You’d be surprised at how many people hide their true feelings. Through that, they hide their true selves. You get a lot of examples of it. There’s the class clown who throws jokes out at every situation, even in the most inappropriate times. Especially in the most inappropriate times. It’s his way of coping with things. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that comedy can’t be taught – you get examples such as actor Ken Jenkins who plays Dr. Bob Kelso on the TV show Scrubs. He has been quoted as saying that he only understands about 20 percent of the jokes he has to deliver, yet each one gets delivered with about as close to perfection as you can get. He is naturally funny, but those jokes aren’t his. He’s learned how to deliver them. The class clown though, he’s usually a naturally funny person. Very funny in fact. And when an awkward situation arises, his frequency of jokes will also rise. It’s the way he reacts to remove the ill-feeling. More importantly, it’s the way he reacts to show the world that he’s not affected by it. He wants people to think that he’s always the funny guy. He wants people to think that he’s bullet-proof. Our images are so important to us all. You can act like you don’t care what other people think of you, and generally speaking that may be the truth. Sooner or later though, you do care. Everybody cares. Even if you always speak your opinion, whether it be controversial or not, you still care what people think about you. Your honesty becomes your image. You want people to regard you as the guy (or girl to be politically correct) who can always be relied upon to tell you the truth. No bullshit included. Sure you may not fall into the category of people covering who they really are, but you do care what everybody else thinks. That’s generally the whole point about those little white lies that you disguise yourself with. You see what you want to be like, sometimes even only at a subconscious level, and then you instinctively put yourself into the position to achieve it. It’s all about whatever will help you thrive in your environment. Often it’s based around your friend group – or lack thereof. If you happen to friends with the guys who drive expensive sports cars, your probably going to want to have one too just so that you can fit in, even though the only thing about cars that you really care about is whether or not they’re able to get you from one place to another. If you’re a cheerleader, and all the others are picking on the gawky chess club kid who you know has been in love with you since the day he first saw you, you’re going to go ahead and pretend that you think he’s just as gross as the others do. Even though you may go over to his place next-door in the weekend and ask him to help you study for chemistry. You’re hiding behind your lies to advance yourself in society. It works the other way as well though. A social outcast is likely to amplify the qualities which have caused them to be categorized as “weird”, effectively creating a justification to themselves as to why they don’t have many (or any) friends. They see the wizard costume in their closet, and notice that nobody else wore one to school last week. They’re different, that’s why they’re alone. Situations like this are depressing, there’s no doubt about that. But what’s worse is when there are people who want to be close to them, but the “freak” doesn’t want to open up because he’s become too comfortable in his isolation. Usually this sort of thing will happen after the social stigma of high school is removed. But even as this happens, the individual knows that he should open up. He wants to. He’s just afraid, so he falls back on the formula that has comforted him in the past. Act weird, and nobody will get close to you. Nobody will hurt you. You feel for these people, but it’s a personal flaw. They don’t have the courage to step forward and say, “Yeah I’m a little different? So fucking what?” The absence of courage was what put them into their position to begin with. These aren’t worst case scenarios though people. Like most things, these are results of a flawed social system. Some would call it a throwback to the medieval hierarchal class systems. But the biggest flaw in society can’t be given the same validation. The flaw of lying. In no way will I ever claim to be honest. If I ever do, you have my word that I will be lying. Funny that… But I’d like to think that I fall into the previously mentioned category of people who will give you their uncensored opinion, I’ll just lie about why I think that. A lot of people though – a lot of you – don’t fall into that category. I hear whispers to the point that I can read minds. To my face I get told over and over again that I’m one of the greatest… a legend. But the whispers don’t reproduce the same thoughts. No names need to be spoken, but I know you all don’t view me as my title suggests I should be viewed. For some of you it’s a case of penis envy. “Why him but not me?” Well I don’t have an answer for you there. All I’ve got to say is this: If you want to talk behind my back about Lee Stone not being as great as some people make him out to be, be my fucking guest. But I demand that you prove me otherwise. I’m a fucking legend. I dare you to dispute that. Thursday, 21 June, 2007 – Miami, Florida The following is a recorded promotion produced by The World’s Greatest Production Company in association with the Xtreme Wrestling Federation. “I’m upset…
Bitches and gentlefucks, Lee Stone is upset.
Don’t worry, I don’t need no tissue or nothing. I’m a big boy, I can handle being upset. But what I’m about to do feels almost… wrong.
Back when I was recognised as the Universal Champion by everyone rather than just recognising myself as it like I do now, I had a habit of firing off in all directions. Quick-tongued, hot-headed, hyphenated words of that nature would all have been fitting descriptions for the World’s Greatest. My last production wouldn’t exactly have done anything to lead you to any other conclusion either. I suppose that would be a comforting thought to all you Leeoholics. It’d be a sign of hope, sent from the heavens above. Lee Stone is getting back to his best. Lee Stone has been clawing back towards his throne, one inch at a time, and now he can reach out and touch it. Lee Stone is ready to take on the whole fucking world… again.
It’s true. I am ready to rule again. I’m ready to fight. If I were any of those three clowns in the main event, I’d be extremely cautious as to not get me riled up. I have promised that I will be back full time sooner or later, and you wouldn’t want that to happen right as your boasting about being the undeniable best, would you?
Jem’s in the way of my return to glory. Jem is my fight. And it’s because of Jem that I’m upset. He hasn’t done anything, but rather I’m about to do something.
Dun-dun-dun!
Chill. This ain’t a threat either. This is me needing to take the time to go ahead and speak out to somebody else once again. Last time, I felt it was justified. Hell, Jem felt it was justified to go ahead and take some time to analyze what the game is like nowadays. Identify the differences, the common players, etc. But my words tend to have some impact. So what I’m going to do right now is apologize to Jem for this, but in no way should you think that this means my mind isn’t firmly on our match? Got that Jemmy-Poo?
So with that being said… Justin “Raziel” Jones. I fall back to you.
Hey dude.”
Time for a goofy grin!
“With that non-threatening colloquial greeting out of the way, I’ma follow it up with a simple command. Re-the-fuck-wind!
Rewind right now Mr. Lights Out.
I don’t want you to forgive me. Okay? I thought that was clear last time. I don’t want you to stand there and act as if everything is smooth between us. I don’t really care if everything is smooth between us. I’d like to think that since your Raziel days you’ve developed a stronger moral fibre that would prevent you from tarnishing the legacy of a man who I’m pretty sure you’re still on good terms with in Jem. So I don’t think I have to worry about you getting involved in this match of mine. And you can expect to not see me out there in your Battle Royal either. We may not be the bestest of best friends, but I don’t hate you. That needs to be known.
Last time I spoke though, I don’t really know what I was getting at. I still don’t. I can apologise to you, sure, but what will that accomplish? Will it make me a better person for the future? No. And that’s what I’m working on right now. I have a lot bigger battles to fight than with you right now. I have two people to face this weekend, Jem and myself. That takes my full attention.
But dude, I have a purpose today. I know what the hell I’m saying. I’m not just thinking out loud and trying to sift through my thoughts to explain my actions. I want to tell you something very, very important Justin.
You should never have trusted me.
Great way to sell myself isn’t it? But let’s look at my closest friends here. The first three names that pop into mind are Christian Connolly, Mike Raboin and Alex Cutwright. Would I have their backs in a match? Definitely. I guess they could “trust” me in that department. Would I have their backs in their personal lives? Yeah, sure, they can “trust” me there. But can they “trust” me not to cut them lose the moment they start becoming deadweight? Nah. Not a fucking chance. Maybe if I’m feeling particularly generous, they’d still have me behind them, but it’s up-in-the-air. You became deadweight Justin, and to a perfectionist like me, that wasn’t going to fly.
Again, not trying to justify anything, just putting my thoughts out there. Take it how you will.
None of that trust crap really got to me though Justin. I shrugged it off like it was a little girl’s punch to any part of my anatomy that isn’t my genitals. What really irked me about your little spiel though was you having the fucking audacity to say that you gave me everything I ever wanted. Club V.I.P was your idea, congratu-fucking-lations, but I provided the goddamn bankroll to begin with! It sustains itself now, sure, but I got it going you conceited dick. That’s why I’m “Fully Loaded”. I’ve been “Fully Loaded” since the days when I was rolling with Psyko Stevo and Jon Page in the stable of the same name. I just constructed a ridiculously oversized mansion without any need for a damn loan, mortgage or anything. It seems completely fictional to me that I could ever afford to do that, but I can. I could own whatever fucking thing I want. Hell, before this company got going Raz, I could’ve owned you! Now that I broke away from Stevo and Page – and actually had Stevo be the one to turn on me – “Fully Loaded” only means one thing to me, and I just described it. So Raz, yeah, thanks for giving me everything I could ever ask for. Asshole.
I’ll give you one thing though. You were right. The Lee Stone that you knew could’ve taken care of Mr. Amazing and Shadow with both arms and legs tied behind my back in some ridiculous fucking knot, a blindfold on, and a gremlin choking me with it’s claws. But you didn’t know Lee Stone the drunk. And you sure as hell don’t know the clean and sober Lee Stone. The Lee Stone you knew… he hasn’t been around for two years. Justin…
You don’t know a fucking thing about me.
And as it turns out, I apparently don’t know as much as I thought I did about you. Apparently you have a problem comprehending the English language. I don’t blame you at all for my problems. That’s why they’re called my problems. They’re mine. I blame you for seemingly not caring. What happened to you was a combination of things. Most of it was due to my own character flaws – shit, those flaws are responsible for what’s happened to me too. But the fault does not fall completely on my shoulders, it has to be shared. Even if just a little bit.
You wanna keep going back and forth though, that’s your prerogative. Consider the book closed on my part though, at least for now. You can keep talking if you want to, but I no longer care. I’m done.”
Wednesday, 20 June, 2007 – Miami, Florida
“Relationships?” I exclaim in confusion. “What in the blue hell do you want to talk about them for?”
“Look Lee, I know you had built quite a strong working relationship with Doctor Cameron, but sadly he can’t be here in the United States as well as New Zealand. He has other patients to take care of. I was in his class at The University Of Otago back down south in New Zealand though, so you have my word I will try to stick to the processes he has in place for you. But if my approach is a little different to what you are expecting then all that I ask is that you give me time.” My disdain for people that I don’t feel comfortable with is well documented. Half of you fuckwits fall into that category. The majority of the other half of you fall into my ‘nothing’ category. To put it very simply, you are nothing to me. You’re neither friend, nor foe. You ain’t even a blip on Lee Stone’s radar. I don’t even know your name. A select few of you fall into the category of what I would’ve called my ‘drinking buddies’ a while back. I guess I probably could call you my ‘buddies’ now, but truth be told, just because I can tolerate you, it doesn’t mean I’m friends with you. Needless to say, sitting here in a crappy wooden chair, with the backrest actually jabbing into my spine (which I’m quite positive is at least partially responsible for the tingly sensation in my left hand), looking across a disgustingly tidy desk at a man with suspenders on who spent so much money and time on getting his way through med school to get to the point where he could sit here and listen to other people’s problems, isn’t exactly my idea of comfortable. I mean come on, this guy probably has more problems than half of the idiots that willing or unwillingly (such as in my case) traipse through here. And you’ve got to wonder about the mind frame of a guy whose sole ambition in life was to surround himself with crazy people. How many times do you think his problems have followed him home? At those big fancy universities and colleges, I’m sure they’d tell you all the horror stories, so I really wonder why the hell anybody would ever want to be a psychiatrist.
“A working relationship?” I query. “I’m sorry buddy, but I think you’ve got your wires crossed. The good Doctor Mark and I have had about one productive session in three months of me visiting him at least twice a week. You call that a strong working relationship? I sure as hell don’t. I call that the closest two men can get to those nights when you’re getting drunk with your best friends girlfriend and having a real quality conversation, when one thing leads to another and you wind up “making the beast with two backs” as Shakespeare so eloquently put it. You know… all that minus the sex part. As a rule, dudes don’t have heart-to-hearts all that frequently, so I’m afraid you’re going to be out of luck today. I’ve already expended my semi-annual quota of near-feminine moments.”
“So you don’t think men can have relationships of any substance unless their in some way feminine?” You ever notice how all psychiatrists look the same? If they’ve made it to the clinical level, their in the big show now. It’s like being a plastic surgeon: they’re the celebrities of their chosen field of expertise. And therefore, they expect to be treated as such. Any occasion when one will question them, is taken as an offence. While this may not be an example of one of those moments, I can pick all of this attitude up from the way in which he asks his questions, the way that his dark eyes peer through his glasses, the black rim melding into his bushy and equally black eyebrows. Small crease lines stand out in an otherwise ghostly pale skin tone. He is confident, successful, and beginning to come into his own both professionally and personally. He is Doctor Samuel Connolly: psychiatrist of the future. All of this, read from a simple facial expression. He should thank his lucky freaking stars that I’m not reading into his office’s decorations. Purple curtains, collectable KISS figurines, not a speck of dust anywhere in the room. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of hygiene, and who doesn’t love jamming out to Gene Simmons and co. but come on, purple curtains? I’m afraid to ask about why he has them, because I’d expect an answer that involves correcting me and calling them violet. Whatever though. To each his own. “If that’s the case, then what do you talk about with your friends?”
“Friends are allowed to talk about a select amount of superficial, unimportant topics. Sports, food, the weather, any horror, thriller, sci-fi, war, action, western or comedy excluding romantic comedy films and television programs, breasts and the female anatomy, any other women-related issue provided that the term “Women” followed by a depressingly helpless head-shake is used at least every five exchanges of conversation. Your turn, my turn, your turn, my turn, your turn and all you respond with is “Women”. Head-shake.” I stop to breathe, wondering for a moment how many words I just spoke on one mouthful of oxygen. And then I realise that the list isn’t finished. “Also, cars, alcoholic beverages of any kind provided that it doesn’t involve wine, martinis, appletinis, nectarinis, or any other kind of “ini”. Video games are acceptable provided that both the first and last game brought up in some way involves at least two of the aforementioned conversation topics. And last but not least, weaponry of all kind, including how to turn any common object into a weapon.”
“That’s quite a list,” he says after a soundless pause. He blinks a couple of times, a little dumbfounded I think by what he just heard. “Why, may I ask, do you feel that conversation topics between males should be limited to those subjects only?”
“Because talking about those things removes any kind of morality and meaning from the conversation. The participants retain their image as staunch men, not little girly bitches. It is essential for survival Doc.” I say this matter-of-factly. “Natural selection should still play as much of a role as possible in today’s world. We’re just too far-gone in our pursuit of equality and human rights that we don’t do what’s best for our survival.”
“I’m sorry Lee, but what you’re talking about sounds downright evil.” He’s shocked because he doesn’t understand. “First you try to tell me that people shouldn’t be equal? Then you hint at eliminating the weak, which to me suggests that you consider genocide to be a commendable action.”
“Well now you’re just putting words into my mouth,” I say, dismissing his thoughts. “I never have, and never will condone the act of genocide. I certainly am doing no such thing in this very moment.”
“Would you be so kind as to clarify what you mean then? I’d very much like to hear how you explain yourself here.”
“Natural selection is one of, if not the most important rule in the evolutionary process. Now I know the biology you would have learned through university is probably of a slightly different nature, but surely you have enough fundamental knowledge of the subject that you would be able to agree with that statement, correct?” He nods, confirming that indeed he has enough basic knowledge to comment on the subject, and also that my statement was indeed true. “Great. Then in order to advance our very species, should natural selection not be continued?”
“Yes it should,” he agrees. “But I fail to see how any of this ties in to what you were saying.”
“In many species, natural selection eliminates the weaker individuals of a species in order to provide the stronger organisms with a higher chance of successful reproduction, and therefore the offspring will generally be a stronger generation than their parents were, as the more desirable characteristics to survive in their environment are the ones that are passed on.”
“Go on,” he prompts me.
“Staunch, manly men, are what is considered ‘strong’ in our environment,” I respond.
“According to who? There are many examples of powerful men who do not fit the stereotype of a sluggish, dim-witted brute. Take Bill Gates for example. Or even George W. Bush. Hell, even I’m an example of success in our environment which is the Western culture, being not dependant on physical strength. I’m 5’10” and 175lbs. Not the most physically dominant, but still successful.” And there’s that smug hint of arrogance that I mentioned before. You can tell when people have it just by looking at them. I wasn’t wrong.
“The question you’ve got to ask yourself though, is do we want our entire future to be dominated by technology like what Gates as provided, fucked-up politics like what Bush has given us, or crazy mind-readers such as yourself, then by all means we should continue down the path that we are on.” I look at him as if to ask him if that’s what he really wants. “But with metro-fucking-sexuals and sissy little bitches becoming more and more common, how the hell is anyone going to be able to lift a sledgehammer and shatter the fuck out of something in the future? Now don’t get me wrong, if somebody wants to be gay then that’s their choice and I ain’t going to tell them it’s wrong. It’s their life. But we can’t all be gay now can we? That would hinder our species’ survival more than anything.”
”So you’re telling me that having men who are uncompassionate and intolerant, is actually beneficial for humanity to continue?” He looks at me suspiciously.
“Only if there are the effeminate fruitcakes to balance it out.” I set the argument straight. “We want a diverse future where as a species, we have the abilities to survive and function no matter what occurs. Right now though, the image of the gruff, badass man is being shattered because apparently it’s not politically correct or some fucking bullshit like that. We’re frowned upon if our idea of a perfect evening is going to the pub, ordering the largest steak they have, drowning it in barbecue sauce and then washing it down with a few pints of beer. But if aliens visit Earth, with the sole intent of watching our total destruction, those steak-loving men are the only ones who will have the fucking balls to fight back and blow those goddamn aliens away. Alternatively, we need the gentler creatures to be able to talk to the aliens if they don’t want to fight us. It’s a delicate line to walk, but it needs to be done. We cannot afford to shift into either direction.”
“Lee…” his hand is clutched around his forehead, and it looks like he may actually be in some sort of physical discomfort. “What the hell does this have to do with anything? And when the hell do you think of all this?”
“This is how I spend my afternoons when I’m bored of playing Tekken,” I calmly reply.
“And what about the point to these ramblings?” His hand comes down, and he looks at me, clearly frustrated. “Is there even a point?”
“You asked about relationships,” I remind him, “that’s my view on man-to-man relationships.”
“So anybody who wants to be friends with you has to be willing to become the archetype of male arrogance and oppression, rather than showing any kind of sensitive side?” I can see where he would find fault in this. Come to think about it, it’s probably not a good approach to have towards things. Oh well, I’ve said all that crap already, might as well carry that line of thinking to the end.
“Yes.” It’s a simple, to-the-point answer. Great success. Doctor Connolly sighs.
“As enlightening as that line of thinking may be, would you care to switch foot now?” He asks as if I know what he’s talking about. After staring at my blank expression for a couple of brief moments, he then continues. “What about relationships with the opposite gender? Are you currently in some form of a relationship?”
“Right now?” He nods as I stop to think for a moment. I don’t actually know why I’m thinking, I already know the answer to that question. Yet for some reason, I feel compelled to take my time with answering it. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve watched one too many movies and am just pausing for dramatic effect. I guess I should probably answer him now. “No. Right now, I bring all new meaning to the term ‘bachelor’”
“Have you just got out of a relationship? Have you been single for a long time now? Is there somebody you lust after?” Throwing three questions at me, Doctor Connolly has me a little unsure where to start. I guess I can begin with the old, proven formula:
“Lust after? What the fuck is wrong with you?” The old, proven formula being that of complete disgust and attempted humiliation towards any difference any person ever shows. It never fails.
“Just tell me the details,” he suggests, trying to coerce me into giving him the disturbing pleasure he so greatly desires.
“Why?” I snap at him. “So you can sit there behind your little desk, hand down your pants and whack away over the sound of my admittedly beautiful voice. “It very well maybe, in fact, that’s almost certainly true,” I say in acknowledgement of a near-undisputable fact. “But to me, it’s also incredibly disturbing that you want to prove my mind for all its juicy little details of sexual misadventures and whacked-out experiences. And trust me, there’s a lot of them. Like this one time, I was with this chick right, and it was getting all hot and heavy and shit, you know… like usual when The Lee is involved. So I slip off her panties and then WHOA! I was staring right into what looked like it could have been a penis once. My face said it all, and when the chick saw my widened eyes, she knew she just had to explain. It was an enlarged clit. I mean, I had heard of the enlarged clit before, and had noticed a few different sizes in my past adventures, but nothing quite like this. I still hit it thought. She was fucking insane, and insane at fucking too. Those were the days…”
“As nice as it may be for you to drift off and relive all your past experiences, I don’t want to hear about them,” he says, trying to get me to stop before I even begin. We’d be here all day long.
“Now that you’ve brought it up though…” He doesn’t need to finish before I shoot him a look that would frighten the shit out of The Boogeyman. And we’re not talking about that worm-eating black dude with goofy red face paint either. I’m saying the real Boogeyman in your kid’s closet would be shitting in his boogey pants.
“Okay, no talking about that.” My intimidation tactic worked. Mark that up as another victory for Lee Stone.
“So let me ask you something here playa,” I say, trying to shake the memories from my own head. “Why the hell are you interested in knowing all this crap? What does it matter to you how many girl-friends, fuck-buddies or one-night stands I’ve had? How on Earth could it possibly be beneficial for you to know that I nearly had sex with a transvestite. Thank God I started coming down off that trip…”
“I’m trying to get to know who you are Lee,” he tells me. “The relationships one has are what chisel out the character of that person.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” I interject. “It’s not the relationships that define a person, it’s how they end. And believe me, relationships always end. That’s not me being cynical either. I am a firm believer in love and the ability for people to be, well… good. But this ain’t a fucking fairytale we’re living in. If a wolf eats your damn grandmother, she ain’t gonna pop back out of the wolf’s stomach after you kill that sumbitch. If there’s one thing in this life that I’ve realized to be true, it’s that.”
“Hardly an optimistic way of looking at things,” he comments. He probably means nothing by it, but something just triggers inside me.
“Optimism?” I ask, voice raised. “My dad walked out on my family when I was two years old, leaving my mother to raise myself and my older brother on her own, without a damn job. By the time I was 16, I was the man of the house. Not because my brother got shot or anything “ghetto” like that, but because mentally he could no longer fucking handle it. Depression ain’t just a white man’s disorder. We can get it too. The difference is we just suck it the fuck up. It’s only within the last few years that I’ve been able to look back and realise that depression is what was hammering Stan to the damn ground. I thought he was weak. I was bigger and stronger, but he was smarter. He thought about every fucking thing and it became too god damn much. You want to talk to me about optimism? I already know all about it. Optimism is what’s gotten me to the point that I’m at today. I’ve been optimistic that somewhere down the line, everything will work out for me and I’ll get that white picket fence dream of the perfect life.”
“How have things worked out?” Through all my worked up words, he manages to find one point that he can drive into without causing too much repercussions onto himself. It’s the only question he could’ve asked without me responding with a big “fuck you” and a piece of glass repeatedly stabbed into his damn eyeball. Kudos to him.
“I’m twenty-nine years old, a ridiculously rich entrepreneur with offers to work in any wrestling company in the world for any contract length and size I want.” I shrug as if it’s all in a days work. It pretty much is nowadays.
“Sounds like it turned out well for you.” Again an off-hand comment. Again I’ll break his balls over it. He needs to cut that shit out.
“Sure, if you don’t mind being single for over a year now, engaged once, about to propose to a different girlfriend when you found her shacked up in your own bed sucking someone else’s dick, having your twins die at birth, and also having your best friend also die.” Again, all in a days work. That’s probably not a good thing. “Oh, and there’s also the fact that chances are there’s an offshoot of a secret society out there that would absolutely love to have my head handed to them, not on a silver platter, but on a fucking diamond platter. My own god damn diamonds to be precise, just to rub insult into injury that in the end, they finally got me. So yeah… it turned out real swell. Here’s a neat idea moron, how about you quit with the whole “how does that make you feel” jibber-jabber and get to the real crux of why the hell I’m paying you in the first place. Not the legal requirement shit, but the point of your job no matter who your client is. Enlighten me here dawg by telling me just what it is that you think.”
The power of words simply can’t be measured. Fallacies are committed with their uses every second of every day. Many of the sentences I’ve used in this passage are either ambiguous, vague, rhetoric or jumping to premature conclusions. The social construct of the entire ‘Western’ culture is based upon fucking with the use of words in order to make sure you play follow the leader with whatever ideals they present. In one single sentence, you can persuade anybody to your point of view. That’s the beauty of words, and the curse. But in order to achieve that purpose, you have to choose your words with precision. Right now, I see Doctor Connolly searching through his mind for the right way to order his thoughts. Maybe he’s actually trying to figure out what his thoughts even are. Who knows?
“I think you’re scared,” he begins. “I think that every decision you make is a conscious one that will ultimately hinder your forward progress. I admit that you have faced a pretty troublesome life, but you intentionally make it harder for yourself. If you don’t have a battle to fight, then you feel bored. You want to turn male influences in your life into a more stereotypical form, which would serve to make your father’s absence a lot more bearable. You act as if you want all men to be “jocks”, but here you are delivering an in-depth moral discussion about your philosophies on life, essentially separating you from everything that you want to create. You want to be some kind of messiah, when all you are Lee, is an egomaniac.”
That was not the right way to put your words together.
I stare blankly at him. He thinks that I’m just letting his words sink into my brain. The truth is, I already know what I’m about to say. This pause is for effect. One blink. Two blinks. Continued comical staring. And now it’s acting time! I drop my head and put on my best wounded dog face.
“Whoa…” I mutter, pretending as if he hit close to home. “I guess I never really looked at it that way before. I mean… everything I do seems to be just a cry for attention. Right?”
“That’s my impression of things, Lee,” he says with a small bob of is head.
“I really am an egomaniac…” I say in a feigned epiphany. Here’s the fun part. “Of course… if you had listened to any promo of mine over the past two or three years you would’ve known that. Hell, I would’ve told you that! So don’t sit there on your fucking high-horse and tell me that I’m legally required to pay you to tell me shit that I already fucking know. Tell me something new! Tell me that Paris Hilton has given up men and become a nun! Tell me that Lindsay Lohan has given up men and become a nun! Tell me that Steve Jason has given up men and become a nun! But don’t tell me something that I’m already fucking aware of, you pompous piece of shit!”
“Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and speaking to me like that!” He stands up behind his desk in outrage. The veins on his neck and forehead pulsate as his face begins to brighten. “I agreed to take this session with you while you were in America as a favour to my old friend Mark, but if he had told me you were half as disrespectful as you really are, I would’ve told him to go to hell, which is straight where your going! You want to call me pompous? Take a look in the mirror you arrogant asshole! Get the hell out of my office!”
“You know what…” I say, surprisingly calm considering the circumstances. I rise to my feet, with a slight smirk on my face. “…Go blow it out your ass fuckface.”
I turn, and slowly walk out of the door. As I move past the lovely receptionist and step into the elevator alone, I suddenly feel as if the entire world has crashed right onto my shoulders. Forget the fact that even having two therapists didn’t help, I’m focusing on one thing. Through that entire conversation, I was always in control. Not once did I relinquish power to a supposed professional. Not many things frighten me in this world… but that’s one of them.
Thursday, 21 June, 2007 – Miami, Florida
“And now I find myself back onto the subject of you, Jem Williams. So let’s delve right on into it, shall we?
Jem, I’ll start by describing a little something to you for a moment, because you’re sure as hell not going to get to experience this feeling any time soon. When you first get that tag of legend, honestly, you don’t feel a lot different. It’s like finally turning eighteen – or twenty-one as the case may be here in the States – there’s all this build up and hype but when you finally get there, honestly, it’s no way near as good as you had expected it to be. It’s all like “ooh look at me, I can go get drunk legally, dress in clothes that I would’ve struggled to have fit into back when I was a damn toddler, and act all promiscuous like my idols on the magic E! Channel box!” It’s real anti-climatic.
I’ve had a bit longer to think about it now though, and I’ve realised something Mr. Realization. Bad Medicine is an INSANE card. This Sunday I, along with you and the rest of the XWF roster get to not only witness something absolutely mind-boggling, but due to our positions in the show, we get to feel something absolutely mind-boggling. We get to walk into an arena with names from all over the place. A star-studded event if there was ever to be one. There are going to be people in the building who arrived in this company long before me, people like Gravy, Cyren and yourself. There’s going to be people in attendance who have more accolades and accomplishments to their name than I have, people like Dynamic Dynamite and yourself. But this Sunday, I walk into that building on a list with the likes of KoRe and Steve Jason. I have the utmost level of respect possible in this company.
I’m a motherfucking legend.
All these names who have contributed so much to not only this company, but this business! Tomoko Hanahara, The Graves Brothers, Default, Darkhan, Enforcer, Jen Jetson, even Big Shank is going to be in attendance! I didn’t even know if that fucker was still alive! Then you’ve got your guys like Famine of the Vile and Hardcore Smitty who, as pathetic as I think they are, are well on their way to carving out their own little piece of XWF history. The complete magnitude of this weekend’s show is crazy! And through all that, I walk in as a damn legend? I think the word I’m looking for is wow.
I guess that’s what makes me a little self-conscious about that tag. I know some people aren’t the biggest fans of Lee Stone. I know others think that I’m God’s Gift to the XWF…
Fuck you Ashen Iscariot, you ain’t got that copyrighted.
…
…
…
Hmph, déjà vu.
But with all these historic names in attendance Jem, I’m left with an overwhelming desire.
I need to prove myself.
Leap of Faith is one month away, and the XWF is gearing up BIG time for it. And here I am, as you said, in the second main event! A one-time deal, and I’m in the second main event? That’s even more pressure on me. You know me though, I ain’t going to falter. I ain’t going to buckle. I ain’t going to go quietly into the fucking night and let this be a damn piss break match. It’s the second main event! And through everything else on that card, the two of us Jem… the two of us have a unique opportunity. We’re not going out there to win a title. We’re not going out there as homage to the XWF’s history. We’re going out their as homage to ourselves. We get to go out there, without all the bullshit, and we get to wrestle. Pure and simple.
There ain’t no gimmicks here Jem. This is me versus you. And with so much pressure, I flat out refuse to be outshined. I know the same applies to you, so here we find ourselves in a very interesting predicament.
I find myself in a very strange place dude. I’ve already gained that legend status, yet somehow, for some reason, I feel an indescribable urge to throw everything I can into this match.
…
Am I the only one who has noticed that “indescribable” is used to describe things that supposedly can’t be described? Weird.
…
Anyway, technically Jem, I’ve got nothing to gain from this match. It’s just another moment for me to ply my craft. But something has triggered inside of me. When I’m wrestling, I can have thirty minutes of peace. I have thirty minutes where the pressures of life just fall off my shoulders. I feel relaxed… calmed… and I’ll be beating an old horse here, but I feel at home. I’ve come to realise something Jem.
I want that feeling back.
I never want it to go away again. And since I ain’t sticking around after the show, I’m only left with one option, one chance, to get that feeling back.
I have to go through you.
You’re right Jem, our match back in ’05 holds no weight anymore. As of this moment, consider it officially thrust into the closet with the rest of my skeletons. But there’s more Jem. Consider our last match thrown into that closet too. This is a fresh start for me dude. A fresh, new chance for me to achieve something that I had thought was long unable to be replicated. My Universal Title dominance is thrown into that closet too, but the sensation that I was empowered with back then, will never leave me again. This Jem, this is my chance to regain what I had, not here in the XWF, but as a man. This one match is my chance at happiness. This one match is my chance at redemption. Jem… this is my chance for salvation.
I ain’t going to give you logical reasoning right now man. I’m barely even going to give you any reasoning. But Jem, I want this win just as, if not more than you do now. I guess that just leads us back to square one though. It leads us straight on back to me versus you. And that’s all it does.
All this talking, it’s just fanfare. We both know it but we still do it. Are we trying to get into each other’s heads? More than likely, yeah. I don’t really see any other point to it, other than to ensure ratings, but neither of us gives a crap about that when at our level, our pay checks aren’t at stake.
But back to logic… you gave me a little something to think about in the form of truth. I’m going to stand here and give you something to think about in the form of logic. The only possible way we could attempt to go into logic here is to take a look at the tale of the tape according to the XWF’s website and my own personal knowledge:
Lee Stone:
Jem Williams:
Hardly any difference there, right? A strength advantage would probably be given to you. Speed to me. We both carry a pretty useful submission finisher in our arsenal. We’ve accomplished everything we need to. We’ve both proven our ability to take a beating and keep coming. We’ve both proven our ability to take a verbal ass-raping and keep on going. We’ve fought some of the biggest, the baddest, the most psychotic, the strangest, the most dangerous, and the most gifted wrestlers in history. We’ve both survived attempts on our very lives! That’s how far your logical reasoning gets you Jem. Back to square one.
Me versus you.
Now there’s some truth for you Jem. That’s not me leading you along like a harmless sheep. No bullshit. And it still brings us back to the beginning. So what to do, what to do?
I’ve always found it highly entertaining that somehow the build-up to a match between competitors of our level always turns into some sort of philosophical moral debate. As I’m talking though, I realize why. Essentially, we’re even. Our little scrap on Massacre was a good showing of that. I threw your ass out of that ring and then you threw my ass into that ringside barrier. Eye for an eye. Everything pretty much stacks up even. The only difference is really in our technical ability, but that’s a difference that can’t be measured until we actually step into that ring across from each other. When all is said and done, the most technically able on that night is going to be the one with his hand raised in victory. But for now, we delve into our little battles of the mind, simply in order to work out just what the differences between us are.
Jem, you threw out a little something about pride to me, I responded in turn by expressing my thoughts on the subject. I gave you the question of whether or not you’re “ready”, and you gave me your thoughts back. Thoughts that I appreciate…
Or do I?
Truth is what you come at me with now.
Truth.
What the hell is truth? Truth is simply what we accept to be real. For some people the fucking Holocaust isn’t “true”. For me, I’m simply not “true”.
I exist, sure, but like I’ve made sure you know Jem, I’m not exactly a saint. You questioned just why I say everything I say. You’re the first person to publicly acknowledge that I’m not quite the moron I seem to get taken for. I really should be thankful to you, or I could, as you put it, not care. But is this all a lie that serves to further my ultimate goal? What the hell is my ultimate goal? Well I’ve already told you that Jem. Salvation.
Or am I lying about that too?
It’s all for you to decide. But time’s running out.
Unless you just don’t care.
I’m not going to worry about myself Jem. Nor am I going to worry about you. I’ve worried about so many things in my life before that for once, I just want to be worry-free. That’s why I’m here. That’s my purpose, if you chose to believe it.
You’ve made me feel like some god damn puppet master here man! I feel all evil and shit. It can’t be good. But through everything I’ve been saying, whether it’s “true” or not, one thing remains constant:
Me versus you.
And everything keeps on coming back to that. It’s the very crux of our respective focal points. I want to beat you. You want to beat me. I need to beat you. You need to beat me. Fuck the fanfare.
Pride.
Honour.
Skill.
Truth.
Logic.
Morality.
Justice.
It ain’t about any of that. It’s me versus you with only one other thing to take into consideration:
Legacy.
I’m already a fucking legend. And I really feel the need to prove why.
Have a bad day.”
|
