Of Masks and Men

[robriot]

A robed, hooded figure sits on a throne atop a flight of stone steps, flanked on each side by a burning torch.

The camera is some distance from the seated figure when the recording begins, but it gets closer one echoing footstep at a time. As the camera draws nearer, a voice rings out. Booming. Foreboding. Speaking words of dread.

"During the time of endings, in a castle of pain, a man sat alone on a throne of blood. From that throne, he saw the Kingdom. From that throne, he reigned with an iron fist. From that throne, he ordered men to their deaths and consigned whole civilisations to the flames."

We’re at the foot of the steps now, and we’re progressing up them a single step at a time as the voice continues.

"No matter where that man went, no matter who he conquered, he always returned to the throne. No matter what was won. No matter what was lost. No matter what it cost. From this throne, he embraced the void. From this throne, he became self-sufficient. On this throne, he became feared. Demons spake his name, and angels trembled in fear, for the man on the throne had learned one great lesson; a lesson he would speak into infinity. Do you know what the lesson was?"

By this time, the camera is mere inches from the man’s hooded face. He reaches up slowly and pulls the hood down.

There, with a freshly-shaven head, is Rob Riot, holding some kind of voice-altering gadget to his mouth.

“It’s that anyone with a limitless budget and a limited imagination can do theatrics. Hello, Don.”

Riot stands up and discards the robe. He bends down, picks up a bucket of water, and extinguishes the torches. Dusting off his hands, he takes his time coming down the stairs, leaving the sodden torches to drift smoke across the scene. When he gets to the bottom step, he tosses away the vocoder. No more theatrics. Reality.

"It's not exactly 'Man makes metal mask in a scary manner,' I accept, but it's very 'you,' isn't it? Honestly, I don't know where you find the time. Someone's got to make the props, someone's got to write the B-movie dialogue for you - it has to be exhausting trying so hard to convince the world that you're something that you're not, but kudos to you - you keep trying. There you are; I gave you a compliment. Consider that a form of apology for the crude sexual metaphors I used last time I spoke to you; I was very angry at the time. I've calmed down a little now, and I've done some thinking. The same thought keeps coming to me, and it's this; I just don't know why you're here, Don."

He shakes his head.

"I just don't know why you're here. The last time you spoke to me - other than that brave assault on an old man at the end of Legacy - you accused me of putting your name in my mouth, but that isn't how it happened, is it? You put the names of The Bastards onto your tongue. You put my name into your mouth, and you did it the moment The Battle of the Bastards came to an end. See, I understand Mr Blood getting his knickers in a twist about that, but why did it matter to you, Don? Why did it get you so worked up? Why could you talk about nothing else the next time you knocked up one of your direct-to-streaming horror movie sets and found someone to record you? That doesn't make sense. There's no logic to it save for one strand, and it's the same strand that I pulled at last time. Desperation for relevance. It's in everything you say and everything you do. I asked you where you'd been. Man, did that ever draw a bite."

Taking a second to adjust his stance, Riot pulls out his best Donzig impression.

”I started a war with Von Krauss! I drove a war stick into the chest of the Founder! I stabbed a man in the eye! I stole an elephant! I hit Eddie D with a steel chair! I set a man on fire! I’m bad, I’m bad, I’m bad!”

He drops the impression.

“And you have the audacity to tell me that Adam West never needed to tell the world that he’s Batman?”

He was about to continue, but he genuinely corpses. He can’t help himself. He laughs out loud.

“Don, the last man who ran around screaming ‘I’m bad’ as much as you do was Michael Jackson, and we all know how that ended. At least Michael Jackson had star presence and taught the world a dance. You’ve given the world nothing. The only thing you have in common with Michael Jackson is that I’m one hundred per cent willing to believe that you drug and molest children when nobody’s watching. Lord knows you look like the type.”

Beat. He’s going to let that one settle for a moment before he picks up.

"I've never needed to cite my own brutality. I've indulged in a bit of the old ultra-violence many times over, but I don't make it my whole persona. It isn't even close to being the most interesting thing about me, and I don't shout about it before a wrestling match. The thing is, Don, I'm sure some guys do worry about facing you. They worry about facing a guy who's capable of doing all of those things, the same as you'd worry about sharing a prison cell with a murderer. Do you know what none of them worry about when they face you? Wrestling. Because all of this excess, all of the theatrics, all of the violence - it's all there to mask the fact that as a professional wrestler, you've never meant a damn thing, and you never will. Do you know why people are wary of facing me, Don? Because I'm Rob Riot. And that's the only thing that needs to get into their heads. Name value. Now, before you go scrambling for a camera, let me predict what you're going to say.

The Donzig impression is back.

"This isn't a wrestling match, Rob! This is a death match, and I'm the King of the Death Match! Your wrestling skills count for nothing here; I'll maim you! I'll make the void call your name! You might win a wrestling match, but you'll never win a fight with me!"

With one hand - and somewhat demeaningly - he performs the universal gesture for "chat, chat, chat."

"Et cetera, et cetera. But what happens when you're not even that anymore, Don? What happens when everything's been taken away from you? You still don't get it. You still don't see what's right in front of your eyes. You think I give a shit about your curtain-jerker championship - the one that you won because nobody else wanted it? You saw me throw the Commonwealth Championship down; what in the world makes you think I care about your pre-show title? I don't. You're clinging on to two things coming into Dominion - that championship, and this fairytale where you tell yourself that nobody can beat you in your own signature match. Well, I can, Don. I can, I will, and I'll do it purely because I know it matters to you. I'm going to take that championship. I'm going to destroy the myth that you're the King of the Deathmatch. We're going to find out who you are when all the lies are finally exposed and the world is forced to see you as you really are. The little boy who lied. Not a monster. Not a demon. Not a god. Not a champion. Not a king. Just a sad, weak little boy who's lost all his toys."

With a shake of his head that could be interpreted as pity, Riot prepares to walk away, but then he pulls a Columbo, snapping his fingers.

“Oh, and one more thing. That mask you’ve been making. Bring it to the ring. Wear it in the ring, in fact. You’re going to need that for your own protection. Without it, you’re going to be left even more exposed and embarrassed than I intend you to be. Why? Because I’m going to cave your face in so badly that by the time I’m done, there’ll be nothing left. I’ll wipe your identity away. By the time I’m finished, nobody’s going to look at your face and see Donzig anymore. All they’re going to see…is Blood.”

Turning around, Riot counts the walls in the pretend throne room, pointing at them as he does.

“One wall. Two walls. Three walls. Oh - looks like there’s one missing.”

Without saying another word, he steps away from those three walls, past the camera, and out of the shot.

Fin.