Post by A.C. Smith on May 15, 2012 22:35:59 GMT -4
Our scene opens today in a dimly-lit basement. Through very small windows at the top of the side walls, we see dozens of suits hanging from the walls, all guarded with cellophane and bearing large white tags with names and specific handling instructions. In the background, we hear tape measures being stretched out and quickly retreating to their containers, as well as the frantic writing of pencils on paper.
The camera pans right, and we see the Big Apple Asskicker, A.C. Smith, walking down a flight of stairs and ducking so his 6'8” height doesn't present a problem with the low ceiling. He walks past the camera and to the left, and we now see several men at their desks, all of whom stop working when Smith approaches.
A.C.: “Looking for Robert; is he in today?”
The closest man to Smith points down a nearby hallway. A.C. acknowledges him with a nod of the head, and we follow him down a narrow corridor. He approaches a closed door, and we see Smith peeking in through a window to see another man, wearing glasses and a brown suit, in an animated phone conversation and holding up his right index finger in the 'one minute' gesture.
Obliging, Smith nods. He turns his attention to the camera in his midst, and he opens his mouth to speak.
A.C.: “I'm glad you're here. Ya know, I originally came here, to my personal tailor's office, on a business trip. Wanted to get my Armani suit with a ripped pant-leg redone, then go back to my penthouse and keep training. But in breaks between sessions, I made the mistake of seeing what my opponents in this week's Ball Room Brawl had to say about me. And BOY did that piss me off.
The fact that these people have absolutely NO idea what they're dealing with annoys me. I mean, it's not like I laid everything out in excruciatingly-detailed video packages for weeks before my official arrival in Action Packed Wrestling...oh wait, I did that. Never mind, then.
With all that's on the line on Sunday in Montreal, I guess some nerves could be forgiven. That would be one thing. But this goes further than that. It's a bunch of people that are very capable at what they do, but who refuse to do even the most basic of research. It offends me. And this Sunday, the lack of preparation I've seen so far will come back to bite them where it hurts.”
We hear muffled yelling from the office, and Smith's eyebrows momentarily rise up his broad forehead. After a quick chuckle at the thought of his nerdy tailor threatening to open up a can of whoop-ass, he rolls his eyes and speaks again.
A.C.: “I need to start with Billy Pepsi. First, let me say that being opportunistic is an admirable thing. You're not going to get anywhere in this business by sitting on your hands and waiting for chances to come your way. Hell, you're listening to the guy who refused to debut in Action Packed Wrestling the conventional way because I didn't want to get lost in the shuffle when I knew I brought too much to the table. But last Thursday on Overdrive, he bit off WAY more than he could chew. He thought I'd be worn down after my match with Assassin. He thought I'd be an easy target. And he. Was. WRONG.
I didn't break a sweat in qualifying for the Ball Room Brawl. And I didn't break a sweat turning back Billy Pepsi when he was licking his chops looking to make his mark. What's he going to do on Sunday night, when I know damn well he's coming for me? Any element of surprise he has is totally lost, because unlike on Thursday night, I know he's coming. However, MUCH like Thursday night, what he's bringing to the table won't be good enough. He threw what he had at me. And when I didn't break, like he mistakenly thought I would, he bailed back to the locker room with his tail between his legs, but not before I hit him with the Police Lineup in a preview of things to come.
I don't hit people from behind. I don't deal in deception, and I make no bones about my strategy. My aim is to go out there on Sunday night, fight the way I know I'm capable of, and fend off all comers on the way to a win. Do you know what that says coming into Mayhem? It means I'm confident. It means I don't need to resort to cheap tactics like Billy Pepsi tried to to stay relevant. His desperation offends me. And I won't allow myself to fall victim to it.”
We hear the muffled yelling, but this time it's much more clear, something along the lines of “Well, you can tell your Italian supplier he can stick it up his...” A.C. is taken aback by this, continuing his surprise at the behavior of his tailor, but he shrugs it off and speaks again.
A.C.: “Another guy that's ticked me off lately is Johnny Sykes. At first glance, confidence seems like a strength. However, thinking you've got the ability to do something, and actually HAVING the ability to do it...well, those are FAR different things, now aren't they?
By claiming that he would personally see to it that myself and Nick Watson would be the first two people knocked out, Johnny Sykes did something very dangerous. He got my attention. Now, he may well be right about Watson, whose staggering ineptitude I'll get to later. But guaranteeing something about someone you know nothing about is just...well, to put it mildly, it's just not smart.
What Johnny Sykes is guaranteeing is something that nobody in APW has been able to do to this point. If he'd been watching Overdrive, he'd know that. I didn't qualify for this match by getting lucky. I destroyed Assassin, just like I steamrolled Pax Constantine the week before in my first match since October.
Mind you, I'm not doing what he claimed we'd all be doing, writing him off. I'm dealing with him in plain, simple logic, which is the only way I know how to do things. And judging by what I've heard so far, it's a concept that's totally foreign to good ol' Johnny. I know, for a fact, that he's going to be zeroing in on me for no good reason. Well, by the time that nugget sinks in, he's going to be in a hospital room trying to figure out that, hey, maybe taunting a guy that's done nothing but win here in APW wasn't the best idea!”
Another rolling of the eyes by Smith, and it's greeted by our buddy the tailor continuing his one-sided discussion by yelling, “Are you KIDDING ME?!?!?!”
A.C.: “Fitting, considering the circumstances. Anyway, let's go through some of the others in this match, shall we? There's Yarmouth. Big guy. Not so sure if anything's going on in his head, though. This is a guy that's promised everyone facing him a world of hurt, yet we don't exactly see anyone in this match quaking in their boots at the thought of facing him in a no-holds-barred setting, do we?
As I told Johnny Sykes just a few moments ago, talking a big game is one thing. Being able to walk the walk after talking the talk is a whole other story entirely. And there are a bunch of guys that can attest to the fact that Yarmouth's idea of a world of hurt is closer to a pillow fight than a Ball Room Brawl. And unlike what a lot of people are doing, basing their boasts off an inflated sense of ego, my reasoning is based solely on facts. Because of that, Yarmouth's got a lot to answer for that he simply can't.
And then we move on to Dita Morgan. This is the part of this business that honestly pains me. Let it be said that I refuse to hit women. I've got too many ethics to do that. That said, though, not everyone's as nice as me. There are four other guys in this match, all of whom won't hesitate to do what I won't.
I'm not going to resort to name-calling, or acting like a high school student going through puberty, like some in this match likely will. It's not my style, and being raised by a single mother gives you a respect for tough, driven women. Dita Morgan seems to be just that. But in this match, she's going to run into a lot of people that don't give a rat's ass about that. And unfortunately for her, while I can control a lot, that's one thing my reach doesn't extend to.”
As Smith finishes his sentence, we hear the tailor behind the closed door slam the phone down. His chair rolls across the room, and he stomps his feet on his way into the hallway before opening the door. The man Smith called Robert is a short, skinny man in his late-40's, with his short black hair receding on his scalp and his face the color of fire.
Robert: “Sorry about that, A.C. My guy wants to raise the price on fabric by five cents a square inch. At 1,000 square inches a week, that's an extra $200 a month that I have to worry about.”
A.C.: “Stuff happens. If anything, you going crazy on the phone was one of the more entertaining things I've ever heard. You got the suit?”
Robert: “Har de har har. Yeah, it's in the back. Give me a minute, and I'll go get it.”
Smith nods, and Robert scurries off down the hall. A.C. allows a slight smile to make its way onto his face, but it quickly fades with two words.
A.C.: “Nick Watson.
What I'm going to say next isn't going to come across well. I respect Watson as a person. And I sincerely believe that, in his mind, he believes that he's approaching this match in the correct fashion.
The problem is...well, he's totally inept!”
The last word echoes throughout the hallway, and Smith pauses to let the magnitude of it sink in before he goes onward.
A.C.: “He has absolutely no idea who I am. In the span of about two minutes, he called me old, slow, and someone that has no idea how to approach the Ball Room Brawl from a tactical standpoint. Wrong, wrong, and DEAD wrong.
If you were listening to him talk and had never seen me wrestle before, you'd swear I was some 60-year-old has-been who couldn't keep up with the business and was coming back not for the love of the business, but for one last paycheck to silence my gold-digging ex-wife's divorce lawyer. Contrary to what Nick Watson chooses to believe, I am, in fact, only 31 years old. I'm in the prime of my wrestling career, and I'm at the point where my 10 years of experience and physical skills are converging at their respective apexes.
Watson said that grace and agility would dictate the pace of the action. Does he think we're on 'Dancing With the Stars?' He can make whatever remark he wants about the setting, but we're all going into this with the same mindset we'd have for any other bout. Everyone wants to be the best and beat everyone else's brains in to do it. Watson can try to do the salsa around everyone, but when there are five other people in there that will stop at nothing to win, it won't matter if anyone else has two left feet.
Let's move on to the part where he said I didn't have the tactical experience to win this. Let me remind everyone of something. I was a cop in New York City's roughest neighborhoods for four years running. I'm used to situations where it's me against five other people, and everyone else has at least one lethal weapon within arm's reach. Oh, but it's not applicable, because everyone in this match...will be dressed really well? Get real, Nick. In reality, there is NOBODY more prepared for this kind of multi-way, every-man-or-woman-for-him-or-herself match than the Big Apple Asskicker. I've been in way too many tense situations with way too little backup to say otherwise, contrary to the revisionist history Watson wants to write.
I don't know Watson well, personally. He seems like a respectable-enough human being. But I cannot stand for bullshit when a person has all the information about me right at their fingertips and simply refuses to use it. Do your homework next time. Because right now, in the state you're in, the only thing you're in position to know about the Ball Room Brawl is that you're not going to come CLOSE to winning it.”
The camera zooms out, and we see Robert, standing against the wall with a perplexed look on his face and A.C.'s suit in his grasp.
Robert: “Um...here, here you go, A.C. Something bothering you?”
A.C. grabs the suit, and nods as he gives it the once-over.
A.C.: “Since you don't watch wrestling, let's put it this way. My suppliers are clueless.”
Robert allows himself a chuckle, and Smith walks away, patting his tailor on the back as the scene fades to black.
The camera pans right, and we see the Big Apple Asskicker, A.C. Smith, walking down a flight of stairs and ducking so his 6'8” height doesn't present a problem with the low ceiling. He walks past the camera and to the left, and we now see several men at their desks, all of whom stop working when Smith approaches.
A.C.: “Looking for Robert; is he in today?”
The closest man to Smith points down a nearby hallway. A.C. acknowledges him with a nod of the head, and we follow him down a narrow corridor. He approaches a closed door, and we see Smith peeking in through a window to see another man, wearing glasses and a brown suit, in an animated phone conversation and holding up his right index finger in the 'one minute' gesture.
Obliging, Smith nods. He turns his attention to the camera in his midst, and he opens his mouth to speak.
A.C.: “I'm glad you're here. Ya know, I originally came here, to my personal tailor's office, on a business trip. Wanted to get my Armani suit with a ripped pant-leg redone, then go back to my penthouse and keep training. But in breaks between sessions, I made the mistake of seeing what my opponents in this week's Ball Room Brawl had to say about me. And BOY did that piss me off.
The fact that these people have absolutely NO idea what they're dealing with annoys me. I mean, it's not like I laid everything out in excruciatingly-detailed video packages for weeks before my official arrival in Action Packed Wrestling...oh wait, I did that. Never mind, then.
With all that's on the line on Sunday in Montreal, I guess some nerves could be forgiven. That would be one thing. But this goes further than that. It's a bunch of people that are very capable at what they do, but who refuse to do even the most basic of research. It offends me. And this Sunday, the lack of preparation I've seen so far will come back to bite them where it hurts.”
We hear muffled yelling from the office, and Smith's eyebrows momentarily rise up his broad forehead. After a quick chuckle at the thought of his nerdy tailor threatening to open up a can of whoop-ass, he rolls his eyes and speaks again.
A.C.: “I need to start with Billy Pepsi. First, let me say that being opportunistic is an admirable thing. You're not going to get anywhere in this business by sitting on your hands and waiting for chances to come your way. Hell, you're listening to the guy who refused to debut in Action Packed Wrestling the conventional way because I didn't want to get lost in the shuffle when I knew I brought too much to the table. But last Thursday on Overdrive, he bit off WAY more than he could chew. He thought I'd be worn down after my match with Assassin. He thought I'd be an easy target. And he. Was. WRONG.
I didn't break a sweat in qualifying for the Ball Room Brawl. And I didn't break a sweat turning back Billy Pepsi when he was licking his chops looking to make his mark. What's he going to do on Sunday night, when I know damn well he's coming for me? Any element of surprise he has is totally lost, because unlike on Thursday night, I know he's coming. However, MUCH like Thursday night, what he's bringing to the table won't be good enough. He threw what he had at me. And when I didn't break, like he mistakenly thought I would, he bailed back to the locker room with his tail between his legs, but not before I hit him with the Police Lineup in a preview of things to come.
I don't hit people from behind. I don't deal in deception, and I make no bones about my strategy. My aim is to go out there on Sunday night, fight the way I know I'm capable of, and fend off all comers on the way to a win. Do you know what that says coming into Mayhem? It means I'm confident. It means I don't need to resort to cheap tactics like Billy Pepsi tried to to stay relevant. His desperation offends me. And I won't allow myself to fall victim to it.”
We hear the muffled yelling, but this time it's much more clear, something along the lines of “Well, you can tell your Italian supplier he can stick it up his...” A.C. is taken aback by this, continuing his surprise at the behavior of his tailor, but he shrugs it off and speaks again.
A.C.: “Another guy that's ticked me off lately is Johnny Sykes. At first glance, confidence seems like a strength. However, thinking you've got the ability to do something, and actually HAVING the ability to do it...well, those are FAR different things, now aren't they?
By claiming that he would personally see to it that myself and Nick Watson would be the first two people knocked out, Johnny Sykes did something very dangerous. He got my attention. Now, he may well be right about Watson, whose staggering ineptitude I'll get to later. But guaranteeing something about someone you know nothing about is just...well, to put it mildly, it's just not smart.
What Johnny Sykes is guaranteeing is something that nobody in APW has been able to do to this point. If he'd been watching Overdrive, he'd know that. I didn't qualify for this match by getting lucky. I destroyed Assassin, just like I steamrolled Pax Constantine the week before in my first match since October.
Mind you, I'm not doing what he claimed we'd all be doing, writing him off. I'm dealing with him in plain, simple logic, which is the only way I know how to do things. And judging by what I've heard so far, it's a concept that's totally foreign to good ol' Johnny. I know, for a fact, that he's going to be zeroing in on me for no good reason. Well, by the time that nugget sinks in, he's going to be in a hospital room trying to figure out that, hey, maybe taunting a guy that's done nothing but win here in APW wasn't the best idea!”
Another rolling of the eyes by Smith, and it's greeted by our buddy the tailor continuing his one-sided discussion by yelling, “Are you KIDDING ME?!?!?!”
A.C.: “Fitting, considering the circumstances. Anyway, let's go through some of the others in this match, shall we? There's Yarmouth. Big guy. Not so sure if anything's going on in his head, though. This is a guy that's promised everyone facing him a world of hurt, yet we don't exactly see anyone in this match quaking in their boots at the thought of facing him in a no-holds-barred setting, do we?
As I told Johnny Sykes just a few moments ago, talking a big game is one thing. Being able to walk the walk after talking the talk is a whole other story entirely. And there are a bunch of guys that can attest to the fact that Yarmouth's idea of a world of hurt is closer to a pillow fight than a Ball Room Brawl. And unlike what a lot of people are doing, basing their boasts off an inflated sense of ego, my reasoning is based solely on facts. Because of that, Yarmouth's got a lot to answer for that he simply can't.
And then we move on to Dita Morgan. This is the part of this business that honestly pains me. Let it be said that I refuse to hit women. I've got too many ethics to do that. That said, though, not everyone's as nice as me. There are four other guys in this match, all of whom won't hesitate to do what I won't.
I'm not going to resort to name-calling, or acting like a high school student going through puberty, like some in this match likely will. It's not my style, and being raised by a single mother gives you a respect for tough, driven women. Dita Morgan seems to be just that. But in this match, she's going to run into a lot of people that don't give a rat's ass about that. And unfortunately for her, while I can control a lot, that's one thing my reach doesn't extend to.”
As Smith finishes his sentence, we hear the tailor behind the closed door slam the phone down. His chair rolls across the room, and he stomps his feet on his way into the hallway before opening the door. The man Smith called Robert is a short, skinny man in his late-40's, with his short black hair receding on his scalp and his face the color of fire.
Robert: “Sorry about that, A.C. My guy wants to raise the price on fabric by five cents a square inch. At 1,000 square inches a week, that's an extra $200 a month that I have to worry about.”
A.C.: “Stuff happens. If anything, you going crazy on the phone was one of the more entertaining things I've ever heard. You got the suit?”
Robert: “Har de har har. Yeah, it's in the back. Give me a minute, and I'll go get it.”
Smith nods, and Robert scurries off down the hall. A.C. allows a slight smile to make its way onto his face, but it quickly fades with two words.
A.C.: “Nick Watson.
What I'm going to say next isn't going to come across well. I respect Watson as a person. And I sincerely believe that, in his mind, he believes that he's approaching this match in the correct fashion.
The problem is...well, he's totally inept!”
The last word echoes throughout the hallway, and Smith pauses to let the magnitude of it sink in before he goes onward.
A.C.: “He has absolutely no idea who I am. In the span of about two minutes, he called me old, slow, and someone that has no idea how to approach the Ball Room Brawl from a tactical standpoint. Wrong, wrong, and DEAD wrong.
If you were listening to him talk and had never seen me wrestle before, you'd swear I was some 60-year-old has-been who couldn't keep up with the business and was coming back not for the love of the business, but for one last paycheck to silence my gold-digging ex-wife's divorce lawyer. Contrary to what Nick Watson chooses to believe, I am, in fact, only 31 years old. I'm in the prime of my wrestling career, and I'm at the point where my 10 years of experience and physical skills are converging at their respective apexes.
Watson said that grace and agility would dictate the pace of the action. Does he think we're on 'Dancing With the Stars?' He can make whatever remark he wants about the setting, but we're all going into this with the same mindset we'd have for any other bout. Everyone wants to be the best and beat everyone else's brains in to do it. Watson can try to do the salsa around everyone, but when there are five other people in there that will stop at nothing to win, it won't matter if anyone else has two left feet.
Let's move on to the part where he said I didn't have the tactical experience to win this. Let me remind everyone of something. I was a cop in New York City's roughest neighborhoods for four years running. I'm used to situations where it's me against five other people, and everyone else has at least one lethal weapon within arm's reach. Oh, but it's not applicable, because everyone in this match...will be dressed really well? Get real, Nick. In reality, there is NOBODY more prepared for this kind of multi-way, every-man-or-woman-for-him-or-herself match than the Big Apple Asskicker. I've been in way too many tense situations with way too little backup to say otherwise, contrary to the revisionist history Watson wants to write.
I don't know Watson well, personally. He seems like a respectable-enough human being. But I cannot stand for bullshit when a person has all the information about me right at their fingertips and simply refuses to use it. Do your homework next time. Because right now, in the state you're in, the only thing you're in position to know about the Ball Room Brawl is that you're not going to come CLOSE to winning it.”
The camera zooms out, and we see Robert, standing against the wall with a perplexed look on his face and A.C.'s suit in his grasp.
Robert: “Um...here, here you go, A.C. Something bothering you?”
A.C. grabs the suit, and nods as he gives it the once-over.
A.C.: “Since you don't watch wrestling, let's put it this way. My suppliers are clueless.”
Robert allows himself a chuckle, and Smith walks away, patting his tailor on the back as the scene fades to black.
