Post by Smith Jones on Nov 10, 2019 21:47:31 GMT -5
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Fade up on a shot of the sky. It’s clear. It’s blue, mottled sparsely with clean, white clouds. Beneath that clear blue sky is the wide open crater known as Ubehebe inside Death Valley Park in California. Smith Jones is walking slowly around the massive rim of the open volcano. He’s wearing an all white, full length bodysuit and a bright red clown nose. Smitty is carrying one of those long tightrope walking poles with both trembling hands. He intentionally goes off the beaten path in the direction of the potential fall, balancing precariously the whole time he walks the finest line he can on the edge of sanity.
As always.
He mutters nonsensical gibberish...
“Do they see me? Who? They be me?
One, two, three be all I need be.
Daily starving. Come to feed me.
Craving blood, hot, fresh, and steamy.
You be. He be. How can we be
Blind to things that be unseemly?
Torture comes. Distracted we be.
Cling to Time. Complacent he be.
I be here at Ubehebe.
Gaze into the pit. I see me.
Fallen yet, I climb to see thee
I want ALL. I’m thirsty; greedy.
Scheming now to absentee me?
Want this belt? I’m Smith Jones. Be me.”
See? Nonsense! Smith throws the pole into the pit. He then removes the clown nose with contempt and hurls it as far as he… well, the wind takes it and knocks it down. Jones glares downward as it slowly rolls and bounces down the inside of the volcano. He sits down on the edge of the volcano and dangles his feet over the precipice, still staring downward with a deeply furrowed brow.
“Tomorrow night on Metal, you be you and I’ll be me. That way, everything will fall into place just as they should. I’ve had a handful of tag matches here in APW. I’ve only had a handful more my entire nine years pro! There’s a reason for that. I simply…
Don’t...
Trust…
Anyone.
And so, it was funny to me when my cell chirped with the news that I would be saddled with a tag partner for Monday Night Metal. And not just any tag partner, no. Reenie, I’m gonna have to trust the process on this one, because I cannot fathom how in the heel you expect me to publicly exchange professional high fives with the man who threatens to relieve me of my duties as your World Champion at Omega.
Dean Wolf. You know as well as I do that every match counts. If you want to walk out of Monday with the win, you are going to have to work with me...”
Smith closes his eyes and clenches his jaw so hard that I’d swear you can hear his teeth shattering inside his mouth. The tiny crackle of it echoes across the chasm. He grunts.
“...and I am going to have to work with you.
But, I’ve got strong ideas about how this is going to happen. When Steve tries to get me with his signature Sexecution Frankensteiner, I’ll catch him on my shoulders and give him a running Wolf bomb!!! Oh… what’s a running Wolf bomb? It’s like a buckle bomb, only I smash the back of Steve Osbourne’s head against the bridge of your nose, knocking you off the apron and into the third row!!
And when Zy launches himself off the top rope with that picturesque point of punctuation to any match that he calls FU Mark Cuban, I will evade his flying frog splash slash elbow drop and let him come crashing down like black Monday dead centre on the canvas before I take Dean Wolf by the legs and whip him down on top of Zy Zimmons’ remains with a malicious Alabama Slamma, smashing the back of Wolf’s head against the back of Zion’s head like two asteroids slamming together in the vast darkness of outer space.
I’ve been a horrible champion.
Do you have any idea how much it hurt my game that Masuda died before I could beat him for the title? I walked into this gig behind the proverbial eight ball. Not really a champion because I didn’t beat the previous champion. Then when I did eventually win it at Supremacy, I just barely survived that match against Zombie McMorris. When the ref handed me the belt, it was euphoria sullied with a pinch of unwanted doubt. Could I have defeated Masuda. His ghost will haunt me for the rest of my days. Then when I defended it against Zy, I just barely survived that match as well.
I can see it just as well as everyone else that I am NOT an absolutely dominant champion. I don’t command the same respect and attention that Jubei did. I’m not a far and away clear genius like Braxton Locus was. I’m not a runaway champion. It seems like at any moment, any person in that locker room could march out to that ring and take my precious world championship from me!”
Cut to a tight closeup of the Alpha World Championship belt. It appears to be in a different location from where Smith Jones is sitting. As the camera zooms out, we now see that the belt is indeed locked safely around the waist of the incredible Smith Jones. He is now standing in his locker room, dressed in his shiny white robe with sparky silver trim. Smith is frozen in time, staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall.
“Smith Jones. You must do better. You must be bigger than you are today or you will not be champion much longer. Dean Wolf is… my gravest challenge to date… Wolf is the only one in this entire company that I cannot put down. I have no effective plan. I have no silver bullet. I have no chance in the fiery pit of Hell. When Dean Wolf comes to drag me kicking and screaming into a future I want nothing to do with, I have no way of stopping him.
Unless…
I start tomorrow night.
Dean Wolf. I am not going to be easy on you as a tag partner. You’ve shown me how unflappably indestructible you can be when everything is thrown at you. You’re a monster. You are my very best weapon against my most recent W The Dot Com Mongrel Zion Simmons and the brand new North American Champ who opts to embody the moniker The Super Sexy Boogeyman Slayer Steven Osbourne. Hardcore Champion Dean Wolf is my best weapon tomorrow night. And, Wolf, that’s exactly how I plan to use you.
So when I throw Wolf from the top rope with an avalanche German, I’ll be sure to aim him in the direction of young Zy. And when I hurl Wolf over the top rope, I’ll be sure that Oz is down below to be crushed by the falling moon.
Do you hear me? I will pull the moon down from the sky and thrust it down upon thee. No more BARELY CHAMPION. No more! I have no love for any of you in there Monday night. This is not just another match. It’s never just another match! Monday night is the end of the doubt. I will not hear another person speak of Wolf as the next in line.
I’m Smith Jones and I am your Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion!
I am going to prove to all of you that I really am your World Champion for a reason. I--”
“Dad!”
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Smith snaps out of his daydream and instantly back to reality. He is standing in the corner of his basement training ring looking at his son Copeland who stands in the centre looking back at him. The resemblance becomes more and more clear to Smith every time he looks at the boy. They are both dressed in exactly the same white ring gear. Boots, kneepads, trunks, wrist tape. All white. Dark hair Icy eyes. Mirror images seventeen years apart. Smith is completely lost in thoughts of--
“Dad!!! Are you going to teach me the Point of Controversy or not?”
“No.”
“Then why the hell did you bring me to your private training chamber in the first place?! What kind of father are you???”
Smitty stares a moment longer and then begins to hyperventilate a little. He forces himself to take deep breaths as his fights hard to keep his composure. Suddenly, he explodes out of the corner and quickly locks Copeland in a standing overhand wristlock, working him quickly down to one knee, standing over his son and leaning in close to his ear. Smith speaks to Copeland in a gravel whisper.
“This is the best advice I will ever give you.
Don’t be me. Be Copeland Sanderson. I’m just a wrestler you used to idolize growing up. I’m just a fighter trying to make a name for myself that remains long after I’m gone. I’m not a role model or anything like that. I’m just a man. I’m not someone to pattern your life or your career after. Don’t be Smith Jones, Copeland. It’s not the life it’s cracked up to be.
I’ll be me.
You be you.”
