Bittersweet Symphony
Jun 9, 2016 18:27:42 GMT -5
Post by Lou on Jun 9, 2016 18:27:42 GMT -5
“Do you think he’s okay?” asks Abigail Verna, the young Valero Fight Club trainee whom Ricky Valero took in as a member of the family six years ago.
“I’m sure he’s fine. He said he just wanted to do this as a precaution because of the headaches he’s been having,” replies ‘Unbreakable’ Logan Redfield, known outside the ring as Sal Valero, Ricky’s older brother.
The two of them are sitting patiently in the waiting room of NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital’s Radiology department. Abigail is wearing a cute navy blue sundress with nude-colored heels. Her blue eyes remain focused on the television set stationed in the corner of the room currently playing an episode of Maury.
“Have you ever read up on CTE?” Abigail inquires. “The symptoms, the side effects...they’re terrifying. Memory loss, depression, dementia. Doesn’t that worry you?”
Logan, a retired wrestler himself, knows all too well the dangers he and his brother face as a result of life in the ring. He was forced to take a temporary hiatus midway through his career because of a spinal injury suffered at the hands of his own brother 15 years ago. He eventually returned to the ring, but his body has never been the same since stepping foot between those ropes.
“Worrying accomplishes nothing, Abi. You just have to hope you don’t wind up another statistic in this industry. You read about guys dying from all kinds of stuff pretty much all the time. Everyday is tough for me now. I pray Ricky doesn’t have to deal with some of the pain I deal with everyday.”
Abigail’s brow furrows and she goes to respond, but her voice is hushed by the sound of an open door. She beams as her eyes on lock on the 5-foot-11 male entering the room. Logan leaps to his feet and meets his brother at the doorway.
“Well?” Logan asks.
“I’m proud of you, Ricky,” Abigail adds. “I know the stubborn side of you didn’t want to do this, but I think it’s important we find out what we might be dealing with here.”
Ricky simply forces a smile. Nearly 16 long years had taken their toll on his body, but he wasn’t ready to accept the consequences. His career could very well hinge on the results of his CT scan this afternoon. He wasn’t ready to have it all taken away from him yet.
“Nothing yet, unfortunately,” he said with a shrug. “Doc said he’ll be in touch with me on the results of the tests later today.”
Ricky’s voice trails off as his gaze is taken away by the vision of a toothless male on the television screen celebrating his disproven parenthood. The woman in the seat next to him, meanwhile, is bawling her eyes out in disbelief Man No. 15 is not the father!
It manages to distract him for just an instant, because reality weighs heavily on him.
“Okay,” Abigail squeaks, trying to break the awkward silence that suddenly overcame the room. “So we’ll go grab something to eat and we’ll have some good news before we know it!”
“I appreciate your optimism, Abi,” Ricky responds with a snicker.
“Well it’s like Logan said, ‘Worrying accomplishes nothing.’ So we’re not going to worry!”
The two brothers gaze at one another with uncertain looks on each of their faces. Logan might be able to say all the right things when his brother’s out of the room, but he hurt inside looking his brother in the face knowing it could all end for him any day now.
.
.
.
We fade back in within the confines of Ricky Valero’s Carnegie Hill loft suite. The open floor plan leads our eyes to the dining room, where we see a long, rustic Cherrywood table placed perfectly beside the full-length windows overlooking Central Park. It’s beautiful outside. The sun is shining and hordes of people have fled to the park to bask in the sweltering Manhattan heat.
But today, Ricky and his friends and family find comfort together within the Valero residence. Plates are set upon the table with an unbelievable spread of food encompassing the center from one end to the other.
At the helm of the table stands Ricky himself. He is hovering over the back of the leather-clad chair in front of him, smiling.
“What are you doing, weirdo?”
His joyous moment of solace is interrupted by the bemused voice of his 25-year-old sister, Angelina.
“Don’t start,” he responds with a hint of embarrassed laughter.
The two embrace in a loving hug that lasts nearly a minute as Ricky refuses to let go of the beautiful brunette he raised up on his own from the time he was 12 years old. With a full calendar, Ricky hasn’t been able to see his sister as much as he’d like to. This was the first time he’d seen her in over a month.
“Where are the kids?” he mutters in her ear, doing his best to fight back some tears.
She smiles as they finally pull away from one another. “They’re downstairs helping your brother and your nephews with the bags.”
Right on cue, the front door to Ricky’s home can be heard swinging open, the jangling of chains clanking against the metal door and the rustling of plastic bags signaling the entrance of more guests this afternoon.
“Yo yo yo,” says Nicky, Logan’s youngest son and a student at the Valero Fight Club training facility, as he announces his presence.
With a bag in his left hand, Nicky is the first to enter the dining room to greet his uncle with a handshake and a hug. Logan and Dominic, his oldest son, follow moments later and exchange similar pleasantries with Ricky as they place the bags on the floor beside the dining table. They begin unloading bags of potato chips and bottles of soda onto the table.
“I’m so happy you guys were able to come out today,” Ricky beams. He’s clearly--and uncharacteristically--overjoyed to have his family with him today.
It’s a level of emotion which actually unnerves the members of his family present today. Ricky is a fine friend and an even better enemy. He’s never been much of a family guy, however. Sure, his brother and sister knew he loved him. Abigail, his nephews, they knew he loved them. He just never showed it.
“Uhh, you okay, Uncle Rick?” Nick questions while cautiously placing a bottle of Sprite on the table.
“I’m wonderful, why?” Ricky inquired.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, hun, but you’re acting weird. Like...all lovey dovey and crap. You’re...awkwardly happy. What’s the deal?” Angelina fired back with a look of concern in her blue eyes.
“You’re not going to die, are you?” Dominic added.
“Dom! Really?!?” Angelina smacked him in the arm.
“I think it’s a valid question!”
Ricky watched his family with a puzzled look in his eyes but a genuine smile curled at the corner of his lips. It was a bittersweet moment for him, realizing how uneasy his family was with him being, well, happy, but it lit a fire under him and made him feel that much better about where he was as he stood before them today.
Just then, their awkward encounter was interrupted by the sound of heels clattering against the marble tile and uncontrollable, childish laughter.
“Worry not, my friends, the party has arrived!”
They all turn around to find Ricky’s seven-year-old son, Little Richie, sitting atop the shoulders of Mayu Ito. Beside them stands Abigail, wearing a timely sun dress in celebration of the early summer weather in New York. Meanwhile, Little Richie is having the time of his life, though it’s evident in Mayu’s face the boy is a bit heavier than he used to be.
This image, his son spending time with the girlfriend he loves so much, and for some reason, loves him so much too despite all his flaws and all his failures, it all warms his heart. The smile on his face is seemingly irremovable.
“Hello beautiful,” he says before planting a kiss on her forehead. “And you…” He lifts his son from Mayu’s shoulders and flies him around the room before pretending to drop him across his knee with a backbreaker.
Everyone greets Mayu and Little Richie, with Logan, Dom and Nick taunting the fiery Valero child with jabs to the body.
“Let’s eat, shall we?!” Abigail interjects, already sitting in her seat and jokingly salivating over all the food spread across the dining table in front of her.
“Calm down, lard ass,” Nick replies. His snark garners him a swift smack across the back of the head from Ricky. Nick turns around like he’s going to do something, but he catches his father’s eyes over Ricky’s shoulder and immediately backs down. Ricky smirks.
They swarm the table, claiming their seats and digging in without hesitation. Abigail--all 125 pounds of her--comes away with the most food on her plate. She’s cheesing like the dork she is while Ricky and company can’t help but laugh at the joy all this food is bringing someone usually so ridiculously obsessed with the way she looks.
As dinner leads on, everyone is enjoying themselves. Despite Ricky, Logan and Angelina having not been raised by their parents, there is an unmistakable Italian air to Valero family dinners and this one is no exception. The conversation is loud and the disagreements are louder.
With a smile, Ricky interrupts the festive discussion with a clearing of his throat and a clank of the fork against his glass of Merlot.
“A toast. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to give a toast.”
On cue, his guests silence with their eyes set on him.
“For the longest time, I blocked you all out of my life,” he starts. “It’s true. I’ve never been the greatest family man. I have my fair share of flaws and my selfishness has always caused a strain between all of us that I will forever regret. I blocked all of you out of my life for so long. I distanced myself for no appropriate reason.
“But right now, I know there’s no place I’d rather be than right here with all of you. I love you guys. May everyday make this family stronger from here on forward. Salute!”
“SALUTE!” his guests repeat.
They all take sips from their glasses while Little Richie squirms in his seat across the table from his father with a big grin on his adorable face.
Just then, Ricky’s iPhone, sitting on the table next to his plate, starts to ring. The room becomes silent. Ricky takes a deep breath.
“Hello,” he answers.
“Yes, hi, is this Mr. Richard Valero? This is Dr. Mihalcik from New York-Presbyterian,” says the man on the other end of the line.
“This is him. What’s up, Doc?”
“Mr. Valero, I do not wish to startle you, but I believe it’d be best if you come in and we discuss the results from today’s CT scan as soon as possible.”
Ricky’s caught off guard. Sure, he knew there was a possibility of bad news. He just didn’t want to believe it. His denial forced his distress at this very moment as a result. He wasn’t prepared for any negativity today.
“Mr. Valero?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“I understand your concern, but I think it’s important you come back to my office so we can discuss what you might be dealing with and the appropriate steps we should take for the sake of your long-term well being.”
“I’ll have my assistant call you later this week,” Ricky mutters in a barely audible tone. He ends the call and slowly places the iPhone back on the table next to his half-empty glass of Merlot. Mayu perks up and reaches for his hand.
“Ricky…?”
“Dude, what is it?” Logan adds.
But Ricky has no response. He simply slouches back in his chair, sighs heavily and stares out the windows toward Central Park. The smile has faded into a disheartening scowl. His friends and family all remain around the dining table, looking at him with uneasy feelings in the pit of their stomachs.
Fade to black.
.
.
.
(rec)
Our scene fades back in on the confident face of one half of the reigning FGA World Tag Team Champions, Ricky Valero. With his blue eyes set square on the camera in front of him, he begins.
“Mark Storm. You showed such excitement when you posted about our upcoming matchup on Twitter, and the only thing I could say is...why? Why would you anticipate certain defeat with such joy? Do you take pleasure in being made to look like a monkey’s ass in front of a few thousand people? Is there something exhilarating about constantly losing and being reminded of just how inferior you are to the majority of the members of this roster?
Forgive me. Perhaps that’s a blunt approach which may be a bit unnecessary. After all, I do like you Mark Storm. And while nobody would ever mistake me as a quote-unquote good guy, I’d prefer to appear like a complete and utter douchebag is little as possible just to save face.
Like I said, Marky, I like you. I like your attitude. I like your moxie. There’s a potential and a determination in you lacking in a lot of guys currently considered ‘better’ than you are right now. That’s a positive in light of some negatives that held you back to date. But sooner or later, you’re gonna hit your stride. You’re gonna find your lane and you’re gonna leave your mark. No pun intended.”
He smirks.
“...Sooner or later is not now. That point and time is most certainly not going to be against me. But I welcome the challenge, Mark. I know you’re going to bring a fight and I know you’re going to give me 110 percent. That I have no doubt about, so I’m pleased to be tasked with discarding an opponent who I know is going to make something of himself...someday.
But that’s the reality, Mark. You’re playing out of your league, and the unfortunate disappointment that awaits you at Vertigo is a veteran beatdown by a man named Ricky Valero who WILL outclass you in every manner inside that squared-circle. That’s hardly something to be down about. It’s an inevitability you and a number of men and women before you have had the misfortune of succumbing to. I didn’t get to this point in my career laying on my back, Mark, and I’m certainly not going to start that trend now.
Don’t mistake my confidence for arrogance, Mark. I know you have something to prove. I know you go into these shows every two weeks analyzing, studying, looking for any and every opportunity you can to gain the upperhand. I like your confidence. No, I LOVE your confidence. You’re sure of yourself. You believe in yourself. THAT is what makes you dangerous. But even the most confident competitor in the world will get knocked on his ass 10 times out of 10 when he steps into the ring with another competitor he has no business sharing the ring with, and Mark, that’s what you’re heading into at Vertigo this weekend. That’s not me being disrespectful. That’s not me spouting off with some egomaniacal bullshit. I’m on the next level, it’s really quite simple.
More importantly, I have something to prove too. This gold you see in my hand…”
He says, raising the FGA World Tag Team Championship to the camera.
“...It might declare me as one of the top talents in this company, but it does not declare me as THE top talent in this company. I love being tag team champion. I love causing havoc in that ring with my partner Luke Jackson and I truly believe we are the best tag team to grace a FGA ring in quite some time. But I came here with my eyes set on the top prize, and that hasn’t changed just because I have achieved tag team success. Since day one, day one, Mark...I’ve strived to be the best in the world. That’s a cliche thing to say, best in the world, but I imagine it’s something most of us strive for. I know you do. I’ve heard you brag about your miniscule accomplishments and warn of your superiority. The impending future you feel so confidently about.
Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve left my mark. Winning tag gold here in FGA is merely the start. It will not be my definitive accolade here, it’s the stepping stone to a legacy no one will ever be able to forget. You, Mark Storm, are a stepping stone to my triumphant rise here in FGA, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the inevitable. There’s nothing you can do to sideswipe my drive.
Two weeks ago, you told Yun Goeun that you have embraced your fears. Your doubts, your worries, everything negative anyone has ever said about you...you have overcome it all. You believe yourself to be a new man, standing amidst a FGA promotion going dark, losing its heart and lacking the moral high ground you pretend you possess yourself. You cite foreign championships and menial bullshit that has no bearing on the reality that the only thing you’ve done here in FGA is get ass whooping after ass whooping after ass whooping. Perhaps they have all been learning experiences which have helped you grow as a person and a competitor. Perhaps each failure, each downfall has prepared you not just for more utter failures but the successes that await you in the future. Yet all of that never could have prepared you for a match with The Franchise himself, Ricky Valero.”
The FGA World Tag Team Champion flashes that trademark smirk.
“If there’s one thing you were wrong about two weeks ago when you spoke of Yun Goeun, it was this: the ring is not her domain. In your match, did she hold the advantage over you? Absolutely. But that ring belongs to ME. That squared circle is MY home, MY domain, and it’s one I have built since I first step foot inside it nearly 16 years ago. All my blood, every ounce of sweat, my all has been given inside a wrestling ring. I have been where you are and I’m not ready to be rendered a stepping stone for the next generation just yet. I still have a lot to give and a legacy to leave here in FGA. Mark, you’re trying to enter MY house at Vertigo and you are not welcome there. I’ve got a rifle on my front porch with you in my sights, kid. Think wisely before you step foot on my property, because if this all is any indication, I have no issue putting you out of your misery early.”
He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath and bringing the emotion back down a level.
“Mark Storm, the fact remains nobody knows you today, and while I do sincerely believe the future is bright for you, the only legacy you’ll gain at my expense is the opportunity to place your name in the column under LOSER in my match history alongside countless others. Like I said, Mark, nobody would ever mistake me for a quote-unquote good guy. That’s not going to change when the two of us step foot inside that ring Saturday night in Florence, South Carolina.
“Are you ready, Mark?”
With a wink and a smirk, the scene quickly fades to black.
“I’m sure he’s fine. He said he just wanted to do this as a precaution because of the headaches he’s been having,” replies ‘Unbreakable’ Logan Redfield, known outside the ring as Sal Valero, Ricky’s older brother.
The two of them are sitting patiently in the waiting room of NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital’s Radiology department. Abigail is wearing a cute navy blue sundress with nude-colored heels. Her blue eyes remain focused on the television set stationed in the corner of the room currently playing an episode of Maury.
“Have you ever read up on CTE?” Abigail inquires. “The symptoms, the side effects...they’re terrifying. Memory loss, depression, dementia. Doesn’t that worry you?”
Logan, a retired wrestler himself, knows all too well the dangers he and his brother face as a result of life in the ring. He was forced to take a temporary hiatus midway through his career because of a spinal injury suffered at the hands of his own brother 15 years ago. He eventually returned to the ring, but his body has never been the same since stepping foot between those ropes.
“Worrying accomplishes nothing, Abi. You just have to hope you don’t wind up another statistic in this industry. You read about guys dying from all kinds of stuff pretty much all the time. Everyday is tough for me now. I pray Ricky doesn’t have to deal with some of the pain I deal with everyday.”
Abigail’s brow furrows and she goes to respond, but her voice is hushed by the sound of an open door. She beams as her eyes on lock on the 5-foot-11 male entering the room. Logan leaps to his feet and meets his brother at the doorway.
“Well?” Logan asks.
“I’m proud of you, Ricky,” Abigail adds. “I know the stubborn side of you didn’t want to do this, but I think it’s important we find out what we might be dealing with here.”
Ricky simply forces a smile. Nearly 16 long years had taken their toll on his body, but he wasn’t ready to accept the consequences. His career could very well hinge on the results of his CT scan this afternoon. He wasn’t ready to have it all taken away from him yet.
“Nothing yet, unfortunately,” he said with a shrug. “Doc said he’ll be in touch with me on the results of the tests later today.”
Ricky’s voice trails off as his gaze is taken away by the vision of a toothless male on the television screen celebrating his disproven parenthood. The woman in the seat next to him, meanwhile, is bawling her eyes out in disbelief Man No. 15 is not the father!
It manages to distract him for just an instant, because reality weighs heavily on him.
“Okay,” Abigail squeaks, trying to break the awkward silence that suddenly overcame the room. “So we’ll go grab something to eat and we’ll have some good news before we know it!”
“I appreciate your optimism, Abi,” Ricky responds with a snicker.
“Well it’s like Logan said, ‘Worrying accomplishes nothing.’ So we’re not going to worry!”
The two brothers gaze at one another with uncertain looks on each of their faces. Logan might be able to say all the right things when his brother’s out of the room, but he hurt inside looking his brother in the face knowing it could all end for him any day now.
.
.
.
We fade back in within the confines of Ricky Valero’s Carnegie Hill loft suite. The open floor plan leads our eyes to the dining room, where we see a long, rustic Cherrywood table placed perfectly beside the full-length windows overlooking Central Park. It’s beautiful outside. The sun is shining and hordes of people have fled to the park to bask in the sweltering Manhattan heat.
But today, Ricky and his friends and family find comfort together within the Valero residence. Plates are set upon the table with an unbelievable spread of food encompassing the center from one end to the other.
At the helm of the table stands Ricky himself. He is hovering over the back of the leather-clad chair in front of him, smiling.
“What are you doing, weirdo?”
His joyous moment of solace is interrupted by the bemused voice of his 25-year-old sister, Angelina.
“Don’t start,” he responds with a hint of embarrassed laughter.
The two embrace in a loving hug that lasts nearly a minute as Ricky refuses to let go of the beautiful brunette he raised up on his own from the time he was 12 years old. With a full calendar, Ricky hasn’t been able to see his sister as much as he’d like to. This was the first time he’d seen her in over a month.
“Where are the kids?” he mutters in her ear, doing his best to fight back some tears.
She smiles as they finally pull away from one another. “They’re downstairs helping your brother and your nephews with the bags.”
Right on cue, the front door to Ricky’s home can be heard swinging open, the jangling of chains clanking against the metal door and the rustling of plastic bags signaling the entrance of more guests this afternoon.
“Yo yo yo,” says Nicky, Logan’s youngest son and a student at the Valero Fight Club training facility, as he announces his presence.
With a bag in his left hand, Nicky is the first to enter the dining room to greet his uncle with a handshake and a hug. Logan and Dominic, his oldest son, follow moments later and exchange similar pleasantries with Ricky as they place the bags on the floor beside the dining table. They begin unloading bags of potato chips and bottles of soda onto the table.
“I’m so happy you guys were able to come out today,” Ricky beams. He’s clearly--and uncharacteristically--overjoyed to have his family with him today.
It’s a level of emotion which actually unnerves the members of his family present today. Ricky is a fine friend and an even better enemy. He’s never been much of a family guy, however. Sure, his brother and sister knew he loved him. Abigail, his nephews, they knew he loved them. He just never showed it.
“Uhh, you okay, Uncle Rick?” Nick questions while cautiously placing a bottle of Sprite on the table.
“I’m wonderful, why?” Ricky inquired.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, hun, but you’re acting weird. Like...all lovey dovey and crap. You’re...awkwardly happy. What’s the deal?” Angelina fired back with a look of concern in her blue eyes.
“You’re not going to die, are you?” Dominic added.
“Dom! Really?!?” Angelina smacked him in the arm.
“I think it’s a valid question!”
Ricky watched his family with a puzzled look in his eyes but a genuine smile curled at the corner of his lips. It was a bittersweet moment for him, realizing how uneasy his family was with him being, well, happy, but it lit a fire under him and made him feel that much better about where he was as he stood before them today.
Just then, their awkward encounter was interrupted by the sound of heels clattering against the marble tile and uncontrollable, childish laughter.
“Worry not, my friends, the party has arrived!”
They all turn around to find Ricky’s seven-year-old son, Little Richie, sitting atop the shoulders of Mayu Ito. Beside them stands Abigail, wearing a timely sun dress in celebration of the early summer weather in New York. Meanwhile, Little Richie is having the time of his life, though it’s evident in Mayu’s face the boy is a bit heavier than he used to be.
This image, his son spending time with the girlfriend he loves so much, and for some reason, loves him so much too despite all his flaws and all his failures, it all warms his heart. The smile on his face is seemingly irremovable.
“Hello beautiful,” he says before planting a kiss on her forehead. “And you…” He lifts his son from Mayu’s shoulders and flies him around the room before pretending to drop him across his knee with a backbreaker.
Everyone greets Mayu and Little Richie, with Logan, Dom and Nick taunting the fiery Valero child with jabs to the body.
“Let’s eat, shall we?!” Abigail interjects, already sitting in her seat and jokingly salivating over all the food spread across the dining table in front of her.
“Calm down, lard ass,” Nick replies. His snark garners him a swift smack across the back of the head from Ricky. Nick turns around like he’s going to do something, but he catches his father’s eyes over Ricky’s shoulder and immediately backs down. Ricky smirks.
They swarm the table, claiming their seats and digging in without hesitation. Abigail--all 125 pounds of her--comes away with the most food on her plate. She’s cheesing like the dork she is while Ricky and company can’t help but laugh at the joy all this food is bringing someone usually so ridiculously obsessed with the way she looks.
As dinner leads on, everyone is enjoying themselves. Despite Ricky, Logan and Angelina having not been raised by their parents, there is an unmistakable Italian air to Valero family dinners and this one is no exception. The conversation is loud and the disagreements are louder.
With a smile, Ricky interrupts the festive discussion with a clearing of his throat and a clank of the fork against his glass of Merlot.
“A toast. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to give a toast.”
On cue, his guests silence with their eyes set on him.
“For the longest time, I blocked you all out of my life,” he starts. “It’s true. I’ve never been the greatest family man. I have my fair share of flaws and my selfishness has always caused a strain between all of us that I will forever regret. I blocked all of you out of my life for so long. I distanced myself for no appropriate reason.
“But right now, I know there’s no place I’d rather be than right here with all of you. I love you guys. May everyday make this family stronger from here on forward. Salute!”
“SALUTE!” his guests repeat.
They all take sips from their glasses while Little Richie squirms in his seat across the table from his father with a big grin on his adorable face.
Just then, Ricky’s iPhone, sitting on the table next to his plate, starts to ring. The room becomes silent. Ricky takes a deep breath.
“Hello,” he answers.
“Yes, hi, is this Mr. Richard Valero? This is Dr. Mihalcik from New York-Presbyterian,” says the man on the other end of the line.
“This is him. What’s up, Doc?”
“Mr. Valero, I do not wish to startle you, but I believe it’d be best if you come in and we discuss the results from today’s CT scan as soon as possible.”
Ricky’s caught off guard. Sure, he knew there was a possibility of bad news. He just didn’t want to believe it. His denial forced his distress at this very moment as a result. He wasn’t prepared for any negativity today.
“Mr. Valero?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“I understand your concern, but I think it’s important you come back to my office so we can discuss what you might be dealing with and the appropriate steps we should take for the sake of your long-term well being.”
“I’ll have my assistant call you later this week,” Ricky mutters in a barely audible tone. He ends the call and slowly places the iPhone back on the table next to his half-empty glass of Merlot. Mayu perks up and reaches for his hand.
“Ricky…?”
“Dude, what is it?” Logan adds.
But Ricky has no response. He simply slouches back in his chair, sighs heavily and stares out the windows toward Central Park. The smile has faded into a disheartening scowl. His friends and family all remain around the dining table, looking at him with uneasy feelings in the pit of their stomachs.
Fade to black.
.
.
.
“If you even dream of beating me you’d better wake up and apologize.”
-Muhammad Ali
-Muhammad Ali
(rec)
Our scene fades back in on the confident face of one half of the reigning FGA World Tag Team Champions, Ricky Valero. With his blue eyes set square on the camera in front of him, he begins.
“Mark Storm. You showed such excitement when you posted about our upcoming matchup on Twitter, and the only thing I could say is...why? Why would you anticipate certain defeat with such joy? Do you take pleasure in being made to look like a monkey’s ass in front of a few thousand people? Is there something exhilarating about constantly losing and being reminded of just how inferior you are to the majority of the members of this roster?
Forgive me. Perhaps that’s a blunt approach which may be a bit unnecessary. After all, I do like you Mark Storm. And while nobody would ever mistake me as a quote-unquote good guy, I’d prefer to appear like a complete and utter douchebag is little as possible just to save face.
Like I said, Marky, I like you. I like your attitude. I like your moxie. There’s a potential and a determination in you lacking in a lot of guys currently considered ‘better’ than you are right now. That’s a positive in light of some negatives that held you back to date. But sooner or later, you’re gonna hit your stride. You’re gonna find your lane and you’re gonna leave your mark. No pun intended.”
He smirks.
“...Sooner or later is not now. That point and time is most certainly not going to be against me. But I welcome the challenge, Mark. I know you’re going to bring a fight and I know you’re going to give me 110 percent. That I have no doubt about, so I’m pleased to be tasked with discarding an opponent who I know is going to make something of himself...someday.
But that’s the reality, Mark. You’re playing out of your league, and the unfortunate disappointment that awaits you at Vertigo is a veteran beatdown by a man named Ricky Valero who WILL outclass you in every manner inside that squared-circle. That’s hardly something to be down about. It’s an inevitability you and a number of men and women before you have had the misfortune of succumbing to. I didn’t get to this point in my career laying on my back, Mark, and I’m certainly not going to start that trend now.
Don’t mistake my confidence for arrogance, Mark. I know you have something to prove. I know you go into these shows every two weeks analyzing, studying, looking for any and every opportunity you can to gain the upperhand. I like your confidence. No, I LOVE your confidence. You’re sure of yourself. You believe in yourself. THAT is what makes you dangerous. But even the most confident competitor in the world will get knocked on his ass 10 times out of 10 when he steps into the ring with another competitor he has no business sharing the ring with, and Mark, that’s what you’re heading into at Vertigo this weekend. That’s not me being disrespectful. That’s not me spouting off with some egomaniacal bullshit. I’m on the next level, it’s really quite simple.
More importantly, I have something to prove too. This gold you see in my hand…”
He says, raising the FGA World Tag Team Championship to the camera.
“...It might declare me as one of the top talents in this company, but it does not declare me as THE top talent in this company. I love being tag team champion. I love causing havoc in that ring with my partner Luke Jackson and I truly believe we are the best tag team to grace a FGA ring in quite some time. But I came here with my eyes set on the top prize, and that hasn’t changed just because I have achieved tag team success. Since day one, day one, Mark...I’ve strived to be the best in the world. That’s a cliche thing to say, best in the world, but I imagine it’s something most of us strive for. I know you do. I’ve heard you brag about your miniscule accomplishments and warn of your superiority. The impending future you feel so confidently about.
Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve left my mark. Winning tag gold here in FGA is merely the start. It will not be my definitive accolade here, it’s the stepping stone to a legacy no one will ever be able to forget. You, Mark Storm, are a stepping stone to my triumphant rise here in FGA, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the inevitable. There’s nothing you can do to sideswipe my drive.
Two weeks ago, you told Yun Goeun that you have embraced your fears. Your doubts, your worries, everything negative anyone has ever said about you...you have overcome it all. You believe yourself to be a new man, standing amidst a FGA promotion going dark, losing its heart and lacking the moral high ground you pretend you possess yourself. You cite foreign championships and menial bullshit that has no bearing on the reality that the only thing you’ve done here in FGA is get ass whooping after ass whooping after ass whooping. Perhaps they have all been learning experiences which have helped you grow as a person and a competitor. Perhaps each failure, each downfall has prepared you not just for more utter failures but the successes that await you in the future. Yet all of that never could have prepared you for a match with The Franchise himself, Ricky Valero.”
The FGA World Tag Team Champion flashes that trademark smirk.
“If there’s one thing you were wrong about two weeks ago when you spoke of Yun Goeun, it was this: the ring is not her domain. In your match, did she hold the advantage over you? Absolutely. But that ring belongs to ME. That squared circle is MY home, MY domain, and it’s one I have built since I first step foot inside it nearly 16 years ago. All my blood, every ounce of sweat, my all has been given inside a wrestling ring. I have been where you are and I’m not ready to be rendered a stepping stone for the next generation just yet. I still have a lot to give and a legacy to leave here in FGA. Mark, you’re trying to enter MY house at Vertigo and you are not welcome there. I’ve got a rifle on my front porch with you in my sights, kid. Think wisely before you step foot on my property, because if this all is any indication, I have no issue putting you out of your misery early.”
He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath and bringing the emotion back down a level.
“Mark Storm, the fact remains nobody knows you today, and while I do sincerely believe the future is bright for you, the only legacy you’ll gain at my expense is the opportunity to place your name in the column under LOSER in my match history alongside countless others. Like I said, Mark, nobody would ever mistake me for a quote-unquote good guy. That’s not going to change when the two of us step foot inside that ring Saturday night in Florence, South Carolina.
IT’S GAME TIME BABY!
“Are you ready, Mark?”
With a wink and a smirk, the scene quickly fades to black.