[Pete Whealdon is sitting in front of his computer, which is on a desk of the nondescript variety. The keys are actively chatting away. Pete stops to stroke his mustache thoughtfully. As he types he begins to narrate aloud.]
Dear Gideon,
[As is usually the case, the Coporatemedian Damien DeSett is in the room with him, doing power squats. with a camel back likely filled with the mysterious “protein” drinks that have driven him to look like a cross between a greek god, and a late nineties baseball player. you know, all natural.]
It’s an exciting time in your life, you’ve discovered you want to be a professional wrestler. A lot of young men at the tender of age eighteen have looked down the barrel of possibilities and chosen the fine form of tights based combat. Kudos to you.
[Whealdon nods to his computer as he types and speaks. DeSett for all of him, decides now is a good time to show off the largest, and arguably the most natural arms in the business today. His Mark McGuirian Biceps look ready to explode in fury and what has been described as Horse Growth Hormone, yet if you ask either of the ****/b/olts, they’ll say it’s simply better genetics.]
I know that when I was younger, and I hadn’t grown such a fine mustache, that I wished someone had taken the time out of his long, exciting day, to tell me a little bit about what I was getting into.
[Whealdon looks wistfully out of the window I failed to mention earlier.]
Well, you’ve made the right choice. Your entry into the ULTRATITLE, is a good way to get your name out there. Let’s talk about that a little bit. I know I had a choice of names, I looked at winners like Terra Fying, Jumpin’ Jack Johnson-Johnson, and Locker #2.
[Pete strokes his mustache nostalgically.]
I laid awake for long hours at night, thinking over the importance of, “Who is Pete Whealdon gonna be, Daddy.” I didn’t say Daddy back then, but back then Daddy, I wasn’t nearly cool enough for such things. No, like you, I rubbed my head, My training horrendously inadequate at the task of deciding.
What EVER shall I call myself?
[Pete Whealdon looks back at Damien, who again decides the best way to interject himself is by flexing hard, driving his arms downwards as muscles explode in bursts of adrenaline/testosterone overload of Power. Almost. They’re close.]
[Quick cut to Pete Whealdon sitting inside of a motel. it’s bland, bland bed, bland walls, bland wood two drawer bedside table.]
In moments of desperation and confusion, and trying to find myself in the world, I know I also looked deep into the soul of the Super 8 I wasn’t staying at, and I know I popped open that top drawer. I saw the redeeming comforts of the Bible, and Gideon. I know what it’s like to be a confused young man. So I also took the name Gideon from the wonderful People of Gideon international.
[Now Pete Whealdon is holding up the bible removed from the top drawer, opened to the front cover. bright red ink slightly smudged reads “Gideon’s International.” Pete casts aside the Bible and goes back to typing on the laptop he has with him, and continues narrating aloud. Pausing briefly he lights a cigarette.]
Now, I know, I know. You’re saying “but Pete, I needed a name for wrestling!” or “but Pete this is the name my navel-gazing mulleted parents saddled me with!”. Tut Tut. I have thought of this as an issue. Now we can’t all just dream up a good name for ourselves, and we certainly can’t have the kind of wonderful affectations like a german accent.
[Cut to a German man waving. In a field. In lederhosen. Damien DeSett slowly rumbling at him from over the dell. Cut back to Whealdon in his office typing.]
But we can think a little bit. “Do I want to be associated with the fine fine accommodations of non-premium domestic motels?”. If the answer is yes Gideon, Let me try to convince you otherwise! because while, looking for the deep answers of life, carpentry, and metaphysical questions across the universe of middle america.
[Cut to a quick blast of images. The Eagle Nebula, a Carpenter, a Carpenter CGI'd in to the Eagle Nebula building a rocking chair. Super 8 Motels being built by a carpenter in space upside down. The Apollo mission. A Door Frame in a field. Damien DeSett potatoing a German guy. Posies in a vase on the back of a galloping horse.]
Now, we all can’t be awesome and grow the kind of mustache that makes Tom Selleck look like a hobo.
[Cut to a close up of Pete Whealdon’s fine mustache.]
Now, we can’t all wear pink like it’s black, and mesh like it’s wool. and we can’t all gyrate ourselves into the hearts and loins of everything we come across.
[Inappropriate gyrations. followed by images of Whealdon doing the same in a Yellow Mesh hoodie, hood up with a pink LED Dolphin flashing on the both sides.]
But don’t despair Gideon, I like yourself was once not such a fancy lad, I once was from middle america, I once could be described using single syllable pronouns. I also once entered to music that was both intense, and emotional.
[Cut to a young metalcore band, more hairdos than notes, in the middle of what they are calling a break down. heavy e-string chugging. Damien DeSett blasts through the wall Kool-Aid Man style. Pete Whealdon types amidst the maelstrom.]
You see, as a gifted young grappler from the middle zero’s all you needed were a few hard kicks and an animal avatar nickname. You could be a Lion, a Tiger, or a Bear! And you could wear a mouthguard and kick pads, because Daddy, that’s how educated your feet had to be.
[Cut to Pete Whealdon pre Mustache wearing a mortarboard, the little gold rope dangling a pair of feet.]
[Cut to Pete Whealdon typing away in a bar. A Glass of Pappy Van Winkle seated next to him, and the cigarette dying in an ashtray.]
And you need a faux hawk, and and bad barbering. You need to look as bad as you were. Times have changed, Now you can roll in calling yourself the first thing you see in your first motel on your first roadtrip.
but Daddy, there is a reason I’m telling you all of this, why I’m letting you know how the greatest technical wrestler alive today came up, because it’s not all headlocks, armbars, cool nights and Ladies.
[Cut to Pete Whealdon rubbing baby oil on himself and leering at two women. They look on in horror.]
Daddy, the important thing is, someday when you’re sitting at a bar not nearly as fine as this one, drinking whiskey not nearly as good. And you’ve tried and failed many times to grow a silken mustache of man flannel. Sipping your drink and telling the other non mustached stiffs around you how hard a racket Pro Wrestling is, and how you couldn’t quite just find your way out of the potato sack you got stuck over your head in the game of life, that no one tried to take you under their very very cool wings.
Sincerly yours,
Suite Corporate Dolphin Pete Whealdon, Esquire.
[Whealdon finishes tapping as Damien DeSett dressed as a bartender walks through the flip down counter to give Pete some more Pappy Van Winkle.]
[Cut.]