Post by The Plague on Nov 26, 2005 3:02:12 GMT -5
[It's late. Past midnight, past 'the witching hour.' He's tossing. And turning. In the dim darkness of a sparsely furnished room, restlessness wakes The Plague. With a sudden intake of breath, he wakes.]
Urgh. Can't sleep. What time is it...god.
Oh...
[They're weary.]
...
[Abruptly, the Plague turns, casting one quick glance into the camera. He beckons the cameraman to follow him into the kitchen. Light floods the dim kitchen. Plague clicks the switch on an electric kettle and goes about making...tea?]
Yeah, bet you didn't think I was a tea junkie, huh D!? Kid, what you don't know about me could fill a dumptruck.
[Plague puts his hands on the counter, having prepared a two-cup teapot, honey, and a battered "I *heart* NY" mug. His gaze is directed towards the tea set, but it's clear that he's in space.]
You know, kid, a lot's been made in our...little 'rivalry'... about how it's the fresh-faced rookie against the grizzled, war-torn veteran. Hey, I've pointed it out. The media's pointed it out. You've pointed it out. It's a fact. Funny thing about our business, though.
[Plague flicks a glance towards the camera.]
See kid, I'm not that much older than you. You're what? 23? 24? Somewhere in the early-to-mid twenties, right? Old enough you've grown into your frame. Old enough you shave probably...well, maybe every two days. Not like some of the kids these days, 18, 19, 20, soft and smooth like a baby's bare ass. I look around and see some of the kids in the business today, and I just can't believe they're wrestling. They look like...yeah. They look like just children.
Playing a man's game.
[The kettle rises to a boil, and thanks to the miracle of modern technology, automatically shuts off. Plague proceeds to pour hot water into the teapot, and then removes the entire set-up to a small table in the kitchen area. He sits down and stares at the wall for a minute.]
The reality teevee of professional wrestling these days... but there's a reason that some NAPW Cameraman is in my bloody apartment in the middle of the night. Because I want to show you something, D!. I want to show you what it is, kid. Like I said, you've filled out. You look like a man, D!. Crap like your stunt a couple friday night's ago on Whyte, well, hey. You still got some growing up to do. But you're every bit of your twenty-four. You're a young man. [Plague smirks and raises his voice in sarcasm.] 'The young warrior deposing the old king!' That's what it is, huh D!? The Plague. The veteran. The old warrior.
[Plague's smirk fades.]
All of thirty-one.
[Silence. Plague pours the tea, then stirs in some honey with his right hand. His left hand, meanwhile, flexes compulsively.]
Thirty-one. And it hurts to even get out of bed. My knees are wrecked, my forehead's like soft taffy, and I ache. Every. Single. Day. There's only seven years between us, D!. But that's the business. That's life. That's what wrestling is going to do to you. You're thirty-one, and your body's about forty-five. It makes you wonder why we do this, any of us. High risk, guarantee of later pain, and low potential of success.
[Plague sips of his tea contemplatively.]
The consequences. The rewards. The question, D!..is this:
Is it worth it?
The chase, the matches, the morning's, the trips to the emergency room, the pain you have no chance of escaping no matter how hard you try? Is it worth it to hold that gold and leather and strap it around your waist one more day, when you know that you could be making ridiculous money doing something with those brains of yours, and you'd be safe everyday. Not getting your ass kicked by...well, ME...on a weekly basis. Is it worth it to tie up those flame-boots and get in the ring knowing that the fans want your blood for their good night's entertainment?
[Grim.]
Because they don't really care about you,D!. You're the current fad, and when they pass on, will it be worth it? Will it still, really, be worth it?
I'll be (BLEEP)ed if I lose my career to you, you son of a bitch, because I get up every day and get to the gym and train to wrestle because my God...it's worth it. It's all worth it. IT'S. ALL. WORTH IT. And I will get up every single day of the rest of my life to aching bones and pain in my knees to be the man, to wrestle in that ring as the champion. And you need to ask yourself, D!, for yourself, for your family, for whatever future you hold: Is it worth it?
[He glares.]
Because so help me God, if you have even a moment of doubt that this is what you want to do for the rest of your life... damn the torpedoes and to HELL with the consequences, I am going to eat you alive.
[The Plague suddenly softens after the intense outburst, leaning back in his chair and staring off into space. His expression is curiously content as he brings the mug to his lips.]
You know, kid, if I could do it all over again?
[Pause.]
I wouldn't change a single thing.
[Lights down.]
...God. I'm never letting a camera near me at midnight again.
Urgh. Can't sleep. What time is it...god.
Oh...
[They're weary.]
...
[Abruptly, the Plague turns, casting one quick glance into the camera. He beckons the cameraman to follow him into the kitchen. Light floods the dim kitchen. Plague clicks the switch on an electric kettle and goes about making...tea?]
Yeah, bet you didn't think I was a tea junkie, huh D!? Kid, what you don't know about me could fill a dumptruck.
[Plague puts his hands on the counter, having prepared a two-cup teapot, honey, and a battered "I *heart* NY" mug. His gaze is directed towards the tea set, but it's clear that he's in space.]
You know, kid, a lot's been made in our...little 'rivalry'... about how it's the fresh-faced rookie against the grizzled, war-torn veteran. Hey, I've pointed it out. The media's pointed it out. You've pointed it out. It's a fact. Funny thing about our business, though.
[Plague flicks a glance towards the camera.]
See kid, I'm not that much older than you. You're what? 23? 24? Somewhere in the early-to-mid twenties, right? Old enough you've grown into your frame. Old enough you shave probably...well, maybe every two days. Not like some of the kids these days, 18, 19, 20, soft and smooth like a baby's bare ass. I look around and see some of the kids in the business today, and I just can't believe they're wrestling. They look like...yeah. They look like just children.
Playing a man's game.
[The kettle rises to a boil, and thanks to the miracle of modern technology, automatically shuts off. Plague proceeds to pour hot water into the teapot, and then removes the entire set-up to a small table in the kitchen area. He sits down and stares at the wall for a minute.]
The reality teevee of professional wrestling these days... but there's a reason that some NAPW Cameraman is in my bloody apartment in the middle of the night. Because I want to show you something, D!. I want to show you what it is, kid. Like I said, you've filled out. You look like a man, D!. Crap like your stunt a couple friday night's ago on Whyte, well, hey. You still got some growing up to do. But you're every bit of your twenty-four. You're a young man. [Plague smirks and raises his voice in sarcasm.] 'The young warrior deposing the old king!' That's what it is, huh D!? The Plague. The veteran. The old warrior.
[Plague's smirk fades.]
All of thirty-one.
[Silence. Plague pours the tea, then stirs in some honey with his right hand. His left hand, meanwhile, flexes compulsively.]
Thirty-one. And it hurts to even get out of bed. My knees are wrecked, my forehead's like soft taffy, and I ache. Every. Single. Day. There's only seven years between us, D!. But that's the business. That's life. That's what wrestling is going to do to you. You're thirty-one, and your body's about forty-five. It makes you wonder why we do this, any of us. High risk, guarantee of later pain, and low potential of success.
[Plague sips of his tea contemplatively.]
The consequences. The rewards. The question, D!..is this:
Is it worth it?
The chase, the matches, the morning's, the trips to the emergency room, the pain you have no chance of escaping no matter how hard you try? Is it worth it to hold that gold and leather and strap it around your waist one more day, when you know that you could be making ridiculous money doing something with those brains of yours, and you'd be safe everyday. Not getting your ass kicked by...well, ME...on a weekly basis. Is it worth it to tie up those flame-boots and get in the ring knowing that the fans want your blood for their good night's entertainment?
[Grim.]
Because they don't really care about you,D!. You're the current fad, and when they pass on, will it be worth it? Will it still, really, be worth it?
I'll be (BLEEP)ed if I lose my career to you, you son of a bitch, because I get up every day and get to the gym and train to wrestle because my God...it's worth it. It's all worth it. IT'S. ALL. WORTH IT. And I will get up every single day of the rest of my life to aching bones and pain in my knees to be the man, to wrestle in that ring as the champion. And you need to ask yourself, D!, for yourself, for your family, for whatever future you hold: Is it worth it?
[He glares.]
Because so help me God, if you have even a moment of doubt that this is what you want to do for the rest of your life... damn the torpedoes and to HELL with the consequences, I am going to eat you alive.
[The Plague suddenly softens after the intense outburst, leaning back in his chair and staring off into space. His expression is curiously content as he brings the mug to his lips.]
You know, kid, if I could do it all over again?
[Pause.]
I wouldn't change a single thing.
[Lights down.]
...God. I'm never letting a camera near me at midnight again.