Post by Jubei on Jun 5, 2020 16:18:56 GMT -5
Jubei: Steven! Osbourne! Who paired me with that low hanging fruit of man? I’ll kill them!
Jubei swipes Mongolian BBQ off a meeting table before a dozen terrified gazes. All but his associate, Mr. Shoda, retreat inwards from him. Masuda’s unbuttoned shirt and black slacks show the sweat stains of prolonged talks over a now shut down laptop. He crushes a beer can.
Shoda: Masuda-sama… if you’re still on our level, might I suggest—
Jubei: Nothing from that insolent, loose slab of fat you call a jaw matters. Don’t you get it? This is about making a show for the fans. They want to put me in a bubble.
Shoda: A bubble?
The rest of the room tries to be invisible while hiding in their takeout orders.
Jubei: My curse continues. I thought there might be a chance to get another shot at Jayson Price. Another shot at my World Title. But no—I’m in another show-supporting match with a man I am this close to murdering on sight. Do you understand what this means for me? I’m a joke to them! So open your eyes… or I’ll slice off your eyelids.
Shoda puts up a calming hand with its massacred pinky digit. Although healed from what his antithetical gesture of respect, his associate moves past shame to settle the Master’s ire.
Shoda: Masuda-sama, your impact on APW was never in question. So what if they see a chance to control us? It’s only a play to your ultimate goal, right? Because I know we can bide our time a little longer.
Masuda eyes him with a surge of rage and understanding—a potent mixture that seems to calm him.
Jubei: A how can we move on the word of your hand? Fresh failure begging to make himself heard. Someone who would rather lose another digit than improve his flaws. Another of these “yes man” or thugs thinking that I’m a forgiving sort. I’m not. Someone get me the head of booking… now!
Shoda: Masuda-sama, I hate to inform you of this.
Jubei: Of what?
Shoda: They’ve blocked your number. And when I tried my own cellphone last time, I was asked to tell you that Irina’s people will not let you bully them long-distance anymore. Not on Zoom. Nowhere.
Masuda leans his back to the nearest walls. Everyone else hunches over their areas around the meeting table intent on Jubei’s next commands. Instead, he waves off the entire room in route for the door. Mr. Shoda follows him like a concerned labrador. They confer by a long window with public pews jutting from the wall. Overcast shadows their view of Yokohama aside from random advertisements.
Jubei: This week is my chance to make a big statement over men that outweigh us eightfold. Even you, my trusted bullet man, are half of each opponent.
Shoda: You’ll find a way around them. You’re the Master!
Jubei: I’m not talking about beating them as my statement. I mean that whatever happens is between Osbourne and me. Those fatties are just in the way of me reaching Tokyo as APW’s number one.
Shoda: What are you prepared to do about it?
Jubei: Everything at my disposal.
We open to a calm scene of static cam footage of Masuda Jubei sitting at a table in his traditional haori coat. His family insignia dots its black fabric.
”I’m not going to talk your ears off this week because there’s nothing left for me to prove in Alpha Pro-Wrestling. I spent my first month here looking up, and to be honest with all you at home, it infuriated me. Add in that indignant disgrace to wrestling, Steven Osbourne, and the past month has been one of my worst in the sport. I’m not used to working for favors. Nor am I the kind of person taken back by great moments. Yet when these boneheads on the books decided I wasn’t worthy of even the top half of the card—I put my foot down.
It began with the scrambled broadcast. I refused to let those unentitled eyes in their homes see me lose to someone like Osbourne. It disrupts the very DNA of professional wrestling. Then I cured a disaster of a tag match with Damian Kaine and L Verez, our reigning Hardcore Champion. They’re supposed to be made of hardened metal. Instead, I get both dunces on bad hair days… so I left the match.
Some of you watching might consider my actions to “save face” are cowardly and despicable. I argue you’re what’s wrong with wrestling—not me! My first reign in this company drug it from obscurity into a contract with Netflix. And in case all of your Cheetos fingers weren’t impressed, then let me remind you of my great sacrifice. I nearly died for APW. What have you done?”
He takes a labored sip from a cup of hot tea.
”My disgust with Steven Osbourne exists in public. I’m not hiding it anymore. My stewardship over this fragile company, however, supersedes any grudge with that pervert. Compliance hinges on my legacy. Infighting won’t get me any closer to the title I never lost. So bring your games. I know management has plans to pull me out of the title picture until I bend a knee to them. Well I won’t.
Now they bring out a monster truck rally in human form. Two bovines whose entire impression on this ring only lasts from the cracks they put into the ring’s canvas. I had time last week to catch their failed attempt to catch a couple of mouthy butterflies a tenth their size. What a mighty struggle indeed.
William holds true to his name, but as everyone watching knows of me, I won’t stoop to playground insults. Everything I know him comes on in his preparation. Locker room horror stories of resting holds applied so that William’s stamina won’t deplete after the first exchange. His blatant disrespect for our sport sickens me. Generations of slovenly wastes of divine talent, deep-fried and upped to King-size.
Travis has the same outlook. Although he’s the type to cut corners until only the gooey center of his peanut butter sandwich remains. He would rather corral opponents into lackluster traps than move his buckling knees. I pity them like the scalpers outside our weekly shows: They can do better. They chose to be overweight, lazy and unremarkable. When we look back to the sad era of Haystacks and Big Daddy, you see the desire for wrestling without the effort to improve. William and Travis will always be the butt of jokes. They will always be terrestrial manatees. Also, they will always fall short of simple goals.”
The camera closes up on his face.
”Bring your sloppy bulldogs. Team me with a hedonist. It won’t change that I am the Master, and that no one compares to me. I had to work to get where I am. Wealth takes commitment. World Championships require leadership and constant improvement. All I see is an eager sun failing to rise over varicose veins and cellulite. Foiling your supervillains is just another Monday for me. You’ll see… Steven and I can reach a common ground. I’m not so vain that we can’t make on match work. Trust in the process of recovery, unless you dedicated viewers don’t think I’m capable of holding down a match anymore. If that’s you only argument—try again! You won’t break me that easily!
Ore wa masūta desu….”
Jubei swipes Mongolian BBQ off a meeting table before a dozen terrified gazes. All but his associate, Mr. Shoda, retreat inwards from him. Masuda’s unbuttoned shirt and black slacks show the sweat stains of prolonged talks over a now shut down laptop. He crushes a beer can.
Shoda: Masuda-sama… if you’re still on our level, might I suggest—
Jubei: Nothing from that insolent, loose slab of fat you call a jaw matters. Don’t you get it? This is about making a show for the fans. They want to put me in a bubble.
Shoda: A bubble?
The rest of the room tries to be invisible while hiding in their takeout orders.
Jubei: My curse continues. I thought there might be a chance to get another shot at Jayson Price. Another shot at my World Title. But no—I’m in another show-supporting match with a man I am this close to murdering on sight. Do you understand what this means for me? I’m a joke to them! So open your eyes… or I’ll slice off your eyelids.
Shoda puts up a calming hand with its massacred pinky digit. Although healed from what his antithetical gesture of respect, his associate moves past shame to settle the Master’s ire.
Shoda: Masuda-sama, your impact on APW was never in question. So what if they see a chance to control us? It’s only a play to your ultimate goal, right? Because I know we can bide our time a little longer.
Masuda eyes him with a surge of rage and understanding—a potent mixture that seems to calm him.
Jubei: A how can we move on the word of your hand? Fresh failure begging to make himself heard. Someone who would rather lose another digit than improve his flaws. Another of these “yes man” or thugs thinking that I’m a forgiving sort. I’m not. Someone get me the head of booking… now!
Shoda: Masuda-sama, I hate to inform you of this.
Jubei: Of what?
Shoda: They’ve blocked your number. And when I tried my own cellphone last time, I was asked to tell you that Irina’s people will not let you bully them long-distance anymore. Not on Zoom. Nowhere.
Masuda leans his back to the nearest walls. Everyone else hunches over their areas around the meeting table intent on Jubei’s next commands. Instead, he waves off the entire room in route for the door. Mr. Shoda follows him like a concerned labrador. They confer by a long window with public pews jutting from the wall. Overcast shadows their view of Yokohama aside from random advertisements.
Jubei: This week is my chance to make a big statement over men that outweigh us eightfold. Even you, my trusted bullet man, are half of each opponent.
Shoda: You’ll find a way around them. You’re the Master!
Jubei: I’m not talking about beating them as my statement. I mean that whatever happens is between Osbourne and me. Those fatties are just in the way of me reaching Tokyo as APW’s number one.
Shoda: What are you prepared to do about it?
Jubei: Everything at my disposal.
We open to a calm scene of static cam footage of Masuda Jubei sitting at a table in his traditional haori coat. His family insignia dots its black fabric.
”I’m not going to talk your ears off this week because there’s nothing left for me to prove in Alpha Pro-Wrestling. I spent my first month here looking up, and to be honest with all you at home, it infuriated me. Add in that indignant disgrace to wrestling, Steven Osbourne, and the past month has been one of my worst in the sport. I’m not used to working for favors. Nor am I the kind of person taken back by great moments. Yet when these boneheads on the books decided I wasn’t worthy of even the top half of the card—I put my foot down.
It began with the scrambled broadcast. I refused to let those unentitled eyes in their homes see me lose to someone like Osbourne. It disrupts the very DNA of professional wrestling. Then I cured a disaster of a tag match with Damian Kaine and L Verez, our reigning Hardcore Champion. They’re supposed to be made of hardened metal. Instead, I get both dunces on bad hair days… so I left the match.
Some of you watching might consider my actions to “save face” are cowardly and despicable. I argue you’re what’s wrong with wrestling—not me! My first reign in this company drug it from obscurity into a contract with Netflix. And in case all of your Cheetos fingers weren’t impressed, then let me remind you of my great sacrifice. I nearly died for APW. What have you done?”
He takes a labored sip from a cup of hot tea.
”My disgust with Steven Osbourne exists in public. I’m not hiding it anymore. My stewardship over this fragile company, however, supersedes any grudge with that pervert. Compliance hinges on my legacy. Infighting won’t get me any closer to the title I never lost. So bring your games. I know management has plans to pull me out of the title picture until I bend a knee to them. Well I won’t.
Now they bring out a monster truck rally in human form. Two bovines whose entire impression on this ring only lasts from the cracks they put into the ring’s canvas. I had time last week to catch their failed attempt to catch a couple of mouthy butterflies a tenth their size. What a mighty struggle indeed.
William holds true to his name, but as everyone watching knows of me, I won’t stoop to playground insults. Everything I know him comes on in his preparation. Locker room horror stories of resting holds applied so that William’s stamina won’t deplete after the first exchange. His blatant disrespect for our sport sickens me. Generations of slovenly wastes of divine talent, deep-fried and upped to King-size.
Travis has the same outlook. Although he’s the type to cut corners until only the gooey center of his peanut butter sandwich remains. He would rather corral opponents into lackluster traps than move his buckling knees. I pity them like the scalpers outside our weekly shows: They can do better. They chose to be overweight, lazy and unremarkable. When we look back to the sad era of Haystacks and Big Daddy, you see the desire for wrestling without the effort to improve. William and Travis will always be the butt of jokes. They will always be terrestrial manatees. Also, they will always fall short of simple goals.”
The camera closes up on his face.
”Bring your sloppy bulldogs. Team me with a hedonist. It won’t change that I am the Master, and that no one compares to me. I had to work to get where I am. Wealth takes commitment. World Championships require leadership and constant improvement. All I see is an eager sun failing to rise over varicose veins and cellulite. Foiling your supervillains is just another Monday for me. You’ll see… Steven and I can reach a common ground. I’m not so vain that we can’t make on match work. Trust in the process of recovery, unless you dedicated viewers don’t think I’m capable of holding down a match anymore. If that’s you only argument—try again! You won’t break me that easily!
Ore wa masūta desu….”
