Red Light
Nov 11, 2019 22:24:33 GMT -5
Quixote Della Torre, "The Devourer" Felix Fortain, and 1 more like this
Post by Malachi White on Nov 11, 2019 22:24:33 GMT -5
Action Wrestling Headquarters
Las Vegas, Nevada
Las Vegas, Nevada
Malachi stared at the red light, enamored by its crimson glow. Filming in progress. Who was it on the other side of the closed door, he wondered? What were they saying? What would he say, once it was his turn? White could feel the anxiety building within him as he cycled through his talking points. You gotta make a good first impression, kid. Those had been James’ advice when Malachi had texted him earlier in the day. Tell them exactly who you are, where you came from, and why you belong on the big stage. Sound advice, he had thought, so he prepared. Native American, Alaskan, an old-school face looking to prove that respect and honor could still be upheld in the modern, immoral world. And don’t forget the catchphrase! Malachi had everything but that, and no matter how much he wracked his brain, nothing stood out. He just needed more time, a little more ti—
The red light went off.
White practically jumped to his feet as Gravedigger stepped through the door, trailed by producers and assistants. Malachi’s “Morning boss” was drowned out by the cacophony and he was nearly pushed aside by the mass of bodies moving down the hallway; no one even acknowledged him, and why should they?
Sighing, Malachi stepped through the door, pulling the door shut behind him.
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“Jenna Bauer here with another ‘Faces of AW’ interview. My guest this go-round is ‘The Midnight Son’ Malachi White, who will be making his debut this week against another new signing, Felix Fortain. But before we talk about that, the floor’s yours to tell the AW universe a little bit about yourself.”
“…”
“Whenever you’re ready, Mister White.”
“I ran into someone in the hallway just now, before I came onto the set.”
“Oh, er . . .well okay, who did you meet?”
“Well, Gravedigger of course; sorry, it wasn’t meant to be a trick question, given that he had just left the studio. ‘Ran into’ isn’t completely accurate, either. It was more like getting run over while he walked right past me. Didn’t even get a chance to introduce myself.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Mister White, but I can promise you that Mister meant no disrespect. It’s a demanding job running a company as large as AW.”
“Ah, no need to apologize, Miss Bauer; I didn’t bring it up to elicit sympathy. I simply mentioned it because I thought it proved a relevant point.”
“And which point is that?”
“That I’m a nobody, of course.”
“Now Mister White, don’t you think you’re being a little unfair to yourself? Not everyone gets to compete on a stage as large as this one.”
“With all due respect, I’d be doing myself a disservice if I was fair to myself. Why should I when this business won’t? Six long, hard years wrestling the Alaskan circuit summed up in paragraph on my roster bio. A spot on the rotating door that is the Monday Night Clash undercard. These aren’t realities that instill the idealistic confidence I’m supposed to have for segments like these.”
“Then what does it instill in you?”
“The overwhelming humility that comes when a big fish from a small pond gets dropped into the ocean for the first time, for starters. Then, once I get my feet back underneath me, the singular desire to become big here too.”
“Well that’s better than the alternative, wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course. The few men and women who have watched my career development would tell you the same. Nothing has ever been given to me in this business and I wouldn’t want it otherwise. There’s a strength we all find on the journey to the top, and I wouldn’t dare try to skip that growth to try and sate any bruised ego I might have. Still, it does feel weird doing an interview like this with you, telling the fans exactly who I am, just to save them a few clicks on a website.”
“If it means anything, your opponent this week is in the same position.”
“Felix Fortain, yeah. I’ve read the name. The height, weight, and hometown too. Mind if I break out my notes?”
“Be my guest . . . but a notepad, really?”
“I guess I hadn’t mentioned that I was old-school yet”
“No, you hadn’t, Mister White. So, Felix Fortain?”
“Felix, meaning lucky or fortunate, and Fortain meaning strong or fort. It easy to presume that my opponent finds confidence in oneself far easier than I do. And why wouldn’t he, with his physique? He’ll have the size advantage in both the vertical and horizontal categories come Monday night, a stronghold that be difficult to siege. Scale the walls and I might be sent crashing and burning. Batter the front gates and I might get pelted into submission. Worst part is I won’t even get to see my adversary’s face, what with the mask and all.”
“Is the mask significant, do you think?”
“I’d say so. I don’t think competitors would willingly don them, what with the sacrifices and consequences that come with them.”
“Sacrifices? Care to elaborate?”
“Well, masks transcend the individual in this business, and it takes a special kind of person to found their career on the tradition. When you put on that mask, you aren’t your own person any longer. Sometimes you’re the successor to a lucha legend, a child or chosen protégé looking to live up to your predecessor. Other times you’re a first-generation hood adopting the symbolism, forgoing an identity outside of that ring in an effort to etch your chosen moniker in the cowled annals.”
“I’m not seeing the downside.”
“Well, put yourself into Felix’s shoes then. You wrestle in AW for the next ten years, rise up the proverbial mountain, maybe win and lose a few championships along the way. Then, pressed against a wall by a bitter rival, with nothing to offer them but the identity you worked so hard to build. You put that on the line, and you lose. The mask, and everything that’s attached to it, is ripped away from you. And do you know who you are after that, Miss Bauer?”
“Who?”
“The guy getting passed by in the hallway again because your face just doesn’t match the name anymore.”
“Again? Are you implying that you can relate to such a loss?”
“No, not in the slightest. I’ve never worn a mask in my career, but I was faced with the same question Felix was asked, and I answered it differently.”
“And what question would that be?”
“Do I believe in myself?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Forget the mask itself, Miss Bauer, and focus on the idea behind it. I’ve never been asked to wear one, but you can sure as hell believe promoters have tried to slap a headdress on me. Our entire business, you see, it wasn’t conceived within a vacuum; Hollywood and history have both had a hand in its evolution. Cowboys and Indians, good Patriots and evil Russians. We reflect American culture, both the good and the bad. And even today, in the modern era, many of us are still given the choice to reflect old traditions. But there is a second option, difficult as it may be to obtain: redefinition.
You can try and twist yourself to fit the mold that men before you had cast, or you can break free and create your own. It’s a daunting task at times, near impossible to achieve even, but the reward at the end outweighs the struggle to get there. Why be the Big Chief or Roaring Bear when you can put Malachi White on everyone’s tongue instead?
But Felix? He went the safe route, instead. ‘Here, toss me that mask right there, the plain black one. It’ll emphasize my dark stoicism. And my hometown? Is Death Valley taken? It is . . . well put me down for the Mojave, then.’ My opponent didn’t have the faith in his own ability to break out in this business, so instead he accepted the cookie-cutter, typeset that makes big men feel unstoppable.”
“And where on that notepad of yours did you find all this stuff on Felix’s faith?”
“In the only place left for me to look on his bio: the entrance theme. Ever listened to that song, “Are You Dead Yet” by Children of Bodom?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, to sum it up, it’s a heavy metal song with a very fitting message. The lead singer, he talks about facing an enemy in a mirror’s reflection, only to realize that that enemy was himself. Of all the guitar-rifts Felix Fortain, if that is even his real name, could have chosen, he picked this one. Why? Because it reminded him of every time he looked into his own mirror, looked at his own reflection, and knew deep down he couldn’t overcome it. He could not win. It was not the face of a champion. And, instead of proving pulling himself free of his self-doubt, he resigned himself to the role of masked brute number thirty-eight.”
“So how do you see Monday night panning out, then?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not discounting Felix’s athleticism or power. I’m stepping into Clash at a physical disadvantage that is going to require all of my fighting spirit to overcome. He’s going to beat me down, maybe even dominate me at points, but there is going to reach a point in the match where physicality is eclipsed by our willpowers. Who is willing to take it beyond signatures and finishers and actually break the other’s resolve? Will be the guy who clawed himself out of the far recesses of the wrestling world for a chance at being more than just an Indian, cross-legged not red-dotted?
Or the man who can’t even find the strength to look himself in the face any longer?”
“Well strong words from the newcomer. We’ll just have to wait and see if he’s able to back them up come Monday Night. Thanks for stopping by, Mister White.”
“Anytime, Miss Bauer. And, please, call me Malachi”
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“And cut.”
Malachi leaned back in the armchair, releasing the tension that had been building up during the entire interview. To his left—the camera’s right—Jenna Bauer cast him a sly grin. She glanced over the notes in her lap. “You didn’t really stick to the talking points you sent me, huh?”
White gave her a weak grin, tucking the notepad into his pocket. “I meant to, but once those cameras started rolling, I just blanked. Sorry for it.”
“Hey,” she said in a friendly snap, “don’t apologize. Our best work comes from the heart, not from bullet points.” She rose to her feet. “Now, I don’t know if that bit about Grave was true or not, but you’re welcome to tag along. I’ve got a production meeting in the next half hour that he’ll be at.”
“Its okay,” White replied, waving it off. “If anything, it makes me want to work even harder, until its ‘Digger scrambling to meet me.’”
Jenna chuckled. “That’s the spirit,” she stepped off the stage, but hovered at its edge for a moment. “Well, I’m swinging by the cafeteria for a coffee first. You’re welcome to join me for that part at least, Malachi.”
He smiled, even as his anxiety reached an all-time high that morning.
“Sure.”