a grill. Just when you thought this couldn’t get any sleazier, Whealdon went all trap on everything, gold teeth with pink dolphins. Whealdon strokes his mustache as a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle is produced and handed to Whealdon. Whealdon pulls the cap off and takes a slug, handing it to DeSett who doesn’t partake, passes it to Satan, who sniffs the finest straight rye whiskey. Satan furrows his brow, and passes it to the intern. Right as the intern is about to one hand filming and drinking. Whealdon snaps it out of his hand.

Satan laughs malevolently as Whealdon takes another slug and places it on top of the marker.

“Now, a lot of guys Hopper, would’ve found some caffeine and tried to figure out what you’re on.”

A big drag. Sun is shining bright.

“Me, I just grabbed the bottle of Van Winkle. And I thought. It must be because he’s taken one to many shots to the old brain pan.”

Whealdon makes a fist and a face as he mocks hitting his head a few times.

“But Bonk Bonk dumbass.”

An accusing finger points directly at the camera.

“This guy.”

A thumb at the chest.

“Right here.”

Another thumb at the chest.

“Is the shit. "

Whealdon with both thumbs at his chest.

"Just because I didn’t come out screaming retard strong frenzy don’t mean I don’t give a fuck."

Whealdon shakes and cleans his mustache in disgust.

"See here is the issue, last round Jason Murray’s slit was putting words in my mouth, and while I ain’t gonna be putting the staff to the queen of the trailer park, she sure wanted it.

Now I got Chris “Too Stoic” Hopper coming out to his grandfather’s grave to lay down wisdom, rolling in like Plato and Socrates.

Here’s some wisdom I heard from an old man on the way to the airport. I think he said something about Change. and you know what, when I look at that beard merging into his dreadlocks, I saw exactly where you’re coming from.

You haven’t the slightest clue, whatsoever, about anything. Here’s another gem for you, maybe you can write it down in your journal, so the next time you come out and think about running your mouth about the King of Sleaze you can get it right.

Chris Hopper is a third generation failure.

No one gives a shit about your grandfather or the fact he enjoyed the drink. Welcome to relevance zero. Oh wait. Ring Warrior. Gotcha. Check. Serious Business and the like. Memorial Day.

See the issue with all of this.”

Whealdon turns away looking over his shoulder.

“Is you’re talking about challenges, and you’re talking about how The Suite one isn’t into this anymore, and Daddy, I don’t know where you got it from. Maybe you and Bronte been working together huffing bath salts and trying to sort out the Ultratitle.

While I appreciate just a little bit that whole deal about travel, and all of that. The rugged challenges of the everyman wrestler, and Daddy, it was gripping and compelling to see you spell it out so flaccidly.

You see, When Chris Hopper is struggling to make the next alarm and hop on the next economy jet to Shitsburg, lameslyvania.

The Suite One is burning down Van Winkle by the cases. He’s rocking a hot tub with women in their late teens.

Because I’m everything you wish you could be, sporting that “Too cool” moniker. Daddy, I’m the last cool thing left in this tournament, and I’m rocking it like Miles Davis, and you’re coming out flat like Kenny G. Big differences Daddy. You’ve been meh forever and a day and Daddy, I’m the Bitches Brew. “

Whealdon winks over his shoulder.

“So What I’m going to do here, is kind of send a message, that while I thought I was spelling out pretty explicitly saying I’m here to rape this tournament of whatever glory I can roofie up.

Now slow clap, I’m glad you figured out my nickname is a play on words, because you know, you graduated High School, and proved that you’re able to connect more than two consecutive thoughts Daddy. The kicker is, when you’re saying I’m not excited that I beat Jason Murray, Daddy, it’s because it was another day at the office for the Suite One, I know that beating small town mayors and television champions were just gonna be the first step for you to get that big break out match against Sean Stevens.”

Whealdon unzips his shorts. A big grin spreads across his face, all gold and pink dolphins.

“Daddy, I know you wanted Sean Stevens, and that you’re whole “you’re not excited” shtick is really because instead of getting to face a past his prime legend, rocking Mr. Mom tights, you’re getting the greatest wrestler who’s ever lived. The Man with the finest mustache in the world. The King of Sleaze. The Man with the best shades in the business.

So when you’re daydreaming in this field again picking petals from dandelions hoping Sean Stevens doesn’t choke in the first round, and what it’s gonna sound like to hear Sean Stevens name called when you’re creaming your wrestling tights. You’re gonna wanna remember this particular moment in time.”

Whealdon points at the ground. Stepping away, we catch a good view of what he’s been looking at.

VETERAN OF
WORLD WAR II
U.S. NAVY​

Whealdon drops his sunglasses and winks. Whealdon pulls the bottle up off of the marker as the sound of liquid hitting stone and grass takes over as a cool breeze, the sound continues as Whealdon takes a long plug on the bottle.

Finishing up, Whealdon replaces the bottle on top, and zipping his shorts up, he turns back around. He pulls the shades back up. He flashes the grill-grin again.

Satan is attempting to burn down the grave marker unsuccessfully with a lighter, chortling.

Black.















No wait. Hold up. Whealdon waves off the intern. Whealdon runs his hand through his hair, and cleans his mustache. He takes a stance shoulder width apart. Index finger to the inside of the sunglasses drops them down the bridge of his nose. He wags a finger back and forth. Tossing some change on the grave. He walks away.

Black.

 

[TheHopper]

The scene opens to a room that looks like a theater, but smaller. The camera pans to the left and we see the giant white screen that is about a fifth of the size of a normal theater's show piece.The camera turns and goes back right. We see five rows of theater seating and in the second row, sitting in his button down shirt and looking cool with his hair pulled back in a pony tail sits "Too Cool" Chris Hopper. The "King of Cool" is the picture of confidence as he leans to one side of his chair and has his right elbow on the arm of the large stadium seat in the theater.

"Welcome to my home theater.

"Few ever get to be in here these days. When I had become a Champion the first few times and earned large pay days, I built this house and had this theater installed in the basement floor. In those days, I used to let camera crews down here to see how I prepared for matches and even showed them the video tapes I would watch to understand opponents and learn their weaknesses.

"Yes Whealdon, I've even watched tape on you and know quite a bit, but that isn't why I decided to allow the crew down here to my inner sanctum."

He fidgets in his seat a little and actually moves to sitting more on the edge as he speaks.

"I really tried to make sense of what I saw from you recently. I probably have watched it a dozen times so I could find something to fire back at you with or dress you down. The other night, I found the perfect way to describe how I felt about what I just saw.

"If I may direct your attentions to the big screen."

The camera swivels to face the white screen as the lights dim impressively. The following footage is shown...

The clip ends and the lights fade back up as the camera swivels its view back around to a smiling Alpha Male.

"Now before you immediately fire back that in the movie the dumb guy eventually manages to gain victory and that your fate will be similar because when we face off in the ring, you will be victorious in the same manner....well.....allow me to shed a small piece of light to you.

"That was a movie.

"An Adam Sandler movie in which he also chases an imaginary penguin, enjoys the sight of Chris Farley topless, and sees an entire family killed because of a banana peel on a high way.

He pauses to chuckle before continuing.

"In other words, it isn't real.

"Much like any belief that you hold right now in that mustachioed head of yours that, when we face off in this next round, you stand any chance of coming out on top. I used that clip because that is the truth about you. You ramble and try to seem mean or sadistic in some fashion, but you are not. In fact, the scariest thing about you is that moustache.

"And no, that wasn't an insult nor a complement. It was a statement of fact."

He sits back at ease in his theater captain's chair, crossing his arms.

"You have no Earthly clue about me. You have no idea who it is you are dealing with. That's alright with me if you want to play the ignorant bastard for another round. It shows just how little you know about your opponent and perhaps it has worked for you in past encounters.

"Ignroance can be bliss and in that case, you must be ecstatic."

He smirks and laughs a little under his breath before continuing.

"You called me 'Too Stoic' and I find that a little funny and a fundamental error on your part.

"Bit, again, I call attention to your ignorance and rather than simply admonish you for it, I'll educate you just a bit so you don't fall into that trap in the future of being misinformed."

He rests his elbows on the arm rests of the chair and tents his hands in toward each other with his finger tips meeting just under his chin. It is a very "Godfather-esque" pose as he continues.

"You see Petey, being cool is not always drinking like a fish and acting like a party monger. As you mature and gain the wisdom of age, you realize that being cool is also excelling in whatever field you wish to be part of. It is being comfortable in your own skin...

"Or Moustache, in your case...

"I sit and watch you trying to act like a teenager, pissing on graves, talking out of your head and generally being full of nonsense and you actually thought that was a cool thing to do. However, reality shows that you just looked stupid and pathetic.

"You have to be comfortable with yourself and understand your limits. The idea of walking around trying to sound like a disc jockey from the seventies just won't make you cool. It makes you sad."

He taps the fingers together as he continues.

"Allow me to share with you what I have learned about you so far...

"You are more about hype than substance."

He smiles that sly smile as he begins to explain his assertion.

"You tout your obvious look that comes from an era where cool and fashion never seemed to get together. You care more about the hype leading to a match than the match itself. The phrasing you used is the most telling when you said, 'raping the tourney for everything you can ruffie out of it.'

"Now I'll leave the obvious overtones of what this must mean for your love life -- or lack thereof -- out of the discussion and focus solely on what it means for this tournament.

"You are about selling the match and getting recognized. You are about merchandise and commercials. You talk a great game and I will applaud you for that, but once you step inside the ropes, it is a different story for you.

"Isn't that right?"

He sits up again, moving to the edge of his seat as before and obviously anxious to continue his speech.

"At no point in the matches I watched in West Coast: Cascadia or even in Defiance have you exhibited anything more than a cursory knowledge of wrestling and the skills it requires to be a champion. You were over because of your personality and your tag team gimmick. You broke out of that and now depend solely on what little ability you bring to the promo screen as your means of success.

"You step into the ring and even a High School wrestler could tie you in knots. You might know a wrist lock from a wrist watch, but there is doubt on whether or not you could perform one. Now against a fluke like Murray or an opening round against Gideon, you could get away with it. Somehow they left you the right opening at the right time and you took advantage.

"But that won't happen against me."

He pauses for effect and then continues.

"You see, I bring numerous styles to the table. I can brawl. I don't mind trading shots in the ring. It doesn't bother me. I have a strong chin and can throw bombs like a boxer. That is fine by me. It is why I can do well in matches that are in smaller areas or even out doors. I can do hardcore too. That is similar to brawling, but I have been in Ultimate Death matches, old school gimmick matches like coal miner's glove and etc, and I have even been in gauntlet match that went throughout an entire arena.

"But brawling and hardcore only gets you so far, and I didn't start with that. My skills began as a technical fighter. I was almost a Calgary-style shooter at one point. I can go hold-for-hold with anybody on the planet and not fall behind. This base has been where my career's backbone was built.

"Over the years I have added training in many fields. I gained martial arts training in aikido, eventually earning a black belt. I also traveled to Brazil and learning Jui Jitsu, and even added some aerial maneuvers to my repertoire for big moments and a little flash to the substance.

"You can say I'm well rounded in every aspect of the sport."

That eyebrow raises to emphasize the point.

"And you are incredibly not."

The smile retakes his facial expression as he continues.

"That's alright, Petey. The world needs lightweights too. You have potential, but have decided to trade that potential in for the hype of a payday here and there. So while you may be someone of note in the corner of the wrestling world you inhabit, you will NEVER be known far and wide for any redeeming quality or reason.

"You're wrestling epitaph will not read: 'Pete Whealdon, One of the worlds greatest wrestlers and Champion many times over.'

"No....it will say something a little different. Such as, 'Here lies Pete Whealdon. He had a moustache.' or even 'Here lies Pete Whealdon in the only suite he was worth.'

"That is what happens when you trade flash for substance. Eventually, the flash wears thin and you are left with what remains. In your case, that isn't much more than a few pithy lines, a unique look, and a notable lack of wrestling skill. If that is enough for you, then so be it.....but it isn't for me and most of the others remaining in this tournament."

Chris stands to his feet and he steps into the aisle and toward the door to exit the theater.

"But I will tell you this. I'll put on a free wrestling clinic for you in our round three match. Hopefully you learn something from the beating I give you and you can return to Defiance better for it. Either way, just remember that when you lack substance behind the flash....all you are left with...

"is a 'suite' loss. and you will walk away saying the same thing that Howard King and Larry Tact are saying now.

"All....hail...

He gives a playful wink before finishing the sentence.

"The King."

He opens the door and leaves as the screen fades to black.

 

[Aaron]

“I’m gonna go ahead and do something here Hopper.”

Defiance promo booth. Defiance Office. Sound Room. Big mic with a spit cover. Pete Whealdon. Dressed in jeans torn about the knees and periwinkle flip-flops with his never missing gold mesh hoodie, hoodie down for those keep score. LED Pink Dolphins. Hair messily pulled out of his face. The Lexus of Mustaches looking glorious as it always does.

“I’m gonna allow that maybe we got off on the wrong foot. That I misread your miserable little ditty about life and death, My lack of interest in this tournament and your complete hard on with pretending like you matter.

more.”

Thumb. The crack of a smile.

“Than.”

Index finger. Getting broader

“This.”

Micrometers apart. Full Grillz grin.

“So lets try again. Hi loser, I’m Pete Whealdon. The Man with the ‘stache, and who is going to be walking into the sweet sixteen.

Don’t worry, I didn’t forget that whole part where you were big on how I was doing well, and suddenly had lost motivation.

But now, my motivation is no longer the question, but my wrestling skill is.”

Inbound cigarette smoke. Whealdon cleans his mustache, and tussles his hair with his free hand.

“So you may want to figure out before you drag a camera crew down into your basement for Michael Jackson just friends snuggling and Adam Sandler movies, what is it gonna be?

Am I the plucky young outcast downtrodden because I have no interest?

Or Am I the jackass hype machine?”

Wink and another sly smile.

“So while I’m sure those tapes provided you with the kind of riveting material your own floundering career in ACW lacks. I’m gonna throw a slow clap out your way for taking time out of your busy stoic week to watch a little bit on the sport of wrestling.

Really. Good for you.”

Thumbs up.

“I’m touched you thought of me in an Adam Sandler movie, watched said movie, made it seem like said movie was important, and then tried to rail me with it. I guess watching something good, or funny wasn’t on hand, So you stuck with what you know. I’m sure there is some comfort in surrounding yourself with mediocrity.

But I feel like...

Something is missing... here.”

Gesticulations. Hands fingers spread in circles in front of his face. repeated puffs on the cigarette.

“Like, maybe you need help when it comes to movies, wrestling, talking, walking, and carpentry skills.”

One finger up.

“Here’s the deal. You stop getting your shitty netflix all over my TV screen, when you can’t make a point yourself, and I’ll pretend like you didn’t try to use Adam Sandler in a marginal movie no one gave a shit about seem poignant?

Deal?”

Whealdon nods, shrugs. Taking the studio head phones off, he looks at the guys in booth, suddenly befuddled. They’re giving him a hard “what the fuck man?” look. Whealdon for his part is Chris Hopper, leaning casually against the wall of the studio. No emotion. Nadda. Zilch







…..








“ERRRRR.”

Whealdon winks again. Screeching loudly, he returns the headphones to his ears, as the boys in the booth are throwing up middle fingers at him. a dead cigarette butt is Whealdon’s rebuttal as another is lit in its place.

“No Deal.”

Tight Zoom. Broad Gleaming Grillz, Gold inlaid with Pink Dolphins flooding everything.

“See Daddy. I’m gonna lay it down for you, just like I laid it down for Jason Murray, and just like I wanted to lay down gideon’s sister.

You don’t get it.

You can keep your compellingly meaningless armbars and hammerlocks. I’m still going to beat you, and I’m going to look better doing it. I can drive down to your grandfathers grave, drink up and piss on it, and you don’t even have the balls to come up on it.

Maybe next time, I’ll come down to your house and piss on your door, Hopper-man.

You.

Wouldn’t.

Do.

Shit.

About.

It.”

Whealdon makes a motion of urinating on the Defiance promo booth floor, for emphasis. He waves his arm at the control room, and a bottle of Van Winkle is presented, along with a glass. Whealdon discards the glass, and pulls the plug of out of the bottle. A long swig follows.

“You would hide down in your theater. Leaning on the captain's chair trying to look smug while someone else is doing the kind of thing you wish you could be doing. Just like you wish you were facing Sean Stevens, you wish you were the Miles Davis of wrestling Daddy.”

Whealdon takes another big plug. Setting the bottle down on a table placed nearly exactly where it should be.

“But you aren’t. You’re Adam Sandler and Kenny G rolled up in a taco bell dorito shell left baking in the sun.

When the real King of COOL,

spoiler alert in bound “

Both thumbs pointing directly back at him at a downward angle while he makes a mock flex of the deal.

“That’d be this guy.”

Whealdon grins broadly and cleans his mustache in amusement.

“When the King of Sleaze runs down the voodoo, losers like you tune in tight because you desperately want to be able to ooze the personality Daddy, you want to be able to roll up in something other than shades and a trench coat and feel like a man. You want to be able to pull up and do you're think like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

But you can’t? Can you?”

Whealdon takes a long overblown drag of his cigarette and lets a huge cloud of smoke out.

“I. Can.”

Again with the pointing.

“You’ve spent a career tooling around in waters you can’t swim in without a floaty, and you’re staring down the better version of what you could never be. You’re throwing out insults about my opponents, and you’re throwing out praise. You can’t etch-a-sketch how weak you sound Hopper-Man.

I watch better movies. I drink better whiskey. I smoke better cigarettes. I make Sleaze look good. I make it cool Daddy. I make everything you’ve ever wanted to be seem easy.”

Whealdon casts aside another cigarette and before lighting up again takes a huge plug on the bottle.

“And you?

You aren’t even close enough to being good enough to stopping me. See here is the line in the sand as it were.

You chose Adam Sandler.I choose Paul Newman. I choose Miles Davis. You chose tired rock music. You’re just summer school Daddy.”


“So the next time you feel like laying down the agonizing unlubed jerk off your entire career has been. Feel free to spare me the details. You trained in blah blah blah, and now even though you’re some big dude, you’re the next cruiserweight sensation at the rippling young age of thirty-eight.

Yeah. Buying that alll the way. So by the time you’ve managed to hobble up the ropes, I’ll have smoked a couple of cigarettes, ****ed the daughter you never had, and still have enough time to push your stupid ass over.

Maybe after I embarrass you, you can head down to Mexico and be “El Viejo Puto”? Put a mask on that says COOL and keep pretending like you’re gonna finally eek something out of twenty years of puttering and middling with your betters.”

Whealdon tut tuts with his hands shaking his head.

“ Daddy, you’ve been riding the coattails of being something for so long you’re thinking somehow you get that legacy. But Daddy, you don’t.

You don’t even get a postcard.

You don’t even get a prepaid cellphone.

You weren’t even a has been. You’ve been facing down other broken down wrestlers who meant something, and picking up victories like you’re beating men in the prime of their career”

Whealdon cleans his mustache bemusedly. Slowly.

Whealdon pulls the hood up on his mesh hoodie and adjusts his sunglasses.

The cigarette hangs from his mouth momentarily as smoke drifts idly from his nostrils.

A hand removes the cigarette as the smoke continues to finish drifting.

“See, Hopper, there is a point where you’re gonna have to face reality, you’re gonna have to stop hiding in your theater, you’re gonna have to lace up those very very technical boots and get in the ring with me.

I know exactly who I’m dealing with Daddy, a *****. Plain and simple.

You gave yourself the name. You’ve been around the block, in the alphabet soup of no one gives a shit. Winning trinkets and playing at being a wrestler. You wanted a different man, you wanted a different life.

You wanted it to be one way, faggot.”

Pause. Whealdon cleans his mustache bristlingly.

“But it’s the other.

Daddy, pay close attention, because when I’m gyrating and thrusting my way into another match up you so desperately crave against Seymour Almasy. And you’re pulling back that oh so cool ponytail and putting those sunglasses over your watery eyes. I want you to think back.”

Whealdon points his index finger back at his temple, in a stabbing motion. Several times. He shakes his head forward dipping his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose.

“I want you think back Daddy, to all those tapes you watched, all those matches you watched. And I want you to remember the one thing you seem to forget. I’m coming out on top. I’m winning the wars. You’re angling for picking up the skirmish victory no one remembers. Ultratitle is my war. It’s my whore. I own it. I’m pulling back Ultratitles hair, and she’s begging for more Daddy. “

Whealdon adjusts his stance, taking grasp of imaginary hair.

“She’s looking up at me, and her eyeliner is running Daddy, and her makeup is smeared, but the lust in her eyes Daddy, she want’s more. And I’m the man to give Ultratitle exactly what it wants and needs.

It’s mine.”

Flipping the sunglasses back up.

“You need to think about that Hopper. You need to think hard Daddy, That I am coming exactly for the type of loser you are.

grabbing at glory, seeing that Light Daddy. Seeing it just within the reach of your finger tips. Just a little further to the right of your captain’s chair. Just a few dollars out of your price range Daddy.

I’m gonna be the one turnin’ ‘em out. I’m gonna be putting hard times on you Daddy. You’re gonna be thinking about what it was like to see a real streaking comet go roaring past you Daddy. I’m Haley’s comet and you’re an awwshucks star struck kid stuck in a battered old body.

You wanna talk about effigies and graves. I’ll piss on every single one you line up.

You want to talk about wrestling ability like it’s nineteen-thirty, I’m gonna still wind you up and do it my way.

You want to talk about Cool, you want to talk about demeanor. And all you’ve got are Adam Sandler clips. Daddy.”

Whealdon takes his sunglasses off and cleans his mustache intently.

“Ultratitle is for one person Hopper. And who’s gonna win the war?”

He takes one last long drag, looking at the cigarette.

“I don’t wanna say I’ve seen your bracket.

I don’t wanna say I know you’re secretly picking me, watching movies in your theater. But Daddy, you might wanna see if you can’t get an eraser on that pen mark.

Cause smart money is the The King of Sleaze. Suite. Pete. Whealdon.”

Not even looking at the camera.

“Get Fucked.”

Black.

 

[TheHopper]

The screen opens to an empty arena. The ring has a single light shining on it, and there are obviously a few other lights left on, all for security's sake during times when it isn't in use. The ring is brilliant, with the blue color and logo of FWrestling on it and the words "Ultratitle 2012" in center ring. Around the outskirts of the apron are the logos of every league that sent competitors into the tournament. The whole look really makes it a big time feel.

As the camera swivels to the right, we see a familiar face sitting in one of the front row seats. "Too Cool" Chris Hopper sits with his arms on the guard railing, the expression on his face can be described as nothing short of at ease. He sits quietly for a few seconds, even with the camera turned on him, before he takes a deep breath and finally utters a word.

"This calms me down and centers me."

He takes another breath, staring toward the dimly-lit squared circle.

"In time when life gets chaotic, out of balance, or whatever people choose to call it...that is when I find my way here and get back on track.

"The way others use religion, music, family, friends, and even bars and strip clubs....I use the wrestling ring.

"It's the one place where I feel at home. It has been that way since I was a teenager and I've spent half of my life in one now. Everything makes sense inside those ropes. There are things that are allowed and things that are not. It isn't arbitrary or subjective. It doesn't force me to do specific things before allowing me to enter. But once inside, everything melts away and the truth always seems revealed."

He stands and hops over the guard rail. He takes a few steps toward the ring and puts his hands on the apron, feeling its coarse texture.

"That is when truth is revealed. And the truth really does set a person free."

He slides under the bottom rope and the camera crew didn't seem ready for the move. The view jiggles around and even goes sideways for a second as the man holding the camera gets into the ring to keep filming. Chris walks to a corner and leans back, placing his arms out wide on the top rope leading from the turnbuckle. He waits for the camera to get steadied and begins speaking again.

"I admit, you have troubled me Pete. You have troubled me in many ways. The lengths at which you are trying to get me 'off my game,' so to speak. Taking a piss on my grandfather's grave would send most people into a frenzy. I could get all angry, but I chose not to because it serves no purpose. I knew that once I get you in here...all frustrations can be worked out.

"My grandfather would not have wanted me to strike out and do something when it would result in nothing. Why lash out and attack you prior to our match. Why waste energy on anger when I can save it up for later. Some call that being callous, but it is really being cool under pressure.

"And, to use your pathetic vocabulary, that is what I am, Daddy.....cool to the core."

He takes a moment's pause. Not for movement or emphasis, but it seems that he has closed his eyes and breaths a little. It is obvious what he saw Whealdon do did effect him, but he is trying to stay under control. Finally, he opens his eyes and has a controlled look of calm on his face again.

"You see, I know your game, Pete.

"I see you saying and doing things in order to incite me into acting unbecomingly. You piss on my grandfather's grave and hope that I will seek you out immediately and throw down backstage, in the parking lot, at the Denny's down the street, or anywhere else I first see you. In doing so, I would immediately be thrown out of the tournament. You are attempting to be get a win the only way you know how.....cheap tricks and cowardly tactics.

"But I see right through you..."

He stands straight again, taking steps near the ropes to the left, his left hand staying on the top rope and feeling it across the way. His gaze is fixed on the ropes, but he continues talking.

"I won't let you avoid the beating you deserve.

"I can't.

"To give up what could be several minutes of punishing your untalented ass inside this ring just for throwing one punch elsewhere is the definition of stupid and immature.

"I'm all about the long way to gratification, baby."

He reaches the adjacent corner and his hand hits the turnbuckle. He actually turns his back to the camera a second to kind of mess with the turnbuckle a little, then turns around and continues while standing in that spot.

"In the end, your immaturity and disrespect show through in every aspect of what you do. You truly sicken me, Petey. I watch the interviews you give during this tournament and they are nothing but self-absorbed garbage laced with utter crap. You use terms to describe yourself and your future in this tournament that are heinous at times.

"The way you describe your trek in this tournament is disgusting, but that doesn't surprise me from someone like you coming from where you do."

He pauses and takes a breath, the anger obviously welling up inside him again. After a couple of seconds, he continues.

"You spent a lot of time ranting about my desire to face Sean Stevens in this round and my disappointment because it wasn't him. I will say this...

"You're damn right about that.

"You see, Stevens understands this tournament. He has a respect for this tournament. He isn't out there cutting promos about slipping drugs, raping, or any other vulgar description you have used for your run in the tournament thus far. He is the kind of man that I would loved to have stepped into the ring against in a true contest of skill.

"You consistently fail to see what this tournament is all about and that is the difference between you and Stevens."

A smile is seen on his face for the first time in this segment. Not a wide grin, but a sly, slight smile that shows his mind is at work.

"I explained it to Tact and now I have to explain it to you as well. This tournament is not for crowning a man to bestow a title on. This tournament is about finding the BEST man to continue giving credibility to the title.

"That is why I can't let you move forward. I can't allow someone like you to destroy the status the Ultratitle holds in our sport."

He shakes his head almost as if he is imagining what would happen if Whealdon won the entire tournament.

"This is why we whittle each other down in brackets and crown one man at the top of the mountain. That man should be the best of the crop within the tournament. He should be someone that the entire nation following this event can be proud of, even if they don't like him personally.

"Is that guy me? I sure like to think so, but I'm here earning it every round.

"I can be sure of one thing. It sure as hell isn't you."

He chuckles a bit at even the mention of Whealdon being the top man in the tournament. Once his chuckle subsides, he continues.

"Nobody wants to look at someone like you with their title in your hands. You degrade everything you touch. I'll give you one thing, your nickname is apt.

"'King of Sleaze?' Indeed.

"You have taken a contest and turned it into something sophomoric. No statements of being proud to wear the Ultratitle if you win it. Not a peep about the honor it would be in being handed the championship. You haven't even discussed how you could bring continued credibility to the lineage of this storied event."

Another quick shaking of the head, showing displeasure, before continuing.

"No, you discuss it in terms of a women of ill repute. Some whore you can have your way with and toss aside. You bring no honor to the table and certainly no credibility, Pete. You are not a beacon of skill and talent that the fans can be proud of....or even respect. You wouldn't be able to call yourself a crown jewel for the Ultratitle. In fact, I don't think you could be called anything positive in regarded to the title.

"No, You're the stain on its underpants.

"Wait, that is still too positive for what you would be to the ultratitle."

He pauses, obviously thinking of something to express his thought here.

"You are the stain caused when you put your underwear on after sex.

"Yeah, as a friend of mine puts it...you're a wankstain."

He chuckles at the idea for a second before continuing with an ice cold stare.

"You bring nothing to the table, but a need to wash. You sicken each person who has the misfortune of watching you do an interview or wrestle a match.

"I heard Jason Murray got treated by the medical staff for an infection after wrestling you. Not because of any damage inflicted or issues with the canvas of the ring. It was because you are dirty, Pete. To your core, you are filthy.

"You're a lying, pathetic piece of trash and every single person in the locker room knows it and, most importantly, the fans in the arena know it."

He grabs the ropes with his hands and yanks on both of the top ropes leading into the corner while still facing the camera.

"That is why I won't fall into your trap. I won't buy into your lies and I won't attack before the bell.

"Not because I don't want to rip your head off and take a piss down your throat....because I do. I want to tear you limb from limb more than anything at this point.

"But I refrain because doing it outside the ring only gives you a win you don't deserve in a tournament you aren't fit to represent."

The sly smile returns as he continues.

"I can be a bad guy too, you know. I can lie, cheat and steal with the best of them. I could kick low blows at you and yell to the crowd as I did it. I can bust you open with an item and not ever let the referee see it.

"I have been that guy who does whatever it takes to win and, admittedly, I want this win badly.

"However, I refuse to attack you that way because it isn't needed."

He makes a face of obvious agreement.

"You spoke a lot about my degrading of your wrestling skills. You said a lot about that, but lost in all of your fun abuse of the English language is one important fact...

"You didn't say it was false."

He throws up his hands, as if the argument is won.

"That's the entire point, Petey! That's the whole ball game! The entire ball of wax!

"You...

"Can't...

"Wrestle."

He smacks his hands back onto those top ropes as he leans into the corner again.

"You said it yourself by not trying to defend what skill you have. I realize where you are at right now, wrestling skill is not the main thing you need to succeed. Hell, it isn't even the secondary or tertiary thing you need to succeed there.

"If it was, then you would be even lower on the card than you are now."

He raises a questioning eyebrow.

"What title do you hold there again?

"That's right.....None."

He drops the eyebrow, but you can tell he is enjoying himself now.

"That is why you have tried every dirty trick in the book to keep me from really showing up. You know that the ONLY way you can pull off a victory is if I do something stupid before the match begins.

"And that is because once we are in here...

"The truth is revealed. All the other bull melts away and revealed little Petey Whealdon; under-sized and under-talented. The world will see the sniveling little turd you are and then watch as I slowly crucify you in this ring.

His grin gets a tad wider.

"Once that bell rings, it isn't a matter of IF the match will end in my favor. It is a question of HOW the match will finish in my favor. Truth is, it doesn't matter because I have all the choices in the world...

"An 'Icebreaker?' perhaps.

"The 'Chill Factor' to make you tap like a *****? Strongly considered.

"The 'Powerload?' Maybe the 'Ice Pick?' I haven't used them to win a match in ages.

"I have options and what makes it even more a universal lock is the fact that the moves I named are my finishing attacks....and it is a list longer than the entire list of wrestling moves you know outside of punch, kick and chop."

Another chuckle before moving forward.

"You're out of your league, Petey. You may have fun being a medium fish in a tiny defiant pond, but in the big pool, you're out gunned.

"You're a twenty-two caliber in a three-fifty-seven world.

"Your a knife at a gun fight.

"You're an immature boy in a world of men."

The smile is gone, back is that cold glare.

"You've done a lot to try and incite me, kid. And when you step in here, I can make one single promise: I'm not pulling any punches. I'm not holding back. I'm going to stretch you till your eyes pop out of their sockets. You'll have blood shot eyes and cauliflower ears when I finish with you. In short...

"You going to get hurt."

He nods slowly in that cold stare before he steadies his head and continues.

"And I'm going to enjoy every single second of doing it. When the match mercifully ends for you, you will know exactly why everybody eventually says...

"All...

"Hail....

There's that sly grin again.

"The King."

"See you soon, Petey."

He steps through the ropes to exit the ring as the screen fades to black.

 

[Aaron]

Mink Scarf. Hair messily side parted with a hand. Gold Mesh hoodie flashing LED pink Dolphins. Mustache cleaned. Immaculate.

Cigarette in the mouth, Hands on the head. Bottle of Van Winkle reserve.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself Chris, I’m under your skin so far, you’re overcompensating as hard as you can, empty arenas, theaters, and given enough time, you’d wander out to a church or monastery to put yourself above the fray. Everywhere you are. I’m needling you, I’m in your blood stream, and I’ve got you so flummoxed you’ve gone and tried on another hat, put on a different suit.

You’re trying to figure out The King of Sleaze Daddy, and you’re trying everything you got. It’s respect, It’s my motivation, It’s my wrestling ability, It’s this about Pete Whealdon, it’s that about Pete Whealdon.

Daddy, It’s ALL about Pete Whealdon. “

Whealdon takes a long pull on the Van Winkle. He rolls his neck before cleaning his mustache slyly.

“What I’m getting a good laugh at Daddy is, Who is Chris Hopper gonna be this time? Is he gonna be the mentor dropping the wisdom on the hardships of the business, you gonna be trying to take me under your wing, trying to convince me to give my all, even though I’m somehow Uninterested.

remember that?

Yeah Daddy, that came out of your mouth.

Wait. Hold up. Aren’t you the wrestler so Cool, So untouched by The Suite One’s antics, that you’re watching Adam Sandler movies? You’re just gonna out wrestle me.

Wait. Hold up again Daddy.

Now you’re just doing your job protecting the Ultratitle from the big bad wolf. And now you’re even going so far as to start listing wrestling moves, Daddy, Like I give a fuck about how many times you can apply an armbar in a new and exciting fashion.”

Whealdon pitches his cigarette into the DA BAWS coffee cup, sitting next to a couple of books on Korean, and Binary coding. Whealdon is sitting in the Defiance Promo Booth again, previously occupado para Cancer Jiles. on top of a sound monitor.

“So what I’m gonna do Daddy, is let you in on a little secret.”

Whealdon turns his index finger and beckons us closer as he comes closer and closer, a big grillz grin. Finger wagging now.

“You’re not that good Daddy. You’re thirty eight years old with nothing to show for it in this business, I went and I did a little background check Daddy, the reason you’ve never used whatever cleverly named moves you saw on tapes in the 80’s and 90’s is because you’re spending the majority of your career counting lights and being just so very very close to meaning Daddy, You’re number eight, you’re number fifty, you’re number this, number that, and You know what you’re never ever gonna be? Number One.

See, here is where you can add another to that resume, round of thirty-two, I don’t need to tell you how many different ways I can beat you.

Because I’m going to beat you. The way it happens, the method, if it’s a fork, a small package, or I kick your head off, I win."

Dramatic pause, Whealdon pauses for a few uncomfortable seconds, fucking with the booth again, staring them down hard.

"You Lose.”

Whealdon pulls a fork out from the back pocket of his jeans and starts wagging it around.

It’s that simple. You can pretend like your inaction, your indifference to me doing whatever the fuck I want to you, your life, your career is some kind of deeper understanding of how life works, or we can both be completely honest here.

You’re a pussy of the highest order.”

That dingy grey thrift store special fork is still waggling dangerously, three tines, in the style of ikead.

“You won’t come after me before the show because you’re a slow, broken down old man, you don’t even have the career credentials to be pretending like you're Sean Stevens, Eric Dane, Eli Flair and Joey Melton.

Me, I’m the shit now.

Where you’re wrong is thinking this tournament is anything other than a whore, and I’m pulling her hair, spitting in her mouth and I’m doing the kind of things you wish you could do. Sitting down in your theater, alone, sad, watching Adam Sandler movies and hoping no one comes looking for you.”

Whealdon spits at the booth window, carelessly. Tossing the fork aside.

“Good thing Peoria is so far from the world that I didn’t feel like flying down there and searching for the house that mediocrity built, and Defacing your house.

You deserve it though, You deserve to have every part of your life scarred by King of Sleaze, You deserve to wake up with the cold sweats for the rest of your life because Pete Whealdon exposed you for everything you could never, ever be. “

Whealdon motions as though he were holding a can of spray paint. Pink of course. He hops up grabbing the bottle and taking another long plug.

“I fuck like you wish you could fuck.

I fight like you wish you could fight.

I have style in ways you could never touch.

You’re talking about guns Chris Hopper, you’re talking about knives. The difference is the game we’re playing is rigged, the gun you’re bringing to this knife fight is empty, and you aren’t even man enough to pull the trigger while I lick the blade. “

Whealdon’s tongue comes out slowly licks up towards his mustache, which he quickly cleans his mustache slyly again. He wiped his greasy hair out of his eyes and adjusts his aviator sunglasses.

“You’re hoping a big caliber gun is scary, that it’s gonna send someone packing on the visual alone. You’re hoping they don’t find out you cry yourself to sleep during Waterboy, you’re praying they don’t find out you’re only calling yourself the King of Anything, because you need to hide, you need the facade.

Daddy, I do everything I want, all of the time, and you think because you can’t man up to that fact that it suddenly changes once your music hits, and you hit the ring, and you have to stare me down?

Daddy, no deal. You’re gonna break your stare, and I’m gonna make you wish you had stayed in ACW. You’ll have a good story to tell ‘em when you start talking about how unfair it is. You, the veteran who’s never had a single spark in his entire life to do anything the way he wants, and Me, the now confirmed King of Sleaze.”

Whealdon is handed a large motivational poster, freshly made with Chris Hopper during the point he called Whealdon the Kind of Sleaze, beneath the large image says Whealdon: King of Sleaze. He tosses it aside, cleaning his mustache again before taking another chug on the bottle.

“Thanks for the rub there Daddy, Now I can carry around Chris Hopper’s endorsement that I am the real King of the Cool Mountain.”

Whealdon gives a thumbs up, and takes another plug.

“And keep talking about Sean Stevens Daddy, everyone know your entire skree about disappointment, about everything is because you were looking forward to a match that is never gonna happen, because Sean Stevens blew it in the first round against a fluke. And yeah Daddy, I gave Jason Murray a dose.

I don’t need to spell out what I gave him.”

Whealdon claps, three times, and frowns.

“Maybe you need to get at him Hopper-Man, figure out what the cure is, because I’m gonna mainline it right into your veins and your heart is gonna pump with something other than cowardice. “

Mocking the Queen of the trailer park even now, thumb and pinky in a mock cellphone. Whealdon adjusts his mink scarf.

“You can thank me for it later, Daddy. You can call your drunken piece of shit grandfather too, get at those TV psychics, and ask him how he liked his golden shower, ask him how it feels knowing his lineage has come down to little girl who wouldn’t strike another man because he disrespected him

And I’m gonna do it again. You think the disrespect is gonna end when that bell rings? If I could find the house you grew up in, I’d deface it. Your favorite restaurant, the gym you work out, the airline you like. The hardware store you go to. Everywhere.

I would do it all. You can’t stop me Daddy, You’re not even close enough to my level Daddy, I’m gonna swallow pills and drink Pappy Van Winkle, and you’re gonna pretend like you’re a bigger man hiding in the basement, ain’t yah?”

Whealdon mocks a bottle of pills, taking the cap off, casting it aside and throwing ‘em back. Taking another big plug, he casts aside the bottle, just as quickly another appears at his side, some anonymous assistant. Whealdon pulls the cork out and starts drinking again.

“This entire thing is gonna end badly for your Hopper, not because I’m going on to face Seymour Almasy and you’re not, because in little while, you’re gonna wake up alone in that palatial estate of yours, with none of the wrestling awards I’ve actually picked up. And you’re gonna have to deal with the fact that again, you weren’t good enough.

Then that’s the story of everything you’ve done.

The only difference is, this time, the time that counts. I stripped you of everything you had left. I exposed everything facetious about you. You wanted a wrestling match, what you got, is a fight, and you know what, I don’t lose fights, I don’t lose wars. I will use everything I have around me to accomplish my goals, Daddy.”

Whealdon sets the bottle down and picks up the fork again, brandishing it as a threat. Shaking it out in front of him, as he cleans his mustache severely with his free hand.

“I can’t be beat in this tournament, Hopper-man, pay attention. This tournament was made for me. I’m not just a big fish in a great pond, I’m a fucking shark in an ocean of posers and second rate has beens. I’m a disease and I’m spreading through this tournament, I’ll spread her legs and tell you how she tastes some day, since you’re still standing at the door fumbling with a vanilla candle and trying to set the mood.

And I’m just getting the baby oil out and having my way with it.”

Whealdon pulls out his cigarettes, pulling a single stick out, setting down his fork. Lighting it up, he takes a big drag, before blowing smoke rings, the stick hanging idle between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re horrified and disgusted by me, I’m under your skin Daddy, I’m in your head, and I’ve left my mark on you. The only thing left is to roll you up and send you packing back to the little leagues. Maybe you can talk to someone about it again when you open up another show. Talk about how the one guy not in here for his own glory, for bullshi[/t like honor, respect, whatever the buzzword this year is.

Is the guy who came out an embarrassed you.”

Another long drag, the orange glow at the end of the cigarette glowing slightly more intense before dropping back off.

“Hey Daddy, it ain’t all bad, when I’m the Ultrachampion, I’m gonna send you a polaroid of some young tramp wearing nothing else. Then you’ll see what I care about.”

Cigarette hanging in his mouth, and smoke drifting out of his nose. Whealdon mocks a camera thumb at its base and index finger making that snapping motion. Straightening out his hair again Whealdon just pulls it all back behind his head loosely.

“It’s not honor, its not respect. I’ll go down to the bar in your neighborhood and find your first love, and sleep with her just to fuck with you.

Cause I’m just the King of Sleaze. I’m the real King of Cool.

When I’m done with the Ultratitle, I’m gonna flush the thing down the fucking toilet Daddy, Just because I can.”

Whealdon drops the sunglasses just long enough to wink.

“You need the Ultratitle, You crave it so desperately, and I just wanna bolt pink dolphins on it and use it to pick up college girls, the same ones writing my name on their toes and sending me their panties.

That’s cool Daddy, and I’m cleaning my mustache, I’m drinking Pappy Van Winkle, I’m smoking marlboro reds, wearing mesh, red bottom loafers to compliment the mink.”

Whealdon lifts up his as yet unseen black loafers, sporting red velvet bottoms. Stroking his mink scarf before taking another plug of Van Winkle.

“You? You’re pulling on a pony tail, and some tired nine-teen eighties catchphrases trying to etch-a-sketch that you’ve completely blown this whole thing.”

Whealdon holds up the bottle around the tip of the neck in his pinky and ring finger. Index and Middle finger out like a gun, Thumb cocked like the hammer on a revolver. Snapping back as it fires.

Black.