Post by Alexander Pasternak on Feb 18, 2018 22:06:35 GMT -5
Chapter Two: Горячая Линия Майами
"They don't ask much of you. They only want you to hate the things you love and love the things you despise."
~ Boris Pasternak
A few hours ago I drove my knees through Beverly Adams' chest and derailed that bitch like Amtrak. A few hours after that I was guzzling rail vodka like water and discussing police brutality and Neutral Milk Hotel with some crust-punk slut in a Star Fucking Hipsters shirt at a "Rock 'n' Roll" lounge on Fremont Street. It may have gone further than that: I'll know for sure if it burns the next time I piss. A few minutes ago, I indulged in a little of the powder I copped from behind the very same establishment.
It is four in the morning and I'm standing in the middle of my cheap motel room, throwing punches at the dark. I throw another punch into the abyss: right jab, followed by a left cross. Two right jabs, left uppercut. Steady rhythm, gotta keep the pace. Right, right, left. Right, left, right. I pause to put two fingers to my neck. There goes the old heartbeat.
I'm gonna feel like shit in the morning. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.
Right, left, right. In the dark, I close my eyes and imagine Beverly Adams standing in front of me. I can almost feel my knuckles scraping her teeth as they cut through the air. My skin is tightening, threatening to tear with each swing. All things considered, I shouldn't be fantasizing about abusing the little cunt further; I got everything I wanted. I won. She lost. Her pedigree — the goodwill she'd gained solely because of who her mother was — was ultimately irrelevant. Yet, here I am: eyes wide shut, throwing punches that are getting sloppier by the second, hitting something that isn't even there. No matter how much I hope, I know that when I open my eyes once more, all I'll be greeted with is the faint light outside my window; Las Vegas never sleeps, after all.
I wonder, is this how Lenin felt after purging the Romanovs? Even though the great dynasty is dead, the snake's head cut off and put on display, it's grip still hasn't loosened? Maybe it's a culture thing: the unstoppable empire, who for so long looked down its nose at the commoners, who only gained a sense of respect for their brewing resentment when the rebellion became too much to ignore, rubbed off on me. I'm certain there are wrestling pundits out there utterly shocked that I came out on top. That this nobody, this walking Russian youth stereotype stepped up and bumped off the great second-gen hope. Maybe I internalized their doubt without realizing. Maybe I'm just as shocked as they are.
My fist collides with her cheekbone again. No, I was never shocked. They can doubt all they want. They can try their damndest to discredit me. I'm not hitting Beverly. She's not the object of my latent rage, empowered by weak coke. I'm swinging at the system that hot-shotted her this far. The system that fed her the lies that let her think for a second she was walking out of the T-Mobile Arena with a win over me. I'm bashing her whore mother's face into bloody hamburger. I'm wrapping my hands around the neck of some scrawny middle-manager type who thinks name recognition = talent and squeezing until his eyes pop out of his skull like a fucking cartoon character.
This isn't insanity; I'm not seeing things that aren't there. This is fantasy.
I open my eyes and the room around me is as dark and empty as it was when I closed them. The room is spinning. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my breathing is ragged. My lungs throb. And yet, the only sensation I can articulate is one of serenity. Maybe, this fantasy is not as chimerical as the system would like it to be. I've already upset the balance once.
And it's going to happen again and again.
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Can I be honest with you for a second, Alex? When I saw our names across from each other on the card, when it sunk in that we were gonna be facing off this week, I was excited. No, fuck that. Excited doesn't begin to cover it. I was fuckin' aroused, dude. Like, deadass 'call a physician' levels of hardness. Just, everything about you appealed to my sensibilities: the name-brand recognition, the pedigree, the lofty expectations, the undue admiration. Everything. I want you to know something, man. And I want you know it now, so there's absolutely no confusion about this. No veneer of professionalism. Straight up: I loathe you, Alex. I have no fucking respect for you.
Don't get it twisted, big boy, this isn't me taking you lightly. This isn't me trying to brush what you've done under the rug and pretend it never happened. This is just honesty, from me to you: we're polar fucking opposites. You are my antithesis. You're the fattest cat. Bourgeois dreams personified. You can suck your own dick all you want about how you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps and worked your ass off to get to the top of the mountain so long ago, and because of that, you still belong there now. You realize how fucking asinine that is, right? I see you, man. I see you looking past the whole field, with your eyes on that prize like it's been gift-wrapped with your name on it. I bet you think this whole tournament is just a formality, don't you? "Oh, we all know how this is going to end but we gotta keep up the illusion of parity," right?
Newsflash, Alex: your involvement in this tournament is the most egregious case of stunt-casting I've ever seen in the wrestling world. And now the powers that be are hoping like hell that you can live up to the hype that your fucking name brings. You weren't a first-round knockout so that's gotta assuage the fears that you're totally cooked, right? But now you got me, and let me tell you, man, I'm planning to make a habit out of dashing the hopes of beleaguered marketing hacks. Beverly Adams was supposed to be in this place, Alex. Think about it for a second, no matter how many times I try to make #samenamegang a thing like it's some kind of term of endearment, the more marketable match was always going to be the veteran vs. the second generation star. Old vs. new, as it were.
I'm sure you saw how that turned out.
But of course, you aren't her, are you? That's the crux of this. I've beaten approximately 0 people of note in your eyes, and you're the man. You're the former world champ. You've been champion in multiple promotions. You're the dude with the cool friends who are also really great wrestlers. Right. Got it.
You're the guy who won a world championship in a promotion that doesn't exist anymore. You can't go back there and ride the coattails of your former glory, so you're here. Still dedicated to showing that you haven't lost it. Because this is all you have. And that's what makes you hungry, right? Preserving your legacy is the thing that gets you hard, that powers you up. Bitch you wouldn't know hunger if you were a fucking Ethiopian. You gorged yourself on the accolades and legacy and now, even when you're fighting tooth and nail to defend it, you're lethargic.
What are you going to come at me with, Alex? Are you going to go with the same, uninspired dreck you hit Laura DaVoe with? Are you gonna wax poetic about how you're more skilled, more ready, more experienced, like I haven't already showed how little that intimidates me when I brought the fight to the Bev Adams and her legendary mother? Sure, I wasn't fighting the old broad directly, but she was right there in her daughter's corner and they couldn't stop me.
Or maybe you're going to make jokes about my nicknames. Yeah, I call myself the Rat Prince. It's my fucking Twitter handle. But that ain't no delusional claim of royalty man, that's a fucking promise. A guarantee that each and every night I will do whatever I need to in order to come out victorious. Even if makes angry fans call me a rat, or a cheat, or any other of a litany of insults they can hurl at me to make up for how empty and pathetic they are. Tell me, Alex, since you're fighting for your legacy: would you stoop the lows I would to pick up a win. I want you to be honest with me, the way I've been with you this whole time. Because I know you're going to say that you will. That when it comes down to winning, and keeping the goodwill you've earned with wrestling fans, you'll always be pragmatic and go for the win. But, from where I'm sitting, I don't think that's quite true. See, this is your legacy, Alex. This is how you'll be remembered, and what good is victory to you, if all the people you claim to be about despise you? What is another world title if your good friends The Guardians would look at you as if you were no better than the bad guys you've opposed?
Because I'll tell you what that win, that belt is to me: it's fucking everything, man. You can go. You can fuck off whenever you want, man. Ride into the sunset and all that and there will be people who'll remember you fondly. Who loved you. Who respect you. I don't have that, man. I don't have a legacy to preserve, I don't have friends whose expectations matter to me. All I got is me. And a fucking drive, a gnawing, thrashing hunger to succeed. To overthrow the status quo. To create something new. I'm the fucking Rat Prince, man. I ain't scared of no fucking King.
Heh, King of Mass Confusion. I look at you and I see a bitch in a paper crown. A fucking jester playing the fiddle while Rome burns around him. Listen up: if you care as much about your goddamned legacy as you think you do, your best course of action would be to turn around and walk the fuck away. Don't even bother meeting me in the ring on Monday. Because I would be glad to be the first nail in your coffin. I'd love to spill the beans: the emperor has no clothes.
And you're not walking over me.
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"Your theme song's fuckin' gay, dude."
It is 6:30 in the morning and I'm seated in the back of a Denny's, halfheartedly poking at the ham and cheese omelette I ordered (because Cocaine totally isn't an appetite suppressant) while my girlfriend berates me over the phone. This is the life I chose, or something.
"Fuck you, Silversun's the shit."
"Maybe if you're stoned at some party in Williamsburg. I seriously thought you'd be coming out in a fuckin' dress or something."
I swear, if she were anyone else that hyena-laugh she does would drive me up the fucking wall.
"Shit, you just gave me an idea," I say, chuckling as I set my fork down on my plate and lean back in the booth, slinking down.
"I'll give you a hundred bucks if you actually do it."
I drum my fingers along the edge of the table as I contemplate the proposal.
"Nah, probably shouldn't."
"Yeah, don't want your co-workers to know how much of a dork you are."
"You got me. Anyway, how'd you do on that test? Probably failed it, that's why you haven't said anything."
"Fuck you. I just took it on Friday: I'll probably get it back Wednesday. Bledar's a fucking idiot, it was easy as hell."
I sigh, shaking my head. "Yeah, that boy isn't right."
"Did you know he's in the hospital?"
There goes my heart. My mouth is suddenly dry, like all the saliva has been suctioned out of it. I stammer, trying to buy a few more seconds before I ultimately spit out: "No, is he good?"
"No he's not fucking good he's in the hospital. A couple of guys kicked the shit out of him. Like, they don't think he's gonna die or anything but, shit. Who'd even do him like that?"
"You'd be surprised."
"He's a fuckin' idiot no doubt but like, everyone knows that. I mean like who'd take him seriously enough to even think of taking it this far?"
"I 'unno, dude. Tough world, I guess."
"Yeah, I guess. You look at a place to live down in Vegas? Probably cheaper than staying at a hotel."
"Hotel living ain't so bad: I got my room for like $13 a night."
"And you already caught crabs from the shower nozzle."
I can't help but chuckle, even if my heart hasn't steadied yet.
"AIDS from the toilet seat, actually."
She giggles on the other end as I take a sip of water and choke down a piece of the omelette.
"Still, that's like $400 a month. Might as well spend the extra cash and get some place more home-like. You're gonna be making that star money soon anyway."
"Heh, yeah. I've been looking into a couple places."
"Good. Hold on a sec, do you know what's up with Mike? Dude's been a bit weird ever since that interview. He said something about what a character you are when I saw him on Friday. I thought he was referring to the piece for the 'zine but you didn't really say anything too out there. At least not that I saw."
"Mike's a weirdo. He's always been one. Tell you the truth, I don't think he likes me much."
I can almost hear her rolling her eyes over the phone. "Sounds like the feeling's mutual."
"Hey, I always tried to get along with the guy. Not my fault he can't get over you."
"Well, I am pretty hard to top. Oh, fuck, I need to get ready. Talk to you later."
"See ya, love ya." I pull the phone away from my ear and am just about ready to flip it closed when I hear her shout:
"Wait!"
I place the phone back up to my ear and make some kind of listening noise that sounds like a cross between "hmm" and "uh-huh".
"You know how you wanted me to come down with you on Friday? Well, I E-mailed my teachers, told 'em I wouldn't be in class on Monday. Bought a ticket already, so I guess I'll see you Friday night. That's not gay, right? It feels kinda gay."
"The gayest," I say with a smile.
"Fuck off. Oh, shit, gotta go. Love you! Bye!"
She hangs up the phone before I can respond. I sigh and flip the phone shut before sliding it into my pocket and jabbing my fork aimlessly into the cold-by-now mass of egg in front of me. Feeling something poke at my hand as I put away my phone, I look down and see a business card sticking out of my pocket. Only slightly confused, I pull it out and look at the back where I see a phone number and a name: Nikki. Of course her name was Nikki. I smile at the card, before ripping it up and leaving the scraps on the floor.
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Somehow, I don't think this is what these journalists expected when they heard the phrase "Press Conference". Nevertheless, a quick little crowd-sourced campaign was enough to jam six especially desperate and overdressed reporters into my cramped hotel room as I sit at the foot of the bed in the same Adidas tracksuit I've been rocking for the past two years, rocking a douchey skinny black tie for added 'class'. The Rat Prince has no desire for fancy formal events. The Rat Prince seeks to mock the veneer of formality that hangs over these glorified vultures' profession. Of course, that doesn't exactly work when respected names fail to take the bait. All that's here are a handful of shitty vloggers and some dipshit who claimed to be from Barstool so I guess in effect this is like calling the people in the burn ward ugly or something but fuck it. Can't back out now.
"Who would like to ask the first question?" I ask, flashing a mocking grin. My accent is much thicker than usual: I'm a caricature.
A fact acne-riddled man in a shirt that's a size too small for him raises one of his meaty arms in the air.
"I'm the Wrestling Guy, on Youtube… how does it feel to be facing off with a legend like Alex Richards?"
"You wanna know what it feels like to be facing off with a legend like Alex Richards? You ever been out with your boys Evgeni and Boris? Just jawin' and all that, poppin' a squat and drinkin' some vodka outside the khrushchyovka y'all been livin' at your whole life, when some big fuckin' Bulgarian cunt comes lumberin' his way over to you. And he's big and by big I mean fuckin' thicc as fuck. Fatboy lookin' like his titties got titties, know what I mean? And he huffs and puffs and tells ya to hand over your fuckin' money cuz he's got a knife. But you ain't about to hand over your dough just cuz this fatboy tells you so, so Evgeny, the absolute madman busts the bottle of Smirnoff all over this dude's head and y'all run the fuck back home? You ever feel that shit, Mr. 'The Wrestling Guy'?"
I have no idea what I just said, but it still feels about right.
"I don't think that answers my question."
"Fuck you. Next question."
Fatboy scribbles that down on his notepad like he's still trying to preserve his dignity. Admirable. Another arm goes up and I nod at the guy.
"No need for names or publications, I answer all questions."
"Are you worried that beating up on an innocent girl like Beverly Adams isn't going to endear you to the Action Wrestling fanbase?"
"No. If the bitch doesn't want to get beat, she shouldn't be fighting in the first place. Next question."
Another hand.
"How big is Batista's dick?"
"Bigger than yours. Next question."
Another hand.
"Don't you think the Russian community will find this act a little tasteless?"
I snarl, hopping up off the bed. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
"And you know what the Russian community will think, is that right? You're so in tune with what is and isn't stereotypical when the only Russians you know are the ones on a fucking movie screen? Fuck you, you cunt. No more questions. Get the fuck out of my hotel room."
The group, shocked and confused, stumble their way out the door. I anticipate the blogs and videos and articles that will be written about the blogs and videos. The aftermath of this is going to be so worth it. I can't wait to watch these bitch-made journalists run around like chickens without heads trying to figure what the fuck just happened here.
For all my prior grandstanding: The Rat Prince was born just now. The living, breathing gopnik stereotype. The bizarre, audacious weirdo. They're going to think they know me, but the truth is simple: they won't be able to look past themselves long enough to see how badly I'll be mocking them every step of the way. Alex Richards fancies himself the 'King of Mass Confusion'? Maybe he should look at how a real pro does it.