WAR OF THE WORDS #5

[We fade into the beautiful face of a stranger. Why is it beautiful? That’s easy, because the guy that it belongs to says it is- that’s why. A cocky smirk is spread across his 48 hr stubble face. His black hair shaved around the sides with the top perfectly combed forward. As we pan back the stranger is decked out in a navy blue pinstriped suit with a red tie, designer black shoes that are no doubt expensive and a around his wrists is a gold watch dripping with diamonds. To say the least he looks more like a power broker then a wrestler. But this is how he is. This is… Mike Anderson.]

MA: So DCWL [spreads arms] This is what all the hype is about is it? Every place I went I would over hear people talking about how great DCWL is. How the competition is top notch. How they are affiliated with Shootfire Pro and how DCWL is quickly becoming one of the best federations in the World today.

[ Anderson shrugs]

So I went out of my way to find this place. Mike Anderson craves elite competition. For months I was wrestling in Bingo Halls and High School gyms.. Uninterested, unmotivated…. Bored. You see being the best is what makes me want to thrive in this business. It’s what makes me tick. Do I want the titles, the glory and most importantly the money?

[smirks]

Well yes I do. But when I wrap gold around this waist, I want to make sure I beat the best to win it. I want no doubts that Mike Anderson took on the best wrestler in the business to become champion. I don’t want to hear whispers that Mike Anderson is in a second rate federation with second rate chumps. That is why I came to DCWL. I came here to prove my dominance over the best. I looked up and down the line-up I would have to go through, hungry to prove my place at the top of the food chain of some of most elite competition out there today.

[ Anderson looks disgusted. He spits on the floor and points at the camera.]

But I must have made a wrong turn somewhere because if those names I read on that list are what you consider ‘top notch’, then this is the biggest prank ever played on me. I’m not even going to mention any of you by name because it is not worth my breath. I was thinking former ‘REAL’ World champions. Guys that are on their way to the Hall of Fame but instead all I get is a bunch of second rate talent with barn league skills.

[ Anderson adjusts suit jacket and he tries to hide his disgust.]

MA: But I am a man of my word. Even though I was tricked into signing a contract with DCWL- I will honour it. I will run through this place like a hot knife through butter. I will leave every single what you call ‘superstar’ laying on their backs in the middle of the ring wondering what in the hell just happened. I will show your fans what true athlete with true skills is all about.

I will show them what a real superstar can do in that ring. With me as your champion, I can bring this place some respect. Stop making it the laughing stock that it is. Maybe bring some real talent in here that will want to face a real champion.

[Nods head sarcastically]

I know, I know. ‘You have to work your way up the ladder.’ [shrugs] If that is how you want to protect your chumps [shrugs] I have no problem running through everyone on my way to the top. Whether you like it or not DCWL, I am the present and future of not only this federation- but wrestling itself. When people open the history books thousands of years from now to see who indeed the greatest wrestler alive was, they will see a picture of me- Mike Anderson.

That is the way it is DCWL. I take what I do very seriously. I am the greatest wrestler on this planet today and I have no qualms about proving it to all of you. Tonight, I want you all to hug those titles a little tighter. I want you to dream about where you wanted to be and where you wanted to go.

[smirks]

Because once you step into the ring with Mike Anderson….

All those dreams….

Are going to become your nightmares.


See you soon DCWL.

[FTB]


~~~D~C~W~L~~~


“Hey Jeremy, have you seen this?”

“What’s that Tom?”

“It seems that the DCWL has reopened and they’ve acquired quite an interesting talent.”

“The DCWL? Isn’t that the pseudo-sport wrestling entertainment league that formed a while ago but recently folded up?”

“Yeah, Jeremy, financial problems caused them to close about 6 months to a year ago. Apparently they’ve found some new backers and brought the league back. If it catches on, it has the talent and history to become one of the bigger leagues in North America, maybe even the world.”

“Hmph, so it sounds like it’s still trying to get off the ground when you put it that way. Why would I be interested in anything that has to do with the league now? You’re smarter than that Tom.”

“Not if we find something before the rest of the world takes notice.”

“What could they possibly have that we could possibly write a story on? We need stuff that gets people to tune in, not change the channel to watch the new train wreck that happens to have their own reality show on VH1 or MTV. We’re talking about a scrub league right now.”

“Imagine someone with the same, if not more, talent, size, speed, power, and overall athleticism as Brock Lesner…”

“So why wouldn’t we just interview Brock Lesner? He’s controversial enough and I’m pretty sure that the UFC is bigger than this DCWL you’re so into.”

“Yeah, well, this guys going after the title on their next show…”

“Brock Lesner already HAS the title. What’s your point Tom?”

“Has Brock Lesner ever claimed that he’s never won a title because ‘those bastard Jew owners are trying to keep him down’?”

“…”

“Jeremy?”

“Let me see what you’ve got, Tom.”


(Darkness.)

(Fade in to a familiar, yet uncomfortable place. We are once again in the dirty, tiny apartment that is Bane’s home. Dirty dishes are still piled up in the sink. A WWII Nazi Germany flag still hangs above a small and unkept bed. Cracked paint still covers the walls. And sitting at the same small wooden kitchen table is the oversized monster known as Julian Beckson. Or as the wrestling world knows him, Bane.)

(A small, unpadded wooden chair strains against his massive size, creaking and groaning with even the slightest movement that Beckson makes. Taking a closer look at the man, we see that he is wearing a black sweatshirt and a pair of faded and torn blue jeans yet again. Obviously, there is quite a limit to Bane’s wardrobe. The man is hunched over a small ceramic bowl that is filled with colorful circles floating in bleach white milk. Beckson dips his dirty spoon back into the milk, gets another scoop of his cereal, and loudly slurps it into his mouth. For once, Bane seems perfectly content and relaxed.)

(That is, until, there is a loud knock on the door.)

(Bane looks up from his second spoonful at the old door. He gives a slight sigh and starts to put the spoon back in the milk when he hesitates. A scowl crosses his face as his lifts the spoon back up to his mouth, almost seemingly defiant to the person on the other side of the door. He again slurps the spoonful of cereal, even louder than the last time. In response, the oblivious person on the other side of the door knocks even louder.)

(This battle of wills goes back and forth for only a couple of more rounds before Julian stands up form the table and moves towards the door. He reaches towards the doorknob and begins to speak even before the door is opened.)

Bane:
Now listen kid, I know you want your autograph but…

(Julian’s words are cut short by the sight of the person on the other side of the door. It’s not the small child that he was expecting but rather a small African American lady who appears to be in her mid to late 30s. She’s wearing Khaki pants and a maroon Kroger’s short sleeve collared shirt. Her short hair is pulled back tightly to her head with a small bun sticking out at the base of her skull. In one hand she is holding a rolled up tube of paper. Her dark eyes look up at Julian, without intimidation and without fear.)

(She speaks with a Southern accent.)

Woman:
Mistah Beckson?

(Julian Beckson is in more shock than he was when he first saw the small African American boy standing at his door. A child still has still probably has his innocence about him which results in the lack of common sense. However, he can’t believe that this woman has enough courage, or audacity whichever it may be, to come up to his door and knock. She must have heard the stories and rumors that are spread around the apartment complex about his beliefs and attitudes towards other people. Why in the world would she risk the insults and humiliation to come to his door?)

(While these thoughts are going through Julian’s head, the woman speaks again, a little more forceful this time.)

Woman:
Mistah Beckson!?

(Bane comes to his senses and almost growls his words at the woman.)

Bane:
What the fuck do you want?

Woman:
Sir, I will ask you once and only once to not speak to me in that mannah.

(A very slight sneer crosses the lips of Bane, he is about to speak again but the woman cuts him off.)

Woman:
Now listen, I’ve heard all about you in these here hallways. I know how you feel towards me and know you probably don’t like a black woman standing here at your door. And trust me sir, I don’t like being here no more than you like me being here. So I’m gonna make this quick for both of our sakes.

(Bane just glares at her, waiting for her to continue.)

Woman:
My son Jerome gave you twenty dollahs that he worked his little butt off to earn just so that you would sign your name fo’ him. I’ve come to find out that you have his money, but he still doesn’t have your name. Now he explained to me that he didn’t have anything fo’ you to sign at the time, which I can undahstand. But fo’ the life of me, I can’t figuah out why you took his money. But I’ll let bygones be bygones if you just sign this postah he has of you.

(The woman reaches forward with the tube of rolled paper.)

Woman:
Now I hope you don’t mind me bringing it down to you. Jerome’s just a little intimidated by you after his last encountah with you.

(Julian looks down at the rolled up paper, back up at the woman, and then back down at the paper. He slowly reaches out with his right hand, grasps the tube, and brings it towards him while the woman relinquishes it. Once he has the paper, he reaches out with his other hand.)

Bane:
Pen?

(The woman looks up at him with a questioning look in her face.)

Woman:
‘Cuse me?

Bane:
Jesus, you’re as dense as your son. At least we know where he gets his stupidity from now…

(The woman’s voice takes are harsher tone.)

Woman:
You will not speak about my son in that negative light, sir.

Bane:
Negative? No, I’m pretty much positive your son is a fucking idiot…

(A rage fills the woman’s eyes. She takes on large step forward, eliminating any personal space between herself and Julian. Her index finger extends from her right hand and begins to poke Julian in the chest violently while she starts to berate him verbally. Julian looks down at her finger while she pokes him.)

Woman:
Now you listen up you fuckin’ prick, I told you not to speak to me that way and I also told you not to speak poorly about my son. If you do not sign the postah RIGHT NOW…

(Julian interrupts her.)

Bane:
Get your fucking greasy monkey paws off of me…

(The woman doesn’t listen and continues to poke Julian.)

Woman:
RIGHT NOW I said or I’m gonna call the cops and tell them…

(Suddenly, Julian reaches up with his massive hand and grips the woman’s finger in his palm. He quickly twists her hand to one side which causes a sickening cracking sound to emit from her and, obviously the sound of a broken finger. The look of anger on the woman’s face has been replaced by a look of shock and pain. She quickly drops her knees while she screams out in pain. Julian doesn’t seem to care as he begins to berate her.)

Bane:
Tell them what? That you came onto MY property and you began to assault ME? What the fuck do you think they’re going to do when they hear that? In case if you’re fucking idiot mind can’t come up with the answer, I’ll go ahead and tell you. NOTHING! They won’t do a fucking thing! Now you listen to me you fucking jungle bunny cunt. What you’re going to do tonight is go home and put some nice on this here broken finger of yours. Maybe you’ll take yourself to the emergency room so you can have the taxpayers like me pay for your medical bills. That’s fine. What you won’t do is ever, EVER knock on my door again demanding stuff from me. Hell, you won’t ever knock on my fucking door again at ALL.

(Julian takes a deep breath, calming himself a little, but not releasing the finger at all.)

Bane:
Listen, bitch, you have no idea what you interrupted tonight. I know you probably don’t keep up with my career or anything but your nigglet son should be able to tell you I’m going for my first world title shot that I have ever earned. And I’m fighting against some drunken Indian who’s probably going to be bouncing around the ring doing some sort of tribal dance while trying to chop me in the head with a tomahawk chop. And because it’s my first real title shot, you bet your black ass that I’m going to be as prepared for it as I possibly can be. What you did tonight was interrupt my training for this match…

(The woman glances behind Julian and can’t hold her tongue.)

Woman:
It looks like the only training you’re doing is for some Fruit Loops championship. What an appropriate cereal…

(Julian moves his hand slightly which causes the woman to yelp in pain again followed by a quick silence.)

Bane:
You best shut up, bitch, if you know what’s good for you.

(He glares down at the woman who looks back up with him with anger in her eyes but doesn’t make a sound.)

Bane:
Good, now you’re starting to learn why we are the masters and you simply were the slaves. It’s the same reason why you are on your knees in front of me. It’s because we are superior to you. And now since you are listening so well, I’m going to give you some advice.

Go home. Stay there and smoke your crack pipe and don’t bother me ever again. Or one broken finger is going to be the least of your worries.

Do you understand?

(The woman just stares up at him.)

Bane:
DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND BITCH?!?!

(The power of Julian’s screams causes the walls to rattle ever so slightly. Startled, the woman finally nods very slowly. This causes Bane to release her finger.)

Bane:
Good, now get the fuck out of here like a good little slave.

(The woman pushes herself back up to her feet, wincing when she accidentally puts pressure on her hand with the broken finger. Once she is to her feet, she slowly turns her back to him and makes her way down the hall. Julian though has one last parting shot.)

Bane:
Oh, and don’t you worry about your son’s precious autograph. I’ll get it to him whenever I can. At least he knows how to properly look up to a master.

(The woman makes no indication that she heard this and continues slowly down the hallway. A little miffed, Bane watches her for a second before he slams the door on her back.)

(Fade out.)


~~~D~C~W~L~~~


[Fade into the face of Derrick Ford, enraged. He does not, for once, have the Houston Skyline behind him. Instead, he appears to be at the other end of the office - the front door is visible in the background.]

FORD: When I fought for the Dangerous Championship, Hayden stayed out of the way. He had to. He couldn't risk his brand new show by screwing over THE deserving champion right on the first show. I won that title. It would still be mine if Hayden and his pet fast-counting ref hadn't screwed up the whole deal. And why? Because we didn't like each other? Because I gave him a little "Fed-warming" gift? Bullshit. It was petty vindictiveness. From that moment on, I knew what I had to do.

[A grin, wide and manic. He straightens up, as we see the desk he had been previously leaning against.]

FORD: Like Johnny Detson before me, I'd be the royal pain in the Commissioner's ass. I'd make him WANT to put me against his best, his brightest, hoping I'd fail. When I succeeded, not only would it piss him off to no end, but he'd have no choice than to let me cement my legacy...with the DCWL Grand Championship.

[He paces back and forth, followed by the camera.]

FORD: So he puts me up against his one, bright, shining hope. I stood across the ring from The Native and I scalped him. I put him down for the three count. Then that orangutan that made himself Deputy Commissioner comes out and has the NERVE to STEAL MY THUNDER?! What the hell? It was MY victory! He didn't need to make his damn announcement then! Alloy took my moment and made it all about him.

[He stops and walks back to the desk.]

FORD: Sure I could have just asked for a match, but where's the fun in that? So I tweaked them. I reminded them that they don't frighten me...they'll always be Men Without Shame to me. They use that as an excuse to put me in that scramble match first. Totally worth it, I thought, given that they got to learn their lesson. But then...then...

[Derrick picks up a post-it pad and zings it into the wall.]

FORD: MARSH?! What the hell kind of stunt were they trying to pull?! And what is the ONLY thing he does in that match? That's right, he eliminated ME! Cost ME MY CHANCE at the Grand Championship! So you're gaddamn right I found that fat fuck out in the parking lot and dropped him on that thick skull of his! And even better...third offence! I'll get this asshole in the ring, and when I do...

VOICE: ENOUGH!

[For the first time, Ford stops. We realize he isn't alone in the office. The camera pans over to see, for the first time, that we are not in Ford's Houston office at all. The American flags, pictures of Washington, Lincoln and Reagan and various diplomas frame a picture of mid-town Chicago. This is the God Complex, home of Shootfire Pro Wrestling. This is the office of the General Manager, standing in his three piece navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie.]

[This is the office of Henry Spikes.]

SPIKES: I tried to keep my silence, but it is clear that this requires a more personal touch. It is time, finally, that I addressed Mr. Hayden face to face. I shall leave Mr. Alloy to your devices.

FORD: Henry, I couldn't ask for anything more.

[The two men grin at each other, one wide and slimy, the other intense and manic. Fade out.]