OD!SSEY - Part Three

[D!]

NOW

January 19th, 2006
12:04 pm
Static's Apartment

(D!, for better or for worse, doesn't have much of a plan anymore.

He is standing a full door-frame away from the NAPW Tag Champion, the hardcore luchadore, Static. He is here, hat in hand, to ask for help. His title rematch with Chris Casino is four days away.

Static is still wearing bedsheets.)

STATIC: Gee, your majesty . . . to what do I owe this grand honour?

D!: Static . . . we've never really talked, have we?

STATIC: Well, gee, King Shit, you've never had to associate with me before, have you?

D!: Stop that. I come in peace. (Pause.) Are you with someone right now?

STATIC: Why? Can't a brother wear bedsheets, ya fascist?

D!: No! I mean, yes! Whatever!

STATIC: Wait a minute . . . how'd you even get here?

D!: (Grinding his index fingers together.) Yeah, about that . . .

STATIC: Mr. High-and-Mighty-Always-Plays-By-the-Rules! Showing up unannounced at another Superstar's pad is illegal per our contracts! And you're not supposed to have my damn address anyways!

D!: Yeah, well . . . I took a page out of our buddy Ravager's playbook. I knew from your old promos where your neighbourhood was, and how big your apartment is . . . and, well, you do wear a mask a lot.

STATIC: I have committed no crime.

D!: No, I have. I know I'm not supposed to be here, but I am. Now can I come in for a few minutes?

STATIC: I don't know . . .

D!: Malum Prohibitum, Static. If I don't lay a finger on you or threaten you, than there's no victim here.

STATIC: Oh, whoopdee-doo, you read the Sun interview. (Sighs.) Come in. Fridge is off-limits.

(In the two months that we've seen Static's apartment, not much has changed. Furniture has taken a back seat--pardon the pun--to a swirling miasma of wrestling magazines, food containers, old costume cast-offs, and action figures. The only notable exception is his NAPW Tag Team Championship belt, sitting up right on his couch. His belt has its own drink.

D! follows after Static, wrinkling his nose, smelling the room. He scans around the apartment, realising the only other time he's been here was as a fan, seeing Static and Bill Fleming eat Chinese take-out.)

D!: Nice place you got here.

(D!'s stray foot knocks over a pile of loose-leaf print-outs. This earns him a reproachful look from his host, a look that tells him those papers were in that exact spot for a reason. Static takes the couch, next to the belt, and grabs a matching drink. D! checks around to the matching love seat and recliner, intuits they're also all ad hoc filing cabinets, and pulls up a patch of hardwood floor. Seeing this, Static eyes him like he's witnessing a Buddhist novitiate pick out a sacred item from a collection of junk.)

D!: Y'know, I'm half-surprised I didn't find Rex here.

STATIC: Hey, like me, the Nexus One has a life. Even if he was in town, he's got a club to run. But he's not. Got a match in Halifax to prepare for, some idiot named Nerousis. Day before our ladder match, too, the big genius. Lucky for him I'm a twenty-four-seven ass-kicker. (Grins.) But, hey, when Rex is here, we tear the roof off the joint. Good times.

D!: No doubt, no doubt. And where's The May-- (He stops, mortified as he catches his mistake.)

STATIC: (Bolting upright.) YOU JUST SPOKE THE DEAD MAN'S NAME!

D!: No, wait!!!

(Too late. Static leaps off of the couch, over the coffee table, and plows D! with a Missile Dropkick, knocking him flat on his back.)

D!: I'm sorry!

(Static, seething, jumps straight up with some mad air, lifts a fist, the drops it straight down on D!'s forehead. D! clutches his scar and screams. Static runs and jumps at his TV, springboards off of it--knocking it over in the process--and lands an Asai Moonsault on D!'s wracked body.)

D!: AAUGH! Static! I'm not lifting a finger!

(And in the time it took D! to say that, Static's found a perch on top of his recliner.)

D!: (Gesturing with his hands.) TIME OUT!

(Static leaps off the chair with a picture-perfect Moment! Of! . . . Static lands nimbly on his feet.)

STATIC: Time out? TIME OUT!? Bitch, are you for real!?

D!: (Forcing himself to sit up.) Dude, this doesn't help either of us. We're not enemies.

STATIC: What? Just because we're both taking on the Rat Pack I gotta like you?

D!: For God's sake--

STATIC: Three weeks off! No one takes three weeks off unless they're retired! And you still couldn't beat a tag team that's one-half Lobo!

D!: Static, please. I'm here right now because I need your help.

STATIC: For what? You want a doctor's note?

D!: Look . . . we started NAPW at the same time. We do things unorthodox. We like to get into our opponent's minds. We venerate the past.

STATIC: Get to the point, bro!

D!: The point is, Static, is that we're cut from the same damn cloth! We seem like different people, but yet we have so much in common! If I was drafted into the Provincial division and you the NAPW Title division, maybe we'd have reversed roles right about now!

STATIC: Me and the NAPW Title, huh?

D!: The point is, I could have gone to any of my friends in the Locker Room, but instead I came to you. Because right now, you're the guy I need to talk to.

(Pause. Static looks down at the former NAPW Champion, and gets a look on his face that suggests hard math.)

STATIC: Will this interfere at all with my match?

D!: No. I swear to you.

STATIC: Then talk.

THEN

December 30th, 2005
1:12 pm
Campus Sugar Bowl

(We find ourselves in a dimly-lit, leather-couched, coffee shop right on the periphery of the University of Alberta's campus. This place was once a college-age hang-out where nose-rings and baggy pants were the norm; now, a "re-imagined" Sugar Bowl is a place where you can expect goat-cheese quesadillas and bison chili. Nothing wrong with it--in fact, the food is quite good--but the hipsters and old guard see this place with a pang of resignation before they come in for their dark roasts.

At the moment, "Pump It Up" blasts across the cafe. At a better-lit table, D! is sitting across from two well-dressed men . . . Lucas Burke and Ryan Carignan, the two NAPW marketing wizards.)

LUCAS: It'll be terrific!

RYAN: Marvellous!

LUCAS: I can't stop talking about it!

RYAN: I'm excited. Goose bumps!

LUCAS: Throw out the old--this is the new!

RYAN: So let's do it!

LUCAS: Yes! Three Soybean Lattes! That's what we're going to do!

RYAN: I'll go order!

(Ryan stands up and heads to the counter. Lucas beams broadly and looks at D!, who seems rather non-plussed.)

D!: Okay. We're on my time, guys.

LUCAS: Listen, D! We're all on the same team here. We all want you to succeed.

D!: I might want it more, but please continue.

LUCAS: Okay, we're gearing up for our next Supercard. I've heard rumblings of what you'd like to do and buddy, I'm excited.

D!: Are you.

LUCAS: So much so! So it's going to be you, Chris Casino, for the first time, NAPW Gold Title.

D!: It's a rematch.

LUCAS: Yes! But for the first time.

D!: What?

LUCAS: Anyways, we're really excited, because it's going to be a money match.

D!: Ah.

LUCAS: That means it's a match that's gonna makes us money.

D!: Well, thanks for explaining that.

LUCAS: Here's what we're wondering . . .

RYAN: (Coming in, sitting.) I've got lattes!

LUCAS: We want Casino on the poster. What kind of name should we use?

RYAN: I'm thinking "Casino Royale".

LUCAS: I'm thinking "Chris-mas".

RYAN: And I'm thinking "Casino Games".

D!: How about "Weasel-faced Jagoff"?

RYAN: (Laughs.) No. We'd have to involve his name!

LUCAS: Like "Chris Casino Presents a Nite of Wrestlin'".

RYAN: Or "Casino Night".

LUCAS: Also, we're thinking of using a gambling theme.

RYAN: 'Cause his last name is Casino--

(Lucas kisses his fingertips, and plants them on Ryan's forehead.)

RYAN: --but "Casino" also means a place were you gamble.

LUCAS: See what we did? We're working both halves of your brain.

D!: Please . . . stop.

RYAN: I'm having it. I'm having a brain flash.

LUCAS: Talk to me! No . . . to the Blackberry. Because I'll forget.

RYAN: Let's use . . . gambling stuff on the poster.

LUCAS: Like cards?

RYAN: And darts.

(Ryan and Lucas sip their lattes.)

RYAN: Do you know what these coffees need?

LUCAS: Salt. I'll get it! (He gets up and heads back to the counter.)

RYAN: So? What are your thoughts?

D!: I think we're talking about I guy I'm trying to beat.

RYAN: We sure are! Chris Casino! Now what's your angle?

D!: I think if you're so high on this guy, why not book the entire damn thing in the middle of the Baccarat Casino and get it over with! Now did you or did you not invite me down here to discuss me?

RYAN: Oh, yes. Right away.

(Ryan "sneakily" picks his Blackberry up, quickly does some typing, and then sets it down. Lucas returns, and starts heavily salting the lattes.)

RYAN: You see, right now, we don't see you as having a gimmick.

D!: I don't want a gimmick.

RYAN: Everyone wants a gimmick.

LUCAS: I want a gimmick.

D!: Gimmicks are for people that can't get over with a crowd.

LUCAS: Get over what?

D!: Get over not being popular, I suppose.

LUCAS: Does it sting? Not being popular?

D!: I'm popular! The crowd chants "D!" every damn show!

LUCAS: Well, that's fine for them . . .

RYAN: We don't watch the product. We can't afford to stop being impartial.

D!: I'm in Hell.

LUCAS: I'm--in--Hell. Is almost a gimmick.

RYAN: And it would play well with teenagers.

LUCAS: I'm thinking "single father".

D!: I don't have kids.

RYAN: Well, then you'd better get crackin', eh, Tiger?

LUCAS: (Viewing D! through a hand "frame".) Here's what I'm thinking . . . Shark Man.

D!: Uhh . . . isn't that Shark Boy?

LUCAS: Oh, God, I was thinking Shark Boy! Get out of my mind!

RYAN: Foreign . . . wrestler.

LUCAS: Like Australian!

RYAN: Or Mexican.

LUCAS: Hey, we can't have him be Mexican! (Sips latte.) Do you know what these lattes are really missing?

RYAN: Ham. I'll get it. (Gets up.)

D!: But I am Mexican. From my dad's side.

LUCAS: You can't be Mexican! You're white!

D!: Canadians can be brown, can't they?

LUCAS: Look, if we made you a Mexican wrestler, what would we make Technique? Have some sense, man!

D!: I don't know . . . a guy who wrestles?

LUCAS: It's not about the wrestling. When will you get that?

(Ryan comes back with a plate of ham, which he starts dropping into the lattes.)

D!: This is a damn waste of time.

RYAN: No, trust us, you have to let the ham melt . . .

D!: No! This! You guys can't get me any closer to what I need, which is Casino's damned head on a platter!
LUCAS: So angry!

RYAN: Spicy . . . Mexican! I like it!

LUCAS: Let's risk it! Let's get him one of them bobamajiggies!

RYAN: A Segway?

LUCAS: No.

RYAN: A mask?

LUCAS: Yes.

D!: You want me to wear a mask?

LUCAS: It could have a "D" on it!

RYAN: All the Mexicans are wearing them!

LUCAS: Well, except Technique . . .

LUCAS and RYAN: WHO? HA HA HA HA HA!

(Both men down their lattes.)

RYAN: So, D! . . . what do you think?

(D! stands up straight, visibly disgusted.)

D!: You two ingnoramuses want to know what I think? You want to know what you can do with your bloody idea? Well, I'll tell you what I think--

NOW

January 19th, 2006
12:10 pm
Static's Apartment

D!: I need a mask.

STATIC: Go to a San Francisco's.

D!: No, man, a lucha mask.

STATIC: I'm out!

D!: No, please, listen to me!

STATIC: You want me to let you play at being STATIC?

D!: No, I want my own mask. Y'know, there's a whole country down south where this is common.

STATIC: Yeah, but here, I'm the Masked Luchadore! You don't get any!

D!: Static, it's for one match.

STATIC: Yeah, my match!

D!: First of all, Mexican heritage, right here.

STATIC: But you're white.

D!: Just deal with the white. Secondly, I've got another cage match coming up with Casino. Casino gets a sick joy out of scarring people.

STATIC: Like you could look any worse.

D!: So third--

(D! gets right up into Static's face.)

D!: I want to have the same little thrill you got when you trashed Bill Fleming.

(Pause. Both men are locked in a staring contest.)

D!: You slip a mask on, you let the demons out, right? You let yourself do things that you'd never think you'd do. Like when you ordered Rex to powerbomb Fleming into a chair . . . I want that kind of freedom. I need it, because all of the things Casino's done to me--

STATIC: (Smiling.) --you're going to pay back in spades.

D!: Yeah.

STATIC: And then, what? You drop the mask?

D!: One match.

STATIC: And then you just go back to being normal?

D!: Right now, my normal blows.

(Pause. Static backs off, and starts pacing around D!, grinning.)

STATIC: Too bad for you I don't make masks, moron.

D!: I know you don't. I want the person that does.

STATIC: What if they're not in town?

D!: You get the occasional new one. I think they're pretty close by.

STATIC: You think I deal with some kind of Hattori Hanzo for masks, and he deals somewhere close?

D!: I think your masks look sweet, better than anything you've ever had, yet you live like this. (He gestures to the apartment's cluttered landscape.) So, yeah, I think you've got a system.

(Static sighs, and shoots D! an exasperated look.)

STATIC: You've got a match that's four days away, I think what you fail to understand is that this shit takes TIME--

D!: I can pay them to rush.

STATIC: That's a few large, D!, for a mask you're gonna use once and throw away--

D!: I've got the money to blow right now.

STATIC: I don't think a rookie like you signed for a big fee.

D!: I didn't, but I have the money right now. Leave it at that.

(Static looks him up and down, but D!'s expression doesn't waver. Resigned, Static pulls up a couch cushion, scans through an assortment of business cards there, then picks one out and replaces the cushion.)

STATIC: (Handing D! the card.) Don't say I've never done nothin' for ya, jerk-face.

D!: I appreciate it, bud. I'll leave you alone.

(D! dusts himself off, and heads for the door.)

STATIC: Hey, jackass! Why'd we have to do this in my apartment?

D!: (At the door.) Because I was hoping you wouldn't be "Static" if I caught you outside of "work".

STATIC: And what do you think now?

D!: (Considers the answer.) I think you're always Static.

(D! walks out the door, and it audibly shuts behind him.)

STATIC: Good . . . I was starting to get worried.

(He turns around. Through the door to the bedroom we see a curvy blonde wearing a bedsheet of her own, yawning and keeping herself covered with one arm.)

BLONDE: Is he gone already? Finally.

STATIC: Sorry, baby, business is business. Now I swear no more interruptions.

BLONDE: God, he talks a lot. What'd he want after all that? A mask?

STATIC: (Pouncing towards her.) Hey! Enough business, shorty! I say we go back to pleasure.

(He scoops her up and takes her into the bedroom, gently tossing her to the bed. He kicks the door shut. What follows is a lot of human noise with the added percussion of furniture sliding around.)

BLONDE: (Through door.) Oh, Static! Static!! YEESSS! SUCK MY VOODOO!

LATER

January 24th, 2006
1:24 AM
Baccarat Casino

(D! smiles, weary, and scratches some of the dried blood off of his face.)

D!: Henh. I'd say the mask wasn't a great success.

(He drops down to unzip his gym bag. He reaches down to produce a black leather mask, looks at it, smiles, and then lets go, letting it hit the ground. Around the eyes are red leather flames, almost similar to his trademark boots.)

I haven't decided yet if that little part of my "odyssey" was even worthwhile, but I was so nervous heading into tonight's match that I started chasing down all sorts of loose ends, thinking they'd tighten the gap between me and victory.

There's a lot of stuff that I can skip, but there's one errand, that, well, you already know about, but I'm gonna talk about nonetheless. Explain it.

But before I can explain what happened in Devon, there's something else you should know.

(Lights down.)

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Static used with permission.