Round 3: Pat Gordon, Jr. vs. Jeffrey Roberts

[Chad]

Roleplay begins Sunday and ends next Sunday. 3 RP maximum.

You may submit a card segment for use on the card by private messaging it to the following usernames: Chad; Ford; User Poets Not all segments may be used (i.e. we might only include winners, just depends on the amount of craziness).

 

[Ernie]

At a playground in Boston...

Pat Gordon, Jr. sat with his back to the children playing. Unperturbed by the grey skies, some of them were on the swings while others played games of tag or make-up superheroes... or whatever. Some children hung from the monkey bars.

The Celtic Scrapper, clad in his INFINITE Wrestling t-shirt and jeans, held a bottle of water. It was just store brand, nothing fancy like Evian or Fiji water or anything like that. Gordon’s eyes were fixed on the loose gravel beneath his feet, deep in concentration. He straightened out his head. His face wore an expression of purpose.

PGJr: “You know, when I beat Suicide, that was the most important match of my career to date. Then, when I beat August Joyce last week, that became the most important match of my career to date. Now that I’m facing Jeffrey Roberts, this is the most important match of my young career. Are you beginning to see the pattern here? Each and every round I’m in the UltraTitle until I’m either knocked out or standing alone as the UltraTitle champion is the single most important match of my career.”

Pat Gordon, Jr. held up one finger.

PGJr: “I have to admit, I was hoping to face Ken Cloverleaf. I would have loved the hype over the ‘Battle of the Irish.’ Instead what I get is some guy watching old sitcoms in black and white and eating a glorified Fudgsicle like a giant man-child. But Roberts, I saw your match with Cloverleaf, and I’m more than happy to face you. Despite everything you said to old Ken, that you were going to gut him like a wild boar and that you had a hard-on for violence, your actions in the ring show me that you’re willing to take the win any way you can. That’s something you and I have in common, Jeffrey.”

The Boston Bruiser unscrewed the top from his water bottle, took a swig, and screwed the cap back tight.

PGJr: “I’ll fight you. I’ll wrestle you. Damn it all, I’ll even FLY if that’s what it’s going to take to beat you. All I care about is one thing: advancing to the next round of UltraTitle. All I care about is holding that trophy in my hands with all those fans watching... with my dad watching.”

Paddy took a brief, reflective pause. Another drink of water.

PGJr: “You told old Ken he’d have to make you pass out from blood loss to beat you. I’m fine doing that. Hell, I’m fine snapping off one of your limbs or catching you with the quick pin if that’s what it’s going to take. It makes no difference to me. I’m pulling out all the stops. This is the Gordon Express, NON-STOP to the UltraTitle final! ALL ABOARD! WOO WOO!”

The Celtic Scrapper stood up and started to chug his arms and like like a train. A group of children saw this and started to gather around him, giggling, laughing, and cheering “WOO WOO!”

PGJr: “And I’ll tell you who my passengers are going to be.”

PGJr: “Everyone in this tournament who scored an upset can punch their ticket. August Joyce and Jason Murray. Punch your tickets.”

He punched the air.

PGJr: “Jeff Andrews and Cobra. Punch your tickets.”

Another punch for the air.

PGJr: “All the guys that nobody believed would ever beat their opponents in the first two rounds but did. Punch your tickets. I’m giving out FREE TICKETS to the Gordon Express to all of these guys, because I’ve done it, too. I’m the Upset Kid, Jeffrey. Nobody thought I’d beat Suicide and here I am. Nobody thought I’d beat August Joyce, and yet I’ll be standing right in front of you in that ring. I’m giving those tickets because when I beat you, it’s gonna be ONE MORE upset that I’ve scored in this UltraTitle. And to get to the end, it’s gonna take countless more.

“But I’ll go a bit further than that, Roberts. I’ll even hand out tickets to Ken Cloverleaf, Suicide, and everyone eliminated from this tournament. Everyone who came to UltraTitle with the biggest dreams and grandest schemes, but were sent home early. I’ve got tickets for Justin Voss and Larry Tact. And they can ride this express all the way to the end. Because I know what it’s like to dream THAT DAMN BIG. And right now, my dream is still alive.”

The Boston Bruiser straightened himself out.

PGJr: “And that dream, Jeffrey, is the UltraTitle. I want it so bad I can smell it... even TASTE it, Mr. Roberts. And I know you can give me all I could possibly handle and then some. I know you’re athletic, a finely tuned machine, full of ability. But it’s not going to come down to physical conditioning. And you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men. So what’s it all going to come down to?

“What it’s all going to come down to is will. I WILL beat you by any means necessary. I WILL win the UltraTitle. I WILL be the next Troy Windham, the next Dan Ryan. I WILL make the Gordon name the most famous name ever in the history of professional wrestling ever. Ever. EVER.”

Pat Gordon, Jr. gritted his teeth. Saliva welled up behind his lip - a little bit of it spilled over.

PGJr: “And I WILL do it because I have the unbreakable WILL to do so. So tell me, what will YOU do, Jeffrey? What WILL you do?”

Paddy turned and the more immediate future of wrestling shared high-fives with the members of the more distant future of the world.

 

[DBrunkGXW]

Fade in.

At a playground in…. “Boston”.

The scene is completely still, quiet, a façade. Oversized cutouts of trees stand interspersed with grotesquely shaped “children” around monkey bars and a slide. Two of them are perched upon unmoving swings, more are nearer to a park bench, upon which sits Jeffrey Roberts, head cocked to one side, studying the scene. Piles of gravel are placed a few feet apart, a geometric pattern emerging from the black rock. Roberts’ eyes dart back and forth, surveying the scene, his head a still perch from which his consciousness takes in his surroundings. He closes his eyes finally, seems to wince a bit, then re-opens them, smiling slightly. He continues to look forward, this time at nothing, as if seeing through the objects around him…..

ROBERTS: (in an exaggerated Irish accent) “So, Pat Gordon, Jr., it is. Aye, ‘twill be a glah-rious day when I step int-a tha ring with tha young Celtic Scrapper ‘imself. Ta be shur, as ahm able ta step up as tha most im-pahr-tant match of his young car-eer, likely I shall never see it's like in this life in near future days or yon’.”

Back to an Emerald Coast, Northwestern Florida dialect.

“I can’t say the same to you, of course, Pat. I can’t say that I’ve spent much time hoping to face you any more than you hoped to face me. I looked at the information in my Ultratitle primer and somehow didn’t feel a swell of a desire to somehow seek out a stereotypical Southie and match skills against him while, presumably, he spent his off hours working as a janitor and solving equations on a chalkboard at MIT. No, Pat Gordon, I think that’s the one thing we have in common this week. You wanted someone else and so did I. I wanted Joe the f***ing Plumber, but alas, we are no more masters of our destiny than anyone else, are we? And so, we must suffice as boring substitutions for each other. Somehow though, I question your standards if, while my goal was to unseat the great Plumber from the New Frontier, your hope was to battle Ken Cloverleaf to see which Irishman could do the deed better than the other. I suppose we had battling tanless grappling to look forward to, some Irish stew in a pot and a song in our hearts whilst the two of you and your smiling Irish eyes put on a wrestling clinic unseen in these parts since Patty O’ Houlihan made Sheamus O’Malley submit to the Boston Butt Plug back in ’04. Meanwhile, I hoped to have a chance to unseat a two year undefeated juggernaut who had been mentioned among the very best to ever lace up the admittedly staph infected laces of his wrestling boots. I like pudding pops, Patty, and I won’t apologize for eating them, but you should apologize for refusing to be much more than every child of Irish immigrants that ever settled in Massachusetts, playing with little children in a park like a modern day Miss Molly leading an episode of Romper Room.”

Roberts picks up a pile of black gravel near his feet and lightly tosses it from hand to hand.

“Someone like you, someone who isn’t taking this remotely serious enough should perhaps peer through your little magic mirror and take a closer look at what it reveals to you. You have this sad clown look on your face, lightly noting your opponent and not taking me seriously even though I roundly deposed of your countryman…. Again. What drives a man like you, Pat? I look around at this scene and I find it clear as a bell. Oh, but no simpleton am I, Pat Gordon. No indeed. I will not be splattering my findings around the world by way of video when such information would prove much more valuable in the ring. For in the end, whatever means I use to accomplish my goals, I am a professional wrestler first and foremost. Anything more than that often is the product of a happy happenstance, a tangential walking away from friendly competition into a haze of chaos, in which I thrive. You’re just like everyone else. You think it’s a game. You’re so quick to talk about how happy you’ll be to snap off one of my limbs if that’s what it takes, thinking that a dose of my own medicine is just what I need. Ah, but it’s just that medicine that I need to live, Pat Gordon. What you seek to give is something I willingly receive, and if you want to give it, I assure you I will do nothing to stop you. Catching me in a quick pin is unlikely. I do happen to know what I’m doing. More likely is that I wear you down physically and mentally, because while you’re so confident in your physical conditioning, is your mind as strong as your mouth? That’s what we’ll find out. That’s my realm, Patrick. That’s where my work begins and ends, in the glorious exorcism of your mind, creating in you the freedom to be eviscerated in whatever physical or metaphysical manner that is required.”

“I’ll give you only what you need, Pat Gordon, and for this moment, I’ll give you only this. You, sitting in a park, making choo-choo noises and jumping around for the amusement of children. It’s stupid. There doesn’t need to be anything deeper said about it than that. It’s stupid and it makes you look absurd, a shrine to the arrogance of a man unaware of what he’s really dealing with. Good humor is best left to amusement, Gordon, and I assure you, I’m no party clown with bubbles coming out of his ass. I am everything you wanted Ken Cloverleaf to be and more. I am a machine, and it’s just about time you figured out that no matter what expectations you had, there is no way to prepare for me. There is no amount of training that can tell you what to expect, because I don’t even know what to expect of myself. All I can tell you is this….. I am no rookie. I am no newcomer to championships and competition, and if you think the minor claims of wanting to cut you open is full of bluster and hype, I suggest you get a DVD player and look me up, Pat. Look me up. The proof is out there. I didn’t go away on vacation for six years, my friend.”

“You put your name in the same category as men like Troy Windham and Dan Ryan, but you come off more like the child at the family reunion begging to be allowed to leave the kid’s table and join the grownups. You want to be so much more than you really are, and I listen, I listen to the people talk about Pat Gordon, Sr., and yes, I remember him too. But are you really that much like your father? Or are you simply coasting through on what he hoped you would be? It takes more than DNA to be great, Gordon. It takes much much more than the hopes and dreams of your circle of friends, sycophantically wishing for your success and their own personal gain, to be what you think you already are. The men you mentioned spent years making names for themselves, through the battles and expectations and are undeniably among the greatest ever. You’re much closer to the man you just beat than you are to them. August Joyce had his moment in the sun, and now… it’s over. And you, you who feel so confident and free, free enough to make a fool of yourself on television acting like professional wrestling’s first attempt to get over a guy who acts like Thomas the Train, you are more him that you obviously realize.”

“I am not here to play around, Pat. I am not here to make a few random comments about physical violence, then slink quietly into the night. I am not here to pretend to be more than I am. I’ve had enough in my past to know that as much as my potential is to be great in the ring, dazzling on-lookers with my rarely seen mixture of high flying, technical ability and fearlessness, I have just as much potential to lose it, to do something that goes not over the line, but barreling through it. I could snap and lose it all, Pat, so I don’t take this likely, not the way you do.”

“You want to know what I’ll do?”

Roberts closes his eyes and runs his hands through this hair, grinding some of the gravel into his skull in the process. A small drop of blood pops out on his forehead, dripping down his face only slightly.

“I’ll tell you what I won’t do. I won’t take this opportunity lightly. I won’t look past you to something that may or may not be waiting on the other side…..”

Roberts eyes open, and for the first time he looks directly into the camera, his blue eyes piercing as the blood drips over his right eye.

“And I won’t be defeated by little Will Hunting and his overbearing delusions of grandeur. There’s so much more to this than you know, so much more than you’re ready for. And this time, the one you didn’t expect will be the one who ends your quest. The most famous Gordon will remain the one who spells ‘Gorton’ with a ‘T’, and he makes fish sticks. What WILL I do?”

Roberts shrugs.

“I’ll be your living nightmare, Southie.”

“How do you like them apples?”

Roberts sneers……..

Fade Out.

 

[Ernie]

Inside a small kitchen in Boston...

actually “tiny” more than “small,” Pat Gordon, Jr. slid a tray of fish sticks and fries inside the oven. It has been kept clean, but its age was obvious from the way the color had faded over the years. Paddy pulled a wooden chair away from the table and sat down, waiting. The sun shone faintly through floral print curtains, complete with MASSIVE lime green and yellow sunflowers. On the table in front of the Celtic Scrapper was a cup of coffee.

PGJr: “So a man who makes goats sacrifice themselves and chickens bite their own heads off every time he talks wants to be my nightmare... Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Pat took a sip of coffee.

PGJr: “The real torture isn’t what you’re going to do to me in the ring; it’s listening to you talk. Listening to you talk... and waiting.”

The Boston Bruiser pointed to his stomach.

PGJr: “I'm hungry, Roberts. And I’m waiting to eat. Just like I’m waiting for my fish sticks to cook, I’m waiting to fight you. And believe me, I will bite. I will scratch and I will claw. I will do whatever it takes to taste the sweet nectar of your tears, to savor yet another victory on my palate. And that, Roberts, is just the appetizer. And then there are more courses to come, all leading up to that big feast at the end. But it’s the after dinner drink that I crave the most, Jeffrey. It’s that drink from the most glorious cup of them all: the UltraTitle. But for now, all I can do is sit here and wait... and be hungry.

“Are you as hungry as I am, Jeffrey? You don’t sound like it. You sound as if you’ve lost your appetite because you can’t face Joe the Plumber. You do realize, of course, that I beat the man who beat Joe the Plumber, don’t you? You do realize that his path still ran through me, and if it hadn’t been August Joyce who eliminated him, I could have been the one to spoil your dinner - to steal your dream of ending that two year undefeated streak. And I’m sure THAT would have driven you off your rocker. But August Joyce had that honor, not you, and not me.”

PGJr shook his finger from side to side in a “no” motion.

PGJr: “Now I understand that you missed the point of hanging out at the playground. You missed the point that the children are our future. Just like I’m the future of the UltraTitle and professional wrestling at large. I’m in this to win it, Roberts. I’m in this to put the Gordon name in the annals of professional wrestling history, to make Gordon the name everyone talks about when they talk about the best. And I understand the history that the Windhams and the Ryans have behind them. But what you don’t get, Roberts, is that I plan to undergo just as many trials, if not more, myself. Sooner or later they will have to give way to the future and my day will come. All I can do for now is to fight and prove my worth.”

He pointed off into the distance.

PGJr: “I see you didn’t get what the children were there for, that they’re the future. Just as the Windhams and Ryans of our profession will someday yield to give way to the next generation of wrestling heroes, so too will I one day be replaced, possibly by some of them. That is, barring some cataclysmic event only someone like Max Hopper or Jack Harmen could ever predict. You said it was stupid, but let me tell you something. At least I don’t have to pretend to be a psycho just to justify my love of violence. I don’t need to act like someone who wants to peel the skin off someone’s face and wear it as a mask. I’m tough, Jeffrey. People like to find out how tough. And I like to show them.”

Pat Gordon, Jr. stood from his chair and cocked his fist.

PGJr: “Which brings me to my dad. You say you remember him, so you remember he could be just as sadistic, just as masochistic as you, if not more. Do you remember his match with Jasin Bondage in a Colorado high school gymnasium? They hit each other with anything they could find, including microwaves in the teachers’ lounge. And at the end, Pat Gordon, Sr. took Jasin Bondage from the mezzanine down through a stack of tables on the gymnasium floor. That’s how he won the match. Do you remember him suplexing Billy Matthews off of the WWL Jumbo Tron? Because I do. I remember watching that when I was a little kid. I remember how worried I was for my old man and the jubilation I felt when I saw he was still alive.

“The old man was never afraid to put his body on the line. He was always thinking of what to do next to put his opponent away. He had no regard for his own well-being and he relished every minute of the combat. He craved the taste of blood. The very scent of it made his mouth water. It didn’t matter if it was his or his the other guy’s. He just wanted there to be blood.”

He sniffed the air dramatically.

PGJr: “Can you smell it, Jeffrey? Can you smell the blood? Now the question you have to ask yourself isn’t about DNA. It’s not about upbringing, either. No, you should be worried about whether or not my dad passed that lust for blood on to me. It doesn’t matter how, just whether or not it happened... and how deep it runs."

Pat’s eyes narrowed.

PGJr: “My dad, he’s seen it all, done it all. He had a deranged lunatic, just like you, named Damien Priest who was intent on ‘ending Pat Gordon’s legacy.’ Damien Priest burned a house on the wrong side of Boston TO THE GROUND because he thought it belonged to my dad. No idea how he could make the mistake that such an expensive house was the house I grew up in, but he did. This guy spent weeks calling out my dad years after my dad had retired from the ring, and the old man laced up his boots for another match.

“I asked him once if he was afraid to fight this giant man, Damien Priest. He told me, ‘You betcha. I’ve beaten guys his size before, but it’s the fear that keeps you on your toes, Paddy. Just don’t let yourself be paralyzed by it - use it to your advantage.’ “

The young Gordon pointed his finger upward, arm cocked, imitating his father giving him the advice.

PGJr: “My dad trained me and he’s given me some sage advice as I grew up. Do you know what he told me when I decided to enter the UltraTitle? He told me, ‘If you sleep at night, you’re doing it wrong.’ How do you sleep at night, Roberts? Because every night all I can do is lay in bed, tossing and turning, with those thoughts racing through my head - keeping me awake at night.

“ ‘UltraTitle.

“ ‘UltraTitle.

“ ‘UltraTitle.’ “

The Celtic Scrapper balled up his fist. He expanded it and contracted it, as if it were a human heart.

PGJr: “And now my heart beats to those same words. ‘UltraTitle. UltraTitle. UltraTitle.’ It’s become a compulsive obsession, Jeffrey. And you tell me that I’m not taking this seriously enough. Yet you look straight through me as if I don’t exist. You’ll feel just how real I am when we’re in the ring together. Suicide made the mistake of underestimating me. Do you really want to do the same?

“One thing you did get right is that I AM the Good Will Hunting of the wrestling world. Just like he was a prodigy at mathematics, I’m a prodigy in the ring. I’d be flattered by the comparison... if it weren’t true. The difference is that people kept pushing him to do something he didn’t want. But I...

The Boston Bruiser pounded his chest.

PGJr: “WANT...”

He pounded chest a second time.

PGJr: “THIS!”

His fist crashed into his chest a third time, even more emphatically than the two before.

PGJr: “Now if you’ll excuse me, ‘I’m going to see about a girl.’ ”

Pat Gordon, Jr. pulled the tray of fish sticks and fries out of the oven and set them on the table. He looked down at them.

PGJr: “I’d eat these, but I don’t want to ruin my appetite before our big match, Jeffrey.”

He left the food on the table and walked out of the room.

 

[DBrunkGXW]

Fade in.

“I……AM NOT…..A PSYCHO.”

There’s a close shot of Jeffrey Roberts, eyes intense, then it pulls back quickly and at once, he seems completely calm and unaffected.

ROBERTS: “I’ve been tested.”

“I’ve been told I’m sociopathic, not psychopathic. There’s a difference, Gordon, even in Boston.”

Roberts looks down at the table, where dozens of pieces of stationery are laid out, all covered in the logo of the Boston Celtics. Roberts picks up a piece and tears off a corner, then another, and another, as he continues to talk. Celtic Scraps.

Mental rim shot.

“If it makes you feel better, Pat, I’ll be happy to get you as many fish sticks as you want, soaked in the tears of the children you hang out at parks with. Whatever you need to make you happy."

"Your metaphors are as dreary and tiresome as you are in general, turned up to level ten. The sweet nectar of my tears? The glorious cup of the Ultratitle? And no, I didn’t fail to get your playground metaphor, Pat. I get it. You believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. And by defeating me in round three, you will show them all the beauty they possess inside, give them a sense of pride, all that.”

“I get it.”

“It just was, and remains, stupid."

"It’s garden variety nonsense and I don’t deal in garden variety nonsense. I sort of expect and insist that my opponents either speak intelligently, or stick to what got them where they were, a thick Boston accent and a last name. If there are more courses to come, I suspect that the big feast at the end will not be the Ultratitle itself, but rather a dismal and embarrassing match on the undercard between you and your father’s final challenger, Damien Priest, over the honor of your family."

"I should also point out to you that this same Damien Priest was laughed out of this circuit because he made threats while carrying around a skull lantern or skull bong or some other random gothic book store souvenir and generally being unable to grasp even the most basic tenets of the English language, so maybe an epic feud between daddy and Damien Priest isn’t really the mantle you want to hang your family crest over.”

“And yes, I do realize (don’t I?) that you beat the man who beat Joe the Plumber. And YOU do realize (don’t you?), that I beat the man who beat the man who beat the man who beat the man who starred in a movie with Kevin Bacon…. DON’T YOU?”

“Your logical correlations are even worse than your metaphors, it seems, and if you want to play these little who beat who games, we could go on all day, but unfortunately, I have more intellectually stimulating things to do, like drink a Mountain Dew and play Uno on my Kindle Fire.”

“Maybe you DID beat the man who beat Joe the Plumber, and maybe you WOULD have beaten him even if he hadn’t lost in round one, and maybe I WOULD have been annoyed with you for doing so, and maybe you WOULD have been more popular if only you had smoked weed with the cool kids in school, and MAYBE….. just MAYBE, if you weren’t entranced by the likes of Damien Priest, you’d have a better grasp on what you’re really dealing with.”

“We all know how much you want this, Pat, from your words. We see you pounding your chest with your little fist like a gorilla at the zoo, and like that gorilla, we see you flinging your crap around to anyone who will listen. But, the problem is, it remains just that………… crap. It doesn’t matter how you dress it up. Your full cachet consists of a last name and talking in a funny accent and your word that, NO REALLY, you’re tough, your word that, NO FOR REALS, you like blood too. Your proof is that your dad got beat up by Damien Priest and spilled some blood. Your proof, Pat…. Is that daddy liked to bleed, so hey, maybe you do too. I’m not spelling this out for you any more than I already have. The footage is out there. I’ve already done it, already been through it. I’ve already answered a challenge by incapacitating a man and carving my answer out in his chest***.”

“You’re arguing reality with fantasy, potential with real life history. It’s hard to listen to you and be shaken by what you say, because I’ve already been through all of the things that daddy went through. I’ve already been through all of the things you SAY you’re gonna go through. My life history isn’t simply words on some author’s page. I lived it. I’ve suffered for it gladly. You’re just talking about it.”

“Do you want to know how I sleep at night? I sleep with the visions of things I’ve done and seen and thought up flowing through my mind like a river through a valley, and while mindless violence and horror fills my head, I sleep very soundly, like the most peaceful child snuggled up warm in his bed, because I have the benefit of not having the switch in my brain that causes the unease you’re forced to live with. I violently wrap a chair around your head and I feel…….. nothing, Pat. I feel absolutely nothing, and that’s why it’s a thing in my mind that feeds itself. It keeps me alive, this violence. It’s something you can’t understand, shouldn’t understand, because a man like you, just another man from Boston who has a cloverleaf pendant around his neck and came up on bar fights, doesn’t want to process the thoughts I process. If you were in my head, Pat Gordon, you’d insist I be locked away. To you, I’m a psycho. To doctors, I’m a sociopath. To me, it’s just life, and so I live it. I don’t underestimate you, Patrick. If you think I ‘pretend’ to be a psycho, you truly have nothing to worry about. You can go on with your life, eat your fish sticks, and go see about that girl.”

“But……”

“I think that the king of metaphors needs a new one. I think, next time, if you want to show us the future, show us an empty playground, no children, and you, contorted, bloody, the chair from the swings wrapped tightly around your neck while you clutch at the metal and gasp for air. These are the thoughts that skip and hop through my mind, Pat Gordon, Jr. the second. I think them, and I breathe deeply, and I sleep soundly, because I’ve never wanted so much to make sure the world remembers Jeffrey Roberts than I do right now, listening to you. I’ve never wanted to stretch and pull out of another man’s shadow, never needed to win the approval of daddy, and I’ve never wanted to be anything more than what I am, Pat.”

“I think you should go ahead and have your fish sticks, Pat. I know you’re…. ‘hungry’. But no one should fail miserably on an empty stomach.”

Fade Out.


---
Post-OOC:

*** - Go to "Chris Lehew vs. Angelus" to see referenced moment

 

[DBrunkGXW]

Fade in.

Jeffrey Roberts stands behind a breakfast-bar styled counter in a kitchen. It could be his, it could be anyone else's. It's not important. The counter itself is a three inch thick, at least, butcher block surface. Roberts himself is nude, for the part of him above the waist that we can see anyway. In his right hand is a long, sharp cutting knife, around ten inches long with an extremely fine edge, three inches across at its widest point. There are assorted vegetables on the counter, and Roberts chops through them swiftly, almost violently as he speaks.

ROBERTS: "It's been minutes, then hours, then days, Pat Gordon. I expected you to say.... something... by now. And yet, I stand here and I wait, and you have nothing to say, nothing to offer, nothing to contribute. Have you finally, ultimately decided that it's no longer worth it? Have you come to the conclusion that there's nothing more to say?"

Roberts centers a bell pepper and brings down the knife as hard as he can, slicing the pepper in half and sending its pieces in opposite directions.

ROBERTS: "It's not like I blame you...."

"Under the circumstances, I would be remiss if I didn't warn you that your silence will not cause me to be any more.... understanding, Patrick. I wish I COULD understand you a little better, so that we would have some sort of relatable point to verbally parry over, but it seems, in the end that I am left to simply poke you with the proverbial stick and find out what makes you wince. It's not your fault."

Roberts centers an eggplant and quickly chops through it in three equidistant strokes across the center.

"Still, I truly am disappointed, Mr. Gordon Junior."

"I wanted so much more for us. I had such dreams for you and I. Like you said yourself, right now, this right here is the most important match in the world for you. I wanted so much to be a gracious host and lead you right where you wanted to go. I wanted to help you feel the heaven that I feel when I step into a ring and engage in combat. I wanted you to know that, even as a two-dimensional common Boston thug, you could know the true ecstacy that I feel when my knee comes crashing down across a man's throat."

"I wanted you to feel alive too, Patrick."

"In the beginning, I found some hope. I found you up for the challenge, but as the week has continued on, I've found that you are as shallow and weak as others have pointed you out to be. I think you'd be happier in Old Town sipping on some green beer and chit chatting about the Sawx."

"I think I'd be happier just beating you up and going on into the next round, so I can find someone who's more my speed. Don't you? Don't you think that's the best thing for all of us? You do want what's best for all concerned, don't you, Gordon? I know you're one of these guys who fights honorably and looks forward to the end of year banquet so you can get your bar brawler of the year award."

"I think it's best we just end this here."

"I've found in myself a new lease on life, Pat Gordon the Junior. I've found in myself a renewed sense of vigor, a renewed feeling that more than at any other time in my life, I'm destined to fulfill the potential I've been told about my entire life. For once in my life, Gordon, I've gotten the dosage... just right."

"I know you think I'm crazy. I know you think that it doesn't matter if I am. And you think I'll just smile and pat you on the ass and tell you good game when this is over, and maybe I will. The fun is in not knowing, eh Paddy? But I think we can be sure about one thing. When you're on your back, with my knee across your throat listening to the referee count to three, clutching for your windpipe just to get a little oxygen down into your lungs, you won't have to wonder.... what will he do??... anymore, will you?"

"You'll know."

"Up close.... you'll know."

"Someone said, a few weeks ago, that I have a streak of evil in me, that I don't try to explain it.... it just IS... and I leave you to deal with it."

"I'm not evil, Pat."

Roberts cuts at an onion, taking away layer after layer...

"I just cut through all of the bull****...."

....until there's nothing left.

"...until you get to the end and find out what you're really made of, you find out that when you looked for more meaning behind my behavior, it's as simple as I said all along -- I'm a professional wrestler, Pat Gordon Part Deux. I can tie you up in a knot two dozen ways, so getting hit by a chair is the least of your worries."

"That... and I prefer a little metal spike."

"I'll give you life, Gordon. And then, I'll give you hell, or my version of it."

"It's gonna burn the hell out of your fish sticks."

Fade Out.

 

[Ernie]

Back in the kitchen of Pat Gordon, Jr...

Pat stood with a very perplexed look on his face.

PGJr: “Jeffrey Roberts, I want to ask you just one question...

“Why are you even here? Weeks ago, you had your little bracket drawn out, with everyone’s names crossed off of it... except for one. That was Joe the Plumber. Your big goal was to face Joe the Plumber right now, in round three. Your BIG BLOWOFF was supposed to be happening RIGHT (CENSORED)ING NOW. And guess what? IT ISN’T (CENSORED)ING HAPPENING! My big blowoff is at the end of the UltraTitle, in the finals. That’s where I want to get. Not to round two to beat Joe the Plumber, not to round four to beat Troy Windham or Jack Harmen, or any other round to beat anyone else. My eye is on the prize at the end, the UltraTitle, something you don’t seem to care about. So why are you here?”

The Boston Bruiser swung a make-believe chair through the air.

PGJr: “You said you can hit me with a chair and ‘feel... nothing.’ No guilt, no remorse, right? But you also won’t feel any joy, any satisfaction, or take any sort of pleasure in it whatsoever. That’s what feeling nothing means, isn’t it, Psycho? And I can guarantee you, I wouldn’t feel any guilt, either. But I WILL feel something. Every time I hit you, I’ll get a warm, glowing sense of satisfaction. I’ll revel in the pleasure of driving your skull into the mat. Every time I smash your face into the ringpost, MY eyes are gonna light up like a Christmas tree.”

Paddy pointed his thumb at his heart.

PGJr: “And that’s where I have the advantage. Because if you’re looking for matches to be won and lost on who has the most intellect, you’ve come to the wrong place. This tournament started with one hundred twenty-eight of the best and the baddest professional wrestling has to offer. Of them, only thirty two remain. That means we’re in the top twenty five percent. Differences in intelligence are going to be marginal at best, and what it’s all going to boil down to is emotion. It’s going to be about who has the desire, who wants it the most, who has the reason to go on.

“When our battle wears on, when we’re both tiring and it’s time for both of us to look deep inside and find that reason to get up... You won’t have one. You’re a man whose glorious moment was STOLEN from him in the first round. You’re a man who has nothing left to care about, right, Psycho?”

He swung his arms away from each other, indicating the negative, nothing.

PGJr: “But my goal is to win the win the UltraTitle, Psycho. And as if that wasn’t enough already, you’ve given me so much more reason to want to rise up and battle on. Between you running your mouth about my dad - who soldiered through a knee injury he sustained in the middle of the match to beat BP Lightning and Lost Worlds in a triple threat at WFW Superbowl of Wrestling as his final grace to professional wrestling - to defaming the my beloved Celtics by cutting up their logo with those scissors, you’ve added more than enough fuel to my fire. You’ve given me more than enough to fight for.

“Beating you suddenly makes me one of the best sixteen wrestlers in the whole wide world today. It puts me in the twelve and a half percent of everyone in our profession. It gets me a new career highlight match against one of two HUGE names in the sport - either Jack Harmen or Troy Windham. It leaves me just four steps away from being in that top .0078125% of the field. And if it means I can shut you up, then you’d better believe I’m going to fight with all I’ve got to make it happen. How’s that for Good Will Hunting?”

The Boston Southie clinched his fist.

“Now it’s all well and good for you to say that you just DON’T CARE about anything, and I might buy that. I’d believe that you’re feeling apathetic and lazy. But I won’t believe is that you don’t feel any emotion. After all...

“You.

“Flinched.”

He punched the air.

PGJr: “FIRST.”

“You’ve given yourself away, Roberts, and it only took one word to get you to do it. Just the word ‘Psycho.’ The way you screamed like a banshee that you weren’t a psycho - that you had been tested - the way you insisted that you were a sociopath, I could tell it got to you. It’s not that you don’t feel emotions; you just try to bottle them up inside.”

The Boston Bruiser reached in his cabinet and took out a glass pitcher.

PGJr: “So while you’re out here saying you don’t feel anything, I know the truth. And that truth is you’ve just been trying to drum up an excuse for why you lost to Pat Gordon, Jr. You’ve been crafting your response for when everyone tells you about how bad you ran your Psycho mouth and couldn’t back it up.”

Pat Gordon, Jr. filled the pitcher with water.

PGJr: “And believe me, Roberts, when I’m through with you, you won’t just feel something. You’ll feel EVERYTHING. I’m going to break you open and let all of those emotions you’ve been hiding splatter everywhere for the whole world to see. And then I’m going to leave you to deal with them. All. By. Yourself. You can lock yourself in your little dark room and write, ‘(CENSORED) PAT GORDON, JR.’ all over your wall in big, red letters, if that’s what you want. Because I’m going to be the cause of that rollercoster of emotions when I pin you to the mat.”

Pat smashed the pitcher on the floor, sending glass shards and water everywhere.

PGJr: “So if it’s bedlam that you want, if it’s blood that you’re after, Psycho Jeffrey Roberts, I’m fine with that. Because you’ve given me plenty of reason to want the same from you.”

Gordon left the room.

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OOC Note: I'm in NYC right now visiting my brother. I flew in yesterday and I've been busy the past couple days trying to get things ready, fly here, and then hanging out here yesterday and today. So I apologize for the lateness, but there is a reason.

I had PMed Brunk before leaving to let him know what was up and I PMed him a couple times tonight even giving him progress reports that I was working on an RP. I know I'm still before deadline, but yeah. Sorry Brunk for its tardiness. This is what I've been working on.