Roleplay goes here. 2 RP limit for this round.
Round 1: Jeff Andrews vs. Doctor Curiosity
- Thread starter Chad
- Start date
JeffOLW
League Member
[The room has that distinctive touch that only comes from having been designed by a man. The carpet is dark green, the paneling is dark knotty pine, and the furniture is brown. Jeff Andrews sits in a brown leather arm chair, legs splayed, arms up, head thrown backwards and his trademark green and yellow mesh John Deere trucker’s cap pulled low over his face.]
“All these guys, none of them know me. None of them care. The five people outside the WfWA and CAL circles who’ve heard my name think I’m just Eric Dane’s lapdog, y’know, his growlier, stupider, balder, lazier, more bitterer lapdog. And I’d change all that if I gave enough of a damn about anything, but... I always got more work. Or someone to console. Or forms to fill out. Or I was just too sore to bother. Or not even too sore, just too damn lazy. I work hard for pro wrestling, I work hard for Defiance. When I get some off time, I’m gonna take it. No time for tournaments, raid starts in a half hour and I’m MT Healing. Every last one of you knows what that means, by the way, don’t deny it.”
[Andrews’ voice - there’s a bit of a backwoods twang in it. Maybe not as much of one as you’d expect from a guy wearing shoes with no socks, jean shorts, no shirt, and a trucker’s cap, but maybe more than you’d expect if you looked up his bio and saw that he was born n’ raised on the mean streets of the suburbs of Baltimore.]
“I work, I collapse, I get back up and I work again. I work in Defiance. Before that, I work in Old Line Wrestling. Four years right there. Before that, it was one of the three trillion feds called IWA, though mine ran out of Orlando, Florida. Before that... hell, before that I was just a kid, I didn’t do nothing, I hadn’t had time to do anything.”
“And you know what that means to me?”
[Jeff Andrews is thirty-four years old. Or maybe thirty-three. Once you get past the big 3-0, it stops mattering so much. It’s not that he’s slowing down so much. There’s the back, but that’s every wrestler ever. There’s the knee, but that happened because he did too many moonsaults and wiped out one too many times. And there’s the little crows’ feet appearing at the corners of his eyes, but hey, if you can’t look like a wild-eyed rockstar cos you lost your hair, you might as well look like a grizzled badass. Either way, he’s been around the block often enough to memorize it.]
“It means that I been wrestling for fifteen fucking years and what do I got to show for it? Well lemme put it this way. Two world titles ain’t bad, there’s a lot of guys haven’t got even one, but my boss has six, some other guy in this thing has thirteen or fourteen or something ridiculous like that. And you know why that is?”
“Because I’m either too busy, or too tired, and y’know... maybe it’s not the best thing to admit to anything self-incriminating when you’re stepping up into a tournament where doesn’t no one know who you are, but I don’t like being taken out of my comfort zone. When you get involved in a place like I do, you can show up to work in the ring, hit the ring hard enough, enough times in a row, to prove to everyone you work with that you’re still a force, still a man to be taken seriously and reckoned with. And if you get tired, you step back, call it ‘doing good business’ or something. Point is. Either way, I’m in control of the situation. Always in control.”
[Andrews heaves a sigh and straightens up. His torso is heavy, muscular, with cobras-hood traps and a drum-like chest, but with enough softness to hide his abs. His forearms are thick like his biceps, and his hands are weathered and gnarled, his fingers curled.]
“And here’s the other thing.”
“I know I’m good.”
[He pauses speaking, removes the hat. He is, in fact, bald - went from sporting a slick rockstar-like dark blonde cut to having pretty much nothing left on top in about 2 years. Just some stubble around the edges of his head and a bit in the front.]
“But when going out and stamping your reputation all over the face of a bunch of anonymous guys requires work, and you’d rather sleep, it’s easier to say ‘screw it everyone who matters already knows’ than it is to go out and start stakin’ yourself out some more rep. And that ain’t no good... you all know it, maybe I always knew it even if I didn’t wanna admit it. But you gotta step up sometime. And while Eric Dane is tellin me I can’t afford to keep letting myself be a nobody and I gotta go out and stomp some faces, and I’m not up for it, ULTRATITLE.”
“My last real World Title was back in, I think, 2005. I won something called the WfWA Double Crown Championship a few years after that, didn’t even want it cos I thought it was below me. And my tag team partner and homeboy Ronnie Long won the WfWA World Title in 2010 and I taught that dude everything he knows ‘cept for how to jump off high things. But yeah. 2005, CAL World Title. Eight man War Games.”
“I know you guys don’t know who Cole Christenson was. Or who Daemon Curtis was. And you don’t know Keith Edwards or Calvin Astroth either. But y’know, to be fair, back then, I didn’t know who Dan Ryan was. I hadn’t never heard the name of Castor Strife, or Nova, or Jack Harmon. Hell, all I knew Eric Dane for was being some random guy who got about 20 cameos at some CAL Pay Per View in 2002. But when I picked up all 300 pounds of Cole Christenson on my shoulders, and I dropped him directly on the top of his head with a little thing I called the Andrews Driver V, don’t tell me that wasn’t the moment every wrestler lives for.”
“And now the Ultratitle.”
[Andrews stretches his arms up over his head, then locks his hands and pulls them down behind his back until his shoulders pop.]
“I beat 12 guys to win the CAL World Title in a War Games match.”
“And this.”
“One hundred and twenty seven guys.”
“God damn. I could wait another fifteen years and never get another shot like this one. And I very likely don’t have fifteen more years. Maybe not five. This... it’s do-time for me.”
“And I feel sorry for my zany little opponent.”
“All these guys, none of them know me. None of them care. The five people outside the WfWA and CAL circles who’ve heard my name think I’m just Eric Dane’s lapdog, y’know, his growlier, stupider, balder, lazier, more bitterer lapdog. And I’d change all that if I gave enough of a damn about anything, but... I always got more work. Or someone to console. Or forms to fill out. Or I was just too sore to bother. Or not even too sore, just too damn lazy. I work hard for pro wrestling, I work hard for Defiance. When I get some off time, I’m gonna take it. No time for tournaments, raid starts in a half hour and I’m MT Healing. Every last one of you knows what that means, by the way, don’t deny it.”
[Andrews’ voice - there’s a bit of a backwoods twang in it. Maybe not as much of one as you’d expect from a guy wearing shoes with no socks, jean shorts, no shirt, and a trucker’s cap, but maybe more than you’d expect if you looked up his bio and saw that he was born n’ raised on the mean streets of the suburbs of Baltimore.]
“I work, I collapse, I get back up and I work again. I work in Defiance. Before that, I work in Old Line Wrestling. Four years right there. Before that, it was one of the three trillion feds called IWA, though mine ran out of Orlando, Florida. Before that... hell, before that I was just a kid, I didn’t do nothing, I hadn’t had time to do anything.”
“And you know what that means to me?”
[Jeff Andrews is thirty-four years old. Or maybe thirty-three. Once you get past the big 3-0, it stops mattering so much. It’s not that he’s slowing down so much. There’s the back, but that’s every wrestler ever. There’s the knee, but that happened because he did too many moonsaults and wiped out one too many times. And there’s the little crows’ feet appearing at the corners of his eyes, but hey, if you can’t look like a wild-eyed rockstar cos you lost your hair, you might as well look like a grizzled badass. Either way, he’s been around the block often enough to memorize it.]
“It means that I been wrestling for fifteen fucking years and what do I got to show for it? Well lemme put it this way. Two world titles ain’t bad, there’s a lot of guys haven’t got even one, but my boss has six, some other guy in this thing has thirteen or fourteen or something ridiculous like that. And you know why that is?”
“Because I’m either too busy, or too tired, and y’know... maybe it’s not the best thing to admit to anything self-incriminating when you’re stepping up into a tournament where doesn’t no one know who you are, but I don’t like being taken out of my comfort zone. When you get involved in a place like I do, you can show up to work in the ring, hit the ring hard enough, enough times in a row, to prove to everyone you work with that you’re still a force, still a man to be taken seriously and reckoned with. And if you get tired, you step back, call it ‘doing good business’ or something. Point is. Either way, I’m in control of the situation. Always in control.”
[Andrews heaves a sigh and straightens up. His torso is heavy, muscular, with cobras-hood traps and a drum-like chest, but with enough softness to hide his abs. His forearms are thick like his biceps, and his hands are weathered and gnarled, his fingers curled.]
“And here’s the other thing.”
“I know I’m good.”
[He pauses speaking, removes the hat. He is, in fact, bald - went from sporting a slick rockstar-like dark blonde cut to having pretty much nothing left on top in about 2 years. Just some stubble around the edges of his head and a bit in the front.]
“But when going out and stamping your reputation all over the face of a bunch of anonymous guys requires work, and you’d rather sleep, it’s easier to say ‘screw it everyone who matters already knows’ than it is to go out and start stakin’ yourself out some more rep. And that ain’t no good... you all know it, maybe I always knew it even if I didn’t wanna admit it. But you gotta step up sometime. And while Eric Dane is tellin me I can’t afford to keep letting myself be a nobody and I gotta go out and stomp some faces, and I’m not up for it, ULTRATITLE.”
“My last real World Title was back in, I think, 2005. I won something called the WfWA Double Crown Championship a few years after that, didn’t even want it cos I thought it was below me. And my tag team partner and homeboy Ronnie Long won the WfWA World Title in 2010 and I taught that dude everything he knows ‘cept for how to jump off high things. But yeah. 2005, CAL World Title. Eight man War Games.”
“I know you guys don’t know who Cole Christenson was. Or who Daemon Curtis was. And you don’t know Keith Edwards or Calvin Astroth either. But y’know, to be fair, back then, I didn’t know who Dan Ryan was. I hadn’t never heard the name of Castor Strife, or Nova, or Jack Harmon. Hell, all I knew Eric Dane for was being some random guy who got about 20 cameos at some CAL Pay Per View in 2002. But when I picked up all 300 pounds of Cole Christenson on my shoulders, and I dropped him directly on the top of his head with a little thing I called the Andrews Driver V, don’t tell me that wasn’t the moment every wrestler lives for.”
“And now the Ultratitle.”
[Andrews stretches his arms up over his head, then locks his hands and pulls them down behind his back until his shoulders pop.]
“I beat 12 guys to win the CAL World Title in a War Games match.”
“And this.”
“One hundred and twenty seven guys.”
“God damn. I could wait another fifteen years and never get another shot like this one. And I very likely don’t have fifteen more years. Maybe not five. This... it’s do-time for me.”
“And I feel sorry for my zany little opponent.”
Dr Curiosity
League Member
- Joined
- Aug 28, 2004
- Messages
- 116
- Points
- 0
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the press... this is the moment for which you have all been waiting!”
[The rich baritone of the announcer floats over the heads of the assembled reporters, experts, smarks and sharks crammed into a not-so-large and not-so-sparkly room. The only nod to decadence comes in the form of a rich, purple curtain hung behind the stage.]
“He is here to take your questions and speak about his upcoming tilt at the Ultratitle. He’s won titles and tournaments, he’s graced PTC, fWo and NFW to name but a few. He is the one. He is the only.
DOCTOOOOOOOOOR CURIOSITYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”
[The curtain parts, and Ze Nefarious One steps through it purposefully. At least, that’s as long as his purpose included a quite impressive stumble. Our ‘hero’ wears his usual get-up of a stained laboratory coat and clothes more suited to a teacher than a wrestler, but this time it is topped off with a purple, glittering Stormtrooper helmet.]
“Aaaarrgghh!” cries the Doctor.
[The helmet appears to be covering his eyes somewhat, as he proceeds to get his legs tangled in the curtain, and falls in a grace-lacking heap on the stage.]
“Get zis damned helmet off me, Eegor!”
[Another figure makes his way out. He’s larger than the Doctor’s 190lb frame, a couple of inches taller, and distinctly better looking (though it could be argued that at present he only has to out-handsome a purple helmet. Wait, that came out wrong).]
“Ah, you fool, Eegor! “
“Sorry, master.”
[The doctor’s assistant finally gets the helmet out of the way, as Curiosity mutters to himself and tries to rearrange his grey hair into the familiar chaotic Einsteinesque style.]
“Right, ve shall start now!”
[The doctor’s accent is German, superficially at least. Truth be told, he’s actually from San Diego, but ssshhh, it’s a secret. He produces a microphone from within the recesses of his lab coat, and gets to talking.]
“Ze Ultratitle. I vould be lying to say it has been my dream ever since I vas a boy to vin zis thing. I vould be lying if I said I had even really heard of it, other zan as sometzing Nova once snorted half of Colombia off. So vhy am I here? Just for a few matches and a nice little paycheck? Nein.”
[Curiosity shakes his head and begins to pace around the stage. He seems more relaxed than he has for a while, as if he’s settling into a familiar rhythm.]
“Truth be told I am not in this for ze plaudits, or to get my name out to a hundred little federations about vhich I do not care. I am here because I cannot help but love tournaments. Jah, I have had success in federations; I have von vorld titles, held some for over a year, become a legend in more zan von circle of wrestling, but it vas ze tournaments zat made me who I am today.
Many years ago I made my debut in ze Ultimate Title Tournament... and zen Prime Time Central’s GTT. I’ve entered Stable Vars and even my current employer, NFW, I came to zem because of their Grand Prix Tournament. I’m sure I don’t need to mention zat ze only von of zose I failed to vin was the first, vhere I made my debut and still rolled through wrestler after wrestler to ze semi-finals.”
[The Not-So-Good Doctor pauses, and a reporter sees this as a good time to interrupt.]
“We’re aware of your tournament pedigree, Doctor, but it’s been a while since we’ve seen you at your best. Are you a spent force? Do you think you can compete with Jeff Andrews?”
[Curiosity mulls this over.]
“A surprisingly good qvestion. I have, perhaps grown old and slow in my advancing years?”
[A pause, as if in reflection, but then a knowing shake of the head.]
“Nein. I am in my early thirties; ze prime of my life! My opponent may tzink he has lost a step, or his joints might hurt, but you know vhich wrestlers end up on the scrapheap just vhen zey should be coming through to their best? Ze bad ones.”
[He shrugs his shoulders and continues.]
“I may not be much to look at, and some of my... ‘antics’, as zey call it, can make wrestlers qvestion if I should even be in ze ring vith zem. I saw Jeff Andrews calling me zany.”
[Curiosity makes with the air quotes for the perceived insult.]
“Many have called me zat. I’m no giant, I’m far from a conventional ring technician, and ze less kind type might even say zat I can’t compete vith ze physical prowess of others. Zey vould, of course, be wrong. You see, for every person who has underestimated me, zere has been a dazed fool laying on ze flat of zeir back, vondering vhat ze hell happened. For every wrestler in tournaments such as zis who has thrown out a list of names of schmucks zey have vanquished... zere is another victim of ze Schrodinger’s Smack just vaiting to happen.”
[An air of arrogance seem to envelop the Doc as he strides around his world. He knows he’s been phoning it in for NFW for a while now, missing matches at house shows and only putting a show on when the cameras are rolling. He’s been missing something; he’s been missing THIS.]
“It is not my fault zat Jeff Andrews is too lazy, or too tired or too sore or too full of bull**** excuses to be a proper man and admit that he’s just not zat good. It’s not my fault zat he thinks he might make an example out of me, and use victory as a springboard to fame and fortune at last. It’s not my fault zat he is wrong. It’s not my fault zat he’s just like all ze others.
“But I do take personal responsibility for ze tzings zat are my fault. I vill hold up my hands and tell you zat is vill be my fault vhen, in a veek, you forget ever having heard of Jeff Andrews. It vill be my fault vhen Jeff goes back to ze locker room area and admits zat it vill never really happen for him.”
[There’s a glint in his eye, and an air of finality as he looks dead into the camera.]
“And vhen you hate me for vinning yet another tournament?
Jah.
Definitely my fault.”
[The rich baritone of the announcer floats over the heads of the assembled reporters, experts, smarks and sharks crammed into a not-so-large and not-so-sparkly room. The only nod to decadence comes in the form of a rich, purple curtain hung behind the stage.]
“He is here to take your questions and speak about his upcoming tilt at the Ultratitle. He’s won titles and tournaments, he’s graced PTC, fWo and NFW to name but a few. He is the one. He is the only.
DOCTOOOOOOOOOR CURIOSITYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”
[The curtain parts, and Ze Nefarious One steps through it purposefully. At least, that’s as long as his purpose included a quite impressive stumble. Our ‘hero’ wears his usual get-up of a stained laboratory coat and clothes more suited to a teacher than a wrestler, but this time it is topped off with a purple, glittering Stormtrooper helmet.]
“Aaaarrgghh!” cries the Doctor.
[The helmet appears to be covering his eyes somewhat, as he proceeds to get his legs tangled in the curtain, and falls in a grace-lacking heap on the stage.]
“Get zis damned helmet off me, Eegor!”
[Another figure makes his way out. He’s larger than the Doctor’s 190lb frame, a couple of inches taller, and distinctly better looking (though it could be argued that at present he only has to out-handsome a purple helmet. Wait, that came out wrong).]
“Ah, you fool, Eegor! “
“Sorry, master.”
[The doctor’s assistant finally gets the helmet out of the way, as Curiosity mutters to himself and tries to rearrange his grey hair into the familiar chaotic Einsteinesque style.]
“Right, ve shall start now!”
[The doctor’s accent is German, superficially at least. Truth be told, he’s actually from San Diego, but ssshhh, it’s a secret. He produces a microphone from within the recesses of his lab coat, and gets to talking.]
“Ze Ultratitle. I vould be lying to say it has been my dream ever since I vas a boy to vin zis thing. I vould be lying if I said I had even really heard of it, other zan as sometzing Nova once snorted half of Colombia off. So vhy am I here? Just for a few matches and a nice little paycheck? Nein.”
[Curiosity shakes his head and begins to pace around the stage. He seems more relaxed than he has for a while, as if he’s settling into a familiar rhythm.]
“Truth be told I am not in this for ze plaudits, or to get my name out to a hundred little federations about vhich I do not care. I am here because I cannot help but love tournaments. Jah, I have had success in federations; I have von vorld titles, held some for over a year, become a legend in more zan von circle of wrestling, but it vas ze tournaments zat made me who I am today.
Many years ago I made my debut in ze Ultimate Title Tournament... and zen Prime Time Central’s GTT. I’ve entered Stable Vars and even my current employer, NFW, I came to zem because of their Grand Prix Tournament. I’m sure I don’t need to mention zat ze only von of zose I failed to vin was the first, vhere I made my debut and still rolled through wrestler after wrestler to ze semi-finals.”
[The Not-So-Good Doctor pauses, and a reporter sees this as a good time to interrupt.]
“We’re aware of your tournament pedigree, Doctor, but it’s been a while since we’ve seen you at your best. Are you a spent force? Do you think you can compete with Jeff Andrews?”
[Curiosity mulls this over.]
“A surprisingly good qvestion. I have, perhaps grown old and slow in my advancing years?”
[A pause, as if in reflection, but then a knowing shake of the head.]
“Nein. I am in my early thirties; ze prime of my life! My opponent may tzink he has lost a step, or his joints might hurt, but you know vhich wrestlers end up on the scrapheap just vhen zey should be coming through to their best? Ze bad ones.”
[He shrugs his shoulders and continues.]
“I may not be much to look at, and some of my... ‘antics’, as zey call it, can make wrestlers qvestion if I should even be in ze ring vith zem. I saw Jeff Andrews calling me zany.”
[Curiosity makes with the air quotes for the perceived insult.]
“Many have called me zat. I’m no giant, I’m far from a conventional ring technician, and ze less kind type might even say zat I can’t compete vith ze physical prowess of others. Zey vould, of course, be wrong. You see, for every person who has underestimated me, zere has been a dazed fool laying on ze flat of zeir back, vondering vhat ze hell happened. For every wrestler in tournaments such as zis who has thrown out a list of names of schmucks zey have vanquished... zere is another victim of ze Schrodinger’s Smack just vaiting to happen.”
[An air of arrogance seem to envelop the Doc as he strides around his world. He knows he’s been phoning it in for NFW for a while now, missing matches at house shows and only putting a show on when the cameras are rolling. He’s been missing something; he’s been missing THIS.]
“It is not my fault zat Jeff Andrews is too lazy, or too tired or too sore or too full of bull**** excuses to be a proper man and admit that he’s just not zat good. It’s not my fault zat he thinks he might make an example out of me, and use victory as a springboard to fame and fortune at last. It’s not my fault zat he is wrong. It’s not my fault zat he’s just like all ze others.
“But I do take personal responsibility for ze tzings zat are my fault. I vill hold up my hands and tell you zat is vill be my fault vhen, in a veek, you forget ever having heard of Jeff Andrews. It vill be my fault vhen Jeff goes back to ze locker room area and admits zat it vill never really happen for him.”
[There’s a glint in his eye, and an air of finality as he looks dead into the camera.]
“And vhen you hate me for vinning yet another tournament?
Jah.
Definitely my fault.”
JeffOLW
League Member
[Today, Jeff Andrews has elected to wear a shirt.]
[The shirt says “DEFIANCE” on it.]
[Other than that, there hasn’t been a whole lot of change since last time. Once again, Jeff is slumped in his brown leather armchair, green and yellow mesh John Deere trucker’s cap tilted low over his face. For some reason, even though he’s at home, he’s wearing his wrestling boots. They’re plain black. just fyi.]
[Also, he has a bottle of beer. Sam Adams Alpine Spring, if you want to be precise here.]
“It’s a funny thing about tournaments. The truth, and I do feel bad about admitting this, considering the Ultratitle and the prestige and the legendary names involved, is that I’ve never really thought tournaments were all that great.”
“I’ve booked some, y’know.”
“And there’s always the same host of problems.”
“Some guy who’s awesome just has a bad week and bounces out early.”
“Two of the best in the tournament meet each other in the first round, and someone who should’ve had a great run ducks out early due to horrible luck of the draw.”
“On the flip side, there’s always going to be a kid who goes way, way further than he’s supposed to. Maybe he just ends up in the light side of the brackets, steps up a little while someone has a bad week, and you’ve got someone in the finals who no one ever cares about.”
“And then there’s always someone who ends up in the tournament for some reason, no one cares about him, but he’s good, and he takes out a favorite, or two, or even four.”
“I wanna be that guy.”
[Andrews takes a drink of his beer.]
“Now, me being an unknown, I’ve got kind of an advantage right off the bat. If I advance, if I advance even one single time, I’ve overperformed. I mean, overperformed in the estimation of others. I already know I’m good. Went over that last time. Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough, Dr. Curiousity sure missed the point, but...”
“Lord I’m sorry, I can’t focus on this. I keep wanting to call the guy Dr. Q, then I remember this stupid computer game I played in High School, called the Island Adventures of Dr. Quandary or something like that, and then I just keep remembering it. Keep waiting for Dr. C to ask me if I have what it takes, the Acid Test can I pass, and escape from the Hall with the Glass of Green Gas?”
“Meh, I’m probably the only person who remembers that thing.”
“Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, I was talking about tournaments.”
[Another drink of the beer. Jeff Andrews has had his issues with the Demon Drink in the past, but at least right now, the drinking seems to be pretty well under control. He’s not drinking straight from a rye whiskey bottle, at least.]
“And if Dr. Curiosity’s good at tournaments like he claims... you know, I can actually respect that. For me, the hard part of tournaments is finding the focus. Cos it’s so easy to go out there, burn the house down in one match, and then say ‘good enough’. If I was Dan Ryan, I’d throw one of those rage comics up, with the little stick figure guy frowning badassily and saying ‘good enough’, but I’m not.”
“So Dr. C likes his tournaments.”
“But apparently, he doesn’t like listening, because blathering on about me thinking I’m not good enough or whatever that was. Seriously. He listened to what I said, and came up with... that?”
“He may be an okay pro wrestler, even if he is undesirably zany, but he’s clearly so stupid I have to question whether he’s actually a doctor.”
“At the very least, I think it’s reasonable to demand to see the diploma.”
“Or to translate that into Stupid, “PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN””.
[Andrews takes another drink of beer. This one’s long and aggressive, and he slams it down when he’s done.]
“Let me make myself clear. When I say I am lazy, I mean that I often find myself burned out from the work I’m doing that I find myself unable to pursue an active interest in extracurriculars like open invitational 128 man tournaments. Not that I don’t know how to work, not that I don’t get into that ring and bust my ass putting on great matches with the best talent in the world - you’ll shortly be able to see all those matches on http://www.defiancewrestling.com by the way, check it out some time. My back hurts, my knees hurt, and you know something, you little tourney-crawling freak with a stupid accent?”
“I earned those aches.”
“You, on the other hand, are a clown.”
“You look for a line, and you run to the front of it and dance.”
“And you call that a successful career?”
“I call it goddamn disrespectful.”
“A career based on bragging rights that you’ll never have to defend, never have to justify, never have to risk yourself for their sake.”
“And more than that...”
[Andrews slams down the rest of the beer, chucks the bottle to the side.]
“You do it all by acting like a fool and hoping your opponents underestimate you? MOTHERFUCKER DO YOU WANT MY OLD MACARENA GIMMICK? You think that’ll help you win the Ultratitle? You want me to go down to Mexico, buy a sombrero and a pancho, stuff you into them, and play a dance track while you shake your ass like a spaz?”
[Andrews is suddenly calm again.]
“Sorry, bro, but underestimating people isn’t how I play. It isn’t my style. And fool, one of the most successful wrestlers in the CAL, dude named Calvin Astroth, he had two moves, his finisher and a double axehandle. So don’t go thinking I’ll look past you just cos you love to keep going for a 450 splash you can’t land.”
“As for me, I hit people. I whale on them. If I get a chance I dive on them, ‘cos I trained as a luchador back when I was a scrawny kid breaking into the business. I kick their heads into the balcony with the Kendo Sidekick, bounce their skulls off the mat with the Mind Eraser, collapse their ribcages with the Ultraglide, and choke them unconscious while dislocating their shoulders with the Charm City Crossface. Cos the Ultraglide don’t care whether I’m indifferent to my opponent, hate their guts, or even love ‘em, it collapses their ribcage all the same.”
[He looks down for his beer, realizes he no longer has it, and scowls.]
“I trust I’ve made myself clear.”
[The shirt says “DEFIANCE” on it.]
[Other than that, there hasn’t been a whole lot of change since last time. Once again, Jeff is slumped in his brown leather armchair, green and yellow mesh John Deere trucker’s cap tilted low over his face. For some reason, even though he’s at home, he’s wearing his wrestling boots. They’re plain black. just fyi.]
[Also, he has a bottle of beer. Sam Adams Alpine Spring, if you want to be precise here.]
“It’s a funny thing about tournaments. The truth, and I do feel bad about admitting this, considering the Ultratitle and the prestige and the legendary names involved, is that I’ve never really thought tournaments were all that great.”
“I’ve booked some, y’know.”
“And there’s always the same host of problems.”
“Some guy who’s awesome just has a bad week and bounces out early.”
“Two of the best in the tournament meet each other in the first round, and someone who should’ve had a great run ducks out early due to horrible luck of the draw.”
“On the flip side, there’s always going to be a kid who goes way, way further than he’s supposed to. Maybe he just ends up in the light side of the brackets, steps up a little while someone has a bad week, and you’ve got someone in the finals who no one ever cares about.”
“And then there’s always someone who ends up in the tournament for some reason, no one cares about him, but he’s good, and he takes out a favorite, or two, or even four.”
“I wanna be that guy.”
[Andrews takes a drink of his beer.]
“Now, me being an unknown, I’ve got kind of an advantage right off the bat. If I advance, if I advance even one single time, I’ve overperformed. I mean, overperformed in the estimation of others. I already know I’m good. Went over that last time. Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough, Dr. Curiousity sure missed the point, but...”
“Lord I’m sorry, I can’t focus on this. I keep wanting to call the guy Dr. Q, then I remember this stupid computer game I played in High School, called the Island Adventures of Dr. Quandary or something like that, and then I just keep remembering it. Keep waiting for Dr. C to ask me if I have what it takes, the Acid Test can I pass, and escape from the Hall with the Glass of Green Gas?”
“Meh, I’m probably the only person who remembers that thing.”
“Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, I was talking about tournaments.”
[Another drink of the beer. Jeff Andrews has had his issues with the Demon Drink in the past, but at least right now, the drinking seems to be pretty well under control. He’s not drinking straight from a rye whiskey bottle, at least.]
“And if Dr. Curiosity’s good at tournaments like he claims... you know, I can actually respect that. For me, the hard part of tournaments is finding the focus. Cos it’s so easy to go out there, burn the house down in one match, and then say ‘good enough’. If I was Dan Ryan, I’d throw one of those rage comics up, with the little stick figure guy frowning badassily and saying ‘good enough’, but I’m not.”
“So Dr. C likes his tournaments.”
“But apparently, he doesn’t like listening, because blathering on about me thinking I’m not good enough or whatever that was. Seriously. He listened to what I said, and came up with... that?”
“He may be an okay pro wrestler, even if he is undesirably zany, but he’s clearly so stupid I have to question whether he’s actually a doctor.”
“At the very least, I think it’s reasonable to demand to see the diploma.”
“Or to translate that into Stupid, “PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN””.
[Andrews takes another drink of beer. This one’s long and aggressive, and he slams it down when he’s done.]
“Let me make myself clear. When I say I am lazy, I mean that I often find myself burned out from the work I’m doing that I find myself unable to pursue an active interest in extracurriculars like open invitational 128 man tournaments. Not that I don’t know how to work, not that I don’t get into that ring and bust my ass putting on great matches with the best talent in the world - you’ll shortly be able to see all those matches on http://www.defiancewrestling.com by the way, check it out some time. My back hurts, my knees hurt, and you know something, you little tourney-crawling freak with a stupid accent?”
“I earned those aches.”
“You, on the other hand, are a clown.”
“You look for a line, and you run to the front of it and dance.”
“And you call that a successful career?”
“I call it goddamn disrespectful.”
“A career based on bragging rights that you’ll never have to defend, never have to justify, never have to risk yourself for their sake.”
“And more than that...”
[Andrews slams down the rest of the beer, chucks the bottle to the side.]
“You do it all by acting like a fool and hoping your opponents underestimate you? MOTHERFUCKER DO YOU WANT MY OLD MACARENA GIMMICK? You think that’ll help you win the Ultratitle? You want me to go down to Mexico, buy a sombrero and a pancho, stuff you into them, and play a dance track while you shake your ass like a spaz?”
[Andrews is suddenly calm again.]
“Sorry, bro, but underestimating people isn’t how I play. It isn’t my style. And fool, one of the most successful wrestlers in the CAL, dude named Calvin Astroth, he had two moves, his finisher and a double axehandle. So don’t go thinking I’ll look past you just cos you love to keep going for a 450 splash you can’t land.”
“As for me, I hit people. I whale on them. If I get a chance I dive on them, ‘cos I trained as a luchador back when I was a scrawny kid breaking into the business. I kick their heads into the balcony with the Kendo Sidekick, bounce their skulls off the mat with the Mind Eraser, collapse their ribcages with the Ultraglide, and choke them unconscious while dislocating their shoulders with the Charm City Crossface. Cos the Ultraglide don’t care whether I’m indifferent to my opponent, hate their guts, or even love ‘em, it collapses their ribcage all the same.”
[He looks down for his beer, realizes he no longer has it, and scowls.]
“I trust I’ve made myself clear.”