Post by Sidney J. Warwick on Nov 11, 2018 18:04:52 GMT -5
(Dateline: November 5, 2018, 11:59 p.m. local time in Liverpool, North West England. Our location is not entirely certain, but we can see the outline of the Echo Arena in the background, so we are not too horribly far from the venue at which Monday Night Clash has just concluded with the unveiling of the #beachkrew as a new force within the world of Action Wrestling.
Our camera is focused on a grimy back alley, where two stray cats prowl for their evening meal in front of a large blue dumpster.
Without warning, the Action Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion, Sidney J. Warwick, appears in the alley, running at a frantic pace. Despite the fact that it is a very crisp November evening in Liverpool, Warwick is wearing nothing but his wrestling gear, a pair of blue and gold trunks with corresponding kneepads and boots. His chest heaves in and out, and the cold air has forced his nipples into a state of almost uncomfortable erectness. The AW World Title belt is clutched in his left hand, dangling haphazardly as he runs.
The half-naked grappler slams into the dumpster in front of him and then grasps the side of it. After a few seconds of breathing in and out rapidly, a panicked expression comes over his face, after which he lifts open the top of the dumpster and vomits into it, spewing forth a putrid off-white stream of what used to be tofu, cabbage, and stomach acid.
After voiding the contents of his gut, Warwick returns to heavily panting for a few moments before having an outburst.)
Sidney: No, no, no! This cannot be happening AGAIN!
(The World Champion rears back his left foot and swings it forward wildly, kicking the base of the dumpster and sending a loud "CLANK" echoing throughout the alley. SJW begins to pace as he mutters to nobody in particular.)
Sidney: Ten months ago, I was a World Champion. Then, out of nowhere, Stephen Singh, Dune, and Wade Moor conspired with one of those damn BRIEFCASES to take it off of me in my first match as champion after only TWENTY DAYS.
I couldn't handle it. I broke down. I went into hiding. Eventually, my psyche repairs itself and allows me to enter competition in Action Wrestling, and I become a World Champion again just weeks later.
I had plans for this belt. I had so many plans. Glorious plans. And do you know what happened to me? Do you know what happened again?!
(Nobody directly answers Warwick's question, but it is followed by a rustling sound, as what had previously appeared to be a nondescript pile of newspapers begins to move and the arm and face of a homeless man emerges from underneath it.)
Homeless Man: Yo, shut the fuck up! People are trying to sleep here!
Sidney: You can't have my belt!
(Sidney dives forward, landing on top of the homeless man and landing a series of five rapid-fire forearm shivers to his face, bloodying the hapless fellow's nose and lip and rendering him unconscious.)
Sidney: That's it. I can't believe it. They're everywhere. They're trying to get me, and they're everywhere. I can't take it, man. I just can't take it. Ryan Lockhart has the briefcase. He's coming after me with the briefcase. He's going to try to do it just like Singh and Moor and Dune tried to do it before. And he's not alone. He's got backup. He's got Alexander Pasternak. He's got Jared Holmes. AND HE'S GOT THAT BLASTED WADE MOOR AGAIN. And they're going to do it. They're going to jump me. They're going to try to take my belt. They can't take my belt. I've worked too hard for it. And I've got too much to accomplish with it. It's mine. I can't lose it again. I especially can't lose it so quickly. But they've got the briefcase! And they've got Wade Moor! And, oh my god - a term that I use as an idiom and not literally because the notion of god is a falsehood created by the state to keep its citizens subservient - Camila Gonzalez. It's Camila. She's back. She hates me. And she's the GM. She's going to do everything. Everything that she can to help them. To help them take the belt away from me. She hates me. She doesn't want me with this belt. She doesn't want me with this belt any more than she wants me in Action Wrestling. She. Wants. Me. Gone. They. Want. My Belt. I can't let them. Gotta run. Gotta hide. It's the only way. The only way to save my belt.
Mommy?
(Warwick sits down in the middle of the alley, stealing some of the newspapers from the blacked-out tramp and pulling them over himself to try to generate some degree of warmth. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, slightly rocking back and forth as he keeps whispering three words to himself.)
Sidney: Must. Keep. Belt. Must. Keep. Belt. Must. Keep. Belt.
(The scene fades to black. When it comes back up, we are inside a small neighborhood police station, where a pair of uniformed bobbies are sitting at their desks, completing the mounds of paperwork that their bureaucracy requires of them. The camera pans up and to the left, peering over the shoulder of one of the officers, where we see a small holding cell. Seated in that cell are two figures. One of them is a five foot tall woman who has fashioned her hair into a one foot tall spikey mohawk. She is dressed primarily in torn, acid-washed denim. The other is our protagonist, Sidney J. Warwick, still wearing nothing but his wrestling gear, though he has draped one of the stiff sheets from the cell's cot over his shoulders. He appears to have calmed down a great deal since the last time that we saw him.)
Sidney: Well, this is it. I've let my emotions get the better of me before, but now I've really done it. Beating the snot out of an unfortunate homeless person who was probably just in that state because the capitalist system failed to diagnose and treat his mental illnesses. Jailed in a foreign country far away from my home, just like one of those reality shows that they run on MSBNC after Rachel Maddow finishes delivering the real news. This is just the sort of slip-up that the heteronormative, gender-conforming mainstream media will take and twist to smear the good name of a prominent member of the LGBTQIAPK community like myself. This is where it all starts to unravel. I'm spiraling, and I'm spiraling badly. At this rate, before the end of the year I'll be out of Action Wrestling and trying to make what little money I can out of personal appearances on Celebrity Family Feud.
(The mohawked woman, who had previously been minding her own business, overhears Sidney's monologue and turns her head towards him and yells in a thick, Irish accent.)
Woman: Aye, shut up and sod off ye miserable gobshite.
Sidney: Man, lot of people telling me to shut up tonight. At least in here, I know that I'm safe. I know that the Hashtag-Beach-Crew can't get their hands on me, and I know that these fascist, so-called "law enforcement" officers won't let Ryan Lockhart utilize his All In contract so long as I'm behind bars.
(Before woman can once again tell Sidney to piss off, one of the police officers appears in front of the cell door, with a comically large ring of keys in his hand.)
Officer: All right, which one of the two of you is Sidney Warwick?
(The woman begins snickering to herself.)
Woman: heh, the feckin' donkey has a girl's name.
Sidney: It's gender neutral!
(Warwick turns towards the officer.)
Sidney: I am Sidney J. Warwick, sir.
Officer: Well then, I've just gotten off the line with a representative of your employer, a Miss . . . oh, now what was her name . . .
Sidney: Don’t tell me that it was Gonzalez.
Officer: Yes, that's the one! She's said that she'll be posting your bond so that you can get out in time to meet your next wrestling commitment over in Oxford.
Sidney: Oh, well, uh . . . why don't you just go ahead and call her right back and let her know that won't be necessary. I understand the gesture that she's trying to make and I appreciate it, but I accept full responsibility for my actions, and I know that I am the only reason that I am in this jail cell right now is because I made a mistake. I need to remain here so that I can think about what I did before ultimately making my first appearance in court, which I'm sure will be the first part of a long and arduous legal process that might keep me here for the better part of six months.
Officer: She said you'd say that, and she also said that she wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. After all, it wouldn't be appropriate to leave you sitting here on the taxpayers' dime when we could free up this bed for another one of the city's finest.
Sidney: Are you sure? I could help out! I could be of great benefit to the inmates! I could teach them job skills. I have a degree in gender and womyn's studies from Vassar, you know.
Officer: And I'm sure your parents are very proud of you. Now hit the streets.
(Dejected and out of options, Warwick walks out the open door of the cell with his shoulders slumped.)
Sidney: Now I just need to find where I left my pants.
(The scene fades out again and comes back up with a still emotionally downed Sidney J. Warwick seated at a table later the same evening in the midst of Liverpool's Cavern Club, the venue that is most famous for being the place at which the Beatles launched their career. The world champion has managed to put some clothes on, and he has a small drink in front of him. As an unknown local band that sounds to have stolen most of its schtick from Radiohead plays in the background, SJW directly addresses the camera.)
Sidney: So, here we are. This is what it has come to. Three months ago, I remembered some of what it was like to be a World Heavyweight Champion. I remembered the glory, the adulation of the fans, and I remembered the power that it gave me, the platform from which to spread my message of tolerance and understanding.
There were things that I apparently forgot about, though. I forgot that, when you're the World Heavyweight Champion, there is essentially a target on your back twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week . . . and this week it's actually twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, plus one extra hour. Stupid daylight savings time. Everybody is trying to bring you down when you're the champion, and it's only worse when you're somebody like me who is a politically outspoken minority who is attempting to challenge a lot of preexisting power dynamics and systems of oppression. Just look at what the white man did to Muhammad Ali when he spoke out against the Vietnam War and when he wasn't going to let a bunch of honkey crackers dictate where his career went.
That's where I find myself again some ten months after my initial championship reign came to an end. I've got the big belt once more, and once more it seems like everybody is climbing out of the woodwork in order to screw me over. Wade Moor, Camila Gonalez, Jared Holmes, Alexander Pasternak, and, most prominently, Ryan Lockhart . . . they're all out to get me now, and what did I ever do to any of them?
Moor has been targeting me for the better part of a year, and I still can't ascertain what his real motivation is. Holmes isn't even wrestling anymore, so I don't know what his issue with me is. Lockhart seemed to be an honorable guy at first, but now he seems all too poised to take the low road to the championship by cashing in his All In contract. Alexander Pasternak? I barely even know Alexander Pasternak, and I've really only ever heard his name as an inside joke in the locker room.
And then there's Camila Gonzalez! The only thing that I ever attempted to do for Camila Gonzalez when she was still actively wrestling was make her a bigger star, and now she's back as the company's general manager, telling me that the plans that I had for the remainder of my year in Action Wrestling aren't good enough for her, that they don't fit her vision, and that I'm going to have to defend this World Heavyweight Championship against somebody who she has deemed is a "real contender" coming up in just a week at the Turmoil pay per view.
Why, Camila? What did I ever do to you, aside from trying to make you a bigger star?
Granted, I am the last person who you ever wrestled - Mike Massaro barely counts as a wrestler - and I guess that you could say, as a result of that, that I'm the one who ended your professional wrestling career, but is that really my fault? Is it, really? All we did was have a fairly straightforward singles matchup, and if anything I took it easy on you because I wanted you to win. It's not my fault that you weren't powerful enough to kick out before three when I rolled you up at the end of the bout, and it's not my fault that, apparently, the power moves that I landed at that pay per view were too much for your frail body, because, immediately after that bout, you had to hang up your boots.
I know that you're probably bitter that your career didn't work out they want that you wanted it to, Camila, but you shouldn't be taking it out on an innocent person like me. Please consider that when you book the number one contender for Turmoil. Please keep in mind the fact that I come from the very same downtrodden underclass that you do and that you and I should be on the same team, not at each other's throats. We should be working together to make this a better world free from the taint of the white, cis male scum. It's called intersectionality, Camila.
I know that you said on Clash that you have essentially rejected the game plan for the World Title that I outlined during the celebration of my championship victory, but it's not too late for you to change your mind. It's not too late to shatter stereotypes about Asian American athletes by re-signing Beverly Adams and making her my Turmoil opponent. It's not too late to help break down misunderstandings about people with unconventional body types by moving Billy out of the announce booth and into the ring so that I can have a competitive championship match with him. Just think of all the great things that would do for the professional wrestling world and the world at large!
If you want evidence of how well this can work, you've got a perfect opportunity this coming Monday night in Oxford. Fortunately, the open challenge that I put out for a match with Ricky Flippy was accepted and signed before you had an opportunity to throw it away. Granted, the Action Wrestling championship committee - the same austere panel that I met with prior to my match with notorious sexual predator Roy Speede - decided that they weren't going to force me to put my title on the line, but it is still important for little brown boys and girls throughout the country to see a proud biracial competitor like Ricky Flippy, somebody who looks like them, going toe-to-toe with the World Champion, even if the corporate shills at the top of the promotion decided that they weren't going to make it a title bout.
Watch that match closely, Camila, and watch the reaction to it . . . but don't just watch the reaction of the greater AW fan base. You should start by watching the reaction in your very own backyard. I'm sure that, even if you don't have children of your own, you've got a young niece or nephew or cousin who needs a role model, and I can help make Ricky Flippy that role model - the same role model that you failed in becoming just a few short weeks ago.
Granted, I'm not going to let you win this match, Mr. Flippy. Oh no. I learned my lesson trying to do that with Camila. I'll give Rick Flippy a fair shake, and he will win if he can, but, win or lose, Mr. Flippy is going to get what we in the professional wrestling world call a "rub." He's going to get the Sidney J. Warwick bump, and his profile in this industry will be elevated just by the fact that he has been in between the ropes with a reigning and two-time World Heavyweight Champion, a former winner of WCF's War, and the first transgender competitor to hold a major championship in the history of this sport.
Let's face it, Mr. Flippy, you need that rub. You might not say it outwardly because, like most good professional wrestlers, you've got a little bit of an ego to protect. However, the critics and bookers of Action Wrestling don't exactly hold you in the highest esteem. In fact, if my records are correct, you haven't even been featured on AW television since June, back when we were still slumming it on Viceland before making our big splash on the CBS Sports Network. This is your time to shine, Mr. Flippy, in perhaps the most prominent match that you've wrestled since signing with this promotion.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of your critics. I acknowledged the fact that you've had some accomplishments in your time here and that, even though there are more decorated members of the Action Wrestling roster, your resume is nothing sneeze at. You were part of the match to determine the first-ever 201& Fun Division Champion back in February, so your name will always have some place in our history books. Granted, those history books will also say that you lost the match, but, hey, at least you weren't the guy who got pinned! And at least you managed to hit a pretty sweet suicide dive on the way to your loss! That's something to be proud of, isn't it?
But that's not all you have to be proud of, Ricky! You've been in the ring with absolute LEGENDS of the game like Zombie McMorris! Granted, back in the five-way match that you had against each other back in April on Clash, he speared you out of your boots and then pinned you clean in the middle of the ring with an Axe Wound, but that's still an accomplishment! There's a lineup of wrestlers a mile long who would kill to say that they wrestled the great and mighty ZMAC and took that Axe Wound from him!
Heck, you've been on pay per view, Ricky! Granted, it was in the Havoc rumble match that everybody and their mother was in and you were eliminated by Wade Moor in about forty-five seconds, but how many kids have dreamed of competing on a pay per view event but couldn't quite pull themselves up to that level by their bootstraps?
There are a lot of people out there who think that you're a joke, Mr. Flippy. They think that I've requested this match because you'll be easy competition and I'm just trying to pad out my championship reign. However, nothing could be further from the truth. I've offered you this match because I think that you have been severely underrated by this promotion's top brass, even despite all of your amazing accomplishments which I just finished listing off. You're severely underrated, and I want to give you the opportunity to show everybody that you have the talent that I know you do.
It is true that other people in wrestling, people like Camila Gonzalez, don't want you to have that opportunity because they're jealous due to the fact that they can't have it themselves . . . or, in Camila's case specifically, she's jealous because she once had the opportunity but blew it and blew it hard when she was in the ring with, even though I was doing everything in my power to let her pick up the duke.
You've got the chance to do something big here, Ricky, don't mess this up. To quote Eminiem, who I hate to quote because he culturally appropriated rap music from the black man and made millions of dollars off of it all because of veiled notions of white supremacy within the recording industry, this is your one shot, Mr. Flippy. Don't miss your chance to blow. Also, something something, mom's spaghetti, something something.
(With that, the World Heavyweight Champion takes a sip of his drink and turns his head to the stage to face the band, taking sanctuary in the public, far away from any place in which his title belt could be taken away from him.)
Our camera is focused on a grimy back alley, where two stray cats prowl for their evening meal in front of a large blue dumpster.
Without warning, the Action Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion, Sidney J. Warwick, appears in the alley, running at a frantic pace. Despite the fact that it is a very crisp November evening in Liverpool, Warwick is wearing nothing but his wrestling gear, a pair of blue and gold trunks with corresponding kneepads and boots. His chest heaves in and out, and the cold air has forced his nipples into a state of almost uncomfortable erectness. The AW World Title belt is clutched in his left hand, dangling haphazardly as he runs.
The half-naked grappler slams into the dumpster in front of him and then grasps the side of it. After a few seconds of breathing in and out rapidly, a panicked expression comes over his face, after which he lifts open the top of the dumpster and vomits into it, spewing forth a putrid off-white stream of what used to be tofu, cabbage, and stomach acid.
After voiding the contents of his gut, Warwick returns to heavily panting for a few moments before having an outburst.)
Sidney: No, no, no! This cannot be happening AGAIN!
(The World Champion rears back his left foot and swings it forward wildly, kicking the base of the dumpster and sending a loud "CLANK" echoing throughout the alley. SJW begins to pace as he mutters to nobody in particular.)
Sidney: Ten months ago, I was a World Champion. Then, out of nowhere, Stephen Singh, Dune, and Wade Moor conspired with one of those damn BRIEFCASES to take it off of me in my first match as champion after only TWENTY DAYS.
I couldn't handle it. I broke down. I went into hiding. Eventually, my psyche repairs itself and allows me to enter competition in Action Wrestling, and I become a World Champion again just weeks later.
I had plans for this belt. I had so many plans. Glorious plans. And do you know what happened to me? Do you know what happened again?!
(Nobody directly answers Warwick's question, but it is followed by a rustling sound, as what had previously appeared to be a nondescript pile of newspapers begins to move and the arm and face of a homeless man emerges from underneath it.)
Homeless Man: Yo, shut the fuck up! People are trying to sleep here!
Sidney: You can't have my belt!
(Sidney dives forward, landing on top of the homeless man and landing a series of five rapid-fire forearm shivers to his face, bloodying the hapless fellow's nose and lip and rendering him unconscious.)
Sidney: That's it. I can't believe it. They're everywhere. They're trying to get me, and they're everywhere. I can't take it, man. I just can't take it. Ryan Lockhart has the briefcase. He's coming after me with the briefcase. He's going to try to do it just like Singh and Moor and Dune tried to do it before. And he's not alone. He's got backup. He's got Alexander Pasternak. He's got Jared Holmes. AND HE'S GOT THAT BLASTED WADE MOOR AGAIN. And they're going to do it. They're going to jump me. They're going to try to take my belt. They can't take my belt. I've worked too hard for it. And I've got too much to accomplish with it. It's mine. I can't lose it again. I especially can't lose it so quickly. But they've got the briefcase! And they've got Wade Moor! And, oh my god - a term that I use as an idiom and not literally because the notion of god is a falsehood created by the state to keep its citizens subservient - Camila Gonzalez. It's Camila. She's back. She hates me. And she's the GM. She's going to do everything. Everything that she can to help them. To help them take the belt away from me. She hates me. She doesn't want me with this belt. She doesn't want me with this belt any more than she wants me in Action Wrestling. She. Wants. Me. Gone. They. Want. My Belt. I can't let them. Gotta run. Gotta hide. It's the only way. The only way to save my belt.
Mommy?
(Warwick sits down in the middle of the alley, stealing some of the newspapers from the blacked-out tramp and pulling them over himself to try to generate some degree of warmth. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, slightly rocking back and forth as he keeps whispering three words to himself.)
Sidney: Must. Keep. Belt. Must. Keep. Belt. Must. Keep. Belt.
(The scene fades to black. When it comes back up, we are inside a small neighborhood police station, where a pair of uniformed bobbies are sitting at their desks, completing the mounds of paperwork that their bureaucracy requires of them. The camera pans up and to the left, peering over the shoulder of one of the officers, where we see a small holding cell. Seated in that cell are two figures. One of them is a five foot tall woman who has fashioned her hair into a one foot tall spikey mohawk. She is dressed primarily in torn, acid-washed denim. The other is our protagonist, Sidney J. Warwick, still wearing nothing but his wrestling gear, though he has draped one of the stiff sheets from the cell's cot over his shoulders. He appears to have calmed down a great deal since the last time that we saw him.)
Sidney: Well, this is it. I've let my emotions get the better of me before, but now I've really done it. Beating the snot out of an unfortunate homeless person who was probably just in that state because the capitalist system failed to diagnose and treat his mental illnesses. Jailed in a foreign country far away from my home, just like one of those reality shows that they run on MSBNC after Rachel Maddow finishes delivering the real news. This is just the sort of slip-up that the heteronormative, gender-conforming mainstream media will take and twist to smear the good name of a prominent member of the LGBTQIAPK community like myself. This is where it all starts to unravel. I'm spiraling, and I'm spiraling badly. At this rate, before the end of the year I'll be out of Action Wrestling and trying to make what little money I can out of personal appearances on Celebrity Family Feud.
(The mohawked woman, who had previously been minding her own business, overhears Sidney's monologue and turns her head towards him and yells in a thick, Irish accent.)
Woman: Aye, shut up and sod off ye miserable gobshite.
Sidney: Man, lot of people telling me to shut up tonight. At least in here, I know that I'm safe. I know that the Hashtag-Beach-Crew can't get their hands on me, and I know that these fascist, so-called "law enforcement" officers won't let Ryan Lockhart utilize his All In contract so long as I'm behind bars.
(Before woman can once again tell Sidney to piss off, one of the police officers appears in front of the cell door, with a comically large ring of keys in his hand.)
Officer: All right, which one of the two of you is Sidney Warwick?
(The woman begins snickering to herself.)
Woman: heh, the feckin' donkey has a girl's name.
Sidney: It's gender neutral!
(Warwick turns towards the officer.)
Sidney: I am Sidney J. Warwick, sir.
Officer: Well then, I've just gotten off the line with a representative of your employer, a Miss . . . oh, now what was her name . . .
Sidney: Don’t tell me that it was Gonzalez.
Officer: Yes, that's the one! She's said that she'll be posting your bond so that you can get out in time to meet your next wrestling commitment over in Oxford.
Sidney: Oh, well, uh . . . why don't you just go ahead and call her right back and let her know that won't be necessary. I understand the gesture that she's trying to make and I appreciate it, but I accept full responsibility for my actions, and I know that I am the only reason that I am in this jail cell right now is because I made a mistake. I need to remain here so that I can think about what I did before ultimately making my first appearance in court, which I'm sure will be the first part of a long and arduous legal process that might keep me here for the better part of six months.
Officer: She said you'd say that, and she also said that she wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. After all, it wouldn't be appropriate to leave you sitting here on the taxpayers' dime when we could free up this bed for another one of the city's finest.
Sidney: Are you sure? I could help out! I could be of great benefit to the inmates! I could teach them job skills. I have a degree in gender and womyn's studies from Vassar, you know.
Officer: And I'm sure your parents are very proud of you. Now hit the streets.
(Dejected and out of options, Warwick walks out the open door of the cell with his shoulders slumped.)
Sidney: Now I just need to find where I left my pants.
(The scene fades out again and comes back up with a still emotionally downed Sidney J. Warwick seated at a table later the same evening in the midst of Liverpool's Cavern Club, the venue that is most famous for being the place at which the Beatles launched their career. The world champion has managed to put some clothes on, and he has a small drink in front of him. As an unknown local band that sounds to have stolen most of its schtick from Radiohead plays in the background, SJW directly addresses the camera.)
Sidney: So, here we are. This is what it has come to. Three months ago, I remembered some of what it was like to be a World Heavyweight Champion. I remembered the glory, the adulation of the fans, and I remembered the power that it gave me, the platform from which to spread my message of tolerance and understanding.
There were things that I apparently forgot about, though. I forgot that, when you're the World Heavyweight Champion, there is essentially a target on your back twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week . . . and this week it's actually twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, plus one extra hour. Stupid daylight savings time. Everybody is trying to bring you down when you're the champion, and it's only worse when you're somebody like me who is a politically outspoken minority who is attempting to challenge a lot of preexisting power dynamics and systems of oppression. Just look at what the white man did to Muhammad Ali when he spoke out against the Vietnam War and when he wasn't going to let a bunch of honkey crackers dictate where his career went.
That's where I find myself again some ten months after my initial championship reign came to an end. I've got the big belt once more, and once more it seems like everybody is climbing out of the woodwork in order to screw me over. Wade Moor, Camila Gonalez, Jared Holmes, Alexander Pasternak, and, most prominently, Ryan Lockhart . . . they're all out to get me now, and what did I ever do to any of them?
Moor has been targeting me for the better part of a year, and I still can't ascertain what his real motivation is. Holmes isn't even wrestling anymore, so I don't know what his issue with me is. Lockhart seemed to be an honorable guy at first, but now he seems all too poised to take the low road to the championship by cashing in his All In contract. Alexander Pasternak? I barely even know Alexander Pasternak, and I've really only ever heard his name as an inside joke in the locker room.
And then there's Camila Gonzalez! The only thing that I ever attempted to do for Camila Gonzalez when she was still actively wrestling was make her a bigger star, and now she's back as the company's general manager, telling me that the plans that I had for the remainder of my year in Action Wrestling aren't good enough for her, that they don't fit her vision, and that I'm going to have to defend this World Heavyweight Championship against somebody who she has deemed is a "real contender" coming up in just a week at the Turmoil pay per view.
Why, Camila? What did I ever do to you, aside from trying to make you a bigger star?
Granted, I am the last person who you ever wrestled - Mike Massaro barely counts as a wrestler - and I guess that you could say, as a result of that, that I'm the one who ended your professional wrestling career, but is that really my fault? Is it, really? All we did was have a fairly straightforward singles matchup, and if anything I took it easy on you because I wanted you to win. It's not my fault that you weren't powerful enough to kick out before three when I rolled you up at the end of the bout, and it's not my fault that, apparently, the power moves that I landed at that pay per view were too much for your frail body, because, immediately after that bout, you had to hang up your boots.
I know that you're probably bitter that your career didn't work out they want that you wanted it to, Camila, but you shouldn't be taking it out on an innocent person like me. Please consider that when you book the number one contender for Turmoil. Please keep in mind the fact that I come from the very same downtrodden underclass that you do and that you and I should be on the same team, not at each other's throats. We should be working together to make this a better world free from the taint of the white, cis male scum. It's called intersectionality, Camila.
I know that you said on Clash that you have essentially rejected the game plan for the World Title that I outlined during the celebration of my championship victory, but it's not too late for you to change your mind. It's not too late to shatter stereotypes about Asian American athletes by re-signing Beverly Adams and making her my Turmoil opponent. It's not too late to help break down misunderstandings about people with unconventional body types by moving Billy out of the announce booth and into the ring so that I can have a competitive championship match with him. Just think of all the great things that would do for the professional wrestling world and the world at large!
If you want evidence of how well this can work, you've got a perfect opportunity this coming Monday night in Oxford. Fortunately, the open challenge that I put out for a match with Ricky Flippy was accepted and signed before you had an opportunity to throw it away. Granted, the Action Wrestling championship committee - the same austere panel that I met with prior to my match with notorious sexual predator Roy Speede - decided that they weren't going to force me to put my title on the line, but it is still important for little brown boys and girls throughout the country to see a proud biracial competitor like Ricky Flippy, somebody who looks like them, going toe-to-toe with the World Champion, even if the corporate shills at the top of the promotion decided that they weren't going to make it a title bout.
Watch that match closely, Camila, and watch the reaction to it . . . but don't just watch the reaction of the greater AW fan base. You should start by watching the reaction in your very own backyard. I'm sure that, even if you don't have children of your own, you've got a young niece or nephew or cousin who needs a role model, and I can help make Ricky Flippy that role model - the same role model that you failed in becoming just a few short weeks ago.
Granted, I'm not going to let you win this match, Mr. Flippy. Oh no. I learned my lesson trying to do that with Camila. I'll give Rick Flippy a fair shake, and he will win if he can, but, win or lose, Mr. Flippy is going to get what we in the professional wrestling world call a "rub." He's going to get the Sidney J. Warwick bump, and his profile in this industry will be elevated just by the fact that he has been in between the ropes with a reigning and two-time World Heavyweight Champion, a former winner of WCF's War, and the first transgender competitor to hold a major championship in the history of this sport.
Let's face it, Mr. Flippy, you need that rub. You might not say it outwardly because, like most good professional wrestlers, you've got a little bit of an ego to protect. However, the critics and bookers of Action Wrestling don't exactly hold you in the highest esteem. In fact, if my records are correct, you haven't even been featured on AW television since June, back when we were still slumming it on Viceland before making our big splash on the CBS Sports Network. This is your time to shine, Mr. Flippy, in perhaps the most prominent match that you've wrestled since signing with this promotion.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of your critics. I acknowledged the fact that you've had some accomplishments in your time here and that, even though there are more decorated members of the Action Wrestling roster, your resume is nothing sneeze at. You were part of the match to determine the first-ever 201& Fun Division Champion back in February, so your name will always have some place in our history books. Granted, those history books will also say that you lost the match, but, hey, at least you weren't the guy who got pinned! And at least you managed to hit a pretty sweet suicide dive on the way to your loss! That's something to be proud of, isn't it?
But that's not all you have to be proud of, Ricky! You've been in the ring with absolute LEGENDS of the game like Zombie McMorris! Granted, back in the five-way match that you had against each other back in April on Clash, he speared you out of your boots and then pinned you clean in the middle of the ring with an Axe Wound, but that's still an accomplishment! There's a lineup of wrestlers a mile long who would kill to say that they wrestled the great and mighty ZMAC and took that Axe Wound from him!
Heck, you've been on pay per view, Ricky! Granted, it was in the Havoc rumble match that everybody and their mother was in and you were eliminated by Wade Moor in about forty-five seconds, but how many kids have dreamed of competing on a pay per view event but couldn't quite pull themselves up to that level by their bootstraps?
There are a lot of people out there who think that you're a joke, Mr. Flippy. They think that I've requested this match because you'll be easy competition and I'm just trying to pad out my championship reign. However, nothing could be further from the truth. I've offered you this match because I think that you have been severely underrated by this promotion's top brass, even despite all of your amazing accomplishments which I just finished listing off. You're severely underrated, and I want to give you the opportunity to show everybody that you have the talent that I know you do.
It is true that other people in wrestling, people like Camila Gonzalez, don't want you to have that opportunity because they're jealous due to the fact that they can't have it themselves . . . or, in Camila's case specifically, she's jealous because she once had the opportunity but blew it and blew it hard when she was in the ring with, even though I was doing everything in my power to let her pick up the duke.
You've got the chance to do something big here, Ricky, don't mess this up. To quote Eminiem, who I hate to quote because he culturally appropriated rap music from the black man and made millions of dollars off of it all because of veiled notions of white supremacy within the recording industry, this is your one shot, Mr. Flippy. Don't miss your chance to blow. Also, something something, mom's spaghetti, something something.
(With that, the World Heavyweight Champion takes a sip of his drink and turns his head to the stage to face the band, taking sanctuary in the public, far away from any place in which his title belt could be taken away from him.)