[FADE IN: on amateur footage of people passing a joint to one another.]
[FLASH CUT-TO: handheld footage of police raiding a hydroponic set-up in suburbia somewhere.]
[FLASH CUT-TO: SNOOP DOGGY DOGG drawing back on a blunt and puffing a lung full at the camera with a grin on his face as his entourage slap high fives in the background.]
[FLASH CUT-TO: a man sitting at a table in an orange jumpsuit with his hands and feet bound in chains as he looks across a court room at his verdict. His head drops as the gavel in the judge’s hand does.]
[FLASH CUT-TO: a store where a fat man in a “4:20” shirt stands in front of a shelf filled with bongs while he peruses a comic book.]
[FLASH CUT-TO: ICE CUBE pulling on a blunt in a movie about a certain day of the week.]
[FLASH CUT-TO: TEDDY ALEXANDER standing inside a weight room somewhere.]
“Drugs. I don’t do NOR do I care for or condone drugs. Does dat make me da bad guy here?”
“Probably. But unlike two people I know I don’t need to use carcinogenics, hallucinogenics or synthetics to give myself a high. I don’t need to inhale a lung full of smoke or chew somethin’ nasty.
“What gives me dat rush?
“No clichés necessary. It ain’t just goin’ down to dat ring. Although dat IS part of it though. What gives me my rush... my high... my euphoric feelin’...
“Is kickin’ da faces off idiots like Rezin. Spaztards like Jack Harmen.
“Dat’s my high.”
“My high, fellers, is your skull crushin’ rock bottom. I’m your ALL – TIME – LOW! I’m da lowest you’ll ever fall coz my boot heel will be pushin’ your head below surface level.
“Look at me. I don’t need to push dis shit in my body to feel alive... Every time I go out to dat ring and snap da neck of another fool with da Ragekill Driver I get my rush. And when me, Rezin and Jack all get together inside dat ring I’ll be peakin’ like a raver with a jaw full of disco biscuit.
“My pupils will be dilated.
“My breathin’ erratic.
“ There’ll be adrenaline coursin’ through my veins and I JUST – WON’T – STOP until I’ve had my fix.
“You know... just like how people like Jack and Rezin get their fix. When they’re shakin’, uncontrollably, and hungerin’ for dat shot dat gets them through to da next one they’ll do strange things. Evil things. MONSTEROUS things.
“Fellers... my fix IS those monstrous things. My fix is sniffin’ da blood in da air. Hearin’ dat POP!
“And I’ll tell you now, dat pop ain’t da syringe burstin’ through my skin and into da veins in da crook of my arm.
“Dat pop’s your fucken neck.”
[Dikembe waggles his finger at the camera. Leans down and picks up two neck braces. One reads “REZIN” and the other reads “FLYER”.]
“Let da bodies... hit... da floor.”
(CUE UP: "Day of the Lords", originally done by Joy Division, this time done by San Francisco sludge barons Neurosis.)
(FADE IN: A locker room, backstage at an indie-level event in Pacific Northwest. The door opens, and a man in black pants and a goat-themed luchadore mask enters, staggering in pain and rubbing the front of his head as he finds his way to a bench and takes a seat in front of the camera.)
So this is what my life has come to... getting my face stomped in by shrimps named "French Toast".
(The rasp in the masked man's voice and the evil glint in his eye is all too familiar. El Cabron undoes the chin-strap and carefully removes his second face... revealing a whole different kind of goat bastard underneath. Sneering now at the camera is the sinister sludge fiend from Empire Pro known as REZIN.)
But then... some would say that any life is better than no life at all.
Even if you're scum... a bottom-feeder like me. Even if it all amounts to nothing at all but an extended experience of pain, passion, and broken dreams, the miracle of life is all any of us have to hang onto.
(He sets the mask to the side and pulls out an envelope from his pants, which he opens to reveal a stack of cash. He files through it, eyes counting the money but not really seeing any joy in having it, knowing it's not really his for keeping.)
So I keep fighting... going out there and humiliating myself for a bunch of rubes... because some of us need to keep on living... keep hanging onto this pain and misery, because agony is better than nothing.
(He puts the money away and directs his attention to the camera.)
I may be the guy notorious for huffing bongs of sludge backstage, Teddy... but let's bullshit ourselves into believing that that's the entirety of my being. While it's become somewhat of a saddening revelation to realize that it's all anybody knows me for these days, it does nothing to speak of the years upon years I've put into this sport...
Years that include establishing the very Tag Team Titles of Empire Pro that you now possess.
(He looks down to the mask and picks it up again, looking it over.)
You see the stoner image as a sign of addition, but really, it's nothing but a mask... a literal and figurative smokescreen meant to hide the black and boiling monster seeping out of the cracks of my sanity. It's almost like I smoke to keep that monster locked down and hidden away from this world... but lately, the haze is beginning to clear, and something dark and nasty is on the verge of escaping.
You may very well HAVE to break my neck, Teddy... because if you don't... this sickness is only going to spread.
(He raises an eyebrow to the camera.)
But are you... DOWN with the SICKNESS, Teddy?
(CUE UP: "Hail" by Bongripper. No, I'm not making any of this shit up... welcome to the obscure and mostly unlistenable music genre known as stoner-sludge metal.)
"Okay... I can do better than that."
(We open on the round open top of a simple cylindrical utility bucket. Inside, we can see that the bucket is filled about two-thirds of the way with a black viscous liquid. A shovel with a fresh scoop of foul waste enters the frame, adding to the fill. The camera zooms out slightly, and we can see REZIN holding the shovel, standing up to the ankles in dirt, waste, and other decaying and detestable substances at the bottom of a roadside ditch.)
Forgive me if there was much to be desired after that last promo. Truth be told, I haven't really been able to think of much to say lately.
Seems like anything I say just gets turned around on me, or made out to be indisputable proof that I'm everything I'm trying to explain I'm not. I mean, what's the point of talking if people aren't going to listen? Why give them the chance to rape and humiliate the philosophy I've developed and grown accustomed to over the years?
It should be clear to any sane person, looking at me standing here shoveling filth around for reasons that go beyond any rational understanding, that arguing with someone as crazy as me is a rather hopeless effort. What seems logical to anybody else is nothing short of hogwash to a man like me. And yet, they prattle away... perhaps not so much to convince me of my madness, but to convince themselves that their own bullshit is as true as the sky is blue.
(He stops shoveling for a moment to jam the spade into the muck and leans on it for a moment.)
"I get results" is the mantra of the elite... guys like Sean Stevens and Randall Knox. It doesn't really matter what the FULL extent of the truth is when you get down to thinks like details and perspective and circumstances. All that matters at the end of the day to guys like that is who got the win, and how they can use that to keep pushing their skewed vision of this sport on the rest of the world.
They get results... they win matches... but it doesn't make them any less of the media whores they know themselves to be. Because at the end of the day... as long as they get the result they want, they have something to validate their own sick and twisted truth.
(He gets back to shoveling.)
Anyway, I'm not here to vent my personal bitterness toward those two. Fact is, Teddy, the last time, I just didn't have a chance to touch on something in your promo that particularly caught my ear... and perhaps it should be addressed, before anybody else goes out there thinking they have the wrong idea about me.
I know I give off the stoner image... but the truth is, I don't get really high anymore.
Don't get me wrong... I still smoke ALL the time... but there's nothing even close to the rush or the thrill you're imagining. At this point, I just smoke to maintain a steady and constant level of THC... before the paranoid delusions and schizoid anxiety forces me to cutting up some poor bitch's face. But there's never a high... not any more.
I used to feel that high years ago... in the ring, I mean. You've got a sadistic need for some bone-breaking that quite frankly, I can't help but admire... but mine was different. And difficult to describe. But there used to be something there... every time I'd push myself off of that turnbuckle.
There used to be something that happens in that moment... something that goes beyond anything a bong could give me, Teddy. It looks like a half of a second in real time, but for me... it used to be that every time I simply touched on that feeling of weightlessness, and I heard the whole damb arena all at once gasp into a single moment of beautiful silence... it was beyond euphoric.
It used to be all I ever needed. It was never about money, or winning titles, or selling merchandise... I would wrestle in front of a sold-out football stadium or ten people in a high-school gym; it didn't matter to me... as long as I could get that rush, flying off the top rope.
I dunno if you would understand that, Teddy... which wouldn't surprise me, considering many seem to think I'm a bit crazed. Jack Harmen might know something about it, though. And frankly, I admire the fact that he still lives for that high, even in the face of so much adversity, and gets the respect he's due even if he doesn't "get results" as often as others do.
For many years, I've tried to do everything that Jack Harmen has done and be everything that Jack Harmen is... but unfortunately, nobody's ever been able to look past the bong. Nobody's ever been able to accept the fact that I'm more addicted to the AIR, than to the dank.
(Suddenly, with years of pent of rage, he angrily chucks the shovel as far he can. It lands somewhere in the road, and we can hear a squeal within the passing traffic as vehicles swerve to avoid it. Rezin scowls at the camera.)
Nobody EVER gave me respect in this business, Teddy. After all those years of willingly going into that ring and letting one over-powered and self-flagellating jackass after the next humiliate me -- ALL THOSE YEARS jumping through Dan Ryan's hoops -- those fucking ASSHOLES that have the audacity to call themselves "the Best in the World" and "the Greatest of All-Time" thought I hadn't done enough to EARN that respect.
Fuck that. Respect isn't JUST earned in accomplishments or skill. Respect is also earned in TIME and COMMITMENT. I've put more time into Empire Pro than the both of those cock-rags combined... I've spent more time on that mat, and in those locker rooms. I've dedicated every aspect of my very LIFE to Dan Ryan's federation... even knowing what a tremendous piece of shit my boss is.
And my reward? They walk over me and scrape off their boots, like I'm a fucking doormat... knowing there's next to nothing I can do about it, because I don't "get results" like they do.
They killed my high, Teddy. I can't get my spirit up any more... because it's stuck right here at the bottom of this fucking ditch, and I'll never be able to get out of it.
But if I can't get higher... then the only natural thing for me to do is to make everybody else just a bit LOWER? Why climb my way to the top of the ladder when I can just let the ladder sink to the bottom of this quagmire?
(He picks up a round lid that seals over the top of the bucket and shuts it tight before taking it by the handle and picking it up.)
If I can't get my own fix, Teddy, then I'll just have to deny you of yours. I'll have to bring you on down here to my level... a place where the high is nothing but a distant memory, and all that's left is a bitter hatred begging to lash out and destroy the whole fucking world.
What that means is that you won't be breaking my neck... even though, in all honesty, you'd probably be doing me a favor in doing that. A broken neck would mean I could end this misery for once and for all...
(He suddenly smirks... the gleam of the Devil is his eyes.)
But why stop it now when we've only just begun?
(With wet, sloshing steps, Rezin slogs his way through the grade leading out of the pit of refuse, and our shot fades to beyond the black and into the void.)
[FADE IN: on TEDDY ALEXANDER, sitting on a park bench somewhere that doesn't really matter. His arms are outstretched across the back of the bench stopping anybody else from joining him where he sits.]
TEDDY ALEXANDER: "And then I stopped.
"Coz I don't care about you. I've got nothin' to SAY to you. I don't have any feelin' TOWARDS you, Rezin.
"But da powers of contractual obligations state dat I need to stand in front of dis camera and tell da fans what dis match means to me.
"It means nothin'.
"Why does it mean nothin'? I'll tell you why. There's no vantage to be made by slaying you two idiots in Dallas. What do I get out of it? I mean, there's a chance I could break my foot on your ass when I kick it all around da arena. There's a chance I could break my hand when I pummel dat glazed look into muck. There's a chance I could do my back when I smash you into da canvas with da Ragekill Driver.
"All these things keep runnin' through my head and I'm still tryin' to figure out what I get out of it.
"And I still can't find dat answer."
[TEDDY stops and watches a female jogger run by, a slight deviant smirk on his face as he watches her ass go off up the path.]
TEDDY ALEXANDER: "And then you came back to have a chat. Tell me about your problems like I'm Oprah or something. Except dis whole thing wreaks of Jerry Springer. All dis whole woe is me coz I've done drugs.
"See, Rezin, da fact you chose to pick up a bong and it's fucked your career don't mean shit to me. I'm not gonna shed a tear for you. I don't feel sorry for you. I don't feel sorry for da way they've treated you.
"In my eyes, Rezin, you're just too gutless to deal with what life's given you so you hide inside your bong. Remember da whole cliche about life and lemons and lemonade. I made lemonade. You squeezed da fruits in ya eye and cried us a fuckin' river.
"I don't feel sorry for you. I PITY you. I pity da fact you think dat time and commitment leads to opportunity. Dat fat Downes kid dat works at KFC for twenty years don't deserve to be manager coz he pulled 30 hour shifts every week and never called in sick. Da same reason you don't deserve to be da man.
"To be da man, Rezin, you need to make yourself essential. And you're not essential. You're not a need. You're barely even a want and you've done dat to yourself.
"You're lazy, Rezin. Deadset lazy. And it's shows through da way dat instead of workin' harder, instead of hitting'da gym and hittin' harder, dat you'd rather pull back a lungful and point fingers at everybody you think stepped in your way to da stage dat da only thing you got left is dat drug. Dat drug, which you think, makes you feel normal.
"So, Rez, when we face off I'm gonna give you a gift. What I'm gonna do is allow you to FEEL somethin' again.
"VERY real pain.
"I'm gonna break your fuckin' neck and they're gonna give you all da drugs in da world and you're gonna love it. You'll be able to move to California and get prescription marijuana and you're gonna have da time of your life.
"And best of all... you'll have ME to blame for never, ever doing anythin' in dis industry again.
"And Dan Ryan, Nathan Fear, all da fans... they'll thank me for scratchin' you out of da history books.
(FADEIN: Jack Harmen, lying in the middle of the canvas. The camera shoots him from above as Harmen looks up at the lights.)
JACK HARMEN: You know, I've been a LITTLE busy lately. I just don't have time to prepare for this showcase match as much as I would have hoped. CSWA Tag tourney, NFW tag belts to defend, and an NFW title match to WIN, this showcase has just kind of fell by the way side. I just couldn't book time in the booth to promote and hype up what will no doubt be a four star classic. Hell, I told Howard Stern to fuck off, all because my time to shill our fine product became limited.
(Harmen licks his lips.)
JACK HARMEN: So tell you what. I'll come out, I'll fall flat on my back at the start of the match as if I've been hit by a finger poke. You two, Rezin and Teddy, you fight over WHO gets to pin me.
No shenanigans. No chicanery. Just, whoever dives on top for the pin and doesn't have it broken up by the third man, you get your prize.
(Harmen stretches, then uses his arms as a pillow for his head.)
JACK HARMEN: Eh, maybe a little shenanigans. Perhaps I'll roll you up when you go for your third pinfall, and out of nowhere steal this little sucker. Who knows? I don't even until I walk down that aisle, immediately fall to the canvas like I'm suffering a violent seizure, and wind up bored just wait till one of you tries to pin me.
JACK HARMEN: That's when things might get interesting.
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