Post by Deleted on Jun 19, 2019 14:59:36 GMT -5
Two Days after MNM Episode 1
Jubei sits on the edge of his hotel bed at views of Oakland. Its light, dampened by the Warriors' recent defeat, still gives a vibrant glow. Linens wrap his naked person by the lesser glow of an alarm clock reading 3:30 AM. A hand touches his tattooed back, culling him to the other side.
Rachel: Jubei, how long have you been awake?
Jubei: I had thoughts too important for sleep.
Rachel: Not even ideas from The Master—
Jubei: I let that slip last night. Refrain from saying my name like that ever again.
Rachel: What?
Jubei: The power of one's name is only in how people wield it. You said it like a costumed fool.
Rachel, an independent reporter on APW, turns to her side in that classical pose: Her prying, and the man facing his problems from the opposite bedside. She taps his worn skin again.
Rachel: Care to share?
Jubei: I did.
Rachel: You said you thinking. You never why.
Jubei: You’re a fantastic reporter.
He walks into the adjacent bathroom and begins brushing his teeth.
Rachel: You know, some men ask for seconds. Was there something wrong with last night?
Jubei: (gargling) … I made my peace with you. Now we have an understanding.
Rachel: What sort of understanding?
His spit take ends with a heavy, labored cough.
Rachel: That doesn’t sound good.
Jubei: Our business is a handshake. That what I give you is for my benefit too.
Rachel: What about—
Jubei: You don’t get to say anything! I know what these traps are for, and I’m not some middling man gagging on blue pills, Ms. Bertrand. You want something; I want something, so we make a deal. Our handshake says you print for your dirt sheets. Giving you stories means I get what I want published. Then you make more. I get more of what I want circulated. This company has no idea what its identity is supposed to be, which is why our fans follow an animal without a namesake. Or fall smitten before an ancient god who’s not proven his worth in years. They have no leaders because our shows are flash paper. Their impact isn't everlasting.
Rachel: I missed that interference. Did you see it?
Jubei: Braxton was manhandled; sadly, I too missed his pain. They were suturing my forehead.
She goes through her phone for a moment; suddenly, a strong light emits from Jubei’s duffle bag. Rachel reaches down for it.
Jubei: Don’t even think about it.
Rachel: Is that your phone?
Jubei: No.
Rachel: Then what is it?
Jubei: Something weak people cannot look into, lest they go insane.
She bursts into laughter as Jubei snatches his bag from the floor.
Rachel: Can I earn that honor?
Jubei: It’s time you left. Don’t forget your shit… I'm going to shower.
Rachel: We're not getting breakfast? It’s included with the hotel.
Jubei: My rental. I trust you’ll find your way to the lobby.
Jubei slings the bag over one shoulder and takes it into the bathroom with him.
Rachel: Seriously, it’s 3 AM!
Jubei: And soon it will be 4. Best of luck to you. I have a panel at some comic show w/ some jobber wrestler.
Rachel: Fine… but don’t expect my help every again.
He closes and locks the bathroom door. A moment later, she’s relieved to see the door swing open. Rachel’s surprise dies when Jubei airmails her toiletries in a violent way. All of her things scattershot—including a brand new Frankie Satin pallet that explodes everywhere.
San Mateo Comic-Con, Two Days after MNM
Around two hundred sit in anticipation for what many hope will be a shoot interview from two veterans of "the biz": Hector Valerio, a fat white dude in a pearlescent luchador mask, and “The Master” Masuda Jubei. Jubei seems distracted by the number of fading New Blood and New Blood Japan T-shirts gathered before them. When a moderator appears from the backroom: one Rachel Rose Bertrand. All but Masuda give her applause.
Rachel: Welcome to this morning’s between the ropes chat with veterans who no need of introduction… but here we go anyways. Hector Valerio, “the Havana Hulkster” among other names, spent five years in Mexico before making his big break in WCF. There he faced, unsuccessfully, many great names of the squared circle. His penchant for hardcore matches endeared him to all. Although most know him best for his run in the Japan Challenge series…
Jubei: Questions! Questions!
Jubei’s chant throws Rachel off her game, forcing her to forego her intros, judging by the number of pages in her hand.
Rachel: Since you’re all inclined, let’s send the mic around. Yes, how about you?
A scrawny man in a Captain Marvel costume gets on the microphone.
Guest 1: My name’s Ray Balboa, no relation. And I gotta ask them both: How do you land on the mat as hard you do without getting hurt?
Hector: I’ll take this one, if you don’t mind?
Jubei waves him off, showing the 8th MS Team shirt hidden behind his crossed arms.
Hector: All right, Rocky-boy, we learn how to do moves properly. It takes years to hone in ring. I mastered these techniques to compete under strict guidelines. But don’t let those people who haven’t watched a match tell it’s fake, brother. Those bumps are the real deal.
Rachel: Jubei, care to add anything?
Jubei: It is real. This idiot knows that because he’s gotten used to hitting the canvas. Another curtain jerker for the ages, known best for the boots that pinned him. To answer your question, as stated: The work we do is not for the faint of heart. You look the type to powerbomb teenagers in your backyard. Well don’t, idiot. You’ll just end up in a hospital bed.
Ray sits looking spurned to hell.
Rachel: Alrighty, who’s next?
The microphone goes across the room to an obese yet plucky girl in her mid-twenties. Her Harley Quinn outfit catches the room’s attention.
Guest 2: Hi, I’m super excited to meet you. I brought your signs from the Jubeilation show last September!
Rachel: Can we have your name and question, please.
Hector: You look super cool too!
Guest 2: Uh, thanks… Mr. Jubei, what happened to your company?
Jubei: Remove her. She’s trying to make a scene.
Rachel: I think it’s a fair line of question… Security. You don’t need to—
Jubei: Get her out of here!
A tearful guest walks out of the panel room with a loose escort of two nerd-huge guys with matching styles of ponytail. The room clamors a bit before Rachel can cull their attention back to the dais.
Rachel: So New Blood Wrestling is off the table, I guess… raise your hand and we’ll get to you.
Guest 3: Hey guys, thanks for coming to the con. We all appreciate your willingness to come here, with your busy schedules and all.
Golf claps drown the room for a moment before coming to an abrupt silence.
Guest 3: So I’m Buford. Been a wrestling fan for fifty-six years… ever since my gran pappy showed us boys the sport at the local armory. Popcorn was pretty cheap too. Helluva lot cheaper than these meet and greet tix. So anyways, you two ever been on the hard stuff? Like, some real ’80s kinda shit.
Hector: Those were some roaring days, brother. Although we’ve done a lot in the past decade to prevent substance abuse in wrestling. Guys get hurt, but the show’s gotta go on… so you try something under the table. Low and behold, you’re outside a gas station in Tijuana—
Rachel: I think we’ll move on to something else... How about the young lady in the Agent Scully cosplay.
Guest 4: My name’s Penny… and that's my hubby, Garfield. Yeah, we know, Mondays amirite?
That joke gets an unnecessary pop.
Jubei: Are you the abused cartoonist? Or the slobbering dog?
Rachel: (whispering to Jubei) Stop it.
Guest 4: We wanted to ask about your upcoming show. Is that okay, Mr. Masuda.
Jubei: Yes, dog, I will answer that. They told me to sell the show, sign autographs and take pictures. Does that sound like what you want?
Everyone goes crazy.
Jubei: I’m not going to do that. Because I have more important things on my mind. It all begins with this tag match our brilliant minds think can win over trough eaters like this room. People whose name is both on the pizza bill and delivery sedan. I can entertain you people, but we do it my way.
That brings down the room, although most still seem intrigued.
Jubei: I’m going to force-feed you morons until it all makes sense. Let’s begin with this tag match: They booked me with Trent Page. A man who I should have kept hitting last week. Whose weak skull couldn’t take any more punishment. They must think that pitting us against another pile of human meat is going to contain our hatred: It won’t. Not only are we not going to work well together; honestly, I see no scenario that doesn’t include another concussed and bloodied Trent Page. Hell, I might even bring popcorn and let the bastard tear him apart for me. Alpha Showdown is around the corner. Why should I waste my peak condition on two men whose relationship bonds over imported beer and gravy fries?
That gets a little chuckle from the room. Hector has since balanced his cheek on a bored fist.
Jubei: I have had many opportunities to watch these younger fighters, and I’m still waiting to be impressed. Wins are wins, but they must prove it against someone who can fight back. Someone me who has spent the entirety of this company’s young tenure at its pinnacle. I have to be more than a gatekeeper. My skills put me in the place of the Black Hawks whose track record against Canadian teams has been stellar this decade. Of course, I had to look all that up because no one actually watches hockey. Funny how they place themselves as invaders yet forget the oppression of Quebec. What Canada really stands for: a colder, less diverse America with even worse alcohol. Give me sake or give me death.
That one loosens the crowd, yet some still aren’t impressed.
Rachel: What Jubei means, is that he wants to show his dominance in the ring.
Jubei: Show them? I have nothing to prove to them. They will come and see me, plus the guy I embarrassed last week, beat two oversize stumps a woodchuck couldn’t chuck. I know Mr. Rage is two-thirds of their combined weight, but they have nothing more to offer than antics and zealous pride. Pride always gets in the way of vision. You cannot build off an empire of leaves—don’t even try it.
Hector: Can I answer now?
That gets a small pop from the audience.
Rachel: Where are you booked, Hector?
Jubei: Nowhere. Look at him, I bet he’s the only one that could lose to “Triple R” in a footrace. Although it could still be a dead heat. The only depressing thing is that my opponent, excuse me, partner might just be enough to do all the work. Maybe I’ll compose haiku instead. Doubt I’ll break a sweat.
Hector: Well, Rachel, I’m headlining—
Jubei: A gymnasium in the Mission District. We know because you still have a stack of fliers to hang up. Or are those for your all-male homecoming dance? You see, everyone, the heart of a warrior cannot let itself be defined by what people expect. Expectations are control. Those like me are above controls. Above what move to move has-beens like this masked KFC janitor promise. Those on my level don’t bow, and they never let the world define them. I am the Axis, the Poles and Great Attractor. Canadian Coalition, or whoever hops out of the darkness, I stopped caring before reading the card.
Rachel: Well, we can’t wait to see you in action.
Jubei: And if there’s a repeat of last week’s show. Then I’ll sharpen my blade.
The place starts clearing out, including his panel-mate.
Rachel: What blade?
Jubei: One for decapitating ogres. And yes, that is a threat. Interfere and you shall find your great wolf, Odin.
Rachel: (off her mic) Look what you did. Do you have to destroy everything?
Jubei: I am what I was meant to be: a destroyer. And I won’t rest until everything bows to me.
Rachel: You’re nuts!
Jubei: Ore wa masutā desu….
Training Room, Two days until MNM #2
Jubei is shirtless while working out with trainer Kevin Bishop. He’s in the middle of weightlifting when Roku appears in the doorway. Commission Jason Zurra accompanies him under the larger man’s power.
Bishop: Five more, Jubei! You got this!
Masuda finishes two more, pushing himself to the maximum as he does, when the other two approach them. Roku finds a seat for the Commissioner while they watch his workout.
Jason: Why are you doing sqauts? I thought you were an aerobics type?
Jubei: 18… 19…
Jason: Can you stop at twenty? We need to talk.
Jubei: 20… 21…
Jason: Fine, do whatever you want. Hurt yourself just to prove a useless point.
He manages the final three reps before Kevin Bishop helps him reset the weights.
Jason: I need to talk you about your last match. We've received complaints from the roster, and it’s come to our attention that you’re trying to hurt people. Care to explain?
Jubei: I will when you can lift that bar.
Jason: How much is on it right now?
Bishop: 405.
Jason: Not today, asshole. But just keep smirking. This isn’t permanent.
Roku closes the gap between the two men. Bishop just goes off on his merry way, jamming to something of his all-black Powerbeats pro.
Jason: This shit went over in Japan. Well, we’re not there anymore. I need to have your promise that you will not use anyone else in this company as a punching bag.
Jubei: No.
Roku: Didn’t you hear him?
Jubei: I did, muscle milk, and I don’t care. You’re the same people who booked me with Trent Page. Tell me… is he recovering?
Jason: Yes, our medical staff cleared him for Monday’s show.
Jubei: You can convince doctors of anything. Especially the hacks you employ. And don’t count him safe. There’s a chance he will come after me in that match.
Roku: Do you blame him? I would—
Jason: Roku, please… Trent Page wants to win. So do you. Work together and stop all this alpha dog crap. We’re getting sick of it.
Jubei: And what about that Swede? Huh? Are you going to give him the same speech?
Jason: It will be handled.
Jubei: Do it your way, or I’ll be forced to deal it my way.
Jason: Stop it! You think everything has to be about you. Well it’s not. We had a good show last week, one you didn’t headline. In fact, most still think Braxton will be our first Heavyweight Champion.
Jubei: Idiots.
Jason: Excuse me?
Jubei: I’m surrounded by idiots. Like that one (pointing to Roku) and that one (at Bishop eating a protein bar). Everyone tries to explain rules... the world. Why do so many delusional people think they have a stake in what happens? Because we all know what decides the fates: our ring. I don’t care how many years you work those ropes. The canvas tells all. And you’re just another planner in a room of activists. People who want to get out of their seat and do something about their situation.
Roku: How about we prove that on the canvas here and now?
Jubei: I’m not wasting my form on some steroid gorilla. My presence has been requested again and again. And it sells again and again. So bring your Wayne’s World tag team. Bring the man I should have beaten to death as a tag partner. Because you people can’t teach me a lesson in teamwork. And this chicanery won’t teach me how to play well with others. You idiots can’t teach me anything: I’m The Master.
Jason: Roku, let’s get out of here.
Kevin Bishop return to Jubei’s side, as both just watch them leave.
Bishop: So that was fun. Ready for more?
Jubei: How much does Odin weigh?
Bishop: like 330… why?
Jubei: Let’s go up to 415. I’m really feeling it tonight.
Bishop: Don’t forget your belt this time. Hernias are a showstopper.
Masuda fastens his weightlifting belt on tight.
Jubei: Yes… a dry run for Alpha Showdown.
Jubei sits on the edge of his hotel bed at views of Oakland. Its light, dampened by the Warriors' recent defeat, still gives a vibrant glow. Linens wrap his naked person by the lesser glow of an alarm clock reading 3:30 AM. A hand touches his tattooed back, culling him to the other side.
Rachel: Jubei, how long have you been awake?
Jubei: I had thoughts too important for sleep.
Rachel: Not even ideas from The Master—
Jubei: I let that slip last night. Refrain from saying my name like that ever again.
Rachel: What?
Jubei: The power of one's name is only in how people wield it. You said it like a costumed fool.
Rachel, an independent reporter on APW, turns to her side in that classical pose: Her prying, and the man facing his problems from the opposite bedside. She taps his worn skin again.
Rachel: Care to share?
Jubei: I did.
Rachel: You said you thinking. You never why.
Jubei: You’re a fantastic reporter.
He walks into the adjacent bathroom and begins brushing his teeth.
Rachel: You know, some men ask for seconds. Was there something wrong with last night?
Jubei: (gargling) … I made my peace with you. Now we have an understanding.
Rachel: What sort of understanding?
His spit take ends with a heavy, labored cough.
Rachel: That doesn’t sound good.
Jubei: Our business is a handshake. That what I give you is for my benefit too.
Rachel: What about—
Jubei: You don’t get to say anything! I know what these traps are for, and I’m not some middling man gagging on blue pills, Ms. Bertrand. You want something; I want something, so we make a deal. Our handshake says you print for your dirt sheets. Giving you stories means I get what I want published. Then you make more. I get more of what I want circulated. This company has no idea what its identity is supposed to be, which is why our fans follow an animal without a namesake. Or fall smitten before an ancient god who’s not proven his worth in years. They have no leaders because our shows are flash paper. Their impact isn't everlasting.
Rachel: I missed that interference. Did you see it?
Jubei: Braxton was manhandled; sadly, I too missed his pain. They were suturing my forehead.
She goes through her phone for a moment; suddenly, a strong light emits from Jubei’s duffle bag. Rachel reaches down for it.
Jubei: Don’t even think about it.
Rachel: Is that your phone?
Jubei: No.
Rachel: Then what is it?
Jubei: Something weak people cannot look into, lest they go insane.
She bursts into laughter as Jubei snatches his bag from the floor.
Rachel: Can I earn that honor?
Jubei: It’s time you left. Don’t forget your shit… I'm going to shower.
Rachel: We're not getting breakfast? It’s included with the hotel.
Jubei: My rental. I trust you’ll find your way to the lobby.
Jubei slings the bag over one shoulder and takes it into the bathroom with him.
Rachel: Seriously, it’s 3 AM!
Jubei: And soon it will be 4. Best of luck to you. I have a panel at some comic show w/ some jobber wrestler.
Rachel: Fine… but don’t expect my help every again.
He closes and locks the bathroom door. A moment later, she’s relieved to see the door swing open. Rachel’s surprise dies when Jubei airmails her toiletries in a violent way. All of her things scattershot—including a brand new Frankie Satin pallet that explodes everywhere.
San Mateo Comic-Con, Two Days after MNM
Around two hundred sit in anticipation for what many hope will be a shoot interview from two veterans of "the biz": Hector Valerio, a fat white dude in a pearlescent luchador mask, and “The Master” Masuda Jubei. Jubei seems distracted by the number of fading New Blood and New Blood Japan T-shirts gathered before them. When a moderator appears from the backroom: one Rachel Rose Bertrand. All but Masuda give her applause.
Rachel: Welcome to this morning’s between the ropes chat with veterans who no need of introduction… but here we go anyways. Hector Valerio, “the Havana Hulkster” among other names, spent five years in Mexico before making his big break in WCF. There he faced, unsuccessfully, many great names of the squared circle. His penchant for hardcore matches endeared him to all. Although most know him best for his run in the Japan Challenge series…
Jubei: Questions! Questions!
Jubei’s chant throws Rachel off her game, forcing her to forego her intros, judging by the number of pages in her hand.
Rachel: Since you’re all inclined, let’s send the mic around. Yes, how about you?
A scrawny man in a Captain Marvel costume gets on the microphone.
Guest 1: My name’s Ray Balboa, no relation. And I gotta ask them both: How do you land on the mat as hard you do without getting hurt?
Hector: I’ll take this one, if you don’t mind?
Jubei waves him off, showing the 8th MS Team shirt hidden behind his crossed arms.
Hector: All right, Rocky-boy, we learn how to do moves properly. It takes years to hone in ring. I mastered these techniques to compete under strict guidelines. But don’t let those people who haven’t watched a match tell it’s fake, brother. Those bumps are the real deal.
Rachel: Jubei, care to add anything?
Jubei: It is real. This idiot knows that because he’s gotten used to hitting the canvas. Another curtain jerker for the ages, known best for the boots that pinned him. To answer your question, as stated: The work we do is not for the faint of heart. You look the type to powerbomb teenagers in your backyard. Well don’t, idiot. You’ll just end up in a hospital bed.
Ray sits looking spurned to hell.
Rachel: Alrighty, who’s next?
The microphone goes across the room to an obese yet plucky girl in her mid-twenties. Her Harley Quinn outfit catches the room’s attention.
Guest 2: Hi, I’m super excited to meet you. I brought your signs from the Jubeilation show last September!
Rachel: Can we have your name and question, please.
Hector: You look super cool too!
Guest 2: Uh, thanks… Mr. Jubei, what happened to your company?
Jubei: Remove her. She’s trying to make a scene.
Rachel: I think it’s a fair line of question… Security. You don’t need to—
Jubei: Get her out of here!
A tearful guest walks out of the panel room with a loose escort of two nerd-huge guys with matching styles of ponytail. The room clamors a bit before Rachel can cull their attention back to the dais.
Rachel: So New Blood Wrestling is off the table, I guess… raise your hand and we’ll get to you.
Guest 3: Hey guys, thanks for coming to the con. We all appreciate your willingness to come here, with your busy schedules and all.
Golf claps drown the room for a moment before coming to an abrupt silence.
Guest 3: So I’m Buford. Been a wrestling fan for fifty-six years… ever since my gran pappy showed us boys the sport at the local armory. Popcorn was pretty cheap too. Helluva lot cheaper than these meet and greet tix. So anyways, you two ever been on the hard stuff? Like, some real ’80s kinda shit.
Hector: Those were some roaring days, brother. Although we’ve done a lot in the past decade to prevent substance abuse in wrestling. Guys get hurt, but the show’s gotta go on… so you try something under the table. Low and behold, you’re outside a gas station in Tijuana—
Rachel: I think we’ll move on to something else... How about the young lady in the Agent Scully cosplay.
Guest 4: My name’s Penny… and that's my hubby, Garfield. Yeah, we know, Mondays amirite?
That joke gets an unnecessary pop.
Jubei: Are you the abused cartoonist? Or the slobbering dog?
Rachel: (whispering to Jubei) Stop it.
Guest 4: We wanted to ask about your upcoming show. Is that okay, Mr. Masuda.
Jubei: Yes, dog, I will answer that. They told me to sell the show, sign autographs and take pictures. Does that sound like what you want?
Everyone goes crazy.
Jubei: I’m not going to do that. Because I have more important things on my mind. It all begins with this tag match our brilliant minds think can win over trough eaters like this room. People whose name is both on the pizza bill and delivery sedan. I can entertain you people, but we do it my way.
That brings down the room, although most still seem intrigued.
Jubei: I’m going to force-feed you morons until it all makes sense. Let’s begin with this tag match: They booked me with Trent Page. A man who I should have kept hitting last week. Whose weak skull couldn’t take any more punishment. They must think that pitting us against another pile of human meat is going to contain our hatred: It won’t. Not only are we not going to work well together; honestly, I see no scenario that doesn’t include another concussed and bloodied Trent Page. Hell, I might even bring popcorn and let the bastard tear him apart for me. Alpha Showdown is around the corner. Why should I waste my peak condition on two men whose relationship bonds over imported beer and gravy fries?
That gets a little chuckle from the room. Hector has since balanced his cheek on a bored fist.
Jubei: I have had many opportunities to watch these younger fighters, and I’m still waiting to be impressed. Wins are wins, but they must prove it against someone who can fight back. Someone me who has spent the entirety of this company’s young tenure at its pinnacle. I have to be more than a gatekeeper. My skills put me in the place of the Black Hawks whose track record against Canadian teams has been stellar this decade. Of course, I had to look all that up because no one actually watches hockey. Funny how they place themselves as invaders yet forget the oppression of Quebec. What Canada really stands for: a colder, less diverse America with even worse alcohol. Give me sake or give me death.
That one loosens the crowd, yet some still aren’t impressed.
Rachel: What Jubei means, is that he wants to show his dominance in the ring.
Jubei: Show them? I have nothing to prove to them. They will come and see me, plus the guy I embarrassed last week, beat two oversize stumps a woodchuck couldn’t chuck. I know Mr. Rage is two-thirds of their combined weight, but they have nothing more to offer than antics and zealous pride. Pride always gets in the way of vision. You cannot build off an empire of leaves—don’t even try it.
Hector: Can I answer now?
That gets a small pop from the audience.
Rachel: Where are you booked, Hector?
Jubei: Nowhere. Look at him, I bet he’s the only one that could lose to “Triple R” in a footrace. Although it could still be a dead heat. The only depressing thing is that my opponent, excuse me, partner might just be enough to do all the work. Maybe I’ll compose haiku instead. Doubt I’ll break a sweat.
Hector: Well, Rachel, I’m headlining—
Jubei: A gymnasium in the Mission District. We know because you still have a stack of fliers to hang up. Or are those for your all-male homecoming dance? You see, everyone, the heart of a warrior cannot let itself be defined by what people expect. Expectations are control. Those like me are above controls. Above what move to move has-beens like this masked KFC janitor promise. Those on my level don’t bow, and they never let the world define them. I am the Axis, the Poles and Great Attractor. Canadian Coalition, or whoever hops out of the darkness, I stopped caring before reading the card.
Rachel: Well, we can’t wait to see you in action.
Jubei: And if there’s a repeat of last week’s show. Then I’ll sharpen my blade.
The place starts clearing out, including his panel-mate.
Rachel: What blade?
Jubei: One for decapitating ogres. And yes, that is a threat. Interfere and you shall find your great wolf, Odin.
Rachel: (off her mic) Look what you did. Do you have to destroy everything?
Jubei: I am what I was meant to be: a destroyer. And I won’t rest until everything bows to me.
Rachel: You’re nuts!
Jubei: Ore wa masutā desu….
Training Room, Two days until MNM #2
Jubei is shirtless while working out with trainer Kevin Bishop. He’s in the middle of weightlifting when Roku appears in the doorway. Commission Jason Zurra accompanies him under the larger man’s power.
Bishop: Five more, Jubei! You got this!
Masuda finishes two more, pushing himself to the maximum as he does, when the other two approach them. Roku finds a seat for the Commissioner while they watch his workout.
Jason: Why are you doing sqauts? I thought you were an aerobics type?
Jubei: 18… 19…
Jason: Can you stop at twenty? We need to talk.
Jubei: 20… 21…
Jason: Fine, do whatever you want. Hurt yourself just to prove a useless point.
He manages the final three reps before Kevin Bishop helps him reset the weights.
Jason: I need to talk you about your last match. We've received complaints from the roster, and it’s come to our attention that you’re trying to hurt people. Care to explain?
Jubei: I will when you can lift that bar.
Jason: How much is on it right now?
Bishop: 405.
Jason: Not today, asshole. But just keep smirking. This isn’t permanent.
Roku closes the gap between the two men. Bishop just goes off on his merry way, jamming to something of his all-black Powerbeats pro.
Jason: This shit went over in Japan. Well, we’re not there anymore. I need to have your promise that you will not use anyone else in this company as a punching bag.
Jubei: No.
Roku: Didn’t you hear him?
Jubei: I did, muscle milk, and I don’t care. You’re the same people who booked me with Trent Page. Tell me… is he recovering?
Jason: Yes, our medical staff cleared him for Monday’s show.
Jubei: You can convince doctors of anything. Especially the hacks you employ. And don’t count him safe. There’s a chance he will come after me in that match.
Roku: Do you blame him? I would—
Jason: Roku, please… Trent Page wants to win. So do you. Work together and stop all this alpha dog crap. We’re getting sick of it.
Jubei: And what about that Swede? Huh? Are you going to give him the same speech?
Jason: It will be handled.
Jubei: Do it your way, or I’ll be forced to deal it my way.
Jason: Stop it! You think everything has to be about you. Well it’s not. We had a good show last week, one you didn’t headline. In fact, most still think Braxton will be our first Heavyweight Champion.
Jubei: Idiots.
Jason: Excuse me?
Jubei: I’m surrounded by idiots. Like that one (pointing to Roku) and that one (at Bishop eating a protein bar). Everyone tries to explain rules... the world. Why do so many delusional people think they have a stake in what happens? Because we all know what decides the fates: our ring. I don’t care how many years you work those ropes. The canvas tells all. And you’re just another planner in a room of activists. People who want to get out of their seat and do something about their situation.
Roku: How about we prove that on the canvas here and now?
Jubei: I’m not wasting my form on some steroid gorilla. My presence has been requested again and again. And it sells again and again. So bring your Wayne’s World tag team. Bring the man I should have beaten to death as a tag partner. Because you people can’t teach me a lesson in teamwork. And this chicanery won’t teach me how to play well with others. You idiots can’t teach me anything: I’m The Master.
Jason: Roku, let’s get out of here.
Kevin Bishop return to Jubei’s side, as both just watch them leave.
Bishop: So that was fun. Ready for more?
Jubei: How much does Odin weigh?
Bishop: like 330… why?
Jubei: Let’s go up to 415. I’m really feeling it tonight.
Bishop: Don’t forget your belt this time. Hernias are a showstopper.
Masuda fastens his weightlifting belt on tight.
Jubei: Yes… a dry run for Alpha Showdown.
