Post by Jubei on Jun 28, 2020 15:21:13 GMT -5
Entry 402… I followed the Masuda caravan into Tokyo this morning. Aside from a trip to a shrine to pay respects to his late parents—or so I’m told—everything has been one media stop after another. I don’t know how people like Jubei can balance so many responsibilities without missing a beat. He seems impenetrable in interviews. He also shows little fear of the cameras. Such unbridled charisma. The only real worry is that I don’t have permissions or a press pass. Getting past these checkpoints might get dicey if I can’t find a good reason to be searching dressing rooms. I doubt Tokyo MPD would be in the spirits to discuss the matter either, as I am not permitted to investigate nor question suspects. This may well be the biggest challenge of my career… thank you, Masuda Jubei. I accept your challenge!
Entry 403… I was spotted outside on of their checkpoints. Although I suspect they’ve about my tail for a quite a while longer. Drivers chose dead ends and other tricks to shake me off their scent. Other times, seemingly at random, they made stops near places of business with less busy streets. It gave me time to take in the energy of Tokyo, which I can now say has a spirit unlike anything in the world. A huge step from the olden feel of Yokohama… and Jubei will probably not enjoy my saying that I preferred here to his favorite hideaway by large margins. Onto the security check rifling through my stuff. They won’t find this recording—that I stake my life on!
Entry 404… I managed to find a way into the venue. It appears a production crew has been at work all morning, as Masuda Jubei met with a group of them to discuss some sort of package. I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I’ve followed them closer. Something has interfered with the bug I planted on his car. I’m not sure if they found it or not, but it’s safe to assume all of its footage will be lost. Wait, something’s coming through – hot mic! Hot mic!
Jubei: So I want your people to position it where the fans are seeing me looking on the taped outline. And we’re sure it’s exactly the same pose I had after losing to Jayson Price last fall?
producer: Yes, Jubei-sama, my team and I have reviewed those last thirty seconds long enough for it be a full-length match. Your story is safe with me.
Jubei: Good. When we begin, I need your lighting to provide a sense of outer body awareness. As if I’m not only a competitor, but a noble spirit from the battlefield.
producer: I believe Kurosawa had flick with the lamentations of the fallen.
Jubei: Yes, but let’s try to convince a few million idiots binging media trash on Netflix. I don’t need an Oscar performance to sway APW’s faithful viewers. We already know what makes them tick. They want heroes but cheer for bad boy like Spartan and ZMAC. Then worship the ground of Road Dawg, Smith Jones and even the aforementioned Braxton Locus. In one year, these fans never cease to amaze me.
producer: Oh yeah?
Jubei: Never cease to amaze me in how low their standards continue to be. It’s one failed hero after another. Calls for leadership from places that neither hear them nor have the effort to change. When I decimate these two fools tomorrow night… rest assured that the new age of Masuda Jubei will rise. Then I will bring my own flotilla back to America, beginning a ritual cleansing of all the deceitful and unneeded talent polluting APW’s limited genepool. Hey! You… yes you! Get over here!
producer: Do you know that person?
Jubei: It’s too long of a story to explain. Someone bring that detective over here. I don’t have time to play any more of her Nancy Drew games.
producer: Do they have to manhandle her like that? Jubei-sama… don’t hurt her.
Jubei: Get out of the ring. I have some business to attend to – Manuke! Koko o norikoeru! Kami-sama… Don’t just leave her on the floor. Put her in Jeff’s seat. Yes, in the chair. Now get out of my ring!
Madame V: What are you going to do with me?
Jubei: This isn’t a game anymore, V. I know you have a wild range of theories to shoot out of the sky, but tomorrow is the biggest match of my entire career. Bigger than my first title win. Bigger than my own show, Jubeilation, which saw the first and only exclusively talent-booked show in APW’s history. Bulletproof may be off the radar of many fans back in the states. I’m fine with that. But I have many things to accomplish in a very small window. So if you’re not satisfied with my answers to simple questions—ones I already gave and had cleared by multiple detectives in Yokohama and New York City—then what else can I do to convince you of my innocence?
Madame V: It’s not that simple. You of all people should know that, especially when it comes to inheritance.
Jubei: This isn’t a game of who’s the son and where the money goes. We had an investment in Zion’s assets despite the folding of the original Masuda Corporation. Yet legal means of acquisition don’t seem to be enough to sway that ridiculous hat off your head.
Madame V: There’s always more evidence.
Jubei: Evidence? Was the blood of Zion not caked on that Cassidy kid? Did police not find the same exact same outfit of the murder—whom they caught on tape!—sitting in the washing machine of Jake Karnes? The same man I know you’ve been shadowing whenever you get tired of rooting through my takeout garbage. You can keep unearthing clues and making wild accusation. They won’t find me.
Madame V: Why not? That’s the same kind of arrogance that topples every crime lord.
Jubei: Want to know why I’m not going to make those same mistakes? Because I’m bulletproof!
Madame V: Everyone makes mistakes. Sooner or later, you will too. And you won’t get to fake your death twice.
Jubei: That’s why you’re here. To prove that everything I do in Alpha Pro-Wrestling ties back to an assumption of guilt. And what body of proof will convict someone loosely in the bounds of that? Search your feelings because you know it to be true. Chasing me validates all the years you’ve wasted trying to be the whistleblower on something huge. Your yellow paper journalism about me ends here. Because I promise you that no one of my high caliber, nor with the same public face, could pull off any of the things you want to pin on my name. It’s not possible. So give it up already!
Madame V: Your rage says otherwise.
Jubei: My rage is because this was supposed to be my time to make a small video package about my enemies at the show tomorrow. Fans need to know that I’m not here to simply reclaim my stake in the APW Title. I’m doing it to prove that not are Japanese talent superior, but we’re built to go on longer than anyone else in this business. And that we’ll endure everything this business throws at us to come out on top. That’s my concern. You’re merely a bug swiped away by my Lexus’ windshield wiper.
Madame V: What’s with the outline you taped on the mat?
Jubei: Since I’m already doing that supervillain thing of revealing my evil plan to the secret agent—I might as well spoil the entire show.
Madame V: What?
Jubei: This represents the day I almost died bringing APW into the next phase of its ongoing history. Its supposed to be my moment to rectify all that brought me from the small, quaint matched of APW into the limelight worthy of its actual potential. We had a roster. We had the expertise in the ring. However, we lacked all manner of support from top to bottom backstage. Even the catering sucked at times. How do you fail at chicken and ham sandwich trays? How?
Madame V: What does represent other than a time you went too far and almost paid the ultimate price?
Jubei: It proves that unlike my opponents, I have gone beyond my abilities to lift the name of APW to the stars. I know it’s just a farce in your mind, V, but I’m not taking this lightly. Jason Ryan did the unthinkable when he exiled Damon Warrens from this company. A power void soon swallowed by Zaigon Carter and his genetically superior clan of blonde GI Joe and Barbie dolls. This video is my indisputable proof to everyone in APW that Masuda Jubei died for their sins, while miserable stains like my opponents chaff their egos with dreams of holding that gold. And what a powerful mistress she is.
Madame V: Ignoring that outdated thing you just said… do you really believe you have more to prove?
Jubei: No. I have nothing else to prove to APW. I’m here to crush their dreams and teach them all a lesson their parents should have striped across their backsides ages ago! I am the Master and there’s nothing either of these men can do to stop me from reclaiming the gold. And for your tireless efforts, V, I’m cordially inviting you to be a part of that great moment in APW history. This pass will get you into every VIP and Staff area of the Bulletproof venue. I don’t care what you do between the rest of the show. I really don’t. But if I don’t see you in the my team’s VIP suite before the opening bell… then you’re not getting any of this precious recording.
Madame V: But I—
Jubei: But you nothing! I’m not dumb enough to get caught saying the wrong thing on a hot mic. Stop trying to trick me. I will continue to evade your feeble attempts to take down my empire because we don’t stop the presses the moment someone like you tries to expose wrongdoing. No… we just run your people over to the sweet sound of bones being pulverized under an eighteen wheeler. That’s bulletproof, my dear, and you are far, far out of your league. Now take you pass and be off to scrapbook all the sights you took in of Tokyo today. I suspect it’s about the only joy you’ve got left.
producer: Are we good to start filming, Masuda-sama?
Jubei: Quite. You two idiots… please escort the madam off the premises. We’ve got a show to win!
Cameras swoop in over Masuda Jubei, slumped in a boxer’s stool, and he’s wearing a track jacket with some of his old Masuda Corporation logos. It also features the Alpha “A” prominently near the upper right—just above the heart—that shines even off screen. He looks upon the taped outline of a human figure, presumably male from its size and physical proportions, with admiration and despair.
”It’s been a year since I arrived on the scene of APW. Failed fed head. Failed wrestler. Backed by the prestige of favors owed to me by Jason Zurra, my favorite doormat. He convinced Dante and Irina to book me in the first Main Event of Alpha Pro-Wrestling. After that I earned every single match and accolade that follows my name in this company. Forget what it means to have your foot in the door. That will only describe the beginning of my prowess.
Look instead to this poor soul. APW Champion—number one—whose death seared into the minds of talent and executive alike. He once seemed immortal until one fight nearly vanquished him. That brings me here today before all of you now. Nihon is my blood and I’d give every ounce back. Japan deserves to have another champion, and what better way can I bring it back to the Rising Sun than by dismantling two American avatars in the flesh?”
The shot pans around behind him so that we see the back of his head and several scars notching his years in and out of wrestling. Glints of his tattoo, featuring the Demon King Fūdo Myo-ō—but only the fiery sword he wields with impunity.
”Zaigon, you already had a taste of what’s in store for you Monday when you submitted to the cruelty of a jokester. Kings do not lest the jester sit in their chair. It’s a gag that came back to bite you. I’m reminded of an old story… it’s American, surprisingly, by the author Edgar Allen Poe. In this tale of an indentured servant to the court of a cruel king, we see the fool exact revenge with every bound of hellfire at his disposal. The king dresses like a great ape with feral hooting to boot. It all provides for a moment of laughter until the court sees the caged king and his train burnt alive.
If you give the jester a taste of power, even you cannot take it back, Zaigon. You have a chance to redeem what has been your unpolished mission statement of give me the belt. They’re mine. Just another entitled brat bleating for gold he doesn’t understand. Your threat have been empty. Your willingness to embarrass yourself on live TV isn’t laughable either, it’s sad.”
Another angle closes up on the fearsome glower that has long defined Masuda Jubei.
”Jason. Ryan. If you want to call yourself a champion, for once, I can’t disagree. I would like to bring everyone’s close attention, however, to your promise of being a “fighting” champion. Someone whose willingness to jump into bat fights makes him a hero. Where in the immortal words of Odin Balfore—whose mere presence in APW lasted like elevator flatulence—I’ve seen it all before, and I wouldn’t recommend it.
Fighting champions are reckless, hopeless creatures. World Champion means you must not only represent your Mandate of Heaven from this company’s pantheon of broken typewriters and telegraphs, but also defend your legacy at the same time. You must also protect the very fabric of Alpha Pro-Wrestling. Yet you continue to throw around your championship belt like an orphan’s first taste of Olive Garden. Yes, you’ve tried the lobster macaroni and cheese, but entirely missed the point with your pairing of pink zinfandel and red meat. You are a travesty born in one man’s desire to die—because no one in this company believes you fought the true heart of Damon Warrens. And just like Smith Jones, our only two-time champion, every day is an uphill battle for respect.
I told you on several occasions to be a champion in and out of the ring. Do you not hear the dissent rising like steam off the excrement you and the Bloodline left in the lobbies of our weekly program? Metal doesn’t call you its champion… and neither do I.”
Masuda stands and then bends over the tape outline. He pulls up what looks like off-white masking tape. As he tugs the outline off the mat, blood red paint replaces the adhesive lines with something more stark and sinister. Another pans over both to where a slanted view of the body—now traced in shiny, sticky red paint—and the dominating stare of The Master.
”Neither of you are bulletproof. You’re reckless and unprincipled. I have watched. I have listened. Sadly, I will never be convinced that either of you has the heart or soul to be World Champion. Nor will you pay the ultimate sacrifice if called upon. Not while you continue sparring like boys outside the rectory. Hold yourselves tight becomes tomorrow marks your last seminal moments in APW. And with that comes the return of the King of Darkness … Osāma bansai.”
Entry 405… After observing this man and the mannerisms of which he deals with constituents, there’s no doubt in my mind that Masuda Jubei killed Zion Simmons. Proving it will take everything in my arsenal because he won’t make it easy. Jubei continues to flaunt the system with heart and style of the Teflon Don. Every criminal has a weakness, and I think I might have finally found it. Her name is Nobuko… the same niece he battered five younger men to defend months ago in Yokohama. Leave it to a self-proclaimed king to be a flawed father figure wanton for a family. This will topple him for good.
Entry 403… I was spotted outside on of their checkpoints. Although I suspect they’ve about my tail for a quite a while longer. Drivers chose dead ends and other tricks to shake me off their scent. Other times, seemingly at random, they made stops near places of business with less busy streets. It gave me time to take in the energy of Tokyo, which I can now say has a spirit unlike anything in the world. A huge step from the olden feel of Yokohama… and Jubei will probably not enjoy my saying that I preferred here to his favorite hideaway by large margins. Onto the security check rifling through my stuff. They won’t find this recording—that I stake my life on!
Entry 404… I managed to find a way into the venue. It appears a production crew has been at work all morning, as Masuda Jubei met with a group of them to discuss some sort of package. I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I’ve followed them closer. Something has interfered with the bug I planted on his car. I’m not sure if they found it or not, but it’s safe to assume all of its footage will be lost. Wait, something’s coming through – hot mic! Hot mic!
Jubei: So I want your people to position it where the fans are seeing me looking on the taped outline. And we’re sure it’s exactly the same pose I had after losing to Jayson Price last fall?
producer: Yes, Jubei-sama, my team and I have reviewed those last thirty seconds long enough for it be a full-length match. Your story is safe with me.
Jubei: Good. When we begin, I need your lighting to provide a sense of outer body awareness. As if I’m not only a competitor, but a noble spirit from the battlefield.
producer: I believe Kurosawa had flick with the lamentations of the fallen.
Jubei: Yes, but let’s try to convince a few million idiots binging media trash on Netflix. I don’t need an Oscar performance to sway APW’s faithful viewers. We already know what makes them tick. They want heroes but cheer for bad boy like Spartan and ZMAC. Then worship the ground of Road Dawg, Smith Jones and even the aforementioned Braxton Locus. In one year, these fans never cease to amaze me.
producer: Oh yeah?
Jubei: Never cease to amaze me in how low their standards continue to be. It’s one failed hero after another. Calls for leadership from places that neither hear them nor have the effort to change. When I decimate these two fools tomorrow night… rest assured that the new age of Masuda Jubei will rise. Then I will bring my own flotilla back to America, beginning a ritual cleansing of all the deceitful and unneeded talent polluting APW’s limited genepool. Hey! You… yes you! Get over here!
producer: Do you know that person?
Jubei: It’s too long of a story to explain. Someone bring that detective over here. I don’t have time to play any more of her Nancy Drew games.
producer: Do they have to manhandle her like that? Jubei-sama… don’t hurt her.
Jubei: Get out of the ring. I have some business to attend to – Manuke! Koko o norikoeru! Kami-sama… Don’t just leave her on the floor. Put her in Jeff’s seat. Yes, in the chair. Now get out of my ring!
Madame V: What are you going to do with me?
Jubei: This isn’t a game anymore, V. I know you have a wild range of theories to shoot out of the sky, but tomorrow is the biggest match of my entire career. Bigger than my first title win. Bigger than my own show, Jubeilation, which saw the first and only exclusively talent-booked show in APW’s history. Bulletproof may be off the radar of many fans back in the states. I’m fine with that. But I have many things to accomplish in a very small window. So if you’re not satisfied with my answers to simple questions—ones I already gave and had cleared by multiple detectives in Yokohama and New York City—then what else can I do to convince you of my innocence?
Madame V: It’s not that simple. You of all people should know that, especially when it comes to inheritance.
Jubei: This isn’t a game of who’s the son and where the money goes. We had an investment in Zion’s assets despite the folding of the original Masuda Corporation. Yet legal means of acquisition don’t seem to be enough to sway that ridiculous hat off your head.
Madame V: There’s always more evidence.
Jubei: Evidence? Was the blood of Zion not caked on that Cassidy kid? Did police not find the same exact same outfit of the murder—whom they caught on tape!—sitting in the washing machine of Jake Karnes? The same man I know you’ve been shadowing whenever you get tired of rooting through my takeout garbage. You can keep unearthing clues and making wild accusation. They won’t find me.
Madame V: Why not? That’s the same kind of arrogance that topples every crime lord.
Jubei: Want to know why I’m not going to make those same mistakes? Because I’m bulletproof!
Madame V: Everyone makes mistakes. Sooner or later, you will too. And you won’t get to fake your death twice.
Jubei: That’s why you’re here. To prove that everything I do in Alpha Pro-Wrestling ties back to an assumption of guilt. And what body of proof will convict someone loosely in the bounds of that? Search your feelings because you know it to be true. Chasing me validates all the years you’ve wasted trying to be the whistleblower on something huge. Your yellow paper journalism about me ends here. Because I promise you that no one of my high caliber, nor with the same public face, could pull off any of the things you want to pin on my name. It’s not possible. So give it up already!
Madame V: Your rage says otherwise.
Jubei: My rage is because this was supposed to be my time to make a small video package about my enemies at the show tomorrow. Fans need to know that I’m not here to simply reclaim my stake in the APW Title. I’m doing it to prove that not are Japanese talent superior, but we’re built to go on longer than anyone else in this business. And that we’ll endure everything this business throws at us to come out on top. That’s my concern. You’re merely a bug swiped away by my Lexus’ windshield wiper.
Madame V: What’s with the outline you taped on the mat?
Jubei: Since I’m already doing that supervillain thing of revealing my evil plan to the secret agent—I might as well spoil the entire show.
Madame V: What?
Jubei: This represents the day I almost died bringing APW into the next phase of its ongoing history. Its supposed to be my moment to rectify all that brought me from the small, quaint matched of APW into the limelight worthy of its actual potential. We had a roster. We had the expertise in the ring. However, we lacked all manner of support from top to bottom backstage. Even the catering sucked at times. How do you fail at chicken and ham sandwich trays? How?
Madame V: What does represent other than a time you went too far and almost paid the ultimate price?
Jubei: It proves that unlike my opponents, I have gone beyond my abilities to lift the name of APW to the stars. I know it’s just a farce in your mind, V, but I’m not taking this lightly. Jason Ryan did the unthinkable when he exiled Damon Warrens from this company. A power void soon swallowed by Zaigon Carter and his genetically superior clan of blonde GI Joe and Barbie dolls. This video is my indisputable proof to everyone in APW that Masuda Jubei died for their sins, while miserable stains like my opponents chaff their egos with dreams of holding that gold. And what a powerful mistress she is.
Madame V: Ignoring that outdated thing you just said… do you really believe you have more to prove?
Jubei: No. I have nothing else to prove to APW. I’m here to crush their dreams and teach them all a lesson their parents should have striped across their backsides ages ago! I am the Master and there’s nothing either of these men can do to stop me from reclaiming the gold. And for your tireless efforts, V, I’m cordially inviting you to be a part of that great moment in APW history. This pass will get you into every VIP and Staff area of the Bulletproof venue. I don’t care what you do between the rest of the show. I really don’t. But if I don’t see you in the my team’s VIP suite before the opening bell… then you’re not getting any of this precious recording.
Madame V: But I—
Jubei: But you nothing! I’m not dumb enough to get caught saying the wrong thing on a hot mic. Stop trying to trick me. I will continue to evade your feeble attempts to take down my empire because we don’t stop the presses the moment someone like you tries to expose wrongdoing. No… we just run your people over to the sweet sound of bones being pulverized under an eighteen wheeler. That’s bulletproof, my dear, and you are far, far out of your league. Now take you pass and be off to scrapbook all the sights you took in of Tokyo today. I suspect it’s about the only joy you’ve got left.
producer: Are we good to start filming, Masuda-sama?
Jubei: Quite. You two idiots… please escort the madam off the premises. We’ve got a show to win!
Cameras swoop in over Masuda Jubei, slumped in a boxer’s stool, and he’s wearing a track jacket with some of his old Masuda Corporation logos. It also features the Alpha “A” prominently near the upper right—just above the heart—that shines even off screen. He looks upon the taped outline of a human figure, presumably male from its size and physical proportions, with admiration and despair.
”It’s been a year since I arrived on the scene of APW. Failed fed head. Failed wrestler. Backed by the prestige of favors owed to me by Jason Zurra, my favorite doormat. He convinced Dante and Irina to book me in the first Main Event of Alpha Pro-Wrestling. After that I earned every single match and accolade that follows my name in this company. Forget what it means to have your foot in the door. That will only describe the beginning of my prowess.
Look instead to this poor soul. APW Champion—number one—whose death seared into the minds of talent and executive alike. He once seemed immortal until one fight nearly vanquished him. That brings me here today before all of you now. Nihon is my blood and I’d give every ounce back. Japan deserves to have another champion, and what better way can I bring it back to the Rising Sun than by dismantling two American avatars in the flesh?”
The shot pans around behind him so that we see the back of his head and several scars notching his years in and out of wrestling. Glints of his tattoo, featuring the Demon King Fūdo Myo-ō—but only the fiery sword he wields with impunity.
”Zaigon, you already had a taste of what’s in store for you Monday when you submitted to the cruelty of a jokester. Kings do not lest the jester sit in their chair. It’s a gag that came back to bite you. I’m reminded of an old story… it’s American, surprisingly, by the author Edgar Allen Poe. In this tale of an indentured servant to the court of a cruel king, we see the fool exact revenge with every bound of hellfire at his disposal. The king dresses like a great ape with feral hooting to boot. It all provides for a moment of laughter until the court sees the caged king and his train burnt alive.
If you give the jester a taste of power, even you cannot take it back, Zaigon. You have a chance to redeem what has been your unpolished mission statement of give me the belt. They’re mine. Just another entitled brat bleating for gold he doesn’t understand. Your threat have been empty. Your willingness to embarrass yourself on live TV isn’t laughable either, it’s sad.”
Another angle closes up on the fearsome glower that has long defined Masuda Jubei.
”Jason. Ryan. If you want to call yourself a champion, for once, I can’t disagree. I would like to bring everyone’s close attention, however, to your promise of being a “fighting” champion. Someone whose willingness to jump into bat fights makes him a hero. Where in the immortal words of Odin Balfore—whose mere presence in APW lasted like elevator flatulence—I’ve seen it all before, and I wouldn’t recommend it.
Fighting champions are reckless, hopeless creatures. World Champion means you must not only represent your Mandate of Heaven from this company’s pantheon of broken typewriters and telegraphs, but also defend your legacy at the same time. You must also protect the very fabric of Alpha Pro-Wrestling. Yet you continue to throw around your championship belt like an orphan’s first taste of Olive Garden. Yes, you’ve tried the lobster macaroni and cheese, but entirely missed the point with your pairing of pink zinfandel and red meat. You are a travesty born in one man’s desire to die—because no one in this company believes you fought the true heart of Damon Warrens. And just like Smith Jones, our only two-time champion, every day is an uphill battle for respect.
I told you on several occasions to be a champion in and out of the ring. Do you not hear the dissent rising like steam off the excrement you and the Bloodline left in the lobbies of our weekly program? Metal doesn’t call you its champion… and neither do I.”
Masuda stands and then bends over the tape outline. He pulls up what looks like off-white masking tape. As he tugs the outline off the mat, blood red paint replaces the adhesive lines with something more stark and sinister. Another pans over both to where a slanted view of the body—now traced in shiny, sticky red paint—and the dominating stare of The Master.
”Neither of you are bulletproof. You’re reckless and unprincipled. I have watched. I have listened. Sadly, I will never be convinced that either of you has the heart or soul to be World Champion. Nor will you pay the ultimate sacrifice if called upon. Not while you continue sparring like boys outside the rectory. Hold yourselves tight becomes tomorrow marks your last seminal moments in APW. And with that comes the return of the King of Darkness … Osāma bansai.”
Entry 405… After observing this man and the mannerisms of which he deals with constituents, there’s no doubt in my mind that Masuda Jubei killed Zion Simmons. Proving it will take everything in my arsenal because he won’t make it easy. Jubei continues to flaunt the system with heart and style of the Teflon Don. Every criminal has a weakness, and I think I might have finally found it. Her name is Nobuko… the same niece he battered five younger men to defend months ago in Yokohama. Leave it to a self-proclaimed king to be a flawed father figure wanton for a family. This will topple him for good.
