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People aspire to be me.
They'll deny it but it's true. Every single fetid turd staining this business looks up to me as a beacon of hope. They see qualities in me that they wish they had themselves. The ability to walk away from the business. The ability to start and maintain a perfect, normal family. The ability to win, ad nauseum, every single match and title. Everyone in TWD's locker room wants my spot, my accomplishments. They want my life.
But they're fools if they think it's easy being Jamie Krenshaw.
The life of a champion is not an easy one. I have responsibilities to the company, to The Moderators. Responsibilities that I can't shirk. I'm the Face of TWD. The status and wealth of this company lies in the hands of myself and The Moderators. As such, there are many duties that fall to me. Duties that nobody else in this organization could handle. Duties that nobody else is worthy of. And today I'm fulfilling one of those duties: marketing.
I'm sat behind a small desk with a pen in my hand and hundreds of glossy pictures of myself resting before me. Today The Wrestling Domain held a press conference hyping the upcoming Supercard III. The card is yet to be finalized or even started for that matter but that is of no consequence. Announcing that Jamie Krenshaw would be defending his TWD World Title in the Main Event is all that's required to get the fans shelling out what little money they have. Whether it's Krenshaw vs. Filipe or Krenshaw vs. Saber doesn't matter to these people. It could be Krenshaw vs. Tabby The Vagrant II and they'd still pay through the nose to see it. Because I'm The Draw. And that's why I'm here today, stuck in this crowded little store in Denver, signing autographs for plebians.
The place is packed with failures. Sad virgins posing for photos with Aimee Miller. Wrestling nerds brown-nosing Bib Brady, telling him how much they respect and enjoy his commentary. The biggest queue, however, leads to me. Legions of TWD fans who come to shows and boo me, who post on internet forums that they hate me, they're all lined up, hypocrite after pathetic hypocrite, salivating over their chance to meet the Virtuoso of Violence. Some have come to terms with their hypocrisy, accepting my autographed picture graciously, thanking me for my time. But most, they're arrogant, they're stupid and they're trying to get over at my expense, just like TWD's roster. There's the kid wearing a "Rabble" T-Shirt who makes a "Moo" noise at me and then complains I have no sense of humour when I refuse to give him an autograph. There's the girl in the Shabree Reddington shirt desperately clutching to the hope that Shabree might return and "put me in my place". There's the guy carrying a massive "Saber Is Legend" sign who tells me that my title reign will end at the Supercard. Every one of these people try to bring me down, try to make me stoop to their level because they're unhappy.
Just like TWD's wrestlers, these fans see me as a beacon of hope, an illustration of what can be achieved through hard work and perseverance. And just like the wrestlers, they're mortified. They see me and then see the massive gaping chasm that seperates us. I act as a mirror, reflecting back their own flaws and their inability to do anything about them. So they try to bring me down but they can't.
I'm beyond their grasp. I'm out of reach. The best these people, anyone really, can do is settle for that one fleeting moment where they get to bask in my presence.
Blinded by delusion and handcuffed by mediocrity, these people are doomed to an eternity of looking up to people of my stature and I, in turn, am destined to be forever looking down upon them. And that's what I do for three stinking hours, signing autographs and exchanging pleasantries with the unpleasant. And when I finally get to leave I turn on my iPhone and what do I see?
Colt Crawford's broken his silence.
Sigh.
Standing in front of a large TWD banner, wearing an all-new "Virtuoso of Violence: Above Wrestling and Beyond You" T-shirt with a stern look on his face is Australia's Greatest Export and Your World Champion, Jamie Krenshaw. There's no time for bells and whistles, no time for small witticisms, this is all business.
JAMIE: Colt Crawford. Dear oh dear. How I'd hoped you would just keep your yap shut and leave well enough alone. How I'd hoped that your last in a long line of losses had put a permanent dent in your pride and caused you to see yourself for the failure you truly are. How naive I was. It seems I underestimated the boundless will of your self-delusion. I actually believed you could remove your blinkers and see yourself as everybody else sees you: a tedious joke. But no, you come out, confident as ever, still with that same chip on your shoulder and that same air of entitlement.
A wry grin forms, Colt's idiocy enough to warrant some happiness.
JAMIE: You ask "What is the point" of our match? You sulk that even if you win (and you won't, by the way) you won't get the Supercard III World Title shot. You whine that you won't get a Tag Title shot because you don't have a partner (and which genius was it that turned on his partner in a Tag Title match, Colt?) You cry that you have nothing to gain from winning.
The grin vanishes.
JAMIE: You waste your time. What is the point of our match, Colt? Simple. It's to get me on television and keep viewers tuned in. That's all. You are an afterthought. You're there to be beaten by me, nothing more. You claim that I'm the only one going into this match with something to lose? Well no shit, sherlock. I'm the only one going into this match with any integrity as well. I'm the only one going into this match with any talent. I'm the only one going into this match who has a shot at winning. See, there's no need to tie yourself in knots trying to justify your loss by painting it as a "fuck you" to imaginary critics. There's no need to expose yourself as petty and jealous (although it's nice you finally admitted it). There's no need for you to say anything, Colt (and is there ever?)
A shake of the head.
JAMIE: You question whether this will go down as just some random Showdown match and to that Colt, I'll happily inform you: NO. It will go down as a Jamie Krenshaw match. A clinic in world-beating. It will go down as yet another footnote in my ever-growing legacy. It will go down as yet another victory in my long line of victories. Make no mistake, Colt, this match IS important. I make it so. You'd be best served by foregoing all your usual bitching and whining and actually concentrating on the opportunity that stands before you. No, not the opportunity to defeat me because that's never going to happen. But you can still put on a good showing. You can push me a little. You can make me break a sweat and, in turn, make others take notice. You can make yourself less of a punchline in this joke of an industry. You can do all sorts of things on Sunday night because you'll be in the ring with Jamie Krenshaw and that means The World Will Be Watching.
A moment to let that sink in, Colt. Digest the possibilities.
JAMIE: My guess? You'll do nothing. I'll run over you with ease and you'll tap out like the little bitch you are. You'll go backstage, cut another angry and befuddlingly confident promo and then you'll go off somewhere to inject yourself with horse steroids and throw darts at a picture of Saber. I'll move on to bigger and better things and you'll just keep flailing in the breeze waiting for someone, anyone to take you as seriously as you take yourself.
Another small grin.
JAMIE: It's brilliant, Colt, it really is. Tomorrow night you'll have the world at your feet but typically and, most of all, predictably, you'll just trip over it. I guess it's hard to see the obstacles ahead of you with all those tears in your eyes, right? Well, nevermind. Another loss to me just gives you something else to complain about. Might as well stick to what you're good at, I guess.
The grin partially widens, conidence pouring forth. You can go back to being quiet now, Colt.
CUT.
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 Your World Champion. |