The plane ride… Damnit, that plane ride…
The hangover has been immense from a week of nonstop drinking in Paris. All of the ibuprofen in the world has not prepared me for the superior quality of European liquor, and how easily it goes down. My head is pounding and I can feel the roar of the engine flaring in my brain… Against better judgment, a future NWA World Heavyweight Champion never backs down from a fight… Never!
It is by the same logic that I bite my tongue as I am just feet… FEET from The Aristocrats on this very same plane. It doesn’t matter that we are flying first class on someone else’s dime. When you can feel colors from the in flight movie, and you are trapped inside of a steel prison going a fraction of the speed of sound, you don’t want to practically be shoulder to shoulder with two men who ruined your last match, or the man who tried to use you as a stepping stone on a few occasions. It makes you want to punch somebody.
But, alas, I know what I have to do. I have to sit there, tongue in cheek, sipping on lukewarm water, watching Sleepless in Seattle, while avoiding even acknowledging “Big” Steve Scanlon and Chett “Hangman” Hawkins just one row adjacent to me. We are all wearing our Sin City Wrestling shirts proudly, and that might be the one thing that unites us in this trip to Puerto Rico.
The NWA has seen how great the talent of Sin City Wrestling truly is, and they gave us the gift of a curse. The PRA has also set their sights on Kain, a man who is quite honestly beneath himself in the proposed contest. The man should be on par with me, because love him or hate him, he is one of the toughest adversaries I have faced in a very, very long time. Of course, I love a challenge, and I think that is what intensifies our hatred for each other. He is set to take on Canadian Perfect Chris Wrestling to defend his spot in the NWA Television Championship rankings at a nearby date. He has an easy challenge ahead of him…
And the Aristocrats. The bunch of cowards who like to throw smug comments around in front of a camera and attack people from behind… The truth is, I don’t like them, and I probably never will. They are sorry sons of bitches and I just want to punch them in their damned faces every time I see them on a television or computer screen. Imagine how tough it is in person… But like it or not, they can wrestle. If they weren’t top notch, SCW would have nothing to do with them. They are like soda and pop rocks. You put these two completely different, unique pieces together, and you get an explosion. These two had better not embarrass Sin City Wrestling, or I might just have to schedule my payback a bit early…
And then there is me. The Sadistic Bastard that is known the world over for my relentless, unforgiving wrestling style. The man who used to wrestle simply because he likes to watch people get hurt. Yes, I did say likes, as in present tense… There is nothing like watching a man beg for his life which you hold delicately in the palm of your hand. Nothing in the world compares to the thrill you get from that. The only difference now is that I can control it. Sometimes. Usually… I am defending my spot in the NWA World Heavyweight rankings against the man who is right under me, Angel the Malignant. I do not know much about him, but I do know that he must have a death wish if he wants to openly challenge me for my spot. I am a giving guy, so why not give him what he wants?
I looked back up to the screen, and a tear hit my eye. The sight of Meg Ryan standing on top of the Empire State Building and the wind blowing through her hair just before she kisses Tom Hanks just got to me. It took everything I had in me not to clap, because I knew one thing every time I was subjected to this film. Many say they learn the meaning of love, and how it transcends all. For me it means the movie is over and I can go back to being a man instead of being forced to watch chick flicks on an airplane.
It was time to catch some shut eye, because I had a lot to do once I arrived to Puerto Rico. I had never been there before, and I looked forward to what was to come with my visit.
*********************
Thursday, April 12, 2012… 7:24pm
Beachside CaféThe scene opens up with Spike sitting in a local café, alone at a table. He fumbles around a bit with his phone for a moment before setting it down on the table. He lifts up his coffee mug and takes a sip of it. He looks around at the beautiful surroundings, taking in the bluest ocean water he has ever seen and the whitest sands imaginable. Underneath the warm sunset, for the briefest of moments, his eyes light up in marvel of the beauty. A slow smile spreads across his face, but it soon fades out as a tall yet feminine woman sits down in front of him at the table. His smile fades into that of almost pure indifference; however it is clearly a front. She gently sweeps up the mug and brings it to her lips, taking in the sweet aroma before taking the smallest of sips. She smacks her lips after allowing the warm liquid down her throat, enjoying the magnificent taste.
Roxanne: I would come here all the time just for the coffee. Smooth and rich, with just a… hint of…
Spike: Interesting. So, I am sure you didn’t come around just to talk coffee. What is it that I need to look deep within myself to figure out now, oh wise figment of my imagination representing my own self conscious?
As Spike talks, the people in the café turn to him, staring at him as he rambles on. They look across the table from him, and then back to him confused. They whisper amongst themselves as Spike shakes it off. Spike grabs the cup of coffee from across the table and he takes a sip before returning it to the saucer in front of him.
Roxanne: I see you are in no mood for small talk… How about you open your fucking eyes to the big picture? That is a pretty swell idea if I do say so myself, Spikey boy…
Spike sighs in a bit of aggravation. He rolls his at Roxanne and then he looks out of the window of the café once more. He points out of the window toward the warm water reflecting the reddish orange sun setting around the horizon. She turns her head to look out of the window too. She slams her fist against the table and her sunglasses fall from her face, showing off her fiery eyes. Her crimson red lips part to show her gritted pearly white teeth.
Roxanne: Dammit, Spike! You know exactly what I am talking about here. You still have your head so far up Misty’s ass, you are proving her right. You are a sad, sad, PATHETIC excuse for a wrestler. When was the last time you trained? When was the last time you were sober, because judging by the Irish nature of your coffee, it isn’t at any point today? When was the last time you gave a damn about wrestling? I mean, aren’t you a wrestler, Spike?
Spike: Hey, I can’t help if I like a little Bailey’s in my coffee from time to time. And for your information, I was sober on the plane ride here. I remember it because I had a pounding headache…
Roxanne reaches across the table and snags Spike’s wallet. She thumbs through it and tosses down a bit of money to cover the coffee. She slides his wallet in her pocket, and then she reaches across the table and slaps the taste out of his mouth. Not satisfied with the effect of one, she does it again and again until a spot of blood trickles down his lip. His eyes are on fire, and she grabs him by the wrist and drags him out of the café as he resists a bit.
Spike: NO! I want my damned coffee damn it!
She pushes him through the door and they walk across the boardwalk down toward the beach as he protests.
Spike: At least let me grab my bottle of Bailey’s. C’mon now, this is so unfair!
She flings him down to the ground and she mounts him in the sand. She looks down into his eyes, and for the smallest of seconds, Spike sees himself hovered over himself. She punches down furiously at his face.
Roxanne: Open your fucking eyes! You are a loser, who is stuck on being left at the altar. One week of grieving is normal, two is okay, three is slightly understandable, but this is a month now, and you are still drinking your liver into submission. You are still leaving the kids with Misty’s sisters. You are Mr Mom, but you are shit at that too! You should have had no problems defeating Rage and Gabriel in your last match, but you are a pansy! You are not even a fraction of the man you used to be, and you know what?
Roxanne looks down at a bruised Spike, smiling a bloody smile as he looks up into her eyes. The fire leaves, and a sort of sullen look takes them over. She gets up from the sand and dusts herself off. Shaking her head in dismay, she turns away from Spike.
Roxanne: You aren’t worth my time, because you want to wallow in self pity. I don’t know why I cared this long. She domesticated you, and now you have come to Puerto Rico to embarrass yourself in front of PRA. That nobody, Angel the Malignant, is going to beat you so hard, because you have already let him. I used to stare at you for hours, but now I can’t even stand the pathetic sight in front of me.
Spike: So what? I guess Misty was right about me… Mark Ward, Justin Underwood, and Nick Jones were all right about me. I am pathetic. I am trying to recapture the glory that I tasted long ago as a World Champion, when really, I guess I was lucky to have even been in that position…
Roxanne turns around and looks down at Spike with saddened expression across her face. She slowly shakes her head from side to side, leaning down next to Spike. She cups his bloody hand in hers, giving it a gentle pat. Spike spits up a bit of blood, and what could very well be a tooth. It slides down his chin as he looks up into her eyes with the emptiest of expressions.
Spike: I have been made by “Hot Stuff” Mark Ward, and I have been taken down by him. I should never have thought that I could build myself back up again.
Roxanne: That beating was all in vain. You are still missing the point, Spike. You built yourself up twice, and you’ve torn yourself down three times. You just needed the excuse for each time. The first was me, the second was Mark, and the third was Misty. That is why I am disappointed in you. The only good thing about tearing yourself down is that each time you destroy yourself, and you rebuild, you come back better than ever. You just need to speed up the process a little bit, Spike. Start thinking like a winner, and you will be a winner. Promise me that you will at least try?
Spike looks up into Roxanne’s eyes, staring into them as they reflect the ocean in them. He gently smiles until he hears the sound of la policia shouting from across the beach. Spike sighs as he watches Roxanne run off into the distance. The police look down at Spike and they call for an ambulance. Spike lifts himself up and communicates that he is fine as the scene fades out.
In an undisclosed area, a sort of abandoned warehouse tagged with graffiti , Spike Staggs places a chair in the dead center of the wide open space. Just a few feet in front of him sits a hand held camcorder propped up on a tripod. Spike picks up a can of black spray paint, and in an empty spot right behind him, he begins spraying out a large N in a unique graffiti style. He shades it in appropriately before moving over a space, and he sprays out a T in the same lettering style, shading it in. The can empties just before he finishes, and he picks up another. Giving it a good shake, he reinforced the lettering on both characters before picking up a different bottle with a red cap. In a very simple manner, he sprays out a large “X” between the N and the T. He quickly tags his own name underneath it, leaving his mark in Puerto Rico.
He looks back to the camera as he removes a pair of paint covered gloves. He drops them to the ground, and then he walks up toward the tripod adorned in his signature sunglasses, and familiar leather jacket, black ripped up jeans sporting more chains than Jacob Marley, and a white t-shirt underneath sporting the same style of print as the tagging he’d just done to the wall behind him. He smiles before snapping his fingers. As he does, the view switches to the tripod, which is picking up Spike’s chest. He slowly sits down, lifting his sunglasses up to reveal his icy blue eyes. His nearly perfect teeth are shining from his almost eerie smile.
Spike: HELLLLO PUERTO RICO ASSOCIATION!!!
Spike slides the glasses completely off of his head and he tucks them down the collar of his t-shirt. His slight bit of a Midwest twang resonates deep within his voice. His smile fades just a few notches, but still clearly there. He clears his throat as he lights a cigarette.
Spike: I would like to take a moment to introduce myself to you, in the off chance you haven’t seen me touring the world over the last decade. I am Spike Staggs, The Walking Mind Fuck, The Most Sadistic Bastard, shall I go on with the “I’m your worst nightmare, baby” speech? Nah, it’s overplayed.
Spike pulls the camera in just a few inches, keeping his hand partially cupped around the lens. He leans in, showing off the newly found intensity in his eyes. The lights flicker in his eyes as if he almost dares you to argue with him.
Spike: Now, I am not the most decorated ring veteran there is, but I never did fancy gold too much. I enjoy the thrill of the chase, the ferocity of the fight… But, I promise I am a spectacle to witness. Something tells me that I am here because someone didn’t really do their homework… Had they known what I am truly capable of, they wouldn’t have dared to challenge me. I suppose it is my first challenge match, and my first true exposure to the NWA. I just feel bad that Angel the Malignant has to serve as an example. Trust me, it isn’t anything personal. It is just business.
Spike looks away from the camera for just a moment, removing his hand from the lens. He chuckles to himself before turning back to face the camera, a more serious look spread across his face now.
Spike: You see, I have not been able to find out much information on my opponent for this week, but I did catch his debut. I do have to say, it was pretty impressive. Unfortunately for you, Angel… It takes more than “pretty impressive” to defeat Spike Staggs. It takes heart. It takes hard work. It takes blood, sweat, blood, tears… and lots and lots of blood… to defeat me. I just hope, for your sake, that you fully understand what you’ve signed up for. If you can bring it, then we will have ourselves a good little match then. Now won’t we?
Spike lowers his head, but refuses to break his stare with the camera. He nods his head slightly as the smile starts to creep back upon his face. He flicks his venomous pierced tongue out of his mouth as he brings it back to lick his teeth before it disappears back behind his lips.
Spike: I always love a challenge, and I hope for you sake, Angel… I hope that you can give me one, because, see… I have been dying to just throw down with someone who wants the victory just as bad as I do. No interruptions, just pure, carnal rage, unleashed with each and every blow exchanged. I want to put on a spectacle, showing off every aspect of my fighting abilities, from my sadistically unique submission skills, to my high-risk daredevil acrobatics, down to my arsenal of grappling, mat, and brawling maneuvers. I want you to test me, so that I can prove why I am above you, and why I should be above everyone else. You are the catalyst of great things to come, and I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude, as well as PRA for hosting this magnificent showcase. But I assure you, I
WILL walk out as the winner, for I am the future NWA World Heavyweight Champion. Representing The New X-Tremes, I am… Spike Staggs, and you have all been warned…
Spike stands back up, opening up his jacket to show off the NXT graffiti print on his shirt before he reaches over, fumbling with the camera for a moment. Just then, it shuts off, and the scene fades… TO BLACK!
