Don't Call Me [RP #1]
Dec 28, 2011 12:50:41 GMT -5
Post by scottreave on Dec 28, 2011 12:50:41 GMT -5
Don't Call Me
The first thing I noticed was the design of the room. It was dimly lit with a black light that seemed to give everything a smoky, dream-like aura. The mirror seemed to shimmer and its reflections nothing more than a poor caricature of the person who peered into it. The walls were a deep red with art-deco techniques applied over the finish. Gold trim lined the borders with strange, Incan engravings. The stalls themselves were even sheik, with an almost thin, flimsy glass quality to them, obscuring the person inside by turning them into pixelated versions of themselves.
All of these little details—like the pristine caulking that was barely noticeable, to the marble-top counter—made my head swoon with the possibilities. I peered into the mirror, looking over the woman’s shoulder and into the glass case that served as a bathroom stall. I could imagine sitting in there, hands in my lap, and someone else looking at me but not really seeing me. All the other person would see was a shape. A poorly lit blob of mass that had no definition, and no character.
For some reason I could not quite ascertain, I came a little bit closer.
I didn’t pay much attention to the woman on the counter top, nor did I really care for the smell of her cheap perfume, or her brittle, dyed hair. Each time my own sweaty cheek rubbed against hers as she clung to me like a monkey to a tree, I could feel just a little bit more of her foundation rubbing off on my own skin.
I looked around the room again.
Somewhere in the distance, as I sank deeper into my own thoughts, I could hear the girl moaning, something dirty, I thought. Something about something that stretched the final syllable into an out-right shriek. I didn’t really care much for dirty talk, preferring instead to allow the comfortable silence and the thick, meaty sound of flesh smacking flesh to fill the void. Even then, I didn’t mind it all that much.
Sex was just sex, after all.
“Are you close baby?” She whispered in my ear, a raspy, baited breath that she couldn’t seem to catch. I silently nodded, my chin digging into her neck slightly. I closed my eyes, focusing on her raspy words that slithered into my ear like some serpent with evil intent.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured the room. I pictured the velvet glow of the black light and I pictured the two of us, in here, supposedly in an exciting moment. In a nameless club, in a nameless city, with a nameless woman riding me on the counter top. Did it really matter what her face looked like? My eyebrows furrowed as I tried to remember. Through a tipsy, glassy haze I couldn’t quite make it out. She thought she was beautiful, though, I was sure of that. She thought she was perhaps the greatest catch in the club, but I had changed her mind about that.
“Jesus, I’m almost there,” she said, and I frowned. This wasn’t good. I wasn’t even particularly close and, if I were to be honest with her, I was having a hard enough time maintaining my “focus” on the event at hand.
“This is nice, I’ve never been with someone so quiet.” She said.
I nodded again.
“Come on,”
In my mind’s eye, I could see her legs around my back, her perfectly tan, smooth legs, glistening beneath the black light. I could see her slinky black dress, form-fitting and—I was sure—arousing to most members of my species—hiked around her waist. I thought of the woman’s cheeks resting against the counter top, and how the smooth marble had felt cool to my fingertips. I wondered how the custodian would take care of the imprint this woman was going to leave. I wondered if the custodian—a man in his sixties in a loose, grey overall with fading white hair and a grizzly moustache—would make of such a shape. Or the foot print on the mirror, or the claw marks to the fine, art-deco walls on either side of the sink. I pictured the confusion on the old man’s face, and it made me giggle for half a breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said in a calm voice, soothing to her ear.
Tiresome. I was getting bored now. There was a slight clench I could feel around my member, and I knew that it was almost over. I could put myself away, thank the woman for the good time, exchange phony numbers with her, throw away her number, and join my guests at the party I was supposed to be attending. That would be nice. I could discuss the moral principle behind the Yetti/Sasquatch apartheid, I could discuss the exquisite taste of true New York pizza, and perhaps, maybe, I could even get a little face time for an interview on my match at Combat.
Business, business, business.
“Here we go,” she said, her voice ascending into an absolute shrill that numbed my ear. My eyes opened on instinct, and in that moment between the two of us, the moment that she would not doubt consider an omen of some kind, we had come together. Her first, followed by me a split-second later. I would not give much thought to the reason behind it, or even fancy the coincidence of my climax being at the moment I looked into the mirror, and saw myself. Such thoughts were not befitting a man like me.
The thrusting slowed, like a locomotive arriving at a new station, it slowed to a crawl, and then stopped. It was always better to pace yourself, I thought.
“Jesus Christ…” she whispered into my ear, and let go of him. I closed my eyes again, pulling out and savouring the moment. The endorphins had peaked, and I was riding a high fuelled by liquor, sex-induced endorphins, and perhaps only a little bit of shit. In any event, I was in a place that few ever dared walk.
She looked at me, pulling back slowly, her arms collapsing to her sides, her back and head leaning against the mirror behind her. She looked me up and down, the way my eyes closed, my head tilted to one side, my long, silken black hair draping over me, bangs fluttering against my forehead. The small smile at the edge of these moist, thin lips.
She no doubt thought it was her own doing.
“That good, huh?”
My eyes opened, and I felt a slight pang. My own view was blocked by the callus fuck that sat in front of me. My smile disappeared, my gaze grew cold.
“Yeah, it was fine.”
The woman’s own perfectly tweezed eyebrows furrowed into a ridged line.
“Fine?”
“Yeah. It was very nice.”
Her anger disappeared as quickly as she came. She smiled at this man, wearing a fine black suit with a red silk shirt beneath the suit jacket. I didn’t talk much, and she kind of liked that. I was reserved, and it only made the air about me seem… sophisticated. Yes, she thought she could do quite a number on this man, and maybe my wallet.
“So… you uh…” A hand went to her bangs, and she brushed them aside, a move she’s practiced many times, “—wanna exchange numbers, maybe? You know, if you—”
“Yeah.”
Her practiced, insecure look shifted to a genuine smile, “Oh, good, I—”
In the time it took her to give the routine—a stunning performance, I was sure—I had already written down a cell phone number from some other woman I had seen a few days before, on a napkin with a black Sharpie, and handed it to the woman. It was a move as practiced as hers were, and I smiled on the inside when she had taken the bait without a word.
“Well, I uh… thanks,” She glanced down at the napkin and my chicken scratch hand-writing, “—Scott. I’ll give you a call sometime.”
I smiled, and nodded. Tapping the brow of my imaginary hat, I had left the art-deco bedroom, and had joined the land of the living, writhing mass of flesh that acted as a “nightclub”. Slithering through the human maze, I managed to find my own table where Tom Regen and I had been throwing back shooters all night.
“Hello Tom,” I said with a casual smile.
“Oi! Ain’t them the biggest set of titties you ever saw?” He slurred, pointing over to a waitress in little more than a mini-skirt, g-string, and tiny tube top.
My eyes flickered toward her, and I smiled.
“Yes, they’re quite lovely,” I muttered.
“So where’d you go? I thought you like… guh… abandoned me? Why you tryin’ to play me like that, nigga? Why you actin’ all stand-off like? Mufuckaa I will fuckin’ cut you!”
I leaned into my chair, a rather comfy thing. Resting my chin on a hand, I wait for Regen’s tirade to end.
“You know, I’m sick fo… guh… I’m sick of these motherfuckin’ pricks who be treatin’ me like shit, ya know? I’m not just some random Jabroni whose at their beck-and fuckin’-call, ya know? I’m not a ****in’ Jabroni!”
I nodded.
“I’m not! Ain’t no… fuckin’… Jabro—heeey,”
Regen’s attention is turned to another beautiful woman, his smile creeps from ear to ear, and after a moment, he sighs.
“Who the **** am I kiddin’? I AM a fuckin’ Jabroni…”
“No you’re not,” I offered in a soothing voice.
“Yes I am,” Regen leans forward, puffing his cheeks and tearing his glasses from his face. He covers his face in his hands, and I tried not to laugh.
“I’m a fuckin’ Jabroni. A no-good shit. I was a fuckin’ Pulitzer-nominated Journalist, man. I was an anchor for NBC. I was… Jesus Christ… I was doing important things, man. I was taking on the fuckin’ Jabroni’s of the world, I was crushing them underneath my Goddamn boot! I was… aw Jesus Christ…”
It was a strange thing, seeing a man reduced to nothing but tears and sobs. I looked at Tom as if he were little more than a science experiment.
“I went from Pulitzer-nomination to… to fucking interviewing WRESTLERS! Backstage at that! I interview WRESTLERS for a living, Scotty! Jesus Christ…. Oh fuckin’ Jesus Christ…”
“It’s not the end, Tom.”
“Oh no? Well whose gonna hire THIS fuckin’ Jabroni? Three years ago… I was fired, okay? I was fired. Slept with the boss’s daughter. It was stupid, I know. I was drunk and I… Jesus… I would give anything for them to take me back…”
I nodded. I wouldn’t say anything to whoever ran NBC, and chances are I would never meet this person. But… well, I wanted to talk about my match, not coddle this little woman.
“Look, Tommy, I’ll do you a favour—” I leaned in from my chair, almost in a conspiratorial fashion. Tom’s attention is aroused. “—I’ll talk to my people, and they’ll talk to your ex-boss. How about I see if I can get you that job back?”
“R-Really?” Tom’s eyes light up with hope, and it nearly breaks my heart to see him so hopeful. His wobbly jowels loose against his neck, his old, beaten-dog eyes glimmering with the slightest hope…
“Yes, really. But for now, we can talk about me, yeah?”
Tom Regen smiles and he nods. “A-fuckin’-men, brother. A-fuckin’-men.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
I didn’t remember much of that night, or the promo that followed on television. I could vaguely remember anything through that clouded fog of a dream. I remembered Tom Regen’s tears, and his hopeful, bright eyes… but other than that…
“I did exactly what I set out to do, Tom. I did everything I was supposed to. I went out, I entertained, and I picked up the win against the Incarnation of Determination. It was quite an honour, Tom, defeating a jerk-off as esteemed as James Weck.
I mean, really though, to think about it for a moment—how could it have gone any other way? Could Scott Reave really have lost the match? Could he have fallen like a sack of bricks and let Weck go over? No, not really. He couldn’t let that happen because it would be a mockery of everything he stands for. Scott Reave is a respectable young man, Tom Regen. He is out-going and boisterous, true, but he is also a valued member of society. Very few people speak for the people like he does.
But really, what does that say of everyone else? To assume the worst—especially Weck—to say that Scott Reave’s debut victory was a shocking upset? What does that say about them? Does that mean they are little more than soothsayers with their fingers so far removed from the pulse of professional wrestling, that in order to even be an inch closer, they’d have their fingers buried in their own asses? I’m sorry if that offends you, Tom, but that’s how I honestly feel about the naysayers of Scott Reave.”
“Amen brother! Fuckin’ TESTIFY!”
I laughed, “Yes. Like you, Tom, I am under-appreciated. Like the other wrestlers do not appreciate you, I am in the same boat. The men and women in attendance… they saw me… they saw me, Scott Reave, running around the ring and dazzling them with my agility and my cut-throat precision… and to the ‘boys in the back’ I was still nothing more than an over-hyped, lucky junkie. It bothers me, Tom, just as I am sure that not being respected for your journalistic integrity bothers you.”
“You got that right, home boy.”
“And with that attitude in mind, the match at Combat… I honestly wonder if I should even bother coming to the ring. After all I am sure you’re going to hear from the golden child Blaine Harrison who had received such high praise as of late, get the biggest push out of all of the competition. He is by far and away the most talented up-and-comer in FGA… at least, that’s what the hype says about him.
And that is it, what I thought it was all along. You’re a fucking glory hound, and you act like you’re doing it for the people, for the fans. You’re a lie, Blaine Harrison. You claim that you’re after the good time and you’re satisfied with what you have, but deep down you’re just like me. You want to be the best. You want to go for the top prize in this sport, and you are willing to claw tooth and nail and kick down whoever is in your way in order to obtain your goal. That is admirable, but do you know why I hold you in such low regard?
You’re a lie.
You act like you’re a fun-loving good guy the people can get behind; you act like you’re someone who is just out there to give the fans everything… but you’re not. You’re not really like the make-believe superhero that came before us in this sport. You’re not really out there to please the crowd; what you’re out there for is yourself and your position on the mountain of success. You’re trying to climb that mountain like everyone else Blaine Harrison, but you’re doing it the wrong way. You’re doing it the dishonorable way.
You’re probably gonna try to make me a villain when all I’m speaking is the truth. You’re gonna try to make me look out to be a bad guy when all I’m doing is seeing through your deceit and lies. You’re gonna try to act like you’re the righteous ass-kicker coming to slay the beast… when you don’t even realize who the real monster here is. It’s not me, Blaine Harrison. I know what I am. I know what I can become, and I know most of all that I was raised to be honest… no matter how hurtful the truth may be.
You?
You’re just another punk trying to suck up to the fans. You’re another ass stain who’s trying like hell to gain the fan approval so that they can petition for title shots or salary raises. You’re trying to get one over on them by giving them this sob story about always being the smaller, weaker competitor and disliking dirty tactics because of your love for the ‘business’. You’re a fake, and a liar Blaine Harrison. You’re trying to get sympathy because you’re a pro-wrestler, and that sickens me. You’re trying to get sympathy because of your physical conditions, and when have I ever done this?
When has Scott Reave ever said that things needed to be handed to him, that he should have a salary raise because he is a fan-favourite and he always overcomes the odds? When has Scott Reave ever invited the people or anyone else into his personal life to see what kind of place it really is? I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want empathy, all I want is what’s mine. And the only way you get what’s yours is when you go right out there and TAKE it.
That’s what I’ve been doing Blaine Harrison. I haven’t been whining in promos about someone who pointed out the truth. I didn’t lash out at my opponent because he said something that hurt me; that was truthful about me. I didn’t try to act like I was some small man with a formerly obese bitch who wants nothing but a good time, when in reality all I’d want is to climb the ladder, to make more money, and to gain more recognition.
I’ve been honest since the beginning. Anyone who wants to ask me what I do this sport for, and I’ll tell them that it’s for the money, for the power, and for the respect. I won’t give them fairytales about how it’s been a long, hard road to climb to the top. I won’t give them bullshit excuses as to why I never made it sooner. I won’t say to the people who pay their money to see me kick your ass that I’m doing it for them. No Blaine Harrison, I do it for me. I’ve always done it for me… and you’re the exact same way. The only difference between us is that you lie about your intentions. You lie about your goals, and you lie to the ‘fans’ in order to save your own ass from looking like a conceited prick.
Why do you hate people like me? Is it because I take what I want?
Do you hate me because in the two weeks I’ve been here, I haven’t tried to kiss anyone’s ass and have decided to play the game in my own way?
You’re just starting out, Blaine Harrison. A clean slate and nothing you ever did before the moment we step between the ropes and square off for the first time means a Goddamn thing. Nothing you ever did, the sacrifices you made, all the ham sandwiches you ate and all the times you shacked up and spooned with a friend from the road won’t mean a damn thing when you’re staring from across the ring from me. All of that is out the window, and it means nothing.
I’m simply a better wrestler than you, Blaine Harrison. I’m smarter, I’m faster, I’m stronger, and I’m more agile than you. I can think on my feet while you’re trying to plan your next super suplex varying finisher. All of these reasons and more is why I’ve been rising up on the backs of the defeated. You see Blaine Harrison, a very long time ago a wise man once told me that strength goes to the man who reaches up and TAKES it. And believe you me, on Wednesday Weekly Combat, I will be the man who rises up on the backs of the defeated, and I will TAKE that strength. I will TAKE that power. And most importantly, you, Blaine Harrison will be stamped out like a weakening candle flame.
Besides, didn’t one of your heroes say it was better to burn out, than fade away?”
The first thing I noticed was the design of the room. It was dimly lit with a black light that seemed to give everything a smoky, dream-like aura. The mirror seemed to shimmer and its reflections nothing more than a poor caricature of the person who peered into it. The walls were a deep red with art-deco techniques applied over the finish. Gold trim lined the borders with strange, Incan engravings. The stalls themselves were even sheik, with an almost thin, flimsy glass quality to them, obscuring the person inside by turning them into pixelated versions of themselves.
All of these little details—like the pristine caulking that was barely noticeable, to the marble-top counter—made my head swoon with the possibilities. I peered into the mirror, looking over the woman’s shoulder and into the glass case that served as a bathroom stall. I could imagine sitting in there, hands in my lap, and someone else looking at me but not really seeing me. All the other person would see was a shape. A poorly lit blob of mass that had no definition, and no character.
For some reason I could not quite ascertain, I came a little bit closer.
I didn’t pay much attention to the woman on the counter top, nor did I really care for the smell of her cheap perfume, or her brittle, dyed hair. Each time my own sweaty cheek rubbed against hers as she clung to me like a monkey to a tree, I could feel just a little bit more of her foundation rubbing off on my own skin.
I looked around the room again.
Somewhere in the distance, as I sank deeper into my own thoughts, I could hear the girl moaning, something dirty, I thought. Something about something that stretched the final syllable into an out-right shriek. I didn’t really care much for dirty talk, preferring instead to allow the comfortable silence and the thick, meaty sound of flesh smacking flesh to fill the void. Even then, I didn’t mind it all that much.
Sex was just sex, after all.
“Are you close baby?” She whispered in my ear, a raspy, baited breath that she couldn’t seem to catch. I silently nodded, my chin digging into her neck slightly. I closed my eyes, focusing on her raspy words that slithered into my ear like some serpent with evil intent.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured the room. I pictured the velvet glow of the black light and I pictured the two of us, in here, supposedly in an exciting moment. In a nameless club, in a nameless city, with a nameless woman riding me on the counter top. Did it really matter what her face looked like? My eyebrows furrowed as I tried to remember. Through a tipsy, glassy haze I couldn’t quite make it out. She thought she was beautiful, though, I was sure of that. She thought she was perhaps the greatest catch in the club, but I had changed her mind about that.
“Jesus, I’m almost there,” she said, and I frowned. This wasn’t good. I wasn’t even particularly close and, if I were to be honest with her, I was having a hard enough time maintaining my “focus” on the event at hand.
“This is nice, I’ve never been with someone so quiet.” She said.
I nodded again.
“Come on,”
In my mind’s eye, I could see her legs around my back, her perfectly tan, smooth legs, glistening beneath the black light. I could see her slinky black dress, form-fitting and—I was sure—arousing to most members of my species—hiked around her waist. I thought of the woman’s cheeks resting against the counter top, and how the smooth marble had felt cool to my fingertips. I wondered how the custodian would take care of the imprint this woman was going to leave. I wondered if the custodian—a man in his sixties in a loose, grey overall with fading white hair and a grizzly moustache—would make of such a shape. Or the foot print on the mirror, or the claw marks to the fine, art-deco walls on either side of the sink. I pictured the confusion on the old man’s face, and it made me giggle for half a breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said in a calm voice, soothing to her ear.
Tiresome. I was getting bored now. There was a slight clench I could feel around my member, and I knew that it was almost over. I could put myself away, thank the woman for the good time, exchange phony numbers with her, throw away her number, and join my guests at the party I was supposed to be attending. That would be nice. I could discuss the moral principle behind the Yetti/Sasquatch apartheid, I could discuss the exquisite taste of true New York pizza, and perhaps, maybe, I could even get a little face time for an interview on my match at Combat.
Business, business, business.
“Here we go,” she said, her voice ascending into an absolute shrill that numbed my ear. My eyes opened on instinct, and in that moment between the two of us, the moment that she would not doubt consider an omen of some kind, we had come together. Her first, followed by me a split-second later. I would not give much thought to the reason behind it, or even fancy the coincidence of my climax being at the moment I looked into the mirror, and saw myself. Such thoughts were not befitting a man like me.
The thrusting slowed, like a locomotive arriving at a new station, it slowed to a crawl, and then stopped. It was always better to pace yourself, I thought.
“Jesus Christ…” she whispered into my ear, and let go of him. I closed my eyes again, pulling out and savouring the moment. The endorphins had peaked, and I was riding a high fuelled by liquor, sex-induced endorphins, and perhaps only a little bit of shit. In any event, I was in a place that few ever dared walk.
She looked at me, pulling back slowly, her arms collapsing to her sides, her back and head leaning against the mirror behind her. She looked me up and down, the way my eyes closed, my head tilted to one side, my long, silken black hair draping over me, bangs fluttering against my forehead. The small smile at the edge of these moist, thin lips.
She no doubt thought it was her own doing.
“That good, huh?”
My eyes opened, and I felt a slight pang. My own view was blocked by the callus fuck that sat in front of me. My smile disappeared, my gaze grew cold.
“Yeah, it was fine.”
The woman’s own perfectly tweezed eyebrows furrowed into a ridged line.
“Fine?”
“Yeah. It was very nice.”
Her anger disappeared as quickly as she came. She smiled at this man, wearing a fine black suit with a red silk shirt beneath the suit jacket. I didn’t talk much, and she kind of liked that. I was reserved, and it only made the air about me seem… sophisticated. Yes, she thought she could do quite a number on this man, and maybe my wallet.
“So… you uh…” A hand went to her bangs, and she brushed them aside, a move she’s practiced many times, “—wanna exchange numbers, maybe? You know, if you—”
“Yeah.”
Her practiced, insecure look shifted to a genuine smile, “Oh, good, I—”
In the time it took her to give the routine—a stunning performance, I was sure—I had already written down a cell phone number from some other woman I had seen a few days before, on a napkin with a black Sharpie, and handed it to the woman. It was a move as practiced as hers were, and I smiled on the inside when she had taken the bait without a word.
“Well, I uh… thanks,” She glanced down at the napkin and my chicken scratch hand-writing, “—Scott. I’ll give you a call sometime.”
I smiled, and nodded. Tapping the brow of my imaginary hat, I had left the art-deco bedroom, and had joined the land of the living, writhing mass of flesh that acted as a “nightclub”. Slithering through the human maze, I managed to find my own table where Tom Regen and I had been throwing back shooters all night.
“Hello Tom,” I said with a casual smile.
“Oi! Ain’t them the biggest set of titties you ever saw?” He slurred, pointing over to a waitress in little more than a mini-skirt, g-string, and tiny tube top.
My eyes flickered toward her, and I smiled.
“Yes, they’re quite lovely,” I muttered.
“So where’d you go? I thought you like… guh… abandoned me? Why you tryin’ to play me like that, nigga? Why you actin’ all stand-off like? Mufuckaa I will fuckin’ cut you!”
I leaned into my chair, a rather comfy thing. Resting my chin on a hand, I wait for Regen’s tirade to end.
“You know, I’m sick fo… guh… I’m sick of these motherfuckin’ pricks who be treatin’ me like shit, ya know? I’m not just some random Jabroni whose at their beck-and fuckin’-call, ya know? I’m not a ****in’ Jabroni!”
I nodded.
“I’m not! Ain’t no… fuckin’… Jabro—heeey,”
Regen’s attention is turned to another beautiful woman, his smile creeps from ear to ear, and after a moment, he sighs.
“Who the **** am I kiddin’? I AM a fuckin’ Jabroni…”
“No you’re not,” I offered in a soothing voice.
“Yes I am,” Regen leans forward, puffing his cheeks and tearing his glasses from his face. He covers his face in his hands, and I tried not to laugh.
“I’m a fuckin’ Jabroni. A no-good shit. I was a fuckin’ Pulitzer-nominated Journalist, man. I was an anchor for NBC. I was… Jesus Christ… I was doing important things, man. I was taking on the fuckin’ Jabroni’s of the world, I was crushing them underneath my Goddamn boot! I was… aw Jesus Christ…”
It was a strange thing, seeing a man reduced to nothing but tears and sobs. I looked at Tom as if he were little more than a science experiment.
“I went from Pulitzer-nomination to… to fucking interviewing WRESTLERS! Backstage at that! I interview WRESTLERS for a living, Scotty! Jesus Christ…. Oh fuckin’ Jesus Christ…”
“It’s not the end, Tom.”
“Oh no? Well whose gonna hire THIS fuckin’ Jabroni? Three years ago… I was fired, okay? I was fired. Slept with the boss’s daughter. It was stupid, I know. I was drunk and I… Jesus… I would give anything for them to take me back…”
I nodded. I wouldn’t say anything to whoever ran NBC, and chances are I would never meet this person. But… well, I wanted to talk about my match, not coddle this little woman.
“Look, Tommy, I’ll do you a favour—” I leaned in from my chair, almost in a conspiratorial fashion. Tom’s attention is aroused. “—I’ll talk to my people, and they’ll talk to your ex-boss. How about I see if I can get you that job back?”
“R-Really?” Tom’s eyes light up with hope, and it nearly breaks my heart to see him so hopeful. His wobbly jowels loose against his neck, his old, beaten-dog eyes glimmering with the slightest hope…
“Yes, really. But for now, we can talk about me, yeah?”
Tom Regen smiles and he nods. “A-fuckin’-men, brother. A-fuckin’-men.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
I didn’t remember much of that night, or the promo that followed on television. I could vaguely remember anything through that clouded fog of a dream. I remembered Tom Regen’s tears, and his hopeful, bright eyes… but other than that…
“I did exactly what I set out to do, Tom. I did everything I was supposed to. I went out, I entertained, and I picked up the win against the Incarnation of Determination. It was quite an honour, Tom, defeating a jerk-off as esteemed as James Weck.
I mean, really though, to think about it for a moment—how could it have gone any other way? Could Scott Reave really have lost the match? Could he have fallen like a sack of bricks and let Weck go over? No, not really. He couldn’t let that happen because it would be a mockery of everything he stands for. Scott Reave is a respectable young man, Tom Regen. He is out-going and boisterous, true, but he is also a valued member of society. Very few people speak for the people like he does.
But really, what does that say of everyone else? To assume the worst—especially Weck—to say that Scott Reave’s debut victory was a shocking upset? What does that say about them? Does that mean they are little more than soothsayers with their fingers so far removed from the pulse of professional wrestling, that in order to even be an inch closer, they’d have their fingers buried in their own asses? I’m sorry if that offends you, Tom, but that’s how I honestly feel about the naysayers of Scott Reave.”
“Amen brother! Fuckin’ TESTIFY!”
I laughed, “Yes. Like you, Tom, I am under-appreciated. Like the other wrestlers do not appreciate you, I am in the same boat. The men and women in attendance… they saw me… they saw me, Scott Reave, running around the ring and dazzling them with my agility and my cut-throat precision… and to the ‘boys in the back’ I was still nothing more than an over-hyped, lucky junkie. It bothers me, Tom, just as I am sure that not being respected for your journalistic integrity bothers you.”
“You got that right, home boy.”
“And with that attitude in mind, the match at Combat… I honestly wonder if I should even bother coming to the ring. After all I am sure you’re going to hear from the golden child Blaine Harrison who had received such high praise as of late, get the biggest push out of all of the competition. He is by far and away the most talented up-and-comer in FGA… at least, that’s what the hype says about him.
And that is it, what I thought it was all along. You’re a fucking glory hound, and you act like you’re doing it for the people, for the fans. You’re a lie, Blaine Harrison. You claim that you’re after the good time and you’re satisfied with what you have, but deep down you’re just like me. You want to be the best. You want to go for the top prize in this sport, and you are willing to claw tooth and nail and kick down whoever is in your way in order to obtain your goal. That is admirable, but do you know why I hold you in such low regard?
You’re a lie.
You act like you’re a fun-loving good guy the people can get behind; you act like you’re someone who is just out there to give the fans everything… but you’re not. You’re not really like the make-believe superhero that came before us in this sport. You’re not really out there to please the crowd; what you’re out there for is yourself and your position on the mountain of success. You’re trying to climb that mountain like everyone else Blaine Harrison, but you’re doing it the wrong way. You’re doing it the dishonorable way.
You’re probably gonna try to make me a villain when all I’m speaking is the truth. You’re gonna try to make me look out to be a bad guy when all I’m doing is seeing through your deceit and lies. You’re gonna try to act like you’re the righteous ass-kicker coming to slay the beast… when you don’t even realize who the real monster here is. It’s not me, Blaine Harrison. I know what I am. I know what I can become, and I know most of all that I was raised to be honest… no matter how hurtful the truth may be.
You?
You’re just another punk trying to suck up to the fans. You’re another ass stain who’s trying like hell to gain the fan approval so that they can petition for title shots or salary raises. You’re trying to get one over on them by giving them this sob story about always being the smaller, weaker competitor and disliking dirty tactics because of your love for the ‘business’. You’re a fake, and a liar Blaine Harrison. You’re trying to get sympathy because you’re a pro-wrestler, and that sickens me. You’re trying to get sympathy because of your physical conditions, and when have I ever done this?
When has Scott Reave ever said that things needed to be handed to him, that he should have a salary raise because he is a fan-favourite and he always overcomes the odds? When has Scott Reave ever invited the people or anyone else into his personal life to see what kind of place it really is? I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want empathy, all I want is what’s mine. And the only way you get what’s yours is when you go right out there and TAKE it.
That’s what I’ve been doing Blaine Harrison. I haven’t been whining in promos about someone who pointed out the truth. I didn’t lash out at my opponent because he said something that hurt me; that was truthful about me. I didn’t try to act like I was some small man with a formerly obese bitch who wants nothing but a good time, when in reality all I’d want is to climb the ladder, to make more money, and to gain more recognition.
I’ve been honest since the beginning. Anyone who wants to ask me what I do this sport for, and I’ll tell them that it’s for the money, for the power, and for the respect. I won’t give them fairytales about how it’s been a long, hard road to climb to the top. I won’t give them bullshit excuses as to why I never made it sooner. I won’t say to the people who pay their money to see me kick your ass that I’m doing it for them. No Blaine Harrison, I do it for me. I’ve always done it for me… and you’re the exact same way. The only difference between us is that you lie about your intentions. You lie about your goals, and you lie to the ‘fans’ in order to save your own ass from looking like a conceited prick.
Why do you hate people like me? Is it because I take what I want?
Do you hate me because in the two weeks I’ve been here, I haven’t tried to kiss anyone’s ass and have decided to play the game in my own way?
You’re just starting out, Blaine Harrison. A clean slate and nothing you ever did before the moment we step between the ropes and square off for the first time means a Goddamn thing. Nothing you ever did, the sacrifices you made, all the ham sandwiches you ate and all the times you shacked up and spooned with a friend from the road won’t mean a damn thing when you’re staring from across the ring from me. All of that is out the window, and it means nothing.
I’m simply a better wrestler than you, Blaine Harrison. I’m smarter, I’m faster, I’m stronger, and I’m more agile than you. I can think on my feet while you’re trying to plan your next super suplex varying finisher. All of these reasons and more is why I’ve been rising up on the backs of the defeated. You see Blaine Harrison, a very long time ago a wise man once told me that strength goes to the man who reaches up and TAKES it. And believe you me, on Wednesday Weekly Combat, I will be the man who rises up on the backs of the defeated, and I will TAKE that strength. I will TAKE that power. And most importantly, you, Blaine Harrison will be stamped out like a weakening candle flame.
Besides, didn’t one of your heroes say it was better to burn out, than fade away?”