Post by Smith Jones on Oct 20, 2019 19:13:48 GMT -5
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“Art is subjective.”
Fade up on a shot of the shiny silver blade of a knife. You can almost hear the ding from the sharp tip of the stainless steel blade. The blade is in a gloved hand. Black rubber. The tip is aimed downward as it appears the person has his or her arm over their head. The knife plunges downward into the face of a plump orange pumpkin. THWIP! The camera zooms out and we now see Smith Jones dressed in dark jeans and a gray tee that reads loser across the front of it in white lettering. He has long, black rubber gloves on as he carves into the pumpkin as he sits on a set of porch steps in front of a dilapidated little house in the middle of nowhere. It is dusk. We can see the sun setting in the glass of the screen door behind Smith’s head. He looks down at the pumpkin, which is now out of our view, and he speaks.
“Dean Wolf survived three Take It Home belly-to-belly suplexes against the turnbuckles, followed by four Sleep Paralysis dragon suplexes against all four middle turnbuckles, followed by my signature submission maneuver The System. After that; after all of that…
...he pinned me with a wrestling move.
The APW Hardcore Champion pinned me with a cunning counter to my signature. I was not expecting that by any means. Dean Wolf now has two victories over me. Am I to believe that he is a better superstar than I am? A better fighter? A better… wrestler? Is that where we live now? Is that how it is? And if that is the case, Am I to fear that Dean Wolf could take my APW World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship away from me any time he chooses?
Dean, you were unstoppable in that ring last Monday night. It wasn’t just a fluke pinfall. You didn’t cheat to win. You played my game… and you beat me. I threw you against the corners over and over and over again and you simply would not stay down! I went completely silent most of the week because I simply cannot take it. I no-showed autograph signings and a ribbon cutting. I locked myself in my basement training chamber just outside Toronto, Canada, watching that match repeatedly on APW On Demand. I became distant with my new girlfriend, locking her out of the chamber for hours at a time while I obsessed about what could possibly have happened in that squared circle last week that gave you the unearthly energy and resilience to keep getting up after taking some of my most damaging maneuvers multiple times.
It was a full moon the night before our match. Do you draw strength from the heavens when you howl at the sky? Did I underestimate you? Is that why I couldn’t beat you? Is that why I’ve NEVER beaten you, Wolf? I…
Don’t…
Know.
What I do know is that I am absolutely proud of the effort I put forth last Metal. And I know that living in the match any longer than I already have is not going to be beneficial to my future.”
Smith has carved a pair of big, round eyes. No mouth. No nose. He stops carving and stabs the knife into the side of the face. Smith walks a short distance along a dirt path to where he can see a large pond with a rickety dock in the near distance. The water is as smooth as glass. The wind is low. So is the sun. The scene quickly creeps deeper and deeper into darkness.
“Arthur Pleasant. I feel like I can’t breathe. My heart rate is elevated. My muscles are relentlessly tensed. My jaw is unbreakably clenched. I am violently suffocating mere inches below the surface of a picturesque pond, staring up at the blue sky far above me, immersed in deep shame. I cannot inhale.
This Monday Night Metal is not a good night to be slated to face the incredible Smith Jones. I’m fighting for my very life. I need to breathe. I am going to catch my breath, Art, if I have to siphon it directly from your lungs. That loss for you against ZMAC, the loss that bounced you out of the Heavyweight Contendership Tournament… there is no shame in a loss like that one. I’ve been in the ring with Zombie McMorris. I pinned him and I promise you it wasn’t easy. I assure you all at home that there is NO SUCH THING as an easy match in Alpha Pro Wrestling. And a match like the one you had against ZMAC last week… that’s exactly the kind of match the world should be watching. You gave it everything you’ve got out there. You strangled each other to damned near death out there! You beat the living heel out of one another until the referee had to stop the match! Your match featured the kind of brutality that could have rendered either of you incapable of finishing. It just so happened to be you, Art. But everyone with eyes can see that your match could have gone either way -- just like my match could have gone either way.
Everyone with eyes can see that.”
Smith steps up to an easel standing near the pond. The sky has grown quite dark now as moonlight touches the water and ripples begin to wade across the pond. Smitty picks up a palette and brush and begins to paint what he sees.
“Art is subjective. That’s why I’m going to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind as to the certainty of my victory when we lock horns. I’m not just fighting for the illusion of supremacy. I am fighting for my very dominance here in APW. After a loss like the one I suffered to the Champion of Hardcore, I have more to prove than ever before! Nothing I have ever done before matters. Not my Ten Main Events, not The World Title, not my string of instant mat classics week after week without fail. All eyes on me when I win; all eyes on me when I lose. Not this time. Not against you, Art. That cannot and will not happen.
Y’see, I have the ability to learn from the mistakes of my past. I have a proclivity for proactivity even when it looks like I’m just standing still. I’m on the move.
And you’re standing in my way.
I’m not the Champion of Wrestling this week. I’m not a reverent traditionalist. I’m not a crusader for any cause other than my own. I’m feeling trapped in this life these days. I am surrounded by a pack of wolves, a pride of lions, a murder of cantankerous crows. There is nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal, so this should be an insane encounter between you and me. You call yourself The Provocateur and you’ve been living up to the moniker thus far. You want everyone to, hashtag, fear change. I embrace change. I welcome it, because that’s how I get better. I assimilate microscopic fragments of the men and women I encounter on a daily basis and continue to turn myself into the greatest collection of attributes possible! I get better every day. I made the mistake of separating violence from mat wrestling.
Hear me now. Mat wrestling
IS
violence.
You were wrong when you said that this is just another match on the way to defending my title. This match is much, much more. You will see that when you stand there at the tips of my toes and look deep into my eyes. You will feel it when we lock up in the centre of the ring and dig into each other’s flesh in search of sweet vindication. The gravity of the situation will seize you; the depth of my rage, determination, and aggression will convince you that this is more than just a match on my way to another match.”
Jones has quite aptly captured on the canvas a reasonably well hand-painted facsimile of reality as he sees it. He takes the canvas off the easel and throws into the pond. The growing wind carries it even further than Smith himself had expected. It lands with a gentle splash and floats atop the water. He turns to face the camera, the moon-drenched pond over his shoulder. Wearing that signature stone scowl, he speaks on.
“The Tournament will produce for me the absolute greatest possible challenger there can be. This match against you, a man who was eliminated from this massive tournament, is proof that what I have coming for me at HorrorKore. And we all know that management is going to put us all in horrific matches at the PPV, so I know that I’m in for a treat come Halloween night when I face either John McCarty, Zion Simmons, or your most recent L, Zombie McMorris. But, that is not my focus right now. Right now, the only future I see is much more… Pleasant than my upcoming World Title defense at HorrorKore.
I am going to enjoy, Art, painting the canvas with your passion. I’m going to savour stomping your DNA into the mat in gory fashion. I don’t want you may say my name with admiration like so many millions have before you. And I don’t want you to say my name with patronization either. That’s getting old to me too. When you say my name, I want to hear you cough it out between gurgled breaths as you choke on your insolent insults. You say that I distort reality? You colour me as deceptive, while everyone who knows me knows that I only speak the truth!
What I am very good at (and this is a slight distinction that many may have trouble following) is manipulating reality in an attempt to present my perspicuous perspective to the people. I never lie, Pleasant. Even when trading pleasantries, I always say what I mean and I mean what I say. You’re right that this is a big match for me and it would be a true disaster for me if you were to win this match. That is why I am learning from my mistakes and coming at your with brand new fire and pith. I know what I have to do if I’m going to have my hand raised on Metal this week.”
Jones leans in even closer to the lens.
“I must adapt...
Or die.”
There is an explosion behind the camera! Smith’s face is lit up by the orange fireball in front of him as debris flies past him in slow motion. The dilapidated house goes up in flames. Smith smiles and lets out a low chuckle.
“Step right up, Arthur Pleasant, and get a load of the brand new good ol’ Smith Jones face to face. I was wrong to think that I could be the champion of wrestling without being the champion of brutality, viciousness, and rage. You and I may seem like intellects at face value, but I’ve seen the darker side of you. We all saw it in that ring last Monday. You are ferocious. I know this time around that three Take It Homes will not be enough. Four Sleep Paralysis landing the back of your neck against the middle turnbuckle won’t be enough. Five PoCs will not be enough. I have to walk into Monday Night Metal ready to blow up everything I hold dear about this great business in order to survive in a world where the rules are simply a loose guideline as to how we are to behave in this dangerous world. I must come at you willing to do anything! This time around, I’m going to have a much looser relationship with the rules. When the referee asks for clean breaks, I’ll--”
‘Waiting For The End’ by Linkin Park begins to play… on Smith’s cell. He reaches into his inside breast pocket and pulls it out, motioning for the camera to keep rolling.
“Unknown number… I’ll… be just a minute. We can edit… Hello?
I don’t know how you got this number, but I…
Jenny…
Opposing initials.
Too stupid to know when to quit. I’m in the middle of…
I’m Smith Jones.”
Smith’s face falls to an expression of complete shock. He makes a cutting motion to the director and walks out of the lights and past the crew towards his trailer.
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We see the silhouette of a woman. There is a street light above her that remains mainly dark, but flickers on and off at random, momentarily revealing some details of her face. She does not look familiar. All we know is that she has long, dark hair.
“Smith. My name is Jenny Sanderson. Do you remember me?
We used to joke that we had…
Opposing initials. We had a good time back then. We were just…
You always said you were gonna be famous someday. No more Winston. Now you’re just…
You have a kid, Winston.”
There is a long pause. She waits for a minute, not knowing what to say. She takes a long drag from what little remains of her cigarette.
“Well, aren’t you gonna say something?
Seventeen. He wants to meet you.
Yeah. A son. You wanna meet him?
Hello…?”
