Secret RP: Murky Motives
Apr 27, 2020 21:25:36 GMT -5
“The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, Felix Stapleton, and 3 more like this
Post by Torture on Apr 27, 2020 21:25:36 GMT -5
Murky Motives aka Stuart Slane Talks out his Ass
Stuart Slane was a man with a particular set of skills: one hundred forty seven of them to be exact. One hundred forty seven skills earned acquiring one hundred and forty seven Merit Badges as part of the Boy Scouts of America. Skills that made him a handful to deal with both inside and outside the ring. Case in point:
Nocking an arrow into his homemade longbow, Stuart drew its string taut. His eyes remained focused on his impending target above as he raised the weapon and put the speck in his sights. Without pause he fired and waited expectantly.
The broadhead whistled through the humid morning air, its trajectory straight and true. It smashed into the high hovering drone and knocked it from the sky.. Slane watched it fall into the woods behind his home. Allowing himself a brief, satisfactory smirk, he set the bow down. Sitting, he scooted his large frame down the steep roof until he could peer over the side to address the pig that was snuffling at the muddy ground around the back porch.
This wasn’t just any pig though. Thanks to this-
-Slane had taught it to respond to his command. At the order to “Etch-Fay!” the pig trotted off to retrieve the downed drone. Slane shimmied down one of the porch’s post columns to meet the pig when it returned.
He examined the device. The fact it was commercial-grade was something of a relief. It meant whomever was snooping on him wasn’t doing so in any “official” capacity. That excluded the local authorities, and, even better, ICE.
The unknown peeper could possibly have wrestling ties. It was true Stuart had been out of the sport for years, and to a logical mind it would seem most of the scores that had built up over the years were already settled; but when talking about wrestlers, one had to always be cognizant of the fact their motives were seldom rational. Slane was living proof of this. The man once masterminded a national hot fry embargo in order to deny his perceived arch enemy of his go-to post-match victory snack. But Stuart, recovered paranoid schizophrenic that he was, didn’t think the sender of the drone had ties to wrestling.
This realization was mildly disappointing; and not because through the process of elimination he had deduced the identity of the thwarted lookie-loo. He was looking for another excuse, as retired wrestlers always are.
None was forthcoming though. This was a shoot problem he’d have to work to solve. Fortunately, the real world had provided him with the expertise to do so.
He went back into the house to put on his disguise.
*****
Slane had gone full native. Some heavy blush had been applied to accentuate his already deep tan. A scragglier, bushier beard spirit gummed over his meticulously manscaped goatee; a mullet wig fastened in place by a John Deere trucker hat. He added some padding around his belly and adopted the Christopher Reeve as Clark Kent posture method of acting to hide his ‘forest hewn, mountained forged’ physique. Even you hadn’t shared a room or ring with him prior to his transformation Stuart would have been unrecognizable.
If only the accent was as good.
“Ah want to file a complaint aginst the Reedys!” the disguised Stuart Slane announced in his hammiest drawl.
He dropped the duffel bag containing the wrecked drone on the countertop in the lobby of the Chickasaw County Sheriff's Office.
The deputy on the other side of the glass was nonplussed.
“Fer invashun of privacy, criminul mischuf, and trespassin’!”
“Mister Wilder, what’s in the bag?” the deputy leaned up and forward in his chair in an attempt to get a better look at the debris.
“Evidunce! Exhibit A! They’re spyin on me, aginn! And if yew people aren’t gonna do anythin about it, Ah will!!”
The officer’s look advised caution, “Let’s not say anything that might get you in trouble, sir.”
Slane-as-Wilder looked chastened, “Sorry. But look at it from where ah’m standin. The Reedys have bin harassin me fer months now. It’s got to stop. Mah wife, mah kids, nun of us deserve this.”
“I understand, Mister Wilder,” the deputy glanced at the phone on his desk, “The Sheriff got a call from Missus Reedy earlier. About your, ahm, the same incident. She might still be talking with them now.”
“Well Ah want to say mah peace then! There’s two sides to everuh story, and mine’s the truth!”
“If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll let her know you want to talk to her. See if we can resolve this like neighbors.”
This was the same tack the Sheriff took with Stuart when they were alone in her office.
“I don’t think we really need to get involved in this, Wilbur,” she told him, “I think this was all a huge misunderstanding. Danielle said she wasn’t spying on you, and that her kids were just fooling around with the drone.”
“It’s got a camra,” Stuart nudged the bag of dismantled drone parts resting on the ground with his foot.
“Most of them do, Wilbur. She says the camera was off,” the Sheriff replied calmly. She met Slane’s gaze and added, “and that the drone was on her property.”
“That’s a lie,” Stuart countered, which was true, but couldn’t really prove, and the Sheriff knew it. Still, he tried, “You think Ah’m Robin Hood that Ah kin shoot sumpthin that far from me?”
“That is an interesting wrinkle to the tale, Wilbur. And one I appreciate. If you had discharged a firearm, well; that would make matters even more complicated.”
Stuart had no use for guns. They were for the lazy. A man should be able to defend himself or provide for his family without the use of a firearm? That kind of thinking went against the current aesthetic he was going for with his ‘Farmer Wilder’ persona, though, so he kept that fact to himself, “Yer welcome.”
“The drone was still shot down though,” the Sheriff got to her ultimate point, “And from the look of it, it’s completely broken. Danielle forwarded me a copy of the receipt: fourteen hundred and eighty three dollars.”
The implied demand and the amount attached to it made Slane’s heart skip a beat. ‘Always looking for another excuse’, remember?
“You tellin me to pay off the person who Ah caught spyin?!”
“No, I’m not telling you anything. But this feud you have going on with Danielle and Mike has to stop. I’ve known the Reedys for years.. They’re good people; and not ones to make up stories.”
“They did though. Social Services proved that.”
The Reedys were Slane’s closest and only neighbors. At first they got along; cordial but not friendly. But when they began to suspect what was truly going on with Stuart and his ‘family’, that’s when the trouble started. The last major conflict involved a visit from the Office of Child Services. The authorities went away satisfied that ‘Wilbur Wilder” was exactly what he claimed he was: a pig farmer from Hot Springs, Arkansas with an absentee wife and three foster children.
Every one of the 'family' had earned their Merit Badges that day. Because it was all a lie.
Stuart knew that it would be tough to maintain the lie, though, as long as the Reedys were suspicious, and as long as they had the law’s trust, “But Ah tell you whut, Shuref: to keep the peace; Ah’ll give the Reedys their money. Jest gonna need sum time, you know.”
The Sheriff smiled, “I understand, and will let the Reedys know. Thank you Wilbur.”
Stuart lef the remains of the drone with the Sheriff. He got back in his truck and drove home to the farm. There were three buildings on the property: the two story ranch where he had fired the latest shot in his war with his neighbors over; a fenced in hog parlor home to an eclectic grouping of swine, and a Gambrel barn. It was the third building he entered. The biggest structure on the property, it was the selling point for Stuart and his associate when they chose to buy. It had enough room for the standard farm equipment he needed plus space to build a replica wrestling ring in case he ever got the itch to train. But even more importantly was what one could not see right away.
Slane removed his hat and wig, peeled off the beard, and wiped away the makeup before rolling under the ring. He found the trap door and gave the secret knock. The lock was sprung allowing Stuart to drop down into the converted survival shelter where his ‘family’ waited.
“It’s safe now,” he told the fourteen disparate children; the Latin American refugees he had taken into his care when they had failed to make it to America on their own; the reason the Reedys were so suspicious of ‘Farmer Wilder’ in the first place.
The “Slane Scouts”.
“It’s safe,” he repeated, “But we have to be careful. People are watching. We will need to adjust our routines again.”
The children listened intently; they knew the stakes. If the truth came out they would be separated. And while life at ‘Camp Slane’ was spartan and austere, they had come from places far worse, and what waited for them if the law found about their existence was worse still. They may not have loved their circumstances, or Slane himself, but they needed him and trusted him.
And for child and man alike; that was enough.
*****
The relationship between Stuart and his ‘children’ and Stuart and his ‘wife’ were identical: a fabrication based on mutual need and trust. Circe Cicero was the founder of People for the Ethical Treatment of Swine, a sus-rights organization that first got involved in professional wrestling when it attempted to get a pig (not Jayson Price) into the WCF Hall of Fame. That gambit failed, which led her to bankrolling Stuart’s latest attempt to infiltrate the ‘Dub as the Porcine Paladin Hog Wilder. That failed (shocking!) but their next venture, creating an Underground Railroad of sorts for mistreated pigs, had a little more traction (best angle for Stuart since The Gang of Fourteen). The agreement had Stuart take in the swine PETS liberated while Circe paid the bills for both her children and his. Her resources had limits though;, which was what the two of them were discussing over Skype, as Miss Cicero was currently in Virginia planning a mass jailbreak at an especially notorious Smithfield piggery.
“Just kill them and make it look like an accident,” she declared, “You have the means. Put that Snake Handling Merit Badge to good use.”
Circe never forgave the Reedys for showing up at the farm with a house warming present of homemade hogshead cheese.
“I’m not going to murder the Reedys,” Slane reply had a perfunctory air to it. Telling her no was unnecessary. She knew murder wasn’t in him. He wasn’t that kind of wrestler.
“So instead you’re going to risk getting yourself killed in a wrestling ring for a measly $1500?”
“I’m not going to die wrestling,” Slane said in the same tone he had earlier. He continued to write on the yellow legal pad nested in his lap.
“Stuart, I’ve seen enough of WCF to know people die. And yes, most of them do come back, but I doubt you have that in you.”
This was true. Again, Stuart was never that kind of wrestler.
“I’m not going to be wrestling for WCF,” he corrected her a third time in that pedantic cadence. Realizing he was coming off as a bit of a churl, he looked up and properly addressed her concerns, “The Classic Tournament was cancelled. I’m going to enter Action Wrestling’s Havoc Rumble.”
None of that meant anything to Circe, so he elaborated, “Action is a company with WCF ties. Many former members wrestle there. Others work behind the scenes. They have a major event next Sunday at Madison Square Garden. It’s their version of War, with the winner going on to face the company’s world champion.”
Circe had heard of War. She was a key figure in Bryan “Buzz” Worthy’s promo for the event when he entered in 2014. You can look it up. If Havoc Rumble was anywhere near the physical and mental slog she knew War to be, Stuart had picked the worst possible venue for which to make his return to the ring after four years away.
“You always said anyone wrestling just for the money was an idiot,” Circe said, “What’s the real reason you’re doing this?”
She was right. There were easier ways to make a living than wrestle. The need for money was more of an inciting incident than a raison de entre for Stuart’s plan to again return to combat sports. He tried explaining himself, “You are correct, Miss Cicero. There’s more to this than paying off the Reedys. But, uh, I can't fully verbalize it yet. I know why. It’s something that’s always been there. It’s motivated me my entire career. But to express it, in the best possible way, well, I’m trying to find the right words still.”
Circe was sympathetic; she tilted at her own windmills after all, and sometimes it was necessary to spell out the whys and wherefores beyond merely Swine Lives Matter. She tried to give him advice, “If it’s something you haven’t been able to express for years, Stuart, maybe you just need to change your perspective. Try using a new voice.”
The connotations behind Circe’s suggestion left Stuart aghast, “You mean a MPD gimmick?”
“I believe the accepted term is DID,” Miss Cicero replied, giving the acronym for Dissociative Identity Disorder, "And what if I am? Is that any different than pretending to be a pirate?”
Slane winced at the reference to the biggest dog in his pack of failed personas, but was resolute on his opinion of workers who claimed to have multiple personalities. With very few exceptions, MPD/DID was the most perspirate of sweat acts; a desperate ploy wrestlers sunk to in order to explain a change of heart or mind.
And yet, perhaps so.
There was a way he could create ‘a new voice’ to explain his rationale to return to the ring. One that perfectly gave physical form to what he was feeling.
He told Circe his plan. She called it stupid, but a different kind of stupid, so he might as well give it a shot. They said their goodbyes and then Stuart got to work writing out exactly he and his new voice were going to say.
*****
It’s the simplest of set ups. Slane, in his wrestling gear (a hunter’s green compression shirt with tan carpenter shorts) stood at parade rest inside a wrestling ring. He smiled slightly before addressing the camera.
“Hello, Action Wrestling. This is me letting you know I have invited myself to enter your upcoming Havoc Rumble. Once there I will win it, defeat your current World Champion Alex Richards at Evolution, and become the benchmark everyone else in your company aspires to be. But before that, a few words.”
“To those of you who don’t know me, my name is Stuart Slane. I worked at Wrestling Championship Federation sporadically in the mid two thousand tens. I was Internet Champion, United States Champion, Television Champion, and World Champion. When I was on my game, when I was PREPARED, there weren’t many better. I have the power and skill to twist you into knots so inescapable Alexander of Macedonia couldn’t break them. Am I a Hall of Famer? No, though I’ve beaten members of that fraternity. Am I a legend? No, but everyone who was part of WCF during those days knew who I was, and they knew that yes, I would often stall out, but once I got moving, once momentum kicked in and I was feeling it, I was a runaway train that could not be stopped.”
“Right now those of you who do know me are nodding your heads while simultaneously rolling your eyes. I apologize for any loss of equilibrium the announcement of my return has caused you, and it is my hope your sense of balance recovers quickly. You’ll need it if you have any hope of keeping me from tossing out of the Havoc Rumble.”
“It wasn’t my original plan to come to Action Wrestling, but when the WCF Classic Tournament fell through this was a more than suitable consolation. Despite all my runs in Wrestling Championshp Federation I never competed in War, and the Havoc Rumble comes closest to it. Also, there will be all of you. Not to take away from the many non-WCF alumni in the match, but you are the ones I know, the ones I want to face in that ring, and the ones I wish to speak of now. As I am already an uninvited guest I will not further infringe on your hospitality by being rude. Thus, I’ll focus on the positive when addressing you:
Stuart began to name-drop his fellow WCF Universe refugees..
“Mister Adams, your drive is an inspiration.”
“Mister Venable, it is more a testament to the stubborn prejudices of the average mind that you still have doubters.”
“Mister Balfore, you’re the best big man in the business.”
“Mister Black, the only person more essential to WCF than you was the man who started it.”
“Mister Blaze, you are one of the most memorable figures in wrestling, and WCF’s greatest People’s Champion.”
“Mister Flash, you’re better than Jonny F-f-f- .....Jonny Fl-fl-fl.... you know who.”
“Mister Crow McMorris, you were the top guy even when others held the top spot.”
“Mister Bishop, you were a key figure to WCF’s success after ‘The Mexico Incident’ and helped keep the place relevant.
“Miss Blue, no one could be more elegant and precise in the ring than you with the possible exception of your genetic donor.”
“Mister O’Neal, you were right to call me out when I was WCF Champion.”
“Mister Smarts, you succeeded in WCF when thousands of other wrestlers failed.”
“Mister MacNeil, I admire your style.”
“Mister Kaine, your love for and respect of the sport is admirable; any company is lucky to have you.”
“Mister Zombie McMorris, you come within an eyelash of being the most despicable man in wrestling; Eric Price will forever set the bar.”
Having ‘caught up’ with those men and women he knew he had some manner of history with, he moved on the remaining Rumble entrants.
“I apologize if I forgot any names. As I said, thousands of competitors made their way through the Wrestling Championship Federation, and I was not always attentive of what was going on when I wasn’t there. And I certainly must apologize to those wrestlers who were never part of WCF that I failed to mention. It is my regret that I don’t know you beyond summaries on an online roster page. I promise, once I become Champion, I will make it my duty to get to know all of you better; because we’re not in WCF anymore. This is Action Wrestling, the new standard for the sport, and if I am to-
Dammit shut up!
The mumbly muzzled voice that interrupted Slane came from off camera. Surprised, Stuart spun around in what he thought was the direction of the noise.
Down here!
Craning his neck back over his shoulder, Slane considered his backsid.
That’s right! Let me out, Stuart; it’s time we had a talk.
Slane unbuckled his belt. Then, forgoing all modesty, the ex-Scoutmaster dropped trou. Reaching into his Tighty Whities he fished out the mystery speaker: his muffler.
Mufflers. Pro wrestling’s dirtiest secret. Everyone (EVERYONE!) used these wadded up clots of bathroom tissue as protective padding, and, more importantly, to prevent unsightly stains from bleeding through their tights. Most will deny it, but the muffler was universal in use. From the most stylish of clotheshorses to the dirtiest bumfighters, everyone ‘rolled their own’. To do otherwise was to risk career suicide; as there were few wrestlers capable of coming back from a trip down the Hershey Highway.
If Slane was surprised his muffler was speaking to him he did not show it, “What do you want?”
I want you to acknowledge the truth. You’ll never say it, I know. So I will, and you’ll agree, and then we’ll be square. Sound good?
Stuart was silent. He held the moist mass of makeshift mop up, studying it intently, but for the moment he had no words. The muffler spoke for him.
You’re a coward. Always have been. The biggest motive in your wrestling career has been fear. Every time you step in that ring you dread that this will be the match you’ll be exposed. All those runs in WCF you bailed on, it wasn’t your smile you lost; it was your nerve. You crapped out. Couldn’t handle the pressure knowing that next time might be the time you get your SHIT pushed in.
I could see them coming, Stuart; when the anxiety was too much and your survival instincts took over. I had a front row seat to it; I could feel your sphincter tighten up whenever you faced someone who you knew was better than you and would dominate your match; or someone who could out-hustle you and pull off an upset. Either way, you knew what was coming, and that was you going. Admit you spent your time wrestling afraid, Stu. You laced up your boots over feet of clay. You didn’t worry about skidmarks; you spent every waking moment in dread you were going to fill up your whole damn diaper.
The right side of Slane’s face spasmed. His eye twitched as his muffler unrelentingly reamed him out.
You may now say that I’m right.
“You,” a pause, a sigh, and then admission from Stuart. “Are not wrong.”
About time! Doesn’t it feel better to finally come clean, Stuart?
“It does."
Pause
Wait for it:
"But that was then, and this is now. And I’m telling you, and you-” Slane looked from the muffler to the viewer, “That I am no longer wrestling out of fear. I’m not worried about my standing anymore in this business. I couldn’t care less about embarrassing myself. Look at me; I’m conducting a promo with my pants around my ankles baring my soul to a wad of toilet paper. I’m admitting I spent my professional life afraid of losing to the LA Johnny Stylezes of the world. Compared to that, loss means nothing; my career could end at Havoc Rumble getting thrown over the top rope by a returning Adam Young and that would be fine. I'd consider that be going out in a blaze of glory."
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care about my performance. I want to put on a good show. I must remind people that there is a reason I was respected. And I want to win. Believe me, I do. It’s just that the sting of losing is no longer something to run from. I no longer fear pooping the bed.”
Stuart looked back at the object he held in his hand
“That’s why I no longer need you.”
He tossed his muffler away.