Post by Jubei on Mar 13, 2020 15:48:55 GMT -5
We open to a VFW where an assortment of vets sit around a smoke-ringed TV, bemoaning how there will be no March Madness Pool. Playing the role of bartender for the day, and looking grungier than usual, stands Masuda Teijin pouring beers by the mug. His leather jacket adds to layers of grime caked to the local post’s paneled walls.
”So what got you dudes into wrestling? Like old territory shit?
Several of them nod before a feisty grampa—and Harley Race doppelganger—raises a crooked finger.
”Wanna know why? Because rass’ln never got better than Bobo Brazil. Jimmy Snuka. Name a territory—the American Dream, for god’s sake. Now those were real men! Today, goddamn flips and acrobats. When did it become a buncha sissy danc’n?”
Teijin continues wiping down beer mugs.
”So if we were to cure wrestling… what would it take? And go big. None of that horseshit about more titties on the female stars. Because the next one of you skin puppets that disses Lucy Sixx is getting a new pair of dentures… which, like, I’d probably pay for—but don’t tempt me.”
A different relic rolls over from the jukebox to the gag-inducing live version of “Hotel California”. His scooter game, majestic in some fucked up way, draws the entire bar’s attention. It culls rank from the scrambled eggs on his hat brim to regalia decorating a bomber jacket.
”Kid, wrestling died in the 80’s. Can you believe they stop matches for blood? Blood! It’s supposed to be a fight, not some slap fest between Barbie Dolls. And who let this guy in anyways? Did we take Iwo Jima for nothing? Not me! And I’ll be damned if some prick with fake hair is gonna turn us against each other. Don't y’all see it? His trying to divide us!”
”Oyaji… an olive branch. I only wanted to see what’s missing from wrestling. Because when I see the shows—yeah, there’s definitely talent across the board. But how do they operate? How do execs move and shake rosters to satisfy the fans’ needs?”
”They don’t. That’s what happened to wrestling. Now pour me a drink already.”
Teijin pours and slides a frothy mug with too much head for purist standards. That retired colonel whips that glass off the table from his wheeled throne like a boss. Masuda nods with the cameras closing up on his face.
”Don’t slide drinks, dumbass. We’re not as mobile as we used to be.”
”Respect your elders. What tribe doesn’t worship that? Yet here we stand, obstinate to their teachings while evading wafts of pap-pap’s onion stench. I do my best to follow ancestral wisdom. Old spirits that knew forests before there was ‘The Internet’… really, I’d rather just mine their sap for my own benefit. Learn to best challenges before they transpire. Know enemies before they ever make a move on my game board. Except then realize that while they might have a tome of answers for our eternal rat race—remember that they also have no idea what the world actually needs today. So let’s cast them off on a cruise ship to shuffleboard out of existence!”
Teijin slides a glass so hard that it slicks past every patron before flying off the counter and shattering. Totems slowly tilt with Masuda catching his breath. Cameras get uncomfortably close, highlighting every Ferrari yellow strand of messy hair and chin bristles.
”I mock the names and footprints that made this company what it is today. Even now, faded and worn, outsiders like myself still embrace crappy T-shirts of my dead uncle. I mention him because it sells tickets for a group of people who’d rather sit in $300.00 chairs, ingesting mouthfuls of literal horseshit before they’d ever ride and die for something worthwhile. Where I find myself pacing these halls for answers: Why this place maintains a cult following. Then I see those same faces mocking me from concrete pillars and telephone poles. Transients sucking lifeblood from the veins of people like these meat bags. Only those delusional enough to stand up and clap for legends like Odin Balfore, Alex Richards… and yes, the incomparable Corey Black. King of all rings, and one-half of the ass shoes I’m wearing this Monday. And no, I won’t elaborate on how that works… sickos.”
“When they announced this pairing, I’ll admit to some excitement. That young, dumb kind that wants to break through an old chapel’s ceiling –God’s face first, when I do—crumbling an older order. And there’s no more consistent pillar in pro-wrestling than Corey Black, right Grampas?”
Patrons belabor his point via ad hoc committee before Teijin cuts them off by shattering a shot glass.
”Let’s shut that that shit down before we’re oiling his popcorn abs. Thank you geezers for also answering the question on all our minds: ‘Am I worthy to face him?’ Research points to ‘yes’ because I’ve seen the effort brought to the table so far. He and Frank are vacationing here between tag seasons. Warmups other scrubs in this tourney treat like Super Bowls. Wait. We’re cancelling all events now, aren’t we? Bravo APW for being a spectacle and vector of pestilence.
Alpha’s little future dims as more Action Wrestling stars stand on the horizon. Can this roster survive? Blue in the face like that little engine that could, dreaming uphill until that boulder rolls back in our face. Manmade Gods or not, I can already tell my whiny partner is going to do his best to dispel myths. Except how do you stare a wrestling pirate in the eye and call him hype? You can’t. People cling to adversity, piggybacking on the career of anyone that had things hard. Steal vicarious worth from entrance to three counts. My childhood sucked, for sure, but I still have a pretty face. All snakes do, right?”
The retired colonel demands a refill behind the incriminating point of a Freddy Krueger digit.
”You’re forgetting that people like Corey Black have won everything. He doesn’t need these tag belts. FPV doesn’t either, dipshit.”
Close up of Teijin’s distorted murder face.
”Let me inform you, colonel. While everyone spends their days reliving glories from plaques and ribbons… young talent like me and Aaron Blaze are surviving our own wars. You know that it eats the young and shits out their souls. Because you’re just another soulless bastard lost in the past. I will open the door for you. I will salute your service. Fuck! I’m pouring you another drink! But you will not fight my war! This one belongs to younger wolves… you want Budd or Miller, colonel?”
Teijin gives the post commander his best albeit flawed pour. It’s enough to please a tongue whose taste buds burnt off decades ago. A gaping hole devoid of all flavor but that sweet burn of Lucky Strikes.
”I hope you’re good at wrestling. Because you pour a shitty beer.”
”How should I know? They let me back here. The same way Irina let her golden vision of tag team greatness flood this company with vultures. If FPV wanted that World Title, and not his coveted AW belt, he’d have taken Jonesy to school. Except he came here half-spirited and a quarter of his usual effort. This match is no better than a 5K for his regimen. So let’s stop pretending the name matters, Aaron… you fucking goober, and focus on the truth at the heart this contest. We want the tag belts. No, we need those belts. Manmade Gods will just tell us how we can’t beat them. Yet, do they even want to win is the question we’re all tap dancing around. So focus, bro. We’ve a better chance than any of Alpha’s faithful will give us. And that’s when we’re at our best.”
”Yeah, still won’t save my beer.”
Teijin swipes it from the colonel and downs the whole thing—old man breath and all—to audible gasps.
”Have you even been listening? Bad Boy Energy’s coming at you like big-ass fruit bats carrying Marburg, waiting to spread our influence. Mark my words colonel… I will not repeat them. We will topple every god set before us and advance. Our opponents have everything at arm’s reach. Meanwhile, I’m climbing that flagpole like Mulan, girlfriend. Anything else to add? Because I won’t stop until every old school fan MUST bow to my career. Until even the men of marquees have no choice but respect my presence in their locker room. And I won’t back down until you’re wearing out my official merchandise—and not that of my dead, motherfucking uncle!”
Teijin reaches across the bar and opens the man’s bomber jacket. There, wearing his infamous smirk, Masuda meets Masuda once again. Terror has since befallen the VFW. Silence follows him to the parking lot after that front door rings its bell in passing. Two cameras follow, clanging in stereo.
Teijin meets them by the production van with a cutting throat gesture.
”Martin! Hey! Don’t tape me right now. I’m not in the mood for another close up. Got enough footage to mesh something together.”
”That was terrifying… but super riveting too.”
”That’s producer talk, Briana, but yeah, I felt it too. Now I just have to believe all the crazy shit spouting from my mouth before Monday.”
”So what got you dudes into wrestling? Like old territory shit?
Several of them nod before a feisty grampa—and Harley Race doppelganger—raises a crooked finger.
”Wanna know why? Because rass’ln never got better than Bobo Brazil. Jimmy Snuka. Name a territory—the American Dream, for god’s sake. Now those were real men! Today, goddamn flips and acrobats. When did it become a buncha sissy danc’n?”
Teijin continues wiping down beer mugs.
”So if we were to cure wrestling… what would it take? And go big. None of that horseshit about more titties on the female stars. Because the next one of you skin puppets that disses Lucy Sixx is getting a new pair of dentures… which, like, I’d probably pay for—but don’t tempt me.”
A different relic rolls over from the jukebox to the gag-inducing live version of “Hotel California”. His scooter game, majestic in some fucked up way, draws the entire bar’s attention. It culls rank from the scrambled eggs on his hat brim to regalia decorating a bomber jacket.
”Kid, wrestling died in the 80’s. Can you believe they stop matches for blood? Blood! It’s supposed to be a fight, not some slap fest between Barbie Dolls. And who let this guy in anyways? Did we take Iwo Jima for nothing? Not me! And I’ll be damned if some prick with fake hair is gonna turn us against each other. Don't y’all see it? His trying to divide us!”
”Oyaji… an olive branch. I only wanted to see what’s missing from wrestling. Because when I see the shows—yeah, there’s definitely talent across the board. But how do they operate? How do execs move and shake rosters to satisfy the fans’ needs?”
”They don’t. That’s what happened to wrestling. Now pour me a drink already.”
Teijin pours and slides a frothy mug with too much head for purist standards. That retired colonel whips that glass off the table from his wheeled throne like a boss. Masuda nods with the cameras closing up on his face.
”Don’t slide drinks, dumbass. We’re not as mobile as we used to be.”
”Respect your elders. What tribe doesn’t worship that? Yet here we stand, obstinate to their teachings while evading wafts of pap-pap’s onion stench. I do my best to follow ancestral wisdom. Old spirits that knew forests before there was ‘The Internet’… really, I’d rather just mine their sap for my own benefit. Learn to best challenges before they transpire. Know enemies before they ever make a move on my game board. Except then realize that while they might have a tome of answers for our eternal rat race—remember that they also have no idea what the world actually needs today. So let’s cast them off on a cruise ship to shuffleboard out of existence!”
Teijin slides a glass so hard that it slicks past every patron before flying off the counter and shattering. Totems slowly tilt with Masuda catching his breath. Cameras get uncomfortably close, highlighting every Ferrari yellow strand of messy hair and chin bristles.
”I mock the names and footprints that made this company what it is today. Even now, faded and worn, outsiders like myself still embrace crappy T-shirts of my dead uncle. I mention him because it sells tickets for a group of people who’d rather sit in $300.00 chairs, ingesting mouthfuls of literal horseshit before they’d ever ride and die for something worthwhile. Where I find myself pacing these halls for answers: Why this place maintains a cult following. Then I see those same faces mocking me from concrete pillars and telephone poles. Transients sucking lifeblood from the veins of people like these meat bags. Only those delusional enough to stand up and clap for legends like Odin Balfore, Alex Richards… and yes, the incomparable Corey Black. King of all rings, and one-half of the ass shoes I’m wearing this Monday. And no, I won’t elaborate on how that works… sickos.”
“When they announced this pairing, I’ll admit to some excitement. That young, dumb kind that wants to break through an old chapel’s ceiling –God’s face first, when I do—crumbling an older order. And there’s no more consistent pillar in pro-wrestling than Corey Black, right Grampas?”
Patrons belabor his point via ad hoc committee before Teijin cuts them off by shattering a shot glass.
”Let’s shut that that shit down before we’re oiling his popcorn abs. Thank you geezers for also answering the question on all our minds: ‘Am I worthy to face him?’ Research points to ‘yes’ because I’ve seen the effort brought to the table so far. He and Frank are vacationing here between tag seasons. Warmups other scrubs in this tourney treat like Super Bowls. Wait. We’re cancelling all events now, aren’t we? Bravo APW for being a spectacle and vector of pestilence.
Alpha’s little future dims as more Action Wrestling stars stand on the horizon. Can this roster survive? Blue in the face like that little engine that could, dreaming uphill until that boulder rolls back in our face. Manmade Gods or not, I can already tell my whiny partner is going to do his best to dispel myths. Except how do you stare a wrestling pirate in the eye and call him hype? You can’t. People cling to adversity, piggybacking on the career of anyone that had things hard. Steal vicarious worth from entrance to three counts. My childhood sucked, for sure, but I still have a pretty face. All snakes do, right?”
The retired colonel demands a refill behind the incriminating point of a Freddy Krueger digit.
”You’re forgetting that people like Corey Black have won everything. He doesn’t need these tag belts. FPV doesn’t either, dipshit.”
Close up of Teijin’s distorted murder face.
”Let me inform you, colonel. While everyone spends their days reliving glories from plaques and ribbons… young talent like me and Aaron Blaze are surviving our own wars. You know that it eats the young and shits out their souls. Because you’re just another soulless bastard lost in the past. I will open the door for you. I will salute your service. Fuck! I’m pouring you another drink! But you will not fight my war! This one belongs to younger wolves… you want Budd or Miller, colonel?”
Teijin gives the post commander his best albeit flawed pour. It’s enough to please a tongue whose taste buds burnt off decades ago. A gaping hole devoid of all flavor but that sweet burn of Lucky Strikes.
”I hope you’re good at wrestling. Because you pour a shitty beer.”
”How should I know? They let me back here. The same way Irina let her golden vision of tag team greatness flood this company with vultures. If FPV wanted that World Title, and not his coveted AW belt, he’d have taken Jonesy to school. Except he came here half-spirited and a quarter of his usual effort. This match is no better than a 5K for his regimen. So let’s stop pretending the name matters, Aaron… you fucking goober, and focus on the truth at the heart this contest. We want the tag belts. No, we need those belts. Manmade Gods will just tell us how we can’t beat them. Yet, do they even want to win is the question we’re all tap dancing around. So focus, bro. We’ve a better chance than any of Alpha’s faithful will give us. And that’s when we’re at our best.”
”Yeah, still won’t save my beer.”
Teijin swipes it from the colonel and downs the whole thing—old man breath and all—to audible gasps.
”Have you even been listening? Bad Boy Energy’s coming at you like big-ass fruit bats carrying Marburg, waiting to spread our influence. Mark my words colonel… I will not repeat them. We will topple every god set before us and advance. Our opponents have everything at arm’s reach. Meanwhile, I’m climbing that flagpole like Mulan, girlfriend. Anything else to add? Because I won’t stop until every old school fan MUST bow to my career. Until even the men of marquees have no choice but respect my presence in their locker room. And I won’t back down until you’re wearing out my official merchandise—and not that of my dead, motherfucking uncle!”
Teijin reaches across the bar and opens the man’s bomber jacket. There, wearing his infamous smirk, Masuda meets Masuda once again. Terror has since befallen the VFW. Silence follows him to the parking lot after that front door rings its bell in passing. Two cameras follow, clanging in stereo.
Teijin meets them by the production van with a cutting throat gesture.
”Martin! Hey! Don’t tape me right now. I’m not in the mood for another close up. Got enough footage to mesh something together.”
”That was terrifying… but super riveting too.”
”That’s producer talk, Briana, but yeah, I felt it too. Now I just have to believe all the crazy shit spouting from my mouth before Monday.”
