Random Pot Shots At Nick Ridicule and Others

[It was a cold, spring morning in Battle Mountain, Nevada. The wind howled like a wolf, and the clouds threatened a rain that would never come. The man wrapped himself in his frayed black denim jacket, and let out a breathe he didn’t know he’d been holding in, the heat hitting the cold making a little cloud in the air. He adjusted his throwback blocky shades that were under his tie-dyed bandana done pirate style, his shoulder length blond hair brushing against his collar.]

Titus Black: This ain’t how I usually do this shit, but artsy-stuff and breaking company policy gets you main event spots, so I figure-- when in Rome, ya know?

[He’d heard the rumblings in the back, confronted higher ups backstage, about Ridicule’s ridiculous behavior after Isolation. He wanted more airtime, he wanted the spotlight on him, and if that spotlight got shown on a dog’s ass, then he wanted his face CGI’d onto that dog’s ass because that’s what he’d “earned” over the last two years working someplace else that Titus had never heard of before.

Titus didn’t agree, but Titus was jerking curtains. His opinion didn’t fucking matter to anyone who mattered, except for the few guys who came up to him after he’d said his peace, after he’d drawn his line in the sand. He wasn’t alone, and he didn’t have to put up the blind leading the blind. There was a light at the end of this tunnel and The Scumdog of the Universe was going to walk into that light and find Nirvana.]

Titus Black: I haven’t led a hard life, unlike some other twenty year olds in the IWF. I haven’t almost been murdered by my girlfriend, or been sexually molested by squirrels. The most dramatic thing to happen in my life is the charge to house and SkyTanic sit for a wrestler much, much greater than I, hardly the stuff that Lifetime Movies are made from.

But we don’t all need sickly parents, we can’t all be rape victims, no sometimes in this life, there are guys who just want to be a wrestler. Guys like me.

I don’t have an interesting backstory, my mom didn’t whore herself for crack, my dad wasn’t an abusive drunk. Hell, they get dressed and go to the local non-denominational Christian church every Sunday, because they don’t want to offend other faiths. Mom’s an accountant, and dad teaches Drivers Ed.

[The Devil’s Own shrugs.]

I mean I could go off on a vague homophobic rant like guys who are much higher up the card than me, but I figure I don’t have quite the political pull they do, so I’ll keep my mouth shut. And I’ll do that voodoo that I do, so well.

That voodoo is called being the best wrestler Insurgency has. And I am the best wrestler here, but I’m flawed. And being flawed is a problem, you know? I mean I could fuck girls with my 24 inch python and tell them if they sucked at servicing me I’d think about some other girl and they should totally be cool with that, all while being a world class wrestler, the best high flyer in the world, more sick and twisted than any fly-by-night Backyard XXXXXtreme Wrestling fed you could ever think of, and so wrapped up in my purple prose...

[It’s a TV Trope, look it up.]

...that I can’t see the sun because I’m just too damn bright in my own eyes. But that’d just leave me open to ridicule.

[The Mutilator cracks a smile, a toothy shark-like grin splitting the few days of stubble on his chin.]

I’m just a guy who wrestles, oh yeah, just another guy who goes out and puts on a show, win or lose, hook or crook, and leaves it all in the ring. Although I did see a shrink once, she told me I had OCD, that I was One Cool Dude, can you believe that? I asked her if that meant I could get a Handicapped Parking sticker, but she said being One Cool Dude didn’t work that way, and that was kind of a bummer.

[Titus digs around in the front pocket of his denim jacket, and pulls out some Juicy Fruit, he opens the wrapper and pops the gum into his mouth, methodically folding the wrapper into a tight triangle, and putting it back in his pocket.]

That was downright awful when I think about it. I mean I put forth the effort, I spent my time working hard to have a crippling imaginary medical disorder so that I could survive in the world of professional wrestling, I should at least get to park closer to the Grocery Store, right? I deserve that much, don’t I? I grew up happy and healthy, what a horrible set-back that is for me.

I can’t be sullen or brooding over anything.

How will I ever be a Hall of Famer at this rate? Put on five star matches and make guys like Deuce Alexander look like a million dollars? Like that will get me noticed.

[El Rudo smacks his gum dramatically, and holds his hands up and shakes his fingers in a very “macho” manner.]

Maybe that’s the ticket after all, I just need to catch lightning in a bottle and use it to supercharge the Titus Express, oh yeah. And at the Hall of Fame induction of Death Angel, that’s just what I’m going to do. I’ll ride that lightning like it’s the Fat Man or Little Boy and I’ll bring Bryant Tanner along with me, yeah. I’ll climb up the mountain called Insurgency Wrestling Federation using the bodies of my fallen foes and when I reach that lofty peak, and I look out owning all that I survey. I’ll turn and watch it burn like kindling.

The Deuces, the Pancakes, the Van Rose’s they’ll be consumed by my majesty, they’ll die like ants beneath my magnifying glass.

Darren Moore? Blacklisted.

TK Jones? Blacklisted.

Horcrux Von Harry Potter? Blacklisted.

Chad Mason? Blacklisted.

These names are merely chalk marks on the Blackboard of Failure, those that are not me, those that could never be me. They point and pander and say, “Come at me Bro,” and then I lay them out like mom used to lay out my clothes when I was 4. Neat and tidy, with just the right amount of stiffness in the neck--

[The Scumdog pauses, he blinks behind his blocky shades, the smile slipping away from his face.]

Or maybe I’ll fade into obscurity when my opponents blow the IWF’s promo budget rambling on and on about how miserable their home lives are, about their Beagle that has measles, about how they don’t like Green Eggs and Ham, Sam I Am, or just put up another pointless, meandering waste of time and video tape, but everyone will go, “Oh they did alot, it must be good,” even when it’s the equivalent of a Twlight fan girl’s worse fan-fic, just acted out for our viewing displeasure. I’m sure Chad and TK will wow us with new ways of being racial and New Jersey stereotypes and I am anticipating the ass-clenching terror that I’ll derive from that, or Horcrux and Kable being creepy and shit, maybe, I guess.

[“I Like Your Booty But I'm Not Gay" by The Insane O Flex starts playing, Titus opens his phone, and watches Darren Moore’s promo]

And speak of the Devil.

Darren, here’s why you are dumb. You fucked up the World Champions name, so you had no clue who you’d face for the World Title should you have somehow not self-aborted and got eliminated in the Battle Royale anyways. Second, you talk about getting into people’s heads? Son, the only head you were getting into was *removed in post-production for containing homophobic slurs* and giving a donkey a rim-job. You talk about dropping people on their backs, I’ll do you one better, I’ll drop you on your fuckin’ neck like ol’Adam Graven taught me. And then you’ll get a nice long look at the lights, and BAM-Snap your head hits the mat, and the refs hand follows it three times.

Blood?

[Titus cracks a smile.]

Why should I worry about a little thing like blood? You see, I’m employed elsewhere, branching out, feeling my trade, and this last week? I got double duty, two Pay Per Views in as many weeks, and I did a little more than bleed, Kable, I got set on fire. I was the fuckin’ Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and my opponent crossed the streams. And I still nearly won, you think a little blood is going to scare me? Go ahead, bust me open, that’s okay, I like to bleed. I might not have your Wolverine healing powers to make bruises got away after a fifteen minute shower, but I can turn your neck into a Slinky and kick you down the stairs watching you tumbling hilariously end-over-Down Syndrome’d-end.

And it’s not because I’m angry, it’s just because you don’t recognize the greatness of Black and Tan. Titus and Bryant, rapin’ fools like we were interrupted in out banjo playin’, just because we can.

You aren’t very good, and the look in your eyes tells me you know you aren’t very good. Everything about you screams, “I don’t belong here, and I’m a creep” only with less cool than Radiohead, and half the brains of your masked Chosen partner.

[That almost has homosexual overtones, but that’s totally what they are.]

So bring your blood letting threats, see what they get you. Bring your green fire spitting machine, I’m already singed, what’s a couple more burns on top of it all?

TK... Chad, just stand there and watch how Black and Tan do it.

[Fade to green, cause fading to black is cliche, also you are fading from Black so that’d just be weird anyways.]

V/O Titus Black: What is that you say?