Today’s date is Tuesday, March 04, 2008.
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File WX:19205SS:IV:140108/SO:75156GC:LF:140108.
Location: Hamilton, New Zealand.
Dated: Monday, January 14, 2007
“BANG!
I’ve always been a firm believer in starting everything off with a bang in order to capture people’s attention. Given the success I’ve had in life, I’d say that my philosophy seems to work more often than not. Unfortunately, that’s the only bang that I’ve got for you today, chief. These past few weeks have been distinctly lacking in explosions. Well, except for the fireworks display that I set off from the top of my building – with city council approval of course – in order to celebrate the glorious 30th anniversary of my first breath. First birthday sober in God knows how long, three cheers for The Lee!”
“So you spent your birthday, and the weekend that followed it, setting off fireworks?” The skeptical Doctor Geoffrey Connolly asks, his judgmental eyes peeking out from behind the thick black rim of his spectacles, hidden still under the shadow created by his bushy, protruding brow. “No drinking?”
“No drinking,” I reply heartily. “But technically speaking, I only spent Friday night making things go boom. I actually spent most of my actual birthday on a fucking plane back from the States.”
“And how did that make you feel?” I stare at Dr. Connolly for a moment with a vacant look upon my face. I blink once, twice, three times, before I decide the pause has been long enough to serve its purpose of ridicule.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask him with a raised eyebrow. “Here I am, a textbook case of craziness, hardly the most friendly person in the world, having chosen specifically you to act as my psychologist in this country, and you’re seriously going to sit there and fire off statements and questions as fucking clichéd as that beat down old saying? Try harder.”
“What I was inquiring about Leroy,” he begins, “is what it meant to you to spend a day such as that on your own rather than in the conventional fashion of surrounding yourself with people who theoretically care about you, and you likewise to them. I am asking if such conventions are important to you.”
“They are, but they’re also not.” I take a quiet moment to gather my thoughts. “I mean… I guess that sort of thing is important to everybody. We’ve evolved into a species that has a constant need for each other’s company. When people talk about co-operative behavior in animals, they look at how the co-operation assists the individual organisms gain food, protection and other resources. That’s what we’ve constructed within this western civilization of ours. Other cultures have done the same, but to varying scales of population. No matter where you look though, you will see a constant dependency on others within all people, and if you don’t see that then what you will be seeing is an individual who is incapable of surviving like the rest of the population. Such “conventions” as you called them, are ingrained in our lives out of necessity. Therefore they’re really not conventions at all. I’m not going to lie, I’d sooner surround myself with people that don’t make me want to choke the living crap out of them with every word that they speak, but what is unconventional is that it doesn’t really bother me if I’m on my own on days such as my birthday, or even over Christmas, Easter, New Years, hell even Thanksgiving is supposed to be important to me now that I’ve been a part of American culture for so damn long. I know my family is still here, and as long as that doesn’t change then that’s enough for me. Besides, I wasn’t out on my balcony just ‘monkeying around’ as it were that night. My brother…”
“Stan?”
“Right,” I confirm. “Stan came around. Randy brought Kelly around and let her stay up past her bedtime until she just started falling asleep on her own at some time close to midnight. Hell, even Trent and Brett managed to drag themselves away from the television screen and make a rare appearance.”
“That would be Trent Brooklyn and Brett Simmons, correct?” he asks for clarification.
“Bingo.”
“I haven’t heard much about them from you lately,” he remarks.
“Well I have been out of the country for the past few weeks,” I offer as a possible reason.
“But before that, you hadn’t mentioned them in a while,” he says. “Is there any reason for that?”
“I guess I’ve just been busy.” I try to think for more explanation, but have no luck. “The fact that they showed up should show that there hasn’t been a falling out or anything.”
“True,” he nods. “What about your mother?”
“Mum is…” I begin. “She hasn’t been well lately.”
“Oh?” The surprise in his voice shifts the tone of the conversation greatly. “Is she alright?”
“She should be… she will be.” I quickly change my point of view to that of a more optimistic nature. “She just needs to rest. She called me that night, and then I went to see her on Saturday. I was just too bloody tired on Friday though. I can never get to sleep on planes.”
“Any particular reason?” He probes me for more, showing that he’s listening, all the while still judging me.
“I’ve never really thought about it too much,” I admit. “I generally just dismiss it as one of my quirks. But now that you’ve got my mind running, I suppose I just like to see where I’m going at all times. I like to know the direction I’m heading in.”
“Does that make you feel as if you wield a bit more control over everything?”
“Well…” I begin, “well… yeah it does in a way. But when you say it like that, it makes me sound like a complete jackass. And while I may be the first person to admit that I am a complete jackass, you’re reading far too much into it. It’s not some deeply rooted psychological reaction to anything. I just find it incredibly amusing to be an asshole. End of story.”
“Well all right then.” He says those words, but his god damn eyes tell a completely different story. He doesn’t believe me. What he believes is that there’s something locked away inside of my noggin that unlocks the secrets about every little personality characteristic that I have. He wants to unlock it all. He doesn’t want to believe me when I tell him that I consciously control what most class to be subconscious. I guess that would defeat the purpose of his job, wouldn’t it? He’s supposed to find the subconscious and bring it to the foreground. I don’t fuck around though. If I think something, then I’m gonna say or do it. I may be a prick, but I like to think that I’m an honest one. There was a time when that wasn’t true, but there was also a time when everybody thought the world was flat, so take that for what it’s worth. “I’ve got to tell you Lee, I’m very pleased with our situation here.”
“Thanks… I guess,” I say, a little nonchalantly.
“I see no reason why we cannot keep these visits scheduled for every three weeks now.” He folds up papers on his desk, before looking up at me again. “I trust your judgment enough now to let you decide if there’s something urgent enough that we should change that arrangement.”
“So we’re done today?” I ask, hopefully.
“We’re done,” he replies with a nod. I spring to my feet almost instantly.
“Great, thanks chief.” I smile at him. “See you next time?”
“See you next time,” he agrees and I head for the door. Opening it, I hear Dr. Connolly call my name one last time. “Lee!”
“What’s up?” I turn around to face him, the door into the lobby now open behind me.
“I hope your mother gets better soon.” I sense that he actually means that. How kind…
“Thank you,” I reply, actually meaning it myself. “I do too.”
With that, I set off. Exiting the psychologist’s office, and then exiting the lobby, into the giant mall that houses it. My mall. I forgot to mention that didn’t I? I always find it hilarious that the guy assessing my mental stability is being bankrolled by none other than me. I always help my friends out though. I’ve shown that by giving Randy, Brett and Trent jobs in my company – high paying jobs at that. I live a privileged life and I feel obligated to help others do the same.
I’m on the third story. This building has fifteen. The three at the top serve as my home, including personal gym, swimming pool and other recreational facilities. The four at the bottom serve as a shopping centre, with stores, restaurants, nightclubs and other services such as the office I just left. The fifth and sixth contain apartments to be rented. The other six floors are the headquarters for my company. In this mall section, there is a wide, open space dominating the centre of the entire building, carrying all the way from the floor to the roof. I stand there now, peering down past the second floor and onto the ground floor. People jostle by, unaware of me looking down at them. They don’t look up, just as I don’t look up to see if anybody is looking down at me from the fourth floor. Why should they? Why should I?
Something catches my eye down there. A walk I haven’t seen in a very long time. It’s enough to cause me to double-take. If he’s here… then there’s only one person he’s looking for.
Me.
I head off to the nearest escalator, and carry it down to the second floor. I then get carried down to the first floor. I begin darting my eyes around, even turning a full three-sixty degrees to find him. And then I spot where he’s ambled off to. In the corner of the food court, cleaning up his jeans where a bright orange juice stain is clearly visible, even from the distance that I am away from him, is the unmistakable XWF interviewer, Steve Sayors. I’m not even an active roster member, and haven’t been for something like half a year, and yet here he is, cleaning himself up in my mall.
I take to the shadows, to approach with stealth. It’s probably unnecessary for me to do this, considering Sayors is so preoccupied with what he’s doing that I could walk right up and kick him in the butt and he still wouldn’t know that I’m there, but I do find it extremely entertaining to pretend to be a ninja, so stealth is the option that I choose.
I flank him. Arriving at the juice stand from where he just bought the stain on his pants, I creep slowly up behind him. I reach out to tap him on the shoulder, but just as I do, he turns. The cup in his hand smacks against my blue Superman t-shirt and what little juice there was left in it after spilling it on himself, now becomes splashed all over my body.
“I am so sorry sir,” comes the apology as Sayors begins to try wiping the mess off me. I grab his hand and push him away a bit, muttering a few obscenities to myself. Sayors now looks at my face and suddenly recognizes me. “Lee? Lee Stone? It’s me! Steve Sayors!”
“I know who you are you buffoon, it’s been six months not six years.” I snatch the paper towels from his hand, and start dabbing at the mess. “This shit isn’t going to come out.”
“I came here to find you!” he exclaims excitedly.
“Did you also come here to ruin all my favorite clothes?” I ask sarcastically, becoming frustrated at the lack of progress I’m making with cleaning the stain.
“No, I came here to ask you about your opinions on the war in the XWF.” I stop what I’m doing and stare at him a moment before responding.
“War?” I ask, laughing. “That’s not a fucking war. You want to talk about war, then let’s talk about Iraq. Let’s talk about all those African countries, where there has pretty much never been a stable government. Let’s talk about Israel, or the latest military coup in Fiji.”
“Have you been watching the XWF lately?” He asks, seemingly ignoring my little rant.
“Yes, I have,” I admit. “I’ve also been watching Fiji. I’ve even met the fucking general. He’s a prick.”
“So what do you think about Massacre vs. Anarchy? Who do you want to win?” It never ceases to surprise me just how devoted Sayors is to the XWF. It’s like his religion. Odd, considering he originally came from CCWF.
“Anarchy,” I say honestly. “Jon is the lesser of two evils as far as I’m concerned.”
“But you still don’t like him?”
“I don’t like the fact that this war of his and Hardcore Smitty’s is making the XWF about them rather than the wrestlers.” I resume the cleaning of my shirt. “It’s one thing for a wrestler to egotistically think that they’re the greatest ever, like what I do, but it’s something completely different to think the management should be the stars of the show. It’s called wrestling because people are supposed to wrestle.”
“Why is Smitty more evil than Jon though?
“I still have a huge problem with Smitty retiring the Universal Title when he held it, just so his ass can be remembered as a champ who never lost the belt. Hell…” I scoff a little at the thought of what I’m about to say. “…He’s probably just trying to be like me. In comparison to me, and in comparison to Jon though, he’s nothing. Always has been and always will be. I trust Jon’s decisions. I don’t always agree with them, but the man is a genius and if he didn’t have some sort of inkling of what he was doing, then he wouldn’t have survived as long as he has. And I mean that both literally, and in the sense of surviving in the business world. He knows what he’s doing, and the only way I wouldn’t support him against somebody like Smitty, is if he did the same thing Smitty did.”
“What’s that?”
“Retiring the Universal Title because of a misguided thought that nobody was capable of carrying it anymore.” Oh how ironic this statement would seem a month from when it was said. “It should never be decided by management that there is nobody worthy, it should be decided by the performances of the wrestlers. He who is the best, should be wearing that gold. End of story.”
“So has Jonathyn, or even Smitty for that matter, got in touch with you about helping them in their battles?”
“Jonathyn called me on Friday actually.” I see Steve’s eyes light up in anticipation of the reason.
“Are you going to fight for him?” he asks eagerly.
“No.” All the excitement now fades away. “He called me because it was my birthday.”
“Are you ever going to be in the ring again?”
“I… I don’t know right now. If I feel I’m needed, and I have the time, I guess I wouldn’t rule it out.” This doesn’t seem to reassure him. “I did spend a few weeks over the New Year’s period catching up with a few of the guys though. Christian Connolly, Alex Cutwright, Mike Raboin, and I actually spent New Year’s Eve with Jem Williams even.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.” I’m not quite sure why he finds that tidbit of information so fascinating.
“Do you know what I find amazing?” I ask him, having just realized something that Sayors has missed.
“What?”
“You didn’t wish me a belated happy birthday just then.” I shake my head at him. “That means this interview has got to end right now.”
“But… but… can I just say it now?”
“Nope.” I drop the paper towels into a nearby rubbish bin. “I don’t like rude people. Goodbye Steven. Have a bad day.”
I leave quickly, leaving Sayors standing with an orange stain on his pants, and an unfinished interview.
“Happy birthday for last Friday!” he calls out, just before I turn a corner and drop out of ear shot.
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File SO:75156GC:BI.
Overview:
Name: Dr. Geoffrey Connolly.
Current Location: Hamilton, New Zealand.
Occupation: Clinical Psychologist
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 170lbs
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Personal security level: 1
Description: Officially, granted no access to databases contained under The World’s Greatest Inc. Corporation, unofficially allowed knowledge of an array of different aspects pertaining to myself and company policies.
Security threat level: 5
Description: Vast knowledge of most company and personal details relating to ongoing activities. Given our secretive status in relation to governmental positions both in and out of New Zealand, this knowledge could prove to be extremely valuable to some people. In wrong hands, this knowledge would lead to catastrophic results. Understanding of this, and professional responsibilities lead to trustworthiness. Response under extreme measures such as torture, may be a cause for concern. Express caution in verbal discussions.
Physical threat level: 2
Description: Aging, non-combatant. Basic understanding of combat. Unlikely to engage in combat.
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File WX:19205SS:BI
Overview:
Name: Steve Sayors
Location: Mobile
Occupation: Interviewer for X-Treme Wrestling Federation
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Personal security level: 1
Description: Citizen. No access to databases. Verbal exchanges often kept related to wrestling. Little to no access to any company or personal information.
Security threat level: 3
Description: Rare journalistic success, or sheer clumsiness, could lead to a discovering of valuable information. Keep contained to media-orientated areas.
Physical threat level: 1
Description: Non-combatant. Inferior physical form in relation to average males of his age. Unlikely to ever engage in combat.
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Opening file: WX:19205SS:IV:030308
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File WX:19205SS:IV:020308/WX:38139CC:LF:020308
Location: Syracuse, New York, United States of America
Dated: Monday, March 03, 2008
“Lee Stone! Christian Connolly!” Christian and I walk through the parking lot, seething. The voice we hear calling out to us doesn’t put us in any better of a mood. Last night we returned, gloriously. We marched the ring. Nobody dare spoke up. We had the arena and the countless viewers at home in complete silence. Tonight was different. Our message was made, but in less dramatic fashion. And here, after the Monday Massacre show, Steve Sayors has found us. It’s obvious that we are the news story in the entire XWF right now. Bigg Rigg has control over the upcoming Pay Per View, Hardcore Smitty has control over the one remaining weekly show, but Lee Stone and Christian Connolly have control over everything. We are Vigilantes with no allegiance and we have the power to stop anybody in their tracks. “Lee! Christian!”
“Do we stop and talk?” Christian asks me, as the voice of Sayors becomes ever clearer.
“You go on ahead.” I can sense that Christian is a bit more peeved than I am, so I let him go on his way. “I’ll handle the moron.”
“You sure?” He may not want to have to deal with Sayors, but he also doesn’t want me to be punished.
“Yeah, don’t worry,” I reassure him. “Sayors will lap up anything either one of us tell him.”
“Alright man,” he concedes. “I’ll catch up with you later on?”
“Definitely.” I stop walking, and let Christian carry on. Sayors quickly catches up to me, just as Christian glances back with a pitying look on his face. In reality, I don’t find Steve Sayors as annoying as most people do. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not exactly the kind of guy that I’m gonna go to the bowling alley with or anything, but he’s really quite entertaining. Plus, I’m not a big fan of the way some of those “bad asses” treat him. He’s had quite the physical and mental abuse over the past years that I’m quite amazed that he still persists with his job, and same old means of attaining information.
“Lee! I’m so glad I found you!” he says, panting after the short burst of energy required to catch up to me. Somebody could do with a trip to the gym it seems. “Is Christian going to come back?”
“No,” I respond. “He’s going home for the night. Any questions you have for us can be answered by me for now. In no way do I presume to speak on behalf of Christian Connolly, but I do believe that our views are extremely similar.”
“So you can do an interview right now?” he asks hopefully, as if my previous statement wasn’t answer enough.
“I’m a little cautious at doing it out here in the parking lot, but I think with an esteemed journalist such as yourself on the scene, nobody would dare to cause me any problems.” If you’ve never met the guy, you wouldn’t believe how much of a confidence booster that sentence would be to Steve Sayors. But that’s just classic Lee Stone behavior, always trying to help out the little guy. I’m such a saint.
“Thank you,” he beams. “First of all let me say a very heartfelt ‘welcome back’ from the entire XWF and especially from me personally.”
“Now it’s time for me to say ‘thank you’ to you,” I grin, noticing every little oddity in Steve’s usual behavior. His straightened posture, clarity of voice, and lack of fidgeting. “So thank you, Steve.”
“You’re welcome.” He’s glowing like he’s pregnant or something. “I am a little disappointed though Lee.”
“Oh? Why is that?” I ask, legitimately curious.
“I’ve always thought that we have a good working relationship, and yet you never informed me that you were returning.” His eyes almost go into a puppy dog-like state. “I could’ve made a huge story about it!”
“I think the story is big enough as it is.” Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what Steve would’ve done to try to make this story ”huge”, or “huger” as the case may be. “But quite frankly man, you never asked me if I was coming back.”
“Yes I did!” he shouts a lot louder than is necessary. My ears ring a bit. “I came and interviewed you in New Zealand almost two months ago and you said you weren’t coming back.”
“Back then, I wasn’t. I had no interest in returning at all,” I admit. “Hell, while I refused to downright say it, I thought I’d never be back in an XWF ring again. But now…”
“Now, something has changed?” I nod my response to him. “What though?”
“Everything.” I hope that the story he’s after can be found in my eyes. They don’t blink as I stare through him. I don’t feel the same as I did a couple of months ago, let alone last time I was in an XWF ring. “This place has gone to shit. There’s only one main show now, and no Universal Title? The fuck is up with that?”
“Speaking of one show, you said that you supported Jonathyn throughout the…”
“If you say ‘war’ I’m gonna slap you,” I interrupt.
“Throughout his battles with Smitty,” he changes his sentence to better accommodate my dislike of the entire situation. “What do you think about Smitty winning?”
“Jonathyn was the lesser of two evils,” I begin. “The key word there is “was”. Past tense. The way I see it now, no matter who won or lost, the XWF was screwed. It reminds me of the South Park episode where they had to choose a new mascot. The choice was between a turd sandwich – Jonathyn Brown, and a giant douche – Hardcore Smitty. Either way, the outcome is just ridiculous.”
>“What changed your mind about Jon?”
“It’s simple, and I already mentioned it last night.” I wait for him to try to piece it all together. It ain’t gonna happen. “The Universal Title.”
“It’s deactivated,” Sayors says. I don’t know if he was going anywhere or not with that, but I don’t give him any time to go on.
“I know that knucklehead!” I bark at him. “And I have a huge problem with Jonathyn doing that. I mean, for Christ’s sake, it’s pretty much the reason Smitty was on my naughty list to begin with.”
“Why does that bother you?” he asks. This one should be obvious to anybody.
“Because I want my fucking title back!” And there it is. In one sentence, I let out two years worth of frustration and anger. My voice seems to bounce off the walls. It ricochets around the car park and leaves poor Steve Sayors taken aback. “It’s been two god damn years Sayors. Just over that in fact! In February 2006, the XWF crumbled. Jon Page snuck in the back door, and with Jonathyn in a coma, there was nothing to be done to stop him buying out contracts and facilities left and right to take to Dynasty Wrestling. I was the Universal Champion, the undefeated Universal Champion at that. I held that belt with pride against all comers. I fought off long-time champ T Money to take it. I was the brick wall that the Daniel Malcolm band-wagon crashed into. I proved to all doubters that I was the greatest champion of the times, by taking on X-Treme Champion Mr. Amazing, United States Champion Raziel and World Champion Steve freaking Jason, and winning. I could not be stopped, by anybody. I was the constant target of Chad and still I did not fall. I took my title to DW and the moment I discovered that Jon Page just wanted the final piece of the XWF in his clutches, I climbed over the top rope and left the Battle Royal, only ever having stepped foot in his ring that one time. I represented everything the XWF stood for, and when the time came for its revival, I gladly handed the title back to Jon Brown, knowing that I was unable to compete, but also thinking that when I was able to again, I would be rewarded. I was not. For two years I bounced in and out of this place, never to even be mentioned as a contender. I saw people who could never and will never be on my level, get what I never got. Raziel, Daniel Malcolm, Famine of the Vile… all people who I have convincingly destroyed in the past, were given shots at a belt that I never lost. Zach Rizza and Brad fucking Pierce, given shots when if the true greats were still around, they would never be considered. I forgave Jonathyn all of that, but then to decide, that after personally handing the title to such unworthy maggots, there is nobody left to hold the belt, I find him to be nothing but a hypocrite. Jon Brown is full of shit, and the only sad thing about him not being around, is that it wasn’t me who gave him the boot.”
“But I’m still confused,” Sayors stammers. “Why are you so angry at Jonathyn deciding that there is nobody worthy of holding the title, if you weren’t going to be around to compete for it anyway?”
“Because Jon’s ego just went way too far with that.” I can feel my blood boiling. Just speaking now, I know my decision to return was the right one. While planning with Christian, I got into the right frame of mind, but now, hearing myself speak, I feel like I’m where I should be. I feel the passion that I haven’t felt since I held the Universal Title. I’m home. And God help anybody who is going to get in my way. “Maybe he was sidetracked by his catch and kiss game with Smitty, maybe he finally took one too many shots to the head and went completely bonkers – after all, falling into so many damn comas has got to be unhealthy – but whatever the reason, Jonathyn, Smitty, or any other management this company has ever and will ever have, have no fucking right to say that the Universal Title should no longer be competed for. To say that the burden is too much, is a slap in the fucking face of every wrestler who ever held it, even those who were not worthy themselves. Jonathyn, just like Smitty did in the past, slapped me in the face. He slapped Christian Connolly in the face. He even slapped Bigg Rigg in the face. A man who thinks he has the right to cast aside the blood, sweat and tears of so many men and women, doesn’t deserve to be respected. That’s why Jon is where he is now. And that’s why Hardcore Smitty will be joining him A.S.A.P. This Project 222 business is a purification, a purging if you will. This is The Vigilantes very own scorched earth operation. We will destroy everything. We will start over new. We will not fuck it up.”
“You mentioned Bigg Rigg,” Steve notes. “Where does he fit into all of this?”
“If anybody, including Rigg, thinks that he was anything other than a message, then they are a fool.” I stop and take a moment to crack my neck. “This has as much to do with Bigg Rigg as it does with Cyren, or Daniel Malcolm, or Mr. Amazing, Zach Rizza, Drake Komodo and whatever other names currently dot the roster. They have been deemed unfit and unworthy. And thus, like Rome, they will fall.”
“But you’re attacks, last night and tonight, were both targeted at Rigg in particular,” Steve says, seemingly asking for further clarification.
“Rigg is a very public figure right now,” I calmly respond. “What better way to make a statement than on the supposed ‘star of the show’?”
“I interviewed him last night,” he reminds me.
“I know you did. I watched it.”
“And?” He looks at me, trying to probe for more.
“And what?” I don’t know what he’s after, so in return, I’ll probe him.
“And you have a match against him next Massacre, so I was wondering if you had any response to what he said?”
“I have a match against Rigg?” I ask, surprised. “Man, people really need to start telling me this sort of information.”
“Yes, it’s the main event.” Well at least I’m returning in style. “It’s a tag team match, with you and C2 taking on Rigg and Heavy D, with Brady Anderson as the referee.”
“Who?” I ask, demandingly.
“Brady Anderson,” Steve says, with a tone of voice that suggests I should know exactly who he’s talking about. I do know him though.
“Yeah, yeah, I know who Brady Anderson is.” How out-of-the-loop does Sayors think I am? “He’s the guy who looks like Matt Hardy, right?
“Well, not really.” Sayors looks almost nervous to tell me that I’m wrong. “He has dreadlocks.”
“Man, I cannot keep up with people changing what they look like all the time.” I shake my head out of frustration. “Do people see me suddenly growing an afro? No! It’s easier this way.”
“So you do know who Brady Anderson is?” Sayors asks again. “The Bohemian of Professional Wrestling?”
“Jesus, that’s what he’s calling himself now?” I laugh. “That’s just silly. But yeah I know who he is. I’m talking about Heavy… Dee was it?”
“Yes, D,” Sayors confirms. “As in D for dinosaur.”
“Just the letter ‘D’?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yes,” Sayors confirms once more.
“Does it stand for anything?” I wonder.
“I uh… I don’t know.” I roll my eyes.
“Just great. First T Money, now Heavy D.” I shake my head once more. “What happened to using their real names? Lee Stone for example. Christian Connolly, Steve Jason, Jem Williams, hell, even Aidan Collins cottoned onto how stupid it was to be called ‘Blizzard’ and started using his real name. Oh… wait… does Heavy D think he’s a gangsta?”
“I… I guess,” Steve stutters.
“God damn it!” I exclaim. “What is with gangstas wanting to wrestle? Shouldn’t they be out shooting up the block or something? As a man of Polynesian origin, living in America, I often get confused by the standard ignorant American, of being an African American, so I – and not to mention Christian Connolly – wind up looking bad just because there are morons like this Heavy D giving us a bad name.”
“Um…” Sayors begins unsteadily once again. “Heavy D is white.”
I stand completely still.
My eyes aren’t blinking at all.
“Are you kidding me?” I finally ask.
“No, he’s a Caucasian,” comes the explanation.
“What… the… fuck?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “So how does he justify his behavior? Is he trying to show his ‘inner brotha’ or something stupid like that?”
“I… I don’t actually know.” Sayors isn’t the only one. I am completely stumped.
“Right… I don’t think I’m even gonna try to comprehend this. I’ll just get a headache.” I think I’m already starting to get one. “And just how heavy is this guy?”
“About 230lbs,” Sayors answers.
”What the fuck is wrong with this douche bag?” I yell. “He’s not even very heavy at all! Especially not in wrestling terms!”
“It’s just a name,” Sayors says, hinting that I shouldn’t make such a big deal about it.
“Yeah, but it’s a freaking stupid name!” I retort. “What the hell is this guy doing in the main event anyway? And what’s Brady Anderson doing as the referee?”
“Brady Anderson just beat Heavy D for the World Title last night, so Bigg Rigg is likely to choose to face Brady at the Pay Per View,” he explains.
“Brady Anderson… is the World Champion?” This situation is getting more and more confusing.