Adam vs. the Plague, Round 2: Random Thoughts

This thing's going to be a little scatter brained. Maybe it's the fever delirium making me bounce around, or maybe I have an urge to blog but not a strong enough topic to stretch out to a full post.

Maybe it's the wanting to avoid the pile of Bio 101 papers I'm currently using as a foot rest rather than grading.

Either way, here's some things that have been on my mind.

Number one: for non E-Fed people, I'm probably a little overdue to explain what these "AWOL" posts are. Simply put, AWOL is a character I've run in a type of online competitive writing game called e-fedding e-wrestling for something like a decade now. I got into it initially because I was a professional wrestling fan in high school and it combined my interests, sweaty men hitting each other with blunt objects and writing. However, the death of Eddie Guerrero followed shortly thereafter by Chris Benoit going insane from a combination of post-concussion syndrome and (allegedly) steroid rage and murdering his family and then himself put into sobering focus the fact that the wrestling business slowly but surely kills the entertainers I so admired. Thus, my passion for wrestling sort of flamed out, and e-fedding went with it. Now, however, I'm back into it because it pushes me to keep writing creatively and gives me a deadline so I can't put it off. Also, I still maintain some online friendships with a number of people whose work I greatly respect that are involved in the IWC. That said, even if you aren't a wrestling fan, if you're reading this blog you may actually enjoy some of the promos so maybe give them a glance (I don't know if anybody is. They never have comments, but that's not saying much.) I try to bounce through a number of different styles and formats, and I think some of them are probably an example of some of the best writing I've ever done.

Second: After some...ahem...graphic dreams I had last night and finding myself strangely fascinated by Maggie Gyllenhaal while watching The Dark Knight (yes, I'm aware she was one of the more forgettable characters in the movie. Did you forget the fever delirium? Also she was much better in Stranger Than Fiction and Secretary) today, I'm reminded of just how much I enjoy the female form. There's something about the gentle curves of a woman's body that I just can't get enough of, not just from an attraction standpoint but also from simple aesthetics. Whereas we guys are all blocky, covered with hair (unless you're a tool that waxes or something) and generally unpleasing, women just look more beautiful in general. I don't know how else to put it.

Maybe I'm just lonely. And potentially need to get laid.

Other thoughts: Why is it now, when I've caught the Hiney flu, that I'm suddenly acutely aware of all the things that are probably contaminated around me? It's not a germophobe thing. I just don't want to spread it to other people. That's the kind of guy I am, I guess. As bad as I was feeling yesterday, I felt much worse when I realized that I was contagious when I went into work on Monday and potentially could have gotten a lot of people sick. By contrast, I went over to Mike's place when he had been sick without even a thought to watch some Venture Bros. with him(pro-tip, when you stop being sick sterilize your remote control. Those things are just covered in stuff that makes you sick.)

When going to a doctor's office with a cough (or really for any reason) get the mask, sit off to the side, and whenever people walk past start coughing. You will see looks horror like you've never before seen. Also, if you want to try to pick up chicks, put your mask on, go up to them, and open with "So, I see they let you into the cool mask club too." It might not work, but if nothing else you may brighten the day of somebody who is probably about as far in the dumps as you can get.

No amount of pleading will make your cat let you sleep when she wants food. You just have to bite the bullet, fight through your headache that feels like every hang-over you've ever had rolled into one, and go pour the little beast her food. There is nothing so unreasonable or unmerciful as a hungry kitten.

The Yankees Phillies game is tied through three. However, Philly is getting good contact with the ball while New York is getting pretty much schooled by Lee. I don't like where this is going.

I think that's it for my ranting.

A Tale of Two Kingdoms

“So I understand you had a bit of a set-back at the Overbooked Extravaganza.”

“You could say that. My team lost, and managed to lose the World Title in the process.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. That must be very disappointing for you.”

A moment of silence passes.

“Surprisingly…no. It wasn’t my title to lose. It doesn’t make any difference to me, really.”

“Aren’t you concerned for your friend Johnny? I’m sure he’s not taking this very well.”

“Pfft. He’s probably more upset by who he lost it to. I haven’t heard from him, one way or the other, and we aren’t exactly friends.”

“How would you describe your relationship, then?”

“He’s someone I have a lot of respect for, as a competitor. He’s also supplementing my income. It doesn’t really go beyond that.”

“Well if it isn’t bothering you, how do you feel about the loss?”

“I’m not sure. I guess it works for me, really.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve had…a change of heart since the last time we spoke. I guess you could say I’ve found a new purpose. I’m not so much concerned with trying to improve the quality of competition in the IWC anymore. I’ve washed my hands of them. I want the place to fail, if only because I think that’s the only way these people will see just how badly they’ve ruined the company I used to love. Simon Cagero as champion wasn’t exactly what I had in mind going in, but I can work with it.”

“That’s…disturbing, Anthony. I don’t feel that that’s a healthy channel for your emotions. You’ll remember we spoke about the stages of grief, particularly the stage of anger. I think that may be what you’re going through now.”

Another long pause.

“Well…you said you wanted me to get more in touch with my feelings. I guess you could say that, finally, I’ve decided to embrace them…”

***

AWOL is leaning against a stone wall, his arms crossed across his chest. His expression is contemplative.

“So here we are,” he begins, “trapped in the fall-out of that…ridiculous match from this Sunday. I’ve not exactly seen anything so poorly designed or considered in my career, really. I mean, teams changing on the fly, people getting eliminated then somehow being spontaneously re-entered into the match by the bothersome management in the back. This isn’t so much directed at Johnny, but at you, IWC management: stay the fuck out of the matches. Once they’re booked, they’re booked. Once you’re pinned or you submit, you’re eliminated. That’s all there is to it. You idiot GMs running around in the back, re-entering competitors into the Gauntlet whenever you felt like it was ri-god-damn-diculous. This is the sort of bullshit you expected in the WCW back in the day, or the worst days of the McMahons interfering in matches in the WWE. Word to the wise, idiots: this garbage does not improve buy-rates. It does do a fine job of illegitimizing what would otherwise be an exciting and interesting main event and, you should be aware, increases frustration and reduces morale of your workers. Every time one of these Dusty finishes comes along you lose members of your audience.” He visibly relaxes. “Of course, I’m not telling you to stop doing it, mind you. By all means, keep going. Sometimes it’s not enough for just the wrestlers to kill a company. Sometimes we need a little help from the back, and thus far you’re all doing a wonderful job of pushing us over the ledge.”

He flashes a derisive smile.

“But, I know one person who was nowhere near as entertained by this as I was, my opponent for this week’s Riot! Johnny Kingdom.” He pauses, looking down at his wristwatch. “Actually based on my previous experience with the guy, he’s probably spent the last seventy-two hours or so morosely brooding, fuming at all of the people who have supposedly wronged him, raging backstage at the writing staff and the management, and ultimately concluding that we’re all out to get him. More than likely I’m included on that list, since I was on the outside of the ring dealing with the two annoying little puppy dogs that have been following me around since I came back to the company and, thus, couldn’t save him from a Christian Savior run-in. Admittedly I knocked Savior’s team out of the match by pinning the obnoxious son-of-a-bitch and, I would point out, won the tag team titles for us in the process, but I’ll more than likely be informed that I wasn’t pulling my weight. As an aside, I also might have won the Cartel Title, though again, the bullshit match booking appears to have jacked me over in that as well. Anyway, I digress, I’m sure this will end up being my fault, though I would love to be proven wrong.”

“Personally, I think Johnny’s as much to blame for this as anyone, and I don’t just mean because he didn’t keep his head on a swivel to look out for a run-in that any of us could have seen coming. I mean, the bottom line is you don’t exactly make a lot of friends, Kingdom. No, that’s not quite strong enough. Let’s say instead that you actively go out of your way to alienate and belittle everyone who could be put against you. You’re not just insulting, you’re dismissive. You can’t be surprised that everyone is gunning for you. You put a whole promo together at the end of last week for no other purpose than to jab at Savior. Admittedly, he had it coming, but when you antagonize the bull like that you can’t be TOO surprised when you get the horns.”

He leans forward, addressing the camera directly now. “I didn’t really want this match. I don’t think either of us did. That said, I don’t have any kind of particular problem with it either. You understand as well as I do that you and I aren’t friends, Johnny. “Business associates” is more like it. Chances are I’m just an employee to you, a pawn on your chessboard, and I’m cool with that situation. It pays the bills and gets me back into the main event and away from people like Max Craven. I’ve got no problem with the way things are, but you know as well as I do that when the bell rings at Riot! all of that goes away. It’s not personal like Paranoia. It’s a match. You’re an opponent. I’m going to do my damndest to beat you, and I know you will do the same to me. There’s no concern there, and frankly once the final bell rings, win lose or draw, on my end nothing necessarily will change. You’re still the most dangerous man in this company, well, besides maybe me. I’ll be happy to move forward with the Empire’s agenda once the match ends. Unfortunately, I really have no idea whether that will even be possible. It’s ultimately up to you.”

“So I’m curious what your response to all of this is going to be. I can see it going one of two ways. We can close ranks, start to re-build, and start working to get the title back from Cagero at the next show. Or, you can flame out, blame me for what happened, and rip the Empire apart…again. It’s really sort of an echo of what has come before. Sadly, given my past experiences I’m more inclined to expect the latter scenario, which is a sad commentary about both of us in and of itself.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m probably supposed to spend most of this trying to pimp up why I’m going to beat you, but ultimately I don’t know for certain whether or not that’s going to happen. We know how things turned out last time we locked horns, so I have that in my pocket. On the other hand, I’ve been out of the ring for years while you’ve been here working. On the other-other hand, you fell for maybe one of the biggest chump-moves I’ve ever seen from Savior on Sunday, so maybe you’re not that sharp right now either. In terms of match-up we’re about equal. What advantage I have in size and power you more than cover in speed and technical ability. I don’t consider it an exaggeration to say that the two of us are some of the greatest minds in this business, so I don’t see a clear advantage there either. So, again, the only real acid test where you and I faced each other ended in you being put on the shelf by me. Maybe that’s not enough to set much of a line in Vegas, but it’s enough for me to at least give myself a better than even chance.”

AWOL shrugs.

”I sort of doubt this thing is going off without a hitch anyway, to be honest. Both of us in the ring is too tempting of a target to too many people to not end the show in some sort of massive donnybrook, likely with at least one of us lying in a pool of blood from somebody cracking our skulls with a lead pipe. But hell, maybe they’ll just let us destroy each other. We’re the two people that have the best chances of pulling it off, after all. Assuming, however, we just have a regular match we can fight, somebody will lose, and that’ll be that. And then, as I said, we can get this out of the way and move on to more important business. Or we can do what we did last time, burn everything down, and go back to the bitter, separate roads we both started out on.”

“It’s really up to you.”

Adam vs. the Plague, Round 1

"Can I help you?" the heavy-set woman asked me as I stepped through the door.

"I need to get in and see a doctor," I replied.

"And I think I need a mask."

***

Yesterday I woke up with a wracking cough and a headache. "No worries," I thought, "I don't have a fever. It's just a cold. I'll be ok." Then I spent the whole day sitting at my desk, coughing and grading papers for my Biology 101 class, and getting progressively dizzier and more sore through my back and shoulders. And then, when I made it home, I popped in the thermometer I picked up at Walgreen's on the way back and tried not to think about the parallels between someone nervously watching a pregnancy test change. Then I got the good news: 100 degrees. Fever plus cough equals flu.

Awesome.

The next day I spent watching an entire season of the Venture Brothers before trying to drive to the University Health Center. This was not a good idea (the driving, that is, not watching the Ventures.) In my own defense, I only made three wrong turns on the way there, and I think that only maybe two of them were because I was delirious and dizzy.

After I finally got there, I was given my breath mask and asked politely to go sit in a secondary waiting room, away from the entrance, with the other coughing fever patients. The words "quarantine zone" entered my mind, unbidden.

"It's kind of scary when they walk in, and they already know they need the mask," the lady at the front said.

Ahead of me, a girl felt she needed to pop out and say that she didn't really need hers, she just didn't like being in a room full of sick people.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that they're only good for stopping us from spreading the virus, not to protect somebody from getting it.

Finally I was taken to the back, where a polite doctor asked "What can I help you with?" I told her I probably had the flu, rattling off the symptoms, likely in the order that they ask for in the CDC guidelines. I told her the only one I was missing was the sore throat. "You will soon enough," she joked.

Turns out the health center has pre-packaged home flu care kits, including throat lozenges, ibuprofin, a single use thermometer, some tissue, and spray hand sanitizer. As it looked like the appointment was wrapping up, I said "Do I get some Tamiflu or something like that?" No. I turns out the health center isn't giving it to anybody unless they have a complicating disease or extreme symptoms. So, consequently I drove across town for nothing. No tamiflu. A diagnosis that I already knew. And they even told me that I couldn't take my NyQuil with Ibuprofin.

You win this round, H1N1.

Thought for the Day

The check-out people at a Walgreen's (or other drug store) know entirely too much about you. They know whether you're getting laid (or think you're going to.) They know the junk food that I...I mean you are eating every day. They could know every single type of cosmetic product you purchase if they felt like making a list, and could probably calculate how often you use them if properly motivated. And the sad thing is, they probably don't really want to know these things. Do they want to see you checking out with your Monistat or your Tinactin? No. How much would it suck watching somebody walk up to your counter and drop a thermometer and several packets of tamiflu on your checkout counter?

Fear and Loathing at the Overbooked Extravaganza

[The camera fades in to reveal, rather than what one would typically expect from an AWOL promo, the figure of one Steven Parkwood sitting on a yoga mat, surrounded by candles, a jack-o-lantern, an incense burner, a Ouija board, and what appears to be a paper mache skull with smoke pouring out of it. All of this contributes to make the gold turban with purple fringe and a large oval cut emerald resting on his forehead seem somewhat less out of place, if that is at all possible. He flashes a smile at the camera, his hands resting on his crossed knees in the lotus position.]

Hurse-Some of you may be wondering what I’m doing, sitting here in AWOL’s promo, dressed in this get-up. The answer is that the big guy is under contract to do three promo videos for the Overbooked Extravaganza main event, and…um…we can’t find him.

[He shrugs apologetically.]

Hurse-It may seem a little counter intuitive, really, for me to be helping him out since we’re technically opponents in this match, but ultimately he’s my stable mate, I owe the big guy a few favors, and, well, he has my Bratz collection. Also, it’s not like I’ve been doing any promos since last week, so hey, I figured why not?

[He smiles, the explanation not really satisfying him any more than it was likely to satisfy the audience.]

Hurse-However, I do have trouble imitating his particular style of promo, so I thought, in the spirit of the season, I could come up with someone as caustic and in possession of his sense of the ironic and aptitude with the English language, while also providing myself with a convenient method of doing this stupid promo and getting back home.

[He reaches down towards the Ouija board, rolling his eyes back into his head.]

Hurse-Oooohhh, great spirits of the beyond. I call upon you, souls of the departed, to send us one who can provide some entertaining content. I CALL upon you, to send back the animus of one who can do AWOL’s promo justice. I CALL UPON YOU!!!!!

[A crash of thunder goes off outside the window (out of place, since the weather was completely clear just a moment ago) and a gust of wind (equally out of place, since Hurse is indoors) blows out all of the candles simultaneously. A girlish shriek issues forth, likely from Steven Parkwood’s lips, as the scene is pitched entirely into darkness. A moment passes, two, with only the sounds of undefined motion to give the viewer a sense that anything is occurring, before Hurse finally flips on a light switch. He is looking at the room through the cracks between the fingers he is holding over his eyes, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts, which slowly but surely starts to even out to a more steady level. He drops the hands back down to his sides, a relieved smile on his face.]

Hurse-Holy crap, heh, I almost thought for a second that had actually worked. Must have been some kind of freak microburst, blew out the candles, and tossed out a crash of thu-

Voice-Jesus Christ, man, where did you summon me? This place looks like Hitler’s basement.

[Hurse lets out another girly scream and dives behind a green recliner, peeking out from behind it to see the apparition floating in the middle of the room. It appears to be a man in his seventies wearing a Hawaiian shirt, mid-thigh length shorts, white socks pulled up to mid-calf, a sun hat, and large mirror aviator sunglasses. His voice comes in quick, slurred sentences, uttered forth from around the cigarette held tightly between his lips.]

Hurse-A-are you a ghost?

Ghost-Well, that, or an incredibly convincing acid hallucination. You do any mescaline today, boy? That shit’ll rot your brains, and it’s incredibly fucking rude not to offer some when you have guests.

Hurse-Why are you here?

Ghost-You tell me, you’re the goddamn Nazi with the Ouija board and the turban. What’d you call me here for, anyway? I was playing a game of Indian Poker with Charlton Heston, Marilyn Monroe, and Mama Cass, man. Do you know what you’ve done? Heston’s awful at cards, and you can get Cass to fold just by offering her a ham sandwich. You’ve cost me untold hundreds of dollars!

Hurse-In heaven?

Ghost-Fuck no, man, I was in New Jersey. Heaven’s for boring assholes like Mother Teresa and Moses. They sure as shit don’t let you play cards, to say nothing of smoking grass.

[A look of revelation appears on the Master of Control’s face.]

Hurse-Oh, shit, I recognize you now. You’re Hun-

Ghost-DON’T SAY MY NAME YOU BASTARD.

[The ghost whirls around, looking frantically in every direction. He switches the cigarette up and down in his mouth in irritation.]

Ghost-You never know who’s listening. Now answer my question you pigfucker. Why the fuck did you summon me here?

[Hurse walks out from behind the table, his hands held up in front of him.]

Hurse-Well, uh, I needed somebody to help do a promo for…the IWC. You ever hear of the IWC?

[The ghost pauses for a moment, twitching the cigarette around in his mouth thoughtfully.]

Ghost-Oh, right, that place with the sweaty men rubbing each other in the tights.

Hurse-Yeah, I guess it’s a little below anything you’d be interested in.

Ghost-Fuck man, are you kidding? I love it! Can’t get enough! It never fails to amuse. Fear and loathing of the highest order from one minute to the next. Just when you think it can’t get any weirder, some crazy shit named Bob comes wandering out of the woodworks, ranting and raving about bum bums and something called a mnoose.

Hurse-Uh, yeah, that’d be the place.

Ghost-I mean, what the fuck is a mnoose, anyway? Some kind of rodent? I’ll tell you one thing, you bastard: I mean to find out! One of these days I’m going to go on a god damned mnoose hunt, and I’ll bag a dozen of the little fuckers! I’ll mount em on my wall, like a goddamned murderer’s row over my fireplace.

Hurse-Ooookkk, that sounds good. Before you go, though, have you seen any of the promos for the main event of the Overbooked Extravaganza?

Ghost-That massive clusterfuck? Sure. Been watching it all week. Makes good background music when you trip on acid. It’s not exactly “White Rabbit”, but it’ll do. The perfect combination of repetitive and droning, kind of like a Simon Cagero promo, exactly the sort of thing you need when the paint starts crawling off the walls and marching out the front door along with your pants.

Hurse-Ok, so, could you help us out and talk about it?

Ghost-Well I suppose, but let’s make it quick ok? I think I feel the mushrooms wearing off.

Hurse-Alright, how about you start off with Riggs?

Ghost-The guy from the Lethal Weapon movies?

Hurse-No, the wrestler.

Ghost-Don’t play mind games with me, you bastard. I know what I’m talking about, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to trick me. I saw him with Danny Glover fighting the german guy with the diplomatic immunity and the little asian fucker in the last movie. But I’ll tell you right now, he’s on the completely wrong track. That movie with the legionnaires whipping the hell out of Christ and the thing with the native guys running through the jungle were ok, but he’s gotta learn to be a hell of a lot more subtle.

Hurse-…what?

Ghost-It doesn’t pay to be an anti-Semite in Hollywood, man. You’ll never get your movies funded, and forget about putting together a Broadway show. Jesus god, who will you ever get to do your taxes? It’s a proven fact that the gentile are barely able to balance a checkbook, let alone sort through all of that crazy fucker’s books.

Hurse-Right. Ok, what about his partner-

Ghost-Danny Glover?

Hurse-Um, no. His name is Psycho.

Ghost-Psycho? That’s not a name, it’s an adjective. But maybe that’s the point? No, no, that implies a level of intelligence far beyond the common ape, which we know Psycho shares a kinship with. He’s not capable of coming up with anything that creative. More than likely, he just flipped open a copy of “Three Thousand Names for People Who Are Barely Verbal” turned to the P’s, flipped past “Painmaster, Pitbull, and Praline Pecan” and landed full on at Psycho. Psychopath was too long, so he went with the Hitchcock movie title. Much like the title character, however, I’m forced to assume that this Psycho also dresses like up like his mother. It’s the only explanation for his anger. You ever wear a corset boy? I didn’t think so. It’s maddening, let me tell you. Either that or he’s just an annoying shit that won’t catch the hint that no one likes him and go away.

[Hurse laughs, but this only seems to puzzle the spirit.]

Hurse-Heh, uh, how about my tag team partner, Porno Lad?

Ghost-He represents an incredibly irresponsible policy of exploitation enforced by your company. Only in this Kingdom of Fear we call the United States of America would a company like the IWC be allowed to employ a mentally retarded person in a physical sport like wrestling.

Hurse-What? He’s not retarded, he just-

Ghost-DON’T INTERRUPT ME WHILE I’M RANTING, PIGFUCKER! I mean, really, what sort of human being could be so soulless? Listen to the way he talks, just rambling from one phrase to the next without even a hint of sentence structure. Clearly a sign of mental retardation leading to a lack of second grade English education! And worst of all, his particular brain damage appears to have led to an overactive sex drive. Every other word is about fucking. It was like listening to Hugh Heffner having a conversation with Caligula. The only way the IWC can make amends for this terrible lack of judgment is to permanently graft a bicycle helmet on that boy’s head, and castrate him. Only by removing the terrible font of testosterone coursing from that kid’s scrotal region will he ever be freed from his walking nightmare. It’s a moral imperative!
Hurse-Ok, fair enough. Any thoughts on Christian Savior and Pat Evans?

Ghost-I don’t know who that second guy is, but the first one is truly a genius.

Hurse-Seriously?

[The faux Necromancer seems puzzled by this.]

Ghost-Of course! He’s truly brilliant! I mean, think of the subtlety of that last promo. A staircase! That goes up! Just like his career, and the phantasmal bile rising in my incorporeal throat while I watched it! Never mind that he’s failed to contribute any form of memorable success in recent memory. Oh, hey, I know how to really create the piece-de-resistance, spend the majority of your promotional time on a badly considered parody that has no relationship to anyone in it. And the real genius has to be, when discussing your supposed target in the match, Johnny Kingdom, writing off his partner as if he doesn’t exist. Clearly a three hundred pound pile of angry napalm wrapped up in a human fucking body doesn’t warrant any consideration. No, instead let’s make a stupid joke about his name, do an Abbot and Costello rip-off joke, and then call him irrelevant. News flash, you Heath Ledger look-alike, there are two people in a tag-team, and you have to beat both of them! I know you’re confused since you apparently have a mute for a partner, but AWOL could just as easily sit in the ring with you the whole match, and you would officially have no way to beat Kingdom for the title. What would you do then, you bastard? Stand at the top of your hackneyed metaphor staircase and cry? And what the fuck is the point of actually making us watch you drive to the Home Depot and buy the props for that promo anyway. This isn’t behind the music, dipshit, no one cares that you hit the blue light special on black spraypaint!

[The ghost chuckles and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling a burst of ethereal cigarette smoke into the room.]

Hurse-And the Brat Pack?

Ghost-Don’t care about them! You, me, and God knows that they’re irrelevant, so let’s move on.

Hurse-Uh, ok. I guess that just leaves-

Ghost-The motherfuckers, that’s right. Let me tell you something about those two testicle warts, as a Doctor of Journalism I find their work this week offensive. Fuck man, I love the “F” word as much as the next guy, but there has to be limits. Just like Brittney Spears’ vagina, over-exposure and repeated use has led to the complete ruination of something that was once beautiful and desirable. No one has a problem with you using the word, you flea-ridden cock stains, we have a problem with you wasting it for the rest of us. Don’t you know we’re in an energy crisis? We have to band together now, and look out for our neighbors. Leave some F-Bombs for the rest of us, you bastards! There’s a whole spectrum of profanity out there that you’re ignoring. Give ‘em a try, damnit! There’s a reason Howard Stern does satellite radio now, eventually people just get tired of listening to pointless profanity. But pointed profanity, that will carry you to the promised land, gentlemen! The difference is content. You can’t just get in front of the camera and swear for hours. If that worked, people like Bluhd Raige would be running this place. Come up with something relevant to say, or else the terrorists win!

[The door at the outer edge of the shot opens, and AWOL walks into the room. He looks back and forth between the two figures, solid and incorporeal, an unreadable expression on his face. The ghost raises his hand in a peace sign.]

Ghost-Mahalo.

[AWOL looks Hurse in the eyes.]

AWOL-Why are you in my apartment? And why is the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson in my living room?

[Hurse swallows.]

Hurse-Uhh…I thought I would help you out with filming a promo?

Ghost-Did you just piss your pants, Nazi? I can smell the urine!

[AWOL closes his eyes, sighing in irritation and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.]

AWOL-Nevermind.

[He turns around, walking back out the door he came through.]

Ghost-Nice to meet you, Frankenstein! Now, it’s time for you to send me back, turban boy. I’ve got things to do, and big bucks to take away from unsuspecting celebrities!

[Hurse scratches the side of his head.]

Hurse-Well, um, I didn’t really think this was going to work. I don’t know how to…I don’t know…unsummmon you.

Ghost-YOU MISERABLE BASTARD! I HAD A DATE WITH BEA ARTHUR TONIGHT! THIS WAS MY BIG CHANCE TO SCORE WITH MAUDE!!!!

Hurse-Look, hold on, I’m sure I can fix this. Just, uh, let me go look some things up on the Internet. I’ll be right back!

Ghost-Pick me up some ether while you’re out. If I’m stuck here, I would rather it was while I was on a full-on drug binge. The best thing about being dead? No more worries about ODing!

[Hurse stands up, ditching the turban and heading towards the door.]

Ghost-Lets go, you bastard. MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!!

[Hurse sprints out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him. A smile slowly spreads over the ghost’s face.]

Ghost-Ah, it never gets weird enough for me. Wonder if he’s got any beers in his fridge.

[The ghost turns and phases through the door towards AWOL’s kitchen as the scene fades to black.]

Reality

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.”– H.P. Lovecraft, “The Call of Cthulhu.”

***

In some cultures in Sub-Saharan Africa, it’s considered to be a cure for AIDS for a man to have unprotected sex with a virgin girl.

We live in a miserable, unfair, terrible world, gentlemen. We live in a place where celebrities glamorize a life spent on inanities, followed day by day by the paparazzi they leak their own whereabouts to, and we are told by the personalities on our television sets that we should care about their fifth trip this year to rehab. We live in a country where faking that your child is trapped aboard a weather balloon flying through the sky has a better than even chance of turning you into an over-night celebrity and launching your career on the E! channel. We live in a world where a sex-tape is more effective than an audition tape at making you a star, and in the meantime, half-way around the world, women are stoned to death for having the audacity to report a man in their village for raping them. Twenty-four hour news cycles have us all glued to the television to watch whatever new disaster has rocked some island on the other side of the globe, while we forget that the same number of people die in a month from HIV as were killed in total by the 2004 Tsunami. Genocides happen daily in parts of Africa, butchering whole tribes to settle conflicts that started centuries ago, carried out by thirteen year old or younger children who were drafted out of their homes and have no idea why of for whom they are spilling the blood of their countrymen. And yet still, in this god awful hellhole we call a planet, you hold out hope. You think that there is some sense of justice, some sense of good succeeding over evil. There are those amongst you who think that somehow, someway, you’re going to beat the odds at the Overbooked Extravaganza, that somehow right will prevail and the evil Johnny Kingdom will be dethroned.

Tell that to the seventeen thousand people who’ve died since 1900 from ingesting toothpicks.

This isn’t a fairy tale, this is life. It’s reality, and it’s time some of you got in touch with it. The irony of telling professional wrestlers to “get real” is not lost on me, I assure you, but ultimately it is what is going to have to happen. None of you are going to beat Johnny Kingdom. You will not become world champion. If there is one thing a person can rely on, it is the cold, constant grip of probability, and ultimately that is what is stacked against you now. You have a long road to travel just to get to us. It will take all your effort and all of your fire just to make it out of the gauntlet to reach us. Your bodies will be broken down, your hearts will be riding on a surge of adrenaline from making that last pinfall, but the initial creep of exhaustion will be climbing into your limbs, and that slow ache will only intensify as you turn towards the entrance ramp and see the final verdict that awaits you. Coming down towards the ring will be the most strategically sound, proficient, experienced, and accomplished tag-team this company has ever or will ever see. You’ll feel it in every joint, in every bruise, and in every sore, strained muscle fiber of your being: you’ve already lost. Before we even hit the ring, it is over. It isn’t arrogance, it isn’t pride, and it isn’t looking down our nose at you. It’s simple truth. We could beat each and every one of your teams even facing you fresh. After having to fight just to get to us, you won’t have a chance. And deep down, in your heart of hearts, you will know it.

“But AWOL,” I hear you saying, “what do you expect us to do? Just fall down and let you pin us when you come out to the ring?” No, gentlemen, I don’t expect you to just give up. Frankly, I expect you to fight like hell. In your head will be every great comeback story you’ve ever heard of. You’ll pick yourselves up and you’ll drag your broken bodies to the center of that ring and, in all likelihood, you’ll give us a run for our money. The title brings out the best in people at the same time it brings out their worst. I’ve seen it a million times, competitors lifting themselves well beyond anything anyone ever thought they were capable of to chase the dream of hefting the gold over their head. You’ll push past your limits. You’ll lift yourselves up and keep pressing on with the ever fainter hope that somehow, someway, you’ll accomplish the impossible and become the next champion.

But I have news for you. You are not Rocky Balboa. This is not the last ten minutes of “The Longest Yard.” No members of the Stanford marching band are going to get trampled by the Cal Bears. This is reality, and in the real world miracles don’t happen. In the real world war creates orphans, planes crash, and people who have already spent most of their energy are unable to defeat superior opponents. It just isn’t going to happen, and the sooner you figure that out the less painful it will be for you. It’s physics.

And yet, apparently, your coping mechanism for dealing with this reality is to poke at Kingdom and I from your promos. That’s the big plan, is it? To make us angry? How do you see that playing out? We make our way out to face you, the stinging retort of your one-liners ringing in the back of our minds, and we’re so distracted that we make mistakes and lose? Yes, clearly we’ve demonstrated we have a history of such behavior. Clearly the things you’re saying are original, and in no way resemble the same retarded bullshit we hear week in and week out and, it should be noted, pointedly ignore on our way to defeating you.

Or, hey, better yet, how about you drop the bomb shell that somehow I’ve made a mistake by pairing up with Johnny? No one would think of that idea. I mean, the fact that I was there, personally, the last time Johnny skitzed out on me and broke up the Empir means that this time around I’m unaware of the fact that he’s untrustworthy. It’s a good thing you guys are here, really, to point this stuff out to me. If you hadn’t, lord knows I would have found myself in the middle of the main event, thinking that things were all good, when Johnny would have turned around, smashed me in the face with a chair, and then promptly fell down in the ring to let you pin him and take away the world title…JUST TO SPITE ME. But now, forewarned is forearmed, I will be keeping an eye open for any of this sort of chicanery.

Pfft.

It’s almost as ludicrous as the idea that I’ve somehow made a mistake by pairing up with him because it means I can’t win the world title anymore. Seriously. Some of you have made that claim. Have you even kind of paid attention over the last several weeks? News flash, kids: I don’t want the world title. Number one, I don’t care about holding it. I know I could take it if I wanted to. It’s not a concern of mine. The best competitor in the company has the belt right now, and as he pointed out I’ve beaten him before. If I make up my mind to win the strap someday, I’ll do it. But today, in this match, I don’t want it. I have no interest in it whatsoever. I know this is getting repetitive, but you still aren’t getting it so I’ll say it again: I DON’T WANT TO BE WORLD CHAMPION. And why? I’ll give you a hint: scroll back through all the promos for this match. Watch them all again, and keep track of how many ridiculous cheap shots people take at Johnny. Take a quick tally on the number of incompetents who can’t even hold a candle next to his abilities who have somehow stepped forward and told everyone that not only will they beat him, they’ll beat him easily because he’s inferior to them. Watch competitors that have spent their careers vanishing into the ether at random telling Johnny Kingdom that he’s a fraud. And then, rewind and watch other jackasses jumping him in the middle of the ring and bashing his skull in with a lead pipe. They ought to take the IWC logo off of that belt and put a bullseye on it, because that’s all there really is to it. It doesn’t bring you honor or glory. It just makes you a target, and it frankly isn’t worth the hassle anymore. So he can have it. He can hold onto the belt for as long as he can stomach you people and your bullshit.

But I know that won’t satisfy you, so allow me to elaborate further. Why would I work with Johnny Kingdom? Because I love watching the way you idiots react to him. Let me spell it out so there’s no confusion. I spent months as the commissioner of this federation. I worked over-nights, sacrificing time I could have spent at home, giving up my life and my time with my family, to try and make this place better. I had a dream that I really could take this federation and make it into something that mattered. I even took some of you under my wing PERSONALLY to try and shape you into the best competitors you had the potential to become. But I didn’t count on one thing: you people are beyond saving. This place is built on lies, a federation that claims to promote the best of the best while in reality rewarding mediocrity with a chance at its greatest prize. And they don’t just do this by virtue of laziness. No, in fact it is BECAUSE the mediocre demand it that they are rewarded. They look the crowd and the administration in the face and they say “We have been here for a certain amount of time as active, paid members of the staff. We have put in our time. Regardless of the fact that we lose all of our matches that matter, and any significant victories we’ve racked up came from competitors even worse than us, we have physically been in this place for a certain amount of time, and that means we should be in charge.” And when you don’t get what you want, you band together with similarly mid-grade competition and tell yourselves that this somehow makes you now even more deserving of a top shot. You weigh down otherwise decent programming with your backstage kidnappings, your run-ins from the back, or your hiding under the ring during an otherwise solid main event to help your never-was partner still end up failing to win a mini-rumble. And when people with real talent come out and try to inform you that this sort of behavior, in fact, does not make up for the fact that you are awful, you turn around and say that all we have to contribute is belittling you, and that somehow that makes our comments invalid.

Well fuck that.

You fill the airwaves with promos that are barely comprehendible. If you’re not bragging about your sexual prowess (which, beyond a commentary on your stamina, really has no bearing on anything related to the match), putting together supposedly original promo material where you come up with the oh-so-unheard of concept of an ‘Allison in Wonderland’ parody, or just rambling for fifteen minutes, you’re wasting all of our times with what basically amounts to a series of checklist promos where you go through all of the opponents (in order) and say the same damn things over and over again about them. I tried to point this out to you last time, but again the point appears to have escaped you, so I’ll repeat it: THAT IS THE MOST BORING PROMO ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH. Filling the IWC air with garbage just to try and meet a promotional quota for the match is no excuse for creating bad entertainment. Your job is to entertain people, to put on a show that makes channels change to the IWC and put asses in seats. By putting out what 99% of the promos for this match have consisted of, you have FAILED to do your job, an outcome I saw happen repeatedly while I was in charge. And yet, somehow, I was unable to fire you for this failure, since apparently the majority of the wrestling world consists of similarly awful talent and the rest of you had worked into your contracts that you somehow couldn’t be terminated for not fulfilling your obligations. So, instead, I sat back and tolerated it, tried my hardest to pull a decent product kicking and screaming out of the jaws of your mediocrity, week after week, and tried not to convince myself that it was hopeless.

Maybe I succeeded and maybe I failed. I’m sure since you’re all trying to get under my skin you’ll say that I fell on my face. In any case, I don’t have to deal with it anymore. By the end of my tenure I was completely exhausted of you and only too happy to drop the reigns in somebody else’s lap, and I’m in a position now to wash my hands of you. I want you to fail, IWC. I want this place to close down. It deserves to collapse, if only for being such a goddamned insult to people who are actually capable of thinking. You want a match with me next Riot! Too Mag? Awesome. Another squash match should do wonders for driving away the IWC faithful, and that is what will happen every time you come face to face with me. Let’s keep going, though. Let’s pair up competitors that have already fought thousands of times and make the audience suffer through yet another rematch. Let’s Put Katelyn Buehler in more main events. Hell, let’s do a whole show where we re-run tape of classic matches like Goldberg vs. Brock Lesnar, Kane and the Undertaker vs. Kronik, and everything involving Trish Stratus. All the better to kill your ratings, my dear.
So that’s why I’m helping Johnny Kingdom: because he drives you people insane. This match at OBE is a direct result of that. The entire federation is gunning for one man. Between people running out from the back dressed up in his old costume, the stable named after John Hughes characters, and a team that could only come up with the name “Motherfuckers” to describe themselves, you’re all ripping yourselves to shreds to come and get him. You can’t wait. The backstage area is anarchy, and I love every second of it. People don’t know who to trust. Alliances are going to break. Chaos will reign, and ultimately that is what I want. You see, I’m not the type that enjoys a nice, tidy world filled with shiny happy people. I like cities that are being destroyed by rioters. I like to be reminded from time to time that as awful as the world seems with its Britney Spears, John and Kate, and Rush Limbaughs, we’re only one good-sized meteor falling out of the sky from sweet, final oblivion. I cheered for the balloon boy, if only because if the son of a bitch had crashed we would have had to listen to even more media coverage, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have laughed hysterically if a 747 had sucked his little tin-foil dirigible into an engine and led to a violent, flaming plane crash in the middle of a downtown suburb.

I’m very much in favor of the George Carlin philosophy on life, now. When I hear about a disaster on the news I want to drive there and look at the bodies. When there are wildfires in California, I want to find the idiot that forgot to douse their campfire and give them a medal. I want to watch the world burn, to put it bluntly, because I’m tired of its bullshit. It’s time for a new age. This experiment in civilization has clearly failed, and we’re overdue for God to open up the heavens with a forty day flood reset button on this shitty planet. So that’s why I’m working with Johnny Kingdom, kids, because I want to do my part. I figure I can start here, with the IWC, by listening to your wailing when, yet again, despite your thoughts about justice and fairness, you fail to dethrone the most hated man in professional wrestling. Despite your best hopes, despite all of your planning and scheming and striving over the last month, you’ll fail again, and I’ll love every second of stepping on your tiny little dreams and popping them under my boot.

It makes me smile, you see.

Checklist

[Unlike all the exciting and entertaining surroundings associated with the other gripping promos done for the Overbooked Extravaganza Tag Team Gauntlet Match (hereafter referred to as OBETTGM,) AWOL is instead found to be sitting behind an oak desk, as he has done countless times previous, wearing an unremarkable black suit with a piece of paper on a clipboard resting in front of him. The backdrop is grey and unremarkable. It is clear from the start that this is going to be one of those “Match Relevance” promos that everyone is suddenly so fond of. If, however, you require an entertaining plotline (like going trick-or-treating) to keep your attention, feel free to imagine that the grey backdrop is the hull of an airplane preparing to drop an atom bomb on Japanese people who have cleverly been redressed to represent allegories of AWOL’s opponents. Or feel free to jump off of a building. Either one works for me.]

AWOL-Based on what I’ve seen thus far, I can sympathize with the struggles many of you are having coming up with anything interesting to do right now for a promo. These…well…the stupid pay-per-view is called the Overbooked Extravaganza, so I guess we knew what we were getting into, but these matches are a pain in the ass to promo for. I understand. As a former winner of the Rumble Bash, I went through the same struggles, and we can’t all do “AWOL kills the Livewire Universe” to seal the deal. So, in the spirit of fair play, I’m going to respond to you via the same method you’re utilizing, namely throwing out offhand comments about each of you in turn to show how unlikely it is you’ll manage to defeat Kingdom and I.

[He reaches over, picking up a clipboard and a pen from the desktop.]

AWOL-First, the newly inspired Too Magnificent and Simon Cagero, the aptly named “Motherfuckers of America.” Cagero wants me to pay more attention to Too Mag, it seems. Apparently, nearly winning the mini-rumble, almost managing to defeat me, and coming darned close to being the last team to enter the main event of the OBETTGM is enough to make you worthy of my attention. Unfortunately, as the cliché goes, close only counts in horseshoes, hand-grenades, and pretending to miss in the dark and “accidentally” initiating anal sex. You didn’t win, Too Mag. You lost. I beat you, personally. Me. The washed up guy. The one who is all smoke and no fire. The one who is past his prime. I beat you. I put your ass over the rope, and won the match. You didn’t. Stop pretending like you proved anything besides that you can actually manage to compete and put on a semi-entertaining show when you have Simon hiding under the ring holding your hand. And fuck you for trying to pretend like I had anything to prove to you. You’re a scrub, you always have been, and until you actually manage to win something meaningful you always will be.

AWOL-And as for you, Simon, first of all, saying fuck eight hundred times in your promo is not a means of making up for the fact that you aren’t entertaining. No amount of F words could save that hyper-manic-depressive pile of cat shit you inflicted on the televisions of all five of your fans last week. Second, I may not have faced this particular personality of yours before, but I have fought Silencer in a world title match and pinned him for a three-count, albeit in one of those bizarre double-pinfalls where I ended up screwed and left with no title and no rematch. Bottom line, we’re a decent match-up of speed versus power, and I’m sort of hoping you do make it to the end of the gauntlet so I can get another shot at that pairing. It would be a moment of actually facing an interesting opponent in an otherwise bland tapestry of IWC “talent.” However, third, you wonder why exactly I don’t take Too Magnificent seriously? You want to understand why I underrate him while at the same time spending most of my final promo for the mini-rumble talking about him? Well, if his history isn’t enough to get the message across, let me go ahead and spell it out for you. I wasn’t responding to Too Mag at the end of that promo, Simon. I was responding to the one who was really doing the talking, you.

AWOL-I actually found your role in the mini-rumble to be a somewhat ironic metaphor for you motherfuckers’ relationship. It may be Too Mag’s motherfucking vochal chords vibrating to create the sounds in his motherfucking promo and his motherfucking face looking at me, but I know as well as you do that they’re your motherfucking words he’s parroting. He’s like a motherfucking puppet with your motherfucking hand up his ass. So yes, motherfucker, I am ignoring his motherfucking rant and I am underrating his motherfucking chances, because I have recognized that the only one with any motherfucking talent on your motherfucking tag-team is motherfucking you…motherfucker.

[AWOL nods, satisfied, and crosses the top name off of the sheet of paper attached to his clipboard.]

AWOL-As for Psycho and Riggs, we’re supposed to be pretending like we’re cooperating right now, so I will conspicuously fail to comment on the sadistic one and everyone’s favorite hero-villain-devil-angel-painted-warrior-voted-most-likely-to-paint-their-face-like-a-geisha-girl wrestler Riggs. Are we working together? Are we colluding? Or will we turn on each other? ONLY TIME WILL TELL.

[He makes ominous googly eyes at the camera for a moment, before crossing off another name on the sheet.]

AWOL-As for Rinse and Spit, well, I’m electing to pretend that Porno Lad’s promos don’t exist, as I’m concerned that my IQ is dropping significantly between reading his work and Katelyn Buehler’s every week for a month. For my own safety, I’m going to go ahead and just fast-forward past whatever you put out there, Porny-Porn. I hope you don’t take it personally. As a corollary to this point, I’m gonna go ahead and assume that even the mentally deranged, treacherous, unhinged Hurse has enough common sense to know that if Porno Lad beats Kingdom for the world title, everybody loses. We know you’ll do the right thing, Steven, and throw him under the bus in the unlikely event you make it through the gauntlet to us. Plus, I stole your collection of Bratz dolls from the locker room as insurance. You can have them back after the match. Whether or not they’re still sealed inside their protective packaging is up to you.

[Another check off of the sheet.]

AWOL-Speaking of Brats, Robin Brooks is teaming with one for this match. I could waste some breath on you, but I’ve been doing that for your shit stable for weeks now and frankly it’s starting to sound repetitive. They couldn’t win against the Empire when they were all still on the same page, let alone when Jackson is passive-aggressively lashing out at them and costing them victories. So, you know, nuff said there.

[Check four.]

AWOL-And finally Christian Saviour and Pat Evans. I don’t really know either of you. I think I beat the hell out of Evans my first week back, but that’s not exactly anything special. So, I will respond to you in kind to the way the pair of you have promoed thus far.

[He stares into the camera for about five minutes, not making any sounds. Finally, after the quiet goes from awkward to just over the top, he checks the final name off of the list. Nodding in satisfaction, he tosses the clipboard over his shoulder and onto the floor.]

AWOL-Well, good to get that out of the way. Now I can get down to the real point here. You guys are all boned at the OBE. There’s really no other way to put it. There is exactly one team in this Gauntlet for whom the match title is a misnomer, my team. This is not a gauntlet for us. This is a regular, everyday tag-team match up with the added gimmick that if somebody manages to pin Kingdom or make him tap out, they become the new champ. The best that the rest of you can hope for is to be the second-to-last team to show up and only have to go through one set of opponents beating the hell out of you before we come down to the ring. Even under normal conditions that would suck.

[AWOL steeples his fingers comfortably on the desk, his face a mask of mock-concern.]

AWOL-But these aren’t normal conditions, kids. Far from it in fact. The team walking out at the end of the show is not your average, every day curtain-jerkers. It’s the World Heavyweight champion and the Biggest, Craziest Bastard this company has ever seen. Most of you probably don’t remember this, but back in the Empire’s heyday we worked together all the time and proclaimed ourselves the World’s Greatest Tag Team. We challenged, no, DARED the roster to prove us wrong. They sent their Orlando Cruze’s and Nathan Creeds and every other piece of supposed talent they had against us, and everyone failed one after the other. The only thing that stopped us was our own dissension and, I can tell you with certainty, that will not be an issue for this match. I couldn’t pin my own partner to win the title if I wanted to, and frankly I wouldn’t even if I could. Being world champ is a pain in the ass, I’m here to tell you. One minute you’re dealing with the three thousandth competitor that somehow thinks that you stumbled into the ring with the former champ and happened to fall ontop of them out of random chance just as they suffered a debilitating three-second-long stroke, and the next the lights go out and some douche-bag from the back is clubbing your skull in with a lead pipe. Been there, done that, not interested in doing it again. So really, as if winning the main-event of a pay-per-view wasn’t enough motivation to get me going, there’s the inevitable fact that if one of you idiots takes the belt off Kingdom my chances of ending up having to put one of you down to take it back go up dramatically.

[He shakes his head in disgust.]

AWOL-That’s what’s waiting for you, gentlemen. That’s the big reward for surviving. That’s the light at the end of the tunnel, the Empire Express barreling down the tracks at full steam and, much like the train from that terrible metaphor, we’re going to run you over in an instant and destroy you utterly. You have a less than slim-chance of victory. Even the most degenerate of gamblers wouldn’t take those odds. The Cubs have a better chance of winning this year’s World Series than you do of pinning Kingdom, and yes Too Mag, I’m aware that they’ve already been eliminated. That’s the joke.

[He gives a wry smile.]

AWOL-And hell, folks, I haven’t even mentioned all the different gamesmanship things we could do to you. Kingdom could just stand out on the apron and never tag in, and there would be nothing you could do to pin him. I wouldn’t even blame him. I’d think it would be funny as hell, in fact, if only so I could watch you people fume. Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take most of the teams in this match on my own regardless. Or he could just say in the back. Or he could hit one of you with a chair and get disqualified. Or any of a million different ways we could end up screwing you idiots out of the title. So do yourselves a favor. Have a good-time in the match before we get there. Set up your place in the highlight reel. Jump off of some tall stuff. Hit people with weapons. Maybe pin some people to win an undercard title belt. Get it all out of your system before Kingdom and I come down to the ring, but don’t delude yourselves into thinking you really have a chance at walking out of this match with the World Title. It’s coming in over Kingdom’s shoulder, and it will leave in the same place. I guarantee it.

[He gives a smile and a wave as the camera fades out.]

Criticism

The image is extremely disorienting for a moment as the camera is turned on, before it finally comes to rest as the camera is set down flat on a level surface. The shot reveals AWOL sitting in front of a large panel of instrumentation containing innumerable dials and audio controls. He is flanked on all sides by television monitors which are currently blacked out. He clears his throat, looking down into the lens to check that it’s lined up, and opens his mouth to speak.

AWOL-It’s been a long time since I’ve bothered to run a clinic like this, but I’ve decided that I’m overdue. The bottom line is the IWC is trying to put out a viable product every week, gentlemen, and the metric by which this is measured is ratings. To be honest, I’ve seen the returns from what you people are putting out this week and they’re simply not that good. Atrocious, that would be a good word for them. So consider this an effort at improving the company. Let it not be said that I’m to do my part.

A burst of rhythmic thumping comes from outside of the shot.

AWOL-Ah, yes, I’ve been taking some of your advice as well, you’ll note. Clearly I’ve spent entirely too much time trying to portray myself as a thinking, feeling human being, based on your expert criticisms. So I’ve hereby broken into the IWC audio-visual truck, attacked the tech who was working here, and locked him inside the closet. Ooooh, look out wrestling fans. The monster AWOL is back. Lock up your women and children! AWOL’s not just smoke with no fire anymore!

AWOL wiggles his fingers sarcastically at the camera lens.

AWOL-But seriously guys, this has been a pretty sad effort from the lot of you. I had a lot of hopes for this week. I truly did. The assemblage of what I was told was the best talent that IWC had to offer was really something I was looking forward to, until I saw what was actually waiting for me in this match. Time and time again, I’ve heard how people like Jackson Adams and Pat Evans have made this place what it is, and, well, I guess given my general opinion of the company at this point I suppose that I can see the truth of that statement.

Another rustle of noise from off camera.

Voice-“Hello? What’s going on?

AWOL-You’re locked in a closet. Be thankful that I only did that, because I’m truly a madman, and could have done far worse.

He makes a masturbatory movement in the air, rolling his eyes.

Voice-Well, um, so what are you going to do? Why’d you lock me in here?

AWOL-I’m going to show mocking clips of my opponents’ promos. I locked you in there to show how strong I am, since that’s sort of the big guy thing to do in promos, I guess. It makes me look tough. Try to keep up, Steve.

He looks back towards the camera.

AWOL-I suppose that’s enough introductory blather. First let’s check in on what Jackson Adams had to contribute to the match build-up.

AWOL flips a switch, causing one of the screens to light up with static. He watches it for a moment before turning back to the screen.

AWOL-Apparently he’s still working on it. No doubt he’s trying to come up with more promos where he decides he’s not working for the Brat Pack anymore despite the fact that he is, in fact, working with them every week, or at least pretending to. I would wonder why no one in the Brat Pack has pointed out this obvious contradiction, but I’ve faced them the last two weeks, so I’m well aware that they are barely even cognizant of their surroundings. We’ll check in on Adams later. I’m sure whatever he’s coming up with will be brilliant.

He toggles some more controls, bringing up another screen.

AWOL-As to you, Porno Lad, I’ve been waiting for a match with you for awhile now. I appear to have hit a nerve with you by having the temerity to imply that the self proclaimed “one and only ace the man that will take this company into the next era of greatness” may, in fact, be less than the pinnacle of wrestling success that he claims to be. As a matter of fact, I out and out said that the reason I had no respect for the IWC as it stands today is because you are in it, simple as that, and had at the time somehow managed to stumble into a championship of some type. I’ll admit, I hadn’t exactly looked into you to any great depth…what the fuck do I call you exactly? Porn? Lad? Whatever. Anyway, I hadn’t looked into you at any great depth at that point in time. I just assumed that anyone who didn’t take himself serious enough to come up with a name besides Porno Lad wasn’t worth my time to take seriously as well. I don’t think you can really blame me. But boy, let me tell you, after this week, I can see that I clearly made a mistake. Check it out.

He flips some switches on the panel, activating another of the monitors.

“Porno Lad: You look hotter then Cheetra when she was all naked in the first episode of Thunder cats.

Suzie giggles and smiles in her trade mark bubbly manner

Suzie: And you look as hot as han solo in the empire strikes back.

Porno Lad: I think some one wants to be the victim of some clit diving,

Suzie: Who?

Porno Lad: Err...You..

Suzie: I do I was just complimenting you so youd go down on me later.

Porno Lad: That is what I meant. By the way awesome work on commentary on riot as usual. I had a boner several times.

Suzie: That was exactly what I was going for and to reference 80's pop culture as many times as possible.

Porno Lad: So did you check your house for ladders, black cats, broken mirrors or boys 2 men cds?

Suzie: Nope I checked everywhere maybe its a ghost that doesnt want us to have sex.”

AWOL shakes his head.

AWOL-Truly riveting. Let’s see more.

“Suzie: You know I was thinking...

Porno LAd: About?

Suzie: Are little curse did you ever make a leperchaun mad?

Porno Lad: Not to my knowledge but I do have a general distaste for the irish.

Suzie: You do want to have sex with me right?

Porno Lad: I am porno Lad Suzie I am all about sex and you are hot of course I want to have sex with you.

Suzie: Oh ok thats good I thought you had some sort of subconcious thing going on or something.

Porno Lad: No of course not Suzie being with you is the best thing that happened to me since i successfully completed my collection of golden girls dvds. I got to go to the bath room.

Suzie: Oh ok.”

AWOL’s face is twisting into a derisive smile, despite his efforts to maintain an expression of awe.

AWOL-I mean, I’ve seen some epic work in my time, but this is truly something else. And here’s one more clip.

“Katelyn: Come on don't I look hot

Katelyn whines she looked hot no question but she still was the bitch responsible for me getting my first loss. That loss was to her infact giving my credibility a total nut shot. Because you see
Katelyn isnt a wrestler well she wasnt until a couple of months ago. She has little to no talent and gets by from the help of others or just dumb luck. Or I can't forget giving referee's blow jobs
so that they will give her opponents fast counts when she happens to luck out and get a pin fall in.

Porno Lad: You look like a title stealing whore. Dont you got an Ass kicking to prepare for.

Katelyn: Don't you got one to prepare for to.

Porno Lad: No because I dont get my ass kick I kick ass. Because unlike you I have awesome no amazing no ashtonishing amazing talent. And on Riot well your nursing your wounds from Simon Cagero completely
and utterly destroy you.”

Tears are honestly starting to form at the corner of the big man’s eyes as he strains to hold back the laughter. Finally he just gives up and lets out a full on belly laugh, turning off the offensive Porno clip.

AWOL-I mean, Jesus, Porno Lad, was that last bit even English? “I don’t get my ass kick I kick ass?” Really? That’s what you’re going with? You sound like you’re in junior high. I’ve read eight grade Lit papers that gave a more persuasive argument. I honestly feel like I should apologize to the audience for replaying that, as all of their IQs have been lowered by a point just from hearing that god-awful excuse for entertainment. But no, Porno Lad, you’re right, I did make a mistake taking a cheap shot at you without bothering to check out what you can actually do. If I had looked ahead of time, I wouldn’t have bothered even mentioning your name, as you clearly aren’t worth my time or anyone else’s. All I’ve done is give you something to gripe about and given you far more air time than you deserve. So, do us all a favor Porno Lad. On the way to the ring for Riot!, get lost, crash your car, and die in a fire. We’ll all be better off for it.

AWOL flashes a shit eating grin into the camera before turning in irritation towards the closet, where the thumping has started again.

AWOL-Can I help you?

Steve-What did you hit me with? I think I need a doctor.

AWOL-I just bashed your head into the control panel. You’ll be fine.

Steve-I might have a concussion.

AWOL sighs in irritation.

AWOL-Look, the more times you interrupt me, the longer this promo’s going to be and the longer you’ll have to stay in that closet.

He shakes his head in irritation, turning back to the camera.

AWOL-Then, of course, there’s Riggs. He had this to say.

The screen reactivates, replaying some highlights of the Riggs promo from this week. We watch in rapt attention as the painted warrior’s inner workings are laid bare before our eyes. We relive the pain of his early life, the terrible suffering at the hands of a father that was clearly assembled at the stereotype factory and sent into the world of tormenting young Riggs and his sister, and the inner conflict of Riggs hearing about his sister’s cancer in the letter that is his first communication with her in years. It is all terribly sad. The irony of the girl not wanting young Riggs to wear the scary white mask, which clearly he has ignored in his present life, is not lost on us. However, as the conclusion of the promo makes it clear that Riggs does not really care about his sister, given that he’s just going to come to the match anyway, ultimately neither do we. I guess we can be happy he didn’t just hide in the rafters like he used to do when he wrestled for WCW.

AWOL-I would provide some in depth analysis of this intriguing glance into your soul, Riggs, but ultimately I’m forced to assume you didn’t bother to do the same for me. The only thing you had to say about me is that I’m “All smoke and no fire.” Apparently winning all of my matches since I came back other than one that I lost because, literally, we were beating Katelyn Buehler and Robin Brooks too hard, doesn’t qualify as having any real fire. Whatever. If you’ve got no time for me, Riggs, I’ve got no time for you. I guess I owe you and Psycho one anyways, so I’ll just give you the same sort of in-depth analysis you offered me.

He pauses for a moment, leaning in towards the camera.

AWOL-Ready? Ok, here goes. Gene Simmons called. He wants his look back.

He pauses again, for comedic effect. He blinks. It’s awkward for everyone, really.

AWOL-I would discuss Pat Evans, but frankly you’ve only entered the proceedings at the last minute and, to be honest, the fact that you’re doing a promo about helping someone with their thesis dissertation is mind boggling to me. People probably changed the channel to go watch C-SPAN rather than sit through that. And, really, are you honestly encouraging this Beth woman to put unsubstantiated data into her dissertation? Is your objective to make her fail? Because, frankly, any committee member worth their salt would catch that and burn you in your defense. If you want her to end up having to stick around for her last year or go down to a masters, then carry on, “Professor,” but for the love of god, if you’re listening Beth, don’t listen to anything else that idiot tells you.

AWOL-Which brings me, last but not least, to you Mr. Too Magnificent. You, rather than the rest of these drones, at least seem to be engaged in this match, and my hat is off to you for that. Truly, no one was more surprised than me to note that you were the one leading off the promos this week. I thought “now, here comes someone who really gets it. There’s at least one wrestler in this match that gives a shit.”

His expression darkens.

AWOL-But then, I watched what you had to say.

A dangerous gleam creeps into his eyes.

AWOL-Explain this to me, Too Magnificent. What is it exactly that you wanted to see from everyone this week? What did you want from me? You honestly have the temerity to show up and criticize what anybody else has to say? You? You’re a nobody! Despite your sudden motivation, you haven’t done a damned thing to earn even a second’s respect from me. Get this through your head: I have nothing to prove to you. I’ve got no responsibility to show up and entertain you. If I feel like doing a promo where I sit in front of the camera and pick my nose for fifteen minutes, I’ll god damn well do it and you’ll god damn well watch it, and do you know why? Because I’m a proven commodity. I’ve beaten the REAL best this company has to offer, time and again, and proven that my name deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as Johnny Kingdom and Desolation. I’ve never lost a match to Orlando Cruze. I put Johnny Kingdom on the shelf for nearly a year. I’ve beaten Daemon Frost, Hellkat, the Lethal Weapon, and every other name worth remembering that has ever stepped through the doors to the ULW or the IWC. I headline Pay-Per-Views. I’ve fought in three Weapons Lair matches, and I’ve survived. I’m a decorated competitor in every aspect of the professional wrestling game, from technical to hardcore, and next to Desolation I’m possibly the most experienced wrestler still on the pay-roll for this company today. And yet you, a fucking never-was whose only accomplishment has been forcing us to watch rip-off of Piper’s Pit for years despite the apparent fact that it truly adds nothing to the program has the fucking unmitigated gall to call ME out for making the kind of promos that I want? I mean, it’s not like your shit is “Citizen Kane” or anything. Are you out of your god-damned mind?

AWOL’s face has flushed to an ugly shade of red, contrasted by the white of his knuckles gripped the edge of the control-panel.

AWOL-No, you’re not out of your mind. I know that somebody’s pulling your strings right now, your god-damned hero Simon Cagero. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Simon. I’ve got nothing for him, either, but the guy’s never really bothered me and we’ve mostly been content to ignore each other over the years. But now, since you’re teamed up with him, suddenly you find a voice? And, worse, now you’re starting to march around parroting his lines? This, sir, I cannot abide. Frankly, you are receiving possibly the opportunity of your fucking life starting today and then carrying on into the Overbooked Extravaganza. In a match as stupid and, well, overbooked as the main even at the pay-per-view even a glorified jobber like you has the chance to catch a lucky bounce and end up walking away with a title. This is your chance, and you can’t even cook up your own opinions? Instead you start tossing out that bullshit “Christian Saviour” crap that Cagero and Ackert have been mouthing off with for weeks?

He shakes his head in disgust.

AWOL-I think that’s what’s really pissing me off out of all of this, and it goes as a message to Cagero as well as you, Too Mag. There are few solid platinum rules in this business. You can run your opponent over with a half ton truck, kidnap his wife, and have sex on air in front of a live television audience and you won’t get a punishment worse than a slap on the wrist. But when you put away the fourth wall like that and start dragging things from backstage politics into the ring you have officially crossed a line. I don’t know Saviour, and I don’t even really like him, but when and if he chooses to fucking promo is his deal. You’ve got no business bitching about it on a public forum, and you’ve definitely got no call to bandy around that bullshit term about him. You’re really that worried about when he promos? You think that gives him an advantage? Bullshit. The matches get decided in the ring, bottom line. If you want to beat him, then fucking be better than him. Don’t start whining to the goddamned audience because he takes too long to fucking promo. All you do is make yourself sound like a pathetic, whiny waste of space like those pieces of shit Nash and Hall, playing sad political games to keep themselves relevant.

He’s nearly panting right now. He drums his fingers on the tabletop in irritation before leaping back into the rant.

AWOL-Fuck, you’re upset about me working with Kingdom and Hurse? You want to know why I’m with them? It’s because I respect them. Together we’re still the best assemblage of talent in the company, and to be honest it’s nice associating with people on my own level from time to time. I’m sick to death of people like you, Too Magnificent, and as slimy as Hurse and Kingdom are they’re at least smart enough to recognize my ability and associate with me as an equal. You figured out that a promo titled “Walk Away,” featuring a song titled “Walk Away,” and where my psychiatrist actually looks me in the eye and says to me “Why don’t you just walk away,” has a theme about whether or not I should walk away from the Empire? Good fucking god, I’m so glad you’re here to give us this kind of biting insight, Too Mag. It’s no wonder you’ve had such a spectacular career thus far with that sort of calculating, devious mind. Of course, you completely missed the ironic twist to it where the character I’m portraying (yeah, dickhead, I can break Kay-Fabe too) is walking away from all of what could be good in his life, IE the girl or the psychiatrist, but staying with the Empire, which speaks to the overall self-loathing and general self-destructive tendencies that I’m embodying from week to week. But you missed all that, because like every other stupid fuck that’s gotten paired off with me since I came back, you think I’m here out of some kind of deluded need for self-aggrandizement. Get it through your head. I don’t care what any of you think about me. The fans can boo. They can cheer. They can sit on their goddamned hands and do the Sudoku puzzle for all I care. As long as they keep buying tickets and pay-per-views and bringing in my pay-check week after week, I could care less. And, hey, here’s a thought, you don’t suppose my staying in a group that’s on the Empire’s level wouldn’t, perhaps, be a good way to ensure that that keeps happening, would it?

AWOL throws off a sarcastic wink, his breathing finally slowing.

AWOL-Ultimately, of course, this is all just so much bullshit. I mean, honestly, everyone in this match raise your hand if you’ve ever won the Rumble Bash.

He raises his hand.

AWOL-That’s what I thought. So fuck all of you, and fuck any idea you’ve ever had that somehow you have any right to criticize me. See you in the ring, right before I see your asses going flying out of it.

He stands up, throwing open the door of the production truck and walking out into the day. The chair spins idly in a circle from the momentum of his exit. The door slams shut, and the room sits idly silent for a moment, until finally another thump comes from the closet.

Steve-Um, hello? Can somebody let me out now?

Walk Away

Give sorrow words: The grief that does not speak
Whispers the o’er –fraught heart and bids it break.
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act IV Scene III

***

Smoke curls lazily in the long beams of a spotlight, filling the upper seats of the stadium with equal parts stench of nicotine and cannabis. An electric guitar belts out a mournful wail that echoes through the rafters, and the crowd erupts.

“I'm sorry for the demon I've become
You should be sorry for the angel you are not
I apologize for the cruel things that I did
But I don't regret one single word I said”

AWOL stands in the open window of a luxury box, staring passively down to the stage. Five Finger Death Punch is performing their single “Walk Away” to the delight of the mass of people below. The bald behemoth watches idly as the masses of humanity swirl in the mosh pit, a controlled cauldron of chaos boiling violently and trying to simultaneously destroy itself and flow out over the sides of the general admission floor. Security undoubtedly has more than their hands full with the madhouse that is developing below.

***

“Tell me about the Empire,” Dr. Ferraro asks, her pencil poised expectantly behind the yellow legal pad. AWOL shifts in his seat in response, clearly uncomfortable with the question.

“I don’t know that I should really answer that,” he responds, “You’re not going to understand, and I’ll just end up having to rationalize another decision that makes no sense to you.”

“I understand that it’s a business decision,” she countered. “You have a need to push a product. It’s your job. Your group has a lot of history that the fans will respond to. I understand that completely, Anthony, What I don’t understand is your reluctance to discuss it. These are former associates, aren’t they? Why are you so concerned about working with them again?”

“Associates?” AWOL responds. Coming from his lips, the word sounds like a curse. “Given the choice, I sincerely doubt that I would have ever ‘associated’ with them again. These are men I had removed from my life, doctor, people I was glad to have gone. And now…” he shakes his head in irritation, “Now I’m right back where I was years ago. I’m walking into the fires for them. I’m going out every week and pretending that I care about their agenda. I’m…I’m basically acting like the people I used to enjoy breaking down in front of all the fans. I’m acting like a stooge.”

She arches an eyebrow. An eager gleam starts to show up in her dark eyes in response to this admission, the first time AWOL has opened up about anything since coming to her. “Why don’t you walk away?” she asks, “You were doing alright on your own. Why did you decide to go back with them anyways?”

“I needed their help,” he admits, releasing another sigh that seems to come from somewhere in the bottom of his boots. “Maybe I’m getting as old as some of them say I am, but I just don’t care to get mobbed by people like the Brat Pack anymore. I’m sure I’d win in the end, but it’s just easier if there’s someone watching my back.”

“It must be nice to finally have someone you can trust.”

A bitter smile appears on AWOL’s face as he shakes his head in denial. “Doc, Hurse ran me over with a car once. Johnny Kingdom broke our stable apart the first time because I had the audacity to win the Rumble Bash and challenge him for the World Title, and for kicks gave me such a complete mind-fucking that…well, I did some things that even I am not proud of. They’re possibly the least trustworthy people on the whole roster.” He drums his fingers idly on the armrest of the couch and looks up, finally looking Dr. Ferraro in the eye.

“I must really be a miserable bastard, if those are the closest things to friends I can find in the IWC.”

***

Just walk away make it easy on yourself
Just walk away please release me from this hell
Just walk away there’s just nothing left to feel
Just walk away pretend that none of this is real

***

AWOL is walking through the crowd milling aimlessly in the luxury box, heading towards a bar set up near the back. He pauses, however, his head turning towards a raven-haired beauty standing near another of the windows. She, too, seems to have lost interest in the riot breaking out in front of the stage. She pulls her cigarette back to her black-painted lips, taking a long, thoughtful drag as she looks the former champion up and down appraisingly, a slight glimmer of approval appearing in her green eyes.

They hold each others’ gaze across the crowded room for moments that seem to stretch on forever. Between the screams of the band, the roar of the crowd, and the conversations surrounding them no words can be passed. None are needed. Both feel the need equally, and a communication that is deeper, more complete than words passes through the smoke-filled air.

AWOL turns and walks towards the exit. A moment later, she drops her cigarette into a neighbor’s beer glass and follows close behind.

***

Could you forgive me if I told you that I cared?
Would you be sorry if I swore that I'd be there?
Plese forgive me for laughing when you'd fall
I'm so sorry but I never cared at all

***

“You are certainly a victim of your circumstances, Anthony, but I’m afraid that the only person defining your circumstances is you.” Dr. Ferraro shakes her head regretfully. “You elected to take the paycheck by returning to the IWC. You accepted the bonus for rejoining the Empire, and you’re the one who is choosing to continue serving as their hatchet man. From what you’ve told me, your teammates are facing weak opposition together this week while you’re left, alone, to face five of the company’s better competitors. That doesn’t seem terribly fair.”

“It isn’t, but it’s not like I expect anything different. I understand who Kingdom and Hurse are looking out for, the men in the mirror. I’m useful to them for now, and I’ll stay that way by winning this week. There’s a certain logic to it, I suppose. I’ve won an over the top rope rumble before against the entire roster. I’ll be the most physically dominant competitor in the ring. But, seriously, the bottom line is this match is going to be hellacious, and pretty much anything can happen in this sort of cluster-fuck. It’s safer for them, and safer for their win-loss records, to have me do this for them. And hey, if I win, we get to walk into the pay-per-view as the last team in the gauntlet.”

He laughs bitterly. “So it’s a win-win for everybody, or at least everybody whose opinion counts.”

***

Just walk away make it easy on yourself
Just walk away please release me from this hell
Just walk away there’s just nothing left to feel
Just walk away pretend that none of this is real

***

The woman walks up to the hotel room door, sliding the key card into the lock. Her breath puffs out in surprised arousal, a white ghostly wisp twisting into the cold autumn air, as his hand closes around her arm, engulfing the death’s head tattoo adorning her upper bicep.

He spins her around to face him, a predatory gleam in his eyes. She matches it, leaping forward and devouring his lips hungrily with her own. AWOL engulfs her small frame in his arms, lifting her into the air and carrying her through into the hotel room.

The door slams shut behind them as the guitar solo from “Walk Away” bellows into the night sky.

***

Dr. Ferraro looks on, sadly, as AWOL stares out the window of her office. His face is lined by the shadows of her venetian blinds and his empty, broken expression.

“Why, AWOL?” she finally says, causing him to turn back towards her. “Why put yourself through this? Why work with the Empire again?”

He waits a moment, the dull look to his eyes clearly showing his internal search for answers. “You have to understand,” he finally responds, “We’re still the best team that professional wrestling has probably ever seen. I mean, I’m prone to hyperbole at times, but I’m not exaggerating here. We are that damned good. Even one hundred percent dysfunctional, with half of us falling apart mentally and nobody trusting anyone, there is literally no one on the roster who can stand up to us. The Empire is the greatest assembly of talent I’ve ever had the chance to work with, and even with our ridiculous history I can’t turn up an opportunity to be a part of this. I just can’t.”

The words echo hollowly, belying them to both of their ears. He sighs, “Or maybe I really did need the help. The Brat Pack are better, or at least more numerous, than I had imagined. Even with Jackson Adams tearing them apart from the inside they haven’t gone away. And there’s whatever game Psycho and Riggs are playing to think about. Hell, even Too Magnificent seems to have it out for me, for whatever reason. The protection is worth the risk.”

He shakes his head, still not satisfied. Finally he rests a hand over his eyes, leaning forward on the couch.

“Or maybe I was just tired of being alone.”

***

“Just walk away make it easy on us both”

The sun rises over the horizon, illuminating the hotel room door. The knob turns a moment before sliding open to reveal AWOL.

“Just walk away there was never any hope”

He steps out front, turning around for just a moment to look back. From the shadows of the bed, a pale arm limply hangs down the side, black painted fingernails nearly reaching the cheap hotel room carpet. The sunlight rests momentarily on the death’s head tattoo, the still form not responding to the sudden warmth and illumination, before the door slides shut.

“Just walk away you already know the deal”

AWOL hangs the “Do Not Disturb” sign over the handle before reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out a black pair of sunglasses. He places them on his face, his expression unreadable, and slowly walks towards the parking lot.

“Just walk away pretend that none of this was, none of this was, real”

***