Post by Jubei on May 14, 2020 0:08:53 GMT -5
Jason Zurra comes into frame in a nondescript parking lot. His normal routine of texting and walking lead up to his rental car, an entry-level Mercedes, when a Zoom request bombs his feed. Before he can answer the call, a luxury sedan pulls in front of him Grey Poupon style. Its tinted window rolls down to reveal the impatient features of Masuda Jubei.
Jubei: Get in.
Zurra: Not unless you tell me where we’re going.
Jubei: Somewhere close, where your superiors cannot interfere.
Jason goes against his better judgment—maybe sensing a rare form of compromise from Masuda—and enters the car. It speeds off towards an industrial section of Minneapolis before parking outside an office building in progress. Jubei turns to him in this simple black suit, offering an olive branch.
Jubei: When I returned at Gods of Wrestling, I never expected to feel that itch again. I was prepared to go back into the real world and never look back. Yet here I am, caught in rabbit trap.
Zurra: That’s it? I thought you’d try to play more games or beg for a title shot.
Jubei: My point being that there was a part of me missing all those months in recovery. Besides your gullible place as a lead booker, there’s more you can do for me from a desk than in the ring. Technically, you were my last opponent before Corey Black’s one-off special in Tokyo. That also makes you the last person to face me at my best.
Zurra: Well I’m flattered.
Jubei’s hands tighten into fists.
Jubei: This match you’re people made isn’t about APW. You’re hoping this will finally sell all of your Steven Osbourne merchandise. Because you don’t really expect him to win the North American Title.
Zurra: Why not? He beat Mike Matthews and Isaac Cooke. What have you done for us lately besides complain?
Jubei: Don’t play coy. The front office doesn’t sign checks for the “Sexy Boogeyman Slayer” as they do Damon Warrens or the Manmade Gods. He’s not one of your precious darlings.
Zurra: Again, do you have a point to all of this? I have a meeting at noon.
Masuda puts a hand between on the middle seat that pulls them closer.
Jubei: If you or any of APW’s stooges think that pitting me against Osbourne is going to sell him to the people, you’re wrong. They want charisma and finesse—not people getting kicked in the penis.
Zurra: Are you sure about that?
Jubei: You’re not getting a rise out of me… because the facts haven’t changed about your business model. Osbourne won our juniors belt several times. That’s where his career success ends. Now you expect me to what, earn my place by ending his dumb luck. I headlined the original main event. I set the standard for our world title and held it with impunity. Anything less insults my name, my career and my legacy.
Jason pinches his nose.
Zurra: So is this about titles? Or do you not want him kicking you in the dick?
Jubei: If that happens, Zurra, his career won’t be the only thing in jeopardy. Then I’ll come for you and everyone sitting on your tremoring shoulders. Do you understand?
Zurra: Yes, but you’re not getting a title shot. You haven’t earned it.
Jubei: Everyone makes this business about belts. There are mores ways to captivate morons into buying your show’s tickets. A public execution has the same draw. Fear… the only tool a champion needs. Something APW has lacked for a long, long time. I brought you here because you’re going to pass that message onto Irina and anyone that think they can use me like a marketing pawn.
Zurra: That’s it?
Jubei: Remember that because Steven Osbourne’s blood will be on your hands. Driver, get us out of here.
We next see Jason Zurra leaving the luxury sedan with an impulsive mixture of reluctant rage. He then makes a levelheaded call despite his slurry of facial expressions.
Zurra: Get me Irina… tell her it’s urgent.
Open to the walk-in closet of a luxury hotel, where Masuda Jubei stands in black slacks and dark loafers. The mirror in front of him offers a 180° panoramic view of his person through carefully angled panes. He slips a black business shirt over his tattooed back with the camera closing in on his flat expression. Scars punctuate his entire body—several of them serious by their size and location—disappearing under that silky layer of Egyptian cotton.
”This is success. I’m not here to pretend that my moves outside of the ring make me better than anyone else in APW. Wealth means nothing in the ring unless you hire an army to do the work for you. Ask Zion Simmons how well that holds up. Don’t worry—he has plenty of free time. When it comes to management styles, most under my umbrella know I’m a micromanager. That every task must be finished to complete success or else it is a dismal failure. I don’t accept partial victories either… a trait that made most look upon me as ruthless. A champion stained by blood money. Maybe, except that I retired everyone that ever doubted my skill between the ropes. The last man to speak ill of me cannot walk without a cane. Others like Jason Zurra cannot even dream of wrestling after what I did to them. Yet I’m here again having to prove my strength.”
He buttons down while leaving the collar open. Tucking the shirt shows off his impressive physical shape even at 47. His expression, however, has not changed.
”Steven Osbourne. The Super Sexy Boogeyman Slayer. Have you ever spent more than a minute telling us why you went through an entire dictionary and strung those words together? I’m Japanese so it doesn’t make any sense to me. I’m also in my forties, which means anything “in vogue” goes over my head. Whatever the case, I’m not a name caller. Even when meatheads come into this company telling us their dreams of being World Champion until your face melts onto the floor. You aren’t the others. Perhaps you need a nonsensical moniker because you have a heart for this business but nowhere to apply it. No one wants to fight you either. Especially the men who spend the entire week ensuring his cup functions properly.”
Jubei snaps a flat black leather belt, threading it though belt loops.
”I’ve discovered the average American doubts success. Many would rather shred their palms on a manual machine than manage an HR system. And you’re no stranger to shoveling APW’s shit—because I used to watch you from the back struggling to make people believe that you knew how to wrestle. Sure, I had my critiques: You used to put all your energy into the top rope, ignoring how some of the fiercest fighting in our sport happens outside of the ring. Yes, you changed your game, but not without big losses. Wait… do you have any of those? No, you’re a workingman for this roster. A longwinded gatekeeper. Just the caulk between functioning pieces.”
He drapes an all-black tie with a slight sheen around his shoulder before making a double windsor knot.
”I’m sure you see something more to this match, Mr. Osbourne. Most people on their phones or surfing Twitter’s dirt sheets have me pegged in a simple hole. That I’m egotistical and lost on the people. Sometimes I find it’s hip to be square… because people don’t know what’s important. Hording toilet paper rather than investing resources in paper mills and chemical companies. So what if my personal bubble has discolored marks or a back tattoo? I won’t lose myself navigating popular culture to meet expectations. I curb enthusiasm because there’s no point in being the favorite—only the one that comes out on top. No one wants Amazon to enslave all their little dreams, but they feed from Bezos’s dog bowl all the same. I’m blissfully different from the common rubble we leech for profit. We don’t advise them to waste stimulus checks, but accept the money either way.”
He finishes the outfit with a matching black suit sporting thing lapels. He only fastens a lower button.
”The process to success eludes you, Osbourne, which is why I’m confident your North American shot cannot end the success of Lex Collins. But our dance must come first. So let’s make the discrepancies clear before any feelings get hurt: You are not on my level and never will be. Here’s my lecture on why if you actually care to move up from your ottoman of a career here in APW.
First, there’s your public image. No one sees you as dominant. I have implemented a few tactics before, but never a low blow. I had people under my command for skunk works. Remember my rabid lapdog, Allen Anderson, few on roster endured his ramblings. You need unhinged people like him to get dirty so you’re not washing your own hands before business deals. Even a stout John with your stamina needs “fluffer” scenes to perform at your peak. Make them crave your appearance—make them earn it. Otherwise, you’re damned to career of curtain jerking.
Secondly, you have to improve your game. Let’s begin with some combat basics. Only the best earn the right to showmanship. I have my theatrics, but only because my level of dominance has no equal. You’re just a clown to these people. What product, outside of corporal enhancement creams or essential oils, can you peddle to improve your standing in APW? Hip swings make kids laugh—they don’t win titles. And I know you’re lost on those tiny merits. You wear that positive spirit like gel bracelets. Get involved in the game of pain. Become a disciple of combat sport, or else the cycle of failure continues. You got lucky against Mike Matthews. He should have crushed your skull. However, you found someone even more driven by fanfares and crowd reactions that he forgot how to wrestle. It won’t happen against me—so learn the sport before I tear your body apart.”
A final touch of color: Jubei fastens gold cufflinks showing his family name for each stud.
”If you don’t dress the part, and you don’t practice like a winner, how can you ever expect to earn these people’s respect? They want dominance—even if it means bringing back the one man who singlehandedly brought this federation to its knees. If you hesitate one moment in the week ahead, Mr. Osbourne, I will make laps around you.
This defining moment for APW hides between horseshit and some of the better talent on this roster. And while I’d encourage you to take part in shocking the world with me, your effect on a true culture shock falls short of a jockstrap. Besides, how many of these fans even have the attention span to watch to the end? If not our match, it’s back to whatever binge-worthy content or pornography awaits one tab away. Execx praying our “faithful” are so lazy they stay on the couch without expending the effort of pushing buttons. Will it be historic? No, it’s a fantasy match made booked during a bathroom break. Your big chance, sadly, just a midcard flop against APW’s greatest force.
There’s a process to being the best. You’ll never master it. Recent surge or not, I’ve watched how you move about the ring. I also saw your recent work against that slob Alex Richards. Either way, this won’t be anything like what you’ve faced in the past. Besides, there’s pressure on my side too, in that I’d love nothing more than breaking you on national television. Your blood will be on APW’s hands… and you can thank Irina’s cronies for the setback. Of course, you can always turn back now and save some face.”
Jubei walks towards the camera in his all-black ensemble against harsh lighting.
”Enough with the lessons. Steven, if you haven’t learned the essence of a true champion by the end of this transmission, then you’re truly a lost cause. I’m not wasting any more time addressing you as anything more than the piece of equipment you’re hired to be for our roster.
My campaign continues next Monday. Zuura can hide me in the middle of a big show. Irina can try to subjugate me by throwing my resurgence into the crosshairs of one of their hottest talents. You've engineered this to be an insult. A slap in the face of man whom you rehired because you thought it would be 'good for business'. You wouldn't treat McMorris this way, or the untouched darlings given foppish crowns. You suck at mind games, Zurra, so how about you learn THE Master. The true king of Alpha Pro Wrestling… a force so great even death can’t stop me from building another throne from the bones of your hapless company. My name’s etched into its DNA because it had so much blood.
Come to think of it, where were you when all hell broke loose? Oh right, in the exact same place you are now, Steven, gatekeeping weak hires from the top tier.
Some mistake me for a perfectionist. Others keep a long distance, knowing what happens to those that try to meddle in my affairs. In my short 13 weeks on roster, I retired more careers than shows you’ve main evented over a span thrice the time. But don’t lose hope. There’s always a chance Lex Collins will be rusty after all his time off. Because Irina always babies her champions. Maybe he’s not as good as the Architects make him out to be. Most likely, you’ll taste the bittersweet nectar of reality come Monday… when I expose the series of flukes that brought up to my opposite corner. I follow a successful process. Mastered a stringent code of honor. However, more than that nonsense, I refuse to lose to anyone—especially someone like you.
Osāma bansai.”
Jubei: Get in.
Zurra: Not unless you tell me where we’re going.
Jubei: Somewhere close, where your superiors cannot interfere.
Jason goes against his better judgment—maybe sensing a rare form of compromise from Masuda—and enters the car. It speeds off towards an industrial section of Minneapolis before parking outside an office building in progress. Jubei turns to him in this simple black suit, offering an olive branch.
Jubei: When I returned at Gods of Wrestling, I never expected to feel that itch again. I was prepared to go back into the real world and never look back. Yet here I am, caught in rabbit trap.
Zurra: That’s it? I thought you’d try to play more games or beg for a title shot.
Jubei: My point being that there was a part of me missing all those months in recovery. Besides your gullible place as a lead booker, there’s more you can do for me from a desk than in the ring. Technically, you were my last opponent before Corey Black’s one-off special in Tokyo. That also makes you the last person to face me at my best.
Zurra: Well I’m flattered.
Jubei’s hands tighten into fists.
Jubei: This match you’re people made isn’t about APW. You’re hoping this will finally sell all of your Steven Osbourne merchandise. Because you don’t really expect him to win the North American Title.
Zurra: Why not? He beat Mike Matthews and Isaac Cooke. What have you done for us lately besides complain?
Jubei: Don’t play coy. The front office doesn’t sign checks for the “Sexy Boogeyman Slayer” as they do Damon Warrens or the Manmade Gods. He’s not one of your precious darlings.
Zurra: Again, do you have a point to all of this? I have a meeting at noon.
Masuda puts a hand between on the middle seat that pulls them closer.
Jubei: If you or any of APW’s stooges think that pitting me against Osbourne is going to sell him to the people, you’re wrong. They want charisma and finesse—not people getting kicked in the penis.
Zurra: Are you sure about that?
Jubei: You’re not getting a rise out of me… because the facts haven’t changed about your business model. Osbourne won our juniors belt several times. That’s where his career success ends. Now you expect me to what, earn my place by ending his dumb luck. I headlined the original main event. I set the standard for our world title and held it with impunity. Anything less insults my name, my career and my legacy.
Jason pinches his nose.
Zurra: So is this about titles? Or do you not want him kicking you in the dick?
Jubei: If that happens, Zurra, his career won’t be the only thing in jeopardy. Then I’ll come for you and everyone sitting on your tremoring shoulders. Do you understand?
Zurra: Yes, but you’re not getting a title shot. You haven’t earned it.
Jubei: Everyone makes this business about belts. There are mores ways to captivate morons into buying your show’s tickets. A public execution has the same draw. Fear… the only tool a champion needs. Something APW has lacked for a long, long time. I brought you here because you’re going to pass that message onto Irina and anyone that think they can use me like a marketing pawn.
Zurra: That’s it?
Jubei: Remember that because Steven Osbourne’s blood will be on your hands. Driver, get us out of here.
We next see Jason Zurra leaving the luxury sedan with an impulsive mixture of reluctant rage. He then makes a levelheaded call despite his slurry of facial expressions.
Zurra: Get me Irina… tell her it’s urgent.
Open to the walk-in closet of a luxury hotel, where Masuda Jubei stands in black slacks and dark loafers. The mirror in front of him offers a 180° panoramic view of his person through carefully angled panes. He slips a black business shirt over his tattooed back with the camera closing in on his flat expression. Scars punctuate his entire body—several of them serious by their size and location—disappearing under that silky layer of Egyptian cotton.
”This is success. I’m not here to pretend that my moves outside of the ring make me better than anyone else in APW. Wealth means nothing in the ring unless you hire an army to do the work for you. Ask Zion Simmons how well that holds up. Don’t worry—he has plenty of free time. When it comes to management styles, most under my umbrella know I’m a micromanager. That every task must be finished to complete success or else it is a dismal failure. I don’t accept partial victories either… a trait that made most look upon me as ruthless. A champion stained by blood money. Maybe, except that I retired everyone that ever doubted my skill between the ropes. The last man to speak ill of me cannot walk without a cane. Others like Jason Zurra cannot even dream of wrestling after what I did to them. Yet I’m here again having to prove my strength.”
He buttons down while leaving the collar open. Tucking the shirt shows off his impressive physical shape even at 47. His expression, however, has not changed.
”Steven Osbourne. The Super Sexy Boogeyman Slayer. Have you ever spent more than a minute telling us why you went through an entire dictionary and strung those words together? I’m Japanese so it doesn’t make any sense to me. I’m also in my forties, which means anything “in vogue” goes over my head. Whatever the case, I’m not a name caller. Even when meatheads come into this company telling us their dreams of being World Champion until your face melts onto the floor. You aren’t the others. Perhaps you need a nonsensical moniker because you have a heart for this business but nowhere to apply it. No one wants to fight you either. Especially the men who spend the entire week ensuring his cup functions properly.”
Jubei snaps a flat black leather belt, threading it though belt loops.
”I’ve discovered the average American doubts success. Many would rather shred their palms on a manual machine than manage an HR system. And you’re no stranger to shoveling APW’s shit—because I used to watch you from the back struggling to make people believe that you knew how to wrestle. Sure, I had my critiques: You used to put all your energy into the top rope, ignoring how some of the fiercest fighting in our sport happens outside of the ring. Yes, you changed your game, but not without big losses. Wait… do you have any of those? No, you’re a workingman for this roster. A longwinded gatekeeper. Just the caulk between functioning pieces.”
He drapes an all-black tie with a slight sheen around his shoulder before making a double windsor knot.
”I’m sure you see something more to this match, Mr. Osbourne. Most people on their phones or surfing Twitter’s dirt sheets have me pegged in a simple hole. That I’m egotistical and lost on the people. Sometimes I find it’s hip to be square… because people don’t know what’s important. Hording toilet paper rather than investing resources in paper mills and chemical companies. So what if my personal bubble has discolored marks or a back tattoo? I won’t lose myself navigating popular culture to meet expectations. I curb enthusiasm because there’s no point in being the favorite—only the one that comes out on top. No one wants Amazon to enslave all their little dreams, but they feed from Bezos’s dog bowl all the same. I’m blissfully different from the common rubble we leech for profit. We don’t advise them to waste stimulus checks, but accept the money either way.”
He finishes the outfit with a matching black suit sporting thing lapels. He only fastens a lower button.
”The process to success eludes you, Osbourne, which is why I’m confident your North American shot cannot end the success of Lex Collins. But our dance must come first. So let’s make the discrepancies clear before any feelings get hurt: You are not on my level and never will be. Here’s my lecture on why if you actually care to move up from your ottoman of a career here in APW.
First, there’s your public image. No one sees you as dominant. I have implemented a few tactics before, but never a low blow. I had people under my command for skunk works. Remember my rabid lapdog, Allen Anderson, few on roster endured his ramblings. You need unhinged people like him to get dirty so you’re not washing your own hands before business deals. Even a stout John with your stamina needs “fluffer” scenes to perform at your peak. Make them crave your appearance—make them earn it. Otherwise, you’re damned to career of curtain jerking.
Secondly, you have to improve your game. Let’s begin with some combat basics. Only the best earn the right to showmanship. I have my theatrics, but only because my level of dominance has no equal. You’re just a clown to these people. What product, outside of corporal enhancement creams or essential oils, can you peddle to improve your standing in APW? Hip swings make kids laugh—they don’t win titles. And I know you’re lost on those tiny merits. You wear that positive spirit like gel bracelets. Get involved in the game of pain. Become a disciple of combat sport, or else the cycle of failure continues. You got lucky against Mike Matthews. He should have crushed your skull. However, you found someone even more driven by fanfares and crowd reactions that he forgot how to wrestle. It won’t happen against me—so learn the sport before I tear your body apart.”
A final touch of color: Jubei fastens gold cufflinks showing his family name for each stud.
”If you don’t dress the part, and you don’t practice like a winner, how can you ever expect to earn these people’s respect? They want dominance—even if it means bringing back the one man who singlehandedly brought this federation to its knees. If you hesitate one moment in the week ahead, Mr. Osbourne, I will make laps around you.
This defining moment for APW hides between horseshit and some of the better talent on this roster. And while I’d encourage you to take part in shocking the world with me, your effect on a true culture shock falls short of a jockstrap. Besides, how many of these fans even have the attention span to watch to the end? If not our match, it’s back to whatever binge-worthy content or pornography awaits one tab away. Execx praying our “faithful” are so lazy they stay on the couch without expending the effort of pushing buttons. Will it be historic? No, it’s a fantasy match made booked during a bathroom break. Your big chance, sadly, just a midcard flop against APW’s greatest force.
There’s a process to being the best. You’ll never master it. Recent surge or not, I’ve watched how you move about the ring. I also saw your recent work against that slob Alex Richards. Either way, this won’t be anything like what you’ve faced in the past. Besides, there’s pressure on my side too, in that I’d love nothing more than breaking you on national television. Your blood will be on APW’s hands… and you can thank Irina’s cronies for the setback. Of course, you can always turn back now and save some face.”
Jubei walks towards the camera in his all-black ensemble against harsh lighting.
”Enough with the lessons. Steven, if you haven’t learned the essence of a true champion by the end of this transmission, then you’re truly a lost cause. I’m not wasting any more time addressing you as anything more than the piece of equipment you’re hired to be for our roster.
My campaign continues next Monday. Zuura can hide me in the middle of a big show. Irina can try to subjugate me by throwing my resurgence into the crosshairs of one of their hottest talents. You've engineered this to be an insult. A slap in the face of man whom you rehired because you thought it would be 'good for business'. You wouldn't treat McMorris this way, or the untouched darlings given foppish crowns. You suck at mind games, Zurra, so how about you learn THE Master. The true king of Alpha Pro Wrestling… a force so great even death can’t stop me from building another throne from the bones of your hapless company. My name’s etched into its DNA because it had so much blood.
Come to think of it, where were you when all hell broke loose? Oh right, in the exact same place you are now, Steven, gatekeeping weak hires from the top tier.
Some mistake me for a perfectionist. Others keep a long distance, knowing what happens to those that try to meddle in my affairs. In my short 13 weeks on roster, I retired more careers than shows you’ve main evented over a span thrice the time. But don’t lose hope. There’s always a chance Lex Collins will be rusty after all his time off. Because Irina always babies her champions. Maybe he’s not as good as the Architects make him out to be. Most likely, you’ll taste the bittersweet nectar of reality come Monday… when I expose the series of flukes that brought up to my opposite corner. I follow a successful process. Mastered a stringent code of honor. However, more than that nonsense, I refuse to lose to anyone—especially someone like you.
Osāma bansai.”
