Post by Evan De Parker on Jun 8, 2012 0:25:35 GMT -4
We enter an unfamiliar scene… We are sitting in an old-fashioned diner, though whether it’s by nature or by design is unknown at this moment. A bright red jukebox currently blares music from Black Lips, as per the request of some young man that had inserted a quarter into the machine.
As we view the diner, we see people of all different creeds and cultures, different ages, different sizes and shapes, enjoying the greasy food that the place had to offer… Burgers, fries, chicken, all thrown into a basket of some sort for everyone’s convenience. Most people look at this as a convenient and entertaining small diner, just outside of Atlanta, Georgia. Most people.
But one man finds it disgusting. One man hates the idea of fried meat drenched in peanut oil slapped onto a white-bread bun that looked almost as plastic as the bitch on rollerskates serving it. If he wanted to have a heart attack before he hit middle-age, he’d have pumped himself up with steroids and cocaine by now. But no… Instead, Evan Envi is forced to be here, at S.R. Happy’s, as per request of his childhood friend Andre.
Andre and Evan hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye, and in many ways, Evan hated Andre’s lifestyle. Sure, Andre was a good person. Evan would go so far as to call him a great person, donating a large percentage of his money each year to charities which worked toward the production of medicine, the aid, and with hope the eventual prevention of cancer in children-- leukemia in particular. Hell, he’d even convinced Evan to donate a buck or two over the years. And sure, Andre had wealth but Evan thought the way Andre’s family earned that money was foul, dirty, and outright un-American.
They had earned that money by opening a small chain of successful greasy burger joints! Evan could think of at least two locations in Atlanta, Georgia, as well as every state along the east coast between Florida and New Jersey… So while he had to respect their drive and their success, something about it seemed so blue-collar. And perhaps it wasn’t the diner burger-joint restaurant chain at all… Perhaps it was the Savi family and their casual, middle-class American attitude when Evan knew that they were so much better than that. He couldn’t pinpoint it quite yet but he knew he didn’t like it.
Evan and Sienna were staying in Andre’s guest house in Atlanta for about five days, free of charge, provided that Evan help Andre with a bit of business, which on the evening of Thursday, June 7th included sitting in the restaurant for four hours signing autographs and talking to local radio stations about Monday Night Meltdown making its way to Duluth, and of course advertising S.R. Happy’s, the most profitable privately-owned shithole in the United States.
”That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Andre Savi guides Evan through a narrow corridor to the back to Andre’s personal office-- quite luxurious to Evan’s relief. Evan stops, just a few feet short of the couch and pivots, giving Andre an inquisitive look.
”Which part, Dre? Sitting in a hard chair for four hours, or having a bunch of pricks shoving a microphone in my face asking me who my ‘mystery opponent’ for Meltdown is, as if I’m supposed to know that.” Evan pauses, considering his statement. ”Honestly, I’m just glad someone’s watching my show. Somebody’s watching me.”
Andre can’t help but chuckle at the statement. He motions for Evan to take a seat in one of the several chairs or couches in the unnecessarily large office. Evan takes refuge in a rhombus-shaped rotating recliner near Andre’s desk, where he sure enough plops down to access his computer.
”And what’s funny?”
Andre shrugs, shooting Evan a glance over the monitor.
”I mean, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do in Georgia. You probably hate it here just as much as you hate every other single place you visit. You’re gonna go on Meltdown, rant about how Duluth sucks and blah, blah, blah. Lighten up, Dr. Doom. I mean, damn, you spent four hours making some money. You made some kids happy. Even the ones that hate you-- happy.”
Andre smiles and points to a large framed portrait behind Evan. Envi nervously glances toward it, which displays Andre wearing a disgusting lime-green and red S.R. Happy’s duck-billed cap and the disgusting snot-green t-shirt attached to the uniform. Andre reads the caption printed toward the bottom of the photogaph.
”And happy is what we do here.”
Evan returns Andre’s gaze with an expressionless one. His eyes slowly sink to half-lidded and he shakes his head slightly.
”You wanna know why I’m not happy, Dre?”
”As uncharacteristic as this is, yes, I am kinda curious.”
”Because no matter how hard I try, and no matter how much I bust my ass everywhere I go, it’s just never enough for these people. In ACW, I tried and tried to get a World Heavyweight Title match and they laughed at me. They literally laughed in my face because of my size. I never got that shot-- I was never even considered. In SCW, I was treated like a joke the moment I got in the door. I was at a point in my life where I just wanted to be happy, Dre… And I convinced all those people that I was. They loved me in Sin City Wrestling but it wasn’t enough.
“I busted my ass. I proved I had what it took to hang with the best and they treated me like a joke. And I left. And I left the business for a few months, to spend time with my kids, my girlfriend, and my family. I was happy. I bought a beach house in Florida and took my family there for a while and it was all good. And I came here. And--”
”And you changed.”
Evan looks at Andre with a look as if he had just been slapped across the face. Andre rolls his chair away from the computer monitor, his arms folded over his chest. He shrugs and gestures toward Evan.
”I’ll elaborate later. Continue.”
Evan opens his mouth, at first to retort but quickly decides against it. He indeed would make sure Andre spoke more on this matter later.
”…I came to APW, and someone-- everyone-- finally recognized my talent. They realized exactly what I could do and within a month I was at the top of the bill for Mayhem, competing in the first ever North American Championship match. Since my second week in this company, I haven’t lost a match. I’ve knocked off Steve Stryker’s undefeated streak and I’m still being treated like a joke. They gave the motherfucking Killerplauze a shot at representing Meltdown in Test for the Best and I’m not even considered. I’m frustrated. I feel shafted. I feel disrespected.”
”And what do they have you doing this week instead of qualifying for that spot?”
”They’re spitting in my face. I’m in a tag team match alright-- in a six-man tag against Dita Morgan, Shadow, and someone that I can’t even prep for because they haven’t announced him yet. It could be someone from Overdrive or someone from Asylum. And my partners are Kyle Goodburn and the number one contender for my title, Ratface Rivera.”
A deep laugh echoes throughout the office to Evan’s annoyance. Andre stares at even through a broad grin, shaking his head.
”Does this make you wish you hadn’t like-- completely ripped into her after your match last week, dude?”
”No. I meant what I said and hopefully she steps it up this week. I know Carmen has what it takes to be one of the best out there. And while I don’t see her giving enough of a damn to harness that potential, I can always cross my fingers, ya know? Maybe her ego will get so damn inflated that it’ll cause her to step it up to overshadow me in that match. She’ll hold her own and I can get that W.”
”You mean ‘we’?”
”Isn’t that what I said?”
”Hm. Well, Becca and I haven’t really gotten into the habit of watching the whole show. We usually turn it on a half hour before it’s over and catch your match, so I haven’t seen too much of Goodburn. Is he good or is he one of those guys?”
”Good enough, I suppose.”
Andre looks at Evan, attempting to decipher his cryptic response, but Evan raises a hand to stifle him before he can even begin.
”He’s good. He’s a good wrestler.”
”Any… Intel on him? Like-- what’s he like?”
”Uhhh… Good relationship with his dad. Real family guy, I guess. He doesn’t like Germans from what I’ve come to understand. And honestly, I think Kyle doesn’t like a lot of people.”
This is where Andre notices that change he’d mentioned before. He observes with interest as Evan’s face seems to drain of all color. His jaw tightens and he narrows his eyes a bit, turning to Andre with a look of annoyance across his face.
”And I’m willing to bet he doesn’t like me too much either. But since he’s got daddy holding his dick at urinals across the nation I’m sure he’s been instilled with some good old-fashioned common sense. He knows that he’s not gonna let anything get in the way of this win, especially when we don’t even know who 33% of our opponents are. Kyle Goodburn, like myself, wants to make a huge impression on Meltdown and then haul ass to the big leagues and get one of those big… gold… belts. He’s not gonna let this slip up.
“No… The only one I have to worry about is Ratface. I don’t know if she’s hungry like I’m hungry. Like Goodburn’s hungry. I don’t think she wants my North American Title and I don’t think she cares whether we win this match or not. It’s a six-man-tag… How much weight does this hold on the future, right? It doesn’t mean a damn in the long run, does it?”
Andre doesn’t respond when Evan looks at him, because he knows it’s a rhetorical question. He watches with curiosity as Evan inevitably continues.
”But what if one of us pins that mystery opponent from Overdrive or Asylum? What if that mystery opponent is Terry Marvin? What if it’s Callahan? Talfourd? What if it’s one of the APW World Champs? Do you know what that does, Dre?”
”Well, I’d say that puts you at the front of the line for a move right up to the big leagues.”
”To the proverbial deluxe apartment in the sky, Dre. But there are two opponents that might see this match as important as I see it. Well-- maybe I’m giving Dita Morgan too much credit. After all, I don’t think she realizes who her opponents are half the time.”
”…Yeeeeaaaahhhh but she’s hot. And you get to work with her.”
”I do. I do get to work with her. And this week, I get to sing her the Blues too. It’s not something I was ever looking forward to, really, but if I have to smash Dita Morgan’s face into the ground to make a point, I will do it. If I have to lock her in Breathtaking and choke the everloving Christ out of her, I’ll do it. But… Ya know, Dre, I don’t think Dita’s gonna be the biggest issue for me in this match. Because Dita’s not real.
“She calls herself the ‘Wild Child’ but when’s the last time we’ve really seen her do anything remotely wild? Hell, when’s the first time? When it comes down to it, Dita Morgan does absolutely nothing to distinguish herself from every other airhead in the business that stuck around for long enough to start collecting royalty checks and then high-tailed it out of here into the modeling business. And you know what happens there? They fail. They fall flat on their face just like they did here. And Dita Morgan’s going down that path. Not only because she’s one-dimensional but because has no reason to go above and beyond the limit in that ring because she’s rarely had very much reason to. She’s never DELIVERED on her name. And I kind of want to see that happen this week. I want to see the Wild Child in action so I don’t feel bad when I fracture her jaw and throw her out of my damn ring.
“I don‘t think Dita‘s a bad wrestler by any means. She‘s held her own against some of the men I‘ve beaten by the skin of my teeth. She did something I couldn‘t do and beat Sam Parker a few weeks after he beat me. So a small, tiny part of me feels that I have something to prove by winning this match against Dita‘s team. But Dre, a big part of me thinks that if what I brought out in Yarmouth and Stryker over the past couple of weeks is any indication, then I can be the guy that brings the ‘Wild Child‘ out. We can have a six-star tag team match if that girl-- the girl Dita claims she is, actually shows up. But seeing Dita with fire in her eyes is basically up there with seeing Big Foot in my book. I‘ll have to believe it when I see it.”
Andre looks slightly uncomfortable at the mention of slamming skulls and fracturing jaws, but he motions for Evan to continue, eager to let his longtime friend vent his frustrations… And honestly, eager for the free one-on-one interview he was being captivated by.
”And then there’s Shadow who I know very little about. I know he comes from a tag team in APW-- the Ass Kickers’ Anonymous, which ironically was the name of a few douche bags that used to follow A.C. Smith around back in the day… But that’s another story for another time.
“Shadow’s having a go at the singles-life now. And while I’m more than certain I could wrestle circles around this dude, let’s face it-- this is a tag match. He’s a tag team wrestler by nature. If there’s a wild card in this match, it’s him, and I don’t feel like I’m showing my whole hand by telling you this on-camera: I will take him out. I will not let Shadow upstage me and cause me, Ratface, or Goodburn to lose this match. Between him and Dita, I think Shadow‘s the one that would screw up this whole thing for my team.”
”I don’t think he’s a slouch in the ring either.”
”Something weird about him is that he wanted to be moved from Overdrive to Meltdown. It strikes me as odd. I don’t know if he’s playing big fish in a small pond or what… Maybe he really thinks he needs the work. And to me, that’s a fatal flaw. Because I don’t need to brush up on any skills in that ring. I’m the best. I’m the damn bar and I’ve proven it every week. If Shadow wants to be the guy that eats the canvas this week, I’m more than happy to slam his face into the ground as well. Really, it’s like therapy for me. They talk shit, I do the same thing-- but better-- and then I beat them up and down the arena. It’s what I’ve been doing for the past month and I feel comfortable saying that I’m going to give Shadow the fight of his life.
“Needless to say, it’s probably one of the few opportunities he’s going to be handed to make a name for himself anytime soon. I think he’s been around long enough to get that… so my eye’s not gonna come off that dude if I can help it. Not him, and sure as hell not off of this mystery opponent. You know, you’d think being their first North American Champ, I wouldn’t be the last to know everything.”
Evan clears his throat and turns to Andre, not forgetting what had popped up in conversation, minutes prior.
”You wanna know how you’ve changed, Evan?”
”If ya got the time.”
”I always remember you being a bit of a dick. It was always amusing… But I don’t remember you being a legitimately angry person. And I feel like that’s what you’re turning into. I don’t know if it’s the sport, or bipolar, or if you just need to get some ass. Regardless, that’s the vibe I get.
"And I think you need to relax for the next few days. Go to the spa. Get a manicure. Be a chick for a day, bro.”
Evan arches an eyebrow and attempts to hold a straight face-- but succumbs to uproarious laughter. It takes very little for Andre to join him in the fit.
…Because both of them know damn well that Evan’s going to do just that.
We fade to black.
While the lights within and outside of S.R. Happy’s dim and the customers have all but made their ways home, Evan Envi steps out of the manager’s office into the dining area of the restaurant, which is near-spotless after the onslaught of families earlier in the evening.
Northwest. Approximately four meters away… Blue-collar. Five-foot-six. Beach-bronzed skin and dark brown hair, lightened from the sunlight. Evan recognized her as one of the girls on the rollerskates… But not one of the “plastic bitches.” Something about this one stood out.
It wouldn’t be during the last minutes of her shift that Evan Envi would first talk to the young lady he would later know as Michelle Weaver, but much, much later.
Another story for another day.
