Session #6 – An Honest Conman Pt1: Recruiting Jason Marx

[Jerry]

Session #6 – An Honest Conman Pt1: Recruiting Jason Marx

July 12th, 2014 | 6:45PM

“Been a long time, Marx…” Anthony Rother let those words hang in the air as he waited for a response.

Rother stood at the base of the wooden steps that led to a deck attached to a small single-wide trailer. The south Texas summer evening sky was a bright orange that faded into hues of violet as a few cumulous clouds dotted the atmosphere. A lone drop of sweat trickled down his forehead leaving behind a temporary trail of relief from the sweltering sun that hung lazily above the horizon behind him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marx sighed as he slowly lowered the newspaper just enough to allow his eyes to confirm the identity of his unwanted guest.

Nearly a decade had passed since Jason Marx had crossed paths with Anthony Rother during his former life of unsuccessfully trying to take his wrestling promotion national. The pair had a notably contentious relationship in the past with Marx growing tired of the headaches from Rother’s constant bickering while Rother had believed Marx’s contempt rose from the jealousy of his team’s success. After all, it was Marx’s name that had been crossed off in the record books as a member of the longest tenure for the promotion’s tag team champions in favor of Rother’s men. Judging by Marx’s initial reaction, not much had changed in those ten long years.

“So you’ll never guess what happened,” Rother began somewhat cautiously ascending the steps. “I was involved with a convention back in November,” he paused as he glanced at an empty chair to his left, and slowly took a seat. “This was in Memphis,” he continued, “and you know how popular we were with those affiliates.”

He chuckled, as if he hoped that he might get a reaction. Marx’s jet-black eyes remained fixated on Rother; cold and emotionless. The newspaper that concealed the majority of his face and chest flapped as the hot summer breeze momentarily rushed between the two men.

“Anyway,” Rother cleared his throat, “I met with a fan who told me your little secret.”

Marx raised an eyebrow and responded frankly, “Secret?”

“Oh come on Jason,” Rother’s tone raised. “You know what I’m talking about,” he smirked, “your return to the ring after falling off the face of the earth.”

“I don’t remember becoming a hermit, Rother,” Marx sighed. “Some people move on with their lives, while others,” he paused for emphasis “clearly don’t.”

“Right,” Rother responded with heavy sarcasm. “We all heard the stories,” he added with narrowed eyes. “The unflappable Jason Marx, the man who never lets anything or anyone shake his confidence just coincidentally broke all contact with his friends and colleagues shortly after his tag team partner dies in a horrible accident.” Rother rolled his eyes, “gimme a break.”

“Watch your mouth,” Marx snapped through gritted teeth behind the newspaper.

“Look,” Rother dismissively raised his hands defensively. “I’m not here to rub salt into sore wounds; this isn’t about the past…” he winked like a used car salesman about to close a deal. “I’m here about the future, your future,” he pointed at Marx with his index finger, “hell, our future,” he emphasized with outstretched arms.

“We…” Marx irritably began, “have no future.”

Marx made a fluid motion with his writs that resulted in a pop as the newspaper shielded his eyes once again. While it seemed that Marx considered the conversation over, Rother pressed on.

“Don’t you…dare!” Rother screeched. “Don’t you dare,” he repeated, “shut me out!” Rother stood in defiance. “I’ve been following your little renaissance in FGA,” he smirked as he played his hand. “I purchased all of the DVDs from July through the end of the year and I’ve watched you both; the debut against The Motto; Dynamic Duos; battles with The Murder; winning the titles; all of it. I even watched you both piss away a golden opportunity by turning your backs on what got you to the dance in the first place by placating to the mutants,” he sneered in disgust.

Rother waited for a rebuttal that never came. Marx just slowly turned the page of his newspaper and remained silent.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through since you failed all of us back in Florida?” Rother painfully asked. “You, and your partner sold us on a dream; you promised us that we were going to go national,” he accused in a raised tone. “Then after we all bought into the shit that you sold us on you abruptly closed up shop, patted us on the back, and dumped us without a second thought.”

Rother shook his head in disgust.

“Do you really just expect me to sit idly by and waste away when I hear tales of Jason Marx making a successful comeback?”

“We didn’t sell you shit,” Marx grumbled from behind his newspaper. “All we promised each and every one of you was an opportunity and a chance. It’s not my fault that you didn’t make the most of it. Do you really think that you’re the only one who suffered when we had to shut down?” Marx asked as he slightly lowered his reading material, once again revealing only his eyes.

“We all lost something that day,” he calmly stated. “Some of us just decided to actually move on to a new chapter in our lives. It’s not my fault that you couldn’t find opportunities elsewhere; that’s on you.”

“Ok, look…” Rother acquiesced, “we can agree to disagree. So let’s move forward then, shall we? Let’s begin a new chapter in our lives – together. Give me an opportunity to come back and lead you and this kid back to where you rightfully belong; back at the top.”

“That ship has sailed,” Marx dismissed. “I did what I could, but I’m done.”

“Bullshit!” Rother screamed and shook with anger. “I refuse to allow you to make that choice! I’m too close!”

“It’s not a choice, Anthony…” Marx began, “it’s just the way it has to be.”

Marx finally tossed the newspaper aside. Rother’s eyes widened with shock and disappointment.

“Holy shit…” he mumbled.

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”The last Vertigo was a beautiful sight,” Anthony Rother audaciously began.

Rother stood in front of the entrance of the Thomas M Ryan Center, the home of the Rhode Island Rams and the upcoming episode of FGA’s Vertigo. The late November day had produced an overcast sky throughout the morning, and even though it was only around noon the clouds that carpeted the sky in gray caused the passing vehicles to use their headlights. Street-lights in the foreground shone feebly into a mid-day twilight as droplets of water drizzled down, pelting Rother who wore a tan trench coat.

”I’m sure that all of you think that I’m going to come out here to rant and rave about how our match ended,” Rother smirked, ”but truthfully it’s exactly what I wanted.”

”You see, in all the years that Johnny Karma has been in FGA there’s one attribute that sticks out about him,” Rother somewhat painfully admitted, ”an attribute that made him dangerous whether he was breaking the rules to suit his own desires, or even placating to the mutants by trying to fight with pride. It was the fact that no matter what an opponent did or said about Karma, he was always calm, cool, and collected. That lack of temper is what made him levelheaded during those heated situations, no matter if it was Fujiko trying to use brass knuckles or if it was another beat down at the hands of the New Kings. It was just another characteristic that made him great.”

Rother hopped down one step from the entrance of the Ryan Center and began pacing along the steps.

”Let’s fast forward to the here and now…” Rother stopped and gleefully smirked, ”it would appear that yours truly has finally provided the chink in Johnny Karma’s armor.”

”Throughout all the editions of Karmic TV, the man has calmly analyzed his situation with humor and big words designed to make himself seem above the fray. He denigrates and dismisses his opponent’s chances with a brashness that even makes Anthony Rother envious.”

”That Johnny Karma, much like his grandfather, is now dead,” Rother paused to let those words hang in the air, a direct shot fired at Karma.

”And to think, that out of all the opponents that he’s faced over the years; the names that he’s battled and beaten, it was I, Anthony Reginald Rother, who finally made the man crack.”

Rother began pacing again with his arms pulled behind his back.

”The Usual Suspects have Johnny Karma right where they want him; frustrated, angry, and explosive. Those are the characteristics of a wrestler who is doomed to be defeated given the right scenario, and I just happen to be the man who can ignite that scenario.”

”I said what I said and I meant what I said about Karma’s pathetic grandfather. The old man just didn’t have the balls to continue to fight the good fight. I on the other hand,” Rother thumbed himself in the chest, ”was able to overcome and endure a life-threatening situation; no matter what the lies that those hacks over at Wrestlescoop have decided to make up about me. It’s because I have better genes than Karma’s family. I’m a beacon of health and purity,” Rother slapped at his gut, trying to hold his breath so his slight chub wouldn’t jiggle, ”as opposed to the Karma’s who relish that filthy New York habit of smoking cigars and eating too much pizza.”

”This Saturday on Vertigo, because Lenny T. feels like the fans didn’t get their money’s worth last time, thanks to Karma losing his head, we get a rematch while adding in a few variables.”

”Let me be the first to tell the Suspect’s tag team partner, that we are honored to be teaming up with the rightful FGA Pride Champion. Evan Envi is a man of principle, a true competitor, and the man who did us all the favor of punching Molly Reid in her bony little throat and pinning her in the middle of the ring.”

”Together, we will put on a show for all of the undeserving mutants in Kingston, Rhode Island because Lenny T. says we have to,” he wrinkled his face in disgust, ”even though Rhode Island has never contributed anything of value to this country. In fact, we can blame so much of our nation’s lowering test scores and scholastic performance on the fact that Seth MacFarlane somehow received a degree from the Rhode Island School of Design, thus giving him the clout he needed to begin inundating the youth of our country with filth like Family Guy, American Dad, and Ted.”

”But I digress… On Saturday night Evan Envi and the Usual Suspects will put on a tag team classic as they unite their talents to crush Johnny Karma, Noelle Smith, and Chris Madison under their boots like the scum that they are.”

”Oh yes, Noelle Smith…” Rother shook his head. ”On the last Vertigo I seemed to have made a mistake by telling Noelle that I didn’t have anything personal against her. But truthfully the more I find myself around this woman, I just want to vomit. I’m not sure exactly what’s more disgusting about her… The fact that the cute bubbly goodness that flows out of her very existence is faker than Fujiko’s breasts – and yes, I did see them, they are fake and there’s nothing spectacular about them – or the fact that she was dumb enough to flake on her relationship with Evan Envi.”

”Now look, I’m the last person who really likes to get involved in people’s personal business, Noelle…” Rother lied through his teeth. ”But seriously, you could have had it all with Evan. The man is pure greatness, and he’s on his way to getting HIS belt off of Molly Reid. You could have been that arm candy that dangled at his side; much like Peaches does with Dan, except that Evan’s career is actually on the up while Dan’s entering his twilight years. You could have been that woman who stood next to the Pride champion, and looked halfway decent while you removed his robes and belt for him. But instead of choosing the wise career path for yourself, you’ve become another in a long list of “I almost did it” grapplers in FGA; much like one of your tag team partners, Chris Madison, a man who comes out here and dares to question the ability of The Usual Suspects?”

”Oh my God… Chris Madison,” Rother wrinkled his face in disgust, ”a man who loves to remind us every time he steps through the curtains that he went undefeated for fourteen months in some other company that I couldn’t give two shits about. It’s almost like I have to put up with listening to Hardaway and Tyler talk about those fifteen other teams all over again. This is the same Chris Madison who has admitted that he never did anything of value in FGA, so he tucked his tail and ran to that other place.”

”This is the man who decides to question the ability of The Usual Suspects? This is the man who wants to come out here and question their tag team title reign because they always seem to have a manager at their side?” Rother shook his head in disbelief.

”Last time I checked, all of your social media communication was conveyed through your mouthpiece. Last time I checked, that company that you went undefeated for fourteen months was now questioning your very reign because of paid off officials?” Rother smirked at the accusation.

”Now look, I’m not the right man to discuss whether or not you or Morrison paid off referees in that other place. I don’t really care, but if you did… Good for you,” he gave a thumbs up.

”But I am the right man to come out here and speak on the talents of The Usual Suspects; two men who have done more in their short tenures in FGA than you ever did. No matter what you or anybody else says, Jason Marx and Chris Tryon will always have their names in the record books that show them as Tag Team Champions. No matter what the detractors say, they will always be one of the few teams who actually beat The Murder. Their history has been made, and they will only be adding to it whenever Lenny T. decides to get off his ass and give them their rematch. Meanwhile Chris Madison will always be relegated to achieving second place in a fucking twitter poll posted by Paco, asking about which tag team would you like to see come back.”

”Saturday night, in the very building behind me,” he motioned to the Ryan Center, ”The Usual Suspects and Evan Envi are going to make all of you pathetic trolls eat your words. You’re all nothing more than an appetizer for the three men who are going to destroy you, men who have bigger matches just on the horizon for the titles that they rightfully deserve.”

”On Vertigo, one of you will get to find out that nobody survives the South Texas Death Ride.”

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“What the hell happened?” Rother asked with wide eyes.

The newspaper now sat in Marx’s lap, which revealed a secret that nobody had known about. Marx wore a freshly attached neck brace to restrict movement after surgery that repaired a fractured cervical vertebra. The veteran had suffered the injury during the match against The Murder at Respect is Earned; however Marx had kept his sore neck a secret. He couldn’t let his tag team partner down after everything that they had gone through, so he soldiered on.

After The Murder had won those belts back two months later, Marx finally relented and checked himself into a hospital. He had anticipated a strain or torn muscle; unfortunately the doctor slapped him with the cold hard reality when he returned with the X-Ray results. Marx was surprised when Tryon took it all in stride. ‘If it’s over for you, then it’s over for me,’ were his exact words. After all they had been through together – the ups and the downs – Tryon felt it was an act of loyalty toward his mentor. Marx, on the other hand, felt disappointment at his partner’s reluctance to carry on in the sport that he had spent nearly two decades in. That revelation took a much deeper toll on him than the neck injury had.

“The same thing that happens to all of us who try to do this for too long,” Marx replied with no emotion. “So you see, there is no future for us. I’m finished.”

“What about your rehab regimen?” Rother asked with a glimmer of hope.

Marx chuckled and rolled his eyes in disbelief at the relentlessness of his former employee.

“You just don’t give up do you?” He asked somewhat rhetorically. “There is no rehab, Rother; I’m finished.”

“No…” Rother said to no one in particular. “This isn’t fair. After all this time, I was so close,” he exhaled in frustration.

That was when the gears began to turn in that devious mind of Anthony Rother. Jason Marx might be finished, but if only he could find…the kid. Yes, the kid. Who needed a broken down old man anyway? All he needed to do was to get Marx to tell him where the kid was.

“So…” Rother slyly began, “that kid you were teaming with must be taking all of this pretty hard.”

“What’s that?” Marx asked.

“The kid, I mean he has to be beside himself with his future in doubt,” Rother surmised. “I mean, he’s talented, that’s for sure. But all he knows is tag team,” Rother shook his head. “Singles…” he paused with a false empathy, “that’s a whole different ballgame.”

“Kid says he’s finished too,” Marx answered.

Rother wrinkled his face in confusion.

“I know,” Marx sensed Rother’s expression. “I couldn’t believe it myself. Honestly, I find it a bit disappointing, but the kid’s got to make his own way through life.”

“What’s he doing now?” Rother asked.

“Working at some comic book and video game store,” Marx replied. “Vintage stock, I think it’s called. It’s right off of 410 by the airport.”

“The airport you say…” Rother trailed off as he scratched at his chin.

“I told you, he’s finished Rother.” Marx realized exactly what he was up to now.

“Says you,” Rother got up from his seat. “How long have we known each other, Jason? If anybody is gonna be able to talk this kid into giving it another go, it’s yours truly. Whisper a few little sweet nothings into his ear about how great he is, and how you ruined him, that’s all it’ll take.

“How I ruined him?” Marx angrily asked.

“Yes, how you ruined him!” Rother shot back. “I was shocked whenever I heard that you were back in the ring Jason, but imagine the horror in my eyes when I saw you bend the will of that kid by lying to him!”

“You son of a---“

“Don’t play stupid with me, Jason!” Rother snapped back. “You’ve been in this sport for nearly two decades and not once did you ever care what the mutants in the arena thought. Never once did you and your old tag team partner ever try to play the noble competitor role. You did what you had to do to win and you guys were great at it.”

Rother paused, as if he were waiting for Marx to explain himself, but the reply was never going to come.

“Playing by the rules never equates to success, Jason…” Rother furrowed his brow in frustration. “That was something that you knew better than anybody else. So answer one question, what made you change?”

Rother once again waited for an answer, but none came.

“Nevermind,” Rother finally broke the silence. “I get it,” he continued, “the crafty veteran brings along the young student and tries to teach him the ropes. Instead of teaching him the truth about the mutants, he preaches honor, respect, and tradition.” Rother shook his head in disgust. “In truth, he does it all out of some selfish need to finally hear the cheers that were never thrown his way after all those years of doing whatever needed to be done to get the victory.”

Rother accusingly starred daggers at Marx, waiting for him to defend himself. But a defeated Marx defiantly sat there, not even looking at Rother.

“What do you think this kid is going to say when I tell him the truth?” Rother asked.

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