Post by Jerry on Sept 15, 2016 11:58:01 GMT -5
October 13th, 2013 | 11:24AM
The raw meat sizzled as Anthony Rother placed the beef patties on the grill, seasoned them, and set the timer. Beeps were sounding off throughout the compact kitchen as crisp golden fries were pulled from the shortening vats at ‘The Burger Ship’, a local fast food place in Miami. Customers stood in dual lines at the front counter, waiting for their chance to place their lunch order. Workers called out the remaining cook times on various products as the shift manager directed traffic with a raised voice.
Rother wore the required uniform, a white polo, black slacks, and a hairnet that restrained any hair that might fall into the food. A short, portly young man wearing a white button down dress shirt walked over holding a clip board. He surveyed the work that Rother was doing at the grill station and made notes on his clipboard between audible grunts and noises of approval.
“Hey there junior seaman, you seem to have forgotten your hat,” the GM noted in a pretentious upbeat tone. “Lucky for you, I’ve got an extra one right here.”
The man pulled out a paper sailor’s hat and popped it open with a flick of his wrist.
“Isn’t the hairnet good enough?” Rother asked and sighed in annoyance.
“For health department standards, yes,” the supervisor quickly replied. “However, at ‘The Burger Ship’, no junior seaman is complete without his official sailor’s hat!”
The man carefully placed the paper hat on Rother’s head and flashed a smile in approval.
“There, now that’s a complete uniform!” He approved with a thumbs up.
Rother groaned as his timer went off, and grabbed his spatula to flip the beef patties over onto their second side. The GM noticed his irritation, quickly darted his head to the left and to the right to see if eyes were on them, and quietly acknowledged the goofy ensemble.
“Alright, look…” he began, “I know it’s not comfortable and the paper sticks to your head sometimes when it gets soaked with your sweat. But it’s the required uniform.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Rother whispered back.
“Ok, so it is,” he admitted with hesitation. “But look, I remember during your interview when I asked why you were even applying here that you were going through some financial difficulties. I started exactly where you were at 3 years ago, and look at me now.”
“What about it?” Rother eyed his boss up and down with a narrow-eyed glance.
“I’m the youngest GM in the company,” he replied proudly. “I make a decent salary, almost have my Hyundai paid off, and pretty soon I’ll even be moving out of my parent’s house.”
“Oh, wow…” Rother sarcastically said. “You mean, one day…I could be you?”
“Exactly,” he answered with a wink, oblivious to the sarcasm, “play your cards right, and I’ll put in a good word for you with my boss.”
“Thanks,” Rother unappreciatively replied.
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Acceptance – Congratulations! Once you’ve reached this stage, you have successfully come through the change curve. You have accepted the need to change and are learning to live with the change. Now, you must ask yourself, ‘What is it that I’m going to do with my life now?’
My Advice: Embrace your new beginning and make the most out of it.
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“Embrace my new beginning? Make the most out of it? What kind of psycho-babble mumbo jumbo is that?”
Anthony Rother jerked up on the black leather sofa that had served as his confessional over the past four weeks still wearing his work uniform, minus the sailor hat. Nine years was a long time to be out of the sport. Nine years of working the phones. Nine years of showing up unannounced at any wrestling event he could find to beg and plead for a job. Nine years of…nothing. It was enough to drive him insane, so much so that his mother had begged him to seek professional help.
“That’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard!” he screamed. “Is this the line of bullshit you feed all of your patients? How many of them have taken a leap of faith off a bridge after hearing that crap?” He rubbed his temple in frustration, “I don’t even know why I’m paying you for this drivel!”
“You’re not paying me anything, brother!” screamed James Rother from behind his oak desk.
The beige wall behind the younger Rother displayed his degrees from various institutions of higher learning along with the psychiatric tropes of bookshelves lined with volumes of theory and research. His desk was decorated with small statues of various animals found in Africa; gifts from clients who knew about his love to go on safari for vacation. A small brass cup contained number two pencils, precisely sharpened and organized, ready to take notes as his patrons poured their heart and soul to him; revealing all of their trials and tribulations in life to his sympathetic ears.
“I’m only doing this as a favor for mom,” James bluntly stated, “and quite honestly I don’t really care what you decide to do with your life.”
Anthony narrowed his eyes in displeasure, “You really suck at your job. You know that? How the state of Florida hasn’t revoked your license to practice is beyond me.”
The older brother stood up and methodically walked over to the desk. He leaned over and placed his hands on the surface and began to chastise his younger brother.
“Your job is to help people,” he meticulously began, “give them hope,” he added, “to let them know that everything is going to work out for them in the end.”
He shook his head in disappointment.
“All you’ve done is mock me, tell me that my career goals are hopeless, and that I need to accept that working fast food at my age should be a welcomed change.”
“Anthony,” James tried to interrupt.
“Shut up!” the older brother howled. “I’m done with you; done with these sessions. So I’m the black sheep of the family.” He shrugged. “I’m not sorry,” he candidly added. “I refuse to live my life the way that you and dad expect me to. These last few years, James, they’ve been hell on me, but I’m not giving up. Unlike you, I could care less of what anybody in our family thinks of me; what I choose to do with my life.”
Anthony stood up straight and puffed his chest out in defiance.
“I will make my way back into the career path that I chose for myself. When I do, I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from wherever I’m at. I’m not a conformist; I get things done my way – by any means necessary.”
Rother proudly turned his back to his younger brother and walked away. As the door closed behind him, James mockingly muttered, “Postcards? Nobody sends postcards anymore you idiot…”
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My way… That’s what I remember telling him.
Fuck my way, it wasn’t working. That was over a year ago, and here it was Thanksgiving again, and I still had no consistent work. Oh sure, every once in a blue moon I had the occasional convention that I could always count on. However, my lines were never long; nobody cared about a forgotten manager who hadn’t actively participated in a live show since 2004. It was getting more embarrassing with each passing event.
This time it was a Hilton Garden Inn somewhere off of Interstate 40 in Memphis, Tennessee. Not the brightest fans ever, but they knew their wrestling. They were rabid for it, which meant the possibility of actually making a few bucks for an autographed picture here and there. So I called my mother again and begged her for the gas money to get there and she obliged. She was the only one who ever really got me. So, I packed up my beat up 1997 Honda Civic and made the drive.
It was at this convention where my luck would change as a fan slowly made her way to my table. She wasn’t much to look at, and it’s not like I was some hot commodity for the taking so I didn’t make any eye contact initially. I just slowly grabbed one of my old photos and started writing and asking her who I was making it out to. I didn’t even notice the DVD that she held in her left hand at first, until she said those magical words.
“Did you speak to Jason Marx after he finally won the FGA tag team titles?”
Everything changed for me in that moment. Jason Marx? FGA? Tag Team Titles? I thought she might have been blowing smoke up my ass at first, but then I looked at the information on the insert and there it was. Respect is Earned – The Usual Suspects (Jason Marx and Chris Tryon) versus The Murder (Malcolm Drake and Bob Pooler).
This was my golden ticket! That asshole owed me after he closed up shop all those years ago!
I frantically searched online and bought every FGA DVD I could find from that year on Amazon. Thanks again, mom. I saw it all - their debut against The Motto; their performance in the Dynamic Duos tournament; the feud with The Murder. Then like that, they vanished just as fast as they had arrived. I saw my opportunity fading before my very eyes. What the hell happened? Where did they go?
I didn’t know, but I sure as hell was going to find out. I pulled out all of my old contact information and I found the name of the man who would point me in the right direction, Marx’s old tag team partner from our South Florida days. This was it, the opening for my triumphant comeback.
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”Gold…” Rother began with a dramatic tone.
”It’s shiny, precious, and priceless. It’s the reason that we do what we do,” he paused, ”at least for those of us who have our priorities straight,” he added with a smug smirk.
Rother sat in a wooden chair behind a gray rectangular table. Twin 6 foot fluorescent tube light bulbs occasionally flickered with a buzzing sound from their fixture, creating a momentarily strobing atmosphere in the abandoned police station’s suspect interrogation room. The cold, dull environment complete with bare tile walls created a sense of exposure, unfamiliarity, and isolation; all designed to manipulate the weak-minded criminal element of society to divulge information just to get out of the room.
Four championship belts sat before him on the table in a single line; the two stolen FGA World Tag Team titles on the ends and the WLW Tag Team titles front and center. Rother’s eyes glazed over, almost trance-like, as he placed his left hand across one of the faceplates of the FGA titles and began tracing the design with his index finger.
”Gold is the ultimate prize in our sport. There are those who have it and those who don’t. Gold is your gateway to everything that you could ever want in professional wrestling; infamy, money, and power. It all begins and ends with this.”
”Nothing else matters,” he added with emphasis.
Now removed from the trance, his brows furrowed and he began firing off words at a more consistent pace.
”For far too long The Usual Suspects have been the odd men out of the tag team title scene. They were neglected and ignored while a less deserving team got their shot, only to choke on the big stage again,” he made a quick gagging sound with a hand across his throat. ”They were passed over by the former tag team champions with their ‘rematch clause’ only for everybody to watch them tuck their tails and run off to another company. The Suspects witnessed FGA trying to sell that match at Above and Beyond as a clash between three championship caliber teams. The company even allowed these…” he motioned to the WLW Tag Team titles, ”to have a purpose on an FGA show. Even though by all rights, these had no business being promoted as anything of value,” his face wrinkled in disgust, ”FGA bent over backwards to promote RubyWay as ‘champions’ in that match because of them. Why?” He asked with a shrug. ”More gold equals more viewers…and all of the mutants bought it hook line and sinker.”
Rother noisily pushed his chair back from the table as the wooden legs skidded across the concrete, and began pacing in front of the one-way mirror officers observed the interrogations from. His arms were pulled behind his back as if he were a drill sergeant addressing new recruits.
”While half of the locker room seems more than content to sit back and hope that title shots will fall into their lap, The Usual Suspects know better. If you want something bad enough, whether it’s in this sport, or life in general, you wait for nothing and no one. You make your own shot by taking what it is that you want, disregarding the feelings of everyone around you, grabbing onto your goal tight with both hands…” he stopped, balled his shaking fists together by his face as if he were grabbing ahold of something precious, ”and maybe even smacking Peaches across the face with it.”
He laughed at the jab at Dan Herrera’s girlfriend, who took the brunt of one of the belts across her face at Above and Beyond, as she courageously stepped in front of the shot meant for Dan.
”Say what you will about me, Marx, or Tryon, but all the squawking and accusations from all of you trolls doesn’t matter. My methods worked as I intended them to, and The Suspects can no longer be ignored.”
He opened the steal door with a creak and began walking down a dimly lit hallway as he continued his speech.
”Sure, I had my fun with the whole officially unofficial tag champs tag, but now my men begin their march to ‘Retribution’ on a mission that won’t be complete until they climb the ladder and pull down the belts to become two time FGA Tag Team Champions. The march begins this week on Vertigo, in a match against Johnny Karma and Fujiko Mine; two competitors who know all about…” he stopped as he came to another door, ”gold.”
”The Pride title…” he muttered with revulsion, ”the title that was once known as the cursed title. It would appear that the curse that was once associated with this belt fizzled out nearly two years ago. I disagree,” he said with a shake of his head. ”The curse lives on and is stronger than ever.”
He opened the door and entered another room, again dimly lit with barren walls. Behind him was another one way mirror, this time Rother stood on the viewing side. Currently the room on the other side was pitch-black, hiding whatever contents it held.
”The Pride title is a belt that corrupts its owner, as if it were made from the fires of Mount Doom itself, a title that manipulates you and changes your entire outlook on the sport of professional wrestling…” he smirked, ”for the worse.”
”Take Karma for instance… I own my fair share of FGA DVDs from when he just started cutting his teeth in this company. He was a brash one; a man who knew what he wanted and damn anybody who got in his way. Wayne Carruthers found out eventually as he made his exit stage right. Oh to go back and watch those matches, it was like magic the way that Karma would outsmart that blithering blob at every turn. Just when Carruthers would think he had the upper hand, there was Johnny ready to finish him – by any means necessary. That’s what made Johnny Karma dangerous. That’s what made Johnny Karma the ‘iron man’ of the first Gold Rush Rumble. That’s what made Johnny Karma great.”
He stared off into the distance, as if he were reliving those moments himself.
”Then there’s Fujiko, a woman who came into this company with perhaps one of the greatest acts ever. Oh, she talked the right way, looked the right way, and even played the social media game to get an entire day devoted to her. But when push came to shove and adversity revealed its ugly face to her… She did whatever needed to be done to try and secure a victory.” He chuckled in amusement. ”I’m talking about the Fujiko Mine who snuck back into the ring when she realized the referees weren’t looking to take the Mid-Atlantic Championship victory from Noelle Smith. I’m talking about the Fujiko Mine who didn’t hesitate to try and use brass knuckles against Karma in White Plains. That’s what made her great, the willingness to do whatever it took to win and be damn proud of it.”
He flashed another smile, before his brows furrowed in frustration at more recent revelations.
”Now, I look at both of you with revulsion. Corrupted by a championship belt that dictates you fight by a different set of rules; a title that has manipulated both of you into running away from who and what you really are. But, no…” he paused with a raised index finger. ”You aren’t the only ones to fall victim to the real curse of the Pride championship; the list is endless…”
”Jimmy Page is now questioning whether the wrestling world even needs him.”
”Dom Harter is actually receiving some cheers from the mutants when he walks down the ramp.”
”Chandler Scott is now sounding like a boy scout on Vertigo.”
”Chris Bond…” he paused, cupped his hand, and whispered, ”well, he’s always been a bitch.”
”No, there was only one man to wear that title who was strong enough to never forget who he is, and he’s still scandalous to this day,” he offered with a wink as he continued to kiss the ass of Tony Carmine.
”The rest of you have all fallen for the biggest joke that the fans have ever played on us. The cheers. Oh yes, even Jason Marx and Chris Tryon fell victim to that sound once upon a time. They know better than anybody on how that sound can change a man. Once it begins to trickle out from the crowd, it’s confusing. You get curious and you ask yourself about the feeling that’s coming over your body. The goosebumps to the reaction as it gets louder and louder – it becomes an addiction. Perhaps an addiction more powerful than whatever Molly Reid happens to be snorting up her nose or Dan Herrera is pouring down his gullet,” he laughed at the thought of his obsessive trolling of both competitors on Twitter. ”An addiction that causes you to turn your back on who you are and what got you to this stage in the first place.”
”That’s what is going to be the difference on Saturday night when FGA has to litter the 1st Bank Center with Twinkies and Ho-Hos just to lure the pothead mutants of Broomfield, Colorado off of their couches long enough to attend Vertigo.”
”Oh yes, we’ll have to endure Johnny Karma waxing poetic, as he always does, on Karmic TV, throwing out the accusations and innovative insults with Ms. Baum about who we are and what we’ve done. I look forward to that…” he paused as the left side of his mouth curled, forming a crooked smirk. ”He does indeed have a mastery of the English language, and great taste in music. We’ll have to endure Fujiko talking about how it’s her resiliency that makes her great and loved, and how she’s done it all on the up and up while others have ambushed her and needed help. That’s fine too,” he shrugged. ”This is your weakness,” he pointed an accusing finger, ”you both care too much about the perception from the fans and the idiots in the locker room. We don’t play by the same set of rules.”
Rother flipped a light switch that illuminated the room on the other side of the mirror. Standing at attention, with their faces looking directly forward were Jason Marx and Chris Tryon in a line up room. The wall behind them was marked with the lines and numbers that revealed the height of each suspect to the crime’s witness.
”I’m done trying to deflect attention away from how we’ve earned our victories since these two men returned to FGA.”
”I distracted the referee in Amarillo… I am guilty.” Rother raised his hand.
”Jason Marx grabbed Ruby Tyler’s tights in Amarillo…” he said with conviction.
”I am guilty.” Marx said on the other side of the mirror.
”I tripped Dan Herrera in Tucson…I am guilty.” Rother again shouted with pride.
”Chris Tryon smacked Peaches across the face with one of the belts in Anaheim…” Rother gleefully admitted.
”I am guilty.” Tryon stepped forward.
”You can both call us liars, cheats, and thieves, we’ll own that,” Rother admitted with a shrug. ”But what you call cheating, we call having acumen for creating victories out of opportunities. Amarillo and Tucson go down as wins, no matter how much you trolls bitch and moan on Twitter.”
”That’s why we’re better than all of you because we don’t care what the mutants think. While you two build the foundations of your ring work on ‘pride’, you find yourselves bound by a certain set of rules. Even if this is not a pride title match, it’s now in your blood. You’re great, perhaps two of the best pure wrestlers within this company. Nobody can deny that, and it’s why the two men behind me aren’t even going to try and out-wrestle you,” he admitted, somewhat painfully. ”But we’ll win. Believe me when I say that we’re going to find every single opportunity in this match to do what we do best – take advantage when it’s right, when it works, when it’s unseen by the referee, almost like the sleight of hand by a magician on stage…” he motioned with his hands and revealed a playing card, as if it were pulled from thin air, ”and use that advantage to crush you under our boots. It only takes a moment, it’s quick and it’s unforgiving.”
He began pacing again in front of the mirror.
”Unfortunately the world isn’t black and white like many of you wish that it was. It’s cold, and gray, leading to all of you who live your life through imaginary concepts of right and wrong confused and on the losing end of life. It’s nothing personal, it’s just facts,” she shrugged, ”it’s just how the world works. It’s why Johnny Karma just can’t win the Frontier Lions Cup; it’s why Fujiko can’t beat Johnny Cannon.”
He stopped and looked directly forward, addressing his imaginary audience with a sense of conviction.
”When the match is over, you can both go back to doing what you do best, and put on the thirty minute wrestling classics to the cheers of your adoring fans over that Pride title. None of them will hate you when you lose against The Suspects, because after all, you’ll fight ‘the right way’. Even ‘till the last moment when one of you is scraped off of the canvas for the ride of your life…”
”Nobody…Survives the South Texas Death Ride!”
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