History in the Making [RP #2]
Dec 19, 2011 20:01:19 GMT -5
Post by scottreave on Dec 19, 2011 20:01:19 GMT -5
HISTORY IN THE MAKING
______________________________________________________
“Are they here?”
It’s a question I ask to the security guard, a big, tall, black, mean motherfucker whose eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, sunglasses that seemed to deepen his eye sockets, hollow them out so that all I could see when I looked into them was my own reflection staring at me. It was an eerie feeling, but I noticed how shaken I’d gotten over this whole ordeal. My eyes were sunken, purple bags lined them and my smile was... where was my smile? Gone. Apparently. It had been replaced by the permanent sneer that seemed to follow me like a rainy cloud on some bad Saturday morning cartoon.
Just what the hell had I gotten myself into, anyhow?
“They’re all here, Mr. Reave,” he says to me, his voice as smooth as silk. It almost brought a smile to my lips, the sheer confidence in that man’s voice. The way he expressed his confidence—it wasn’t arrogant, or cocky, it was a cool, determined posture that seemed to let everyone know he was in charge. I wondered if he could teach me that, but then I thought better of it.
Confidence like that... it’s earned, not taught.
Pinching the butt of the Marlboro cigarette betweeb ny lips with a thumb and forefinger, I watched as the sweet cherry blazed brightly under the dim lights. Soon enough the curtains would rise and the cameras would flash. The people had gathered for this communal meeting, wondering what I had to say, wondering what I had to say. What story should I give them, anyhow? Why has the world agreed to sit down in this small conference hall and listen to me tell my story... the very one that will either get me killed, or lead me to glorious victory.
“Mr. Reave?” I hear from behind me, and I feel my shoulders tense like an inmate getting the gut feeling before getting shanked in the back. It wasn’t pleasent, and I did my best to dissuade the feeling.
Turning on the heel of my black leather shoes—the reflection the gave of the world in which they lived distorted and washed of colour—I turned to the little man. He was wearing a navy blue blazer with shoulder pads, his tie was a deep red, lined with diagonal streaks of black that made him look sharper than he probably was. To either side of his balding head were deep grey streaks of hair, stretching down to his jaw line and fizzing out into stubble that barely resembled a goatee.
“What?”
He began to open his mouth, and I studied the perfectly capped, little white teeth that seemed to line his gums like the crosses in Arlington. After that brief moment, he began to speak, “Mr. Reave, your notes—”
I looked at his outstretched arm, tracing down the line of his triceps to his elbow, to his forearm, and finally coming down to a close with his hand clasped around the sheets of white paper. Written upon them in cleanly typed, legible font were my “notes”.
I smiled and took them from his hand with a low “Thank you.”
I held the notes in my hand, taking another drag of my cigarette and then exhaling the plumes of blue-grey smoke into the air. I heard the bodyguard take a deep breath behind me.
Looking over the notes—everything I had told them was there. Every idea, every sentence, every stark-raving mad comment I had made during last night’s drunken hysteria was there. Everything.
I had sat alone until sunrise, drinking to myself, thinking to myself with nothing but a casual single chair out on the balcony of my hotel suite. Nothing but the moonless sky above me and the cool breeze of a fall—or winter—evening to wash away the fever I had gained over fearing—no, that’s the wrong word—over strategizing for my match against James Weck.
... James Weck...
My concentration was broken by a pat on my shoulder. I turned and looked at my bodyguard, and he smiled at me. Again, bright white teeth.
Personal Note: get into the dental business.
“You’re on in thirty seconds,” he said, and nodded to the curtain. I peeked through, and over the speakers came the voice of God—if God was five-foot-five and weighed ninety-nine pounds soaking wet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in case you’ve forgotten you are here for a press conference with Scott Reave, FGA pro-wrestler and the future FRONTIER World Heavyweight Champion. He is a young man who has just been introduced to wrestling—”
Bullshit.
“—And let me tell you, wrestling is in this man’s blood. He’s young, and he’s got all the potential in the world.”
Bull—well... not really.
“—And it is my honour to present to you, the man I represent, the man who graciously thanks you—members of the press and fans alike—for being here today. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you celebrity sensation and rising sports superstar, SCOTT REAVE!”
My cue?
I stepped out from behind the curtain to racous applause. There would be no booing here because anyone who expressed dislike for me and my methods were roughly exiled from the building. I know you’re probably thinking that that was a dick thing to do, but to be honest, it was worth it. The last thing I needed was for some crazy bastard hopped up on crystal meth hearing voices trying to take my life with a nine milimeter bullet. History had proben that assasins often kill the wrong man, and not the ones who richly deserve it.
I shook hands with my agent and he whispered something into my ear, “Tear ‘em to pieces, kid.”
I smiled, I couldn’t help it.
I took the podium, settling my notes down and taking a firm grip of the lacquered wood that was placed before me.A podium. A position of power and authority, and for the next fifteen to twenty minutes, it was all mine.
Truly, this was going to be the be-all end-all of James Weck’s career. The one defining moment when I finally showed the world that he was the loser that everyone thought he was...
“Good afternoon, as all of you probably know, my name is Scott Reave and I am from The Bowery—originally. I am here in Edison, New Jersey because of a match in the FRONTIER Grappling Arts promotion—and an opponent. That opponent’s name is ‘The Incarnation of Determination’ James Weck.
James Weck is a man who has accomplished much in the world of amateur wrestling, and now he comes to pro-wrestling, looking for hope for the future. Recently, he gave a promo and I have a few things to say about that.”
I take a moment, reviewing my notes and then turning my attention to the crowd—that faceless crowd full of flashing lightbulbs and hidden microphones. Good. I want the whole world to hear what I have to say.
“I honestly expected more from you, James.
I just can’t help but feel like you’re giving me the run around. I can’t help but feel as though that the great, high and mighty James Weck is giving this poor, basement dwelling junkie smoke and mirrors. I’ve got this strange… feeling… that you’re not being ‘real’ with me James.
And I honestly don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I get this feeling. You obviously have enough conviction in your words to make them ring true for your own ears. You obviously have enough of a bounce in your step to convince the world that you’re this great, awe inspiring… entertainer… but for some reason, I’m still not convinced.
I look at James Weck, and I see the past. I see a man who has accomplished much in amateur wrestling… but I also see a man over the hill. I see a man who is past his prime and still does not want to let go of the simple fact that he is over. He is done. He is finished. I look at James Weck and I see a man who is has been swallowed whole by his ego. I look at James Weck and I see a man who on his best Goddamn day could not hold my jock in any match… allow himself to be blinded by his own desire of self-fellatio. I see James Weck, and I see a man who is too Goddamn stupid to see when the devil is staring him right in the face.
And this makes me take pity on you, James Weck. It makes Scott Reave pity the weak, simple minded folk. It makes me pity them because you see, they never see it coming. They never bother to watch the grassy knoll. They never bother to watch for the snake in the garden. All they see is what their fragile minds wish for them to see, and not a moment more. They only see what makes their world make sense, and in your world James Weck, Scott Reave being a better wrestler doesn’t make sense to you.
And this is why you act the way you do. This is why James Weck walks around, shooting promos about domination and being the best when he himself has just basically entered the professional wrestling and talking about how you don’t need to be an excellent wrestler to excel. He walks around giving long, monologue cameos to has-been, c-list cameramen in hopes that he’ll appeal to the youth of this nation… and he doesn’t realize that he’s doing exactly what I warned him not to do. And honestly James you did a lot of speaking—excuse me, yelling—to say absolutely nothing. James has no fucking clue that all the people you know, all the promos you cut, and all of the amateur wrestling matches you star in doesn’t matter. The people may hate you James, but in FRONTIER Grappling Arts, that doesn’t mean a damn thing.
And so you lie to yourself. You say that you don’t need the wrestling skills; you say that Scott Reave is nothing more than a blip… a ‘no-talent jackass’. You say that Scott Reave at the end of the day will quake in his boots and bow down before the great king shit of turd hill, and act as though you are the second coming of Christ. You lie to yourself and present yourself with these neat and tidy little visions of excess and self gratification because, quite simply, the truth is much too difficult for your fragile mind to bear.”
I pause for a moment, taking a sip from the glass of water resting on a black coaster sitting beside my notes, and then continue.
“And the truth is, James Weck, is that in order to succeed in this business, you need to be a winner. You can claim that you will harshly defeat me all you want. You can claim me to be a addict or alcoholic all you want. You can claim all you like, James Weck, because it really won’t change what happens in the middle of that ring.
And yet your mind has deceived you once more. It has deluded you into thinking that you actually have a hope in hell of walking into my ring, and taking what is rightfully mine… what I have earned.
I earned what I have, James Weck. You think I walked into FGA under the assumption that I’m still somebody special. You think I’ve walked into FGA under the impression that what the people think of me still matters. You think that the FRONTIER Office hired me, offered me the contract because of what I’ve done in the past?
James, for someone so smartened up to our business, you sure have a lot of learning to do.”
I look over the crowd… they’re quiet, and paying attention.
Good.
“The FRONTIER Office are businessmen, James. The big business is not James Weck versus some other washed up has-been… probably Evan Bodom once they find his rotting carcass in a ditch somewhere, strung out on heroin and weighing about forty five pounds.
You see, James, your time is over, and has been for some time. The new generation is here, and we’re banging down the door. We’re finding our way into the safe house, James, and there hasn’t been a greater time to be apart of the Scott Reave fan club. Claim all the decimation you want, James, but the fact remains that Scott Reave has been chosen to lead this company. The fact remains that Scott James Weck, the people have voted with their wallets, and they aren’t here to see you… they’re here to see Scott Reave beat the absolute shit out of you.
If your mind still hasn’t imploded from all of this truth, then let me say one more thing.”
I take another sip of water. Jesus, these lights are hot.
“James, you’re just fodder. That’s all you’ve ever been planned to be. You were brought in like a cheap, dirty whore who had been used and thrown away by the last big company. You’ve been tarnished, beaten, and raped of what little name value you still held close to your soul, and now there is nothing left but a walking husk of what you once were. There is nothing in the mirror that tells you there will be better days ahead, James, because in your heart of hearts you know that your glory days have long since been forgotten. What you see now quite possibly disgusts you more than it disgusts me.
But yet, because you can’t handle the truth, you’ll sit there and say that all I have just spoken, all that I have told you, is nothing more than a ‘pitiful, non-scouted rant’ or a ‘male soap-opera’. You’ll say that Scott Reave does not have what it takes, that he’s all hype. You’ll say that Scott Reave is nothing more than another ‘made production’. You’ll say that James Weck is the only man who can bring the goods, and that Scott Reave is going to be found out for who and what he is this coming Wednesday.
I agree with you on one thing, James. The people will find out who and what you are, once I discard of this walking husk that threatens to engulf the entire corporation with his ego. The people will finally realize that after yet another supposed ‘force’ has been defeated, that there is nowhere left to go but up. Once I, Scott Reave, have finally discarded of the one last remnant of the past generation’s excusable legacy, they will have no choice but to embrace the future.
And James Weck, the future is as clear as crystal. It has been and will always be…
…Scott Reave.”
______________________________________________________
“Are they here?”
It’s a question I ask to the security guard, a big, tall, black, mean motherfucker whose eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, sunglasses that seemed to deepen his eye sockets, hollow them out so that all I could see when I looked into them was my own reflection staring at me. It was an eerie feeling, but I noticed how shaken I’d gotten over this whole ordeal. My eyes were sunken, purple bags lined them and my smile was... where was my smile? Gone. Apparently. It had been replaced by the permanent sneer that seemed to follow me like a rainy cloud on some bad Saturday morning cartoon.
Just what the hell had I gotten myself into, anyhow?
“They’re all here, Mr. Reave,” he says to me, his voice as smooth as silk. It almost brought a smile to my lips, the sheer confidence in that man’s voice. The way he expressed his confidence—it wasn’t arrogant, or cocky, it was a cool, determined posture that seemed to let everyone know he was in charge. I wondered if he could teach me that, but then I thought better of it.
Confidence like that... it’s earned, not taught.
Pinching the butt of the Marlboro cigarette betweeb ny lips with a thumb and forefinger, I watched as the sweet cherry blazed brightly under the dim lights. Soon enough the curtains would rise and the cameras would flash. The people had gathered for this communal meeting, wondering what I had to say, wondering what I had to say. What story should I give them, anyhow? Why has the world agreed to sit down in this small conference hall and listen to me tell my story... the very one that will either get me killed, or lead me to glorious victory.
“Mr. Reave?” I hear from behind me, and I feel my shoulders tense like an inmate getting the gut feeling before getting shanked in the back. It wasn’t pleasent, and I did my best to dissuade the feeling.
Turning on the heel of my black leather shoes—the reflection the gave of the world in which they lived distorted and washed of colour—I turned to the little man. He was wearing a navy blue blazer with shoulder pads, his tie was a deep red, lined with diagonal streaks of black that made him look sharper than he probably was. To either side of his balding head were deep grey streaks of hair, stretching down to his jaw line and fizzing out into stubble that barely resembled a goatee.
“What?”
He began to open his mouth, and I studied the perfectly capped, little white teeth that seemed to line his gums like the crosses in Arlington. After that brief moment, he began to speak, “Mr. Reave, your notes—”
I looked at his outstretched arm, tracing down the line of his triceps to his elbow, to his forearm, and finally coming down to a close with his hand clasped around the sheets of white paper. Written upon them in cleanly typed, legible font were my “notes”.
I smiled and took them from his hand with a low “Thank you.”
I held the notes in my hand, taking another drag of my cigarette and then exhaling the plumes of blue-grey smoke into the air. I heard the bodyguard take a deep breath behind me.
Looking over the notes—everything I had told them was there. Every idea, every sentence, every stark-raving mad comment I had made during last night’s drunken hysteria was there. Everything.
I had sat alone until sunrise, drinking to myself, thinking to myself with nothing but a casual single chair out on the balcony of my hotel suite. Nothing but the moonless sky above me and the cool breeze of a fall—or winter—evening to wash away the fever I had gained over fearing—no, that’s the wrong word—over strategizing for my match against James Weck.
... James Weck...
My concentration was broken by a pat on my shoulder. I turned and looked at my bodyguard, and he smiled at me. Again, bright white teeth.
Personal Note: get into the dental business.
“You’re on in thirty seconds,” he said, and nodded to the curtain. I peeked through, and over the speakers came the voice of God—if God was five-foot-five and weighed ninety-nine pounds soaking wet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in case you’ve forgotten you are here for a press conference with Scott Reave, FGA pro-wrestler and the future FRONTIER World Heavyweight Champion. He is a young man who has just been introduced to wrestling—”
Bullshit.
“—And let me tell you, wrestling is in this man’s blood. He’s young, and he’s got all the potential in the world.”
Bull—well... not really.
“—And it is my honour to present to you, the man I represent, the man who graciously thanks you—members of the press and fans alike—for being here today. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you celebrity sensation and rising sports superstar, SCOTT REAVE!”
My cue?
I stepped out from behind the curtain to racous applause. There would be no booing here because anyone who expressed dislike for me and my methods were roughly exiled from the building. I know you’re probably thinking that that was a dick thing to do, but to be honest, it was worth it. The last thing I needed was for some crazy bastard hopped up on crystal meth hearing voices trying to take my life with a nine milimeter bullet. History had proben that assasins often kill the wrong man, and not the ones who richly deserve it.
I shook hands with my agent and he whispered something into my ear, “Tear ‘em to pieces, kid.”
I smiled, I couldn’t help it.
I took the podium, settling my notes down and taking a firm grip of the lacquered wood that was placed before me.A podium. A position of power and authority, and for the next fifteen to twenty minutes, it was all mine.
Truly, this was going to be the be-all end-all of James Weck’s career. The one defining moment when I finally showed the world that he was the loser that everyone thought he was...
“Good afternoon, as all of you probably know, my name is Scott Reave and I am from The Bowery—originally. I am here in Edison, New Jersey because of a match in the FRONTIER Grappling Arts promotion—and an opponent. That opponent’s name is ‘The Incarnation of Determination’ James Weck.
James Weck is a man who has accomplished much in the world of amateur wrestling, and now he comes to pro-wrestling, looking for hope for the future. Recently, he gave a promo and I have a few things to say about that.”
I take a moment, reviewing my notes and then turning my attention to the crowd—that faceless crowd full of flashing lightbulbs and hidden microphones. Good. I want the whole world to hear what I have to say.
“I honestly expected more from you, James.
I just can’t help but feel like you’re giving me the run around. I can’t help but feel as though that the great, high and mighty James Weck is giving this poor, basement dwelling junkie smoke and mirrors. I’ve got this strange… feeling… that you’re not being ‘real’ with me James.
And I honestly don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I get this feeling. You obviously have enough conviction in your words to make them ring true for your own ears. You obviously have enough of a bounce in your step to convince the world that you’re this great, awe inspiring… entertainer… but for some reason, I’m still not convinced.
I look at James Weck, and I see the past. I see a man who has accomplished much in amateur wrestling… but I also see a man over the hill. I see a man who is past his prime and still does not want to let go of the simple fact that he is over. He is done. He is finished. I look at James Weck and I see a man who is has been swallowed whole by his ego. I look at James Weck and I see a man who on his best Goddamn day could not hold my jock in any match… allow himself to be blinded by his own desire of self-fellatio. I see James Weck, and I see a man who is too Goddamn stupid to see when the devil is staring him right in the face.
And this makes me take pity on you, James Weck. It makes Scott Reave pity the weak, simple minded folk. It makes me pity them because you see, they never see it coming. They never bother to watch the grassy knoll. They never bother to watch for the snake in the garden. All they see is what their fragile minds wish for them to see, and not a moment more. They only see what makes their world make sense, and in your world James Weck, Scott Reave being a better wrestler doesn’t make sense to you.
And this is why you act the way you do. This is why James Weck walks around, shooting promos about domination and being the best when he himself has just basically entered the professional wrestling and talking about how you don’t need to be an excellent wrestler to excel. He walks around giving long, monologue cameos to has-been, c-list cameramen in hopes that he’ll appeal to the youth of this nation… and he doesn’t realize that he’s doing exactly what I warned him not to do. And honestly James you did a lot of speaking—excuse me, yelling—to say absolutely nothing. James has no fucking clue that all the people you know, all the promos you cut, and all of the amateur wrestling matches you star in doesn’t matter. The people may hate you James, but in FRONTIER Grappling Arts, that doesn’t mean a damn thing.
And so you lie to yourself. You say that you don’t need the wrestling skills; you say that Scott Reave is nothing more than a blip… a ‘no-talent jackass’. You say that Scott Reave at the end of the day will quake in his boots and bow down before the great king shit of turd hill, and act as though you are the second coming of Christ. You lie to yourself and present yourself with these neat and tidy little visions of excess and self gratification because, quite simply, the truth is much too difficult for your fragile mind to bear.”
I pause for a moment, taking a sip from the glass of water resting on a black coaster sitting beside my notes, and then continue.
“And the truth is, James Weck, is that in order to succeed in this business, you need to be a winner. You can claim that you will harshly defeat me all you want. You can claim me to be a addict or alcoholic all you want. You can claim all you like, James Weck, because it really won’t change what happens in the middle of that ring.
And yet your mind has deceived you once more. It has deluded you into thinking that you actually have a hope in hell of walking into my ring, and taking what is rightfully mine… what I have earned.
I earned what I have, James Weck. You think I walked into FGA under the assumption that I’m still somebody special. You think I’ve walked into FGA under the impression that what the people think of me still matters. You think that the FRONTIER Office hired me, offered me the contract because of what I’ve done in the past?
James, for someone so smartened up to our business, you sure have a lot of learning to do.”
I look over the crowd… they’re quiet, and paying attention.
Good.
“The FRONTIER Office are businessmen, James. The big business is not James Weck versus some other washed up has-been… probably Evan Bodom once they find his rotting carcass in a ditch somewhere, strung out on heroin and weighing about forty five pounds.
You see, James, your time is over, and has been for some time. The new generation is here, and we’re banging down the door. We’re finding our way into the safe house, James, and there hasn’t been a greater time to be apart of the Scott Reave fan club. Claim all the decimation you want, James, but the fact remains that Scott Reave has been chosen to lead this company. The fact remains that Scott James Weck, the people have voted with their wallets, and they aren’t here to see you… they’re here to see Scott Reave beat the absolute shit out of you.
If your mind still hasn’t imploded from all of this truth, then let me say one more thing.”
I take another sip of water. Jesus, these lights are hot.
“James, you’re just fodder. That’s all you’ve ever been planned to be. You were brought in like a cheap, dirty whore who had been used and thrown away by the last big company. You’ve been tarnished, beaten, and raped of what little name value you still held close to your soul, and now there is nothing left but a walking husk of what you once were. There is nothing in the mirror that tells you there will be better days ahead, James, because in your heart of hearts you know that your glory days have long since been forgotten. What you see now quite possibly disgusts you more than it disgusts me.
But yet, because you can’t handle the truth, you’ll sit there and say that all I have just spoken, all that I have told you, is nothing more than a ‘pitiful, non-scouted rant’ or a ‘male soap-opera’. You’ll say that Scott Reave does not have what it takes, that he’s all hype. You’ll say that Scott Reave is nothing more than another ‘made production’. You’ll say that James Weck is the only man who can bring the goods, and that Scott Reave is going to be found out for who and what he is this coming Wednesday.
I agree with you on one thing, James. The people will find out who and what you are, once I discard of this walking husk that threatens to engulf the entire corporation with his ego. The people will finally realize that after yet another supposed ‘force’ has been defeated, that there is nowhere left to go but up. Once I, Scott Reave, have finally discarded of the one last remnant of the past generation’s excusable legacy, they will have no choice but to embrace the future.
And James Weck, the future is as clear as crystal. It has been and will always be…
…Scott Reave.”