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I coughed myself awake. As my eyes sprang deliriously open, I was greeted with blurred vision and a throbbing headache. My mouth tasted like I'd vomited up an ash-tray. My stomach felt like I'd swallowed a knife.
This was about two years ago.
I rolled onto my side and hocked some flegm into my palm. Wiping it on the side of the bed, my vision began to clear. The first thing I saw was a picture of me. A massive life-sized poster, in fact. Though my brain was muddy and my vision askew, I knew I was not in my own house.
I took a few seconds to gain a semblance of composure. As my eyes gently restored themselves to working order, I scanned the area around the poster. It was a wall full of posters. Posters of me, of Justin Timberlake, of... some guys I didn't recognize. Confused, I rolled over and a found a body sleeping beside me. A quick gaze at the form caused me to rule the gender as female. Long red hair flowed in my direction and a naked white shoulder stood just prised from the blanket that covered the rest of her body. Dazed thoughts blurred as I tried to recall how I'd arrived to this destination. No explanation was forthcoming.
I took in the vision ahead of me curiously. From behind she looked gorgeous. A tinge of pride made it's way through the myriad of horrible feelings invading my body. Trying to remain still and not awaken my co-pilot, I gazed further around the room. More posters of pop-stars and boy-toys and there were little trinkets littered everywhere. And hanging from the door, a school dress.
Fear gripped me like a prison rapist. I violently turned to the girl's back and examined it, searching vainly for a sign she was of age. As I did, a violent tingling made itself known in my groinal area. I needed to piss. Bad.
A mess of thoughts, I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe it's not her dress, I thought. Hungover as I was, I couldn't find the next leap of logic to make that seem palatable. I tried once again to remember the events of the previous night. Again I failed. Between the headache, my sick-tasting mouth and my yearning piss-filled love untensil, I couldn't find a clear thought to save my life. My mind was screaming like a stabbed baby. But it all stopped at the sound of a voice.
"You're awake."
I turned to face the sound. Lying next to me, now looking in my direction, was the girl in the bed. I was right. She was gorgeous.
"Uh," I stammered.
She smiled and leant in closer to me.
"Did you sleep well?" She asked, a positive ray of innocence beaming from her smile.
"Fine..." I responded, at a complete loss. In the process of turning over, the blanket had lowered, revealing more of the lady in bed.
"Did we..." I started to ask and then for some reason, instead of finishing the question, pointed at her crotch. She laughed.
"You don't remember?" She said incredulously. "Mustn't have been that good then."
Though I knew she was fishing for compliments, I continued my necessary interrogation.
"I'm sure it was fine, it's just... is that your school dress.?" I pointed to the fabrics in question. She eyed them carelessly, a slightly confused, heartily amused grin on her face.
"Yeah."
I sat up violently.
"Shit! How old are you?"
She calmly matched my seated position and put a warm hand on my arm.
"I'm 18. It's okay. I'm in Year 12."
A surge of relief coursed through me. Strong as it was, it didn't match the surge of urine I had building up. I got out of bed and found my jeans crumpled over some gossip magazine. I clumsily put them on.
"What are you doing?" She asked, still seemingly amused by my ignorance.
"Gotta piss." I quickly answered. Suddenly she turned serious.
"Well you can't go out there!" She blurted. I zipped my fly and turned quizically.
"Why?
"My parents are out there! I'm not allowed to have boys over."
18 my arse, I thought.
"Well shit, what am I meant to do?"
"I don't know, can you hold it in?"
"I'm already leaking," came my slightly exaggerated but soon to be true reply. "I have to piss.
The underage vixen was perturbed. She looked around feverishly, for what, I didn't know. Finally her eyes settled.
"Out there! Quick, you can piss out the window." She pointed to a small window that sat behind a little desk covered with birthday cards and and toy unicorns. Without thinking, I ran to the window, shoved the desk away and flung it open. I had my dick out quicker than a priest in an orphanage.
I exhaled with glee as an arcing jet of orange mess flew from my wombprodder. For a moment, I experienced pure bliss. Then I heard a scream.
I opened my eyes to find a middle-aged woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a face full of urine.
"Mum?!" The girl in bed exclaimed.
I darted around the room, picking up my clothes and throwing them on, a frenzied mess of limbs. I then bolted out of this stranger's bedroom and out into the street. The real world. A world I had no connection to and no understanding of.
This was me two years ago, freshly shat out by the wrestling industry. This is the man I was. The man I never want to be again.
We fade in to find Jamie sat in a leather recliner. His various regalia of victory adorns him: his Champion's Case, his title belt. Before him sits a TV screen. On it, Chris Freytag's latest promo. It clambers toward the finish line before fading to black. Jamie affords himself a small chuckle and shake of the head. He repositions himself in his recliner so that now he is facing the camera. Taking a moment to settle, he finally graces your cauliflower ears with his enlightened voice.
JAMIE: It seems I gave Chris Freytag too much credit in my last promo. I commented on his ability to rile up the crowd, his ability to rile up his peers... I likened him to me. And yet now, having watched his response, his languid, abrupt and desperate response, I find myself wondering what all the hype is about. I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, Chris, when I say that recently, the backstage scuttlebut has been predominantly about you. Despite your lack of real achievements it seems that your mouth has garnered you attention that usually comes with, you know, success.
A condascending grin.
JAMIE: And all the while I'd remained mostly unmoved, perhaps a little perturbed that my own achievements weren't being duly recognized but unmoved mostly. I thought, "Sure, if so many people are talking about him, maybe he has something to him." I stupidly took the wrestling public at their word. And now here I am, having watched your promotional material, your "scathing attack" on me and, despite everything I heard about your charisma, your skill, your way with words, I remain unmoved. Honestly, I'm disappointed.
A shrug.
JAMIE: I honestly thought that this match might be a challenge. I thought our match might be good. Now, don't mistake that thought with a wish to entertain the fans with a quality outing. It's not that at all. I had just thought if you were really as good as everyone has been saying you were, it would up my stock that much more when I made you quit again. Instead I see that you're just like every other worm in this rotten apple.
A sigh of disappointment.
JAMIE: See, Chris, even though I held you in the same esteem as every other whore involved in this industry, I actually thought you had a modicum of intelligence. But then, lo and behold, you open your mouth and prove me wrong. Your rambling, listless attempt to pick apart my agenda, my motives and goals, was almost olympic-level in it's missing of the point. You're just like all your peers, the people you like to think you're above. You can't see the forest for the trees. You're so trapped, so enamoured with the wrestling business that you simply can't accept that another man would want nothing to do with it. You don't buy that I hate wrestling? That's fine, Chris. I'm not selling anything. I'm not an infomercial. I'm a family man. An honest man. Maybe that's why you have so much trouble understanding my motives? They're so far removed from your own that you can't reconcile them with your twisted reality?
A pause for the question to sink in.
JAMIE: You say I could do other things to earn money. You label my reason an "excuse", deriding the simple and truthful explanation that returning to the ring pays more than loading up shopping trolleys or pumping gas. Here's the thing, Chris. I'm not a short-term thinker. While most people in this business can't think beyond the next steroid injection, the next line of coke, the next clumsy blowjob from a ringrat, I never stop thinking about the big picture. And man, that picture is beautiful. It's me, my wife and child, financially secure and free of the baggage I've accrued through years in this wretched industry. Sure, right now, stuck in this pitiful country and insipid business, I miss my family. I hate it here but to say that I should just go home is short-sighted at best and retarded at worst. I'll lay it out nice and simple for you, Chris: I can earn more money in one year doing this than I could in ten doing any of the ridiculous jobs you offered as alternatives. I know, I know, you were being facetious and "funny" but I can only respond to what you've offered, so if you think my response is lacking, you may want to look back at your own misguided diatribe.
A wry grin.
JAMIE: So where was I? Oh yes, your stupidity. How about your evaluation of our upcoming match? That I have nothing to lose because, hey, I'm just after a paycheque. That you, a man driven by his insatiable need to piss people off and win while doing so, have more motivation. You say this despite me having carefully explained just why winning actually matters to me. It's not about building a legacy or earning respect, it's about rising up the ladder. Simply put, the higher on the card I am, the more I make. It's about maintaining my winning streak, one of the hottest things going in our company right now. The fans are salivating, literally DYING to see someone defeat me. And so they are paying to come see me and The Moderators, they're not dumb. They see the effect I'm having on business and they bump my pay. It's simple economics, Chris, and as I've stated over and over again since arriving in TWD, I'm only here to stabilize my personal economy.
A light chuckle to himself and faint shake of the head.
JAMIE: I posed a rhetorical question at the end of my last promo, Chris, about which is the bigger motivator leading into our match. My need to ensure my family's livelihood or your need to yank people's chains. I asked this not to hear an answer but to make a point. A point, it seems, that flew right over your head, so allow me to answer my own rhetorical question. If you want to put on a Dunce's cap while I do so, feel free. It'd be quite fitting. Simply put, Chris: my motivation is stronger. And more than that, my will is stronger. I proved that during Tag Team Turmoil, a match you still refuse to completely admit you lost. You say I was being "opportunistic" when I made you tap. Of course I was, Chris! Making the most of opportunities is how you win! But don't mistake opportunism with luck. The "opportunity" to cinch you up in the Down Under Deathlock and make you tap out came to me because I was wrestling a better match than you. And even if you hadn't tapped, which you did, my old buddy Saber had your little buddy Shabree locked up in an equally (well, probably slightly less) damaging hold. Your time was numbered in that match, it just happened to be you who cashed in your chips. You took the opportunity to give up, so to speak.
A confident flare in the eys of the Virtuoso.
JAMIE: See, it doesn't matter how you try to justify it, Chris. Whether you try fooling yourself that you're more driven than I. Whether you try to convince yourself the last time I beat you was just a fluke. Whether you try to convince yourself that you're just better than me. The operative word in all those justifications is "try" and Chris, this Sunday, you can try as much as you want but you're not going to beat me. I'm not just undefeated. I'm undefeatable. And as you've proven over the past week, you're no better than anybody else whose tried to unseat me from my position of prominence. You're a wrestler, Chris. I'm Jamie Krenshaw. I'm Above Wrestling. I'm Beyond You. I am your future disappointment staring you in the eyes and telling you: You. Won't. Win.
An intense stare into the camera lens.
JAMIE: And though you're sure to miss the point of my words once again, this Sunday you will have no option but to understand. Clarity will come as you scream in submission and, Chris, when you finally see clearly, you may just see yourself for the steaming turd of mediocrity you are. Not that I could care less. I'll be too busy having my hand raised in victory. Again. As per usual.
Cut.
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 Above Wrestling and Beyond You. |