Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Feb 23, 2013 21:25:38 GMT -6
”It feels like I’m on the World Champion Tour right now. Last week, Jack Hammond…can I take a moment to congratulate you, Jack? That was a hell of a match, and it’s exactly what I needed. No gimmicks, no drama, no bullcrap. Just a straightforward athletic contest between two men trying to prove their skill. I’d take an eternity of that over one more moment of the status quo. I give that respect freely, because you’re the kind of man that’s been sorely lacking in respect received. This week’s opponent…well…he certainly thinks he’s in that category. Don’t get me wrong, credit where credit’s due, Helms. You pinned Jake Conway. Sure, it took you socking him in his pair of Aces and a handful of tights to get the job done, but you did it. Kudos. So what now?”
“What now for the big bad Devourer of Worlds? What next for the All-Father? Or who are you ripping o—I’m sorry, “homaging” this week? Let me guess: a few insults about how I’ve always aspired to be the next Trent Helms, but all I could ever be is the next Joe Everyman? Wrong on both counts, spaceman. I won’t lie and say I didn’t respect and admire you, but I’ve NEVER wanted to be Trent Helms. I’m Andrew Jacobsen, and that’s damn fine by me.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Trent. I don’t owe you those days I was World Champion, I don’t owe you my spot in this company, I don’t owe you this company. You’re not the Lord and Savior of All Mankind, you’re just a Canadian with too much hairdye and a hyperactive imagination…but you have a purpose. Even if it’s a singularly boneheaded purpose, it’s there. I don’t have anything like that right now. All I have is…emptiness. A feeling of disappointment. Like I have unfinished business…which I do.”
“I’ve got unfinished business with a lot of people, but none moreso than Roberto Verona. But it’s not personal. No, not really. See, even though he’s devolved into the kind of man who I half-expect to walk out in a gaudy robe with bleach-blonde hair, throwing chops and nutshots with abandon, my business with him is exactly that: business. I want to be the man atop the mountain…and prove that I belong there. I want to be World Champion again. If I have to win the Coliseum, I will. If I have to beat every single man on the roster, from Bad Luck Chuck to Adam Knite, I will. I’m not going to rest until I hold that belt in my hands again.”
“Trent, your name still has…what’s the word I’m looking for…a cachet to it. If you say Trent Helms, there are expectations that come with your image. Expectations of ability, of quality, mountains of hyperbole built up over years and years of a concentrated hype machine. And after a while, it just became self-sustaining. The legend of Trent Helms was such that we couldn’t believe that you’d do anything but amaze. I was exactly that way for so long…up until you showed me just what kind of a man you are.”
“You’re a craven opportunist. You’ll do anything to get that spotlight. It’s your alcohol, your nicotine, your heroin. You need attention or you’ll starve. It’s like your ego is this ravenous furnace that you have to keep stoked with the attention and adulation of the people. And that’s why you go to such extreme lengths to stand out from the pack. Unfortunately for you, you were spot on last week: there are dozens, if not hundreds of people all around the world who’re trying to be exactly. Like. You. Trent Helms might have been one of a kind, but the bootleggers got to him. Now you’re just the original face in a sea of clones.”
“I don’t need to be one of them. Despite all everyone says about doing outlandish things to get noticed, to be distinctive…I’ve found that the distinctive thing nowadays is to not be a jackass. People are so overwhelmed by the deluge of anti-heroes and smug snakes trying to be the evil mastermind that when someone comes along who’s completely honest and NOT a jackass, it takes them aback. It makes them sit up…and it makes them take notice.”
“It takes a special kind of ego to think that crapping and taking a photo of it is comedy. I’m not trying to be funny, Helms. I’m trying to be your reality check. You can’t live on Earth-616 forever. Someday, you have to realize that this is reality. You’re not a god, you’re nothing more than a wrestler whose talent is only outstripped by his delusions of talent and his ability to mangle the English language. Trent, I want this to be a clean match. I want you to get in there with me and be the man I watched all those years ago, not his angry, egomaniacal doppelganger. I wish that…but I probably won’t get it. Faking a knee injury is just the beginning for someone as desperate as you. All I can really say is if you want a fight, you’ve got one. It’s clutch time. You ready to step it up?”
We open on Andrew and Danielle sitting next to each other on a plane, the other passengers bustling down the aisle to their seats and shoving overstuffed carry-ons into overhead bins. Danielle’s doing some last-minute fiddling with her smartphone, and Andrew’s leaning against the side of the plane, staring out at the tarmac. Danielle glances up from her work, seeing him in a morose state, and after a few seconds she shuts off her phone, turning to face him more fully.
”What’s on your mind, Jacobsen?”
He doesn’t acknowledge her address physically. Instead, he sighs and begins speaking, continuing to stare out the window into the distance.
”I guess it’s guilt. Part of me feels bad about looking at Jack as “another week, another match”, but that’s all I can think of it as. It’s like I’m developing tunnel vision all of a sudden. I can’t see Emma, I can’t see Callie…all I can see is the World Title. And I know I should be worried about them. I am. It’s just…it feels wrong to be this obsessed with myself.”
Chase rolls her eyes, leaning over and tapping him on the shoulder. Andrew glances over at her, and she beckons him a bit closer. He sits up a bit more, and she grins at him.
”Let me tell you a secret, Andrew: if you thought about yourself any less than you were, I’d be convinced that you were as much of an emotionless shell as they’ve said. You’ve got to accept that there are things you won’t be able to help. Focus on what you can change. You can win matches. You can make yourself noticed. You can work your way back to contendership. And if that means you have to put what’s happening with those two out of mind for a while, that’s what it takes. They won’t die without you there trying to play their white knight.”
He nods, rubbing his temples and leaning forward. Andrew clasps his hands together, resting his chin on his hands. He winces, eyes aching, and he leans back, rubbing them.
”I know. I know. I’m being reminded every day that everyone thinks they can fight their own battles…and more often than not, they can. I just don’t want to step back and miss when they actually need help. I’m still trying to figure out the right balance between enthusiasm and prudence. If that means I stumble at first before I find my stride, then that’s just how it boils down.”
Danielle nods, satisfied, and sits back. Chase looks up at the ceiling, twiddling her thumbs. After a few seconds, she glances over at Andrew again.
”So, what’s your game plan for Trent Helms? Take him to the mat, work his leg, work his back, what’s the strategy in the labyrinthine mind of the North Star?”
Andrew closes his eyes, folding his hands behind his head as the whir of the engines begins to pick up, and a faint smile crosses his lips.
”I’m going to remind him just who I am. I’m going to get some sleep, Danielle. You do the same. It’s going to be a long Sunday.”
Andrew shifts in his seat again, and Chase shrugs, reaching forward and plucking the copy of SkyMall out of the seat pocket as we fade to black.
“What now for the big bad Devourer of Worlds? What next for the All-Father? Or who are you ripping o—I’m sorry, “homaging” this week? Let me guess: a few insults about how I’ve always aspired to be the next Trent Helms, but all I could ever be is the next Joe Everyman? Wrong on both counts, spaceman. I won’t lie and say I didn’t respect and admire you, but I’ve NEVER wanted to be Trent Helms. I’m Andrew Jacobsen, and that’s damn fine by me.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Trent. I don’t owe you those days I was World Champion, I don’t owe you my spot in this company, I don’t owe you this company. You’re not the Lord and Savior of All Mankind, you’re just a Canadian with too much hairdye and a hyperactive imagination…but you have a purpose. Even if it’s a singularly boneheaded purpose, it’s there. I don’t have anything like that right now. All I have is…emptiness. A feeling of disappointment. Like I have unfinished business…which I do.”
“I’ve got unfinished business with a lot of people, but none moreso than Roberto Verona. But it’s not personal. No, not really. See, even though he’s devolved into the kind of man who I half-expect to walk out in a gaudy robe with bleach-blonde hair, throwing chops and nutshots with abandon, my business with him is exactly that: business. I want to be the man atop the mountain…and prove that I belong there. I want to be World Champion again. If I have to win the Coliseum, I will. If I have to beat every single man on the roster, from Bad Luck Chuck to Adam Knite, I will. I’m not going to rest until I hold that belt in my hands again.”
“Trent, your name still has…what’s the word I’m looking for…a cachet to it. If you say Trent Helms, there are expectations that come with your image. Expectations of ability, of quality, mountains of hyperbole built up over years and years of a concentrated hype machine. And after a while, it just became self-sustaining. The legend of Trent Helms was such that we couldn’t believe that you’d do anything but amaze. I was exactly that way for so long…up until you showed me just what kind of a man you are.”
“You’re a craven opportunist. You’ll do anything to get that spotlight. It’s your alcohol, your nicotine, your heroin. You need attention or you’ll starve. It’s like your ego is this ravenous furnace that you have to keep stoked with the attention and adulation of the people. And that’s why you go to such extreme lengths to stand out from the pack. Unfortunately for you, you were spot on last week: there are dozens, if not hundreds of people all around the world who’re trying to be exactly. Like. You. Trent Helms might have been one of a kind, but the bootleggers got to him. Now you’re just the original face in a sea of clones.”
“I don’t need to be one of them. Despite all everyone says about doing outlandish things to get noticed, to be distinctive…I’ve found that the distinctive thing nowadays is to not be a jackass. People are so overwhelmed by the deluge of anti-heroes and smug snakes trying to be the evil mastermind that when someone comes along who’s completely honest and NOT a jackass, it takes them aback. It makes them sit up…and it makes them take notice.”
“It takes a special kind of ego to think that crapping and taking a photo of it is comedy. I’m not trying to be funny, Helms. I’m trying to be your reality check. You can’t live on Earth-616 forever. Someday, you have to realize that this is reality. You’re not a god, you’re nothing more than a wrestler whose talent is only outstripped by his delusions of talent and his ability to mangle the English language. Trent, I want this to be a clean match. I want you to get in there with me and be the man I watched all those years ago, not his angry, egomaniacal doppelganger. I wish that…but I probably won’t get it. Faking a knee injury is just the beginning for someone as desperate as you. All I can really say is if you want a fight, you’ve got one. It’s clutch time. You ready to step it up?”
We open on Andrew and Danielle sitting next to each other on a plane, the other passengers bustling down the aisle to their seats and shoving overstuffed carry-ons into overhead bins. Danielle’s doing some last-minute fiddling with her smartphone, and Andrew’s leaning against the side of the plane, staring out at the tarmac. Danielle glances up from her work, seeing him in a morose state, and after a few seconds she shuts off her phone, turning to face him more fully.
”What’s on your mind, Jacobsen?”
He doesn’t acknowledge her address physically. Instead, he sighs and begins speaking, continuing to stare out the window into the distance.
”I guess it’s guilt. Part of me feels bad about looking at Jack as “another week, another match”, but that’s all I can think of it as. It’s like I’m developing tunnel vision all of a sudden. I can’t see Emma, I can’t see Callie…all I can see is the World Title. And I know I should be worried about them. I am. It’s just…it feels wrong to be this obsessed with myself.”
Chase rolls her eyes, leaning over and tapping him on the shoulder. Andrew glances over at her, and she beckons him a bit closer. He sits up a bit more, and she grins at him.
”Let me tell you a secret, Andrew: if you thought about yourself any less than you were, I’d be convinced that you were as much of an emotionless shell as they’ve said. You’ve got to accept that there are things you won’t be able to help. Focus on what you can change. You can win matches. You can make yourself noticed. You can work your way back to contendership. And if that means you have to put what’s happening with those two out of mind for a while, that’s what it takes. They won’t die without you there trying to play their white knight.”
He nods, rubbing his temples and leaning forward. Andrew clasps his hands together, resting his chin on his hands. He winces, eyes aching, and he leans back, rubbing them.
”I know. I know. I’m being reminded every day that everyone thinks they can fight their own battles…and more often than not, they can. I just don’t want to step back and miss when they actually need help. I’m still trying to figure out the right balance between enthusiasm and prudence. If that means I stumble at first before I find my stride, then that’s just how it boils down.”
Danielle nods, satisfied, and sits back. Chase looks up at the ceiling, twiddling her thumbs. After a few seconds, she glances over at Andrew again.
”So, what’s your game plan for Trent Helms? Take him to the mat, work his leg, work his back, what’s the strategy in the labyrinthine mind of the North Star?”
Andrew closes his eyes, folding his hands behind his head as the whir of the engines begins to pick up, and a faint smile crosses his lips.
”I’m going to remind him just who I am. I’m going to get some sleep, Danielle. You do the same. It’s going to be a long Sunday.”
Andrew shifts in his seat again, and Chase shrugs, reaching forward and plucking the copy of SkyMall out of the seat pocket as we fade to black.