Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2022 8:10:57 GMT -5
Masuda Teijin stands in front of a mirror, his torso bare above a pair of slacks. His toes wiggle from under the hem albeit the lowering temperatures, gripping at the rough jute carpeting of the hotel.
“Radissons of our discontent… and yet I still feel a twinge of power. A dim light not quite squelched by the rivers of the last two months. No matter how hard we each trained to our personal montages like sore, bitter Stallones that obnoxious Everest of Stephen Singh proves impassable.
Perhaps, the fans must be saying in chats from their usual social media depositories that we are no longer relevant. Jessie, do you feel the gnashing closing in upon you? I know you spend time polishing your lips to Grimace purple for the effect of something unique, but are you satisfied with the woman in your mirror? It must be difficult to bear seeing my visage, while comparatively bare this moment, has an objectively looser skin. One formed by our failures. One sagging with rage.”
He buttons up a shirt over small, shark tooth bitten scabs healing across his torso. Light adds harshness to the caverns dug deep into his leathering skin.
“You once called my suits a source of intimidation. I then called you, as I saw you then, Jessie, a thigh-cracker worthy of any ladies rugby club or roller derby league. Appearances, my old dear adversary, should be as deceiving as the earliest stage of fall: cold and begging you to bare yourself without consequence. I do spend an abnormal time pocking these suits, as you must when deciding on dog collars for your Oakland Raiders swap meets. We just must meet the image the fans appreciate.
But have you stopped to ponder a bit like that guy chomping on Twizzlers© whose life is but a joke to all of America? Because what you do in Action Wresting doesn’t just stay in the mind of the accused. Oh no, Jessie Lee, what we do is dissected across every channel and continent. What it means to be the best of the best in the world. Yet you seem content to strut here in the hardcore division—one that isn’t even a thing, really, except by the viewers that have stabled us with Singh and others like our dear friend John Black—and do nothing else but eat cheers. Which makes me wonder if you even want to win.”
Masuda tries on a red tie to bring out the suave blue of his trousers. He tightens it into a double Windsor because he’s not a child sufficing on some lopsided schoolboy knot.
“Like a perfect tie, I’ve spent time learning the techniques of victory. You, however, stop at the basics. You never call my wrestling because you know yours is even worse than my own on a technical scale. You also chose to be a powerhouse in a division that doesn’t lend to your strengths. Everything about your “Horror-core” dream fizzled the moment you stepped into that gold, blue ring. I’ve had all this time to analyze why you’ve never reached the mountaintop after dozens of losses to Singh and other hardcore players. My conclusion should be the same as your own: you prepare poorly and thus always lose.”
We adjusts a matching blue suit, not quite navy but also not charcoal, with a matted sheen best-suited for daylight excursions. His toes anxiously grip at that coarse carpeting.
“Suits cover up a lot of our fuck ups. They insist that we deserve respect albeit the racoon circles or hangover mask of debaucheries poking through like an Armani turtle sipping coffee. I wear them the same as my uncle did because a suit says words when you have too much contempt for the idiots staring back with their drooling questions. It says “fuck off” in a politely stern grip of their undivided attention. Because to reach the top, Jessie, you have to dress the part. You just roll out of bed and expect our respect.”
There’s a shot of him from behind where only a glimpse of Masuda’s face peeks over his left shoulder. It pans out, and in the process, we see a bed with his effect strewn about. Also, there’s a shit ton of barbwire coiled on the mattress.
“Since I’m not the pansexual queer eye designed to save your shitty style, Jessie, maybe I can convince in ways you’re most accustomed. You enjoy pain. So do I. Maybe we stopped all the discussions and philosophy and get down why we’re actually here you spider of a human scattered by sudden light.
It’s a table match because they want us off the screen quick. The fans don’t love you anymore. They don’t pop to your music unless they want to get up and stuff their fat, fucking faces with phallic, slobbering hot dogs at the venue’s concessions. I’ve accepted that my moves aren’t shaking the roster like they did even two months ago. Now with what should be our millionth match—and somehow not adding John Black to the three-way out sputtering grossness—people are no longer opening their eyes. They read their phones. Tweet about what Torture or any dipshit GM unsettles of the company for the months to come.
We’re becoming irrelevant. But at least I can kick you off the platform and watch you fall even further into obscurity. Am I truly that petty. Yes, of fucking course I am. Your failures are the last thing that keeps me in this division. And if you aren’t ready for another of these unwanted and completely undesired public spankings they subject me to administer like a gagging Calvin comic panel—then why are you even here? Because those lips, those spikes and all that leather beg to differ you masochistic whelp.
If you would then be so kind to help me set the table, you insolent child, I’m expecting company…”
“Radissons of our discontent… and yet I still feel a twinge of power. A dim light not quite squelched by the rivers of the last two months. No matter how hard we each trained to our personal montages like sore, bitter Stallones that obnoxious Everest of Stephen Singh proves impassable.
Perhaps, the fans must be saying in chats from their usual social media depositories that we are no longer relevant. Jessie, do you feel the gnashing closing in upon you? I know you spend time polishing your lips to Grimace purple for the effect of something unique, but are you satisfied with the woman in your mirror? It must be difficult to bear seeing my visage, while comparatively bare this moment, has an objectively looser skin. One formed by our failures. One sagging with rage.”
He buttons up a shirt over small, shark tooth bitten scabs healing across his torso. Light adds harshness to the caverns dug deep into his leathering skin.
“You once called my suits a source of intimidation. I then called you, as I saw you then, Jessie, a thigh-cracker worthy of any ladies rugby club or roller derby league. Appearances, my old dear adversary, should be as deceiving as the earliest stage of fall: cold and begging you to bare yourself without consequence. I do spend an abnormal time pocking these suits, as you must when deciding on dog collars for your Oakland Raiders swap meets. We just must meet the image the fans appreciate.
But have you stopped to ponder a bit like that guy chomping on Twizzlers© whose life is but a joke to all of America? Because what you do in Action Wresting doesn’t just stay in the mind of the accused. Oh no, Jessie Lee, what we do is dissected across every channel and continent. What it means to be the best of the best in the world. Yet you seem content to strut here in the hardcore division—one that isn’t even a thing, really, except by the viewers that have stabled us with Singh and others like our dear friend John Black—and do nothing else but eat cheers. Which makes me wonder if you even want to win.”
Masuda tries on a red tie to bring out the suave blue of his trousers. He tightens it into a double Windsor because he’s not a child sufficing on some lopsided schoolboy knot.
“Like a perfect tie, I’ve spent time learning the techniques of victory. You, however, stop at the basics. You never call my wrestling because you know yours is even worse than my own on a technical scale. You also chose to be a powerhouse in a division that doesn’t lend to your strengths. Everything about your “Horror-core” dream fizzled the moment you stepped into that gold, blue ring. I’ve had all this time to analyze why you’ve never reached the mountaintop after dozens of losses to Singh and other hardcore players. My conclusion should be the same as your own: you prepare poorly and thus always lose.”
We adjusts a matching blue suit, not quite navy but also not charcoal, with a matted sheen best-suited for daylight excursions. His toes anxiously grip at that coarse carpeting.
“Suits cover up a lot of our fuck ups. They insist that we deserve respect albeit the racoon circles or hangover mask of debaucheries poking through like an Armani turtle sipping coffee. I wear them the same as my uncle did because a suit says words when you have too much contempt for the idiots staring back with their drooling questions. It says “fuck off” in a politely stern grip of their undivided attention. Because to reach the top, Jessie, you have to dress the part. You just roll out of bed and expect our respect.”
There’s a shot of him from behind where only a glimpse of Masuda’s face peeks over his left shoulder. It pans out, and in the process, we see a bed with his effect strewn about. Also, there’s a shit ton of barbwire coiled on the mattress.
“Since I’m not the pansexual queer eye designed to save your shitty style, Jessie, maybe I can convince in ways you’re most accustomed. You enjoy pain. So do I. Maybe we stopped all the discussions and philosophy and get down why we’re actually here you spider of a human scattered by sudden light.
It’s a table match because they want us off the screen quick. The fans don’t love you anymore. They don’t pop to your music unless they want to get up and stuff their fat, fucking faces with phallic, slobbering hot dogs at the venue’s concessions. I’ve accepted that my moves aren’t shaking the roster like they did even two months ago. Now with what should be our millionth match—and somehow not adding John Black to the three-way out sputtering grossness—people are no longer opening their eyes. They read their phones. Tweet about what Torture or any dipshit GM unsettles of the company for the months to come.
We’re becoming irrelevant. But at least I can kick you off the platform and watch you fall even further into obscurity. Am I truly that petty. Yes, of fucking course I am. Your failures are the last thing that keeps me in this division. And if you aren’t ready for another of these unwanted and completely undesired public spankings they subject me to administer like a gagging Calvin comic panel—then why are you even here? Because those lips, those spikes and all that leather beg to differ you masochistic whelp.
If you would then be so kind to help me set the table, you insolent child, I’m expecting company…”
