So here we stand today, in Salt Lake City, Utah, the proverbial toilet bowl of these United States. Let me dance a jig of glee. Did you see it? Did you? That’s because it aint gonna fucking happen. Who the fuck is the booking agent for this company, Ren and fucking Stimpy? With being in Minnesota one week and then in Utah the next; I tell you, if next week’s Distortion is placed in Florida, someone’s head is gonna roll.
Now that that is out of my system for the time being, let’s try to figure something out shall we? Here is my problem. I lost to Kalil Fucking Blackburn last week, a man who is no less then eight full cups of stupid. Now not only did I lose to him, but somehow he pulled off something that isn’t, in all actuality, physically possible. How does one who stands a full foot shorter then me, and weighs less then a bag of potatoes pull off a fucking backslide pin on someone almost seven feet tall and less then a nickel shy of three hundred pounds? Considering the sheer physics of this, it’s virtually impossible, but somehow, somewhere, Kalil was able to pull this out of his arsenal and beat one of the biggest, if not THE biggest man that stands tall in this company.
Kalil I tell you this now, you got the upper hand on me once, and although it was cheap, a win is a win, at least in your book; but don’t expect it to happen again. I underestimated you, and that only happens once. The next time we step into that ring together, you better have my shiny little belt polished spotless, for the tides will change that day. Unlike last week on Distortion when you somehow survived the beating, I will reign superior. Your title will in fact change hands and go to someone who deserves it; to a man that has held more titles in a single fed then you have your whole damn career. I dare you not to watch over your shoulder Kalil, just to see what happens to you, and just how long you last as champion.
Now on to matters that don’t alter the time/space continuum in some way (a fucking backslide?), Damien Cross, a man who somehow slipped in the back door of NWR. It seems like they will let just about anyone in federations nowadays. Sure I don’t know who in the blue hell you are, but that doesn’t mean I can’t deface you and chop you down. Come on, it seems the working way in this federation. Smack talking gets you places. Seems it gets you championships here.
But in all honesty Damien, who the hell are you? Somehow, in their warped little minds, the booking crew here in NWR, in their infinite wisdom, has placed you in a singles match against yours truly. I must say, I AM SO SORRY. How dare they be so mean to you? You deserve a chance to refine your skills here before being placed in a match that could very well end your career. They should have booked you against, I don’t know, maybe a John Diggity Jericho or a Rex Bateman, or even the bottom of the barrel; Okami or Kalil Fucking Blackburn. That would have sufficed just nicely I think.
Personally, I have no qualms with you Damien, other then the sheer fact that you stand in my way of greatness, so any inklings in that mind of yours thinking that you are gonna use me as your stepping stone to immortality, can now be tossed out the window like a cheating redneck wife.
So we will get in the ring come Distortion, dance a little and you will lay down for me. At least I’m being nice about this. I’m letting you chose whether you do it the easy way or the hard way. The easy way for you would be just that; lying down for me, or easier yet, not even showing up for the match. Of course the hard way being you get into the ring and put out some kind of attempt to beat me, with me having to boot fuck you all over the ring. Your choice!
One way or another I will walk out of Distortion with another notch in the win column. I don’t see how anyone could consider what happened last week a loss. Unfortunately on paper it happened. Mind you, on paper Kalil Fucking Blackburn seems like a genuine athlete.
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The wind is slight, but flowing on this day in Salt Lake City, Utah. On the roads as per usual, vehicles scurry around like beetles in the grass around the home of the Utah Jazz. The sun glistens off the outside doors, blinding passerbies on foot.
Inside however on this Sunday, the arena is a dismal gray. Slow thundering footsteps can be heard echoing around throughout the arena. They stomp loudly, from a far distance, but come closer and closer. From around the corner, Darion Steel appears, with a towel over his head; sweat pouring from his face. He wipes his face down, and sits on the bench. He tosses the towel to the floor. He stares at it for a few moments, then kicks it with his foot, hooking it on to a near by vending machine. He stares back at the floor again.
Darion: How? How the fuck did Kalil beat me last week? I just don’t get it. I fucking had him beat. He didn’t stand a chance.
He swings his arm, punching the wall next to him, chipping the cream colored paint from it.
Darion: It’s just not possible.
He tilts his head down and runs his fingers through his long sweat soaked hair. After a few minutes, he is startled as his towel lands across the back of his neck. He jumps to his feet, and looks to his left. There stands all 5’10” of Pete looking up at him.
Darion: Asshole! Where the hell have you been?
Pete: Away dealing with a few things.
Darion: Like what?
Pete: Nothing that concerns you.
Darion: And what is that smell? It’s so familiar and it reeks to high heaven.
Pete: Burnt wood.
Darion: From?
Pete: Nothing that concerns you.
Darion: Uhm, ok. How the hell did you get in here? I locked the door after the guard let me in.
Pete only stands there and looks at Darion with a dumfounded look upon his face.
Darion: Right, stupid question.
Pete: So I see you tanked last week against Kalil.
Darion: Shut up! You’ve seen it obviously. How is it possible for him to beat me with a fucking backslide pin?
Pete: Obviously it’s possible or it wouldn’t have beaten you. Hell, at this rate, you might as well face me. I’m looking for a decent win.
Darion: You love this don’t you?
Pete: Well after all this time, with you trying to tell me how I should keep focused and try as hard as I can in the ring, and you stumble in only your second match at the plate. See I know I lose, but at least I lose with grace and dignity.
Darion: You seriously think he deserved to win?
Pete: Darion, get the hell off your high horse for just a second and look at this sensibly. It doesn’t matter how you lost, whether it was by a bullshit backslide or roll up pin, or if it was getting hammered by someone’s finishing move three damned times. The fact still remains. You sucked just that extra little bit last week to be beaten by Kalil Blackburn of all people.
Darion: Well....
Pete: Well nothing. If you don’t get your ass in gear, you will suffer the same fate this week against Damien Cross.
Darion: How did you know I had a match this week?
Pete: I’ve been away, not hiding under a fucking rock you moron. I know you have a match, just like I know I have a match. It’s not that damn complicated.
Darion: Someone’s a little testy.
Pete: I’m not testy, I’m just sick as shit of people thinking they know who I am and what I’m capable of because of my prior “engagements” in the ring. I’m also sick of people thinking the can control me like a lost little fucking dog.
Darion:Me?
Pete: Not only you, but you don’t help the matter. You seem to think I’m your little sidekick here; like I’m the Cowardly Lion to your Dorothy.
Darion: Did you just...
Pete: Yes I just called you Dorothy. Suck it up! The point here Dorothy is that you need to pull yourself together and get your head in the fed. I don’t know where it’s been, and to be honest, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass, but even if it gives me a slight moments peace by having you win another match, I’ll do anything in my power to get you there. That way, I don’t have to hear you next week whine, bitch and complain that Damien beat you with a clothesline or a dirty kick to the junk.
Darion stops for a moment and looks down at Pete, who in turn, looks back up at the beast before him without a glimpse of fear. Darion reaches into his pants and pulls out change. He leans down slightly and drops two dollars worth of quarters into the vending machine beside them. He presses one of the few buttons on the machine, dropping a cold bottle of Coke to the drawer.
He stands back up, and without a word, he turns around and starts walking away from Pete, who stands with a confused look on his face. He places the towel back over his head.
Pete: And where the hell do you think you are going?
Darion: Back to the gym. At least there if you start yelling at me, I can knock you out with a fifty pound weight to the side of the head. At least there they expect to see blood every once in awhile.
With that, Darion walks off, leaving Pete to look at his back. Pete stands there appalled that Darion walked away. He reaches behind his back under his black trench coat and removes his trusty hatchet. He looks at it, and then looks towards the direction that Darion has now disappeared to. He looks down at the hatchet again, waving it back and forth in his hand. He shakes his head in disgust.
Pete: Y’know, it’s just not worth it.
He takes the tiny axe and places it back behind his back, under the trench coat. He looks down, bends and removes the bottle from the vending machine. He twists the lid to the bottle off, and takes a quick swig of it. He shakes his head again as he looks down the darkened hallway, placing the lid back on the bottle. He turns and walks away, turning down another hallway in the arena.
The doors to the gym swing open as Darion steps inside once again. He looks around the empty room. He walks over to the bench where his gym bag lays and sits down next to it. He tosses the towel down hard beside him on the bench as he reaches into the duffel and pulls out a large, black leather weight belt. He stands up, wrapping the belt around his waist, adjusting it, and pulling it tight, locking it in place. He walks over to the squat machine and leans against it.
Darion: I can’t believe Pete of all people would have the audacity to talk to me like that. I expect that from someone as low brow as Kalil or Okami, but not Pete. Things have been getting stranger and stranger with everything lately. Pete just seems like he’s in his own little world once again. I think he needs a chance to cool off before he gets his fucking bell rung.
Darion bends down, adjusting the weight pin on the machine to the bottom of the stack. He stands back up.
Darion: I don’t know what it is lately. I’m not sure if it’s the weather getting to people, or the stress that they carry day in and day out, or just if everyone on the NWR roster is simultaneously experiencing their rag. All I know is, it seems everyone seems to be waking up on the wrong side of the bed every morning, jumping out of bed with both feet and missing the fucking floor.
He walks around front of the machine, and adjusts himself under the bars.
Darion: Damien, I’m sorry man, but unless you back out now, you are about to step foot into a ring with not only a determined man, but a very, VERY angry giant. They always say to never wake a sleeping giant, but never in the story does it tell you what happens if you do. Unfortunately for you Son Of Satan, Kalil did just that, and now you have reap the benefits.
He tightly winds his hands around the bars that lay across his shoulders, turning and tearing the rubber pads on them.
Darion: Do yourself a favor Damien, and I promise not to think any less of you. Don’t show up. You do this simple task, and I assure you that you will live another day to fight as a low carder. If you do show up however, I will not lay responsible for your night, your career, or your future.
Darion stands tall, pushing the bars up with his hands and shoulders, unlatching the lock holding the weights in place. With all the weight lying heavily on his shoulders, he lowers himself slowly to a squatting position.
Darion: Kalil, you don’t truly understand what you have done here. You have possibly just ended the career of Damien Cross, without truly knowing him. Are you that conceited, or just lacking the apathetic bone in your body? You took a cheap win and I bet you consider yourself a superstar because of it. It won’t happen again, I assure you of this.
Darion slowly stands up, straining his legs and knees, pressing the weight up until he is standing.
Darion: I’m not the only person pushing weight around here Kalil. There are forces plotting much more then you could possibly conceive as I say this to you, and until now you had no idea that any of it concerned you and that precious title of yours.
He slides slowly back down into a squatting position.
Darion: One way or another Kalil, that title will be leaving your waist very soon, whether it’s by my hands, or someone else’s. Either way, once that title is gone, there will be nothing left for you here. We all know that you aren’t World Title material, so the New Wave title is your last hope at greatness; and the day that title switches from your waist to the hands of someone much more deserving, you can guarantee that I’ll be standing there smiling from ear to ear, knowing that you dreams have once again been crushed.
He stands slowly again, not under as much duress this time around. He takes a deep breath as he stands straight, with the weight of the stack pressing down on his large shoulders.
Darion: Kalil, just like Damien this coming Distortion, you too will have to witness the rebirth of a madman; the rebirth of a monster…The rebirth of a Legend. Fear the Heavy Metal gentlemen, because for the both of you, your judgment will soon be upon you.
Darion slides quickly down to the squatting position once again, slamming the weights down onto the metal barrier at the bottom of the machine, making them bash together, making a loud clattering noise that echoes throughout the room.
Fade To Black
