Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2019 9:18:35 GMT -5
San Fran Int. Two Days After MNM:
Masuda Jubei sits in the terminal trying to be inconspicuous. His Gundam Tee and designer suit say otherwise, drawing attention from ronlookers. He stares forward, refusing photos, when someone reaches from the seat behind him. A caress of the shoulder that sends Jubei into his defensive posture.
Rachel: Relax, Jubei. It’s me.
Jubei: What do you want now, Ms. Bertrand?
Rachel: I watched your match—
Jubei: That’s your job.
Rachel slides around to the seat next to him. Jubei hears her out as he once did as President Masuda Corp: intently but not at all. She rubs his hand.
Rachel: When’s your flight?
Jubei: Private: We leave when it refuels.
Rachel: Is it a Gulfstream?
Jubei: Stop. I don’t have sex on planes.
She nudges him in the ribs, hitting a bruise by accident.
Rachel: Sorry.
Jubei: Fine, you can come along. But cocktails aren’t free.
Rachel: What?
Jubei: I’m kidding, there’s no bar on the plane. Only sake.
Rachel: Seems a bit… derivative. Even for a traditionalist.
A Japanese man in an black suit bows before leading them onto his private jet. Everything in flight goes as planned, until Rachel confronts him half an hour before reaching Seattle. Jubei reluctantly waves security off to another section.
Rachel: Thanks, they were getting too close. One was even reading off my legal pad. The nerve—
Jubei: I told him to destroy anything detrimental to my image. Alpha Wrestling is still young and has no clear pinnacle. Anything you say against me is a threat until I’m sure it's harmless.
Rachel: I don’t need you to screen my work, Jubei. You can trust me.
Jubei: One bend in the branch is enough to make it fall.
Rachel: More Basho?
Jubei: Me. And it’s not a proverb. That was a threat.
Rachel takes out her legal pad anyways, tapping at the blue on yellow paper combo.
Rachel: Look, this can be a lot easier for both of us. The sex was a bad idea. We both know that. All I want is access to you without letting it get personal. Can we try that for once?
Jubei: It never was personal—
Rachel: Bullshit—
Jubei: You need to listen. Your presence has a purpose. I’m giving you one more chance to prove your loyalty, and this is not what I asked for, Ms. Bertrand.
Rachel: I’m not an opponent. So you can drop your guard for a single, fucking second. In fact, I’m the only one writing about you without using the word “douche” or “bastard” in the first paragraph. Most just say Jubei wins again but is still a giant dick!
Jubei taps his fingers interchangeably, a technique he saw years back as a means of meditation.
Jubei: What’s your article about?
Rachel: Care to explain more about the pinky thing? I’m not versed in Japanese criminology.
Jubei: It’s not just a Japanese thing. The practice is one of solidarity, penance and forgiveness. If you wrong your boss, obayun, he demands sacrifice of a pinky digit. One, Trent Page was trying to take the whole finger because he’s an idiot. Secondly, I have nothing to be forgiven for, Ms. Bertrand. He’s just another entitled American like much of this roster.
Rachel: But why the pinky?
Jubei: He probably thought it would get to me. Or thought my tattoos were Yakuza.
Rachel: Well… are they?
Jubei sighs while unbuckling his seatbelt. As he does, the plane hits a patch of turbulence, thrashing everyone about. Masuda manages to keep his footing while stripping off his jacket and graphic Tee. Rachel covers her mouth, inspecting the details like those awestruck by Banksy street art: work both inherently illegal yet also beautiful.
Jubei: Fūdo Myo-ō: The Destroyer… and gangsters think it looks scary.
Rachel: How long did that inking take?
Jubei: Three trips. My artist died last summer. I miss him like a lover, for he knew my flesh as intimately as his own. And that print is our baby.
Rachel: Do you mind if I write that?
Jubei: Do I mind…
Rachel: Masuda-sama, may I write that in a blog post?
Jubei: Not unless you include more about the legends. What makes the symbol more than a creepy blue demon wielding fire swords. Can you do that?
Rachel: Of course… but is there illegal stuff involved?
Jubei: I’m talking about the demon. We don’t talk legal without my lawyers.
Rachel: how many do you have?
Jubei: Living or buried?
He breaks into a sudden burst of laughter. Rachel flips back to her last page to change some notes. She then takes a quick sketch because Jubei refuses artsy phone pics because he hates Instagram. Even though it's Rachel’s number one platform, after the wrestling website employing her.
Jubei: What are you doing?
Rachel: I’ve never seen you smile. I had to preserve it.
Jubei: Are you any good?
Rachel: Good enough. Besides, it’ll make a good bit for fans to enjoy on my column.
Jubei: You have a fandom?
Rachel: Yes… even more now that I’ve got the Masuda exclusive. You should also know that people are taking notice. They sympathize with your vision for APW, even if you won’t share it with the world.
Jubei: Such as?
Rachel: That you’re willing to defend its borders from outside threats. Not in a heroic way, exactly, but people are behind what you bring to this new company. And they want more.
Jubei wipes his brow.
Rachel: You can avoid it for now; but one day, Jubei, you will have to face them. Hell, you should embrace the fans now before the world turns its axis.
Jubei: For your ad revenue?
Rachel: No, jackass, for your future. Your tough guy / top shelf persona can only put so many asses in seats. That’s been the story of this business since the beginning. It doesn’t matter which side you pick in the war, Jubei. It only really matters if you’re willing to fight for what ground you stand upon.
Masuda shouts for the flight attendant who meets him with that same overly absorbent bow. He barks instructions before waving the man away again.
Rachel: What was that about?
Jubei: I told them to make a holding pattern at the airport.
She follows the hint, disappearing with Jubei to his private cabin.
Mariners Game, Thursday before MNM
We see Masuda Jubei with Commissioner Jason Zurra in box seats overlooking the third inning. The home team is down, but a DH has come to plate with a rally on his mind. Roku is the lone security with them, although he only maintains security at the door.
Jason: I wanted to get in your head about your last match. Everyone sees your name, so they expect blood to spill. Kaine and Dante, if you even care to know, aren’t happy about the conditions of your matches. And I can’t keep holding them back, Jubei. You’re going to have to make changes before this gets out of hand. You don’t want to end up like those old guys still blading, do you?
Jubei: Are we up this high because you hate people. Or because they had an elevator?
Jason: That’s uncalled for, Jubei, and a lazy insult at that.
Jubei: I ask because this isn’t Yakyu.
Jason: I like baseball as much as the next American. Japan plays it different, but it’s still in my blood too. Or do you mean that being up here—
Jubei: How am I going to catch a foul ball? I want one!
They laugh with Jason’s being a bit more sheepish than normal. The next few innings go by at a baseball pace, until Jubei’s phone rings.
Jason: Who’s calling you? Or do I even wanna know?
Jason follows along with a couple words being lost in edgewise. It harkens back to those New Blood days when every business deal happened in Japanese. Whomever he had on the other line, they brought out a childish glee from that man’s austere and stony visage. About hour later, Roku lets in people with VIP access. Among them enters retired Yankee and Mariner, Ichiro Suzuki, local press and one of Jubei’s many young males of Japanese descent wearing an all-black black suit. This man gives him takeout bento boxes wrapped with fabulous fabric.
Jason: You know… fuck it, of course you know Ichiro. Are you at least going to introduce me?
Jubei meets the famed shortstop, although he looks surprised by Suzuki’s affectionate handshake instead of an accustomed bow. Zurra sighs when the entire conversation continues in Japanese.
Jubei: Ichi-chan, my lapdog. Lapdog—
Jason: Jason Zurra, Co-Commissioner for Alpha Pro-wrestling.
Ichiro: Puroreso…. awesome.
Jubei: Look, I got us lunch. Then I was hoping you could get us in the scout section.
Ichiro: Jubei-chan, of course. What’s for lunch?
He and Ichiro dig into the usual bento affair of panko-fried shrimp and veggies. Jason receives his last, only to find a box full of fried eggplant.
Jason: No protein?
Jubei: I’m the one in training. Besides, eggplant is nasty.
Ichiro: Here, lapdog, have one of mine.
Jason grumbles despite Ichiro sharing a giant shrimp tempura from his own dish. Soon after, Jubei and his host get seats, per Masuda’s request, in the scout section. There’s plenty of space due to it being a Thursday. They settle back into their seats and start shooting the shit.
Ichiro: Did you ever see Ken Griffey Jr?
Jubei: Did he DH?
Ichiro: He played positions too, but the man was a beast. Inspired me to greatness… like so many before him. Another great legacy to this beautiful game I played for so long. Yet here I am retired. But you said you were training… you aren't still wrestling, are you?
Jubei: I picked it back up a month ago. Had losses and wins, but there’s more for me here than atop some President’s desk in Yokohama.
Ichiro: But you retired. Why come back? You don’t need money, not like some guys blowing their checks on childish things.
Jubei: There’s something I need to do. Something beckoning me to this place.
Ichiro: Ah, you got "the itch!"
Jubei: Yes, I believe so. Yet this one won’t be scratched by win streaks or titles. I came here for something this world can only offer in that ring. A chance to improve.
Ichiro: And another leg towards immortality?
Jubei: I’m already immortal. But I sense there are more… and I just cannot let them be.
Suddenly, a foul ball flies over the net and comes down upon them like a meteor. Jubei hops from his seat, yet that veteran instinct kicks in, and Ichiro snags it barehanded by an effortless swipe. The entire stadium erupts—more so when he passes it off to a fan with his signature. Jubei grabs his collar.
Jubei: You gave it away?
Ichiro: Jubei-chan… that’s a law of baseball.
Jubei: You are Suzuki. You are above laws.
Ichiro: Sorry, brother, but not that one.
Everything flashes red as the pals escalate their disagreement into a fight, which eventually reverts to fisticuffs. Security pulls them apart, or more, pulls Jubei out of the knee bar he wrapped on the future HOF’er. Turmoil ends there with neither side pressing charges. However, he and the Commissioner still had to share an awkward drive back to the show’s downtown hotel.
Jason: You punched Ichiro Suzuki in T-Mobile Park? Are you insane?
Jubei: He besmirched my honor. It was out of principle.
Jason: Well, have fun telling that to Dante and Damian tonight. We can’t leave them in the dark, especially since it’s already trending.
Jubei: I’m not scared of them.
Jason: You should be… not unless you want to be released. There’s going to be hell to pay for this. And I may not be able to lessen the blow this time. What else do you want me to say?
Jubei: You don’t need to fight my battles.
Jason: Not even for old times’ sake?
Jubei: No… because you can’t even protect yourself.
Filmed Prior to the Baseball Game:
Its early morning with a red sunrise peeking over T-Mobile Park, home of the Seattle Mariners. The camera focuses on the battle cage where “The Master” Masuda Jubei stands in the batter’s box. He has an Ichiro Suzuki jersey but splayed open to show his mostly defined abs. He also has a metal bat behind his neck like some Yakuza thug.
“All they see are thugs. Dangerous men. Two Asian men capable of great harm… dangerous men with a set of skills and ideals destined to ruin one another,” Jubei says while pointing the bat at the camera. “Yet here we are, Nyeo-chan, bottom 9th with too many scenarios to play out… or should I say ‘pray’ for all those on Twitter calling this bout ‘Crazy Rich Asians 2.’ They are the funny ones.”
He swings bat back to a safe position behind his neck.
“When I saw the card, I was surprised. Not just to see you up here, but that you would be sharing my ring for the main event. Masuda’s bloodbath as those sausage fingers keep typing every week. You see, everyone at the top is shoving you along like the rest of this roster—curious to whose brains I need bash in this week.” Jubei gets into a batting stance. “Our bosses… ha ha, they think we’re bound to what they want. Laugh with me, Nyeo-chan. They have no idea what we are or how we fight. Sell the show they say. Hit ‘homeruns’ and get asses in seats.”
Jubei makes a power swing with flawless form.
“Homerun… just like the shift in this boring as hell game, changes made it more efficient. Limit the best hitters to where it becomes a chess match. No more slaps shots. No more bouncing singles.” Jubei points outwards like Babe Ruth once did. “You can field so little anymore because we learned how to stop what worked decades ago. We adapted. We improved and perfected… that is us, Nyeo-chan. We aren’t dog dumb thugs people try to pin on our faces. Monday we prove them wrong.”
Masuda does a theatrical bat flip before approaching his static cam.
“Old class died with Rikidozan and Baba. We are the new Asian elite… and you should be proud to be a part of this movement. Yet the lines must be drawn because of corporate guessing. They aren’t even focused enough to make this about quotas,” he says, groaning. “They hire men hiding their names on Twitter, or open doors for gargantuan skeletons only fit for a heavy metal vinyl cover. They’re blind, Nyeo-chan… horridly blind to what we can be for Alpha Wrestling.”
Jubei gets impersonally close to the lens for his benediction of sorts.
“Now I must break every bit of you, Nyeo-chan. I have seen your matches. Real martial arts unlike all these gaijin children karate chopping cinderblocks. Not some ‘Bruce Lee shit’ but a real chance to display our training for the entire world,” he says with that patented smirk. “We start at the top and work down. Maybe the wrist or a knee gives out first. You’ll know before me… when there’s a pop. Then that rubber band snap of torn ligaments. Sinews rendered useless with only three ropes to save you.”
“Because even though you are like me, you’re not,” he snarls with harder, rolling “R’s” for effect. “Nyeo-chan… bring those taekwondo kicks people like to make into gifs. And them boo. They will never understand what brings us together this Monday. It is my proving ground for those ready to learn but not to lead. Where you can become better at the evil you do through me. A thorough whipping as only Easter discipline can deliver,” he says while modulating his voice. “But Nyeo-chan, don’t forget this isn’t personal. It’s not even enjoyable for me to cut down another of our splintered community.”
Jubei paces around the pitcher’s mound before assuming an erect posture. He then leans forward af preparing to pitch out of the stretch.
“Young men come into this arena looking to hit big. Home runs and nothing else. Nyeo-chan, you are the flash of the bat… but it cannot match to the skill of an ace like me,” Jubei says with a smirk. He then places a black ballcap with familial script across the front in gold. “Ore wa masūta desu… you are stepping up to my authority, my arena, and worst of all, you’re tampering with my legacy. I cannot have another in my spotlight. This mountaintop gets lonely, yes, but it was only made for one.” Jubei laughs as he shows a ball to the camera. “Bring your best, Nyeo-chan. Keep your eyes on the ball—because it would be devastating to see you strike out again.”
Masuda Jubei sits in the terminal trying to be inconspicuous. His Gundam Tee and designer suit say otherwise, drawing attention from ronlookers. He stares forward, refusing photos, when someone reaches from the seat behind him. A caress of the shoulder that sends Jubei into his defensive posture.
Rachel: Relax, Jubei. It’s me.
Jubei: What do you want now, Ms. Bertrand?
Rachel: I watched your match—
Jubei: That’s your job.
Rachel slides around to the seat next to him. Jubei hears her out as he once did as President Masuda Corp: intently but not at all. She rubs his hand.
Rachel: When’s your flight?
Jubei: Private: We leave when it refuels.
Rachel: Is it a Gulfstream?
Jubei: Stop. I don’t have sex on planes.
She nudges him in the ribs, hitting a bruise by accident.
Rachel: Sorry.
Jubei: Fine, you can come along. But cocktails aren’t free.
Rachel: What?
Jubei: I’m kidding, there’s no bar on the plane. Only sake.
Rachel: Seems a bit… derivative. Even for a traditionalist.
A Japanese man in an black suit bows before leading them onto his private jet. Everything in flight goes as planned, until Rachel confronts him half an hour before reaching Seattle. Jubei reluctantly waves security off to another section.
Rachel: Thanks, they were getting too close. One was even reading off my legal pad. The nerve—
Jubei: I told him to destroy anything detrimental to my image. Alpha Wrestling is still young and has no clear pinnacle. Anything you say against me is a threat until I’m sure it's harmless.
Rachel: I don’t need you to screen my work, Jubei. You can trust me.
Jubei: One bend in the branch is enough to make it fall.
Rachel: More Basho?
Jubei: Me. And it’s not a proverb. That was a threat.
Rachel takes out her legal pad anyways, tapping at the blue on yellow paper combo.
Rachel: Look, this can be a lot easier for both of us. The sex was a bad idea. We both know that. All I want is access to you without letting it get personal. Can we try that for once?
Jubei: It never was personal—
Rachel: Bullshit—
Jubei: You need to listen. Your presence has a purpose. I’m giving you one more chance to prove your loyalty, and this is not what I asked for, Ms. Bertrand.
Rachel: I’m not an opponent. So you can drop your guard for a single, fucking second. In fact, I’m the only one writing about you without using the word “douche” or “bastard” in the first paragraph. Most just say Jubei wins again but is still a giant dick!
Jubei taps his fingers interchangeably, a technique he saw years back as a means of meditation.
Jubei: What’s your article about?
Rachel: Care to explain more about the pinky thing? I’m not versed in Japanese criminology.
Jubei: It’s not just a Japanese thing. The practice is one of solidarity, penance and forgiveness. If you wrong your boss, obayun, he demands sacrifice of a pinky digit. One, Trent Page was trying to take the whole finger because he’s an idiot. Secondly, I have nothing to be forgiven for, Ms. Bertrand. He’s just another entitled American like much of this roster.
Rachel: But why the pinky?
Jubei: He probably thought it would get to me. Or thought my tattoos were Yakuza.
Rachel: Well… are they?
Jubei sighs while unbuckling his seatbelt. As he does, the plane hits a patch of turbulence, thrashing everyone about. Masuda manages to keep his footing while stripping off his jacket and graphic Tee. Rachel covers her mouth, inspecting the details like those awestruck by Banksy street art: work both inherently illegal yet also beautiful.
Jubei: Fūdo Myo-ō: The Destroyer… and gangsters think it looks scary.
Rachel: How long did that inking take?
Jubei: Three trips. My artist died last summer. I miss him like a lover, for he knew my flesh as intimately as his own. And that print is our baby.
Rachel: Do you mind if I write that?
Jubei: Do I mind…
Rachel: Masuda-sama, may I write that in a blog post?
Jubei: Not unless you include more about the legends. What makes the symbol more than a creepy blue demon wielding fire swords. Can you do that?
Rachel: Of course… but is there illegal stuff involved?
Jubei: I’m talking about the demon. We don’t talk legal without my lawyers.
Rachel: how many do you have?
Jubei: Living or buried?
He breaks into a sudden burst of laughter. Rachel flips back to her last page to change some notes. She then takes a quick sketch because Jubei refuses artsy phone pics because he hates Instagram. Even though it's Rachel’s number one platform, after the wrestling website employing her.
Jubei: What are you doing?
Rachel: I’ve never seen you smile. I had to preserve it.
Jubei: Are you any good?
Rachel: Good enough. Besides, it’ll make a good bit for fans to enjoy on my column.
Jubei: You have a fandom?
Rachel: Yes… even more now that I’ve got the Masuda exclusive. You should also know that people are taking notice. They sympathize with your vision for APW, even if you won’t share it with the world.
Jubei: Such as?
Rachel: That you’re willing to defend its borders from outside threats. Not in a heroic way, exactly, but people are behind what you bring to this new company. And they want more.
Jubei wipes his brow.
Rachel: You can avoid it for now; but one day, Jubei, you will have to face them. Hell, you should embrace the fans now before the world turns its axis.
Jubei: For your ad revenue?
Rachel: No, jackass, for your future. Your tough guy / top shelf persona can only put so many asses in seats. That’s been the story of this business since the beginning. It doesn’t matter which side you pick in the war, Jubei. It only really matters if you’re willing to fight for what ground you stand upon.
Masuda shouts for the flight attendant who meets him with that same overly absorbent bow. He barks instructions before waving the man away again.
Rachel: What was that about?
Jubei: I told them to make a holding pattern at the airport.
She follows the hint, disappearing with Jubei to his private cabin.
Mariners Game, Thursday before MNM
We see Masuda Jubei with Commissioner Jason Zurra in box seats overlooking the third inning. The home team is down, but a DH has come to plate with a rally on his mind. Roku is the lone security with them, although he only maintains security at the door.
Jason: I wanted to get in your head about your last match. Everyone sees your name, so they expect blood to spill. Kaine and Dante, if you even care to know, aren’t happy about the conditions of your matches. And I can’t keep holding them back, Jubei. You’re going to have to make changes before this gets out of hand. You don’t want to end up like those old guys still blading, do you?
Jubei: Are we up this high because you hate people. Or because they had an elevator?
Jason: That’s uncalled for, Jubei, and a lazy insult at that.
Jubei: I ask because this isn’t Yakyu.
Jason: I like baseball as much as the next American. Japan plays it different, but it’s still in my blood too. Or do you mean that being up here—
Jubei: How am I going to catch a foul ball? I want one!
They laugh with Jason’s being a bit more sheepish than normal. The next few innings go by at a baseball pace, until Jubei’s phone rings.
Jason: Who’s calling you? Or do I even wanna know?
Jason follows along with a couple words being lost in edgewise. It harkens back to those New Blood days when every business deal happened in Japanese. Whomever he had on the other line, they brought out a childish glee from that man’s austere and stony visage. About hour later, Roku lets in people with VIP access. Among them enters retired Yankee and Mariner, Ichiro Suzuki, local press and one of Jubei’s many young males of Japanese descent wearing an all-black black suit. This man gives him takeout bento boxes wrapped with fabulous fabric.
Jason: You know… fuck it, of course you know Ichiro. Are you at least going to introduce me?
Jubei meets the famed shortstop, although he looks surprised by Suzuki’s affectionate handshake instead of an accustomed bow. Zurra sighs when the entire conversation continues in Japanese.
Jubei: Ichi-chan, my lapdog. Lapdog—
Jason: Jason Zurra, Co-Commissioner for Alpha Pro-wrestling.
Ichiro: Puroreso…. awesome.
Jubei: Look, I got us lunch. Then I was hoping you could get us in the scout section.
Ichiro: Jubei-chan, of course. What’s for lunch?
He and Ichiro dig into the usual bento affair of panko-fried shrimp and veggies. Jason receives his last, only to find a box full of fried eggplant.
Jason: No protein?
Jubei: I’m the one in training. Besides, eggplant is nasty.
Ichiro: Here, lapdog, have one of mine.
Jason grumbles despite Ichiro sharing a giant shrimp tempura from his own dish. Soon after, Jubei and his host get seats, per Masuda’s request, in the scout section. There’s plenty of space due to it being a Thursday. They settle back into their seats and start shooting the shit.
Ichiro: Did you ever see Ken Griffey Jr?
Jubei: Did he DH?
Ichiro: He played positions too, but the man was a beast. Inspired me to greatness… like so many before him. Another great legacy to this beautiful game I played for so long. Yet here I am retired. But you said you were training… you aren't still wrestling, are you?
Jubei: I picked it back up a month ago. Had losses and wins, but there’s more for me here than atop some President’s desk in Yokohama.
Ichiro: But you retired. Why come back? You don’t need money, not like some guys blowing their checks on childish things.
Jubei: There’s something I need to do. Something beckoning me to this place.
Ichiro: Ah, you got "the itch!"
Jubei: Yes, I believe so. Yet this one won’t be scratched by win streaks or titles. I came here for something this world can only offer in that ring. A chance to improve.
Ichiro: And another leg towards immortality?
Jubei: I’m already immortal. But I sense there are more… and I just cannot let them be.
Suddenly, a foul ball flies over the net and comes down upon them like a meteor. Jubei hops from his seat, yet that veteran instinct kicks in, and Ichiro snags it barehanded by an effortless swipe. The entire stadium erupts—more so when he passes it off to a fan with his signature. Jubei grabs his collar.
Jubei: You gave it away?
Ichiro: Jubei-chan… that’s a law of baseball.
Jubei: You are Suzuki. You are above laws.
Ichiro: Sorry, brother, but not that one.
Everything flashes red as the pals escalate their disagreement into a fight, which eventually reverts to fisticuffs. Security pulls them apart, or more, pulls Jubei out of the knee bar he wrapped on the future HOF’er. Turmoil ends there with neither side pressing charges. However, he and the Commissioner still had to share an awkward drive back to the show’s downtown hotel.
Jason: You punched Ichiro Suzuki in T-Mobile Park? Are you insane?
Jubei: He besmirched my honor. It was out of principle.
Jason: Well, have fun telling that to Dante and Damian tonight. We can’t leave them in the dark, especially since it’s already trending.
Jubei: I’m not scared of them.
Jason: You should be… not unless you want to be released. There’s going to be hell to pay for this. And I may not be able to lessen the blow this time. What else do you want me to say?
Jubei: You don’t need to fight my battles.
Jason: Not even for old times’ sake?
Jubei: No… because you can’t even protect yourself.
Filmed Prior to the Baseball Game:
Its early morning with a red sunrise peeking over T-Mobile Park, home of the Seattle Mariners. The camera focuses on the battle cage where “The Master” Masuda Jubei stands in the batter’s box. He has an Ichiro Suzuki jersey but splayed open to show his mostly defined abs. He also has a metal bat behind his neck like some Yakuza thug.
“All they see are thugs. Dangerous men. Two Asian men capable of great harm… dangerous men with a set of skills and ideals destined to ruin one another,” Jubei says while pointing the bat at the camera. “Yet here we are, Nyeo-chan, bottom 9th with too many scenarios to play out… or should I say ‘pray’ for all those on Twitter calling this bout ‘Crazy Rich Asians 2.’ They are the funny ones.”
He swings bat back to a safe position behind his neck.
“When I saw the card, I was surprised. Not just to see you up here, but that you would be sharing my ring for the main event. Masuda’s bloodbath as those sausage fingers keep typing every week. You see, everyone at the top is shoving you along like the rest of this roster—curious to whose brains I need bash in this week.” Jubei gets into a batting stance. “Our bosses… ha ha, they think we’re bound to what they want. Laugh with me, Nyeo-chan. They have no idea what we are or how we fight. Sell the show they say. Hit ‘homeruns’ and get asses in seats.”
Jubei makes a power swing with flawless form.
“Homerun… just like the shift in this boring as hell game, changes made it more efficient. Limit the best hitters to where it becomes a chess match. No more slaps shots. No more bouncing singles.” Jubei points outwards like Babe Ruth once did. “You can field so little anymore because we learned how to stop what worked decades ago. We adapted. We improved and perfected… that is us, Nyeo-chan. We aren’t dog dumb thugs people try to pin on our faces. Monday we prove them wrong.”
Masuda does a theatrical bat flip before approaching his static cam.
“Old class died with Rikidozan and Baba. We are the new Asian elite… and you should be proud to be a part of this movement. Yet the lines must be drawn because of corporate guessing. They aren’t even focused enough to make this about quotas,” he says, groaning. “They hire men hiding their names on Twitter, or open doors for gargantuan skeletons only fit for a heavy metal vinyl cover. They’re blind, Nyeo-chan… horridly blind to what we can be for Alpha Wrestling.”
Jubei gets impersonally close to the lens for his benediction of sorts.
“Now I must break every bit of you, Nyeo-chan. I have seen your matches. Real martial arts unlike all these gaijin children karate chopping cinderblocks. Not some ‘Bruce Lee shit’ but a real chance to display our training for the entire world,” he says with that patented smirk. “We start at the top and work down. Maybe the wrist or a knee gives out first. You’ll know before me… when there’s a pop. Then that rubber band snap of torn ligaments. Sinews rendered useless with only three ropes to save you.”
“Because even though you are like me, you’re not,” he snarls with harder, rolling “R’s” for effect. “Nyeo-chan… bring those taekwondo kicks people like to make into gifs. And them boo. They will never understand what brings us together this Monday. It is my proving ground for those ready to learn but not to lead. Where you can become better at the evil you do through me. A thorough whipping as only Easter discipline can deliver,” he says while modulating his voice. “But Nyeo-chan, don’t forget this isn’t personal. It’s not even enjoyable for me to cut down another of our splintered community.”
Jubei paces around the pitcher’s mound before assuming an erect posture. He then leans forward af preparing to pitch out of the stretch.
“Young men come into this arena looking to hit big. Home runs and nothing else. Nyeo-chan, you are the flash of the bat… but it cannot match to the skill of an ace like me,” Jubei says with a smirk. He then places a black ballcap with familial script across the front in gold. “Ore wa masūta desu… you are stepping up to my authority, my arena, and worst of all, you’re tampering with my legacy. I cannot have another in my spotlight. This mountaintop gets lonely, yes, but it was only made for one.” Jubei laughs as he shows a ball to the camera. “Bring your best, Nyeo-chan. Keep your eyes on the ball—because it would be devastating to see you strike out again.”
