Post by D! on Dec 11, 2005 23:47:53 GMT -5
(Lights up in the hallway backstage at NAPW. We get a moving shot of interviewer Josh Reynolds, striding with purpose to the door of an unmarked locker room. He knocks on the door, cautiously, then gies in and bangs on it. No response. Feeling for something underneath his shirt, Reynolds pushes the door open and enters, the camera following.)
(The room is dimly lit--only the ghost lights seem to be on, and only reluctantly, one might surmise--and the premises deathly silent. Reynolds forays deeper, checking past row and row of lockers until he finds what he's looking for . . . the NAPW Champion, D!, sitting on a bench, facing a locker, and sitting stock still.)
REYNOLDS: Champ?
(No reaction.)
REYNOLDS: D?
(No reaction.)
REYNOLDS: Can I ask why you're sulking in the general locker room?
D!: Because Ravager's sulking in the ring.
(Pause. D! hasn't moved his intense gaze from the same spot on the adjacent locker door.)
D!: And it's not sulking.
REYNOLDS: Then why are you here when--
D!: Are you here to do a hatchet piece on me, Reynolds?
REYNOLDS: No, sir.
(Reynolds pulls up a chain around his neck and reveals what was underneath his shirt: a canister of mace. He dangles this in front of him.)
REYNOLDS: Some of us on staff can make our decisions based on things other than money.
(This catches D!'s eye, and he goes from staring directly ahead to watching Reynold's mace, to finally making eye contact with the man. He chuckles a little, then smooths over his expression, then stands up to Reynold's height.)
D!: I'm trying to put things in their place.
REYNOLDS: Well, Champ, this week you've been on the receiving end of--
D!: No. That's not what I'm talking about. Not exactly. I'm not talking about Chris Casino's spoiled rich boy antics. I'm talking about . . .
(Deep breath.)
Anger.
I've said earlier about how I hold joy in my heart. This is true. This has not changed. But anger is not the opposite of joy, Josh Reynolds.
(He makes a fist with is right hand, and pops the knuckles with the other.)
In fact, they're very closely related.
You see, as much fun as my opponents see me have, as much as they see me joke and entertain people day in, day out . . . my job is to beat people. Beat them senseless until they can't fight off a three-second pin. That's not a part of me that feeds on joy. Think about it.
And as useful as anger is, it's ultimately self-destructive if you keep it all to yourself. I have to spend it all in the ring, Josh, or I go crazy. But by the same token, if I don't have the fury to take into the ring . . .
So I play a little game with my opponents. I get them going. And they give me all the reasons I ever need. When they insult my talents.
(D! lashes out and punches the locker door.)
When they insult my country.
(Another punch.)
When they try to bury me with propaganda!
(Another punch.)
AND WHEN THEY HAVE THE GALL TO LAUGH AT MY FRIEND'S SUICIDE!
(Another punch. This one dents the locker door quite badly. Reynolds jumps back. Pause.)
Do you know, Josh, that the other day someone in the NAPW office wanted me to change my finisher? He said it wasn't "wrestling". Said it was just punching and kicking.
(He snaps his head to the camera.)
Well, guess what? I already know it's not a wrestling finisher! It's ANGER, peanut! It is sheer, pure, brutalizing my opponent! Hitting him until I've got ONE! FINAL! KICK! left in me!
Ask anyone who's had to happen to them! Ask Viking all the way back in Norway! Ask Lobo coming back from Gulf South! Ask Plague at the All State office Christmas party! Ask them what it's like to get their ass beat by someone that they went and got angry!
Ask me, Chris Casino.
(Pause.)
ASK ME!!!
You've got . . . THREE. MATCHES. to get your crap together. 'Cause if you don't. If you stare into my eyes and you falter . . . then pray, just PRAY you go out on the Lobo Driver.
(He just fixes eyes with the camera. Pause. He then looks at his hand, knuckles bleeding from the locker. Back to the camera.)
D!: (Kissing a bloody knuckle.) Sorry, Vegas. Looks like your odds just got worse.
Hey, Video Crew! LIGHTS DOWN!
(The room is dimly lit--only the ghost lights seem to be on, and only reluctantly, one might surmise--and the premises deathly silent. Reynolds forays deeper, checking past row and row of lockers until he finds what he's looking for . . . the NAPW Champion, D!, sitting on a bench, facing a locker, and sitting stock still.)
REYNOLDS: Champ?
(No reaction.)
REYNOLDS: D?
(No reaction.)
REYNOLDS: Can I ask why you're sulking in the general locker room?
D!: Because Ravager's sulking in the ring.
(Pause. D! hasn't moved his intense gaze from the same spot on the adjacent locker door.)
D!: And it's not sulking.
REYNOLDS: Then why are you here when--
D!: Are you here to do a hatchet piece on me, Reynolds?
REYNOLDS: No, sir.
(Reynolds pulls up a chain around his neck and reveals what was underneath his shirt: a canister of mace. He dangles this in front of him.)
REYNOLDS: Some of us on staff can make our decisions based on things other than money.
(This catches D!'s eye, and he goes from staring directly ahead to watching Reynold's mace, to finally making eye contact with the man. He chuckles a little, then smooths over his expression, then stands up to Reynold's height.)
D!: I'm trying to put things in their place.
REYNOLDS: Well, Champ, this week you've been on the receiving end of--
D!: No. That's not what I'm talking about. Not exactly. I'm not talking about Chris Casino's spoiled rich boy antics. I'm talking about . . .
(Deep breath.)
Anger.
I've said earlier about how I hold joy in my heart. This is true. This has not changed. But anger is not the opposite of joy, Josh Reynolds.
(He makes a fist with is right hand, and pops the knuckles with the other.)
In fact, they're very closely related.
You see, as much fun as my opponents see me have, as much as they see me joke and entertain people day in, day out . . . my job is to beat people. Beat them senseless until they can't fight off a three-second pin. That's not a part of me that feeds on joy. Think about it.
And as useful as anger is, it's ultimately self-destructive if you keep it all to yourself. I have to spend it all in the ring, Josh, or I go crazy. But by the same token, if I don't have the fury to take into the ring . . .
So I play a little game with my opponents. I get them going. And they give me all the reasons I ever need. When they insult my talents.
(D! lashes out and punches the locker door.)
When they insult my country.
(Another punch.)
When they try to bury me with propaganda!
(Another punch.)
AND WHEN THEY HAVE THE GALL TO LAUGH AT MY FRIEND'S SUICIDE!
(Another punch. This one dents the locker door quite badly. Reynolds jumps back. Pause.)
Do you know, Josh, that the other day someone in the NAPW office wanted me to change my finisher? He said it wasn't "wrestling". Said it was just punching and kicking.
(He snaps his head to the camera.)
Well, guess what? I already know it's not a wrestling finisher! It's ANGER, peanut! It is sheer, pure, brutalizing my opponent! Hitting him until I've got ONE! FINAL! KICK! left in me!
Ask anyone who's had to happen to them! Ask Viking all the way back in Norway! Ask Lobo coming back from Gulf South! Ask Plague at the All State office Christmas party! Ask them what it's like to get their ass beat by someone that they went and got angry!
Ask me, Chris Casino.
(Pause.)
ASK ME!!!
You've got . . . THREE. MATCHES. to get your crap together. 'Cause if you don't. If you stare into my eyes and you falter . . . then pray, just PRAY you go out on the Lobo Driver.
(He just fixes eyes with the camera. Pause. He then looks at his hand, knuckles bleeding from the locker. Back to the camera.)
D!: (Kissing a bloody knuckle.) Sorry, Vegas. Looks like your odds just got worse.
Hey, Video Crew! LIGHTS DOWN!