Post by Dangerous K on Jun 6, 2009 22:11:20 GMT -5
[It’s quiet, except for the fact that my foot is hitting the leather. The sound echoes off of the empty, concrete walls. The floors themselves are concrete with mats spread out across the sea of equipment that makes up a private gym like this one. Weight lifting equipment, training equipment like the beater’s bag I’m hitting right now. All of it paid for by the FCW, and all of it is mine between the hours of four and eight AM.
There is a lot to be said for how this kinda thing works. This kind of deal. There’s also a lot to be said about the guy who just told me he was leaving for the night—gone, gone into thin air because, well, let’s face it, nobody likes staring at a half-naked, five-nine Japanese guy with bags under his eyes and a sternness about him that’d make Mike Tyson’s skin crawl. It was the same guy every morning, too, same guy would see me come in—using my own key—and he would—twenty minutes later—pack his things and take off.
My shin collides against the duct-taped “X”, the texture of the duct-tape feeling like a cheese grater against my skin. It doesn’t bother me. It used to, but that was years ago now. Years spent in a Japanese Dojo will do that to you. You’ll find out who you are. You’ll be stripped and destroyed, left with nothing but yourself. You will, make no mistake, hit “The Wall”. A point where any athlete—or human being, for that matter—reaches when they have hit the absolute limit of their physical endurance. A point where the world slows, the colours wash away, and all you’re left with is the slow, reverberating echo of your own heartbeat. You’re confronted with the man you are, then. You’re confronted and you know the truth about yourself. In a Japanese Dojo, you hit that wall on your very first day.
My foot collides with the bag once more.]
??: “you’re hittin’ that thing awfully hard, son.”
??: “Say, Kenta, is it?”
[My ears perk at the sound of my own name. I let out a heavy sigh and walk toward a nearby wooden bench. I reach for the towel sitting there, and I wipe myself down. Placing the towel around my neck, I turn to face the English-speaking Neanderthal.]
??: “Oh, so it is you. Voglur told me you could be found here.”
??: “You don’t say much, do you?”s
[No, not really.]
??: “Well, I guess I’ll cut right to the chase, then.”
??: “Look. I’m here as a representative—“
KENTA: “That’s nice.”
??: “—So he speaks, and mightily well, I might add. You don’t even roll your R’s, or your L’s.”
??: “Kenta, I’m a representative for FCW-dot-com, I’m what you may call a… promoter, of sorts. I scour the globe looking for the talent that’s booked in big matches, or for the debuting talent, and I get a sit-down with them. The reason, you can imagine, is to build fan interest in the character that’ll be debuting with our promotion. Considering you were signed the other day by Mister Voglur personally, I figured it would be a good idea to take a swing by and see what it is that he saw in you.”
??: “The name’s Vince, by the way.”
KENTA: “Good to know.”
Vince: “Well, Kenta, do you mind if I get a quick little quote or two for the page that’ll be going live tomorrow—or I should say today, shouldn’t I?”
Vince: “Well, how ‘bout it kiddo?”
KENTA: “What do you wanna know?”
[Vince shrugs his shoulders.]
Vince: “Well, for starters, what got you into pro-wrestling?”
KENTA: “I got into pro-wrestling because it’s the only thing I’m good at.”
Vince: “Oh that’s not true at all.”
KENTA: “Really? You’re my fuckin’ biographer now?”
[Vince shrugs his shoulders, but he decides to play along.]
Vince: “Fine then, so what brings you to FCW, Kenta?”
KENTA: “What brings me to FCW? Nothing, really. I was doing dates in Philadelphia and then I get a call from one of my friends—said he could get me into the big time promotion FCW. I told him I was fine, he insisted, and so I met with Voglur, and now here I am. Nothing secret about it. I’m just another guy putting on a pair of tights to go and beat the piss outta someone.”
[Vince lets out a little chuckle. I don’t think he found it funny, but he probably thought I was trying to be cute. I wasn’t.]
Vince: “So if that’s true, then how do you feel about your match on Requiem? I mean, a national debut, a national television audience, you’re main-eventing the inaugural broadcast of Requiem, and it’s your debut match to boot… surely, you’ve gotta have butterflies.”
[It’s my turn to chuckle. I look at ‘Vince’ and I smirk. The guy didn’t get it, and why should he? He was a suit. Really nothing more.]
KENTA: “Yeah, I’m making my FCW debut on Requiem, and in the main event. Good stuff. I’m glad to hear it. I’ve got two retards to kick around, whoop-dee-doo. It’s for a title, you say? Whoop-dee-doo. Titles are meaningless around here. Nobody with any real talent or skill has one, so why should I care if Voglur walked up to me and gave me the ‘Hardest Kicker in the Sport’ belt? Why should I give a crap if this is for the Television Title? Why should I give a crap that it’s on the first broadcast of Requiem? These things don’t concern me, Vince. I’m here because the pay is good, and it gives me a place to ply my trade. That’s it and that’s all. I’m not a belt mark. This match could be held out in a parking lot, and the winner got an Easy-Bake Oven, and I’d still show up because of the simple fact that it’s good money. I get paid in greenbacks, and I live comfortably on that. Anything else is just an annoyance.”
KENTA: “I mean sure, a title belt is nice, but a man makes the title, you know? It’s not the other way around. Look at that punk-ass Randy Orton, strutting around like he’s the king of FCW, all because he won a shiny belt at a pay-per-view barely anybody watched. All this ‘Redemption’ crap is just that, crap. It’s still the same guys doing the same things you’ve seen them do a hundred times before. It’s still the same guys fighting each other for the same title, and it’s gotten old, and it’s gotten stale… but whatever, right? As long as I get paid what Voglur’s paying me, I’m fine. I’ll keep my head down and I’ll keep my mouth shut. So long as I can still afford my nice condo and food for my dog, someone could dig up my mother and piss on her corpse for all I care.
In the end, ya know? This match—this match with Wizz Kid and Pyronus—whatever his name is—in the end it’s just a match. In the end there’s going to be an opening bell, and a closing bell. What I do between those two things is going to stay in that ring. I’ve got no beef with Pyro, and I’ve got no beef with The Wiz. I’m sure they’re both stunning and absolutely quintessential members of an upstanding society—but I get paid to win, and when it comes to winning, if it means I have to break someone’s face with my foot… I’ll do it. Really, it’s just business, after all.”
[Vince is studying me as I speak, I can feel it. He smirks a couple of times and tries to hide what appears to be nuanced joy. He’s good at hiding things. I’d like to fancy myself a good reader, someone who can spot a cop at a mile away, at least. He’s giving off all the wrong kinds of signals for a simple web-head.]
Vince: “You know, I think I like you. You’re a mercenary. You’re in it for the cash, and you’re honest about it. I can respect that.”
Vince: “How would you like to work for me?”
[What?]
There is a lot to be said for how this kinda thing works. This kind of deal. There’s also a lot to be said about the guy who just told me he was leaving for the night—gone, gone into thin air because, well, let’s face it, nobody likes staring at a half-naked, five-nine Japanese guy with bags under his eyes and a sternness about him that’d make Mike Tyson’s skin crawl. It was the same guy every morning, too, same guy would see me come in—using my own key—and he would—twenty minutes later—pack his things and take off.
My shin collides against the duct-taped “X”, the texture of the duct-tape feeling like a cheese grater against my skin. It doesn’t bother me. It used to, but that was years ago now. Years spent in a Japanese Dojo will do that to you. You’ll find out who you are. You’ll be stripped and destroyed, left with nothing but yourself. You will, make no mistake, hit “The Wall”. A point where any athlete—or human being, for that matter—reaches when they have hit the absolute limit of their physical endurance. A point where the world slows, the colours wash away, and all you’re left with is the slow, reverberating echo of your own heartbeat. You’re confronted with the man you are, then. You’re confronted and you know the truth about yourself. In a Japanese Dojo, you hit that wall on your very first day.
My foot collides with the bag once more.]
??: “you’re hittin’ that thing awfully hard, son.”
??: “Say, Kenta, is it?”
[My ears perk at the sound of my own name. I let out a heavy sigh and walk toward a nearby wooden bench. I reach for the towel sitting there, and I wipe myself down. Placing the towel around my neck, I turn to face the English-speaking Neanderthal.]
??: “Oh, so it is you. Voglur told me you could be found here.”
??: “You don’t say much, do you?”s
[No, not really.]
??: “Well, I guess I’ll cut right to the chase, then.”
??: “Look. I’m here as a representative—“
KENTA: “That’s nice.”
??: “—So he speaks, and mightily well, I might add. You don’t even roll your R’s, or your L’s.”
??: “Kenta, I’m a representative for FCW-dot-com, I’m what you may call a… promoter, of sorts. I scour the globe looking for the talent that’s booked in big matches, or for the debuting talent, and I get a sit-down with them. The reason, you can imagine, is to build fan interest in the character that’ll be debuting with our promotion. Considering you were signed the other day by Mister Voglur personally, I figured it would be a good idea to take a swing by and see what it is that he saw in you.”
??: “The name’s Vince, by the way.”
KENTA: “Good to know.”
Vince: “Well, Kenta, do you mind if I get a quick little quote or two for the page that’ll be going live tomorrow—or I should say today, shouldn’t I?”
Vince: “Well, how ‘bout it kiddo?”
KENTA: “What do you wanna know?”
[Vince shrugs his shoulders.]
Vince: “Well, for starters, what got you into pro-wrestling?”
KENTA: “I got into pro-wrestling because it’s the only thing I’m good at.”
Vince: “Oh that’s not true at all.”
KENTA: “Really? You’re my fuckin’ biographer now?”
[Vince shrugs his shoulders, but he decides to play along.]
Vince: “Fine then, so what brings you to FCW, Kenta?”
KENTA: “What brings me to FCW? Nothing, really. I was doing dates in Philadelphia and then I get a call from one of my friends—said he could get me into the big time promotion FCW. I told him I was fine, he insisted, and so I met with Voglur, and now here I am. Nothing secret about it. I’m just another guy putting on a pair of tights to go and beat the piss outta someone.”
[Vince lets out a little chuckle. I don’t think he found it funny, but he probably thought I was trying to be cute. I wasn’t.]
Vince: “So if that’s true, then how do you feel about your match on Requiem? I mean, a national debut, a national television audience, you’re main-eventing the inaugural broadcast of Requiem, and it’s your debut match to boot… surely, you’ve gotta have butterflies.”
[It’s my turn to chuckle. I look at ‘Vince’ and I smirk. The guy didn’t get it, and why should he? He was a suit. Really nothing more.]
KENTA: “Yeah, I’m making my FCW debut on Requiem, and in the main event. Good stuff. I’m glad to hear it. I’ve got two retards to kick around, whoop-dee-doo. It’s for a title, you say? Whoop-dee-doo. Titles are meaningless around here. Nobody with any real talent or skill has one, so why should I care if Voglur walked up to me and gave me the ‘Hardest Kicker in the Sport’ belt? Why should I give a crap if this is for the Television Title? Why should I give a crap that it’s on the first broadcast of Requiem? These things don’t concern me, Vince. I’m here because the pay is good, and it gives me a place to ply my trade. That’s it and that’s all. I’m not a belt mark. This match could be held out in a parking lot, and the winner got an Easy-Bake Oven, and I’d still show up because of the simple fact that it’s good money. I get paid in greenbacks, and I live comfortably on that. Anything else is just an annoyance.”
KENTA: “I mean sure, a title belt is nice, but a man makes the title, you know? It’s not the other way around. Look at that punk-ass Randy Orton, strutting around like he’s the king of FCW, all because he won a shiny belt at a pay-per-view barely anybody watched. All this ‘Redemption’ crap is just that, crap. It’s still the same guys doing the same things you’ve seen them do a hundred times before. It’s still the same guys fighting each other for the same title, and it’s gotten old, and it’s gotten stale… but whatever, right? As long as I get paid what Voglur’s paying me, I’m fine. I’ll keep my head down and I’ll keep my mouth shut. So long as I can still afford my nice condo and food for my dog, someone could dig up my mother and piss on her corpse for all I care.
In the end, ya know? This match—this match with Wizz Kid and Pyronus—whatever his name is—in the end it’s just a match. In the end there’s going to be an opening bell, and a closing bell. What I do between those two things is going to stay in that ring. I’ve got no beef with Pyro, and I’ve got no beef with The Wiz. I’m sure they’re both stunning and absolutely quintessential members of an upstanding society—but I get paid to win, and when it comes to winning, if it means I have to break someone’s face with my foot… I’ll do it. Really, it’s just business, after all.”
[Vince is studying me as I speak, I can feel it. He smirks a couple of times and tries to hide what appears to be nuanced joy. He’s good at hiding things. I’d like to fancy myself a good reader, someone who can spot a cop at a mile away, at least. He’s giving off all the wrong kinds of signals for a simple web-head.]
Vince: “You know, I think I like you. You’re a mercenary. You’re in it for the cash, and you’re honest about it. I can respect that.”
Vince: “How would you like to work for me?”
[What?]
