Wrestling Isn't D&D And Your Persona Sucks
Apr 14, 2018 13:40:51 GMT -5
Alexander Pasternak, Reece Stapleton-Shaw, and 1 more like this
Post by Felix Stapleton on Apr 14, 2018 13:40:51 GMT -5
Someone named Philly picked me up this morning. It was another ugly morning spent in a pool of my own sweat in some dumpweed motel just North of Hell. The reason for this unfamiliar fat man’s face entering my existence was due to Reece – he was supposed to be my usual ride, as he’d been the last month, but he abandoned me at the last second. The text message was incredibly vague – something about bull cucking a fat boy with his darling girlfriend. He promised he’d tell me more later – big news or some ugly nonsense. At any rate, I wasn’t going to be too bothered, so long as Philly let me smoke in his car.
The knock and pick-up came far too early for me, splitting me from my sleep in heavenly peace at around 7:00 AM. I have a firm commitment to never waking up before 10, so this was largely unacceptable. When I opened the door, I could hardly believe the person I was met with – who is this ugly beast covered in crazed tattoos? What’s with the lawnmower haircut and multiple piercings? What the fuck could he be doing up at this hour – and how the hell was he related to Billy when he’s clearly black? This had to be a mix-up.
“No solicitors.”
Shit. This was the guy alright. It was even worse that he recognized me immediately.
An ugly mood was falling over the door frame. This awful man was staring at me with a mixture of apprehension and insult. Worse, if he turned aggressive, I was certainly cornered. Act natural, Felix. Disarm him with affability. Put those bouncer instincts to use.
“So, you’re Philly, huh?”
That couldn’t be right… could it? Could I have cohabitated in a 20-by-20 foot space with this beast and have never noticed? Had the literal elephant in the room never crossed my mind? Philly shook his head.
And there was my exit. Play the fool. Feign stupidity.
“I have to take a shower.”
I let Philly in to the motel room and took to the restroom, all but ignoring the comments he made about the state I’d left the place. I was just glad the rate was low. After a long, hot shower and a quick brush of my teeth, I got dressed and lugged my beaten old Adidas duffle bag to Philly’s car, a 2004 Mazda Miata. I spent no time wondering how a boy that big could comfortably fit in a car that small; some questions are best left unpondered for one’s personal sanity.
And then just like that, we were on the road. Philly did not let me smoke in the car. The first thirty minutes were pure silence, just the lull of some awful hip-hop radio station playing the same Cardi B song. It was after the silence became unbearable that Philly cut the tension.
He was excited, slapping me gleefully on the shoulder. I tried to match his enthusiasm.
“Yeah – uh – should be great, yeah.”
He grinned.
“I, uh, don’t really like fighting women.”
“I don’t really –”
I sighed. He was not to be moved.
“Yeah, sure, I guess. I just can’t stop thinking ‘Ray Rice’. Not that I’m sure these chicks can’t beat my ass, but I dunno.”
And here I thought we wouldn’t discuss the philosophical/moral implications of mixed tag wrestling and its perception in pop culture. I could almost hear Reece calling it “fucking gay” in my head.
“Huh?”
“You sure you got them? The last thing I want is that you say that and don’t show up.”
I shook my head. Thank god for sunglasses – the sun was cresting on its rise and stabbing me directly in the pupils. My head throbbed like a bitch in heat. I looked down at the clothes I was wearing, thinking about what it would be like squaring off against Shadowlove – always jabbering about his outfit like an unironic Patrick Bateman.
I felt sick even humoring that.
“I don’t really have much to say about Shadowlove because he hasn’t really earned much worth speaking about. He’s a weirdo so incapable of self-reflection that he may just be a vampire, and now I question if he’s ever missed a match because nobody would invite him into the arena. He has zero career focus, and he has one of the most petty and delusional senses of entitlement on the entire roster. I can almost guarantee that he and Miss Miyamoto, who I definitely wouldn’t mind deep-dicking sometime, think this match is in the bag. And, of course, when they don’t win, they’ll behave like absolutely nothing has changed. That’s why Shadowlove and the Hasdrubal Corporation or whatever the fuck they call themselves can’t succeed at the top level: they don’t grow and evolve.
I already guarantee he’s not taking us seriously – that he and probably everyone else in this match think we’re the joke second only to Petrov and Hajeet. They’re wrong; I don’t give a shit if this is only my second match, I need that Champion’s paycheck. You want motivation? Boom, there you go. I’m too hungry to eat an L, baby; I need that rent money. You guys can fall all over yourself to talk about the ‘honor’ and ‘prestige’ of being a Champion, but my stomach kicks my ass into drive a lot more than my heart. When you’re a bunch of rich dipshit models stuffing yourselves on filet night after night, you’re never gonna be as vicious as a starving dog. I want that life you have, and this belt is one of the first steps I got towards it. You’re just another lazy elitist who hasn’t had gotten dirt under their nails, let alone their face ground into a dirty bar floor. And all the technique and athleticism in the world won’t save you from a good old ass-kicking.”
Philly lit up.
He slapped me on the shoulder, taking his eyes off the road for one harrowing second.
“Yeah, uh, speaking of Reese… is he actually any good in the ring?”
Philly shrugged.
I nodded. There was a twinge of relief that went through me – I’d previously asked Reese if he wanted to partner up with me for this shot, but he was too obsessed with fighting some guy named Lincoln. Horrible, boring town, by the way. Philly, I suppose, was who he lined up for me. And maybe, just maybe, this was the better option. Maybe this was the path to success. Or maybe I’d have to carry both of them on my back going forward. At any rate, who cares? Nothing was getting between me and that paycheck.
The car was silent again. Something by Lil Yachty was playing – or was it 6ix9ine? I can’t tell mumble rappers apart, and I’m only familiar with them because of the girls at work.
I shrugged.
“What about ‘em?”
“Why would I need any sort of strategy to face them?”
“So? Are all men created equal?”
“No, they aren’t. Case in point: Petrov and Hajeet. These guys literally exist to hype the idiot rubes who go to these stupid shows and get their asses kicked. They’re jokes, the worst aspects of this business and all the stupid ideas it has. Characters like Petrov and Hajeet are little more than minstrel shows; they’re the reason why only rednecks from shitholes like the California Central Valley like these two-bit shows. It’s all an act so they can pat themselves on the back of their greasy Kid Rock shirts, chant ‘USA’, and think about how much better they are than the funny South Asian guy and his Cossack friend. I also can’t even think of how contrived of a pairing they are: the slick talking weirdo who posits himself like royalty and his raw muscle enforcer. If I ever end up in a team like that, please put me out of my misery.
I mean, seriously, ‘Meet My Knees’? ‘Petrov Smash’? What the fuck is going to be next? Do we sign a redneck with a pet bald eagle to fight Petrov in a joke of a match? Maybe a bunch of aliens? I swear, shit like this is exactly why people think professional wrestling is trashy kitsch bloodsport. You don’t see this kind of bullshit in MMA. UFC would never sign a preening pretty boy and put him in the main championship spot – it fundamentally wouldn’t make sense and few people would take it seriously. Yet here we are, some guy calls himself a Prince of Tripura or Broseidon King of the Brocean and we’re all supposed to mark out like, ‘wow, what a great and unique idea with excellent execution. Hats off for creativity.’ Except creativity and whacky hi-jinks don’t mean shit when you step in the ring. I don’t care if you’re a prince or a big Russian who fights bears or a super model billionaire or a time traveler or what-the-fuck ever: I bouncer at bars and have spent the past four years of my life kicking ass and getting my ass kicked. I have more injuries, bruises, and scars from a week of work than you do your whole lives. That’s the fundamental difference that makes this match: grit. The only people who have it are the people in this car. It’s probably what will lead Reese to victory, too, I guess.”
Philly bounced in his seat, his body wiggling like Jell-O. He slapped me on the shoulder again, harder this time.
“Please watch the road.”
I couldn’t do it anymore. I pointed at an upcoming exit.
“Pull off, I want a cigarette and coffee.”
We parked at a Sinclair. Inside, I bought a Starbucks Iced Mocha and a copy of “Open City” by Teju Cole for light reading. I wanted this over and the belt on my waist.
The knock and pick-up came far too early for me, splitting me from my sleep in heavenly peace at around 7:00 AM. I have a firm commitment to never waking up before 10, so this was largely unacceptable. When I opened the door, I could hardly believe the person I was met with – who is this ugly beast covered in crazed tattoos? What’s with the lawnmower haircut and multiple piercings? What the fuck could he be doing up at this hour – and how the hell was he related to Billy when he’s clearly black? This had to be a mix-up.
“No solicitors.”
“C’mon, Felix, don’t be that way.”
Shit. This was the guy alright. It was even worse that he recognized me immediately.
“Fuck you staring at me like that, man?”
An ugly mood was falling over the door frame. This awful man was staring at me with a mixture of apprehension and insult. Worse, if he turned aggressive, I was certainly cornered. Act natural, Felix. Disarm him with affability. Put those bouncer instincts to use.
“So, you’re Philly, huh?”
“Bro, we’ve been sharing a locker room with Reece for the last month.”
That couldn’t be right… could it? Could I have cohabitated in a 20-by-20 foot space with this beast and have never noticed? Had the literal elephant in the room never crossed my mind? Philly shook his head.
“You drink too much. Reek of booze right now.”
And there was my exit. Play the fool. Feign stupidity.
“I have to take a shower.”
I let Philly in to the motel room and took to the restroom, all but ignoring the comments he made about the state I’d left the place. I was just glad the rate was low. After a long, hot shower and a quick brush of my teeth, I got dressed and lugged my beaten old Adidas duffle bag to Philly’s car, a 2004 Mazda Miata. I spent no time wondering how a boy that big could comfortably fit in a car that small; some questions are best left unpondered for one’s personal sanity.
And then just like that, we were on the road. Philly did not let me smoke in the car. The first thirty minutes were pure silence, just the lull of some awful hip-hop radio station playing the same Cardi B song. It was after the silence became unbearable that Philly cut the tension.
“You ready to kick some ass this weekend?”
He was excited, slapping me gleefully on the shoulder. I tried to match his enthusiasm.
“Yeah – uh – should be great, yeah.”
He grinned.
“Some of these folks – walk in the park. A bunch of girls, two dipshits, and that one weird model with his freaky girlfriend.”
“No sweat, bro, I got ‘em handled. Besides that one creepy Japanese woman – she gives me the heeby-jeebies. Can you sort her, man?”
“Please?”
I sighed. He was not to be moved.
“Yeah, sure, I guess. I just can’t stop thinking ‘Ray Rice’. Not that I’m sure these chicks can’t beat my ass, but I dunno.”
“Nah, I get it man. It’s a weird blurry line.”
And here I thought we wouldn’t discuss the philosophical/moral implications of mixed tag wrestling and its perception in pop culture. I could almost hear Reece calling it “fucking gay” in my head.
“So go in, dude.”
“Y’know. Tell me your strategy. I got the chicks – don’t worry about that. Tell me how you’re gonna fuck these other dudes up.”
“Trust me, dude, the broads are handled. Go in.”
Meanwhile Felix Stapleton Jr. wore a pair of distressed and threadbare black Adidas track pants with a suspicious stain near the crotch, two soiled Fruit of the Loom white athletic socks that had a hole in the left heel concealed by the same pair of black Converse All Star flattops purchased just because their color would hide blood and alcohol spilled during the night. On his chest, a thick carpet of hair was concealed beneath a white cotton Fruit of the Loom wifebeater ribbed tank top, though a small tuft of hair still escaped out of the top. All of this was pulled together by the excellent choice of a $50 black Massimo brand zip-up hooded sweatshirt he purchased at Target earlier this week.
“I don’t really have much to say about Shadowlove because he hasn’t really earned much worth speaking about. He’s a weirdo so incapable of self-reflection that he may just be a vampire, and now I question if he’s ever missed a match because nobody would invite him into the arena. He has zero career focus, and he has one of the most petty and delusional senses of entitlement on the entire roster. I can almost guarantee that he and Miss Miyamoto, who I definitely wouldn’t mind deep-dicking sometime, think this match is in the bag. And, of course, when they don’t win, they’ll behave like absolutely nothing has changed. That’s why Shadowlove and the Hasdrubal Corporation or whatever the fuck they call themselves can’t succeed at the top level: they don’t grow and evolve.
I already guarantee he’s not taking us seriously – that he and probably everyone else in this match think we’re the joke second only to Petrov and Hajeet. They’re wrong; I don’t give a shit if this is only my second match, I need that Champion’s paycheck. You want motivation? Boom, there you go. I’m too hungry to eat an L, baby; I need that rent money. You guys can fall all over yourself to talk about the ‘honor’ and ‘prestige’ of being a Champion, but my stomach kicks my ass into drive a lot more than my heart. When you’re a bunch of rich dipshit models stuffing yourselves on filet night after night, you’re never gonna be as vicious as a starving dog. I want that life you have, and this belt is one of the first steps I got towards it. You’re just another lazy elitist who hasn’t had gotten dirt under their nails, let alone their face ground into a dirty bar floor. And all the technique and athleticism in the world won’t save you from a good old ass-kicking.”
Philly lit up.
“Yeah man. Hell yeah! Shit dude, you got some fire in you!”
“Man, between us and Reece, it’s gonna be a massacre. We’re gonna totally clean house, man!”
Philly shrugged.
“He’s one of those athletic types, dude. You know, he doesn’t need to be ‘good in the ring’, right? It’s kinda like you – you’re not a wrestler but you go in and beat ass. That’s how Reese is.”
The car was silent again. Something by Lil Yachty was playing – or was it 6ix9ine? I can’t tell mumble rappers apart, and I’m only familiar with them because of the girls at work.
“So. Petrov and Hajeet.”
“What about ‘em?”
“Well you got any strategy going at them?”
“I mean, they’re competitors.”
“So? Are all men created equal?”
“Well, yeah, of cour –”
I mean, seriously, ‘Meet My Knees’? ‘Petrov Smash’? What the fuck is going to be next? Do we sign a redneck with a pet bald eagle to fight Petrov in a joke of a match? Maybe a bunch of aliens? I swear, shit like this is exactly why people think professional wrestling is trashy kitsch bloodsport. You don’t see this kind of bullshit in MMA. UFC would never sign a preening pretty boy and put him in the main championship spot – it fundamentally wouldn’t make sense and few people would take it seriously. Yet here we are, some guy calls himself a Prince of Tripura or Broseidon King of the Brocean and we’re all supposed to mark out like, ‘wow, what a great and unique idea with excellent execution. Hats off for creativity.’ Except creativity and whacky hi-jinks don’t mean shit when you step in the ring. I don’t care if you’re a prince or a big Russian who fights bears or a super model billionaire or a time traveler or what-the-fuck ever: I bouncer at bars and have spent the past four years of my life kicking ass and getting my ass kicked. I have more injuries, bruises, and scars from a week of work than you do your whole lives. That’s the fundamental difference that makes this match: grit. The only people who have it are the people in this car. It’s probably what will lead Reese to victory, too, I guess.”
Philly bounced in his seat, his body wiggling like Jell-O. He slapped me on the shoulder again, harder this time.
“Please watch the road.”
“My man! We got this! Grit, baby, grit!”
I couldn’t do it anymore. I pointed at an upcoming exit.
“Pull off, I want a cigarette and coffee.”
We parked at a Sinclair. Inside, I bought a Starbucks Iced Mocha and a copy of “Open City” by Teju Cole for light reading. I wanted this over and the belt on my waist.