Post by Jubei on Jun 12, 2020 20:15:43 GMT -5
A hand marked by experience and rage grips the camera lens, adjusting to the dull light of Masuda Jubei settling into a steel folding chair. His blank background leads nothing to imagination. Only sparse lighting off the camera gives his outline and all black suit over sloped shoulders.
”Why are we here in Sioux Falls? There’s nothing here but the sad faces of people wishing they had our impact on the world. APW gives them a moment to forget. Safety from those hours of night when truth pulls off their blankets. I always tell young people that obeying your hometown’s potential will only keep you back. AND… if you look back on native soil like South Dakota, thankfully not its northern sibling, the longer you stare into begging eyes. Then, you lose control.
There’s no secret my family history is sordid. My nephew and niece hate me. My only sister wants nothing to with me. I don’t care because they’re like this dirt pile someone thought “Dakota” suited two namesakes. Cruelly, I’m not here to tell people how much I hate this big sky nowhere. What’s the real appeal? Is it Isolation and independence from big cities? Do they burn out your rawhide souls? Oh—that’s what it is. Everyone’s grounded with no dreams. No royalty outside of the heartless, bloody tundra of packing plants and slaughterhouses.
Such a wonderful word I never get to say that often. Slaughterhouses…. You know there’s a heart of darkness in every steak Americans push on me. Epicurean bellies demanding longhorn steaks with a Dijon mustard sauce. So much that you people making bathroom magazine about it. Conform by the paragraph while scarfing down Californian tri-tip.”
Flickering lights show others in the background dressed in dazzling suits in a plethora of colors. They appear to be in the middle of random tasks, although most seem to be up to no good. Lights dim again with only Jubei sitting in the foreground.
”Let’s be candid. I wanted to fight Spartan since the day he signed onto APW. He draws a crowd without trying. Distinguished himself from what became a semi-permanent ban from Atlantic City. Hardcore chicanery between him and the notorious ZMAC brought a new wave of followers to APW. I should be thankful, as last summer’s “little rebellion” made Jubeilation a possibility. It gave me a company to dominate. Irina and the rest couldn’t do that. Even I alone couldn’t bring the same fuel to the fire as our hardcore division could.
Did I resent that? Absolutely! But I see purpose for your glass riddled bodies. While I have the same ruthless gene inside me, I know there’s more to your pale, tomato red exterior, Spartan. This common strand of DNA needed to win big matches. We know how to fill the seats—that’s not up for debate. Still, you one place left to tread in Alpha Pro-Wrestling—so much that it stinks off your career.
You had a chance to rule the world but blew it against Smith Jones. Yes, the man who left APW just when he could have fought the one man to save his career. You lost to that man, convincingly, and before a PPV crowd. That must stung pretty bad. I’ll also assume Damon Warrens would have sent you back down the food chain as he did to every loudmouth thinking they could control the reins of this promotion. The same food chain I’m poised to dominate not soon enough.”
Lights flicker again, showing even more henchmen going about their illicit business. There’s small flashes of money, weapons and nameless muscle bound by the appeal of crisp designer suits. It all goes black again, leaving only The Master front and center.
”People here assume that my lack of force in Alpha Pro means I have no power over this locker room. That my influence has dried up. Quite the contrary. Since my return at Gods of Wrestling, I’ve made concerted efforts to get my boots in that ring and see what’s really happening. Learn my enemies firsthand outside my walls of limousines and private security. What many mistook for cowardice or ungraceful aging… until they met me in the ring. I brought righteous fury upon all of my enemies. Silenced some of those same haters for good. Ask Nyeo-Son….
We sense your frustrations. It shows in how you flex that sculpted physique for photo finishes. I’m not so gifted. Spent months reshaping my body into competition shape. I also realize physically my older, war-tested body has nothing on yours. Something your fans have long pointed out—even when I was champion. Fed on fables, they wished to see their physical specimen take the crown. Now we see APW’s greatest tactician versus its purest athlete. Monday will tell the rest.
Fiction favors unsung and unlikely heroes because magic solutions sell books. Histories rarely end that way, Spartan. Powerful men press grain into flour, harvested by the weak out of fear and respect. I am the force keeping APW alive. I gave the world Smith Jones so that his baby seal blood would soak into the water. Summoned sharks because talented superstars smelled this promotion’s weak roster. My near-death saved this company by opening the door for hungry talent. Yet the same histories written about our contributions to APW conflict with the truth. I brought prosperity when this company should have died months ago. You and ZMAC only brought more bloodshed to your cesspool of a division, Spartan. Soon, the people will the difference in living color.”
The lights flicker once more to show even more thugs and their shiny suits. Suddenly, everything goes black for several seconds, until a single light switches on with a humming clunk. Only Masuda sits there despite a fluorescent light illuminating a background once populated by his private army.
”If you don’t fear me now… trust me, you will. I am the dark underbelly keeping this place afloat. They’d be nowhere without Masuda Allied Technologies. Ignore all that outside noise. Just go into that ring—my ring—and surrender to the inevitable. I am The Master of all things Alpha Pro-Wrestling. You’re just another gladiator overpaid to spill blood for their applause.
You have a place in APW and its coming future. However, I need to dispatch you in the most convincing fashion at my disposal because only a fool would look ahead and not see my destiny: June. Live from Tokyo. Land of the Rising Sun.
I must return to full form, reawaken my army and slay anyone that gets in my way. Before then, I have no choice but use the APW ring as my altar to the Demon Kings of fate. Stars crossed to make our meeting finally happen, my ginger friend, but if I am to reach Tokyo as anything less than the best in APW … then there’s no point in making its marquee. Tokyo is mine! Yokohama is mine! All of Japan belongs to me! If you aren’t prepared to face me at your absolute best, Spartan, then stay home. I’d hate to see get embarrassed again… osāma bansai.”
The lights go out.
Open to the war room atop the highest level of the new headquarters for Masuda Allied Technologies. Sunshine glistens off its zinc siding albeit what those on the ground level looking up paint as a dark spire to the likes of Mordor. Jubei has gathered an in-person culling of every branch. Every opponent sits together without much hint of debate today. They do, however, pass quite notes between each other that have not come to light before the rest of their assembly. Jubei asked once before if the group was passing unsavory message about him or the council. Their leader and silvered sage for the entire collective, Lady Nakashima, assures the Chairman he has nothing to fear of their little sidebar.
Jubei: As I explained last week, we have severed all ties with Shoda Enterprises and their loose definition of business etiquette. We cannot be a global company and bury all their skeletons. I heard you before, and we reacted as promptly as possible.
Nakashima: You do realize, Mr. Chairman, we’re not asking you to cut them out of the fold. We’re expecting you, our operational leader, to sever ties with Shoda-san professionally AND personally.
Jubei: You have no authority over my life. Especially outside of these meeting spaces.
Nakashima: Then how much will accomplish without my endorsement outside of these same rooms?
Masuda grits his teeth with fists clenched into solid, unmoving boulders.
Nakashima: I’ll take that as—
Jubei: You’ll take nothing!
Nakashima: Excuse me?
Jubei cleaves everyone out his path until only their eyes meet inside his tightening cone of scorn. Something of that shook to where Lady Nakashima staves her tongue in lieu of causing a scene.
Jubei: I am dictating every term henceforth. Do I make that clear?
He spoke through her so that it permeated the entire space. Silence responds.
Jubei: My work here in done for today. Remember… for this new venture is to succeed each of you need to trust my judgment. Not some ad hoc committees who think I’ve lost touch with the daily operations of our business. We are on the cusp of owning many of the world’s most lucrative markets across all theaters of private equity. If it has value, by god, we will leverage that business and suck it dry. No mercy. No retreat. Above all else, no prisoners. Profit shall rain over those we furlough and displace. Profits shall bind them under a random selection of letters to suit tax numbers. Everything else has no place in my meeting rooms. Are we absolutely clear on all of it?
Dead silence answers with slow, muted nods. Masuda dismisses everyone so that he can move onto his next order of business; except, one of his runners informs him of guest across the hall. He takes the note with as much control in his ethical being. The runner leads him to an otherwise empty meeting room where one person sits behind a professional binder, leather-bound for that no-nonsense look. Her eclectic outfit consists of a red-checkered power suit and matching wide brimmed hat. It animates her flowing wave of confidence through a haphazard albeit organized pile of random papers.
Madame V: Hello Mr. Masuda. I don’t wish to take much of your time. My name’s Madame V… I have some questions about the gruesome murder of tech billionaire Zion Simmons. This comes at the request of his living constituents.
Jubei: They have a suspect. And I have alibis. There are more important things I need to finish before my flight back to America. Keep it short.
Madame V: I understand that you’ve assumed the role as chairman of the trust that broke off from Mr. Simmons’s company. Is there anything I’m missing about your past relationship?
Jubei: No.
Madame V: Can you tell me about your decision to let Mr. Simmons absorb the former Masuda Corporation. It seems convenient that his death would flow between business deals so easily.
Jubei: Not at all. Business partners die all the time.
Madame V: Yes, but how many rise from their graves?
Jubei: What are you insinuating?
She thumbs through chaotic stacks of red tape until finding two thin sheets stapled together. Madame V slides it across table into a swift intercept.
Jubei: Am I signing this?
Madame V: If you wouldn’t mind.
Jubei: No. I don’t sign my name without my notary or lawyers.
Madame V: It only says—
Jubei: I said my peace. Now present it to the proper channels before I end this meeting.
Madame V retracts a freedom of information form concocted only minutes before then. Jubei nor his people, however, had any idea this P.I. would be so much trouble. Let alone see her outside the M.A.T. offices with enough gear to make an FBI raid.
Jubei: Now that we’re on the same page, let me be frank with you. I cooperated with your little snooping last time around. My hands are clean. This new venture is clean.
Madame V: Then what about what happened in Yokohama three days before Zion’s murder?
Jubei: Elaborate.
Madame V: Did you not physically assault several men half your age because your niece was in danger.
Jubei: It was in self-defense.
Madame V: I’m not debating that… but would be surprised if I said the injuries to those men match the pre-mortem injuries to Mr. Simmons?
Jubei: They arrested Cassidy Kaine for the murder. A drug addict who was the last person besides the girlfriend to see Zion alive. It’s worth noting that police already asked me similar questions before they had Kaine as a suspect. Likewise, Madame, Cassidy trained in BJJ.
Madame V: What’s that?
Jubei: Cassidy had an intermediate belt in Brazilian jujitsu. All those combat moves, while not directly from a judo stance, are part of a BJJ training manual. You might say that Judo is a genetic ancestor to that style of combat. Do the rest of the math on your own time.
Madame V: Now why someone that “lawyer’s up” facing an affidavit would share past interrogation notes without their legal counsel? Seems suspicious, don’t you think?
Jubei: There are no ramifications because you’re not licensed to practice here in Japan. Nor are you holding any authority beyond a crippling sense of self-worth. Everything you record is a moot point.
Madame V: I can still—
Jubei: You can leave now before I have security with actual credentials call the real police. Or do you think Yokohama’s Metropolitan PD will listen to the ravings of a spinster Nancy Drew dressed like an art thief? But by all means, continue your spellbinding investigation. I’ll be sure to read your true crime blog for the whole scoop. Just make sure to contact my publicist for a profile shot. I hate anything from my right side. Wrestling did a number on that ear—why don’t you take a closer look.
She inches away from the table. Unbeknownst to her, during their talks, Jubei has already summoned security from a personal panic button. Two burly men escort and her leather-bound theories off the premises. He then dials an unregistered number once everyone is far out of sight.
Jubei: Shoda… I need your people to tail that detective … yes, the strange one from Europe. Get in touch with immigration too. I doubt she has the proper means to be working in America. You know how sensitive they get with illegals … No no, just makes sure she’s not trying to make bad press for us. And if she tries to sell anything to a media outlet, your people had better intercept it from publication … No, if it comes off her personal blog, we’ll be fine. There’s nothing legal about a rookie Square Space page … No, we don’t need intimidation tactics other than a shadow. If she sees your—that’s fine. We can’t let her get any closer to Jake Karnes … Exactly. Keep a distance but make sure this Madame V feels the heat. That’s all. And remember—I call you and you relay the message in person. No one calls this phone.
He listens for a while with the gold-lapping eyes of Gordon Gekko while his subordinate, Mr. Shoda, expounds on all the opportunities the board will never comprehend. That smirk returns in full.
Jubei: Exactly. If I win this week, then Irina will have to book my into nothing lower than the co-main event for the Tokyo show … No, I didn’t care to learn its name. We only using it for visibility anyways. You can’t beat the good press of partaking in a wrestling spectacle. All I have to do convince investors I’m a beacon of interest and the fools will open their wallets… and yes, their overflowing bank accounts.
”Why are we here in Sioux Falls? There’s nothing here but the sad faces of people wishing they had our impact on the world. APW gives them a moment to forget. Safety from those hours of night when truth pulls off their blankets. I always tell young people that obeying your hometown’s potential will only keep you back. AND… if you look back on native soil like South Dakota, thankfully not its northern sibling, the longer you stare into begging eyes. Then, you lose control.
There’s no secret my family history is sordid. My nephew and niece hate me. My only sister wants nothing to with me. I don’t care because they’re like this dirt pile someone thought “Dakota” suited two namesakes. Cruelly, I’m not here to tell people how much I hate this big sky nowhere. What’s the real appeal? Is it Isolation and independence from big cities? Do they burn out your rawhide souls? Oh—that’s what it is. Everyone’s grounded with no dreams. No royalty outside of the heartless, bloody tundra of packing plants and slaughterhouses.
Such a wonderful word I never get to say that often. Slaughterhouses…. You know there’s a heart of darkness in every steak Americans push on me. Epicurean bellies demanding longhorn steaks with a Dijon mustard sauce. So much that you people making bathroom magazine about it. Conform by the paragraph while scarfing down Californian tri-tip.”
Flickering lights show others in the background dressed in dazzling suits in a plethora of colors. They appear to be in the middle of random tasks, although most seem to be up to no good. Lights dim again with only Jubei sitting in the foreground.
”Let’s be candid. I wanted to fight Spartan since the day he signed onto APW. He draws a crowd without trying. Distinguished himself from what became a semi-permanent ban from Atlantic City. Hardcore chicanery between him and the notorious ZMAC brought a new wave of followers to APW. I should be thankful, as last summer’s “little rebellion” made Jubeilation a possibility. It gave me a company to dominate. Irina and the rest couldn’t do that. Even I alone couldn’t bring the same fuel to the fire as our hardcore division could.
Did I resent that? Absolutely! But I see purpose for your glass riddled bodies. While I have the same ruthless gene inside me, I know there’s more to your pale, tomato red exterior, Spartan. This common strand of DNA needed to win big matches. We know how to fill the seats—that’s not up for debate. Still, you one place left to tread in Alpha Pro-Wrestling—so much that it stinks off your career.
You had a chance to rule the world but blew it against Smith Jones. Yes, the man who left APW just when he could have fought the one man to save his career. You lost to that man, convincingly, and before a PPV crowd. That must stung pretty bad. I’ll also assume Damon Warrens would have sent you back down the food chain as he did to every loudmouth thinking they could control the reins of this promotion. The same food chain I’m poised to dominate not soon enough.”
Lights flicker again, showing even more henchmen going about their illicit business. There’s small flashes of money, weapons and nameless muscle bound by the appeal of crisp designer suits. It all goes black again, leaving only The Master front and center.
”People here assume that my lack of force in Alpha Pro means I have no power over this locker room. That my influence has dried up. Quite the contrary. Since my return at Gods of Wrestling, I’ve made concerted efforts to get my boots in that ring and see what’s really happening. Learn my enemies firsthand outside my walls of limousines and private security. What many mistook for cowardice or ungraceful aging… until they met me in the ring. I brought righteous fury upon all of my enemies. Silenced some of those same haters for good. Ask Nyeo-Son….
We sense your frustrations. It shows in how you flex that sculpted physique for photo finishes. I’m not so gifted. Spent months reshaping my body into competition shape. I also realize physically my older, war-tested body has nothing on yours. Something your fans have long pointed out—even when I was champion. Fed on fables, they wished to see their physical specimen take the crown. Now we see APW’s greatest tactician versus its purest athlete. Monday will tell the rest.
Fiction favors unsung and unlikely heroes because magic solutions sell books. Histories rarely end that way, Spartan. Powerful men press grain into flour, harvested by the weak out of fear and respect. I am the force keeping APW alive. I gave the world Smith Jones so that his baby seal blood would soak into the water. Summoned sharks because talented superstars smelled this promotion’s weak roster. My near-death saved this company by opening the door for hungry talent. Yet the same histories written about our contributions to APW conflict with the truth. I brought prosperity when this company should have died months ago. You and ZMAC only brought more bloodshed to your cesspool of a division, Spartan. Soon, the people will the difference in living color.”
The lights flicker once more to show even more thugs and their shiny suits. Suddenly, everything goes black for several seconds, until a single light switches on with a humming clunk. Only Masuda sits there despite a fluorescent light illuminating a background once populated by his private army.
”If you don’t fear me now… trust me, you will. I am the dark underbelly keeping this place afloat. They’d be nowhere without Masuda Allied Technologies. Ignore all that outside noise. Just go into that ring—my ring—and surrender to the inevitable. I am The Master of all things Alpha Pro-Wrestling. You’re just another gladiator overpaid to spill blood for their applause.
You have a place in APW and its coming future. However, I need to dispatch you in the most convincing fashion at my disposal because only a fool would look ahead and not see my destiny: June. Live from Tokyo. Land of the Rising Sun.
I must return to full form, reawaken my army and slay anyone that gets in my way. Before then, I have no choice but use the APW ring as my altar to the Demon Kings of fate. Stars crossed to make our meeting finally happen, my ginger friend, but if I am to reach Tokyo as anything less than the best in APW … then there’s no point in making its marquee. Tokyo is mine! Yokohama is mine! All of Japan belongs to me! If you aren’t prepared to face me at your absolute best, Spartan, then stay home. I’d hate to see get embarrassed again… osāma bansai.”
The lights go out.
Open to the war room atop the highest level of the new headquarters for Masuda Allied Technologies. Sunshine glistens off its zinc siding albeit what those on the ground level looking up paint as a dark spire to the likes of Mordor. Jubei has gathered an in-person culling of every branch. Every opponent sits together without much hint of debate today. They do, however, pass quite notes between each other that have not come to light before the rest of their assembly. Jubei asked once before if the group was passing unsavory message about him or the council. Their leader and silvered sage for the entire collective, Lady Nakashima, assures the Chairman he has nothing to fear of their little sidebar.
Jubei: As I explained last week, we have severed all ties with Shoda Enterprises and their loose definition of business etiquette. We cannot be a global company and bury all their skeletons. I heard you before, and we reacted as promptly as possible.
Nakashima: You do realize, Mr. Chairman, we’re not asking you to cut them out of the fold. We’re expecting you, our operational leader, to sever ties with Shoda-san professionally AND personally.
Jubei: You have no authority over my life. Especially outside of these meeting spaces.
Nakashima: Then how much will accomplish without my endorsement outside of these same rooms?
Masuda grits his teeth with fists clenched into solid, unmoving boulders.
Nakashima: I’ll take that as—
Jubei: You’ll take nothing!
Nakashima: Excuse me?
Jubei cleaves everyone out his path until only their eyes meet inside his tightening cone of scorn. Something of that shook to where Lady Nakashima staves her tongue in lieu of causing a scene.
Jubei: I am dictating every term henceforth. Do I make that clear?
He spoke through her so that it permeated the entire space. Silence responds.
Jubei: My work here in done for today. Remember… for this new venture is to succeed each of you need to trust my judgment. Not some ad hoc committees who think I’ve lost touch with the daily operations of our business. We are on the cusp of owning many of the world’s most lucrative markets across all theaters of private equity. If it has value, by god, we will leverage that business and suck it dry. No mercy. No retreat. Above all else, no prisoners. Profit shall rain over those we furlough and displace. Profits shall bind them under a random selection of letters to suit tax numbers. Everything else has no place in my meeting rooms. Are we absolutely clear on all of it?
Dead silence answers with slow, muted nods. Masuda dismisses everyone so that he can move onto his next order of business; except, one of his runners informs him of guest across the hall. He takes the note with as much control in his ethical being. The runner leads him to an otherwise empty meeting room where one person sits behind a professional binder, leather-bound for that no-nonsense look. Her eclectic outfit consists of a red-checkered power suit and matching wide brimmed hat. It animates her flowing wave of confidence through a haphazard albeit organized pile of random papers.
Madame V: Hello Mr. Masuda. I don’t wish to take much of your time. My name’s Madame V… I have some questions about the gruesome murder of tech billionaire Zion Simmons. This comes at the request of his living constituents.
Jubei: They have a suspect. And I have alibis. There are more important things I need to finish before my flight back to America. Keep it short.
Madame V: I understand that you’ve assumed the role as chairman of the trust that broke off from Mr. Simmons’s company. Is there anything I’m missing about your past relationship?
Jubei: No.
Madame V: Can you tell me about your decision to let Mr. Simmons absorb the former Masuda Corporation. It seems convenient that his death would flow between business deals so easily.
Jubei: Not at all. Business partners die all the time.
Madame V: Yes, but how many rise from their graves?
Jubei: What are you insinuating?
She thumbs through chaotic stacks of red tape until finding two thin sheets stapled together. Madame V slides it across table into a swift intercept.
Jubei: Am I signing this?
Madame V: If you wouldn’t mind.
Jubei: No. I don’t sign my name without my notary or lawyers.
Madame V: It only says—
Jubei: I said my peace. Now present it to the proper channels before I end this meeting.
Madame V retracts a freedom of information form concocted only minutes before then. Jubei nor his people, however, had any idea this P.I. would be so much trouble. Let alone see her outside the M.A.T. offices with enough gear to make an FBI raid.
Jubei: Now that we’re on the same page, let me be frank with you. I cooperated with your little snooping last time around. My hands are clean. This new venture is clean.
Madame V: Then what about what happened in Yokohama three days before Zion’s murder?
Jubei: Elaborate.
Madame V: Did you not physically assault several men half your age because your niece was in danger.
Jubei: It was in self-defense.
Madame V: I’m not debating that… but would be surprised if I said the injuries to those men match the pre-mortem injuries to Mr. Simmons?
Jubei: They arrested Cassidy Kaine for the murder. A drug addict who was the last person besides the girlfriend to see Zion alive. It’s worth noting that police already asked me similar questions before they had Kaine as a suspect. Likewise, Madame, Cassidy trained in BJJ.
Madame V: What’s that?
Jubei: Cassidy had an intermediate belt in Brazilian jujitsu. All those combat moves, while not directly from a judo stance, are part of a BJJ training manual. You might say that Judo is a genetic ancestor to that style of combat. Do the rest of the math on your own time.
Madame V: Now why someone that “lawyer’s up” facing an affidavit would share past interrogation notes without their legal counsel? Seems suspicious, don’t you think?
Jubei: There are no ramifications because you’re not licensed to practice here in Japan. Nor are you holding any authority beyond a crippling sense of self-worth. Everything you record is a moot point.
Madame V: I can still—
Jubei: You can leave now before I have security with actual credentials call the real police. Or do you think Yokohama’s Metropolitan PD will listen to the ravings of a spinster Nancy Drew dressed like an art thief? But by all means, continue your spellbinding investigation. I’ll be sure to read your true crime blog for the whole scoop. Just make sure to contact my publicist for a profile shot. I hate anything from my right side. Wrestling did a number on that ear—why don’t you take a closer look.
She inches away from the table. Unbeknownst to her, during their talks, Jubei has already summoned security from a personal panic button. Two burly men escort and her leather-bound theories off the premises. He then dials an unregistered number once everyone is far out of sight.
Jubei: Shoda… I need your people to tail that detective … yes, the strange one from Europe. Get in touch with immigration too. I doubt she has the proper means to be working in America. You know how sensitive they get with illegals … No no, just makes sure she’s not trying to make bad press for us. And if she tries to sell anything to a media outlet, your people had better intercept it from publication … No, if it comes off her personal blog, we’ll be fine. There’s nothing legal about a rookie Square Space page … No, we don’t need intimidation tactics other than a shadow. If she sees your—that’s fine. We can’t let her get any closer to Jake Karnes … Exactly. Keep a distance but make sure this Madame V feels the heat. That’s all. And remember—I call you and you relay the message in person. No one calls this phone.
He listens for a while with the gold-lapping eyes of Gordon Gekko while his subordinate, Mr. Shoda, expounds on all the opportunities the board will never comprehend. That smirk returns in full.
Jubei: Exactly. If I win this week, then Irina will have to book my into nothing lower than the co-main event for the Tokyo show … No, I didn’t care to learn its name. We only using it for visibility anyways. You can’t beat the good press of partaking in a wrestling spectacle. All I have to do convince investors I’m a beacon of interest and the fools will open their wallets… and yes, their overflowing bank accounts.
