Killing Time
Jul 7, 2016 19:38:01 GMT -5
Post by Lou on Jul 7, 2016 19:38:01 GMT -5
Once again, we find Ricky Valero seated on an exam table inside the Department of Neurology at New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Today, he’s in street clothes, rocking a throwback black Sunshine Scandalous Tony Carmine t-shirt, denim jeans and ‘Toro Bravo’ Jordan 4s on his feet. He’s miserable as he sits there, scrolling through his iPhone as he waits for Dr. Mihalcik to unveil his face from Ricky’s records folder and actually tend to him on this July afternoon.
“I’m starting to think you just like seeing my face, Doc,” Ricky jests.
The doctor is unmoved, not even turning toward Ricky as he runs through his paperwork with his back to him.
“You’re not my type.”
Ricky is caught off guard by the response and doesn’t know how the doctor means it, but he shrugs it off. “So what’s the deal, Doc? Good news? Bad news? You might like having me around, but I’m going to need your admin’s number if this is going to become a weekly occurrence.”
“She’s 23 years old, Mr. Valero!”
“I have a girlfriend, Dr. Mihalcik!”
“Uh huh,” the doctor snickers.
Ricky smirks.
“Doc, spill the beans,” he beckons. “Please.”
Finally, the doctor spins around on his chair and sits himself directly in front of Ricky with the former FGA World Tag Team Champion’s paperwork in hand.
“Inconclusive.”
“What?”
“The tests were inconclusive again. We are seeing some things that raise concerns, but nothing concrete that enables us to say one way or another what we’re actually dealing with here.”
“Well,” Ricky stumbles trying to find the words. “I’m not dying, am I?”
“No,” the doctor asserts. “It’s nothing currently life threatening. No cancer or tumors of any kind. But Mr. Valero, I’m afraid your brain is showing early evidence of CTE. I know I’ve said it before. I feel I need to say it again. That’s what it looks like to me. Unfortunately, there is no way to prove that until you’ve passed away.”
“I’m hoping that isn’t happening any time soon.”
“As am I, Mr. Valero--”
“Please call me Ricky, Doc, come on.”
“Ricky...You must retire from professional wrestling.”
“Fuck off.”
The doctor is taken back by Ricky’s immediate response. “Excuse me?”
“Fuck off,” Ricky reiterates.
“Ricky, you really don’t understand--”
“No, you really don’t understand. I will not retire from wrestling.”
“Don’t you care? Don’t you value your life at all?” Dr. Mihalcik’s face tells the story of a man in complete disbelief. Despite having dealt with Ricky for a couple months now, he is stunned by this man’s strong-headed feelings in regards to his career. “Ricky, as your doctor, I’m telling you. You MUST retire from professional wrestling. Don’t you understand everything you’re risking by continuing to get in that ring?”
“You don’t think I know by now?” Ricky asks. “You don’t think that after years and years of hearing what you and every other doctor has to say about the risks I’m making by getting into that ring, that I don’t understand it by now? But I’m still wrestling, Doc. I’m still going in there and give it my all. Every. Single. Night. I have never taken a night off. I will never take a night off. I can’t let that change now because you’re telling me I’m going to lose my shit in five years or less and likely cut it all short in a blaze of glory in a Philadelphia alleyway somewhere.”
Dr. Mihalcik is speechless.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me,” he continues. “Imagine one day you cut your hand off while performing a surgery. Blood’s everywhere. That shit is mutilated. There’s nothing they can do to fix it. Now you have one hand and they tell you it’s not possible for you to be a doctor any longer. You can’t perform surgeries. You’re grossing out all the female patients. You’re useless. You must retire. Go to your office. Pack your shit. Get the fuck out. Are you just going to stop being a fucking doctor?”
“That’s not the same thing, Ricky! That’s not the same thing at all!”
“I don’t give a shit, Doc. I don’t give not even a single shit. You nor anyone else is going to take away my livelihood. You might as well bury me!”
The doctor lets out a loud, audible sigh that cuts through the tension in the room and strickens it with a stark, awkward silence. Ricky’s left leg is now spasming uncontrollably as it dangles from the exam table and he bites nervously at the inside of his lip. The doctor massages the bridge of his nose between his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
“Can we go over your symptoms one more time?” Dr. Mihalcik mutters.
Ricky takes a deep breath. “Headaches, dizziness, a little nausea. I don’t know. The usual stuff you get with a concussion, but it’s been at least two weeks since I’ve felt any of those symptoms.”
“No seizures?” the doctor fires back.
Ricky is slow to answer.
“Ricky…”
“Not a single one, Doc. No. I have never had a seizure.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure!”
Dr. Mihalcik eyes him up and down. Ricky suddenly utters out, “Why?”
The doctor’s eyes go wide as he peers at Ricky over his glasses with a look of concern.
“As I said, the tests have been mostly inconclusive, BUT the last EEG test we took indicated a slight slowing of brain activity and what we think is a small, subacute lesion in a part of your brain that can cause seizures.” He looks Ricky right in the eyes. “Coupled with the migraines and cluster headaches you have mentioned, it’s very possible you have already suffered a dangerous level of damage to your brain that could threaten your long-term health.”
“Well,” Ricky starts. “If I have a seizure, I’ll let you know. Until then…”
And without another word, he gets up from his seat and exits the exam room, refusing to spend even another minute with Dr. Mihalcik. The door slams behind him as the doctor watches unable to say a word and unable to do a thing to keep Ricky from betraying his wishes.
.
.
.
The grand iron doors to Ricky Valero’s New York City loft apartment swing open causing Mayu to leap up from her seat next to the dining room windows. She springs to the doors to find her boyfriend entering the home with a glacial presence. His face is expressionless. His eyes are hidden by aviator sunglasses.
“Ricky…” she mutters, sensing a level of discontent from Ricky as he steps through the front doors.
He doesn’t respond immediately, however, instead raising a handful of bags to her face. Finally, he cracks a slight grin, still trying to hide it from her.
“I come bearing gifts.”
“You’re not going to distract me with material things, you dork!”
“Not even if it’s shoes and video games?”
She beams, reaching for the bags. “Shoes?”
He smirks.
“Wait!” she exclaims as she pushes the bags to the floor. “You’re not going to distract me with material things, Ricky! Give it to me straight!”
He bursts into laughter.
“Well?!” Mayu says with a nervous look in her big dark eyes as she stands in front of him with her arms crossed.
Ricky hesitates for just a second. “Clean bill of health, babe. Doc said I was battling some lingering issues of post-concussion syndrome, but all of that should be clear now. We’re all good.” He forces a smile.
She squeals with excitement and runs face first into his chest and wraps her arms tightly around him. He smiles again for a moment, but the pit in his stomach churns his intestines like butter and sends a cold sweat down his back. He shakes it off and returns the favor, hugging his girlfriend tightly and placing a kiss atop her head.
“I love you, Mayu,” he says.
She gasps for air, using all her might to suffocate him with her love. “I love you too, Ricky.”
.
.
.
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside while still alive. Never surrender.”
- Tupac
(rec)
The scene fades in to find “The Franchise” and one half of the former FGA World Tag Team Champions, Ricky Valero, sitting in a large wicker chair on the patio of his Kentucky ranch staring out into the plains that encompass the majority of his 10-acre land. He wears a navy blue New York Yankees t-shirt over grey Nike basketball shorts with his bare feet propped up on the deck railing.
He holds a water bottle in his left hand and his iPhone in his right, scrolling through his Twitter feed with a humorous glow on his face. Suddenly, his eyes rise up to meet the camera with an undeniable sense of confidence emitting from his body.
“Adorable. Luke and I win the tag titles. Luke and I lose the tag titles, and now we got these two schmoes trying to move in us like we aren’t due a rematch? The same two schmoes I somehow got stuck teaming with at Vertigo...tell me I’m dreaming. Forgive my hostility, but I don’t remember this being the way things are supposed to work around here. Kevin Hardaway and Ruby Tyler are swell people, their dysfunctional schtick is ALMOST as good as mine and Luke’s, but they have NO business in OUR business.”
He pauses and takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself amidst his chagrin.
“But I can’t let that misdirect my focus heading into Vertigo. At Vertigo, Kevin Hardaway and Ruby Tyler are my tag partners, and we’re going to have to get along just peachy if we wish to overcome the challengers standing across the ring from us.”
He rolls his eyes.
“The Usual Suspects and Sara Cochran. I guess I should be amused by a few poor saps wishing to reconstruct their legacy at my expense. After all, Anthony Rother thinks I give two shits what THEY think the tag titles should be in this company. He thinks The Usual Suspects are two men who deserve respect for a legacy they supposedly left behind...and all just thirty seconds after making excuse after excuse as to why and how The Usual Suspects never really made an impact anyone actually cared about here in FGA at all.
Rother, you’re men are imposing. I’d be a fool to deny that. I’m not blind and I’m not dumb, contrary to what you and plenty of other people believe. I’ve done my research, I know what The Usual Suspects have done and what they are capable of. I respect them that much. It’s a shame you could not share the sentiment in me. Your inability to do so is a weakness I refuse to ignore.”
That smirk creeps across his face.
“Your men might be well traveled, but they lack the accolades to have earned the heaps of praise you expect for them. The fans don’t give two craps who you are or what they’ve done, and while you say none of that matters to you, your insistence on talking about over and over again indicates something different. But hey, who am I to judge? I’m certainly not God. I do know one thing, however: you’ve made a big mistake underestimating me.
That’s my life story. You’d know that if you’ve paid attention to even five seconds of my promos. I talk about being the underdog so much, it’d be hard to believe I’ve really ever actually been the underdog with all I’ve accomplished in my career, all I have accomplished here in FGA in just eight months time. Accomplishments like winning the FGA World Tag Team Championships with a man who despised me for what I’d done to him in the past and, frankly, what I am today. We won despite our discrepancies and did so by overcoming a host of talented superstars Marx and Tryon could only dream of beating in their diminutive careers.
Have we disgraced the World Tag Titles? Do they mean nothing to us? Watch our matches. See how badly we wanted that gold and how dearly we clung to it. NOTHING in the world meant more to us than gold, and that doesn’t change just because we have aspirations for singles gold in the future that are our true driving force deep down. Our success, our will to win DID spark intrigue in the tag division like never before here in FGA and it DID bring back fools like those two jamokes following you around like sheep to pasture, Rother. You can grit your teeth, you can deny it all you want. If it wasn’t for The Next Level, you guys never would’ve crawled your way back into FGA.
Your guys don’t have the heart. You admitted it yourself. They love the chase, but once they attained what they had fought so hard for, they just gave up. They quit. And in their withdrawal went the legacy you pretend The Usual Suspects carries with them. Tell me how THAT is more representative of the FGA World Tag Titles than what Luke and I have given to the FGA tag division! Tell me how THAT is more admirable than anything Luke and I had to overcome just to be a competitive, cooperative unit! You can’t. That’s reality. We were not bad for the FGA World Tag Titles, we were GREAT for the FGA tag division as a whole. Look at it now in comparison to where it was when we were forced to team together. It’s not even close.
You can talk a tough game all you want with those two over your shoulder, I know heading into this match I’m faced with substantial challenges both from your corner and my own. I welcome it. I relish it. I’m at my best when my backs against the wall. When you and everyone else refuses to believe I can somehow survive. I overcome. I ALWAYS overcome. I can’t tell you how and I can’t you why, but I will overcome once again when I clash with Marx and Tryon inside that ring in Amarillo, Texas.”
He pauses for a second, taking a sip from his water bottle.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Sara Cochran. I know you’re in this match and I know you’re not to be taken lightly, not even more lightly than your tag partners. You, unlike them, have accomplished things since 2013.”
He smirks.
“I like you, Sara. I really mean that, I like you. You have an edge to you, and while you’re a little bit of a negative curmudgeon, I kind of enjoy it. You’re not like the rest of these teeny bopper bimbo bouncing around in the ring with more good bouncing on their chest than up in their heads. The ear muffs thing is a little weird, but I have no business talking about anyone’s choices in life. Truth.
That’s why, on Saturday, I’m excited to square off with you more than the other two nincompoops I just spent five minutes of my life on that I will never be getting back.”
He shrugs.
“That is what it is. I like to talk. I like the sound of my voice. I’m a confident prick whose swagger has gotten his ass kicked in bar fights more times than he chooses to remember. It bodes better inside the ring. Inside the ring, I’m at home. Inside the ring, the ball is in my court, and anyone who wishes to beat me has to do so on my terms. You have had the great opportunity of wrestling some outstanding competitors so far here in FGA. None were as talented or as capable as I am when I step between those ropes.
Pair me up with K-Hard and Rubix Cube, and who knows what you’re getting yourself into at Vertigo. A lethal, unstoppable force? Or a ticking timebomb ready to explode and implode at any moment? Only time will tell, but I’m looking forward to the opportunity just to step in there and get a glimpse of the future.
I want 110 percent from you, Sara. Every little bit you have. Show me. Show us. Don’t let your partners o overshadow you. Don’t let them steal your thunder. YOU have a future in this business. YOU could be something special here in FGA. Just know there’s not a single possible way you’re walking out of Amarillo a winner.”
He cracks a sly grin.
"Rother, you suggested I drop a deuce in the mouths of Jason Marx and Chris Tryon, I got something better. I’m going to go into the Amarillo Civic Center Coliseum on Saturday night, knock some sense into those two jabronis you call The Usual Suspects and send them back into an early retirement where they belong. If not to rid the roster of their talent than at least to save us all from hearing the petulant bullshit flooding out of your mouth on a daily basis. Nobody deserves to be subjected to that, and I feel like now is a better time than later to put an end to it for good...
Are you ready?”
Ricky winks at the camera and cracks that trademark smirk once more as we slowly fade to black.
“I’m starting to think you just like seeing my face, Doc,” Ricky jests.
The doctor is unmoved, not even turning toward Ricky as he runs through his paperwork with his back to him.
“You’re not my type.”
Ricky is caught off guard by the response and doesn’t know how the doctor means it, but he shrugs it off. “So what’s the deal, Doc? Good news? Bad news? You might like having me around, but I’m going to need your admin’s number if this is going to become a weekly occurrence.”
“She’s 23 years old, Mr. Valero!”
“I have a girlfriend, Dr. Mihalcik!”
“Uh huh,” the doctor snickers.
Ricky smirks.
“Doc, spill the beans,” he beckons. “Please.”
Finally, the doctor spins around on his chair and sits himself directly in front of Ricky with the former FGA World Tag Team Champion’s paperwork in hand.
“Inconclusive.”
“What?”
“The tests were inconclusive again. We are seeing some things that raise concerns, but nothing concrete that enables us to say one way or another what we’re actually dealing with here.”
“Well,” Ricky stumbles trying to find the words. “I’m not dying, am I?”
“No,” the doctor asserts. “It’s nothing currently life threatening. No cancer or tumors of any kind. But Mr. Valero, I’m afraid your brain is showing early evidence of CTE. I know I’ve said it before. I feel I need to say it again. That’s what it looks like to me. Unfortunately, there is no way to prove that until you’ve passed away.”
“I’m hoping that isn’t happening any time soon.”
“As am I, Mr. Valero--”
“Please call me Ricky, Doc, come on.”
“Ricky...You must retire from professional wrestling.”
“Fuck off.”
The doctor is taken back by Ricky’s immediate response. “Excuse me?”
“Fuck off,” Ricky reiterates.
“Ricky, you really don’t understand--”
“No, you really don’t understand. I will not retire from wrestling.”
“Don’t you care? Don’t you value your life at all?” Dr. Mihalcik’s face tells the story of a man in complete disbelief. Despite having dealt with Ricky for a couple months now, he is stunned by this man’s strong-headed feelings in regards to his career. “Ricky, as your doctor, I’m telling you. You MUST retire from professional wrestling. Don’t you understand everything you’re risking by continuing to get in that ring?”
“You don’t think I know by now?” Ricky asks. “You don’t think that after years and years of hearing what you and every other doctor has to say about the risks I’m making by getting into that ring, that I don’t understand it by now? But I’m still wrestling, Doc. I’m still going in there and give it my all. Every. Single. Night. I have never taken a night off. I will never take a night off. I can’t let that change now because you’re telling me I’m going to lose my shit in five years or less and likely cut it all short in a blaze of glory in a Philadelphia alleyway somewhere.”
Dr. Mihalcik is speechless.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me,” he continues. “Imagine one day you cut your hand off while performing a surgery. Blood’s everywhere. That shit is mutilated. There’s nothing they can do to fix it. Now you have one hand and they tell you it’s not possible for you to be a doctor any longer. You can’t perform surgeries. You’re grossing out all the female patients. You’re useless. You must retire. Go to your office. Pack your shit. Get the fuck out. Are you just going to stop being a fucking doctor?”
“That’s not the same thing, Ricky! That’s not the same thing at all!”
“I don’t give a shit, Doc. I don’t give not even a single shit. You nor anyone else is going to take away my livelihood. You might as well bury me!”
The doctor lets out a loud, audible sigh that cuts through the tension in the room and strickens it with a stark, awkward silence. Ricky’s left leg is now spasming uncontrollably as it dangles from the exam table and he bites nervously at the inside of his lip. The doctor massages the bridge of his nose between his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
“Can we go over your symptoms one more time?” Dr. Mihalcik mutters.
Ricky takes a deep breath. “Headaches, dizziness, a little nausea. I don’t know. The usual stuff you get with a concussion, but it’s been at least two weeks since I’ve felt any of those symptoms.”
“No seizures?” the doctor fires back.
Ricky is slow to answer.
“Ricky…”
“Not a single one, Doc. No. I have never had a seizure.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure!”
Dr. Mihalcik eyes him up and down. Ricky suddenly utters out, “Why?”
The doctor’s eyes go wide as he peers at Ricky over his glasses with a look of concern.
“As I said, the tests have been mostly inconclusive, BUT the last EEG test we took indicated a slight slowing of brain activity and what we think is a small, subacute lesion in a part of your brain that can cause seizures.” He looks Ricky right in the eyes. “Coupled with the migraines and cluster headaches you have mentioned, it’s very possible you have already suffered a dangerous level of damage to your brain that could threaten your long-term health.”
“Well,” Ricky starts. “If I have a seizure, I’ll let you know. Until then…”
And without another word, he gets up from his seat and exits the exam room, refusing to spend even another minute with Dr. Mihalcik. The door slams behind him as the doctor watches unable to say a word and unable to do a thing to keep Ricky from betraying his wishes.
.
.
.
The grand iron doors to Ricky Valero’s New York City loft apartment swing open causing Mayu to leap up from her seat next to the dining room windows. She springs to the doors to find her boyfriend entering the home with a glacial presence. His face is expressionless. His eyes are hidden by aviator sunglasses.
“Ricky…” she mutters, sensing a level of discontent from Ricky as he steps through the front doors.
He doesn’t respond immediately, however, instead raising a handful of bags to her face. Finally, he cracks a slight grin, still trying to hide it from her.
“I come bearing gifts.”
“You’re not going to distract me with material things, you dork!”
“Not even if it’s shoes and video games?”
She beams, reaching for the bags. “Shoes?”
He smirks.
“Wait!” she exclaims as she pushes the bags to the floor. “You’re not going to distract me with material things, Ricky! Give it to me straight!”
He bursts into laughter.
“Well?!” Mayu says with a nervous look in her big dark eyes as she stands in front of him with her arms crossed.
Ricky hesitates for just a second. “Clean bill of health, babe. Doc said I was battling some lingering issues of post-concussion syndrome, but all of that should be clear now. We’re all good.” He forces a smile.
She squeals with excitement and runs face first into his chest and wraps her arms tightly around him. He smiles again for a moment, but the pit in his stomach churns his intestines like butter and sends a cold sweat down his back. He shakes it off and returns the favor, hugging his girlfriend tightly and placing a kiss atop her head.
“I love you, Mayu,” he says.
She gasps for air, using all her might to suffocate him with her love. “I love you too, Ricky.”
.
.
.
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside while still alive. Never surrender.”
- Tupac
(rec)
The scene fades in to find “The Franchise” and one half of the former FGA World Tag Team Champions, Ricky Valero, sitting in a large wicker chair on the patio of his Kentucky ranch staring out into the plains that encompass the majority of his 10-acre land. He wears a navy blue New York Yankees t-shirt over grey Nike basketball shorts with his bare feet propped up on the deck railing.
He holds a water bottle in his left hand and his iPhone in his right, scrolling through his Twitter feed with a humorous glow on his face. Suddenly, his eyes rise up to meet the camera with an undeniable sense of confidence emitting from his body.
“Adorable. Luke and I win the tag titles. Luke and I lose the tag titles, and now we got these two schmoes trying to move in us like we aren’t due a rematch? The same two schmoes I somehow got stuck teaming with at Vertigo...tell me I’m dreaming. Forgive my hostility, but I don’t remember this being the way things are supposed to work around here. Kevin Hardaway and Ruby Tyler are swell people, their dysfunctional schtick is ALMOST as good as mine and Luke’s, but they have NO business in OUR business.”
He pauses and takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself amidst his chagrin.
“But I can’t let that misdirect my focus heading into Vertigo. At Vertigo, Kevin Hardaway and Ruby Tyler are my tag partners, and we’re going to have to get along just peachy if we wish to overcome the challengers standing across the ring from us.”
He rolls his eyes.
“The Usual Suspects and Sara Cochran. I guess I should be amused by a few poor saps wishing to reconstruct their legacy at my expense. After all, Anthony Rother thinks I give two shits what THEY think the tag titles should be in this company. He thinks The Usual Suspects are two men who deserve respect for a legacy they supposedly left behind...and all just thirty seconds after making excuse after excuse as to why and how The Usual Suspects never really made an impact anyone actually cared about here in FGA at all.
Rother, you’re men are imposing. I’d be a fool to deny that. I’m not blind and I’m not dumb, contrary to what you and plenty of other people believe. I’ve done my research, I know what The Usual Suspects have done and what they are capable of. I respect them that much. It’s a shame you could not share the sentiment in me. Your inability to do so is a weakness I refuse to ignore.”
That smirk creeps across his face.
“Your men might be well traveled, but they lack the accolades to have earned the heaps of praise you expect for them. The fans don’t give two craps who you are or what they’ve done, and while you say none of that matters to you, your insistence on talking about over and over again indicates something different. But hey, who am I to judge? I’m certainly not God. I do know one thing, however: you’ve made a big mistake underestimating me.
That’s my life story. You’d know that if you’ve paid attention to even five seconds of my promos. I talk about being the underdog so much, it’d be hard to believe I’ve really ever actually been the underdog with all I’ve accomplished in my career, all I have accomplished here in FGA in just eight months time. Accomplishments like winning the FGA World Tag Team Championships with a man who despised me for what I’d done to him in the past and, frankly, what I am today. We won despite our discrepancies and did so by overcoming a host of talented superstars Marx and Tryon could only dream of beating in their diminutive careers.
Have we disgraced the World Tag Titles? Do they mean nothing to us? Watch our matches. See how badly we wanted that gold and how dearly we clung to it. NOTHING in the world meant more to us than gold, and that doesn’t change just because we have aspirations for singles gold in the future that are our true driving force deep down. Our success, our will to win DID spark intrigue in the tag division like never before here in FGA and it DID bring back fools like those two jamokes following you around like sheep to pasture, Rother. You can grit your teeth, you can deny it all you want. If it wasn’t for The Next Level, you guys never would’ve crawled your way back into FGA.
Your guys don’t have the heart. You admitted it yourself. They love the chase, but once they attained what they had fought so hard for, they just gave up. They quit. And in their withdrawal went the legacy you pretend The Usual Suspects carries with them. Tell me how THAT is more representative of the FGA World Tag Titles than what Luke and I have given to the FGA tag division! Tell me how THAT is more admirable than anything Luke and I had to overcome just to be a competitive, cooperative unit! You can’t. That’s reality. We were not bad for the FGA World Tag Titles, we were GREAT for the FGA tag division as a whole. Look at it now in comparison to where it was when we were forced to team together. It’s not even close.
You can talk a tough game all you want with those two over your shoulder, I know heading into this match I’m faced with substantial challenges both from your corner and my own. I welcome it. I relish it. I’m at my best when my backs against the wall. When you and everyone else refuses to believe I can somehow survive. I overcome. I ALWAYS overcome. I can’t tell you how and I can’t you why, but I will overcome once again when I clash with Marx and Tryon inside that ring in Amarillo, Texas.”
He pauses for a second, taking a sip from his water bottle.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Sara Cochran. I know you’re in this match and I know you’re not to be taken lightly, not even more lightly than your tag partners. You, unlike them, have accomplished things since 2013.”
He smirks.
“I like you, Sara. I really mean that, I like you. You have an edge to you, and while you’re a little bit of a negative curmudgeon, I kind of enjoy it. You’re not like the rest of these teeny bopper bimbo bouncing around in the ring with more good bouncing on their chest than up in their heads. The ear muffs thing is a little weird, but I have no business talking about anyone’s choices in life. Truth.
That’s why, on Saturday, I’m excited to square off with you more than the other two nincompoops I just spent five minutes of my life on that I will never be getting back.”
He shrugs.
“That is what it is. I like to talk. I like the sound of my voice. I’m a confident prick whose swagger has gotten his ass kicked in bar fights more times than he chooses to remember. It bodes better inside the ring. Inside the ring, I’m at home. Inside the ring, the ball is in my court, and anyone who wishes to beat me has to do so on my terms. You have had the great opportunity of wrestling some outstanding competitors so far here in FGA. None were as talented or as capable as I am when I step between those ropes.
Pair me up with K-Hard and Rubix Cube, and who knows what you’re getting yourself into at Vertigo. A lethal, unstoppable force? Or a ticking timebomb ready to explode and implode at any moment? Only time will tell, but I’m looking forward to the opportunity just to step in there and get a glimpse of the future.
I want 110 percent from you, Sara. Every little bit you have. Show me. Show us. Don’t let your partners o overshadow you. Don’t let them steal your thunder. YOU have a future in this business. YOU could be something special here in FGA. Just know there’s not a single possible way you’re walking out of Amarillo a winner.”
He cracks a sly grin.
"Rother, you suggested I drop a deuce in the mouths of Jason Marx and Chris Tryon, I got something better. I’m going to go into the Amarillo Civic Center Coliseum on Saturday night, knock some sense into those two jabronis you call The Usual Suspects and send them back into an early retirement where they belong. If not to rid the roster of their talent than at least to save us all from hearing the petulant bullshit flooding out of your mouth on a daily basis. Nobody deserves to be subjected to that, and I feel like now is a better time than later to put an end to it for good...
IT’S GAME TIME BABY!
Are you ready?”
Ricky winks at the camera and cracks that trademark smirk once more as we slowly fade to black.