Post by Applesauce on Aug 28, 2022 20:36:09 GMT -5
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Cruelty reigns. Childhood dies.
Full moons rise. The she-wolf cries.
Amongst dogs, again she prowls.
With lust for blood, the she-wolf growls.
Stalking sheep with righteous zeal,
With throats to rip and gold to steal.
She kills her prey and leaves remains.
Sun bleaching bones upon the plains
The grey wolf hunts with great delight,
And stalks the bull throughout the night.
With blackened teeth and shadow fur,
The carrion awaiting her.
Combat evolves, just one survives.
The apex beast, the one most wise.
Bones to break and blood to pool.
The Doll-faced Wolf, the Northern Bull.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Cruelty reigns. Childhood dies.
Full moons rise. The she-wolf cries.
Amongst dogs, again she prowls.
With lust for blood, the she-wolf growls.
Stalking sheep with righteous zeal,
With throats to rip and gold to steal.
She kills her prey and leaves remains.
Sun bleaching bones upon the plains
The grey wolf hunts with great delight,
And stalks the bull throughout the night.
With blackened teeth and shadow fur,
The carrion awaiting her.
Combat evolves, just one survives.
The apex beast, the one most wise.
Bones to break and blood to pool.
The Doll-faced Wolf, the Northern Bull.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
ON CAM VIGNETTE
STRUGGLE – PART ONE
A large bald man walks a sandy street bathed in dull brown light. Hands stuffed in his black zip-up hoodie, he passes a palm tree before making a hard turn right, to cross the street, half-walking-half-jogging towards the camera. We pull back through an open door, revealing a kind looking man in an ugly wrinkled polo, waiting by the door. Buster acknowledges him as he ascends the steps with the small grunt of a single dad in his mid-thirties.
“I didn’t think you were gonna show.” Says the sloppy looking man with the ‘BOB CONNORS’ nametag. “Keeping commitments is…”
“…part of my recovery process. I know.” Interrupts the muscular wrestler as he wipes the sweat from the top of his head and rests his hand on the back of his neck. ‘BOB’ offers a fist bump and hovers for a second. Buster patronizes him before returning his bumped fist back to his hoodie pocket. Buster scans the room, asking for guidance from ‘BOB’ without making eye contact. “Where should I sit? It’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these.”
“Oh, one spot is just as good as another. Go ahead and grab a coffee and a nametag on the table over there. We should start singing Kumbaya and braiding each other’s hair in a few minutes.” Says the doorman with a rehearsed chuckle.
Buster responds with a raised eyebrow and a shrug. “Alright. Whatever.”
We cut to a wider scene, showing Buster entering the room and looking around for a seat where he won’t be bothered. A blown-out ballast flickers artificial light over a table of cheap coffee and danishes. Buster gives the table a judging glare. They want him to trade one vice for another. He sneers at the ugly old purple carpet, lining what used to be a Lutheran church, now decorated in motivational posters and pamphlets. He passes a half dozen chairs, of different styles, arranged in a tight circle already populated by other court-ordered attendees. The camera begins to zoom in as he stops in front of a chair. The background blurs as we focus on Buster’s face. He gives a polite nod to someone off camera and a non-threatening hand wave to another.
He takes a seat in an uncomfortable wooden chair with a wicker back. We fade to black as the following words appear on the screen.
━─━────༺༻────━─━
THE ROAD TO RECOVERY IS PAVED WITH PAIN
━─━────༺༻────━─━
OFF-CAM
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
Ever have a lucid dream? One where you know you’re dreaming but you still refuse to wake up? Knowing that you are the architect of your own reality is the most powerful you’ll ever feel, even if it's just a dream. None of it is real, but it still feels real to you.
William Bernard Glover, known as Buster Gloves to the uninitiated, reaches for the cell phone on the nightstand. 8:14 am on a Friday morning. The kids must have already left the house for football practice by now. No classes for him to teach today. Thank God. A couple of those students are giving him an ulcer. Anyway, today is a day off. So why not keep the blackout curtains shut and sleep in for a while?
Buster puts the phone down and reaches to the other side of the king-sized bed. It’s empty, as usual, but… it’s still warm to the touch. The sheets still smell like vanilla-sugar body lotion, but the air smells much better… maple-smoked thick cut bacon. Buster has a specific set of skills, and if bacon is cooking somewhere within a quarter mile, he will use those skills, he will find it, and he will fight children and cancer patients to devour it… probably.
The slip sheet sticks to his bare chest. Florida heat plus low thread-count in a shithole rental property equals sweaty nights in bed. And not the good kind. Seriously, who is on board with this pathetic slip sheet?! It’s not a blanket. It’s not a sheet. It’s the worst there is, the worst there was, the worst there ever will be. However… the girl in the kitchen insists that Buster had to use one. She says it's just an extra layer of protection and that sleeping without it is gross. This is obviously the belief system of an insane person. Buster doesn’t care what her opinion is on the matter, he’s an advocate for pillow walls and separate blankets. But this girl, she’s strong willed. She knows how to get what she wants, even if it takes longer than she’d like. Bedroom etiquette is a non-starter. No slip sheet, no Netflix and Chill. Buster was beaten on that issue, but won a major victory in the Battle of 'Big and Little Spoons'. Everyone wants to be the little spoon and if you say otherwise, you’re just kidding yourself. You know what they call a big strong guy, on his side, at the edge of the bed and a petite sex kitten snuggled up on his back? ‘Backpacking’. And it’s much more common than the media would have you think.
Where in the world is Buster’s favorite t-shirt? It’s an ugly thing. Old and full of holes. Just like your mom… Bazinga! Buster loves that stupid shirt. It’s a whisper of a past life. Probably balled up in the corner of the room covered in Cheeto dust. It’ll surface later when he runs out of clean laundry.
In a hallway, narrower than the birth canal, the sound of Taylor Swift ‘shaking it off’ echoes and thumps from the rooms below. A house call from Tay-Tay, doesn’t sound so bad; just as long as she’s there to shoot on ex-boyfriends and it doesn’t turn into a discussion about her new political dogma. This cursed music makes the former MMA fighter want to do the Macarena in rush hour traffic. A minor reprieve, other sounds are mixed in with the pop music. Frying pans, clinking dishes, and off-pitch singing blended in with smooth top 40 sounds. It sounds like the Swedish chef taking the stage on amateur night at the Eager Beaver.
The reflection of a middle-aged man stares back from the mirror. Buster shows him his warface while making tiny circles with an electric toothbrush. The reflection judges him with shifty eyebrows. You want to fight, old man? Why not? Everyone wants a piece of Buster these days. His face is just so punchable. Am I right?
Buster Gloves is mayonnaise. He’s a peanut butter sandwich. All steak and no sizzle. He’s very hungry, but he’s not very interesting. Which begs the question, ‘Why would any young, attractive, woman willingly date him? Why would she willingly sleep with him? He’s damaged goods. Used up and past his prime. A single dad with a kink for choking people. This is probably a one-time thing, right? Like prom night, or that time he finger-banged Jackie Peffercorn at rock-and-bowl. Might as well get downstairs and enjoy it before she realizes how much of a mistake she’s made.
The wood floor is cold on his bare feet. It’s littered with sand particles. The floor, not his feet. Everything is sandy by the beach. It was cool at first, but not anymore. It’s coarse and rough and irritating. It gets everywhere. Not like the half-naked girl in his kitchen. She’s soft and smooth. Like buttercream icing. He leans against the door frame, watching her dance like a rain-dancer caught in a spider web. It becomes obvious what happened to his favorite t-shirt. Of course she’s wearing it. Stolen from his bedside while he was sleeping. It looks much better on her but if she tries to take it back to California, she will take a diamond cutter in the foyer. I don’t care what you say, Emily Simms is a stone-cold fox and if you disagree, the terrorists win.
Buster is famished, but Emily is a terrible cook. He has known this for a while. She may never figure it out. But how bad can it get? You just fry it and add salt until it’s not shitty anymore. Buster sneaks into the kitchen, ignoring the mountain of used dishes piled up in the sink. Every meal Emily Simms makes is much larger and more messy than it should be. She can’t just cook an egg, she has to cook the entire carton, plus a pound of bacon, eat it all, and chase it with a Pepsi. If this whole wrestling thing doesn’t work out, she has a future in the mukbang community. Fifty bucks says Buster has to clean up every inch of this room while she’s trying to glue on fake lashes or something. It’s no big deal. He’s always cleaning up messes for other people. Besides, the cook isn’t supposed to clean. And home is supposed to be a little messy.
“Oh! I didn’t realize you were awake yet, William.” She says while pushing an entire package of bacon around a pan. Buster hates when she calls him William, but what he hates more is the fact that she doesn’t just lay the strips of bacon down one-by-one in the pan. She just dumps the whole package and stirs it around like it’s being cooked in a cauldron. She thrives on doing small things that mildly infuriate her boyfriend of two months, like calling him William or cooking like the mentally deranged.
She makes an announcement. “I made you strawberry milk and four different kinds of protein. Eggs, sausage, bacon, and… drum roll, please… steak… from a cow!” She’s cooked every damn thing in the refrigerator. A trip down to the Piggly Wiggly is definitely in the cards today. Miss and Mister Pac-man couldn’t eat all of this food.
“And I made sandwiches for your boys before they ran off to football practice. I didn’t know what they liked so I made ham and cheese, bologna and cheese, peanut butter and cheese. I just threw it all in a bag and sent them on the way.” Buster knows she’s telling the truth, because the jars are still on the counter, some lids not even screwed back on yet. Buster just nods, wondering if she forgot to wear pants before giving them the sandwiches or if she took them off after.
“Oh, and another thing, thank you for getting me my favorite beverage.” She poses with a half-empty bottle of pop. “This morning’s breakfast is brought to you in part by the Pepsi Cola Company. Delicious. Refreshing. Pepsi.” Buster wants to fart. Emily continues. “I know you hate having sodas in the house and it means a lot to me that you bought some just because you know I like it.” She scrapes the well-done bacon into a serving dish.
A new song plays on the radio, ‘Call Me Maybe’ by Carlee Rae Jepsen. A real banger that slaps hard. Just kidding, it’s a bullshit song, but another one of Emily’s favorites. Emily walks away from the stove without turning off the burners. The fire hazard was predicted by Buster and he follows behind her, shutting off the burners and oven. Serving dishes are placed around the table like Thanksgiving on the Food Channel. Then, Emily pounces and begins the morning embrace in the kitchen. Her arms coil around his waist like cute little pythons. She nuzzles her head into his chest and purrs. The height difference is comical.
Buster playfully teases. “Anything for the California Kitten,” he says with a sly laugh. The nickname gets under Emily’s skin. Buster knows that. But he had to come up with something to call her when she calls him ‘William’. There are differences in all couples, but most don’t have to deal with a 9-year age gap. 25 to 36. They're like AOL and Facebook, Boy Meets World and Jersey Shore, Smoking Hot Lindsay Lohan and Coked-Out Lindsay Lohan. Everything in their relationship is gravy right now, but what happens when Emily starts wanting more. Buster isn’t willing to start a new family. He gets anxious when thinking about marriage, living together, or traveling the world. This playful moment in Buster’s beach house kitchen is temporary and fleeting. The whole relationship has to end in a spectacular flameout of poor decisions and fantastic heartbreak.
“Are you hungry?” She asks, like he has a choice.
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”
Emily hurries to grab Buster some silverware and a glass of milk, eager to make everything just perfect. “Did I miss anything? I want to make today special for you.”
Mounds of cooked animal products are scooped onto Buster’s plate. “Seriously, Emmy. This is great. Thank you. What’s the special occasion anyway?”
“Oh, nothin' in particular. We just don’t get to spend a lot of time together. I want you to feel appreciated. Like a champion in your own house.” The vulnerability in Emily’s voice shows through in that moment. Buster has been a little distant with Emily recently, but not in the same way that Duncan Shepard was in her previous relationship with him. Buster has been acclimating himself to the waters of their relationship, careful not to submerge himself too quickly. But he’s sinking deeper. The days of backstage crushes and handholding on the boardwalk have escalated into something rated-M for mature. They are soul-bonding, and terrified to admit it.
“Have you given much thought about your match at Combat Evolved?” Emily askes as the carbonated hiss comes from her second bottle of pop.
Buster cuts a massive chunk of steak. It’s a little overcooked for his liking, but it still tastes like America. He mumbles with a mouth full. “You don’t want to talk about work right now, do you? Let’s talk about that thing you did last night instead?”
Emily folds her arms across her chest, drawing attention to the words ‘River City Dojo’ written across it. “Behave! Your match is a big deal. You need to focus on it.”
“I’m focused. I just don’t need to have more pressure put on me right now. If I lose, I lose.”
“No offense, but that’s baloney, William! You can't lose! You will beat Sarah Wolf. You will win at Tri Force Heroes. And then you win that Final Boss Championship at Final Fantasy. That’s the way this story ends! That’s OUR happily ever after!”
The tiny woman yelling at him gives him pause and makes him drop his fork. He drinks about half of his glass of milk without coming up for air. Then responds in a measured tone. “I WANT to win every match. I’m just saying that it’s ok if I don’t. Somebody has to lose. Eventually it’s gonna be me.”
Emily tosses her fork down with a clink on the dish. Remembering recent events and folding her arms… again and tighter. She sticks out her chin. “You’ve already lost your belt once, Buster. Remember? It was stolen from you. Are you just gonna let that happen again?”
Buster shakes his head. “You know what? I’m glad the belt was stolen from me. It helped me learn about what’s really important in life. Leather and gold don’t make you a champion. You were unharmed, Jason Ryan accomplished nothing. He got a another shot at me in that Parking Lot match, and he accomplished nothing. Here I am, sitting across from one of my favorite people, with the championship on my mantle. People know I’m a solid champion… right?”
“If they didn’t, would I be here? I'm riding you all the way to the top.” She giggles about that, but there’s some truth in it.
Buster blushes and is quick to change the subject. “Hey, I want to ask you something. And you might take this the wrong way, but just hear me out.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“I can visualize the path in front of me. And please take this as a compliment, but you are going to be a huge distraction along the way.”
Emily grimaces as she sucks the tears back into their ducts.
“I see how you’re looking at me. Just know that you are a WELCOME distraction. I want you in my corner every step of the way. I just want to make sure we understand the situation.”
Confused, Emily asks, “What’s 'the situation'?”
“People want to ruin my life. People want me fired. Sarah Wolf wants me dead. I’m surrounded by people who want me to fail. I may have to do some things that I wouldn’t normally do. And eventually I’m going to cross paths with Duncan Shepard. It will get ugly. Because I’ve betrayed a lot of people.”
“No, you haven’t…”
“I know what you’re gonna say, but this is one of those bro-code things. You were off-limits and I still pursued you anyway. It doesn’t matter if you were on a break. It doesn’t matter that you guys never hooked up. All that matters is that he was into you, and I got in the way. There will be a match between us, eventually. I think it’ll be at Final Fantasy for the Final Boss Championship, but it could happen at any time, and when it does, it’s gonna get really emotional for all of us.”
Emily’s face has turned to the floor. “I don’t agree with all of that. I’ve moved on from Duncan and you should too. We are shipping pretty hard now, aren’t we? That’s all that matters.”
“I wish that was all that mattered. But it isn’t. After I get that match with Duncan, we can talk about getting more serious. Because I think we’re awesome together. But until then, I don’t want anything to change. If I don’t keep my eye on the prize, I’m going to end up on my back. Let’s win this damn thing and then it’s you and me forever. The Bull of the North and the California Kitten. Ya know?”
“You’re an asshole sometimes. You know THAT?”
“It’s the only thing that I’ve ever been sure about. Would you mind passing me the bacon?”
ON CAM SHOOT PROMO
CRY FOR A WOLF
A low angle camera opens to a shot of a large man sitting on a stool in what looks like a small workshop or large tool shed. A single desk lamp lights up the work bench as the muscular man hunches over. The muscles in his back bunch and release from beneath a black compression shirt with the words ‘Wrestling Is Forever’ etched in white print. The camera slowly zooms in, panning around the side, and teases of reveal of his project. The light from the desk lamp bounces off the sparkling blue and gold treasure as The Bull of the North, Buster Gloves, works at the Wisdom Championship, spraying it, and polishing it to its former glory. The camera cuts a to a closer shot of his face, still panning, ever so slightly. Drops of sweat are beaded on his forehead as his expression tells a story of dissatisfaction and determination.
Abuse. Trauma. Violence. The building blocks of a shattered childhood. The plague of lost souls. My heart burns there too.
We are an ocean of survivors, drowning in fear and oppression. Running from death without realizing that death is one of the most important parts of life.
Nothing positive is created in this world through destruction. With dirty hands and good intentions, we build something from nothing. It’s how we leave our mark on the world.
Buster sprays the face of the sapphire stone on the Wisdom Championship and polishes it to a brilliant luster.
If you aren’t building anything. You’re just decomposing. Rust in your veins. Rot in your bones.
I’m supposed to say awful things about Sarah Wolf. They put a golden shovel in the hands of their champion and expected me to destroy her for the entertainment of others. I won’t do it. I won’t listen to the forces who tell me to embrace the hate. I won’t bury her under the building. I’m choosing to build something better.
This shadow realm we live in doesn’t need dark lords in dark towers. What it needs, is light. Love. Freedom. What the world needs most is empathy.
In the house of wolves, hostility may be a family trait, but it’s not something that the pups are born with. It’s something that they learn. In fact, kindness is the trait we’re born with. And it’s not a family trait. It’s a human one. At Combat Evolved, I’ll show Sarah Wolf what she hasn’t seen in a very long time. Empathy. Kindness. Humanity.
In a war of sharp tongues and black hearts, Sarah is unbeatable. Her passion for making every situation worse is legendary. It’s a feature in her programming, not a bug. She bites, claws, and pick scabs just to make sure that conflicts are never resolved. And she is very… very good… at what she does. If she wants to give me a poison kiss, I won’t resist.
My sponsor tells me that step 12 of the program requires a spiritual awakening, to carry it on to others, and help those who may be suffering with their own demons. Some of them watch my matches on TV. They escape their own struggles for a couple hours every few weeks and they put their hopes and dreams in the hands of the performers. They’re the same as me. They’re the same as Sarah Wolf. If there is any way that I can show a person like Ms. Wolf true compassion, I should try. Because on a wide enough timeline, we ARE the same.
For everyone out there, who feels alone, who’s dealing with their own trauma, their own pain, can you see her? Can you see Sarah Wolf? Can you see yourself in her vacant eyes. I thought I knew what she was when she signed with Level Up back in May. I was wrong. She's much more than what she wants you to see. People who have been through hell can recognize others who have been there too. A carefully crafted disguise won’t hide that. We see someone, at the bottom of their rope, when there’s no difference between living and dying. Beyond the fantastic wigs, and the pointed teeth, and the venomous words is a young woman, who thinks that destroying the world as it is, can fix the world it has been.
It's not too late. There’s still goodness in her. Beneath the veil, she wants the same things we all do. Food, shelter, freedom, human connection. Things that were stolen from her. By her own admission, she intends to make everyone else feel sorry for what’s been done to her. Well let me just say this… I... am sorry… Sarah. I’m sorry for everything. For the things you had to go through. And the things you never asked for or deserved. I’m sorry that it all happened to you the way that it did.
Sarah says she doesn’t care what other people think about her, but she puts so much effort into being a bad person. She speaks as if the Gods took a vote, and personally put her here to piss the world off. But she’s wrong about that too. Being a villain, a monster, a disease, doesn’t validate your existence. It makes no difference at all. In the grand scheme of things, we're all insignificant. It’s the tiny glimmers of brilliance in between periods of suffering that make humanity so remarkable.
She's saying, “F*ck it. Let chaos prevail.” So am I. So is the fast-food worker, in the drive-thru, trying to support their Oxy habit. So is the customer service rep who’s trying to figure out how to pay for their insulin this month. So is the soccer mom drinking screw-top desert wine out of a Hydroflask in her mini-van while her daughter is at practice.
My heart weeps for Sarah. People have been telling her what she needs to do her whole life, and she probably listened to them for a while. But when you aren’t rewarded for doing the right thing, you are justified in your rebellion. Building bridges never got Sarah across rough waters. So, she weaves through lives like a plague. Emerging to take lives. And letting the Gods sort out the bodies.
We can’t fault Sarah for the path she’s chosen to take. Because only she really knows what she’s been through. And it’s not right for me to stand here and tell her, or anyone what to do with their life. But I WILL say this. There are other ways to go. Inflicting pain on others, won’t heal YOUR wounds. What the world needs now, is more empathy.
ON CAM VIGNETTE
STRUGGLE – PART TWO
We fade back into the room. A middle-aged woman in a denim dress is sobbing as the rest of the room offers weak applause for her story. How stunning. How brave. Seriously… It’s really hard to admit when you’ve fucked up, people. Give the lady in the denim dress some slack. She’s an addict AND has bad taste in clothing. She could use a hug and a box of Kleenex.
“Ok then. Who wants to go next?” Says ‘BOB CONNORS’ from behind his shitty goatee.
Buster unfolds his arms and puts two fingers in the air. It’s ‘go’ time. The host acknowledges Buster with a head nod… AND a finger point… and gives William Bernard Glover the green light to proceed. The wrestler returns a tight-lipped smile and tilts his head upwards. He fantasizes about the 27 ways he knows to choke ‘BOB CONNORS’ unconscious. Buster brushes off his chest, like he just did a line of Oreo’s, then stands up with a hrumpf. He itches the butterfly stitch bandage on the bridge of his nose, a souvenir from his parking lot brawl on EXP a couple weeks ago. The shame flows.
“Hi everybody. My name’s William… Everyone calls me Buster… I’m an alcoholic… I’ve been sober 5 years and 11 months… I mean, I WAS sober, 5 years and 11 months… until last week. More on that later… Anyway, I’m in therapy now. It’s awesome. Not really. But I’m learning about myself. It’s a ‘journey’ of self-discovery. I hate it. I try to be positive, but my shrink tells me that I’m kind of passive aggressive… and also actively aggressive. I consider that to be some sort of rare achievement.”
Buster checks the temperature of the room. Tough crowd. He starts to play with a gunmetal ring on his right hand; the wedding ring that he still wears as a reminder of what he’s lost.
“Let’s see what else? I’m controlling. I’m self-centered. I’m emotionally distant sometimes, and desperately seeking attention. Oh, and the greatest sin of all, I REALLY love what I do for a living. I’m a PRO-fessional rassler. It’s a lot… I’m taking it all in. Trying to own it. Learning when it’s the right time to keep my mouth shut.”
Fact check? Mostly true.
“My wife died a while back. It messed me up pretty good and I still have trouble maintaining relationships. But there’s this new girl in my life. She’s a unicorn. A dime in a room full of nickels. I’m trying not to screw it up too quickly, but I have a habit of coming on too strong and scaring people away. I sabotage things before anyone gets a chance to reject me… or so I’ve been told.”
“Oh… I also rent a beach house with a leaky roof. It smells like the bathroom at Red Lobster. I can’t really afford to own anything else, but who CAN these days? I’d like to get a goldfish, but I’m not quite ready for that kind of responsibility yet. You can pretty much say that I’m thriving. Living my best life.”
Buster searches the room for a familiar face… ‘BOB CONNORS’. He’s just sitting there, like a bump on a log. Buster doesn’t know why, but he wants to punch him in his stupid face. It’s ironic, because ‘BOB CONNORS’ is actually a really nice guy. He’s been through the program and coaches little league in his spare time. When they met a couple months ago, ‘BOB CONNORS’ had no idea that Buster was a D-List celebrity. But he was still happy to be an advisor while, the Beer of the North… I mean, Bull of the North, navigates the challenging journey of sobriety and recovery.
“There I go again… my sponsor says that I use sarcasm to avoid my real feelings. That if I truly want to grow, as an individual, I'll just put myself out there and take whatever comes my way. He says that vulnerability is the birthplace of change. Some of you probably heard that before. Am I right?“
Smiles and nods of affirmation from the room. Open mic night is going a little better now.
“It’s hard for me to let go. I took a capital L, at a work event recently, and handled it poorly. I could have been the positivity that I want to see in the world, but I didn’t do that. All I wanted to do is have a drink. So, as soon as I got off my flight, I went directly to a bar. I didn’t tell anyone where I was, I just went to a bar and threw years of sobriety off the roof. Nobody else in the room gave a shit, but I felt like they all knew how much of a failure I was."
Buster sighs, revealing his shame, then gathers his strength again.
“I gave the bartender my five-year chip. Then I went home to my kids, made some chicken fingers for them, texted my girlfriend some dank memes, and ugly-cried like Toby Maguire in Spiderman. I know that I can’t blow it with my kids again. Not now, not ever. I need to keep things together because I uprooted their whole lives to chase MY dream. My kids are all that I have. Those two, amazing, perfect, disgusting little buttholes are my whole world.”
He gets choked up and fights off tears.
“I’ll sit down and stop talking in just a minute, I promise. I just want to say one more thing. For a long time, I pretended to be a champion in life. I faked it until I made it. I had a lot of people fooled, but when new challenges come along in life, new challen-GERS come along, life gives you a cup check. It reminds you that champions have no off-season. And it’s just not acceptable to pretend to be a champion. If you want to be YOUR best, if you want to be THE best, you have to believe you ARE the best.”
“And I believe… the BEST… for me… is still yet to come.”
ON CAM SHOOT PROMO
CRY FOR A WOLF – PART TWO
The silhouette of a man sits on a curb, body outlined by the liquor store lights behind him. In his hands, a brown paper bag, the size of a novel. The camera cuts to another angle where we can see the facial features of Level Up’s resident ‘Dad-Bro’ of the year, Buster Gloves. He’s unshaven, with a stressed look hanging from his face. He unbunches the brown paper bag and pull a flat bottle of clear alcohol from it. It’s the cheap stuff. Maybe Russian. Probably not… you know… considering. He studies the label. Running his fingers down it. Brushing his thumb across the threads of the red cap. He torques his hand across the top, twisting it with a satisfying metallic snap. A friendly sound of the past. Buster pulls the bottle to his nose, inhaling its soul. Then, after taking a deep breath, put the cap on, grabs the bottle with both hands and starts speaking to it in a pained voice.
You’re the black rose, cursed by white shadows, Sarah. A doll, with one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss. And you’re following a path to the nothing. This curse ends when you decide that it has no power over you. So, stop listening to the voices of the dead and come with me.
You don’t have to be a victim. You can be so much more. You have immortality at your fingertips. Greatness at your door. You're the culmination of all things before, good and evil. Poetry, written in ink and blood. Black honey dripping from heart shaped teeth. The Gods see perfection in you. All you have to do is accept who you are.
You’ll get a fair match at Combat Evolved. A match, you’ve earned, and a match you have a good chance of winning. But you need to decide if you want to do it the right way or if you want to fight that match with malice in your heart.
I’ll admit something that I shouldn’t. Ever since you beat Demi Stratford to become the number one contender, it’s felt like the belt was already around your waist. The belt was stolen from me, like your youth was stolen from you. That belt has been just as much yours as it has been mine. It taught me that I won’t be champion forever, and I’m ok with that. I just need to hold this position for a little bit longer. I can’t get this close to the sun without touching it just once.
Buster holds up the bottle so that the light of the streetlamp shines behind it.
This match must be incredibly important to you. Winning it, proves you are real. That you have talent. It may even feel like you’re winning something for all the people who are as broken and damned as you believe yourself to be. I’m telling you that you don’t need to win this trophy to prove that. You’ve already earned the respect of your peers. You are one of us. And you are elite.
They tell me that my loss at EXP a month ago isn’t a bad thing. That getting pinned is probably the best thing that could have happened to me. But it felt like my guts were ripped out and put on display in front of my children. It felt like failure. It felt like another relapse. It felt like I was letting everyone down. But I’ve learned from losing. I learned what NOT to do. My eyes are clear and what I see in front of me is this Championship belt that is so pure that it is indestructible. It’s so full of tradition that the act of just wearing it proves that technique is more powerful than raw aggression or quick reflexes. The Wisdom Title is about knowledge of self and about understanding all the wonderful things that our bodies are capable of.
Sarah, you’re an amazing wrestler, but this belt isn’t for you. You still have so much to learn about yourself. Later in life, you won’t wish that you had hurt more people. You’ll wish that you had enjoyed the power and beauty of your youth. You’ll wish that you made more time in your life for things that bring you actual joy.
Throwing yourself at open hearts while wearing thorned armor won’t fix the leak in your roof. It doesn’t make your bed or feed your cats. You aren’t a spirit of the night. You’re human. You’re deserving of love, and honor, and respect. You just need to find a more constructive way to be happy without bathing in the blood of your enemies and sucking the marrow from their bones.
Buster finally makes eye contact with the camera and drives home his next point.
STOP IT, SARAH! Look in the mirror! Who’s looking back at you? Is it the doll-faced killer? The pale rider? The mistress clad in black tears? NO! It’s the twelve-year-old girl who used to look up at the glow in the dark stars on her ceiling and have dreams about traveling the world. You’re still the little girl who wonders if there’s a monster in the closet, under the bed, outside the window. You AREN’T the monster.
The life you had before Level Up was different. But those days are over… if you want them to be. You’re here now. With us. In Level Up. And you can start all over. We're your new fucked-up family, and we are all damaged in one way or another. But we’re glad you’re here with us and we hope you stay forever. Let’s create music that changes the universe. You can be part of that. You just have to let us in. Take my hand. We will wrestle. They will clap for us. And we become immortal. Together.
The camera cuts to another angle as Buster stands up and starts pacing back and forth.
People, including yourself, will criticize me for not going after you. You may call me a coward. But you’re too good of a wrestler for me to try to beat you like others have tried. It doesn’t matter to me the cut of your cloth or the color of your lips. You have wrestling in your heart. There’s no amount of peacocking that’ll distract me from that. So, why don’t we let this match be about one thing… wrestling. Just remember that Combat Evolved isn’t a coronation. It’s a contest.
The men and women who told you that you couldn’t get here were wrong. They underestimated you. They were feeding you. I won’t make that same mistake!
He throws the full bottle of liquor to the ground, smashing it into shards and splashing its contents in the lot.
I’ll meet you in El Paso, Sarah Wolf. I’ll lay the Wisdom Championship at your feet and invite you to make the first move. You get to show me how you want this to go. And I’ll reciprocate.
Respect for respect. Truth for truth. Violence… for violence.
