Richard Blonoff
Make America Rassle Again
Deadline is Tuesday, February 9th at 11:59PM CST. Extensions available according to the new rules.
Meltdown 126: Matt Tastic vs. Abel Hunnicutt (Gold Rush)
- Thread starter Richard Blonoff
- Start date
- Status
FunKay the Inevitable
People Like Me, We Don't Play
Then
Snow capped mountains, crisp fresh air, a flock of birds flying in formation. Winter in the hills. All is peaceful and calm, as nature intended. Then, all changes. A blast echoes in the air. The birds scatter and screech. Smoke rises from a twin barrelled shotgun. Holding it is a young boy aged 8 or maybe 9 wearing well worn winter clothing. He is terrified.
His hands tremble and his eyes are wide. The gun shakes and rattles as a strained groan is heard. It is not human. The boys breathing increases rapidly and his eyes dart from one side to the other. Quickly the groan turns into a cry. Like nails on a chalkboard it cuts through the thickest of ears.
It comes from a deer. Hind legs broken, blasted to bits, blood staining a near perfect white. Its big, brown eyes are damp as pain pours out in the form of tears. The boy and it have now locked eyes and he instantly feels the twinge of guilt. Tears form in his eyes too as he begins to understand what he has done.
Suddenly, a hand comes crashing down onto his shoulder. Slowly, the boy looks up, to a man wearing similar clothing to his own. His features are harsh, accentuated only by a neatly formed thick black beard and thick, long healed scars that adorn his face. He scowls at the boy and nods.
Man: End it.
With tremble still in his hands, the lad brings the gun up one more time and gulps, his finger shakes as it closes around the trigger. The gun shakes harder and tears start coming thick and fast.
Man: Abel! I said end it, boy!
The youngster closes his eyes and pulls the trigger. The gun explodes into action.
Now...
A taped fist smashes into a punching bag. Then another does the same. The process is repeated over and over, faster and faster. It is mesmeric, the cycle of punching persisting, not showing any sign of slowing down. All in a grungy, dank gym, filled with a poisonous atmosphere created by one Abel Hunnicutt.
Sweat rises onto the brow of the dishevelled face of Hunnicutt. His expression is blank, but it only thinly veils an obvious frustration boiling within the man-monster. Rage, fury, sweat, blood, pain, violence, all pulse through his body as he recalls the events of Apocalypse 2016.
Abels face grows more intense as he batters the bag harder and faster.
From deep within, Abel pushes himself, channelling an anger unseen outside the ring. He becomes feverish in his assault on the bag.
One more punch. Abel now rips into the core of the bag, its thick leathery hide torn, his hand thoroughly buried within it. He pauses and pants for a moment.
Retracting the embedded hand, Hunnicutt simultaneously guts it, pulling the filling of sand and fluffy sponge from within. He inspects his hands. They tremble like all those years ago. He closes his bruised fists to stem the tide of aggression bubbling within. Just then, a blast of light pierces this gloomy atmosphere. It blinds him for a moment.
???: Youve broken another bag?
As his sight returns, Abels eyes begin to find the outline of a figure. He blinks frantically to try and gain some clarity and detail to this mystery individual.
???: Youll ruin me yet Abel.
Finally Abel can see in full detail, his mentor, The Elite Steven Holmes, cane and all. The Englishman shuffles over to Hunnicutt, chuckling as he does so.
Holmes: Of course you dont have a care for the consequences of your violence, let alone the price of things, do you?
He circles around Abel, inspecting his protégé.
Holmes: How many bodies do you think have had to pay to have their bones set, their teeth mended and blood poured back into them because of you?
Now Holmes is next to the innards of the bag and, using his cane as an anchor, tries to kneel. He partially succeeds, grimacing as he does, barely able to reach into the dust and foam pile which resides on the floor.
Holmes: You wouldnt know, would you? And indeed who cares? Its all trivial in the end because while they have to pay the price fiscally, they also have to pay it physi-cally. And thats the most important part, isnt it?
Lifting his hand, Holmes has a small pile of sand in his clutches. He raises it to the light before opening his fingers to allow sand to slither through.
Holmes: These people are merely passing by in their regular little lives, trying to carve a little something for themselves, becoming so wrapped up in what they do and what they need, what they consume and expel, who and what they want, that they forget that they are merely grains, passing through an hourglass.
With most of the sand fallen through, Holmes stands up and brushes the remaining sand off, on his side. Again he rests heavily on his cane. Holmes now moves closer to Abel, inspecting him more thoroughly than before, leaning into his personal space.
Holmes: It is your job to remind them of this fact. That they are, in the grand scale of things, minute weaklings and that we are amongst a chosen few who were born for higher purposes, to slay and maim and to control. We each have our own way of doing it. You do so by absolutely dominating and crushing everything that lays in front of you with no regard for what must come after that. As far as my purpose, well, I must regard the consequences.
Holmes now finds himself eye to eye and indeed if they were the same height, nose-to-nose, with his apprentice.
Holmes: Abel, I understand you dont care for talk of gold and wealth and of the glories to be found in materialistic gain, but I most sincerely do care. Gold and glory has been my life and it shall not end with the whimper that was my exit from the active roster. No. It will continue as a legacy of violence sweeps through WZCW with great furore as you Abel Hunnicutt, annihilate everyone who stands in our path. And that starts with Matt Tastic.
The mere mention of Tastics name causes Abel to snort with derision. This pleases Holmes who flashes a wicked smile before taking a step backward, recognising Hunnicutts reaction.
Holmes: Killjoy, Baez, Matt Tastic. This buffoon has gone through many a name and has long been a thorn in my side. From my earliest days he has sought to stop my ascension to greatness and now he looks to do the same to you. He interrupted your therapy, your release, your passion. He stopped you from being able to take the ultimate pleasure in stuffing that grotesque pig Stormrage. But he did not finish the job.
He merely committed the cardinal sin of provoking you. And so justices swift hand came and slapped him down, ending his little run in that match. It is not enough though. He must suffer again, and again, and again in a manner most befitting his crime and I have the upmost faith you shall deliver that to him.
Again Holmes steps back, giving a now intense looking Abel some breathing space. He can feel the behemoths rage building within.
Holmes: I also have faith that you will keep in mind the rules as, while they do not suggest that disembowelling Tastic will resort in a disqualification, the aim is to both maim him and progress within the context of the Gold Rush tournament, so that we both get what we want. You can have your fun, play with him, turn him into a quivering wreck, but you must leave the victor. Understand?
There is a pause, an awkward silence as Holmes completes his rhetoric. He waits for Abel to speak, turning his head slightly, awaiting a response. Hunnicutt stares a hole through his master before sighing and snorting into a light chuckle. He wipes moisture from under his nose and sniffs hard through his nose before stroking his beard.
Abel: I get it.
Holmes: Excellent
Abel: But man, I don intend on puttin no kid gloves on with this one. He a former champion o everthin; Mayhem, EurAsia, Tag Team, the Worl. He done it all. Quite possibly my hardest challenge to date, even jus from an in-ring per-spec-tive. He can do it all too, flips, forearms, getting dirty, don matter to him. I foun that out the hard way, huh? What he need to know though, is that I aint playin, ya hear?
Tastic done me wrong, an I am gonna take a pound o flesh fo it, res assured. Am gonna take his little decorated self and remind him what it is to cross me. But I aint stoppin there. He sealed his fate the moment he troubled his self with helpin Stromrage out. Hes gonna take Mickeys place as the sacrificial lamb and am gonna gut im. Gonna draaaaaag his sorry corpse all oer the ring, make a nice little tapestry if you will, usin that canvas like a true artist would, and leave him in a pool o blood an anythin else I can extract from him.
Holmes looks a little tentative as Hunnicutt gets absorbed in his own words, possessed, stroking his beard with great fervour. Then Abel casts his gaze upon his mentor and offers him a wink and a little smirk.
Abel: That don mean I aint gonna git somthin for yall though. I get it, you wan me to be champion. That aint necessarily mah aim, but it is yours, an if I can satisfy both needs, well hell, why not, eh? So after Ive rendered him an invalid, quiverin as you said, I gonna put mah boot on his chest an let the referee count that one, two, three an progress to that promised land. Cause they aint stoppin me once I gets started. I don care who pops up, whether its M an his god-damned concave face
Hunnicutt stops to chuckle at his handiwork from Apocalypse.
Abel: Or if its Vee with his precious little martial arts, next roun ends the same as the firs; bloody. I don give a hoot who it is in fron o me, am gonna put im down and that will be mah legacy as I march toward that Heavyweight title and glory, oh hallelujah.
A light laugh from Holmes as he waggles his finger, recognising a little of himself inside Abel as the latter bears a frightening grin, relishing the bloodletting that is to come.
Snow capped mountains, crisp fresh air, a flock of birds flying in formation. Winter in the hills. All is peaceful and calm, as nature intended. Then, all changes. A blast echoes in the air. The birds scatter and screech. Smoke rises from a twin barrelled shotgun. Holding it is a young boy aged 8 or maybe 9 wearing well worn winter clothing. He is terrified.
His hands tremble and his eyes are wide. The gun shakes and rattles as a strained groan is heard. It is not human. The boys breathing increases rapidly and his eyes dart from one side to the other. Quickly the groan turns into a cry. Like nails on a chalkboard it cuts through the thickest of ears.
It comes from a deer. Hind legs broken, blasted to bits, blood staining a near perfect white. Its big, brown eyes are damp as pain pours out in the form of tears. The boy and it have now locked eyes and he instantly feels the twinge of guilt. Tears form in his eyes too as he begins to understand what he has done.
Suddenly, a hand comes crashing down onto his shoulder. Slowly, the boy looks up, to a man wearing similar clothing to his own. His features are harsh, accentuated only by a neatly formed thick black beard and thick, long healed scars that adorn his face. He scowls at the boy and nods.
Man: End it.
With tremble still in his hands, the lad brings the gun up one more time and gulps, his finger shakes as it closes around the trigger. The gun shakes harder and tears start coming thick and fast.
Man: Abel! I said end it, boy!
The youngster closes his eyes and pulls the trigger. The gun explodes into action.
Now...
A taped fist smashes into a punching bag. Then another does the same. The process is repeated over and over, faster and faster. It is mesmeric, the cycle of punching persisting, not showing any sign of slowing down. All in a grungy, dank gym, filled with a poisonous atmosphere created by one Abel Hunnicutt.
Sweat rises onto the brow of the dishevelled face of Hunnicutt. His expression is blank, but it only thinly veils an obvious frustration boiling within the man-monster. Rage, fury, sweat, blood, pain, violence, all pulse through his body as he recalls the events of Apocalypse 2016.
Apocalypse said:
Abels face grows more intense as he batters the bag harder and faster.
Apocalypse said:
From deep within, Abel pushes himself, channelling an anger unseen outside the ring. He becomes feverish in his assault on the bag.
Apocalypse said:
One more punch. Abel now rips into the core of the bag, its thick leathery hide torn, his hand thoroughly buried within it. He pauses and pants for a moment.
Apocalypse said:
Retracting the embedded hand, Hunnicutt simultaneously guts it, pulling the filling of sand and fluffy sponge from within. He inspects his hands. They tremble like all those years ago. He closes his bruised fists to stem the tide of aggression bubbling within. Just then, a blast of light pierces this gloomy atmosphere. It blinds him for a moment.
???: Youve broken another bag?
As his sight returns, Abels eyes begin to find the outline of a figure. He blinks frantically to try and gain some clarity and detail to this mystery individual.
???: Youll ruin me yet Abel.
Finally Abel can see in full detail, his mentor, The Elite Steven Holmes, cane and all. The Englishman shuffles over to Hunnicutt, chuckling as he does so.
Holmes: Of course you dont have a care for the consequences of your violence, let alone the price of things, do you?
He circles around Abel, inspecting his protégé.
Holmes: How many bodies do you think have had to pay to have their bones set, their teeth mended and blood poured back into them because of you?
Now Holmes is next to the innards of the bag and, using his cane as an anchor, tries to kneel. He partially succeeds, grimacing as he does, barely able to reach into the dust and foam pile which resides on the floor.
Holmes: You wouldnt know, would you? And indeed who cares? Its all trivial in the end because while they have to pay the price fiscally, they also have to pay it physi-cally. And thats the most important part, isnt it?
Lifting his hand, Holmes has a small pile of sand in his clutches. He raises it to the light before opening his fingers to allow sand to slither through.
Holmes: These people are merely passing by in their regular little lives, trying to carve a little something for themselves, becoming so wrapped up in what they do and what they need, what they consume and expel, who and what they want, that they forget that they are merely grains, passing through an hourglass.
With most of the sand fallen through, Holmes stands up and brushes the remaining sand off, on his side. Again he rests heavily on his cane. Holmes now moves closer to Abel, inspecting him more thoroughly than before, leaning into his personal space.
Holmes: It is your job to remind them of this fact. That they are, in the grand scale of things, minute weaklings and that we are amongst a chosen few who were born for higher purposes, to slay and maim and to control. We each have our own way of doing it. You do so by absolutely dominating and crushing everything that lays in front of you with no regard for what must come after that. As far as my purpose, well, I must regard the consequences.
Holmes now finds himself eye to eye and indeed if they were the same height, nose-to-nose, with his apprentice.
Holmes: Abel, I understand you dont care for talk of gold and wealth and of the glories to be found in materialistic gain, but I most sincerely do care. Gold and glory has been my life and it shall not end with the whimper that was my exit from the active roster. No. It will continue as a legacy of violence sweeps through WZCW with great furore as you Abel Hunnicutt, annihilate everyone who stands in our path. And that starts with Matt Tastic.
The mere mention of Tastics name causes Abel to snort with derision. This pleases Holmes who flashes a wicked smile before taking a step backward, recognising Hunnicutts reaction.
Holmes: Killjoy, Baez, Matt Tastic. This buffoon has gone through many a name and has long been a thorn in my side. From my earliest days he has sought to stop my ascension to greatness and now he looks to do the same to you. He interrupted your therapy, your release, your passion. He stopped you from being able to take the ultimate pleasure in stuffing that grotesque pig Stormrage. But he did not finish the job.
He merely committed the cardinal sin of provoking you. And so justices swift hand came and slapped him down, ending his little run in that match. It is not enough though. He must suffer again, and again, and again in a manner most befitting his crime and I have the upmost faith you shall deliver that to him.
Again Holmes steps back, giving a now intense looking Abel some breathing space. He can feel the behemoths rage building within.
Holmes: I also have faith that you will keep in mind the rules as, while they do not suggest that disembowelling Tastic will resort in a disqualification, the aim is to both maim him and progress within the context of the Gold Rush tournament, so that we both get what we want. You can have your fun, play with him, turn him into a quivering wreck, but you must leave the victor. Understand?
There is a pause, an awkward silence as Holmes completes his rhetoric. He waits for Abel to speak, turning his head slightly, awaiting a response. Hunnicutt stares a hole through his master before sighing and snorting into a light chuckle. He wipes moisture from under his nose and sniffs hard through his nose before stroking his beard.
Abel: I get it.
Holmes: Excellent
Abel: But man, I don intend on puttin no kid gloves on with this one. He a former champion o everthin; Mayhem, EurAsia, Tag Team, the Worl. He done it all. Quite possibly my hardest challenge to date, even jus from an in-ring per-spec-tive. He can do it all too, flips, forearms, getting dirty, don matter to him. I foun that out the hard way, huh? What he need to know though, is that I aint playin, ya hear?
Tastic done me wrong, an I am gonna take a pound o flesh fo it, res assured. Am gonna take his little decorated self and remind him what it is to cross me. But I aint stoppin there. He sealed his fate the moment he troubled his self with helpin Stromrage out. Hes gonna take Mickeys place as the sacrificial lamb and am gonna gut im. Gonna draaaaaag his sorry corpse all oer the ring, make a nice little tapestry if you will, usin that canvas like a true artist would, and leave him in a pool o blood an anythin else I can extract from him.
Holmes looks a little tentative as Hunnicutt gets absorbed in his own words, possessed, stroking his beard with great fervour. Then Abel casts his gaze upon his mentor and offers him a wink and a little smirk.
Abel: That don mean I aint gonna git somthin for yall though. I get it, you wan me to be champion. That aint necessarily mah aim, but it is yours, an if I can satisfy both needs, well hell, why not, eh? So after Ive rendered him an invalid, quiverin as you said, I gonna put mah boot on his chest an let the referee count that one, two, three an progress to that promised land. Cause they aint stoppin me once I gets started. I don care who pops up, whether its M an his god-damned concave face
Hunnicutt stops to chuckle at his handiwork from Apocalypse.
Abel: Or if its Vee with his precious little martial arts, next roun ends the same as the firs; bloody. I don give a hoot who it is in fron o me, am gonna put im down and that will be mah legacy as I march toward that Heavyweight title and glory, oh hallelujah.
A light laugh from Holmes as he waggles his finger, recognising a little of himself inside Abel as the latter bears a frightening grin, relishing the bloodletting that is to come.
"What a piece of work is man!
A voice echoes loudly. Speaking famed words of yore. The dialog bounces off walls with vigor and power from the mouth of a clearly powerful man.
How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty!
We see these walls from which the words bounce. Four. White. And flat. They tremble as the sound resonates. At the command of just one.
In form and moving how express and admirable!
A sign is seen. Shaking. In fear of what it hears. It quivers, cowering as it faces the source of the commands.
-Medical- it reads.
In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god!
Sitting. On a bed. We see him. The from which the powerful words emerge from. Sitting on his medical, reading out of a book. The frizzled, unkempt hair of a clearly uncultured man covers his face. He clutches the book he recites so close to his face that if it were a woman, it would be considered sexual assault.
The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!"
The room calms as those final lines are spoken. The sign relaxes, the walls stand still. We see a bedpan, sitting by the bed. Glowing in it's metaly radiance. Reeking of piss. To the side of the mighty man, sitting on the bed in his gown, is a desk. Four pegs hold it up. Carrying its weight above the earth. The mighty earth. So round and covered in dirt. By that desk is a desirable object. A female. Clad in a tight white top that caresses her sultry figure. And a tight short skirt that questions why she even bother wearing it as a sheet of Bounty would probably cover more. And be less transparent.
To be! Or not to be!! That is the question!
The loud voice returns echoing thought the medical room with such vigor yet again. The beautiful asset moves at his whip. Because it's just a picture. A dirty picture. Dangling off a file. It reads Stormrage, Michael. The book is suddenly dropped. Falling onto the bedpan that rested next to the bed. Flipping it over as what is presumed to be urine flies over in response to the earthquake created.
What in the flying crap is all this?
The bedpan flips revealing the liquid in it to be caramel black. Soda. The book collapses and the man waves his hair. It reveals the face of Matt Tastic. The former World Heavyweight Champion who at Apocalypse unexpectedly wrestled twice. A bruise marks his face. Off the side of his eye. A trinket. A souvenir from an old friend. As all that happens, as the book falls, the bedpan flips, you thought it was piss and the paramedic girl was being objectified, an actual female doctor person walked in. Her tits were not as noticeable and she was wearing pants. Like actual people in a bloody hospital.
Nurse: What's going on? Why'd you drop the book? You didn't like it?
Matt looks at the mess he created in a burst of completely unreasonable anger.
Matt: You told me it would be entertaining and it's boring as balls.
Nurse: I don't find balls to be boring.
Time stands still as Matt lets the words he just heard sink in, process and go through him. For a split second the thought of an erection went through his mind but the blow he got from Steven Holmes cuts his blood pressure short.
Matt: ..what?
Nurse: Basketballs, footballs, volleyballs, not everything is a penis joke, Matt.
Matt: I believe that's Mikey schtick. I'm the sarcastic, pretty one. Can we go on a date?
Nurse: Matt, I am a certified paramedic who spent nearly a decade of intensive training and studying to get to this position. I'd have to be a complete idiot to give it up for a horny wrestler.
Matt: I make lots of money too you know ..
Nurse: It's called integrity and I know you have it too.
Matt: WHERE?!
Matt looks around himself as the nurse reads from a file in her hand. At Apocalypse Matt Tastic did something not even he expected in the form of wrestling twice. Unfortunately, the results were not pleasing. The former World Champion lost twice in one night. The man who's held every title in WZCW fell twice in one night. That did not weigh well on his mind. Despite the big bulging bruise on the side of his face and all the jokes he makes because he simply can't help himself, there's a big sense of worry in his mind.
Matt: Hey, nurse. What's your name?
Nurse: My name? It's Mel.
Matt: What kind of name is that?
Nurse: It's short for Melany. Though I kinda wonder why a guy with the last name of Tastic would be so perplexed by it.
Matt: It's a ring name, Mel. I'm a professional wrestler and I have the option to make up a ring name to sound more appealing. Though Matt Tastic or Mel don't sound nearly as ridiculous as Abel Hunnicutt.
Nurse: According to my file, he's the protege of the man who gave you that nasty bruise and put you in here. Two very interesting fellows.
Matt: Yeah, I don't find anything interesting about a southern stereotype that got dropped off in Alaska or the most painfully English, English guy to ever mutter the English language from Bloody Britania.
Matt clenches his right fist onto his left palm recalling the history he has with that Brit. Many years ago having the Mayhem Championship stolen from him and then made to run around attempting to solve a mystery as if wrestling was an episode of Scooby Doo. Literally chasing clues, interrogating people and following leads. The only thing missing was the talking dog, really.
Mel: I gave you that Shakespeare book because you told me you were bored and yet you threw it on the floor and made a mess. You better clean it up. The results of your Impact test came in and it shows you're fine.
Matt: Impact Wrestling!!
Mel: What?
Matt: It sounds like a great name for a wrestling show, doesn't it? Come on, Mel. What sounds more fitting? Impact Wrestling? Or freakin' Meltdown? I'll up the ante, Mel. Ascension Or Aftershock.
Mel: Those do sound silly.
Matt: We had a title called the Elite X Championship.
Mel: What did the X stand for?
Matt: NO ONE KNEW!
Matt gets off the bed as Mel disapprovingly shrugs her head, not understanding anything of what Matt says. Her job is to make sure her patients were in good health. Dabbling into the ever wondrous world of professional wrestling was not in the job description. Matt starts to pick up the mess he created for no real reason. He picks up the Shakespeare book and looks at it for a bit, reflecting upon in. Longingly he looks at the book as you can see sweat drip across his brow. His blinks become more and more rapid as his pheromones increase and decrease constantly, trying desperately to control his ignorant, feral, manly desires. Why these completely inconsequential details need to be noted is anyone's guess though. It should be noted that it's a square room with a rather nice, white coat of paint.
Matt: You know, you asked about why I didn't like this book.
Mel: How come?
Matt: I work in a particular field of entertainment. Using sport to showcase what basically boils down a cartoon fight between good and evil. It's so rare that in this athletic competition we get two guys who don't have some sort of bizarre beef with one another that it borders on parody. My field is one that dabs into stretching the imagination while staying in reality, Mel. And this book is nothing but a limit to what the imagination can do.
Mel: You lost me there. You went from silly references to some deep stuff here. I get what you mean about the fight, good and evil and all that, but what's this about imagination and reality.
A vibrating sound echoes through the room. Bouncing off the walls. The two search for the source before it's pinpointed. Matt's phone. It vibrates from the desk. Matt grabs it and checks what it is. A text message.
Mikey: U got neckbeard in GR.
Matt: I should kill him for that grammar. But to the point. I'm facing a big, tall, hairy bastard who used to apparently live in the wilderness and have a neglectful family. Mentored by this rich, British snob who was once a World Champ but is now crippled. First off, I call bullshit on whatever injury he has.
Mel: He's got a bum leg I believe. How could you say that's not an excuse?
Matt: Because we had a man who's head was kicked clean off his shoulders and he came back for a long period of time, Ms. Mel. That's why. So if a man who was decapitated could come back, so can he. The real reason he's not coming back and has his scummy man-child do the work is the reason I'm better.
Mel: And what is that?
Matt puts the book on the desk and then picks up the bedpan he flipped before turning back to the nurse.
Matt: It's the same reason I didn't like this book. It's old. It's cliché. It's a thing of the past. It is incapable to change with the times. It is simply a base for other people to be inspired and create an even bigger idea. Limited by this goofy dialog of the past. Explaining the scenes with these totally unneeded details. What the hell do I need to know if a suit looks dapper or sombre for? Why in the hell is a narration having to explain what a character feels when in real life he'd have to explain it? Novel books became a thing of the past as far as entertainment went when comic books came around. They're far more creative. They're far more encapsulating. There's a reason Spiderman is more well known nowadays than Macbeth, you know? He's far more colorful. You see the suit, you see his struggles and as far as how that relates to Holmes and Honeybiscuit.
The reason Holmes got him to do his work is because he himself is just like this book. Unable to change. Unable to evolve, he had to go get a surrogate because he himself can't change as a person. I've worn a mask, been evil, been good, been angry, been crazy and once I was patriotic. Online, people write some very sick sh*t about me and Mikey. I change, Mel. I evolve. People see it. They relate. 5 years ago, I beat Steven Holmes in a Ladder match for a title he stole from me. Back then I wore a mask and had a different name while he has the same British accent. The same snobby attitude. The same stupid personality. I'm gonna beat his pet Alaskan Bullworm one way or another.
Mel: You sound very confident even though this man's mentor layed you out and put you in here.
Matt sits the book on the desk before going to clean the wet floor.
Matt: I will either pin him or just outlast him like I do everyone else in this company. It's not me saying it, it's a proven fact. Me outlasting everyone. Evolving. All of it. Hey Mel. You know famous actor Titus Avison, right?
Mel:Yeah, I loved him in The Revenant.
Matt grabs a mop from a small closet and puts down a Wet Floor sign before he starts mopping the soda on the floor.
Matt: Well he used to- Wait, he was in that?
Mel: Yeah. He was the bear!
Matt: I .. I'll ask. Glad he wasn't- Ugh, I shouldn't go there. How do people find that stuff entertaining? Anyway, he used to be a World Champion. Top guy. Top hero. Then he just lost. For years on end. Now he's a Champion again. Wanna know why?
Mel: I have a feeling you'll tell me.
Matt stops mopping and turns, giving Mel a snarky look for her reply.
Matt: I wanted a guess. But thanks for letting the air off the joke.
Mel: I'm here to make sure you don't have a screw loose in your head. Not hear your speech.
Matt: You're no fun. It's because he changed.
Mel:Well .. That's great and all. But . You haven't changed in a while.
Matt:
Matt stops what he's doing complete
Matt races down the hallways of the medical facility grabbing his head in utter panic..
Matt: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Matt continues to running stumbles onto a patient. Using a walker to stand, Matt grabs him by the collar of his hospital gown ..
Matt: FUCK YOU! I've changed!!
BAM! And punches the man.
~But flashing back to reality.~
Matt: Huh?
Mel: You haven't really changed since you won the World title from what I can gather.
Matt: What? Yo-you mean that?
Mel: Yeah. Listen, I don't think it's a case of you being stale-Matt?
Mel realizes Matt has vanished. She slams Matt's file on the desk realizing her patient just left without being dismissed.
Matt walks down the hallway and runs into Mikey. Matt looks at him in a total huff, panicking by the words of Mel. Mikey holds him by the shoulders, concerned.
Mikey: Dude. Whats up?
Matt huff and he puffs. But there's no house to blow down.
Matt: Mikey!! She said!! The nurse!!
Mikey: What? She said what? Man, don't tell me it's a concu-
Matt: She said I was stagnant! She said I was getting old! Dammit, Mikey! I need a new gimmick! For the love of God, I need a new gimmick. Maybe if I do a new fast food phrase.... I know! My ass kickings are finger licking good. No, that sounds dirty! Mikey what do I do?
Matt rattles Mikey back and forth as he speaks, demanding an answer from him.
Mikey: OK. First off. Calm your tits.
A moment of silence goes by. Almost as if time stood still. It almost seemed as if Matt actually listened. But it doesn't last.
Matt: That's brilliant! I'll become a transvestite wrestler!
Mikey: WHAT?!!? HELL NO!! Stop man!! I meant calm down!! Calm the hell down, sheesh!! You don't need to be pitching ideas for shock value and attention. What got into you?
Matt: Oh. Well, that makes way more sense. What the hell were you doing talking to me about tits then!?
Mikey: Chill, man. Isn't it normally me who's asking for advice? It's a nice change of pace. Calm down. Relax. Just be you. It's you who became World Champion, right? It's you who won Lethal Lottery and the main event of Kingdom Come. You don't need anything else.
Matt: ......really.......?
Mikey: Listen, man. I looked up to you for all this time. Trust me, I know that feeling of seeming so close to winning and then just losing out of nowhere. It bites. But look at you and look at me. We're fighters. We did it again at the PPV and it will always be that way, man. Change or not, we always get up and try again. It's what brought us together and put us on top. Do it for me and at Meltdow go be the guy I looked up to. An Deliver some Kickassery to that neckbeards.
The two buddies look at each other, Matt realizing what Mikey has said. Yes, Matt has been a person that has constantly changed to keep up with the times. But that's not what makes him special. That's not what made him who he is today. What made him who he is today truly, was being himself. Expressing himself how he wants and speaking his mind. It may not always be right and it may not always walk him down the path of victory, but it's the path he was meant to walk and through the ups and downs, he's seen success and will see it again. He just has to keep going.
As the two look at each other, grinning and Matt realizing his buddy is right, Mel appears in the corner.
Mel: MATT! Where did you- Oh, there you are. What's wrong with you just running off lik- Am I interrupting something here?
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Mel: I didn't realize you were Bi. Maybe I should put that i-
Matt: WHAT?! I'M NOT BI!!
Mikey: This girl was tending to you? Wow.
Mel: Oh. OK. "Alternative se-
Matt: I'm pretty damn straight, Mel!!
Mikey:He only says that because the men say no.
Matt: Piss off!
Mikey: Then again, so do the women.
Mel: I did not dismiss you.
Matt: But you gave me the results and said I was fine. What was I missing?
Mel:Here!!
Mel hands a card to Matt which he takes.
Mel: Go get your stuff, now you're dismissed.
Mel walks off as Matt and Mikey look at the card.
Matt: It has her number. Dude, I think I scored.
Mikey: You sure? I'm pretty sure she's mad. Not to mention, that wasn't a very professional dismissal.
Matt: Oh, come on. Nurses don't just hand out numbers.
Mikey: I highly doubt she did it to ask you out. Like 1% of it being the case.
Matt: ...........So you're telling me....... There's a chance?
Mikey: How did I end up the serious guy in this act?
The two embrace and walk off to get Matt's stuff. In the end, Matt learned that it's not a matter of how you change. It's how you express who you are that makes you YOU. At Meltdown, Matt has to defeat Abel Whatshisface to move on in the Gold Rush tournament. And to do it, Matt can't just rely on new tricks. He has to go in with what brought him to the dance.
.............Ring Ring.
Mel: ...Hello, this is the office of Melany Hillston.
Matt:So.......... What are you wearing?
Mel: I'm calling your superior.
Matt: .........................You're no fun.
- Status
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