OD!SSEY - Prologue

[D!]

LATER

January 24th, 2006
12:38 am
Baccarat Casino

(Lights up. In an ordinarily-hopping casino there is a make-shift arena. Bleachers, benches, rows of unused theatre seats, and a conspicuous amount of folding chairs are circled in the centre of the hall. Within the seats are little pits where games tables simply have not been moved--the house got westling fans to gamble, more than the show got gamblers to watch wrestling. One of these tables is broken clean in half, the middle sagging. There is a roulette wheel that has sustained some heavy chipping damage. The guard rail erected around the ring is broken--BROKEN--in not one, but two spots. And then there is a ring.

And surrounding the ring is a blue steel cage. With a single spotlight is shining into it.

A haggard figure lopes up to ringside. We are able to tell from simple color cues--black hair and shirt, blue jeans, black boots with red leather flames--that it is D! Other details about him--that his shirt is torn with several bloody gashes, from the mask of blood that his caked and dried onto his face and chest, and from the very deliberate way he paces his walk--tell a different story altogether.

D! climbs up the steps, through the blue cage door--with a padlock on it, clearly snapped in half--and into the ring. He hefts the gym bag off of his shoulder, then lets it hit the ground with a slump. He scans the mat--blood-stained like a Jackson Pollock--looking for something, ah, yes! An NAPW microphone, right where he saw it last.

He takes the microphone.

And he scans the arena.

He brings the microphone to his mouth, and the pain seems to melt off of him.)

D!: Y'know, walking away from the ring under your own power isn't all it was cracked up to be.

(He starts moving. Slowly.)

I mean, if I'd have known, I'd have been dragged out of here unconscious, like the last time.

(He's pacing around the ring. Walking the in-ring interview pattern.)

"Hey, D! are you fine?" "Couldn't be better! Where's my stretcher?" "What stretcher? Can't you walk?" "Buddy, I've had a Cage Title Match. I want a stretcher. And a beer!"

(He stops, perking his head up to hear the arena. Stone silence.)

All right then . . . you, out there, watching me right now, you want something from me, don't you? You want ol' D! to spout off catchphrases? Clichés? "Sing Along with D!?" You want me to taunt an opponent into a blind rage? Start the Rockettes Kick of Doom? Barrage an opponent half to DEATH?

(He runs right up to the side of the cage. Right where the metal is bent. From the inside.)

(BLEEP) YOU, PEANUT! I've just been through HELL! I've just done it for YOU! I just did it for EVERYONE in the locker room! And I just did it for ME!

But I'm not your MONKEY. And I will NOT! DANCE! FOR YOUR PLEASURE!

(He backs off from the bent cage wall. And smiles.)

Don't get me wrong. Tonight wasn't all bad . . .

(He cranes his head up and squints at the spotlight. Contemplating--what? He lowers his head back down, unsatisfied.)

Well, I can't give you any of that tonight. I'm . . . sorry. Sorry I can't put an act on for you right now . . . but you deserve better than an act, anyways. No, no meager gifts for you. Instead, I shall give you three things that actually mean something.

Why the Cage.

Where I've been for three weeks.

And the story of what happened tonight.

Now, you see, to me, it's all one thing. It's all one detail. But . . . nobody can be me but me, right? It's not clear to you. See, you're expecting some kind of pat answer, beginning, middle, end. And the truth . . . the truth doesn't follow that kind of logic. Y'know, maybe it's me being woozy from the blood loss, but . . . the truth is all around us, past, present, future, all at the same time.

I'm telling you this because you need--you deserve to know.

So we'll start with the first thing . . . Why the Cage?

Now, I didn't want to admit it at first. I didn't want to admit when I returned. Hell, I didn't want to start saying it before tonight. But now that it's over?

I was terrified that Chris Casino might be better than me.

Let me back up a bit.

When I decided that I'd join the NAPW and be a wrestler--and really, let's not forget, it wasn't even that long ago--at the moment where I said "Me, too!" . . . I made up some house rules, right there and then. And they all centered around one basic principle . . . "Don't Be That Tool". Will I approach my matches fairly, or will I do my best to discredit my opponent beforehand? No. Don't Be That Tool. D! versus Viking. Will I covet title shots for the honour of being the best competitor, or for the Champion's privilege and the beauty of the belt? No. Don't Be That Tool. D! versus Plague. And if I lose my title, will I be so consumed with vengeance that I would do anything, ANYTHING to get my title back?

(Sighs.) D! versus Casino.

Now, it's not like I'd intended on Being That Tool. I'm not insane. I knew that I'd lose the NAPW Title eventually. And when that happened? Good job. Let's have a rematch. Oh, I lost? Good job. And I'd have nothing, NOTHING! on my conscience, because I would have lost to the better man. And everything I stand for is good with that.

Now, Casino, when he was in that cage the first time? POWERFUL. He brought me to new levels of pain. He hurt me. He cut me. He did everything in his power to outclass me. And you know what? I was scared. I knew right then that if I didn't step my damn game up, he'd beat me in the centre of that ring. You think I'm whistling Dixie? Watch the damn match and decide for yourself. And he came (squeezes his fingers) thhhhiiiis close to beating me clean! And through it all, I muscled back, upped my game, locked him in the Pleasant Cycling, and gave him nowhere to go.

(He drops his shoulders and expels all of his breath. Hs eyes shut, he remains motionless for who-knows-how-many seconds, then breathes in again, and pens his eyes.)

And that stupid (BLEEP)ed pecker-headed imbecile brought in his friends.

We were matched! Evenly matched! And he pulls this crap! You see, I could have dealt with either outcome! EITHER! OUTCOME! If D-X freakin' STAYED IN THE BACK to smoke cigars and masturbate bears, none of this, NONE! OF! THIS! would EVER have happened!

If Casino beat me One, Two, Three, I'd have lost my title. And I wouldn't like him, but I'd respect him.

If Casino was a complete ponce in the ring when he'd called in his buddies to screw me? D'you know what I would have done? Laughed. Laughed at his de-valued title and either chased the new UWP Title or stuck around to have non-title matches that are higher up the card than title matches, kinda like the WWE does. Because nobody, NOBODY would EVER doubt who was the better man.

But this way, the outcome I couldn't accept, the hardest button to button . . . there was no resolution. Nothing in my personal code dealt with this. And I had to do it again. I had to know. Know, for once and for all, who was the better man in that ring . . . Chris Casino . . . or D!

And if he pulled the same damned stunt as before? If he held the NAPW Title and still showed me fear? Well, that would have been a satisfactory answer, too.

So, you see, win or lose in the rematch, I would win. Peace of mind. Closure. And maybe, just maybe, the bloodiest, most hard-fought match in NAPW history.

(He stops at a turnbuckle, and leans against it.)

That's how I saw it. And so that's what I did.

Now as for the other two things, well . . . let's start at the beginning.

(And as he pauses to gather his thoughts, we finally get a proper look at the seats . . . and see no one in attendance. Lights down.)