Post by Jerry on Jul 6, 2016 23:59:46 GMT -5
July 13th, 2004 | 9:30AM
Sunlight pierced through the tattered holes of the orange curtain that draped a single square window. The free-standing cook stove had the remains of burnt rice, and some large brown stains scattered across its surface. What was once possibly white monochrome tile, now a brownish hue, covered the kitchen floor in spots, while several gashes revealed the plywood underneath the ceramic. A cesspool of putrid, chunky water floated in the simple kitchen sink, besieged with dishes, dead flies, and swimming roaches.
A knock in the distance called for the owner of this little piece of paradise. Three full black trash bags, oozing with only god knows what onto the floor, neighbored the front door of Anthony Rother’s compact apartment. Rother had never been confused with the symbol of organization or neatness – he had lived a frantic life over the past two years touring with South Florida Wrestling. Fortunately for the maintenance crew, who sometimes needed to enter, when something either broke or it was just time for routine filter changes, Rother hadn’t actually spent enough time at home to create a hazard, until now.
One of those unfortunate individuals who decided to come to work today wove his right hand to shoo away the flies that buzzed around his face as he entered. His eyes squinted and his nose flared as the rancid smell of a month’s worth of fermented food hit his senses all at once. This was the part of his job that he had hated the most. Yet, when he had been asked to check on the occupant in apartment 227 he had never imagined this. Putting his hands over his mouth and nose, he addressed the occupant who had answered.
“What…the HELL is that?” the worker asked.
Anthony Rother was in the process of trying to recover from his mundane habit of heavy drinking and not bathing when the front door had demanded his attention. This explained the wife beater and plaid boxer shorts look he greeted the maintenance worker with. Rother’s greasy hair was matted and cow-licked where his pillow had decided to leave its mark. The wife beater bore a yellow tint, as opposed to the bright white that most people are accustomed to, and was littered with stains that one only dared not to question their origin.
“Ermmffmfmfmfmfm…” he grumbled.
Rother reached around and scratched at his backside where the torn boxer shorts gave him the perfect opening to relieve the itching by contacting bare skin.
“This is,” the maintenance workers eyes darted around the vile mess before him, “a complete violation of your lease.”
The once sparse apartment was littered with wrappers, half-eaten food, and various glass bottles of alcohol. The folding card table that had served as a coffee table once upon a time had now become a virtual dumping ground of litter that had not made the trash.
“You’re also behind on your rent!” he exclaimed, as Rother sniffed at the hand he had scratched with. “I was asked to enter your place to see if you had skipped out.” His face wrinkled in disgust.
“Does it look like I skipped out?” Rother bluntly asked. “You’ll be glad to know that I do indeed still occupy this shit-hole.” Rother folded his arm at a ninety degree angle in front of his chest and performed an exaggerated bow for his guest. “Please, come in,” he gestured with false ceremony.
“You’re going to be served,” the worker retorted by jabbing a finger in Rother’s chest, “with an eviction notice if you don’t have the rent by three o’clock.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Rother dismissed.
“Today, Rother!” exclaimed the worker.
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“On October 26th, 2013,” Anthony Rother began with a hint of a smirk, “the Usual Suspects accomplished what no other team could do for the entire year.”
Rother stood in front of Jason Marx and Chris Tryon, dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt and black tie. He held a rolled up document in his right hand, methodically tapping it into the left hand as he spoke. Marx and Tryon, each wore their original FGA Usual Suspects t-shirts with black electrical tape forming an ‘X’ pattern over their likenesses. The trio stood before an almost casual black banner, except for the golden letters that arched behind them, that read “The Forsaken Heroes”.
“Respect is Earned,” Rother hissed those words with insolence. “That’s what they called that night. Ironic, isn’t it?” He let the question momentarily hang in the air. “It’s ironic that this was the night that should have been the crowning achievement of the two men who stand behind me. That night symbolized the months of blood, sweat, and tears that they sacrificed for you,” he accusingly pointed at the camera with the document, “the fans of Frontier Grappling Arts.”
Rother scowled for a moment and began pacing back and forth in front of Marx and Tryon.
“The Usual Suspects defeated Malcolm Drake and Bob Pooler, collectively known as The Murder; a team that had laid waste to an ever growing list of men and women who had failed to stop their reign of terror.” Rother stopped pacing and smirked.
“The fans finally received their wish,” he slowly nodded, “and how, I ask you, how did they repay these two men? Did they shower them with adulation? Did they continue to stand behind them?” he mockingly asked.
“I’ve been part of this sport for nearly two decades,” he methodically continued, “and one thing that fans have never failed to do is tearing down the heroes that they built up.”
“As quickly as they could, the fans found new heroes to cheer for,” he sneered, “men who won them over with silly catchphrases and flashy jackets that lit up.” Rother scoffed in revulsion. “That’s all it takes, isn’t it? Months of sacrifice…all forgotten about because of two fools who based their every action on getting a cheap pop from the fans.”
Rother felt the anger rumbling in his gut, getting ready to explode.
“And so,” he continued with a raised voice, “The Usual Suspects did what any true champions would do, they gave these two men a rematch even though they had already beaten The Super Mario Wrestling Brothers.” He paused, and raised and index finger. “Only this time, they lost to Max and Landon in a non-title match.”
“Oh yes,” he chuckled, “they still held the tag team titles but they had lost all of the momentum that they had built for months on end.”
“Why, you ask?” he scornfully inquired. “It wasn’t as if suddenly Jason Marx and Chris Tryon forgot how to wrestle. It wasn’t the pressure of being called the Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Champions. No!” he screeched.
“They lost their edge, because they had turned over a new leaf and began caring what you mutants actually thought about. That was the only mistake for The Usual Suspects.”
“Now,” he triumphantly continued, “they have returned under my guidance to build upon their lasting legacy with Frontier Grappling Arts. This time, they will do it their own way by their own rules and without malice.”
“Ah, but you see, there’s been a conspiracy against Marx and Tryon since they made their glorious return. You would think that a company who owes the very existence of their tag team division to these men might welcome them back with open arms.”
Rother angrily paced, “But no! The news breaks a few days after Vertigo that they are to be fined for their actions!” He stopped and unrolled the paper that he held, revealing the fine notification. “Furthermore, they would not be booked until these fines were paid. Don’t kid yourself,” he smirked, “FGA knew what kind of financial shape Marx and Tryon were in during contract negotiations. They knew that we didn’t possess the means of paying this ridiculous fine. So I threw a curveball at them and got the money from mommy dearest. Now, they’ve tried to throw a curveball right back at us.”
“Touché…but the joke is on management,” he smugly rubbed his hands together, “we couldn’t have asked for a better partner to enter that ring with on Vertigo. I look at Sara Cochran and I see somebody who gets it. I see somebody who is going to go far in this sport because she knows the secret of success. If you want to get ahead, you have to forget about the mutants in the crowd. It doesn’t pay to get them behind you because they’re fickle, and they’ll turn on you just as quickly as they cheered for you, bought your t-shirts, and retweeted your comments on social media.”
“Sara Cochran, we salute you and the earmuffs,” Rother paused and removed a pair of earmuffs from his jacket, placed them on his head, and continued, “a symbolic movement of truth to show all of the idiots in the audience that they do not matter. An athlete like you is proof that you can go as far as your own merits will take you and in spite everything that the mutants chant, in spite of the filth that spews from their mouths; you determine your own fate. On Saturday night, we will enter that ring as a cohesive unit and crush the hopes and dreams of all of them like Kevin Durant crushed the hopes and dreams of three million meth addicts in the state of Oklahoma; those insignificant welfare recipients who have spent their last dime for Vertigo tickets in that dusty West Texas waste of space – Amarillo.”
Rother tossed the earmuffs aside and smirked, “Oh yes, times are hard on those who place their livelihood in the oil and gas industry right now, and I can’t think of a better way to ruin their night of entertainment; their night of forgetting the mounting bills that they cannot pay; their night of forgetting about the impending foreclosure on the house that they’ve mortgaged…than by beating Ricky Valero and RubyWay.”
“Ah yes, Ricky Valero…” Rother muttered in disgust. “Just saying your name is almost enough to make me throw up in my mouth. You, along with your partner, Luke Jackson, had become the ones who carried the torch that these two men,” he motioned to Marx and Tryon, “ignited in Frontier Grappling Arts. Why don’t the both of you just take a squat over them and defecate in their mouths!” he shouted in anger. “Because that’s what you did to those tag team titles that have existed only because The Usual Suspects signed with FGA in 2013. There were no tag teams on the roster back then, well at least no legitimate tag teams,” Rother cackled in amusement.
“So when I hear you lay claim that the resurgence in this tag team division is because of the path that you paved,” he intensely paused, “well, please excuse me if I mock such preposterous assertions. I was so delighted when Status Quo did everybody a favor and ripped those tag team titles off of your waists at All-Star Showdown. My only disappointment was the fact that they did it before we had our chance. Those title belts are not a means to an end, the FGA Tag Team titles should be the ultimate goal in this company. The supreme test of skill and ability as you entrust your own success and failure in the hands of your partner.”
“These eyes,” Rother motioned to them with his fingers, “glaze over in complete boredom when I hear the members of this pathetic roster arguing like spoiled children over the other titles. They just don’t matter to me!” Rother emphasized in frustration. “So when I heard you repeatedly say that the tag team titles were a stepping stone to much greater things for you in this company, it insults the foundational legacy that The Usual Suspects left behind.”
“You will pay for your affronts, Valero,” Rother methodically remarked while nodding, “as the team of Suspects-Cochran cut off one half of that ring, making it impossible for you to tag out, and you’ll feel the air slowly escape your lungs as we continually suffocate you with a vicious group assault. It’s only when the burning in your lungs becomes too much for you to withstand, as you desperately gasp for air, that we may decide to end your suffering, and toss you over to your corner to tag in RubyWay.”
“Ah, Kevin Hardaway and Ruby Tyler, the current resident team with a fancy hashtag in front of their name,” Rother sneered in disgust. “Honestly, I don’t know much about Ruby Tyler,” he truthfully admitted. “I never really collected DVDs from that promotion in San Diego, but hey… If you were there and you were successful, then it means that you surely have talent.”
“After all,” he grumbled, “you are the current WLW Tag Team Champions, and that’s something too isn’t it?”
“Wait a minute,” he tapped his temple in deep thought, “didn’t I read somewhere that WLW shut down? So I guess those tag team titles are about as worthless as a degree from Trump University!”
“God, nothing ever changes here does it?” he questioned in frustration. “It’s like a horrible recurring dream that I just can’t wake up from. An undeserving tag team, with a hashtag conveniently placed in their name somehow gets bye after bye in Dynamic Duos, and even though they’re eliminated when they actually have opponents with a pulse. They now want to weasel their way into a match for the titles. Spare me this garbage!” he screamed as he folded himself to his knees.
“I swear, if I have to listen to Kevin Hardaway come out here one more time and ramble on for ten minutes about how he used to be a big deal around here, I’m going to off myself.” Rother rose and mockingly rolled his eyes. “Almost doesn’t count, Hardway; just ask Al Gore about that when he lost the election to the great George W. Bush. Yes, you almost beat the Murder, but these two men actually did. The only thing that ‘almost’ earned you was a one way ticket to San Diego where, from what everyone says, you disappointed time and time again.”Rother shrugged his shoulders.
“Look, I don’t know about your time there and I don’t care. What I do know is this, The Usual Suspects and Sara Cochran have the chance to show everyone in the locker room, the mutants sitting in the crowd, and all of the hashtag trolls who cheer for you from their mother’s basement that all Kevin Hardaway is good for now…is destroying the career of anybody who actually associates with him. Oh sure, I can hear you now with your ‘anywhos’ and your ‘dealios’ that you and Ruby Tyler are getting ready to ride the next great wave of success to those titles and you’re going to start that by winning on Saturday.”
Rother shook his head, “No Hardaway, it’s not going to happen. Just like your chance to regain your precious Pride title never happened. The only ride that you’re going to receive is the one that this man,” he slapped Jason Marx in the chest, “takes you on as he lifts you on top of his shoulders in a dazed and confused state. Your vision will begin to return, and you might think for a split second that you’ll be able to get out of it. Unfortunately, it’s about this time that you’ll see this man,” he slapped Chris Tryon in the chest, “coming off of that top rope and it’ll all be over for you.”
“Nobody,” Rother said through gritted teeth, “not even the ‘great’ Kevin Hardaway…”
“…survives The South Texas Death Ride!”
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June 5th, 2004 | 5:00PM
South Florida Wrestling had called the Miami Arena its home for the past two years. It wasn’t a palace, but it was serviceable for a small regional promotion that many had dubbed as a hotbed of the best independent wrestling of the time. The promotion had started small, but had rapidly expanded over the past six months, now running shows outside of its home base and into other parts of the state. Business, it seemed, had been good as the company had built a pretty strong following through syndication and had even begun talks with a network to continue expansion.
Tonight was going to be huge for Anthony Rother and his clients, two time South Florida Wrestling tag team champions, Tony Faline and Rick West. The duo was on the verge of becoming known as the longest reigning Tag Team Champions in promotion history within the month. They found themselves amongst a collection of the promotion’s roster as they waited to be addressed by Jason Marx and Casey Rhodes, who had assumed ownership of the company last year.
The clamor amongst the competitors died down as ownership approached; both men displayed expressions of anguish. Folding tables stacked behind them, Marx eyed the men and women who had left blood, sweat, and tears in the ring for a shot at fame. Anxiety bubbled from his gut and rose – it felt like somebody was sitting on his chest. No reason to delay this anymore, he thought, taking a deep breath.
“It’s over,” Marx bluntly stated to the group, “tonight’s the last show.”
Marx paused to let the realization sink in. A random voice from the group finally broke the silence.
“What do you mean, it’s over?” the anonymous voice hissed. “What about the TV deal?”
Marx closed his eyes and his forehead wrinkled as he struggled for the words. His friend and business partner saw the cue and answered for him.
“The network watched us for the past few months,” Rhodes began. “They were entertained, and they think we really have something here. But --“
“They can’t afford the risk.” Marx interrupted. “Things are changing in the television industry. The FCC is cracking down and they feel that we’re too much of a risk for them.”
“We’ve never been known as a family friendly company,” Rhodes added. “The type of matches we have, the language we use, hell even what the girls wear,” he said with a hinted grin, “it’s all come under increased scrutiny. They won’t touch us.”
“Nobody will,” expanded Marx, in anguish.
Marx eyed the roster that had helped him achieve his dream. It had all started to crumble because of a Super Bowl halftime show. What were the odds?
“One last show,” Rhodes continued. “You guys are all performing for your careers,” he paused, “for your next opportunity,” he stressed. “Get noticed. Get crazy. Do what you need to do.”
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June 5th, 2004 | 9:00PM
Clustered bodies scattered the locker room area of the Miami Arena following South Florida Wrestling’s final outing. Men and women who had worked together over the past two years said their tearful goodbyes. A few, while deterred, knew they would be able to find work in another promotion soon. For others, they knew it was their last chance at success in the sport due to broken down bodies.
Two of the lucky ones were none other than Tony Faline and Rick West, collectively known as The Third School Collective. Their reign as tag team champions may have come to an end on this night, but they were young, they had made a name for themselves, and they knew their options were limitless. These were facts that had not been lost on their manager, Anthony Rother. For somebody currently out of a job, his mood didn’t reflect it.
“Well gentlemen,” he started after zipping up his bag of belongings. “That’s the nature of the sport. One day you’ve got a steady paycheck and the next day you’re looking for work.”
Faline and West had entered SFW as rookies with amateur backgrounds. They had known that their mat skills and chemistry with each other might pay off; however this was a sport where title contenders needed expertise in the form of self-promotion and neither of them had found comfort behind a microphone. This had led them to Anthony Rother, a veteran manager in professional wrestling.
Rother had known how to play the game in the sport. It didn’t matter whether you were cheered or booed as long as you got some kind of reaction. Naturally, he possessed great skill at getting under people’s skin whether it was fans or opponents – so much so, that neither Faline nor West had spoken two words since they had arrived in South Florida Wrestling.
“Look, Anthony,” West started, “we appreciate everything that you’ve done for us.”
“Yeah, “ Faline sincerely added, “really, we owe everything to you.”
Rother raised a dismissive hand. “Gentlemen, it’s been my pleasure. Working with you has been the greatest thing to happen to me in a long, long time. Now, we just have to figure out what’s next,” his eyes pondered. “I hear,” he scratched his chin, “Texas is a great area to find work in.”
“Anthony, you don’t get it,” Faline replied, “we’re moving on to Japan.”
“Japan?” Rother asked rather surprised. “No, no, no - gentlemen that just won’t do for us.” Rother shook his head. “Japanese fans are fickle. One day they want great mat skills and the next they want to see you dumped into a fish tank of piranhas. Quite frankly,” he chuckled, “they’re a little crazy.”
“When I said, we,” Faline pointed to himself and his tag team partner, “I meant, us.”
“Guys, guys…” Rother stuttered, “Let’s not do anything, rash.” His voice was laced with a false confidence, “I mean we’ve got a good thing going here. We can’t break it up while we’re still hot.”
“Correction, you’re hot,” West quickly responded. “Tony and I don’t even get any mic time. We’ve been talking and we decided that it’s time for us to,” he motioned at himself and his partner, “branch out. Show people that we can be successful – on our own.”
“Times are changing, Rother. Managers are becoming, well…” Faline purposefully paused, “outdated, shall we say. It’d be different if you were a woman. No company can say no to a sexy lady.”
“Sex sells, Rother,” West jabbed Rother in the chest. “Unfortunately, that’s something that you obviously can’t bring to the table, and honestly that’s not us. Tony and I, we’re ready to turn this sport on its head without you.”
“At least in Japan, we’ll be respected for what we can do in the ring,” Faline added, “and not what we lack on the mic. You think old-school. Nobody cares anymore about what worked when you were in Memphis. The ‘old’ territories you’re always telling us stories about? They’re dead – gone.”
Faline and West grabbed their gear. West placed his left hand on a wide eyed Rother’s shoulder.
“If it’s any conciliation,” West began, “we really do appreciate EVERYTHING that you’ve done for us, Anthony. We wouldn’t have this opportunity without you.”
The duo slowly walked away as Rother blankly starred in utter shock.
“You can’t do this!” he screamed, shaking with rage. “This isn’t over! Do you really think you can be successful without me?!?! Nobody and I mean nobody bails on Anthony Rother!”
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Denial – The first stage: Once information has been received as to the ideals of change, this natural reaction is to deny that there is a need for change and in fact, for the receiver, it is not happening. In a change sense, a typical statement that is used at this stage is: “Why is this happening to me?”
My Advice: Focus on mastering new avenues of communication, and address the “what’s in it for me” opportunities.
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