Post by rayaustin on Nov 29, 2012 1:13:51 GMT -5
My first step into the ring was a successful one. I took everyone out with one well timed jump, one moonsault from the rafters. They must have thought me crazy, I call it desperate. I wanted to make an impact, but in doing so I took the spot monkey approach, I threw myself to get a cheap cheer. That was before the explosion happened.
I just remember being rushed out of the ring along with the rest of the roster it seemed! It was us against the fans, us against the people that had paid tickets into this nightmare.
We all bailed, all cramming through the doors, desperate to survive as the place started to go up in smoke, flames fanning across the hallways and inner sanctum of the building. I remember my eyes rolling back in my head, I remember feeling too warm in the mask, I remember almost passing out. I was about to go under. I was slipping, falling. That day, those six that died almost became seven.
Serious business indeed, more serious possibly than first anticipated. What it was over, none of us know, all we know is that it was due to one of the owners and it was due to some bad business he had gotten himself into.
This was what I hated about being here in this business. Everything was a fucking drama; everything would sooner blow up than be sorted in any other way. It was like a scene out of a fucking action film and here I am, caught right in the middle of the exact same sort of shit that I can’t stand. Admittedly, I was the one who signed up for this crusade, so some could say I brought it all upon myself but how was I to know that this sort of stuff was going to happen?
I sit outside of what was the Edison Industrial Complex, a hand placed on my shoulder. I was sat in sheer shock, having had what memory of what happened after the rush of everyone leaving, completely blanked out. I don’t remember a thing, all I remember are my eyes rolling. Did I lose consciousness? If I did, who was it that saved me? Who got me out of there alive, and after my promo, why? Why did they do that? What did they have to gain?
I take a look at the pale, pasty hand on my shoulder. He’s about four inches taller than me when stood. The arm attached is pretty mangled, there are obvious burn marks being disguised by a large scorpion tattoo, around the tattoo is another tattoo which underlays the original, a tribal pattern. I remember seeing this tattoo months ago and seeing the letter “Y” in a banner underneath the Scorpion’s stinger, now however that letter is surrounded by several more. The remainder of the letters wraps around that ‘Y’ and form the name SYDNEY. It’s all in capitals; the reasoning for this I guess is because the first letter that was grafted onto the arm in ink was in a capital.
This man is no stranger to me, if you can’t tell already. Rather, he’s a friendly face, but he’s also a liar. He’s one that invested in all of this bullshit, he’s one that turned from his original style and became something else to cater to the crowd. He lied to me for years about being a mentor, about being a friend, an ally. He lied to everyone in Alabama and Georgia for so many years; it makes me sick to think that a man like this still survives.
He looks down on me, a warm smile on his face.
“Glad to see you’re okay, kid.” He tells me in his southern drawl. “You had me worried there.”
‘What the HELL is he doing here?’ The first thing that enters my mind is cynical, yes, but I want to know. Why is he here, I escaped from where I was because of him. I ran away from the south, I bolted; I hated what he had turned MY sport into. I had fought for the honor of this sport for too long, and then suddenly HE speaks out and HE tells me that HE is my mentor and HE has been for the past three years. I felt sick to my stomach, I wanted to puke. I remember that feeling of impending hatred coming in, realizing that I had been taught by someone who had learned nothing but the ways of performance.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, an angry tone to my voice.
“No need to be so ungrateful.” He answers me back.
“You know, I didn’t ask for a lecture on gratitude, I asked what you were here for. What’s your angle?” I ask him, getting more aggressive, standing now as I do so as if I hope to intimidate a guy who is taller and obviously more built than me. Looking up at his face, however, I see something that shocks me. A mask.
These masks, they are the ultimate sign of honor and respect. They are sacred, it gives you character. He already has his own character, that of a liar, he doesn’t need a lucha mask. The bottom of his mask is unstrapped, as if he is waiting to take it off.
He looks down at me, as if I have deeply annoyed him or caused him grievance.
“My angle is that I was in that crowd watching. I was there without this-” He points towards the mask. “-on. I sat and watched, your promo was riveting, great stuff. Then I saw the moonsault, which made me smile by the way. It was after that, the explosion. When everyone was getting out…I grabbed you, saw you were in trouble. I put the mask back on and waited. My angle is to make sure that my student…and my friend…is safe. If you don’t believe that then it’s your own look-out.”
His FRIEND? Since when was I his friend? I learned from him what I had to, and even now I wish I didn’t because everything I’ve learned has turned out to be a great big lie. He’s far from my friend.
“Since when did you look out for anyone but you? Huh? Honesty really isn’t your strong suit, you know that?” Maybe I’m being a bit harsh on him as he stands, his hands now cupped over his crotch.
“Ouch, Lowblow. That was a bit uncalled for kid.” He jests with me. “Seriously, I’m really not this big bad wolf that you keep painting me out to be. I mean, sure I’m not born from Mexico and I’ve been off and around the world, but mate-” he tries to reason with me. “-I’ve been nothing but there for you. When you won your first title back in Mexico, I was there. When you won your first tournament in Jersey, who celebrated with you? And now…now that you were almost burned alive in…a soap opera styled explosion…who was the one to pull you from the flames and rubble? Man, you’re right, I think about me a lot, but when it comes to friends, and those that mean something…well, you can’t put a price on it.”
Maybe I’ve painted the wrong picture of him, perhaps I’ve painted him as The Scream when he should be painted more as the Mona Lisa…or perhaps his brainwashing is setting in. I shake my head, coiling my top lip upwards, trying not to show my anger.
“You did it for YOU! You like the self gratification; you did it to make YOURSELF seem like this great guy, you’re a glory hog. Why were you here to start with? To watch me succeed so YOU could tell everyone that YOU trained me. You…you didn’t save me for me, you saved me for you. You make ME SICK!”
I exploded at him, wanting nothing more than to have a reason to slap the taste out of his mouth. His reaction was unexpected however.
“I’m kinda…upset you think that way.” He tells me. “I expected better, I expected at least a thank you, instead I get a fuck you. I get you’re angry, I get you’re young and you have ambition, I was like that once too…but Fred, don’t forget who brought you to the dance to start with.”
He turns his back on me as he speaks his famous last words.
Yes he brought me here, but do I care?
Of course not.
Later That Day
I sit with a camera locked on me inside of a cheap motel. This, I guess, is how I’m going to be living for the next while as we travel from state to state. A cheap motel is better than a van though, and knowing the cheap skates behind this company, many will be living out of vans and cars and various other modes of transport for the next while.
My laptop, she makes a noise at me and I am forced to listen. It’s naught but a simple “ding” but it does the trick, it gets my attention. Yet another one sounds, and then another. She is talking swiftly at me, barely giving me the chance to answer. I hate instant messengers, my fingers are not as quick with this as my feet are in the ring and catching up seems to take an absolute age.
Angelina says:
I hear you’re coming back to wrestling next week.
It’s been ages; well it feels like it anyway.
I type back;
Ray says:
Yeah I am. It’s going to be weird. I don’t think they like me much in this promotion already.
Angelina says:
How come?
Ray says:
It’s difficult to explain. Never before have I been booed but yet when I made my dive, while they all screamed, they screamed with malice. Maybe I am destined to be disliked away from home?
Angelina says:
Maybe but they’ll love you back home, you know that. You know, I’ll love you more though.
Ray says:
For a friend, you’re doing a terrible job of proving that’s all you are.
Angelina says:
Well I miss you, what am I meant to do?
Ray says:
I dunno, what’s gotten into you anyway, with all the soppiness all of a sudden? This isn’t the Angie I knew!
Angelina says:
Well things and situations change.
Ray says:
Like?
Angelina says:
Just things.
Ray:
Oh so the whole mystery act again now, is it? You gunna keep more secrets from me?
Angelina says:
Like I kept any to start with! I just miss you that’s all.
Ray:
Miss you too. Look I better go; I’ve got a job to get on with.
Angelina says:
Make sure you keep in touch.
Ray says:
Of course. You gunna be there for me in my first match?
Angelina says:
I wouldn’t miss it.
Ray:
Awesome. I’ll see you then.
Angelina says:
Sounds good!
Ray:
See you then. Bye.
Angelina says:
Byeeeeeee. Xxx
I shut my laptop down; it’s of no use to me right now with this camera pointing at me. I’ve sat on the internet, using one of those mobile sticks for the past couple of hours talking to old friends from the A, trying to draw some form of interest to get them to come to my first show back in “mainstream” wrestling. So here I am now, sat within this hotel room, a small handicam pointing at me, sat on a small makeshift tripod.
It’s time, for the first time in months for me to talk trash.
“I honestly don’t know where to start…” I speak forward towards the camera. “My first week and I’m headed BACK to the wrestling business, away from what I ran from to start with…and yet I wonder why I bothered because all it seems to be is one giant head game in this place, like a bad acid trip…hang on, this wouldn’t sound familiar, would it?”
I almost have to chuckle to myself a tad at the reference to Azrael’s problem.
“Thing is though, when you get no hype, no advertising, no promo time on your first week in a company. Some of these guys, they’re all bred for the “entertainment” aspect however; they’re all bred to entertain a mindless crowd who don’t appreciate the TRUE value of what we do. They don’t understand that we risk our bodies and our lives with every move we make, that a moonsault from the rafters of a building could well have killed me, they STILL booed, and they STILL acted ungrateful to me for what I did. I made it POSSIBLE for them to enjoy themselves in that moment where everyone turned up and decided to beat the hell out of each other with shovels and shopping carts. The thing is though, they cheered the weapon shots yet all I got was a proxy “Woah” before booing as loudly as they could.
Doesn’t that just show who they REALLY are?
Doesn’t that just show what this sport REALLY HAS become?
It’s pitiful that people wrestle under these pretenses unlike those trained in Lucha. We at least have honor and respect for our opponents, but you, none of you self proclaimed “wrestlers” do. You all care for you and the cheers you can get and it makes me sick.”
So here we go then, it’s time to kick this into a higher gear, I think to myself as I now stand attempting to put more passion and drive into the speech.
“Some of you spend your ENTIRE life on some kind of trip. You could barely put three moves together without your precious tricks and weapons, and why? You were too busy in your own private wonderland, exploiting your need for violence. You have NO CARE OR REGARD for yourself OR for your opponents by doing that, all you clearly care about is escaping any pathetic problems you have. Now I ain’t saying that I’m a perfect example of looking after myself, I mean there are times back home where I’d go out with the guys, but there’s a difference between casual fun and self-destruction and ANYONE would be able to tell you what it is that you’re doing. Thing is though, you’re more than happy to go down that route because it gets you away from everything – well one thing that the drugs won’t get you away from, is me. My first match here in the world of EHWF will put me on top of the fucking mountain.
So to my the EHWF roster, with all that said, I have only one thing left to say.
Tiempos difíciles han llegado para quedarse. Bienvenido a la casa de enigma "
Ray steps forward towards the camera and quickly click it off, deciding that I’m just about done. I allow then, my body to fall onto the bed behind me as the scene fades.
I just remember being rushed out of the ring along with the rest of the roster it seemed! It was us against the fans, us against the people that had paid tickets into this nightmare.
We all bailed, all cramming through the doors, desperate to survive as the place started to go up in smoke, flames fanning across the hallways and inner sanctum of the building. I remember my eyes rolling back in my head, I remember feeling too warm in the mask, I remember almost passing out. I was about to go under. I was slipping, falling. That day, those six that died almost became seven.
Serious business indeed, more serious possibly than first anticipated. What it was over, none of us know, all we know is that it was due to one of the owners and it was due to some bad business he had gotten himself into.
This was what I hated about being here in this business. Everything was a fucking drama; everything would sooner blow up than be sorted in any other way. It was like a scene out of a fucking action film and here I am, caught right in the middle of the exact same sort of shit that I can’t stand. Admittedly, I was the one who signed up for this crusade, so some could say I brought it all upon myself but how was I to know that this sort of stuff was going to happen?
I sit outside of what was the Edison Industrial Complex, a hand placed on my shoulder. I was sat in sheer shock, having had what memory of what happened after the rush of everyone leaving, completely blanked out. I don’t remember a thing, all I remember are my eyes rolling. Did I lose consciousness? If I did, who was it that saved me? Who got me out of there alive, and after my promo, why? Why did they do that? What did they have to gain?
I take a look at the pale, pasty hand on my shoulder. He’s about four inches taller than me when stood. The arm attached is pretty mangled, there are obvious burn marks being disguised by a large scorpion tattoo, around the tattoo is another tattoo which underlays the original, a tribal pattern. I remember seeing this tattoo months ago and seeing the letter “Y” in a banner underneath the Scorpion’s stinger, now however that letter is surrounded by several more. The remainder of the letters wraps around that ‘Y’ and form the name SYDNEY. It’s all in capitals; the reasoning for this I guess is because the first letter that was grafted onto the arm in ink was in a capital.
This man is no stranger to me, if you can’t tell already. Rather, he’s a friendly face, but he’s also a liar. He’s one that invested in all of this bullshit, he’s one that turned from his original style and became something else to cater to the crowd. He lied to me for years about being a mentor, about being a friend, an ally. He lied to everyone in Alabama and Georgia for so many years; it makes me sick to think that a man like this still survives.
He looks down on me, a warm smile on his face.
“Glad to see you’re okay, kid.” He tells me in his southern drawl. “You had me worried there.”
‘What the HELL is he doing here?’ The first thing that enters my mind is cynical, yes, but I want to know. Why is he here, I escaped from where I was because of him. I ran away from the south, I bolted; I hated what he had turned MY sport into. I had fought for the honor of this sport for too long, and then suddenly HE speaks out and HE tells me that HE is my mentor and HE has been for the past three years. I felt sick to my stomach, I wanted to puke. I remember that feeling of impending hatred coming in, realizing that I had been taught by someone who had learned nothing but the ways of performance.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, an angry tone to my voice.
“No need to be so ungrateful.” He answers me back.
“You know, I didn’t ask for a lecture on gratitude, I asked what you were here for. What’s your angle?” I ask him, getting more aggressive, standing now as I do so as if I hope to intimidate a guy who is taller and obviously more built than me. Looking up at his face, however, I see something that shocks me. A mask.
These masks, they are the ultimate sign of honor and respect. They are sacred, it gives you character. He already has his own character, that of a liar, he doesn’t need a lucha mask. The bottom of his mask is unstrapped, as if he is waiting to take it off.
He looks down at me, as if I have deeply annoyed him or caused him grievance.
“My angle is that I was in that crowd watching. I was there without this-” He points towards the mask. “-on. I sat and watched, your promo was riveting, great stuff. Then I saw the moonsault, which made me smile by the way. It was after that, the explosion. When everyone was getting out…I grabbed you, saw you were in trouble. I put the mask back on and waited. My angle is to make sure that my student…and my friend…is safe. If you don’t believe that then it’s your own look-out.”
His FRIEND? Since when was I his friend? I learned from him what I had to, and even now I wish I didn’t because everything I’ve learned has turned out to be a great big lie. He’s far from my friend.
“Since when did you look out for anyone but you? Huh? Honesty really isn’t your strong suit, you know that?” Maybe I’m being a bit harsh on him as he stands, his hands now cupped over his crotch.
“Ouch, Lowblow. That was a bit uncalled for kid.” He jests with me. “Seriously, I’m really not this big bad wolf that you keep painting me out to be. I mean, sure I’m not born from Mexico and I’ve been off and around the world, but mate-” he tries to reason with me. “-I’ve been nothing but there for you. When you won your first title back in Mexico, I was there. When you won your first tournament in Jersey, who celebrated with you? And now…now that you were almost burned alive in…a soap opera styled explosion…who was the one to pull you from the flames and rubble? Man, you’re right, I think about me a lot, but when it comes to friends, and those that mean something…well, you can’t put a price on it.”
Maybe I’ve painted the wrong picture of him, perhaps I’ve painted him as The Scream when he should be painted more as the Mona Lisa…or perhaps his brainwashing is setting in. I shake my head, coiling my top lip upwards, trying not to show my anger.
“You did it for YOU! You like the self gratification; you did it to make YOURSELF seem like this great guy, you’re a glory hog. Why were you here to start with? To watch me succeed so YOU could tell everyone that YOU trained me. You…you didn’t save me for me, you saved me for you. You make ME SICK!”
I exploded at him, wanting nothing more than to have a reason to slap the taste out of his mouth. His reaction was unexpected however.
“I’m kinda…upset you think that way.” He tells me. “I expected better, I expected at least a thank you, instead I get a fuck you. I get you’re angry, I get you’re young and you have ambition, I was like that once too…but Fred, don’t forget who brought you to the dance to start with.”
He turns his back on me as he speaks his famous last words.
Yes he brought me here, but do I care?
Of course not.
Later That Day
I sit with a camera locked on me inside of a cheap motel. This, I guess, is how I’m going to be living for the next while as we travel from state to state. A cheap motel is better than a van though, and knowing the cheap skates behind this company, many will be living out of vans and cars and various other modes of transport for the next while.
My laptop, she makes a noise at me and I am forced to listen. It’s naught but a simple “ding” but it does the trick, it gets my attention. Yet another one sounds, and then another. She is talking swiftly at me, barely giving me the chance to answer. I hate instant messengers, my fingers are not as quick with this as my feet are in the ring and catching up seems to take an absolute age.
Angelina says:
I hear you’re coming back to wrestling next week.
It’s been ages; well it feels like it anyway.
I type back;
Ray says:
Yeah I am. It’s going to be weird. I don’t think they like me much in this promotion already.
Angelina says:
How come?
Ray says:
It’s difficult to explain. Never before have I been booed but yet when I made my dive, while they all screamed, they screamed with malice. Maybe I am destined to be disliked away from home?
Angelina says:
Maybe but they’ll love you back home, you know that. You know, I’ll love you more though.
Ray says:
For a friend, you’re doing a terrible job of proving that’s all you are.
Angelina says:
Well I miss you, what am I meant to do?
Ray says:
I dunno, what’s gotten into you anyway, with all the soppiness all of a sudden? This isn’t the Angie I knew!
Angelina says:
Well things and situations change.
Ray says:
Like?
Angelina says:
Just things.
Ray:
Oh so the whole mystery act again now, is it? You gunna keep more secrets from me?
Angelina says:
Like I kept any to start with! I just miss you that’s all.
Ray:
Miss you too. Look I better go; I’ve got a job to get on with.
Angelina says:
Make sure you keep in touch.
Ray says:
Of course. You gunna be there for me in my first match?
Angelina says:
I wouldn’t miss it.
Ray:
Awesome. I’ll see you then.
Angelina says:
Sounds good!
Ray:
See you then. Bye.
Angelina says:
Byeeeeeee. Xxx
I shut my laptop down; it’s of no use to me right now with this camera pointing at me. I’ve sat on the internet, using one of those mobile sticks for the past couple of hours talking to old friends from the A, trying to draw some form of interest to get them to come to my first show back in “mainstream” wrestling. So here I am now, sat within this hotel room, a small handicam pointing at me, sat on a small makeshift tripod.
It’s time, for the first time in months for me to talk trash.
“I honestly don’t know where to start…” I speak forward towards the camera. “My first week and I’m headed BACK to the wrestling business, away from what I ran from to start with…and yet I wonder why I bothered because all it seems to be is one giant head game in this place, like a bad acid trip…hang on, this wouldn’t sound familiar, would it?”
I almost have to chuckle to myself a tad at the reference to Azrael’s problem.
“Thing is though, when you get no hype, no advertising, no promo time on your first week in a company. Some of these guys, they’re all bred for the “entertainment” aspect however; they’re all bred to entertain a mindless crowd who don’t appreciate the TRUE value of what we do. They don’t understand that we risk our bodies and our lives with every move we make, that a moonsault from the rafters of a building could well have killed me, they STILL booed, and they STILL acted ungrateful to me for what I did. I made it POSSIBLE for them to enjoy themselves in that moment where everyone turned up and decided to beat the hell out of each other with shovels and shopping carts. The thing is though, they cheered the weapon shots yet all I got was a proxy “Woah” before booing as loudly as they could.
Doesn’t that just show who they REALLY are?
Doesn’t that just show what this sport REALLY HAS become?
It’s pitiful that people wrestle under these pretenses unlike those trained in Lucha. We at least have honor and respect for our opponents, but you, none of you self proclaimed “wrestlers” do. You all care for you and the cheers you can get and it makes me sick.”
So here we go then, it’s time to kick this into a higher gear, I think to myself as I now stand attempting to put more passion and drive into the speech.
“Some of you spend your ENTIRE life on some kind of trip. You could barely put three moves together without your precious tricks and weapons, and why? You were too busy in your own private wonderland, exploiting your need for violence. You have NO CARE OR REGARD for yourself OR for your opponents by doing that, all you clearly care about is escaping any pathetic problems you have. Now I ain’t saying that I’m a perfect example of looking after myself, I mean there are times back home where I’d go out with the guys, but there’s a difference between casual fun and self-destruction and ANYONE would be able to tell you what it is that you’re doing. Thing is though, you’re more than happy to go down that route because it gets you away from everything – well one thing that the drugs won’t get you away from, is me. My first match here in the world of EHWF will put me on top of the fucking mountain.
So to my the EHWF roster, with all that said, I have only one thing left to say.
Tiempos difíciles han llegado para quedarse. Bienvenido a la casa de enigma "
Ray steps forward towards the camera and quickly click it off, deciding that I’m just about done. I allow then, my body to fall onto the bed behind me as the scene fades.