Post by Deleted on Jul 17, 2019 4:22:48 GMT -5
Wednesday after MNM
Masuda Jubei and Co-Commissioner Jason Zurra meet for lunch. Each goes with the inconspicuous movie star look with sunglasses to cover their faces in public. Roku watches from the adjacent table with a tight Alpha Pro-Wrestling T-shirt over his rippled torso. Diplomacy takes many forms—even in wrestling—wherein a treat at the MGM Morimoto does more than extend an olive branch.
Jason Zurra: Look Jubei, things got out of hand yesterday. Media will make what they want of the whole situation, but we need our people to act like professionals.
Jubei: I didn’t?
Jason Zurra: Don’t be coy. You weren’t booked Monday. Yet you come hopping over—
Jubei: I had to see Braxton Locus for myself.
Jason Zurra: Why?
Jubei: To see the weakness in those rabid eyes. Where all the lies come from. The mask I’m going to pry off for good Sunday.
A waiter interrupts them with complimentary rolls of unagi and salmon sashimi. Zurra makes his power move by passing the entire plate over to his well-fed brother.
Jason Zurra: Alpha Showdown is scheduled to be our biggest event yet—and we cannot afford more debacles. Did you even think about what might happen if Braxton Locus couldn’t compete in your match? You won’t admit it—even if that stupid smirk says it for me.
A second wave of sushi rolls land in front of them. Zurra pushes them away too.
Jason Zurra: Everyone in this company is an investment. Whether you like us or not, Alpha is funding this little game of yours. I stopped caring what you want to get out of—
A third plate with appetizers sets between them. Jason passes it to Roku, despite how he helplessly pantomimes “no more.”
Jason Zurra: You’re not going to keep us from running a successful promotion, Jubei. You’ve always played by your own rules. And I know it might sound cliché at this point, but for fuck’s sake, keep the match clean.
Jubei: I’m not a cheater—not like Locus or that talking louse someone named Trent Page.
Jason Zurra: Not like that. I’m talking about blood and concussions.
Jubei: So you want me to submit him?
Jason Zurra: It doesn’t matter how someone wins the match… just use common sense. We can’t afford major injuries.
Multiple entrees, enough to feed several people, shower their table. Even that has the Commissioner flummoxed. Jubei gives him pick of the litter: a tender filet, dry-aged and marbled to perfection. Masuda elects to go with the best fish they serve with octopus carpaccio as a palate cleanser.
Roku: What is that?
Jubei: Raw octopus. You can only master what has no deceiving flavors. To truly rule something, you must see its guts. Know its intentions. And most of all, Roku, devour its truest form. Everything else is just spice or preservatives. Soy sauce salting away what’s underneath all the searing and noise of a saucepan spewing flames. Only raw bites see what the creature wished to hide all along.
Their meal, aside from too many texts on Zurra’s phone, is actually pleasant.
Jason Zurra: So we need you to do something else.
Jubei: Charity?
Jason Zurra: Yeah… how did—
Jubei: Because everyone in my position is expected to give back. Gestures to keep peasants from storming the Bastille.
Jason Zurra: I’m sending you the flyer now. It wasn’t my choice, but we had to give them someone from the main event.
Jubei: And Braxton doesn’t have his rabies shots.
Masuda reads over the flyer and puts his phone away with a sour look.
Jubei: Animals?
Jason Zurra: Look… all you have to do is take a few photos with the kids.
Jubei: I can do that.
Jason Zurra: No no. what are you smiling about? Jubei… Jubei get back here!
He walks off with Zura making a few miraculous steps after him. The Master turns, and upon seeing Zurra’s improving health, he nods back with that patented smirk.
ASPCA Event, three days before Showdown
Masuda Jubei stands out amongst a group of children wearing blue t-shirts that say “Alpha Dog” in white bubble letters. The park setting has ASPCA banners around what seems to be an adoption event at a public park. After the kids take photos around the wrestle man, photophilic adults sprinkle into a wider shot. Each of them wearing those blue shirts. Jubei offers a sinister smile with each hand braced on kids’ shoulders. Everyone endures the cascade of bright flashes before breaking to their stations.
Rose: That’s a rap people. Kids, the public will be here soon. Go get the puppies ready.
A short and balding man shakes Jubei’s hand. Then an intern presents an oversized check, one lovingly endorsed by APW owner Adam Dante for $5,000.00. His palms are like eels from the daytime temps.
Barry: Mr. Masuda, we cannot thank you enough for donating your time.
Jubei: We are a company for the people. We hope you, Mr. Toliver, and your people will be there to see Alpha Showdown.
Barry: Of course, and thank you for the pictures. Kids love this shit.
Jubei: Puppies and pro-wrestlers—what’s not to love?
Barry Toliver makes his final photo op before getting the hell out of town. In his absence, he leaves the organizer, Rose, in charge of the entire event. She looks more like a tired gardener than a mother of three when she and Jubei meet for another promotional talk. He’s sitting on yard furniture when Rose presents him with a jittery French bulldog.
Jubei: What’s that?
Rose: Puppernickel.
Jubei: I see… do I have to hold it?
Rose: Oh please. It’d mean a lot to us.
Jubei cradles the snorting princess in his lap while a camera focuses on his austere features. After a “3, 2, 1” signal from the operator, he switches to a warm and pleasant manner.
Jubei: My name is Masuda Jubei. Many of you know me as “The Master” on Alpha Wrestling’s brand on streaming TV. Today, I’m not hitting people with chairs. I’m sharing one with my new friend… Puppernickel. We encourage you to adopt at your local shelter. Isn’t that right, girl?
He scratches behind the bulldog’s ears.
Jubei: You too can be the “Alpha Dog” when you adopt a pup or cat.
That shoot stops with more people swarming around Masuda. They’re members of APW’s production crew, there only to remove all the makeup from his previous shoot. Now sufficiently rugged for his usual audience, Jubei orders the next shot—one that includes his new costar.
Jubei: Alpha Showdown is here. Aren’t you excited, girl?
The dog barks a couple times looking ugly cute.
Jubei: Pretty cute for a gargoyle… so Braxton, what’s it been now, a month? A month of different paths. Time floating by with our hands in our pockets. We watched as Atlantic City burned, knowing that was not our destiny. I sat there wondering with a duffle bag full of weapons if I should partake. Then I realized those bloodied fools weren’t the face of this company. Merely another distraction to keep the masses tuned for more. You scratch an itch and they react.
On cue, he scratches behind Puppernickle’s ear. Her leg kicks with delight.
Jubei: People are conveniently easy to please. They will follow anyone if the price is right. When our dutiful commissioner announced this match last week, we both already saw it coming. There are no two more suited to set the pace for this company—and their debacle in New Jersey proved it. Our absence from the bloodshed showed how much better we are than the rest of this roster.
His expression returns to that Machiavellian grin fans have come to expect of The Master—all while stroking Puppernickle like Blofled’s white cat.
Jubei: It took time for our stars to realign. Alpha Rising was a success. We sold out the arena. We brought millions of eyes to streaming platforms across the country and many others as well. Braxton, our matches sell—there’s no denying our star power when compared to the rest of Alpha Wrestling. Yet a distinction must come this Sunday. A line I have to draw between us… and I’m not talking about the belt.
Jubei pinches the bone-shaped tag dangling from her collar. Its brass shines on camera.
Jubei: Belts conflate but never define a roster. Still, some need nametags so others won’t forget their names. Others wear belts for drooping slacks. Yet the purpose of most things wear out throughout history. Functioning pieces become decorations and then useless. Regalia tarnished, becoming designer pieces. Fatigued to where people forget what a distinguished cross means—even when a daughter stabs it to on a veteran’s chest. At Showdown, I’m going to resolve all this confusion.
A few soft pets sedate the doggo.
Jubei: We’re lacking leadership. Thirsting for someone to follow. While you might think that’s going to be you, Mr. Locus, you’re wrong again. I watched you after our first fight. Yes, you won, but as I told the world before… one loss doesn’t define an era. Only leaders do that. Since Rising, your ridiculous campaign has gone from focus to obscurity. It doesn’t matter where management books you, Braxton, you have this executive knack for fucking things up.
He coos lil’ Puppernickle before looking back into the main shot.
Jubei: Your rampage across the roster went off the rails weeks ago when you couldn’t even bother to give our fans entertainment. A business built on performance. They paid for a show, and you got disqualified for being what you truly are: a dumb dog.
Puppernickle barks at the flashing lights.
Jubei: You spook too easy. You also cannot be yourself for one minute. Everything is a polemic for you. Nom du plume. I give my name because that is what the people expect of me. Call me “egocentric” or “evil”—it won’t change who I am or what I bring to APW. Can you say the same?
Rose speaks with his producer about “stressing” the animal, when Jubei shout to her.
Jubei: She’s fine, Rose. I won’t hurt her.
He then looks back into the shot, smirking.
Jubei: Do you seriously think this plan will work? Taking this grand title from the world isn’t going to cure its hunger. Bad dog! You can’t take away their chocolate—even if it kills them. Our roster will dig and dig, even if it’s from a trashcan, to find that heavyweight championship. People aren’t that obedient. You have to drill it into their skulls with ruthless efficiency. You have to pull on their choker until they submit. But hide a regal prize where no one can find it… that’s not possible. You’re just talking to hear what the performance sounds like in a private vacuum. I make edicts and see them through to the end. What have you finished since joining APW? Please… take all the time you need.
Jubei gets a tighter yet still gentle grip of the doggo.
Jubei: Showdown isn’t going to be a fight this time. It’s going to be an obedience lesson—even if I have drop you on your thick skull a thousand times. I’m not going pin you. No, this time you’re going to submit to me. And I won’t pocket my best move like last time. You were there in my special piledriver, yet I gave you mercy. There won’t be clemency this time, Braxton. You’ve proven yourself a wild animal. For the good of this world, I have no choice but to put you down. Fans have started to enjoy your antics. They’re flash in the pot cinematics with no direction. No plot or story. No director to keep everything on track. You’re destined for a sob story biopic—one more step and you’re off the ledge. Actors can take any locus they want to portray why he walked that far. People will pay for resolution… something you cannot give them no matter how many times you enter that ring.
He then holds Puppernickle Simba-style. She rests against his chin, letting his eyes bulge around her.
Jubei: Everyone wants to be the king. The alpha dog. Nobody wants to bow or fetch. We want to make our mark and sign it. Yet nothing gets done when everyone has the power to say “no,” Braxton. Nyeo Son pushed my limits but I subdued him. Trent Page is an idiot unworthy of our breath. Each of them saw glimmers of Alpha’s greatest reward, and I put them down. Sure, you cut Smitty out of the picture for now… but he’s just one of many greedy sons, and daughters, of bitches vying for the royal seal.
Puppernickle yaps with delight.
Jubei: I have to destroy you. Not for myself, but for the good of an empire. Only one person has the ability to run this locker room of morons. They just want play pretty princess and accessorize. Instagram all the normal places they bring their inferior titles—be it a Buffalo wing joint or seedy bar. It’s not a toy. It’s a crown, a signet and our undeniable symbol of leadership. APW has no constant heartbeat. No rhythm. When I defeat you at Showdown, Braxton, I’m going to restore its pace to normal—and with it, bring peace to all the disorder you’ve brought us.
She turns up and licks his face.
Jubei: And just like that they’ll kiss my ring and beg for safety. There’s no future under a Braxton Locus promotion. Only darkness and death. Nowhere for our fans or our roster to turn for guidance. Winning that belt won’t be for the pettiness of championship banners or a tiny plaque with my name riveted in gold. It will be the power invested in me by both the roster and management—a contract of my superiority, which allows me to fix what people like you have broken since the doors opened at APW. We expand every day with new hires like Spartan, Allen Anderson and the stupendously talented Lilianna Rose. They have molds to fit into… but they won’t be able to do that with an agent chaos watching over them.
He secures the dog for one more shot.
Jubei: Surrender your claim to throne. You have until Sunday to make that decision. I won’t think you a coward if you do. It’d be the only wise decision you’ve made since joining Alpha’s ranks. Understand that I respect what you do, Braxton. I even enjoy the thrill of sparring with you. But you aren’t fit for the highest peak. You’re that sour grape an emperor pucks from the stem and puts with those they make into wine. See… you’re not without purpose. You have talent to compete and make the fans happy. They will pay to see your brand of aggression. However, you cannot be their leader. I’m going to make my first edict at Alpha Showdown when I piledrive your head into the canvas. No more games. No more metaphors whooshing over these peons’ heads. Sunday, I vanquish the monster Sammy Badmoon and these people will make me their king. And there’s no person you can conjure in that timeframe with any chance of stopping me. Tell him Puppernickle!
Jubei laughs maniacally as the little dog howls with him. That’s when a second giant check comes into frame. The organizer nearly faints.
Jubei: A king cannot be without a people to worship him. That’s why I’m donating my entire salary from last week’s show to build the Masuda Jubei non-kill shelter for needy animals. Osama banzai… long live the king, Sammy.
Cut feed.
Rachel Bertrand, a reporter for one of the many “dirt sheets,” wakes up in a strange place. Everything is red from its Asiatic pillars to the classical statues adorning what appears like a hotel room. A stranger, dressed like someone from the seventies with bright flares and lots of burgundy, greets her from the bedside.
Rachel: What is this place?
Nacy Wei: No one’s really sure, dear. All we know is there’s no hope of escape.
Rachel: From what?
Nacy Wei: The Master.
Masuda Jubei and Co-Commissioner Jason Zurra meet for lunch. Each goes with the inconspicuous movie star look with sunglasses to cover their faces in public. Roku watches from the adjacent table with a tight Alpha Pro-Wrestling T-shirt over his rippled torso. Diplomacy takes many forms—even in wrestling—wherein a treat at the MGM Morimoto does more than extend an olive branch.
Jason Zurra: Look Jubei, things got out of hand yesterday. Media will make what they want of the whole situation, but we need our people to act like professionals.
Jubei: I didn’t?
Jason Zurra: Don’t be coy. You weren’t booked Monday. Yet you come hopping over—
Jubei: I had to see Braxton Locus for myself.
Jason Zurra: Why?
Jubei: To see the weakness in those rabid eyes. Where all the lies come from. The mask I’m going to pry off for good Sunday.
A waiter interrupts them with complimentary rolls of unagi and salmon sashimi. Zurra makes his power move by passing the entire plate over to his well-fed brother.
Jason Zurra: Alpha Showdown is scheduled to be our biggest event yet—and we cannot afford more debacles. Did you even think about what might happen if Braxton Locus couldn’t compete in your match? You won’t admit it—even if that stupid smirk says it for me.
A second wave of sushi rolls land in front of them. Zurra pushes them away too.
Jason Zurra: Everyone in this company is an investment. Whether you like us or not, Alpha is funding this little game of yours. I stopped caring what you want to get out of—
A third plate with appetizers sets between them. Jason passes it to Roku, despite how he helplessly pantomimes “no more.”
Jason Zurra: You’re not going to keep us from running a successful promotion, Jubei. You’ve always played by your own rules. And I know it might sound cliché at this point, but for fuck’s sake, keep the match clean.
Jubei: I’m not a cheater—not like Locus or that talking louse someone named Trent Page.
Jason Zurra: Not like that. I’m talking about blood and concussions.
Jubei: So you want me to submit him?
Jason Zurra: It doesn’t matter how someone wins the match… just use common sense. We can’t afford major injuries.
Multiple entrees, enough to feed several people, shower their table. Even that has the Commissioner flummoxed. Jubei gives him pick of the litter: a tender filet, dry-aged and marbled to perfection. Masuda elects to go with the best fish they serve with octopus carpaccio as a palate cleanser.
Roku: What is that?
Jubei: Raw octopus. You can only master what has no deceiving flavors. To truly rule something, you must see its guts. Know its intentions. And most of all, Roku, devour its truest form. Everything else is just spice or preservatives. Soy sauce salting away what’s underneath all the searing and noise of a saucepan spewing flames. Only raw bites see what the creature wished to hide all along.
Their meal, aside from too many texts on Zurra’s phone, is actually pleasant.
Jason Zurra: So we need you to do something else.
Jubei: Charity?
Jason Zurra: Yeah… how did—
Jubei: Because everyone in my position is expected to give back. Gestures to keep peasants from storming the Bastille.
Jason Zurra: I’m sending you the flyer now. It wasn’t my choice, but we had to give them someone from the main event.
Jubei: And Braxton doesn’t have his rabies shots.
Masuda reads over the flyer and puts his phone away with a sour look.
Jubei: Animals?
Jason Zurra: Look… all you have to do is take a few photos with the kids.
Jubei: I can do that.
Jason Zurra: No no. what are you smiling about? Jubei… Jubei get back here!
He walks off with Zura making a few miraculous steps after him. The Master turns, and upon seeing Zurra’s improving health, he nods back with that patented smirk.
ASPCA Event, three days before Showdown
Masuda Jubei stands out amongst a group of children wearing blue t-shirts that say “Alpha Dog” in white bubble letters. The park setting has ASPCA banners around what seems to be an adoption event at a public park. After the kids take photos around the wrestle man, photophilic adults sprinkle into a wider shot. Each of them wearing those blue shirts. Jubei offers a sinister smile with each hand braced on kids’ shoulders. Everyone endures the cascade of bright flashes before breaking to their stations.
Rose: That’s a rap people. Kids, the public will be here soon. Go get the puppies ready.
A short and balding man shakes Jubei’s hand. Then an intern presents an oversized check, one lovingly endorsed by APW owner Adam Dante for $5,000.00. His palms are like eels from the daytime temps.
Barry: Mr. Masuda, we cannot thank you enough for donating your time.
Jubei: We are a company for the people. We hope you, Mr. Toliver, and your people will be there to see Alpha Showdown.
Barry: Of course, and thank you for the pictures. Kids love this shit.
Jubei: Puppies and pro-wrestlers—what’s not to love?
Barry Toliver makes his final photo op before getting the hell out of town. In his absence, he leaves the organizer, Rose, in charge of the entire event. She looks more like a tired gardener than a mother of three when she and Jubei meet for another promotional talk. He’s sitting on yard furniture when Rose presents him with a jittery French bulldog.
Jubei: What’s that?
Rose: Puppernickel.
Jubei: I see… do I have to hold it?
Rose: Oh please. It’d mean a lot to us.
Jubei cradles the snorting princess in his lap while a camera focuses on his austere features. After a “3, 2, 1” signal from the operator, he switches to a warm and pleasant manner.
Jubei: My name is Masuda Jubei. Many of you know me as “The Master” on Alpha Wrestling’s brand on streaming TV. Today, I’m not hitting people with chairs. I’m sharing one with my new friend… Puppernickel. We encourage you to adopt at your local shelter. Isn’t that right, girl?
He scratches behind the bulldog’s ears.
Jubei: You too can be the “Alpha Dog” when you adopt a pup or cat.
That shoot stops with more people swarming around Masuda. They’re members of APW’s production crew, there only to remove all the makeup from his previous shoot. Now sufficiently rugged for his usual audience, Jubei orders the next shot—one that includes his new costar.
Jubei: Alpha Showdown is here. Aren’t you excited, girl?
The dog barks a couple times looking ugly cute.
Jubei: Pretty cute for a gargoyle… so Braxton, what’s it been now, a month? A month of different paths. Time floating by with our hands in our pockets. We watched as Atlantic City burned, knowing that was not our destiny. I sat there wondering with a duffle bag full of weapons if I should partake. Then I realized those bloodied fools weren’t the face of this company. Merely another distraction to keep the masses tuned for more. You scratch an itch and they react.
On cue, he scratches behind Puppernickle’s ear. Her leg kicks with delight.
Jubei: People are conveniently easy to please. They will follow anyone if the price is right. When our dutiful commissioner announced this match last week, we both already saw it coming. There are no two more suited to set the pace for this company—and their debacle in New Jersey proved it. Our absence from the bloodshed showed how much better we are than the rest of this roster.
His expression returns to that Machiavellian grin fans have come to expect of The Master—all while stroking Puppernickle like Blofled’s white cat.
Jubei: It took time for our stars to realign. Alpha Rising was a success. We sold out the arena. We brought millions of eyes to streaming platforms across the country and many others as well. Braxton, our matches sell—there’s no denying our star power when compared to the rest of Alpha Wrestling. Yet a distinction must come this Sunday. A line I have to draw between us… and I’m not talking about the belt.
Jubei pinches the bone-shaped tag dangling from her collar. Its brass shines on camera.
Jubei: Belts conflate but never define a roster. Still, some need nametags so others won’t forget their names. Others wear belts for drooping slacks. Yet the purpose of most things wear out throughout history. Functioning pieces become decorations and then useless. Regalia tarnished, becoming designer pieces. Fatigued to where people forget what a distinguished cross means—even when a daughter stabs it to on a veteran’s chest. At Showdown, I’m going to resolve all this confusion.
A few soft pets sedate the doggo.
Jubei: We’re lacking leadership. Thirsting for someone to follow. While you might think that’s going to be you, Mr. Locus, you’re wrong again. I watched you after our first fight. Yes, you won, but as I told the world before… one loss doesn’t define an era. Only leaders do that. Since Rising, your ridiculous campaign has gone from focus to obscurity. It doesn’t matter where management books you, Braxton, you have this executive knack for fucking things up.
He coos lil’ Puppernickle before looking back into the main shot.
Jubei: Your rampage across the roster went off the rails weeks ago when you couldn’t even bother to give our fans entertainment. A business built on performance. They paid for a show, and you got disqualified for being what you truly are: a dumb dog.
Puppernickle barks at the flashing lights.
Jubei: You spook too easy. You also cannot be yourself for one minute. Everything is a polemic for you. Nom du plume. I give my name because that is what the people expect of me. Call me “egocentric” or “evil”—it won’t change who I am or what I bring to APW. Can you say the same?
Rose speaks with his producer about “stressing” the animal, when Jubei shout to her.
Jubei: She’s fine, Rose. I won’t hurt her.
He then looks back into the shot, smirking.
Jubei: Do you seriously think this plan will work? Taking this grand title from the world isn’t going to cure its hunger. Bad dog! You can’t take away their chocolate—even if it kills them. Our roster will dig and dig, even if it’s from a trashcan, to find that heavyweight championship. People aren’t that obedient. You have to drill it into their skulls with ruthless efficiency. You have to pull on their choker until they submit. But hide a regal prize where no one can find it… that’s not possible. You’re just talking to hear what the performance sounds like in a private vacuum. I make edicts and see them through to the end. What have you finished since joining APW? Please… take all the time you need.
Jubei gets a tighter yet still gentle grip of the doggo.
Jubei: Showdown isn’t going to be a fight this time. It’s going to be an obedience lesson—even if I have drop you on your thick skull a thousand times. I’m not going pin you. No, this time you’re going to submit to me. And I won’t pocket my best move like last time. You were there in my special piledriver, yet I gave you mercy. There won’t be clemency this time, Braxton. You’ve proven yourself a wild animal. For the good of this world, I have no choice but to put you down. Fans have started to enjoy your antics. They’re flash in the pot cinematics with no direction. No plot or story. No director to keep everything on track. You’re destined for a sob story biopic—one more step and you’re off the ledge. Actors can take any locus they want to portray why he walked that far. People will pay for resolution… something you cannot give them no matter how many times you enter that ring.
He then holds Puppernickle Simba-style. She rests against his chin, letting his eyes bulge around her.
Jubei: Everyone wants to be the king. The alpha dog. Nobody wants to bow or fetch. We want to make our mark and sign it. Yet nothing gets done when everyone has the power to say “no,” Braxton. Nyeo Son pushed my limits but I subdued him. Trent Page is an idiot unworthy of our breath. Each of them saw glimmers of Alpha’s greatest reward, and I put them down. Sure, you cut Smitty out of the picture for now… but he’s just one of many greedy sons, and daughters, of bitches vying for the royal seal.
Puppernickle yaps with delight.
Jubei: I have to destroy you. Not for myself, but for the good of an empire. Only one person has the ability to run this locker room of morons. They just want play pretty princess and accessorize. Instagram all the normal places they bring their inferior titles—be it a Buffalo wing joint or seedy bar. It’s not a toy. It’s a crown, a signet and our undeniable symbol of leadership. APW has no constant heartbeat. No rhythm. When I defeat you at Showdown, Braxton, I’m going to restore its pace to normal—and with it, bring peace to all the disorder you’ve brought us.
She turns up and licks his face.
Jubei: And just like that they’ll kiss my ring and beg for safety. There’s no future under a Braxton Locus promotion. Only darkness and death. Nowhere for our fans or our roster to turn for guidance. Winning that belt won’t be for the pettiness of championship banners or a tiny plaque with my name riveted in gold. It will be the power invested in me by both the roster and management—a contract of my superiority, which allows me to fix what people like you have broken since the doors opened at APW. We expand every day with new hires like Spartan, Allen Anderson and the stupendously talented Lilianna Rose. They have molds to fit into… but they won’t be able to do that with an agent chaos watching over them.
He secures the dog for one more shot.
Jubei: Surrender your claim to throne. You have until Sunday to make that decision. I won’t think you a coward if you do. It’d be the only wise decision you’ve made since joining Alpha’s ranks. Understand that I respect what you do, Braxton. I even enjoy the thrill of sparring with you. But you aren’t fit for the highest peak. You’re that sour grape an emperor pucks from the stem and puts with those they make into wine. See… you’re not without purpose. You have talent to compete and make the fans happy. They will pay to see your brand of aggression. However, you cannot be their leader. I’m going to make my first edict at Alpha Showdown when I piledrive your head into the canvas. No more games. No more metaphors whooshing over these peons’ heads. Sunday, I vanquish the monster Sammy Badmoon and these people will make me their king. And there’s no person you can conjure in that timeframe with any chance of stopping me. Tell him Puppernickle!
Jubei laughs maniacally as the little dog howls with him. That’s when a second giant check comes into frame. The organizer nearly faints.
Jubei: A king cannot be without a people to worship him. That’s why I’m donating my entire salary from last week’s show to build the Masuda Jubei non-kill shelter for needy animals. Osama banzai… long live the king, Sammy.
Cut feed.
Rachel Bertrand, a reporter for one of the many “dirt sheets,” wakes up in a strange place. Everything is red from its Asiatic pillars to the classical statues adorning what appears like a hotel room. A stranger, dressed like someone from the seventies with bright flares and lots of burgundy, greets her from the bedside.
Rachel: What is this place?
Nacy Wei: No one’s really sure, dear. All we know is there’s no hope of escape.
Rachel: From what?
Nacy Wei: The Master.
