Post by D! on Nov 5, 2005 12:05:45 GMT -5
Lights up. We are in a section of Whyte Avenue on one of its busiest nights . . . there is youth hanging out, eating pizza by the slice, smoking. D! threads his way through the crowd and onto the sidewalk.
D!: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the inaugural installment of Friday Night Whyte! A chance to hang with your favourite NAPW Superstars . . . a chance to see them outside of their regular Shouty Mode.
D! starts walking down the avenue. The camera follows.
D!: Now I'm usually not shy with company, but tonight, I'm going to keep the camera on myself. The match of my life is coming up on Monday, and wouldn't you know it, I've got things to say.
D! stops, amazed. Up ahead, not one, not two, but four police officers are travelling in a beat. They nonchalantly walk past D! and the camera.
D!: Well, that's my neighbourhood for ya. We've had this siege mentality ever since the riot . . . I'm in no way suggesting it's a Sarajevo warzone, but you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a cop down here, and if you did, you'd better make sure that kitty was registered. Oh yeah, people break all kinds of laws down here . . . minor ones, anyways. If you want to get stabbed, you go downtown. Whyte Ave. isn't dangerous . . . unless there's a riot.
I'm sure you're thinking to your self right now, "Great neighbourhood." (Chuckles.) Well, it is. It's not just drunken frat boys and hideous party girls. It's not just vomit and police choppers. Y'see, all of this is out-of-town. All of it. No one who lives here is a drunken moron. These people . . .
Camera pans out to the street where a pack of drunken frat boys are jaywalking while drawing attention to the fact that they're jaywalking.
D!: Well, these people are normal five nights of the week. The other two, they come to the greatest neighbourhood in the world to lose their inhibitions and cheapen it.
(Grins.) By now, some of you may have figured out where I'm going with this.
This is the greatest neighbourhood in the world. Because for seven days and five nights, this is a place for families! For students! For really hot bookish girls! If that's your thing. Musicians! Actors! Writers! The river valley! All the books and music you'd ever want! The best restaurants! No mall within sight!
They pass by a seated youth with bright blue hair, new boots and a cardboard sign.
GUY: Kick a punk for a buck?
D!: Go back to Millwoods, ya poser. (To camera.) Of course, any day, any time, you have to prepare to deal with phonies.
D! stops walking, and turns to face the camera.
D!: Plague. Do you get what I'm trying to tell you? Have you figured it out yet? (Pause.) Probably because you haven't even noticed yet, right?
Okay. Try to remember. You're in your title match with Dragon. He's coming at you High Risk, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Gets you set up in the Death Row, and you POWER OUT! It's an old counter, but I always love seeing it. And by now the crowd's thinkin' "Who's gonna win? Who's gonna win?" And then Dragon connects with his deadly Hurricanrana--is it lights out for Plague?
And then . . . you . . . catch him. (Mimes the catch.)
And then it's the Black Death. (Mimes Plague's finisher.) BANG!
Let me tell you, I only saw a tape of it. In the recovery room. And I just about marked out for you right then and there. Hell, even the nurse couldn't stop watching.
I mean, sure, you used the ropes to roll him up right afterwards, but we were still buzzing. That, sir, was an impressive finish. That, sir, was our sport! That, sir, was wrestling!
I don't think anybody who wasn't named "Dragon" would have argued that you didn't earn the title right then and there. And to boot, you're the first NAPW Champion, and that will always stay with you. You're George Hackenschmidt. You're Buddy Rogers. You're Chris Jericho.
(Jabs his finger at the camera.) And it didn't even take you 24 hours to piss it all away!
There you were Plague, a regular at your favourite bar, confident! Watching the game, having a pint, playing darts . . . that was you, Plague, not even as far back as Sunday!
And then we see you again, Plague. Hitting the club. Getting it on with three women. Fine clothing. Living the life of Reilly, rubbing it in my face, and rubbing it in the face of every NAPW Superstar.
How did you want me to feel, Plague? Bothered? Intimidated? Ashamed about how I spend my nights?
Where were those clothes 48 hours ago, Champ? Where was that bevy of women before you held the strap? There's nothing wrong with you. You were never destitute. You could have recorded that scene when you were challenging the Dragon.
But you didn't. Because it never occured to you. You weren't champion then, were you?
You bailed on yourself, Plague. The second you earned that strap, you cast yourself as a low-rent imitation of Ric Flair. That's not a champion, Plague. That's weakness. Anybody who lets the pressure change their life that suddenly is weak.
Lemme guess . . . right now you're smirking at me. I guess I've got to keep trying: Plague, the NAPW title is not a role you assume. It's not a part you play. It's a measure. A measure of who the greatest single wrestler in the NAPW is. Physically, and mentally. You're letting the title dictate how you think. Don't you understand that's a handicap?
Remember Thursday night? You literally hid behind the belt, peanut. You used it as a weapon. To take me out. Where was all that great wrestling, Plague? Where was the Black Death? Where was your wicked-stiff Spinebuster?
Who am I gonna face on Monday Night? The wrestling machine that beat the Dragon? Or the washed-up joke that you've decided to be?
And hey, don't worry about me. I'll turn it up, just for you. You'll be tasting the leather on my fancy boots. I've got another Stinger Splash with your name on it. And I don't care how good you think you are, no one stands up to the Barrage. Ask your new buddy.
And when I beat you to become NAPW Champion, do you know what I intend on doing? The same thing I always do. I already know who I am, Plague.
I'm one letter.
Said real loud.
D!
(D! throws his hands up and dares Plague through the camera lens. Lights down.)
D!: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the inaugural installment of Friday Night Whyte! A chance to hang with your favourite NAPW Superstars . . . a chance to see them outside of their regular Shouty Mode.
D! starts walking down the avenue. The camera follows.
D!: Now I'm usually not shy with company, but tonight, I'm going to keep the camera on myself. The match of my life is coming up on Monday, and wouldn't you know it, I've got things to say.
D! stops, amazed. Up ahead, not one, not two, but four police officers are travelling in a beat. They nonchalantly walk past D! and the camera.
D!: Well, that's my neighbourhood for ya. We've had this siege mentality ever since the riot . . . I'm in no way suggesting it's a Sarajevo warzone, but you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a cop down here, and if you did, you'd better make sure that kitty was registered. Oh yeah, people break all kinds of laws down here . . . minor ones, anyways. If you want to get stabbed, you go downtown. Whyte Ave. isn't dangerous . . . unless there's a riot.
I'm sure you're thinking to your self right now, "Great neighbourhood." (Chuckles.) Well, it is. It's not just drunken frat boys and hideous party girls. It's not just vomit and police choppers. Y'see, all of this is out-of-town. All of it. No one who lives here is a drunken moron. These people . . .
Camera pans out to the street where a pack of drunken frat boys are jaywalking while drawing attention to the fact that they're jaywalking.
D!: Well, these people are normal five nights of the week. The other two, they come to the greatest neighbourhood in the world to lose their inhibitions and cheapen it.
(Grins.) By now, some of you may have figured out where I'm going with this.
This is the greatest neighbourhood in the world. Because for seven days and five nights, this is a place for families! For students! For really hot bookish girls! If that's your thing. Musicians! Actors! Writers! The river valley! All the books and music you'd ever want! The best restaurants! No mall within sight!
They pass by a seated youth with bright blue hair, new boots and a cardboard sign.
GUY: Kick a punk for a buck?
D!: Go back to Millwoods, ya poser. (To camera.) Of course, any day, any time, you have to prepare to deal with phonies.
D! stops walking, and turns to face the camera.
D!: Plague. Do you get what I'm trying to tell you? Have you figured it out yet? (Pause.) Probably because you haven't even noticed yet, right?
Okay. Try to remember. You're in your title match with Dragon. He's coming at you High Risk, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Gets you set up in the Death Row, and you POWER OUT! It's an old counter, but I always love seeing it. And by now the crowd's thinkin' "Who's gonna win? Who's gonna win?" And then Dragon connects with his deadly Hurricanrana--is it lights out for Plague?
And then . . . you . . . catch him. (Mimes the catch.)
And then it's the Black Death. (Mimes Plague's finisher.) BANG!
Let me tell you, I only saw a tape of it. In the recovery room. And I just about marked out for you right then and there. Hell, even the nurse couldn't stop watching.
I mean, sure, you used the ropes to roll him up right afterwards, but we were still buzzing. That, sir, was an impressive finish. That, sir, was our sport! That, sir, was wrestling!
I don't think anybody who wasn't named "Dragon" would have argued that you didn't earn the title right then and there. And to boot, you're the first NAPW Champion, and that will always stay with you. You're George Hackenschmidt. You're Buddy Rogers. You're Chris Jericho.
(Jabs his finger at the camera.) And it didn't even take you 24 hours to piss it all away!
There you were Plague, a regular at your favourite bar, confident! Watching the game, having a pint, playing darts . . . that was you, Plague, not even as far back as Sunday!
And then we see you again, Plague. Hitting the club. Getting it on with three women. Fine clothing. Living the life of Reilly, rubbing it in my face, and rubbing it in the face of every NAPW Superstar.
How did you want me to feel, Plague? Bothered? Intimidated? Ashamed about how I spend my nights?
Where were those clothes 48 hours ago, Champ? Where was that bevy of women before you held the strap? There's nothing wrong with you. You were never destitute. You could have recorded that scene when you were challenging the Dragon.
But you didn't. Because it never occured to you. You weren't champion then, were you?
You bailed on yourself, Plague. The second you earned that strap, you cast yourself as a low-rent imitation of Ric Flair. That's not a champion, Plague. That's weakness. Anybody who lets the pressure change their life that suddenly is weak.
Lemme guess . . . right now you're smirking at me. I guess I've got to keep trying: Plague, the NAPW title is not a role you assume. It's not a part you play. It's a measure. A measure of who the greatest single wrestler in the NAPW is. Physically, and mentally. You're letting the title dictate how you think. Don't you understand that's a handicap?
Remember Thursday night? You literally hid behind the belt, peanut. You used it as a weapon. To take me out. Where was all that great wrestling, Plague? Where was the Black Death? Where was your wicked-stiff Spinebuster?
Who am I gonna face on Monday Night? The wrestling machine that beat the Dragon? Or the washed-up joke that you've decided to be?
And hey, don't worry about me. I'll turn it up, just for you. You'll be tasting the leather on my fancy boots. I've got another Stinger Splash with your name on it. And I don't care how good you think you are, no one stands up to the Barrage. Ask your new buddy.
And when I beat you to become NAPW Champion, do you know what I intend on doing? The same thing I always do. I already know who I am, Plague.
I'm one letter.
Said real loud.
D!
(D! throws his hands up and dares Plague through the camera lens. Lights down.)