Post by The Ace on Mar 7, 2013 14:18:01 GMT -6
Jake Conway shifts in his bed, on the edge of waking, he flips from his side onto his back and then onto his other side, throwing his arm to the side, expecting to cuddle his wife, but his arm hits the cold mattress beside him suggesting that she had been gone for a while, and his eyes shoot open. He narrows his eyes rubbing the remnants of sleep from them before looking at the time on the small golden antique carriage clock on the bedside table. It was 10.15 am, he had overslept...and upon realising this, he flipped back onto his back and let out a sigh, and let his arms splay out and hit the mattress.
It was getting harder to rise in the mornings and even harder to admit to himself that Jake couldn't spend the nights studying the tapes in order to prepare for matches as long or as hard as he used to some five years ago. Watching tapes of opponents as persistent as Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman late into the night seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, in retrospect, not so much.
His senses then became aware of the sweet smell of jasmine, and he looked over at the pillow next to him and smiled as he buried his head in it for a moment and took a lungful of the sweet, familiar and almost intoxicating scent of his wife as it lingered behind in the bedding.
Casino wouldn't let him enjoy the moment of pure self indulgence as he jumped up onto the bed and pawed at his cheek, meowing.
Jake: Alright, alright, I'm up, I'm up!
Jake sat up on the bed, swinging his legs out, and whipping the duvet off him. The shift in temperature washed over his naked body, awakening it as he stands up wearing nothing but his black boxer shorts.
Casino jumped from the bed and snaked his way around his ankles purring. Jake carefully bends down and picks him up, putting him back on the bed for a moment before walking over to the large luxury en suite bathroom.
He enters it and shuts the door behind him as he then walks over to the wash basin and looks at himself in the mirror with a sigh. He leans forward and squints at his reflection, gripping both sides of the porcelain basin with both hands.
Jake: Man, you're getting old...
Jake then notices a couple of pink post-it notes stuck to the side of the mirror and instantly recognise the scrawl across it in purple ink as his wife's hand writing. He lifts them from the mirror before reading..
Morning Sexy.
Gone to Gym with Emma.
Things not to forget today:
Feed the cats.
Pick up the kids.
I love you.
She had framed each note in a simple sketch of a heart and it was these little gestures that made Jake smile without fail. He then puts the note aside as he lets the water run from the cold tap, he cups his hands under the steady stream of water and splashes it across his face to drive the lingering sleep from his eyes, and the cold sting temporarily numbs the dull pain that still throbbed in his muscles from last month's Dragon's Den match against Andrew Jacobsen.
He had taken minimal pain killers for the first couple of weeks, preferring to allow his body time to naturally recover wherever possible. He had to admit it was getting harder than it used to be, his body was slower to heal and whilst many of his fellow competitors in the business relied heavily on pain killers to get them through the day and deal with injury, he feared the spectre of addiction that he would be inviting into his life if he took that road. He had seen too many good friends succumb to the demon, too many good friends who had been denied their chances in the big time because Death's scythe had cut away their lives and left behind loved ones who even to this day had still not gotten over it and by all rights, never would.
He vowed he would not let his family see those days, he had promised them that he would retire whilst he was still healthy and still had the years left in him to enjoy the time with his wife and daughters and though he had no immediate plans to retire, feeling he still had great matches left in him that would hopefully see him through the next couple of years at least if his luck continued to hold as good as it had so far.
Jake straightened up from the wash basin a little too fast and his body made him pay for it by delivering sharp shocks of pain up his back and across his neck reminding him that the scars from Andrew's beating were still there and as much as he would try to hide it at Crossroads, he knew he wouldn't enter the match at one hundred per cent. His only consolation was that his health wasn't quite as bad as his statistical chances of victory within a triple threat environment. His only consolation was knowing that Mike Laszlo wouldn't be at one hundred per cent after that brutal Cell Match with Roberto Verona last month. Jake knew both men were far too proud to admit that to the other, but perhaps not to themselves. Add to that the fact that he was all too well aware of not only Laszlo's record breaking runs with lesser titles and his own rather abysmal track record with first title defenses, it was no stretch to say the deck from stacked against him this Sunday and he knew the smart money and the safe bet was not with him.
Even as he lowered his boxer shorts and let let them slip down to around his ankles and as he kicked them away, leaving himself at his most vunerable, Jake Conway found himself silently admitting the one thing he knew The Ace would never admit - there was every chance that this was not the title match for him to seek his own personal redemption and actually seek to break the short reign stigma that hung around his neck, a noose threatening to choke him.
As he stepped behind the frosted glass into the shower and let the water run over him and kiss his dull aches into a temporary submission, he tilted his head back and then it clarified for him that if he allowed the fact that this was yet another first defense for him become his focus, it would cost him as dearly as it had in the past.
Never let them see you bleed.
Always have an escape plan.
Jake then opens his eyes and seems to embrace the warm water as it rains down upon him and begins to whistle the tune to 'Surrender' by K.D. Lang as it pops into his head, a fitting accompaniment to the thoughts that had just struck him. He would not let himself drown in his own insecurities and doubts. Not this time. Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman didn't deserve that kind of credit. Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman didn't deserve that kind of satisfaction.
The twinkling opening of 'Storytime' by Nightwish focus our attention in the darkness to the shimmering yellow diamond that fences the Four Aces and the parallel runway of little studs that approach from both directions highlighting it further and just before the lyrics begin, thje lights are brought up to normal levels and the music cut. The Ace lowers his arms and spins around on his heel to reveal a smug, self-righteous, self-confident smirk to the camera. As well as the yellow-tinted shades we have now come to expect as part of the regular attire for the three time National Champion, we see a simple black t-shirt under the rather extravagantly fashioned light up jacket that has three simple words printed across it in undeniable bold lime green letters across the front.
WANT.
NEED.
FAIL.
The arrogant bastard adjusts the National Championship that is slung over his left shoulder, and whips off his shades with his right hand as he stares into the camera.
Have you ever stopped to wonder about the path your life has taken? Do you wish you could stop, turn back, find that fork in the road you once came to and this time take the opposite direction? Or are you so content with your station that you'd take the same road all over again? If you ask most people, most of the common masses that cheer every week for men like Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman, they aren't happy in their miserable little lives. They hate their job. They hate their boss. They yearn for the chance to go back and make a different decision. They wish their lives had turned out a little differently. Not me. I love my job. I love my boss. For all those who roar every time either one of you two piddly asses walk down the ramp and step in between those ropes and into the ring however, you are the epitome of what little hope they have left.
They live through you, they look up to you, they spend every hard earned dollar and cent they have on you, whether it be to buy a ticket, a hotdog at the arena while they behold your athleticism with the wide eyed wonder of a child, or even the latest T-Shirt from your personal line of merchandise...and what do they get for their money? What besides the hotdog leaves them feeling fulfilled? What leaves them thinking, "Dude, you know what? That was totally worth it!"?.
The Ace reaches off camera and brings into view a sky blue t-shirt boldly emblazoned with the Second Rate Riders logo.
Is it this? Is this really worth their fifteen dollars? A T-shirt that proudly celebrates being underwhelming and celebrates mediocrity, selling it all as if being second rate is something really to be proud of, to aspire to. It isn't, and any parent who buys this for their child clearly has forgotten the way that the real world works. Clearly they've forgotten just how many Footlongs they've had to sell to get that promotion to be one of the service guys or girls at the front of house in their local Subways. Clearly they've forgotten how hard they had to work for that fifteen dollars. Clearly they've forgotten the ambition that drove them to stand up and say to their outlet manager, hey you know what? I'm not happy with this, I can be so much more. I can be one of the blessed few at the counter where the real action is. My point is if you didn't settle for being second rate, why is it suddenly okay for your kids to? Why should they idolise a man who is lining his pockets selling you mediocrity and stifling your child's natural potential and ambition to be so much more? To want to push themselves beyond their limits, to make you proud. To be the best. To be all that they can be...
Men like Joe Everyman will try and convince you and your children that having ambition is wrong, that fostering that kind of greed is strictly the trait of the bad guy....that it is not as important to be exceptional in what you do, that it is much more important that you participate, that there are no winners and no losers and that we are all equal. Such coddling views are seemingly the bedrock of 21st Century parenting, and as much as that depresses me for the next generation, I still hold on to the small glimmer of hope that if you let your kids watch professional wrestling, you do infact let them see that there are winners and losers and that you actually nuture their drives to succeed. I hold on to the small hope that you have better things to spend your fifteen dollars than this...
The Ace then balls up the Second Rate Riders shirt and tosses it aside off camera.
Contrary to what the heroes will tell you in this business, there is nothing wrong with a little self indulgence, there is nothing wrong with taking little Johnny firmly by the shoulders and pointing out that Roberto Verona T-shirt or that Ace T-shirt and saying, you should have this, you should be a Champion, a winner, at the top of your game, the apex. It may not make them popular in school but it'll leave a lasting impression, your child will stand out from the rest of the deck as an individual who doesn't sway with popular opinion.
The Ace then reaches off camera again and brings into shot the latest Mike Laszlo T-shirt. It is yellow with the words of his latest catchphrase stamped across the front in red.
WANT.
TAKE.
HAVE.
Maybe you're smart enough to not allow your child to settle for second best, to look up to mediocrity, maybe you do actually nuture their ambition, maybe you do encourage them to be better, maybe you think that fifteen dollars you earned hand delivering pizzas door to door for Dominos would be better spent on this. This is the other extreme of the spectrum. So it would appear that the role models available to your children as far as this company is concerned go out of their way to teach them that they can either be second rate citizens or first rate liars. I'm supposed to be the bad guy here, it shouldn't be my responsibility to raise your kids right for you. It shouldn't fall to me to teach your little cherubs that the world does not work like that.
The Ace then balls up that T-Shirt and throws it off camera to join the Joe Everyman t-shirt.
You can't simply have something because you want it, and you can't simply take something that isn't yours. My six year old daughter knows this, and so should yours, so why do I have to stand here and explain this to a man who is almost twenty-five? All of you who are sat at home watching this right now and the thousands more of you who have brought tickets to this Sunday's Crossroads specifically to see a bastard like me get my ass kicked from pillar to post by two men who I have apparently wronged, you all don't have to cheer me, you can boo me out of the building for all I care, I don't need your adulation, I simply need you to understand that at least I'm not encouraging your kids to be the next generation of liars and petty criminals through my latest line of merchandise. I'm sure if you're a responsible parent and love your children as much as I love mine, you realise that it doesn't matter what they want, whether it be a Joe Everyman baseball cap, a replica National Championship, or even this T-Shirt I'm wearing, they cannot simply apply a five finger discount and take it.
The Mike Laszlo mantra doesn't hold up in this business any more than it does in life or in court. I shudder at the thought that a day could dawn where we are left with only two breeds of people, those content to just be here like Joe Everyman and those that are degenerates and thieves whose only justification for their crimes is that I wanted it so I took it and now I have it.
See as much as Mike Laszlo might try to downplay it, nobody knows better than he himself that his latest motto is Grade A horsecrap. Wanting the World Championship from Roberto Verona for three months straight simply wasn't enough to take it and to have it, and now that he has been conclusively shut down and denied by Roberto Verona, he comes sniffing around at my feet, forced to swallow his pride and try to accept the very thing he criticised me for. Being Bertie's little bitch. Isn't it ironic how things work out sometimes Laszlo?
You spent months chastising me for settling for second best, you were adamant that you never would be in my position, that you'd never be second to a man like Roberto, and yet now here you are clamouring for that very position, because you see me as the easier target. You're so desperate to try and salvage something from your recent string of failures that you routinely have to remind yourself and your fans that I am not Roberto and that I can be beaten. I've never seen anyone quite so proud of escaping a cage or connecting with a regular wrestling move, even when they hit the person who wasn't their intended target in the first place than you Laszlo.
Golly gosh, you beat me in a cage three months ago and you actually hit me with your superkick, well done. Keep this up any longer and you just might convince people that you're a legitimate...
The Ace gasps.
...professional wrestler who is paid to do this sort of thing on a weekly basis. I know, it's shocking to think about, isn't it? Who are you trying to convince that you can take this title away from me? Is it me? Is it Joe? Is it everybody else? Or is it yourself? Because whoever it is, I don't think they're entirely convinced, go on say it a few more times, click your heels together and really wish for it, maybe it'll finally convince somebody.
Let's say you do, let's say you finally do get your redemption and make up for your recent failures. What would it mean for you Laszlo? You see you can tout the line about restoring the prestige of this belt all you want, but we both know that your victory at Crossroads if it comes would be you having to finally concede that as long as men like Roberto Verona are in this company, your best hope is to be second best. Like it or not, we already know that the self-proclaimed pitbull has been made Bertie's bitch, winning this title would just be putting a giant golden fiftteen pound stamp on your new position within the company. If that really is the height of your readjusted ambitions, then kudos.
The fact is Mike, we both know that according to your own criteria about what exactly raises the prestige of titles around here, I've raised the prestige of this title already. Andrew Jacobsen and I went to war for it for a couple of months, we almost killed each other in a Dragon's Den match that took some of the thunder from your main event Cell match last month. Ever since I've been in the National Championship scene, I've heard people like Curtis Kanyon and Seth Evans all voice their intentions to take this belt, in much the same way that Alex Jones and Dexter Davis all wanted the X Championship - and according to you, that means making these belts mean something again.
If you're going to take credit, the least you could do is give some back Mike. It really is adorable how you insist on making such a point about length, tell me Laszlo, on a scale of one to ten, just how disappointed is Alexis that the length of your reigns is not adequately represented by that which dangles just below your waist? Of course, Kathy often reminds me that the length is not nearly as important as what you do with it, and to that end you have no right to criticise my thirty-five day title reigns especially when they involve titles that you've never held or otherwise failed to capture on no less than three separate occassions in the last three months.
Jake walks down the stairs with Casino following, as he does up the cuffs on the sleeves of his white shirt, he almost trips over Snowdrop at the bottom of the stairs, who meows at him, and then proceeds to follow him into the kitchen. Both cats sit next to their respective silver bowls on the kitchen floor and look up at him expectantly as he opens two tins of catfood and divides one between both of them, before pouring half of the second into the older black cat's bowl. Both cat's immediately feast on the duck in gravy.
The phone rings in the kitchen, and Jake picks up the cordless handset to answer it.
Jake: Hello...
Emma: Jake. Is Kathy there? I was wondering if I could come over and discuss strategy with her for the match this week...
Jake: Aren't you guys supposed to be at the gym?
Emma: I don't think so, at least she never told me we were.
Jake pauses, suddenly struck by the thought that his wife had deliberately lied to him and he had no idea why.
Emma: Jake? Are you still there?
Jake: Yes...yes, I am. Tell you what Emma, Kat's not here at the moment, but you can still come over. I need to talk to you anyway.
Emma: Okay, I'll be there in half an hour. See you then...
Jake ends the call without another word and it bothered him that Kathy had lied to him. So much so that he immediately dialed her cell phone, and it immediately went to voicemail, Jake ended the call without bothering to leave a message as he replaced the handset and wearily made his way over to the toaster with a couple of slices of bread, as his gut continued to bother him.
See that's the problem with being such a record breaking Champion Mike, too often you yourself become a broken record. Inevitably stuck, unable to move passed that one point that has defiined you for so long, and every time you try to move beyond it, you end up skip-skip-skipping back to that very point. Perhaps nobody knows this better than the other three-time National Champion you face this Sunday, Joe Everyman. How often since his third and final reign has he always fallen back on his greatest achievement in this company? An achievement he now begrudgingly has to share with the man who ended his tag team partner's career for no other reason than because he could.
Joe, how often I've heard you clamour for a fourth National Championship, and now in your two hundredth and fiftieth match for this company I've given you your opportunity. You should thank me for ending Ortega's career, his departure made this all possible. When God closes a door, He opens a window right? Here is your one and only opportunity Joe, make it count. You see when you and Mike make your little pact to take me out of the equation this Sunday you both need to realise that I'm not nearly as charitable as Roberto Verona. Neither of you will get three shots at me and my title, you get one. That's it.
Joe you want to break the record we share in retribution for your fallen comrade, revenge in itself is a powerful motivator, but you need to understand Joe that second rate wrestlers don't become four time National Champions, to do this you're going to have to put together something pretty damn special. Nobody has really believed in you as any kind of main event player since the days of Lance Ryan and even he moved on and left you behind. What happened to the Joe Everyman who would proudly proclaim Don't Question My Heart?
What happened to that heart Joe? What happened to the guy I debuted with in this company over five years ago, what happened to the guy who refused to be counted out of any situation no matter how insurmountable the odds seemed? What happened to the guy who was at one point in his NCW career regarded as a legitimate World Title contender? Since when did you become the guy who was happy to lay down for a damned paycheck and just phone it all in with an honorary moniker of the week, be it a King, a Revolutionary or even An Ace?
I'll give you some credit Joe, you may not know what exactly you want to be in this company, but at least you aren't pretending to be something you're not. At least you're not breaking out the peroxide to bleach your hair blonde, and shaving your stupid little facial hair in an effort to rejuvenate yourself after a far superior man has left you with no other choice but to reassess all of your life and career goals, even if you won't admit it out of some foolish sense of pride.
At least the people who can no longer believe in Mike Laszlo can still believe in Joe Everyman. It's a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. This Sunday gentlemen, we reach a crossroads, and whether you choose to still walk the well worn path of your respective careers as second rate or second at best or take an entirely new path from here is up to you...
It was getting harder to rise in the mornings and even harder to admit to himself that Jake couldn't spend the nights studying the tapes in order to prepare for matches as long or as hard as he used to some five years ago. Watching tapes of opponents as persistent as Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman late into the night seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, in retrospect, not so much.
His senses then became aware of the sweet smell of jasmine, and he looked over at the pillow next to him and smiled as he buried his head in it for a moment and took a lungful of the sweet, familiar and almost intoxicating scent of his wife as it lingered behind in the bedding.
Casino wouldn't let him enjoy the moment of pure self indulgence as he jumped up onto the bed and pawed at his cheek, meowing.
Jake: Alright, alright, I'm up, I'm up!
Jake sat up on the bed, swinging his legs out, and whipping the duvet off him. The shift in temperature washed over his naked body, awakening it as he stands up wearing nothing but his black boxer shorts.
Casino jumped from the bed and snaked his way around his ankles purring. Jake carefully bends down and picks him up, putting him back on the bed for a moment before walking over to the large luxury en suite bathroom.
He enters it and shuts the door behind him as he then walks over to the wash basin and looks at himself in the mirror with a sigh. He leans forward and squints at his reflection, gripping both sides of the porcelain basin with both hands.
Jake: Man, you're getting old...
Jake then notices a couple of pink post-it notes stuck to the side of the mirror and instantly recognise the scrawl across it in purple ink as his wife's hand writing. He lifts them from the mirror before reading..
Morning Sexy.
Gone to Gym with Emma.
Things not to forget today:
Feed the cats.
Pick up the kids.
I love you.
She had framed each note in a simple sketch of a heart and it was these little gestures that made Jake smile without fail. He then puts the note aside as he lets the water run from the cold tap, he cups his hands under the steady stream of water and splashes it across his face to drive the lingering sleep from his eyes, and the cold sting temporarily numbs the dull pain that still throbbed in his muscles from last month's Dragon's Den match against Andrew Jacobsen.
He had taken minimal pain killers for the first couple of weeks, preferring to allow his body time to naturally recover wherever possible. He had to admit it was getting harder than it used to be, his body was slower to heal and whilst many of his fellow competitors in the business relied heavily on pain killers to get them through the day and deal with injury, he feared the spectre of addiction that he would be inviting into his life if he took that road. He had seen too many good friends succumb to the demon, too many good friends who had been denied their chances in the big time because Death's scythe had cut away their lives and left behind loved ones who even to this day had still not gotten over it and by all rights, never would.
He vowed he would not let his family see those days, he had promised them that he would retire whilst he was still healthy and still had the years left in him to enjoy the time with his wife and daughters and though he had no immediate plans to retire, feeling he still had great matches left in him that would hopefully see him through the next couple of years at least if his luck continued to hold as good as it had so far.
Jake straightened up from the wash basin a little too fast and his body made him pay for it by delivering sharp shocks of pain up his back and across his neck reminding him that the scars from Andrew's beating were still there and as much as he would try to hide it at Crossroads, he knew he wouldn't enter the match at one hundred per cent. His only consolation was that his health wasn't quite as bad as his statistical chances of victory within a triple threat environment. His only consolation was knowing that Mike Laszlo wouldn't be at one hundred per cent after that brutal Cell Match with Roberto Verona last month. Jake knew both men were far too proud to admit that to the other, but perhaps not to themselves. Add to that the fact that he was all too well aware of not only Laszlo's record breaking runs with lesser titles and his own rather abysmal track record with first title defenses, it was no stretch to say the deck from stacked against him this Sunday and he knew the smart money and the safe bet was not with him.
Even as he lowered his boxer shorts and let let them slip down to around his ankles and as he kicked them away, leaving himself at his most vunerable, Jake Conway found himself silently admitting the one thing he knew The Ace would never admit - there was every chance that this was not the title match for him to seek his own personal redemption and actually seek to break the short reign stigma that hung around his neck, a noose threatening to choke him.
As he stepped behind the frosted glass into the shower and let the water run over him and kiss his dull aches into a temporary submission, he tilted his head back and then it clarified for him that if he allowed the fact that this was yet another first defense for him become his focus, it would cost him as dearly as it had in the past.
Never let them see you bleed.
Always have an escape plan.
Jake then opens his eyes and seems to embrace the warm water as it rains down upon him and begins to whistle the tune to 'Surrender' by K.D. Lang as it pops into his head, a fitting accompaniment to the thoughts that had just struck him. He would not let himself drown in his own insecurities and doubts. Not this time. Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman didn't deserve that kind of credit. Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman didn't deserve that kind of satisfaction.
The twinkling opening of 'Storytime' by Nightwish focus our attention in the darkness to the shimmering yellow diamond that fences the Four Aces and the parallel runway of little studs that approach from both directions highlighting it further and just before the lyrics begin, thje lights are brought up to normal levels and the music cut. The Ace lowers his arms and spins around on his heel to reveal a smug, self-righteous, self-confident smirk to the camera. As well as the yellow-tinted shades we have now come to expect as part of the regular attire for the three time National Champion, we see a simple black t-shirt under the rather extravagantly fashioned light up jacket that has three simple words printed across it in undeniable bold lime green letters across the front.
WANT.
NEED.
FAIL.
The arrogant bastard adjusts the National Championship that is slung over his left shoulder, and whips off his shades with his right hand as he stares into the camera.
Have you ever stopped to wonder about the path your life has taken? Do you wish you could stop, turn back, find that fork in the road you once came to and this time take the opposite direction? Or are you so content with your station that you'd take the same road all over again? If you ask most people, most of the common masses that cheer every week for men like Mike Laszlo and Joe Everyman, they aren't happy in their miserable little lives. They hate their job. They hate their boss. They yearn for the chance to go back and make a different decision. They wish their lives had turned out a little differently. Not me. I love my job. I love my boss. For all those who roar every time either one of you two piddly asses walk down the ramp and step in between those ropes and into the ring however, you are the epitome of what little hope they have left.
They live through you, they look up to you, they spend every hard earned dollar and cent they have on you, whether it be to buy a ticket, a hotdog at the arena while they behold your athleticism with the wide eyed wonder of a child, or even the latest T-Shirt from your personal line of merchandise...and what do they get for their money? What besides the hotdog leaves them feeling fulfilled? What leaves them thinking, "Dude, you know what? That was totally worth it!"?.
The Ace reaches off camera and brings into view a sky blue t-shirt boldly emblazoned with the Second Rate Riders logo.
Is it this? Is this really worth their fifteen dollars? A T-shirt that proudly celebrates being underwhelming and celebrates mediocrity, selling it all as if being second rate is something really to be proud of, to aspire to. It isn't, and any parent who buys this for their child clearly has forgotten the way that the real world works. Clearly they've forgotten just how many Footlongs they've had to sell to get that promotion to be one of the service guys or girls at the front of house in their local Subways. Clearly they've forgotten how hard they had to work for that fifteen dollars. Clearly they've forgotten the ambition that drove them to stand up and say to their outlet manager, hey you know what? I'm not happy with this, I can be so much more. I can be one of the blessed few at the counter where the real action is. My point is if you didn't settle for being second rate, why is it suddenly okay for your kids to? Why should they idolise a man who is lining his pockets selling you mediocrity and stifling your child's natural potential and ambition to be so much more? To want to push themselves beyond their limits, to make you proud. To be the best. To be all that they can be...
Men like Joe Everyman will try and convince you and your children that having ambition is wrong, that fostering that kind of greed is strictly the trait of the bad guy....that it is not as important to be exceptional in what you do, that it is much more important that you participate, that there are no winners and no losers and that we are all equal. Such coddling views are seemingly the bedrock of 21st Century parenting, and as much as that depresses me for the next generation, I still hold on to the small glimmer of hope that if you let your kids watch professional wrestling, you do infact let them see that there are winners and losers and that you actually nuture their drives to succeed. I hold on to the small hope that you have better things to spend your fifteen dollars than this...
The Ace then balls up the Second Rate Riders shirt and tosses it aside off camera.
Contrary to what the heroes will tell you in this business, there is nothing wrong with a little self indulgence, there is nothing wrong with taking little Johnny firmly by the shoulders and pointing out that Roberto Verona T-shirt or that Ace T-shirt and saying, you should have this, you should be a Champion, a winner, at the top of your game, the apex. It may not make them popular in school but it'll leave a lasting impression, your child will stand out from the rest of the deck as an individual who doesn't sway with popular opinion.
The Ace then reaches off camera again and brings into shot the latest Mike Laszlo T-shirt. It is yellow with the words of his latest catchphrase stamped across the front in red.
WANT.
TAKE.
HAVE.
Maybe you're smart enough to not allow your child to settle for second best, to look up to mediocrity, maybe you do actually nuture their ambition, maybe you do encourage them to be better, maybe you think that fifteen dollars you earned hand delivering pizzas door to door for Dominos would be better spent on this. This is the other extreme of the spectrum. So it would appear that the role models available to your children as far as this company is concerned go out of their way to teach them that they can either be second rate citizens or first rate liars. I'm supposed to be the bad guy here, it shouldn't be my responsibility to raise your kids right for you. It shouldn't fall to me to teach your little cherubs that the world does not work like that.
The Ace then balls up that T-Shirt and throws it off camera to join the Joe Everyman t-shirt.
You can't simply have something because you want it, and you can't simply take something that isn't yours. My six year old daughter knows this, and so should yours, so why do I have to stand here and explain this to a man who is almost twenty-five? All of you who are sat at home watching this right now and the thousands more of you who have brought tickets to this Sunday's Crossroads specifically to see a bastard like me get my ass kicked from pillar to post by two men who I have apparently wronged, you all don't have to cheer me, you can boo me out of the building for all I care, I don't need your adulation, I simply need you to understand that at least I'm not encouraging your kids to be the next generation of liars and petty criminals through my latest line of merchandise. I'm sure if you're a responsible parent and love your children as much as I love mine, you realise that it doesn't matter what they want, whether it be a Joe Everyman baseball cap, a replica National Championship, or even this T-Shirt I'm wearing, they cannot simply apply a five finger discount and take it.
The Mike Laszlo mantra doesn't hold up in this business any more than it does in life or in court. I shudder at the thought that a day could dawn where we are left with only two breeds of people, those content to just be here like Joe Everyman and those that are degenerates and thieves whose only justification for their crimes is that I wanted it so I took it and now I have it.
See as much as Mike Laszlo might try to downplay it, nobody knows better than he himself that his latest motto is Grade A horsecrap. Wanting the World Championship from Roberto Verona for three months straight simply wasn't enough to take it and to have it, and now that he has been conclusively shut down and denied by Roberto Verona, he comes sniffing around at my feet, forced to swallow his pride and try to accept the very thing he criticised me for. Being Bertie's little bitch. Isn't it ironic how things work out sometimes Laszlo?
You spent months chastising me for settling for second best, you were adamant that you never would be in my position, that you'd never be second to a man like Roberto, and yet now here you are clamouring for that very position, because you see me as the easier target. You're so desperate to try and salvage something from your recent string of failures that you routinely have to remind yourself and your fans that I am not Roberto and that I can be beaten. I've never seen anyone quite so proud of escaping a cage or connecting with a regular wrestling move, even when they hit the person who wasn't their intended target in the first place than you Laszlo.
Golly gosh, you beat me in a cage three months ago and you actually hit me with your superkick, well done. Keep this up any longer and you just might convince people that you're a legitimate...
The Ace gasps.
...professional wrestler who is paid to do this sort of thing on a weekly basis. I know, it's shocking to think about, isn't it? Who are you trying to convince that you can take this title away from me? Is it me? Is it Joe? Is it everybody else? Or is it yourself? Because whoever it is, I don't think they're entirely convinced, go on say it a few more times, click your heels together and really wish for it, maybe it'll finally convince somebody.
Let's say you do, let's say you finally do get your redemption and make up for your recent failures. What would it mean for you Laszlo? You see you can tout the line about restoring the prestige of this belt all you want, but we both know that your victory at Crossroads if it comes would be you having to finally concede that as long as men like Roberto Verona are in this company, your best hope is to be second best. Like it or not, we already know that the self-proclaimed pitbull has been made Bertie's bitch, winning this title would just be putting a giant golden fiftteen pound stamp on your new position within the company. If that really is the height of your readjusted ambitions, then kudos.
The fact is Mike, we both know that according to your own criteria about what exactly raises the prestige of titles around here, I've raised the prestige of this title already. Andrew Jacobsen and I went to war for it for a couple of months, we almost killed each other in a Dragon's Den match that took some of the thunder from your main event Cell match last month. Ever since I've been in the National Championship scene, I've heard people like Curtis Kanyon and Seth Evans all voice their intentions to take this belt, in much the same way that Alex Jones and Dexter Davis all wanted the X Championship - and according to you, that means making these belts mean something again.
If you're going to take credit, the least you could do is give some back Mike. It really is adorable how you insist on making such a point about length, tell me Laszlo, on a scale of one to ten, just how disappointed is Alexis that the length of your reigns is not adequately represented by that which dangles just below your waist? Of course, Kathy often reminds me that the length is not nearly as important as what you do with it, and to that end you have no right to criticise my thirty-five day title reigns especially when they involve titles that you've never held or otherwise failed to capture on no less than three separate occassions in the last three months.
Jake walks down the stairs with Casino following, as he does up the cuffs on the sleeves of his white shirt, he almost trips over Snowdrop at the bottom of the stairs, who meows at him, and then proceeds to follow him into the kitchen. Both cats sit next to their respective silver bowls on the kitchen floor and look up at him expectantly as he opens two tins of catfood and divides one between both of them, before pouring half of the second into the older black cat's bowl. Both cat's immediately feast on the duck in gravy.
The phone rings in the kitchen, and Jake picks up the cordless handset to answer it.
Jake: Hello...
Emma: Jake. Is Kathy there? I was wondering if I could come over and discuss strategy with her for the match this week...
Jake: Aren't you guys supposed to be at the gym?
Emma: I don't think so, at least she never told me we were.
Jake pauses, suddenly struck by the thought that his wife had deliberately lied to him and he had no idea why.
Emma: Jake? Are you still there?
Jake: Yes...yes, I am. Tell you what Emma, Kat's not here at the moment, but you can still come over. I need to talk to you anyway.
Emma: Okay, I'll be there in half an hour. See you then...
Jake ends the call without another word and it bothered him that Kathy had lied to him. So much so that he immediately dialed her cell phone, and it immediately went to voicemail, Jake ended the call without bothering to leave a message as he replaced the handset and wearily made his way over to the toaster with a couple of slices of bread, as his gut continued to bother him.
See that's the problem with being such a record breaking Champion Mike, too often you yourself become a broken record. Inevitably stuck, unable to move passed that one point that has defiined you for so long, and every time you try to move beyond it, you end up skip-skip-skipping back to that very point. Perhaps nobody knows this better than the other three-time National Champion you face this Sunday, Joe Everyman. How often since his third and final reign has he always fallen back on his greatest achievement in this company? An achievement he now begrudgingly has to share with the man who ended his tag team partner's career for no other reason than because he could.
Joe, how often I've heard you clamour for a fourth National Championship, and now in your two hundredth and fiftieth match for this company I've given you your opportunity. You should thank me for ending Ortega's career, his departure made this all possible. When God closes a door, He opens a window right? Here is your one and only opportunity Joe, make it count. You see when you and Mike make your little pact to take me out of the equation this Sunday you both need to realise that I'm not nearly as charitable as Roberto Verona. Neither of you will get three shots at me and my title, you get one. That's it.
Joe you want to break the record we share in retribution for your fallen comrade, revenge in itself is a powerful motivator, but you need to understand Joe that second rate wrestlers don't become four time National Champions, to do this you're going to have to put together something pretty damn special. Nobody has really believed in you as any kind of main event player since the days of Lance Ryan and even he moved on and left you behind. What happened to the Joe Everyman who would proudly proclaim Don't Question My Heart?
What happened to that heart Joe? What happened to the guy I debuted with in this company over five years ago, what happened to the guy who refused to be counted out of any situation no matter how insurmountable the odds seemed? What happened to the guy who was at one point in his NCW career regarded as a legitimate World Title contender? Since when did you become the guy who was happy to lay down for a damned paycheck and just phone it all in with an honorary moniker of the week, be it a King, a Revolutionary or even An Ace?
I'll give you some credit Joe, you may not know what exactly you want to be in this company, but at least you aren't pretending to be something you're not. At least you're not breaking out the peroxide to bleach your hair blonde, and shaving your stupid little facial hair in an effort to rejuvenate yourself after a far superior man has left you with no other choice but to reassess all of your life and career goals, even if you won't admit it out of some foolish sense of pride.
At least the people who can no longer believe in Mike Laszlo can still believe in Joe Everyman. It's a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. This Sunday gentlemen, we reach a crossroads, and whether you choose to still walk the well worn path of your respective careers as second rate or second at best or take an entirely new path from here is up to you...