Post by Luminous Robin on Sept 10, 2009 23:08:16 GMT -5
Warning: Long-ass read coming up. Get a drink now while you can.
________________________
"Jimmy. This is going to be the best night of my life, to date."
"You, of all people. You, the man who our current World Champion, the man who has claim to being the best fighter under the company umbrella would consider a rival, a real nemesis. Someone of your calibur a fighter, someone of your unrivaled level of ambition, and someone like you, so eager and determined not to be second guessed by anybody."
"This, this is truly going to be my best fight to date. Hell, I'd bet a lot of people are already proclaiming this 'the most anticipated match in Anarchy history!' Imagine that, Jimmy. We're making history, and we haven't even thrown a punch yet. Man, when I heard about this, I thought there was absolutely no way it could get any better for me."
"And then it did."
"No disqualification, Jimmy. My favourite kind. Complete and utter creative freedom to take the paintbrush and just create whatever scene of carnage I like. To use anything at my disposal, to do anything that my mind and my body are willing to cooperate to do, and to be subjected to whichever equally cruel creativity you have stored away in your own head. Because that's what really makes it worthwhile, Jimmy. The whole package. Not just the match with you, not just the match with you, but the fact that it's THIS match against you. Think about it. Raven was a start. Raven was an acceptable template. He had the mind for it, the imagination - but ultimately, what he lacked was the passion he once had. He lacked the competency."
"You, Jimmy, if anything you've strived to prove to anyone, it's that you're 'competent'. In fact, you're more than competent, world class, I'd dare say. World class at fighting, world class at wrestling, and world class when it comes to any means necessary to absolutely dismantling your opponent as I'm sure you're going to be aspiring to do. In case you've forgotten, not that you would, but for the benefit of the viewing audience at home - in my hand, I currently hold a briefcase. Within that briefcase, I hold a contract with my signature on it, telling me that I am the present, authorised number one contender to the Full Contact Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship. Number one contender...a title you yourself once held, didn't you Jimmy?"
"A title you once held, for a 'title' you wanted to hold. And that must burn you up. That must make you feel like you're in need of a change. Time to step it up, time to really show the world that they never should have doubted what Jimmy Gimmick is capable of. Time to show the world that even if Alexander Parise did defeat you, it was by the skin of his teeth, and you're right there behind him. Time to show the world that Randy Orton too was just a bump in the road, the road to Jimmy Gimmick's very first FCW title reign. And to think, all you have to do in order to regain such prestige in the eyes of the people is to tear apart some little punk kid, in a match where the rules are entirely permitting for you to do so?"
"Shit, I bet you reacted like me when you heard the news. I bet you thought it was fuckin' Christmas."
____________________________
He didn't ask for his wakeup call to be now. He couldn't even remember asking for a wake-up call at all.
But regardless of the circumstances, it was what it was. The phone was ringing on its hook, and now he was awake. The bedsheets were surprisingly sweatless considering how warm and snug he preferred to keep himself and yet were ultimately as vapid as the day previous with thanks to the plummeting temperature, and the fact that he'd chosen to go a night without a few 'sweeteners in his coffee', so to speak. They contorted around his naked figure, restricting each movement as his lucid self flailed in an attempt to retrieve whatever hellish contraption had woke him up from such pleasant, imaginary activities such as soaring through the clouds powered only by his own sense of bliss.
A hand lazily grips around the edge of the phone, lifting it off the hook. It takes a moment to actually find its way to his ear, and a woman can be heard redundantly asking the open air for 'Mr. Hearn' ahead of schedule. It finally reaches a proximity where he can listen to, and process her words, and so she repeats herself as the waking expression on the young man's face crumples and retracts with each passing thought of frustration.
"Mr. Hearn..?"
"Yeah," he grumbles, forcing himself up to a reality upright position, a low, gutteral growl escaping the lower regions of his throat as he makes a futile attempt to stretch off the fatigue. His wrist digs deep into his eye sockets, and after a few seconds of discomfort and darkness he comes to the conclusion that it's not going to do him any good. "Yeah, that's me. Did I--"
"There's, um, a phonecall for you at the main desk, Mr. Hearn," the woman answers, rather sheepishly. She seemed startled, as if she'd just been shouted at only a few moments before. "It's your employer, Mr. Aaron Bischoff? He says it's urgent. I'm--I'm going to forward him to you."
"Bisch--?" is all Jason manages to get off the tip of his lips before a click renders him temporary silent. He didn't know a 'Bischoff' at all, let alone the fact that he was apparently employed by one now. Maybe he should have payed more attention to the locker room meetings, or the cards or something, but as far as he knew, the power still lay with Mr. Osborn at least. Surely some kind of power transfer, given Mr. Voglur's demise would have at least made it to the news. He takes a moment to ponder these infinite possibilites, when another voice comes booming down the line, smugness dripping off every single syllable. He could see why the poor girl was so rattled now.
"Hearn, get up, get changed into your fancy, sparkly wrestling pants and get the hell out of there. You're needed."
Jason's eyes dart towards the window. Even with the curtains obscuring what light was coming through, that was, indeed, light. And by process of elimination of the sun being in the sky he could deduce that it was, in fact, daytime, meaning that the show was not occuring for a good while yet. Even with this startling piece of evidence on his side, there was one other thing that had him convinced that he wasn't actually late for Anarchy, one concrete piece of proof.
"It's Wednesday."
The response from the other end is none too happy.
"Ohh, you don't say! Well done! Hell, before this, I never knew that faces could read a calendar!" There's a brief moment of silence, wherein the cogs in Hearn's head begin turning, and yet their machinations do little but cause a slight migraine and gradually crank his eyebrow further and further up his forehead in confusion. What the hell was a 'face'?
"Um, Aaron, was it?"
"No, it's Mr. Bischoff. But, you know what, don't even call me that, call me 'Sir'. You address me as 'Sir' and I'll answer you if I feel like it, am I clear?"
Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure what he had to say. Whilst the prevalant urge was simply to hang up the phone, there was a chance this guy was 'kind of' what he claimed to be. After all, he was probably an uppity secretary or something who was making use of whatever chance he had to throw around some authority. He'd been in the wrestling business for a while now, or at least enough time to understand that it wasn't much of a stretch to believe that the theatrics and the arrogance had spread into the beureaucratic departments as well. So, instead, he does the smart thing. He stays on the line, and he stays silent.
"Good. Now listen, there's a community centre about two miles from where your hotel is. God knows where, just get a cab or something. There's a Fan Appreciation thing we're throwing, you need to be there."
"A bit of notice would have been--"
"I'm sure it would have been grand, Hearn, and we would have all danced around the campfire to see another goodie two-shoes face get another oppurtunity to stroke their ego, but you weren't exactly my first choice. It seems people are too dumb to actually want the autograph of heels, real men of integrity, so instead we have to ship out the circus acts."
'Heels' too? Was this a biology lesson that no one had told him about? Whatever, like it mattered. If it would mean that he'd never get a phonecall from this guy again...
"Fine, whatever. When does this fucking thing start?"
"Nine."
"What time is it now?"
"Eight fourty-five. You'd best hurry the fuck up."
The phone slams down on one end. A second later, it slams down on the other end as well.
_____________________________
"Naturally, you can understand why I'm so excited about this match. And funnily enough, I bet you're at least anxious for this yourself, aren't you? Because, unless I'm mistaken, about a month, maybe two months ago, you probably thought of me as a complete non-entity. Hell, there's a chance you probably thought of me that way before the pay per view even happened. We'd never stopped to make conversation, we'd never had coffee together, and our time in the ring together was, regretfully, brief. In that time, if this match was happening, you probably would have written me off completely. But now, -now- that it's happening, there's just something offputting about it in the back of your head."
"And it's not even the fact that I'm number one contender that's doing it."
"It's the fact that back then, you would have expected to absolutely steamroll me. The fans probably would have expected you to. The management would have expected you to. And to be perfectly honest Jimmy, I would have expected you to absolutely run through me like cattle on a traintrack myself. But suddenly, everything doesn't seem right, something feels out of place. You're going into a match with this punk little upstart, one with a position that he hasn't earned, one that there's still a good chance you can absolutely destroy - but it's not a certainty anymore."
"And it's the very buzz about this match that's bringing you down, Jimmy. The fact that there's a very vocal minority that actually believe that I'm capable of actually beating you, and that I -will- go on to beat you."
"And you know what, Jimmy? I'm starting to wonder if I can beat you too."
"Which gives me an incentive to hit back just that little bit harder, to block when I would have otherwise took the blow just to savour it, and otherwise would have quite happily let you have your way with me like a whore would with a paying customer. Instead, I fight back, and I see if you're capable of earning that dominance, and making me see that you truly are as elite as your reputation, as your skills, as your prowess would dictate. I want to see if you really are Jimmy fucking Gimmick, the most determined, ambitious, proficient, prodigious, heartless--"
"--Oh. That's not right at all."
____________________________
"Fucking hell."
If it wasn't for his rude awakening earlier, then he would be certain that he was still dreaming. If it was a year earlier, the idea of what he was seeing would have been completely foreign, a pipe dream. If it was a few months ago, what he was seeing would have still been considered a forlorn fantasy, an envisioning of someone's arrogance at their own self worth. Even now, he was struggling to comprehend the fact that what he was seeing truly was a factual event that he could prove to someone had happened.
No sooner than he'd stood out of his taxi cab, a mere 10 minutes late for his scheduled appointment, no shower, hair ruffled, clothes practically thrown on with such haste that he was certain he'd put his tanktop on inside out, and he finds himself standing before this; a crowd of no fewer than a hundred people. Erupting into cheers. Breaking into applause. Completely syncopated chants of his name. Suddenly it didn't matter that he'd performed in front of thousands who had done exactly the same thing, this wasn't 'the mould' he'd grown used to. Suddenly there wasn't a fourth wall anymore. This was all for him. So muttering 'fucking hell' under his breath seemed appropriate.
All he can do is attempt to force his way through the people, still muttering shocked 'pardon me's and 'excuse me's under his breath as he does so, painfully aware that every eye is on him as every hand pats him on the shoulder the further he advances. Even despite the attempts of the polite to part for him, the entire surreal event makes Moses' odyssey seem like a brisk stroll in comparison. Finally, there was his destination; a single wooden table, with a single Sharpie pen on it. No merchandise. No posters. Not even a tablecloth. No expense spared, Bischoff.
And yet they keep coming.
Rattling off statistics that they're amazed of his win record all at once. Yelling out what their favourite match is. Asking him how the hell he does what he does. Hell, one girl even asks what type of hair-dye he uses, which he's more than happy to divulge if only for the mental breathing space it provides. But, with each DVD of Scars and Stripes that he signs and every fan he shakes the hand of, it slowly begins to settle in. It becomes less of a blur that's shooting past, and he returns to Earth. This is all for him. These are his fans. They came to support -him- exclusively.
And then he came along.
It was in mid-handshake that suddenly colours and shapes actually started to mean something to him again, and he realised that he was grasping the hand of someone who's bones he could potentially snap just by sneezing and who he could only hope was not in an open space when a sudden gust of wind occured lest he blow away along with his khaki pants, tye-dye t-shirt and neckbeard, but no sooner after that, then words begin to form and have meaning as well.
"--stler in FCW, man. The stuff you do is unreal."
Jason blinks a few times. Eventually, he manages to muster enough self control for a nod. "Yeah, uh...it's feeling pretty unreal at the minute, to be honest, man."
The teenager bangs his fist against his heart, pointing to Robin and nodding, to which the bemused 'superstar' can only return an awkward smile and a thumbs up under the assumption that it was supposed to be a gesture of support. With nothing being thrust in his face, be it a hand, a DVD, a poster or even cleavage (admittedly, this he had wished for, but no luck today apparently) he assumed that he had time to slouch back, take a deep breath and summarise the event to himself in a single sentence, when he spots him.
A young boy, couldn't be older than six. Auburn hair. Black t-shirt, logoless. Jeans. A look on his face like a wrong expression was going to cause him to burst into tears. The kind of look which triggers a natural reflex and causes someone of Robin's emotional standpoint to melt. Immediately, he leans over the table, smile plastered on his face.
"Hey there, little guy." There's no answer. The kid shivers, petrified. His expression doesn't change, but already a million solutions are running their way through Robin's head. "I'm Robin. You probably saw me on the TV, huh? Anything you'd like me to do, buddy?"
"Um...uh-uhm..."
"Go on, Thomas."
A hand pats the boy on the back, edging him forward but a few centimetres. His eyes dart up to the owner of the appendage in question, as do Robin's. The familial resemblance is immediate. Just a simple smile from his father, and a glance down at the ground, is enough for the kid to pluck up the courage.
"W-would you mind signing this for me...?" he asks, holding out a poster that he'd honestly never seen before. Well, to call it a 'poster' was a stretch of the imagination. It was more like a screenshot of Robin, mid 'Climax' on one Karl Storm that'd been printed off on a piece of paper. The lines where the inkjet had buckled and even where water had dropped on it were more than obvious - but to Robin, the kid might as well have painted it himself in oil.
"Lemme see what I can do," he says, with an encouraging wave of his fingers. No sooner than the paper's in his grasp, he spins it over onto it's white side - and proceeds to doodle. Nothing fancy, and certainly nothing 'artistic' - little stick figure drawings of superkicks, a crude little drawing of an actual robin with a crooked wing, and at the centre, a cartoon caricature of Robin himself, ruffling little Tom's hair. At least that's who he says it is. He did have to label them. Sharpie, and whatnot.
The boy's face is a picture in itself.
"Take care of that now, pal," Robin adds, "That's a collector's item right there."
Tom is practically in his own little world. He sprints off, darting through the crowd, calling for his mother who'd wisely chosen to avoid the odorous mass of the male majority crowd. Robin watches him dart between legs like it was a labyrinth, only to find one more hand outstretched to him; the father's. He takes it without hesitation.
"I can't thank you enough, Mr. ...Robin," the father adds. "Thomas just lights up when he watches wrestling, you're his favourite." Robin can't help but laugh at that, unsure whether he's touched - or doubtful.
"Well, uh. I'm enjoying it, so as long as everyone else is..."
"All the other wrestlers, they're too gritty," the father adds. "Spiteful, nasty people. Always looking out for themselves. There's just something about you that people gravitate towards. Something...pure, I suppose. You're a pretty good role model, you know."
"Yeah, not including the wardrobe though, huh?" This time, they both laugh. Until a not-so-familiar face practically leaps onto the table infront of him. It's Thomas again, with a smile from ear to ear.
"You better beat Pareesh!"
Oh yeah. He DID have a title match coming up, didn't he?
He was about to laugh again, when it was like a slot machine had gone off in his head. Everything that just fallen into place. That one summarising sentence he'd been looking for had appeared, and to think, it was just three simple words. Once he had those in his head, he couldn't laugh. He could only smile.
'They love me.'
"Don't worry," replies Jason, "I will."
___________________________
"You know...I don't think you're heartless, Jimmy. Of all your labels, that's the one 'gimmick' I don't believe you deserve. You see, I sat back and I watched your match with Randy Orton at the pay-per-view - shit, how could I not, I needed the research - and there was something I noticed. Something so microscopic I'm sure that even scientists will tell me that I'm introducing my own element of fantasy to it, but I don't believe you're heartless. You see, for every hate-filled blow you threw, I saw your hand buckle - barely even a twitch - upon impact. For each submission, I saw your grip loosen, the amount of pressure relieved probably even equivalent to grams, but I know what I saw."
"What I was seeing, Jimmy, was you trying to enact your hate, your jealousy at Randy Orton, each blow intended both for him, and for his father. And no matter what sound the blow made when flesh collided with flesh, all I could hear was 'why?' Your body and your mind's brief scream of regret at the fact that Randy had something that you could only long for, something that you've ultimately lost the chance to ever have again. Now, presumptive as this is - I never knew your father, Jimmy. I can't profess to have any sort of connection with him, or even say I was a friend or just an acquiantance, but I know what he was to you. He was your father. Whether not in presence or in deed, he was in blood, and no matter how red with rage your eyes seem to appear to everyone else - all I could see was a deep blue."
"Do you know where I've seen that shade of blue before, Jimmy?"
"The mirror."
"I envision myself projecting that same deep navy onto every arena, whenever I so much as catch a glimpse of a child laughing, and a father ruffling his hair, overjoyed that his son is enjoying the treat he's given him. Everytime I see a child in the street close to tears, and no matter what ailment it is, the ice cream cone that his father provides is always the correct medicine to bring a smile to his face. Even when the child is so determined to be the most stubborn, aggrivating little shit to draw breath, I see that same, stoic look of determination in the eyes of the father, who refuses to be bested and sever that connection with his son - because he is his son."
"Jimmy - another time, another place, I wish both of us could be rid of that blue. I wish both of us could perhaps be friends. But not now. Our jobs - our duty - won't allow it. There are only two things I can say to you. Though I doubt you'll appreciate it, I'm sorry for your loss - and though I doubt you'll believe it, I understand."
"But that's not what this is about. It never was. And I don't want it to be. So, I'll see you Friday, Jimmy. "
"It'll be an honour to wrestle you."
________________________
"Jimmy. This is going to be the best night of my life, to date."
"You, of all people. You, the man who our current World Champion, the man who has claim to being the best fighter under the company umbrella would consider a rival, a real nemesis. Someone of your calibur a fighter, someone of your unrivaled level of ambition, and someone like you, so eager and determined not to be second guessed by anybody."
"This, this is truly going to be my best fight to date. Hell, I'd bet a lot of people are already proclaiming this 'the most anticipated match in Anarchy history!' Imagine that, Jimmy. We're making history, and we haven't even thrown a punch yet. Man, when I heard about this, I thought there was absolutely no way it could get any better for me."
"And then it did."
"No disqualification, Jimmy. My favourite kind. Complete and utter creative freedom to take the paintbrush and just create whatever scene of carnage I like. To use anything at my disposal, to do anything that my mind and my body are willing to cooperate to do, and to be subjected to whichever equally cruel creativity you have stored away in your own head. Because that's what really makes it worthwhile, Jimmy. The whole package. Not just the match with you, not just the match with you, but the fact that it's THIS match against you. Think about it. Raven was a start. Raven was an acceptable template. He had the mind for it, the imagination - but ultimately, what he lacked was the passion he once had. He lacked the competency."
"You, Jimmy, if anything you've strived to prove to anyone, it's that you're 'competent'. In fact, you're more than competent, world class, I'd dare say. World class at fighting, world class at wrestling, and world class when it comes to any means necessary to absolutely dismantling your opponent as I'm sure you're going to be aspiring to do. In case you've forgotten, not that you would, but for the benefit of the viewing audience at home - in my hand, I currently hold a briefcase. Within that briefcase, I hold a contract with my signature on it, telling me that I am the present, authorised number one contender to the Full Contact Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship. Number one contender...a title you yourself once held, didn't you Jimmy?"
"A title you once held, for a 'title' you wanted to hold. And that must burn you up. That must make you feel like you're in need of a change. Time to step it up, time to really show the world that they never should have doubted what Jimmy Gimmick is capable of. Time to show the world that even if Alexander Parise did defeat you, it was by the skin of his teeth, and you're right there behind him. Time to show the world that Randy Orton too was just a bump in the road, the road to Jimmy Gimmick's very first FCW title reign. And to think, all you have to do in order to regain such prestige in the eyes of the people is to tear apart some little punk kid, in a match where the rules are entirely permitting for you to do so?"
"Shit, I bet you reacted like me when you heard the news. I bet you thought it was fuckin' Christmas."
____________________________
He didn't ask for his wakeup call to be now. He couldn't even remember asking for a wake-up call at all.
But regardless of the circumstances, it was what it was. The phone was ringing on its hook, and now he was awake. The bedsheets were surprisingly sweatless considering how warm and snug he preferred to keep himself and yet were ultimately as vapid as the day previous with thanks to the plummeting temperature, and the fact that he'd chosen to go a night without a few 'sweeteners in his coffee', so to speak. They contorted around his naked figure, restricting each movement as his lucid self flailed in an attempt to retrieve whatever hellish contraption had woke him up from such pleasant, imaginary activities such as soaring through the clouds powered only by his own sense of bliss.
A hand lazily grips around the edge of the phone, lifting it off the hook. It takes a moment to actually find its way to his ear, and a woman can be heard redundantly asking the open air for 'Mr. Hearn' ahead of schedule. It finally reaches a proximity where he can listen to, and process her words, and so she repeats herself as the waking expression on the young man's face crumples and retracts with each passing thought of frustration.
"Mr. Hearn..?"
"Yeah," he grumbles, forcing himself up to a reality upright position, a low, gutteral growl escaping the lower regions of his throat as he makes a futile attempt to stretch off the fatigue. His wrist digs deep into his eye sockets, and after a few seconds of discomfort and darkness he comes to the conclusion that it's not going to do him any good. "Yeah, that's me. Did I--"
"There's, um, a phonecall for you at the main desk, Mr. Hearn," the woman answers, rather sheepishly. She seemed startled, as if she'd just been shouted at only a few moments before. "It's your employer, Mr. Aaron Bischoff? He says it's urgent. I'm--I'm going to forward him to you."
"Bisch--?" is all Jason manages to get off the tip of his lips before a click renders him temporary silent. He didn't know a 'Bischoff' at all, let alone the fact that he was apparently employed by one now. Maybe he should have payed more attention to the locker room meetings, or the cards or something, but as far as he knew, the power still lay with Mr. Osborn at least. Surely some kind of power transfer, given Mr. Voglur's demise would have at least made it to the news. He takes a moment to ponder these infinite possibilites, when another voice comes booming down the line, smugness dripping off every single syllable. He could see why the poor girl was so rattled now.
"Hearn, get up, get changed into your fancy, sparkly wrestling pants and get the hell out of there. You're needed."
Jason's eyes dart towards the window. Even with the curtains obscuring what light was coming through, that was, indeed, light. And by process of elimination of the sun being in the sky he could deduce that it was, in fact, daytime, meaning that the show was not occuring for a good while yet. Even with this startling piece of evidence on his side, there was one other thing that had him convinced that he wasn't actually late for Anarchy, one concrete piece of proof.
"It's Wednesday."
The response from the other end is none too happy.
"Ohh, you don't say! Well done! Hell, before this, I never knew that faces could read a calendar!" There's a brief moment of silence, wherein the cogs in Hearn's head begin turning, and yet their machinations do little but cause a slight migraine and gradually crank his eyebrow further and further up his forehead in confusion. What the hell was a 'face'?
"Um, Aaron, was it?"
"No, it's Mr. Bischoff. But, you know what, don't even call me that, call me 'Sir'. You address me as 'Sir' and I'll answer you if I feel like it, am I clear?"
Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure what he had to say. Whilst the prevalant urge was simply to hang up the phone, there was a chance this guy was 'kind of' what he claimed to be. After all, he was probably an uppity secretary or something who was making use of whatever chance he had to throw around some authority. He'd been in the wrestling business for a while now, or at least enough time to understand that it wasn't much of a stretch to believe that the theatrics and the arrogance had spread into the beureaucratic departments as well. So, instead, he does the smart thing. He stays on the line, and he stays silent.
"Good. Now listen, there's a community centre about two miles from where your hotel is. God knows where, just get a cab or something. There's a Fan Appreciation thing we're throwing, you need to be there."
"A bit of notice would have been--"
"I'm sure it would have been grand, Hearn, and we would have all danced around the campfire to see another goodie two-shoes face get another oppurtunity to stroke their ego, but you weren't exactly my first choice. It seems people are too dumb to actually want the autograph of heels, real men of integrity, so instead we have to ship out the circus acts."
'Heels' too? Was this a biology lesson that no one had told him about? Whatever, like it mattered. If it would mean that he'd never get a phonecall from this guy again...
"Fine, whatever. When does this fucking thing start?"
"Nine."
"What time is it now?"
"Eight fourty-five. You'd best hurry the fuck up."
The phone slams down on one end. A second later, it slams down on the other end as well.
_____________________________
"Naturally, you can understand why I'm so excited about this match. And funnily enough, I bet you're at least anxious for this yourself, aren't you? Because, unless I'm mistaken, about a month, maybe two months ago, you probably thought of me as a complete non-entity. Hell, there's a chance you probably thought of me that way before the pay per view even happened. We'd never stopped to make conversation, we'd never had coffee together, and our time in the ring together was, regretfully, brief. In that time, if this match was happening, you probably would have written me off completely. But now, -now- that it's happening, there's just something offputting about it in the back of your head."
"And it's not even the fact that I'm number one contender that's doing it."
"It's the fact that back then, you would have expected to absolutely steamroll me. The fans probably would have expected you to. The management would have expected you to. And to be perfectly honest Jimmy, I would have expected you to absolutely run through me like cattle on a traintrack myself. But suddenly, everything doesn't seem right, something feels out of place. You're going into a match with this punk little upstart, one with a position that he hasn't earned, one that there's still a good chance you can absolutely destroy - but it's not a certainty anymore."
"And it's the very buzz about this match that's bringing you down, Jimmy. The fact that there's a very vocal minority that actually believe that I'm capable of actually beating you, and that I -will- go on to beat you."
"And you know what, Jimmy? I'm starting to wonder if I can beat you too."
"Which gives me an incentive to hit back just that little bit harder, to block when I would have otherwise took the blow just to savour it, and otherwise would have quite happily let you have your way with me like a whore would with a paying customer. Instead, I fight back, and I see if you're capable of earning that dominance, and making me see that you truly are as elite as your reputation, as your skills, as your prowess would dictate. I want to see if you really are Jimmy fucking Gimmick, the most determined, ambitious, proficient, prodigious, heartless--"
"--Oh. That's not right at all."
____________________________
"Fucking hell."
If it wasn't for his rude awakening earlier, then he would be certain that he was still dreaming. If it was a year earlier, the idea of what he was seeing would have been completely foreign, a pipe dream. If it was a few months ago, what he was seeing would have still been considered a forlorn fantasy, an envisioning of someone's arrogance at their own self worth. Even now, he was struggling to comprehend the fact that what he was seeing truly was a factual event that he could prove to someone had happened.
No sooner than he'd stood out of his taxi cab, a mere 10 minutes late for his scheduled appointment, no shower, hair ruffled, clothes practically thrown on with such haste that he was certain he'd put his tanktop on inside out, and he finds himself standing before this; a crowd of no fewer than a hundred people. Erupting into cheers. Breaking into applause. Completely syncopated chants of his name. Suddenly it didn't matter that he'd performed in front of thousands who had done exactly the same thing, this wasn't 'the mould' he'd grown used to. Suddenly there wasn't a fourth wall anymore. This was all for him. So muttering 'fucking hell' under his breath seemed appropriate.
All he can do is attempt to force his way through the people, still muttering shocked 'pardon me's and 'excuse me's under his breath as he does so, painfully aware that every eye is on him as every hand pats him on the shoulder the further he advances. Even despite the attempts of the polite to part for him, the entire surreal event makes Moses' odyssey seem like a brisk stroll in comparison. Finally, there was his destination; a single wooden table, with a single Sharpie pen on it. No merchandise. No posters. Not even a tablecloth. No expense spared, Bischoff.
And yet they keep coming.
Rattling off statistics that they're amazed of his win record all at once. Yelling out what their favourite match is. Asking him how the hell he does what he does. Hell, one girl even asks what type of hair-dye he uses, which he's more than happy to divulge if only for the mental breathing space it provides. But, with each DVD of Scars and Stripes that he signs and every fan he shakes the hand of, it slowly begins to settle in. It becomes less of a blur that's shooting past, and he returns to Earth. This is all for him. These are his fans. They came to support -him- exclusively.
And then he came along.
It was in mid-handshake that suddenly colours and shapes actually started to mean something to him again, and he realised that he was grasping the hand of someone who's bones he could potentially snap just by sneezing and who he could only hope was not in an open space when a sudden gust of wind occured lest he blow away along with his khaki pants, tye-dye t-shirt and neckbeard, but no sooner after that, then words begin to form and have meaning as well.
"--stler in FCW, man. The stuff you do is unreal."
Jason blinks a few times. Eventually, he manages to muster enough self control for a nod. "Yeah, uh...it's feeling pretty unreal at the minute, to be honest, man."
The teenager bangs his fist against his heart, pointing to Robin and nodding, to which the bemused 'superstar' can only return an awkward smile and a thumbs up under the assumption that it was supposed to be a gesture of support. With nothing being thrust in his face, be it a hand, a DVD, a poster or even cleavage (admittedly, this he had wished for, but no luck today apparently) he assumed that he had time to slouch back, take a deep breath and summarise the event to himself in a single sentence, when he spots him.
A young boy, couldn't be older than six. Auburn hair. Black t-shirt, logoless. Jeans. A look on his face like a wrong expression was going to cause him to burst into tears. The kind of look which triggers a natural reflex and causes someone of Robin's emotional standpoint to melt. Immediately, he leans over the table, smile plastered on his face.
"Hey there, little guy." There's no answer. The kid shivers, petrified. His expression doesn't change, but already a million solutions are running their way through Robin's head. "I'm Robin. You probably saw me on the TV, huh? Anything you'd like me to do, buddy?"
"Um...uh-uhm..."
"Go on, Thomas."
A hand pats the boy on the back, edging him forward but a few centimetres. His eyes dart up to the owner of the appendage in question, as do Robin's. The familial resemblance is immediate. Just a simple smile from his father, and a glance down at the ground, is enough for the kid to pluck up the courage.
"W-would you mind signing this for me...?" he asks, holding out a poster that he'd honestly never seen before. Well, to call it a 'poster' was a stretch of the imagination. It was more like a screenshot of Robin, mid 'Climax' on one Karl Storm that'd been printed off on a piece of paper. The lines where the inkjet had buckled and even where water had dropped on it were more than obvious - but to Robin, the kid might as well have painted it himself in oil.
"Lemme see what I can do," he says, with an encouraging wave of his fingers. No sooner than the paper's in his grasp, he spins it over onto it's white side - and proceeds to doodle. Nothing fancy, and certainly nothing 'artistic' - little stick figure drawings of superkicks, a crude little drawing of an actual robin with a crooked wing, and at the centre, a cartoon caricature of Robin himself, ruffling little Tom's hair. At least that's who he says it is. He did have to label them. Sharpie, and whatnot.
The boy's face is a picture in itself.
"Take care of that now, pal," Robin adds, "That's a collector's item right there."
Tom is practically in his own little world. He sprints off, darting through the crowd, calling for his mother who'd wisely chosen to avoid the odorous mass of the male majority crowd. Robin watches him dart between legs like it was a labyrinth, only to find one more hand outstretched to him; the father's. He takes it without hesitation.
"I can't thank you enough, Mr. ...Robin," the father adds. "Thomas just lights up when he watches wrestling, you're his favourite." Robin can't help but laugh at that, unsure whether he's touched - or doubtful.
"Well, uh. I'm enjoying it, so as long as everyone else is..."
"All the other wrestlers, they're too gritty," the father adds. "Spiteful, nasty people. Always looking out for themselves. There's just something about you that people gravitate towards. Something...pure, I suppose. You're a pretty good role model, you know."
"Yeah, not including the wardrobe though, huh?" This time, they both laugh. Until a not-so-familiar face practically leaps onto the table infront of him. It's Thomas again, with a smile from ear to ear.
"You better beat Pareesh!"
Oh yeah. He DID have a title match coming up, didn't he?
He was about to laugh again, when it was like a slot machine had gone off in his head. Everything that just fallen into place. That one summarising sentence he'd been looking for had appeared, and to think, it was just three simple words. Once he had those in his head, he couldn't laugh. He could only smile.
'They love me.'
"Don't worry," replies Jason, "I will."
___________________________
"You know...I don't think you're heartless, Jimmy. Of all your labels, that's the one 'gimmick' I don't believe you deserve. You see, I sat back and I watched your match with Randy Orton at the pay-per-view - shit, how could I not, I needed the research - and there was something I noticed. Something so microscopic I'm sure that even scientists will tell me that I'm introducing my own element of fantasy to it, but I don't believe you're heartless. You see, for every hate-filled blow you threw, I saw your hand buckle - barely even a twitch - upon impact. For each submission, I saw your grip loosen, the amount of pressure relieved probably even equivalent to grams, but I know what I saw."
"What I was seeing, Jimmy, was you trying to enact your hate, your jealousy at Randy Orton, each blow intended both for him, and for his father. And no matter what sound the blow made when flesh collided with flesh, all I could hear was 'why?' Your body and your mind's brief scream of regret at the fact that Randy had something that you could only long for, something that you've ultimately lost the chance to ever have again. Now, presumptive as this is - I never knew your father, Jimmy. I can't profess to have any sort of connection with him, or even say I was a friend or just an acquiantance, but I know what he was to you. He was your father. Whether not in presence or in deed, he was in blood, and no matter how red with rage your eyes seem to appear to everyone else - all I could see was a deep blue."
"Do you know where I've seen that shade of blue before, Jimmy?"
"The mirror."
"I envision myself projecting that same deep navy onto every arena, whenever I so much as catch a glimpse of a child laughing, and a father ruffling his hair, overjoyed that his son is enjoying the treat he's given him. Everytime I see a child in the street close to tears, and no matter what ailment it is, the ice cream cone that his father provides is always the correct medicine to bring a smile to his face. Even when the child is so determined to be the most stubborn, aggrivating little shit to draw breath, I see that same, stoic look of determination in the eyes of the father, who refuses to be bested and sever that connection with his son - because he is his son."
"Jimmy - another time, another place, I wish both of us could be rid of that blue. I wish both of us could perhaps be friends. But not now. Our jobs - our duty - won't allow it. There are only two things I can say to you. Though I doubt you'll appreciate it, I'm sorry for your loss - and though I doubt you'll believe it, I understand."
"But that's not what this is about. It never was. And I don't want it to be. So, I'll see you Friday, Jimmy. "
"It'll be an honour to wrestle you."