003 [POLLOMANIA]
May 3, 2017 2:41:04 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 3, 2017 2:41:04 GMT -5
"Pollomania."
The camera reveals a pretty ordinary guy sitting on an equally unremarkable white tile floor. He lifts his good hand up, scratching his cheek.
"I was vaguely aware of your existence, back in 2016. I remember coming across this holiday special online and watching a few matches. Laid up in a hospital bed, you'd be surprised how desperate you get for some sort of contact with the real world. Well, real-ish, I guess."
He laughs. Shakes his head.
"I know you don't know me. I don't belong like I'm MickeyD's heinous orange drink. Anyone remember that stuff? Tasted like Tang if some sketchbag home-brewed it in his basement with reduced down Sudafed, expired Fun Dip and radioactive orange dye."
He taps his toes, drawing attention to the black Chucks on his feet before he idly starts picking at the frayed threads on his jeans cuffs with his good hand. His bad one sits in his lap, fingers curled and tensed.
"I'm the one-armed man everyone's been talking about. I'm the guy who's had to endure being announced from 'Cripple Creek' – hilarious, by the way. Never would have thought of that on my own. I'm the guy who parks in the best spot at the arena, gets the dirty looks that shift to pity the second they see my hand and I figure, if I ever end up having kids, I've got that 'OH SHIT IT'S THE CLAW' thing already perfected. So, it's win-win."
Only the lower half of his face is visible, the rest hidden in shadow. A fleeting smile appears for a second.
"On the topic of wrestling legacies, there's a lot I could say, if anyone gave a shit. None do. I know this. I know this because I am intelligent enough to follow trends in this business. Everyone's a captain on this ship of fools, and I feel like jumping overboard. See, it's 2017 now and people keep saying that like it's this magical thing. They'll say some borderline racist or homophobic or misogynistic thing and then laugh and say 'but it's 2017' like-" he snaps his fingers, "magic words to make it all better. And maybe the script has flipped. Maybe a place like Pollomania was the only place a guy like me could get a fair shake along with the shapeshifters and vampires and aliens – the friggen Island of Misfit Wrestlers like from that Christmas movie."
He coughs, clears his throat.
"And then something really screwy happened. I got cleared to wrestle again. I came back and I've been busting ass the past month. No free rides. No rest holds. Nonstop work and it's paying off dividends. I beat Ursula Areano. I think she might have been in the Pollo Bucket for a cup of coffee. No shock. That girl has been everywhere," he looks directly at the camera, winking knowingly with an aside, "washed out of them all too, hasn't she?"
He pulls his knees up tighter to his chest, resting his cheek against them, eyes half-closed when he starts talking again and although there's no emotion in his voice, he seems almost sad.
"One-Armed and Dangerous. Handicapped Hero. I've called myself a few other names over the years but those are the ones that seem to have stuck to the wall the best. When I was a kid, I used to watch a lot of TV. I used to love all those old sitcoms, all those universes with the perfect worlds where all the problems ever could be solved neat-as-can-be in a half hour or less. I guess I envied that because it's been over thirty years and I'm still…"
He straightens out the fingers of his bad hand with his other before wrapping them around his knees. He sighs.
"Here's the truth: there's no difference in being at the top. Sure, you're looking down on people from that nice pedestal, people are screaming your name in something akin to rapture when you do that walk to the ring, but it doesn't change you. Fame, I mean. They want you to claw and scratch and talk down to everyone to prove that you're the best. The meanest. The hardest. The fiercest. For what? For gold and leather and a hike in pay grade?"
He shrugs.
"I do it to prove I can. Me. I can do this."
The camera reveals a pretty ordinary guy sitting on an equally unremarkable white tile floor. He lifts his good hand up, scratching his cheek.
"I was vaguely aware of your existence, back in 2016. I remember coming across this holiday special online and watching a few matches. Laid up in a hospital bed, you'd be surprised how desperate you get for some sort of contact with the real world. Well, real-ish, I guess."
He laughs. Shakes his head.
"I know you don't know me. I don't belong like I'm MickeyD's heinous orange drink. Anyone remember that stuff? Tasted like Tang if some sketchbag home-brewed it in his basement with reduced down Sudafed, expired Fun Dip and radioactive orange dye."
He taps his toes, drawing attention to the black Chucks on his feet before he idly starts picking at the frayed threads on his jeans cuffs with his good hand. His bad one sits in his lap, fingers curled and tensed.
"I'm the one-armed man everyone's been talking about. I'm the guy who's had to endure being announced from 'Cripple Creek' – hilarious, by the way. Never would have thought of that on my own. I'm the guy who parks in the best spot at the arena, gets the dirty looks that shift to pity the second they see my hand and I figure, if I ever end up having kids, I've got that 'OH SHIT IT'S THE CLAW' thing already perfected. So, it's win-win."
Only the lower half of his face is visible, the rest hidden in shadow. A fleeting smile appears for a second.
"On the topic of wrestling legacies, there's a lot I could say, if anyone gave a shit. None do. I know this. I know this because I am intelligent enough to follow trends in this business. Everyone's a captain on this ship of fools, and I feel like jumping overboard. See, it's 2017 now and people keep saying that like it's this magical thing. They'll say some borderline racist or homophobic or misogynistic thing and then laugh and say 'but it's 2017' like-" he snaps his fingers, "magic words to make it all better. And maybe the script has flipped. Maybe a place like Pollomania was the only place a guy like me could get a fair shake along with the shapeshifters and vampires and aliens – the friggen Island of Misfit Wrestlers like from that Christmas movie."
He coughs, clears his throat.
"And then something really screwy happened. I got cleared to wrestle again. I came back and I've been busting ass the past month. No free rides. No rest holds. Nonstop work and it's paying off dividends. I beat Ursula Areano. I think she might have been in the Pollo Bucket for a cup of coffee. No shock. That girl has been everywhere," he looks directly at the camera, winking knowingly with an aside, "washed out of them all too, hasn't she?"
He pulls his knees up tighter to his chest, resting his cheek against them, eyes half-closed when he starts talking again and although there's no emotion in his voice, he seems almost sad.
"One-Armed and Dangerous. Handicapped Hero. I've called myself a few other names over the years but those are the ones that seem to have stuck to the wall the best. When I was a kid, I used to watch a lot of TV. I used to love all those old sitcoms, all those universes with the perfect worlds where all the problems ever could be solved neat-as-can-be in a half hour or less. I guess I envied that because it's been over thirty years and I'm still…"
He straightens out the fingers of his bad hand with his other before wrapping them around his knees. He sighs.
"Here's the truth: there's no difference in being at the top. Sure, you're looking down on people from that nice pedestal, people are screaming your name in something akin to rapture when you do that walk to the ring, but it doesn't change you. Fame, I mean. They want you to claw and scratch and talk down to everyone to prove that you're the best. The meanest. The hardest. The fiercest. For what? For gold and leather and a hike in pay grade?"
He shrugs.
"I do it to prove I can. Me. I can do this."
