An Imaginary Monolith of Purported Prosperity
Feb 23, 2021 1:20:17 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Dave D-Flipz, and 2 more like this
Post by Justin on Feb 23, 2021 1:20:17 GMT -5
“Let me make this crystal clear.”
It’s cold. Thin, acrid air floats on the almost nonexistent atmosphere.
“I am the Champion of Northern Pro Wrestling. This ain’t about acronyms or weight divisions. You can call it the East Canadian Maple Syrup Grand Prix or the All Universal Canadian Heavyweight Hubcap, you could melt it down into a tiara or turn it into a gauntlet or you could have a six foot tall trophy commissioned, only to be carried around on a dais by four naked guys with my name written on their chests in blood.”
The ceilings are high, uncomfortably so. Impossible arches find their gothic peaks nestled far enough away that the naked eye can’t quite put together the formula to the architecture. You might even call it a high-definition optical illusion.
“There’s been some scuttlebutt that maybe I’ve gotten lazy, or worse, maybe I’ve gotten bored. There’s even a small but vocal contingent convinced I’m on my heels, backpedaling and pre-dispensing excuses like some kind of orange mongoloid with a Twitter obsession and an uncanny resemblance to industrial strength teflon.”
The Champion, Eric Dane, sits proudly on his throne, perched atop an unsightly pile of outdated trophies, retired title belts, magazine covers, and action figures all glued together by the corpses of a thousand wrestlers who’d put in career-best performances and laid it all on the line just for the opportunity to get a little Only Star dust from spending their fifteen minutes of fame in the ring entangled with an athlete the calibre of Eric Dane.
“So right now I’d like to go ahead and curb any further misunderstandings about myself, my position in the company, or my opinion of my esteemed challenger.”
The North American Double Crown sits proudly and defiantly atop its own pillow-topped pedestal, jutting out like a middle finger from the flotsam and jetsam of the base of this entire ridiculous visualization.
“Since the day I landed in NPW, a bought and paid for favor to Gus Arnold may I remind you, I have remained the single top draw that this company has ever produced, purchased, borrowed, or stolen. When I got here Gus was putting nobodies like Gordon Carlson and Oxford Osland in the main events week in and week out. Anybody remember Gentry McCray or Esteban Fuentes? On January 28th last year, the first night that I ever set foot in an NPW building, the main event was between two tag teams whose names I can’t even remember.”
“I’ve got ten stacks for anybody that can name a single man in that match without looking it up. Is that a potshot at Northern Pro Wrestling? To the heathen masses maybe it is. To anybody with two cortexes gangbanging a brainstem it’s more like a simple statement of fact. Northern Pro had been the Little Territory that Could up until the day that Eric Dane changed the game entirely simply by showing up.”
The Champ smirks, cocksure and oozing mockery.
“And by the way.”
He scoffs, annoyed at being forced into teaching this particular lesson on this particular date. Not that today is anything special, just that the students should be.
“Who do you think actually brokered the deal with the XHF Network?”
“Nevermind the weeks of preliminary discussions and the months of negotiations, Mongo and Gus are never in a fucking room together without Eric Dane.”
“There is no NPW on the XHF Network without Eric Dane.”
Pale, icy blue eyes roll. Heavy is the head and all that.
“Since then?”
“Every Tom, Dick, and Alex fucking Turner has come through. It’s been a revolving door of has-beens and who’s-nexts, groping and grabbing at any opportunity, any dropped crumb from the table set by myself, The Only Star, the apex Champion and face of this company. And that brings me to you, Lord Dominicus.”
Theatrically and with much gusto The Only Star clears his throat.
“Excuse me, the REAL Lord Dominicus. Who is --by his own admission-- borrowing somebody else’s schtick and throwing a whole lot of effort into doing a barely passable job of it. You’re a hack, friend, a ne’er-do-well who’s never done well not because you’re unskilled, but because you’re uncreative and dangerously certain of your own worth.”
Thumbs up! Middle finger.
“That’s not a testament to my opinions on your abilities as a wrestler or whatever it is that you identify as. No, that’s more of a hot take on my thoughts about you as a human being, you smarmy, pedantic piece of shit. I’m sure that you’re really good at doing moves and other exciting grappling mechanics such as running the ropes or doing something flippy for whatever reason! None of that garbage matters when the bell rings though, now does it? No amount of anything you could ever come up with is going to matter when it’s over and done with because as you’ve already so eloquently put it, this match is a done deal.”
“The fix is in.”
“You can’t win.”
“Past that you’re overthinking it. I can beat you a thousand ways, from a bridging butterfly suplex to a good ol’ fashioned Tennessee Stud sugar hold! I could thumb you in the eye just to spin your mask sideways and then take a handful of tights while I’ve got my feet on the ropes and once my hand is raised and my name is once again announced as still the Champion I can be secure in my worth no matter who you try to convince that you’ve won some kind of moral victory by telling people that I cheat and I win with outside interference.”
“Newsflash, junior, I do it on TV in front of recording cameras for a reason! It’s so that no matter how far and how wide and how thorough you might be in your burial of me, my friends, and how we conduct our business atop this promotion, I’ll always have all the proof I need that I’m better than you ever even thought you could be.”
“My name is Eric Dane, and I am Northern Pro Wrestling.”
It’s cold. Thin, acrid air floats on the almost nonexistent atmosphere.
“I am the Champion of Northern Pro Wrestling. This ain’t about acronyms or weight divisions. You can call it the East Canadian Maple Syrup Grand Prix or the All Universal Canadian Heavyweight Hubcap, you could melt it down into a tiara or turn it into a gauntlet or you could have a six foot tall trophy commissioned, only to be carried around on a dais by four naked guys with my name written on their chests in blood.”
The ceilings are high, uncomfortably so. Impossible arches find their gothic peaks nestled far enough away that the naked eye can’t quite put together the formula to the architecture. You might even call it a high-definition optical illusion.
“There’s been some scuttlebutt that maybe I’ve gotten lazy, or worse, maybe I’ve gotten bored. There’s even a small but vocal contingent convinced I’m on my heels, backpedaling and pre-dispensing excuses like some kind of orange mongoloid with a Twitter obsession and an uncanny resemblance to industrial strength teflon.”
The Champion, Eric Dane, sits proudly on his throne, perched atop an unsightly pile of outdated trophies, retired title belts, magazine covers, and action figures all glued together by the corpses of a thousand wrestlers who’d put in career-best performances and laid it all on the line just for the opportunity to get a little Only Star dust from spending their fifteen minutes of fame in the ring entangled with an athlete the calibre of Eric Dane.
“So right now I’d like to go ahead and curb any further misunderstandings about myself, my position in the company, or my opinion of my esteemed challenger.”
The North American Double Crown sits proudly and defiantly atop its own pillow-topped pedestal, jutting out like a middle finger from the flotsam and jetsam of the base of this entire ridiculous visualization.
“Since the day I landed in NPW, a bought and paid for favor to Gus Arnold may I remind you, I have remained the single top draw that this company has ever produced, purchased, borrowed, or stolen. When I got here Gus was putting nobodies like Gordon Carlson and Oxford Osland in the main events week in and week out. Anybody remember Gentry McCray or Esteban Fuentes? On January 28th last year, the first night that I ever set foot in an NPW building, the main event was between two tag teams whose names I can’t even remember.”
“I’ve got ten stacks for anybody that can name a single man in that match without looking it up. Is that a potshot at Northern Pro Wrestling? To the heathen masses maybe it is. To anybody with two cortexes gangbanging a brainstem it’s more like a simple statement of fact. Northern Pro had been the Little Territory that Could up until the day that Eric Dane changed the game entirely simply by showing up.”
The Champ smirks, cocksure and oozing mockery.
“And by the way.”
He scoffs, annoyed at being forced into teaching this particular lesson on this particular date. Not that today is anything special, just that the students should be.
“Who do you think actually brokered the deal with the XHF Network?”
“Nevermind the weeks of preliminary discussions and the months of negotiations, Mongo and Gus are never in a fucking room together without Eric Dane.”
“There is no NPW on the XHF Network without Eric Dane.”
Pale, icy blue eyes roll. Heavy is the head and all that.
“Since then?”
“Every Tom, Dick, and Alex fucking Turner has come through. It’s been a revolving door of has-beens and who’s-nexts, groping and grabbing at any opportunity, any dropped crumb from the table set by myself, The Only Star, the apex Champion and face of this company. And that brings me to you, Lord Dominicus.”
Theatrically and with much gusto The Only Star clears his throat.
“Excuse me, the REAL Lord Dominicus. Who is --by his own admission-- borrowing somebody else’s schtick and throwing a whole lot of effort into doing a barely passable job of it. You’re a hack, friend, a ne’er-do-well who’s never done well not because you’re unskilled, but because you’re uncreative and dangerously certain of your own worth.”
Thumbs up! Middle finger.
“That’s not a testament to my opinions on your abilities as a wrestler or whatever it is that you identify as. No, that’s more of a hot take on my thoughts about you as a human being, you smarmy, pedantic piece of shit. I’m sure that you’re really good at doing moves and other exciting grappling mechanics such as running the ropes or doing something flippy for whatever reason! None of that garbage matters when the bell rings though, now does it? No amount of anything you could ever come up with is going to matter when it’s over and done with because as you’ve already so eloquently put it, this match is a done deal.”
“The fix is in.”
“You can’t win.”
“Past that you’re overthinking it. I can beat you a thousand ways, from a bridging butterfly suplex to a good ol’ fashioned Tennessee Stud sugar hold! I could thumb you in the eye just to spin your mask sideways and then take a handful of tights while I’ve got my feet on the ropes and once my hand is raised and my name is once again announced as still the Champion I can be secure in my worth no matter who you try to convince that you’ve won some kind of moral victory by telling people that I cheat and I win with outside interference.”
“Newsflash, junior, I do it on TV in front of recording cameras for a reason! It’s so that no matter how far and how wide and how thorough you might be in your burial of me, my friends, and how we conduct our business atop this promotion, I’ll always have all the proof I need that I’m better than you ever even thought you could be.”
“My name is Eric Dane, and I am Northern Pro Wrestling.”
