Post by Evan De Parker on Jul 15, 2012 13:54:33 GMT -4
”It’s not the fact that it’s the ‘Killerplauze‘… I look at him and a part of me gets excited because he’s a little different from everyone else, y’know? He’s one of the people keeping this damn company fresh and exciting. He’s got somethin’. That guy? Hah. He’s… He’s got somethin’.”
We blink into color, and we see that Evan Envi is sitting on a red rocking chair, with the texture emulating a velvet so pure that it was simply intangible. There is a fog—a man-made smoke—in the room, caused by the sunlight that pours in through the stained and cracked glass.
Several cigarette butts are piled up in a clay ash tray, which sits atop a wooden end-table which is tattered, similar to the windows, walls, and various other seemingly necessary parts of this person’s home. Regardless, the APW North American Champion seems comfortable, rocking back and forth, looking at his company, whom isn’t visible to us just…
…Yet.
”Like anyone else, he’s not as good as me in that ring, but he’s fuckin’ CLEVER, man! I told everybody to be wary of that stipulation last week, did I not?”
”Hm.”
”And the bastard hopped right out of the ring when he knew he was in trouble. He ran for the hills and saved his title shot in the process. He never got pinned, man, and that’s why I’ve got to put up with him this week!”
Evan reaches down for his coffee mug. He stumbles a bit as he leans forward, reaching out quickly to grab the coffee table and steady himself.
”Bahahaha! I shouldn’t have anymore.”
”Perhaps not.”
”You’re a champ, do you know that, Mr. Gordon? You’ve had like twice as much as me and you’re like a rock. Like, what is this? Bourbon?”
”Hm.”
”Doesn’t taste like bourb—“
”It’s moonshine.”
”…Oh…”
Evan retracts his hand from his mug and sits steadily on the chair, a newfound focus in his eyes. He clears his throat and with some mild effort, adjusts himself toward the man he referred to as “Gordon.”
”So you taught Sienna how to wrestle, right?”
”I had a hand in that.”
”And you wrestled in Germany?”
”Incredibly briefly.”
”Too hard?”
”Not necessarily.”
”Why’d you stop then?”
”Reasons.”
”Well, what were they?”
Persistence.
Our camera suddenly, and abruptly switches views to Gordon. He is a very old man. One would estimate him to be well into his eighties, and that’s generous. His face tells the story of a man that had seen more fights than he’d care to count. His hair is pure-white as opposed to grayed… And his eyes are judging. Searching, and judging the young man named Evan Nicholas Harrison.
”My family moved to the United States when I was fifteen—“
”Because of the Holocaust.”
Silence.
The tension in the room grows to very thick in a matter of seconds. Gordon swallows, then angles his head slightly, as if to see if Evan would show any remorse of second-guess his statement.
However, this does not happen. Envi sits and watches Gordon patiently, awaiting his answer. Clearly the champion had an agenda, and it included one Joseph C. Gordon.
”Yes. Because of the Holocaust.”
”And you’ve never gone back to Germany since?”
”Once.”
”Why?”
”To retrieve my eldest sister, Natalie and bring her back to Albuquerque.”
”Where is she now?”
Gordon sighs.
”Huh?”
”She’s no longer with us.”
”I’m so sorry…”
”Hm.”
”What happened?”
”You know very well what happened.”
”What?”
Sigh.
”What?”
”She died in 1960. Because of complications involving…”
”What kind of—“
”She was an experiment.”
”An exp--?”
”She was many experiments. She wasn’t the same when we got her.”
”Who did—?”
”The Germans!”
Evan’s eyes widen and he looks at Gordon with a look that illustrates excitement intertwined with surprise.
”So do you hate them?”
Gordon return’s Evan’s gaze, but not with an excited one. He looks utterly mortified by the kid, and is taken aback at his audacity. Sure-- Joseph Gordon had been paid mit bargeld to participate in this interview, but even for the amount he was offered, this was absolutely distasteful.
”Listen, I’m not--”
”So is that a no?”
Gordon’s heart skips a beat. There’s no way that the kid sitting before him is serious. Nobody with any sort of self-respect, or respect for others would simply step out on camera and ask questions like that.
”I don’t hate anyone, son.”
”Kinda figured you’d give me an answer like that.”
With that, Evan reaches into his pocket, fumbling around for a moment before retrieving a small, rectangular envelope that can’t be any larger than the average wallet. He thumbs it around in his right hand for a few moments, as if feeling it out before he takes action with it. He looks up with satisfaction as he catches the old man’s eyes drifting toward the envelope.
”Do you know why I asked you to help me today, Mr. Gordon?”
”Mayhaps, because, you are a sick and insensitive young pup with no respect for--”
”…No. No, no, no, no.”
The champ shakes his head disapprovingly at Gordon. Slowly, he pushes the envelope across the table with his index finger, allowing it to slide about three inches from Gordon. Though the old man makes no effort to reach out and take it, Evan relaxes a bit in his chair, confident that he will.
”Because I want to destroy Stefan Konrad Raab on Meltdown this Monday.”
”Then you don’t need me.”
”I do, Gordon. Because I think I have a problem.”
”Hm.”
”I find it hard… To hate Raab. Ya know? He’s just such a fantastic entertainer and I would never want to interfere with the third world’s success here in America.”
Gordon looks up at Evan, looking widely into his eyes for a moment before slowly responding.
”You… Uh… Germany is not a third-world country.”
”No. Not Germany. I’m talking about Raab’s mind. I’ve never seen anything like it. The guy lives in his own little world-- no, his own universe, Gordon! He’s IMPERSONATING A GERMAN ENTERTAINER for the love of God!
“He has nothing. It’s evident. If he did, he wouldn’t be pretending to be a man-- Stefan Raab-- that’s exponentially more successful than the ‘Killerplauze’ can ever dream to be. If I believe, there was a period when this guy was making Diamond regret signing him, since days into his contract, he was drugged up on the streets, attacking innocent people. Just like a German… Does that sound familiar, Gordon?”
Sigh.
”I’m having trouble understanding how I can help.”
”I need to learn how to hate a deranged man that’s already hit rock-bottom.”
”I’ve already told you, I don’t hate anyone.”
”BULLSHIT!”
Evan slams his hand hard down on the aforementioned coffee table. He casts the man a look that suggests that Evan is finished with “pleasant” conversation. While Gordon’s eyes remain at half-mast, Evan’s are steady and burning with an emotion that would be hard to describe. Determination at its finest, one could say.
”They beat you. They shot your friends. They killed your sisters. And since you were a kid, you’ve identified as an American. You got AWAY from them for a reason, and now one of them is coming over here, threatening to bring it all BACK, Mr. Gordon! I mean-- this man, this Stefan Raab impersonator-- is threatening to take my North American Championship and turn it into the German Championship! He hates everything about the United States. About America. He hates everything about me. And especially about you. You’re a turncoat, ya know.
“He wants to come over here and spit in the face of every American as it is, but people like you? You weren’t even born on American soil. You left the great land known as Germany to come here and live the American dream. And he hates it! He…”
“Hm.“
Evan pauses, giving Gordon a horrible look when he realizes that the old Jewish man is smiling fondly at Evan’s words. He's drumming his fingers along his knee for a few seconds, staring off into space before finally turning to Envi.
”…And what about this makes you happy?”
”You don’t need my help hating this man.”
”Great. Another fence-rider.”
”Seems like you already despise him.”
”Pardon?”
The two men look at each other, with Evan looking slightly annoyed at Gordon by this point.
”You hate him, because you think he can make good on his promise. You hate him, because like you said before… This man-- he is entertaining. He is new. ‘Fresh’ is the word I believe you used earlier.”
”Hm.”
”You may, or you may not believe that he can beat you in a wrestling match… But you do believe that he can take the reigns. You believe deep down in your heart that on Tuesday morning, your company will have its first German Champion.”
The look that Evan gives Gordon could best be described as completely putrid. His nose is turned up as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul, and he curls his lips, completely disgusted by the very notion of the ‘Killerplauze’ holding the championship.
”What do you know anyway?”
”What do I know?” Gordon, for the first time, laughs softly. ”Son, I was around before anybody would pay you more than a nickel to do what you’re doing.”
”Yeah? Cool story, bruh. I’ve done more in five years than you, or KILLERPLAUZE have done in either of your lifetimes. What have you done? Master Greco-Roman, go nowhere with it, then sit on your ass accepting cash to exploit yourself?”
”Hm.”
”And that damn Raab impersonator-- what’s he done besides ride another man’s coattails to the top? He won a title shot by the skin of his teeth, and he walked out of his own match last week to hold onto it. The man didn’t have what it took to beat Lively and Shadow, so where does he get off thinking he’s gonna take this title off me? And if he does-- what’s he gonna do with it? Turn around and lose it two weeks from now? I won’t have it!”
Evan tightens his jaw and bites his lower lip as if he’s fighting back tears. He points a finger, angrily, at Gordon, who is mildly surprised at the accusing index finger, but not intimidated by the kid’s antics.
”I won’t have somebody shitting on the title I worked so feverishly to take to the tippy-top, Mr. Gordon. It’s really discouraging that you won’t sit here and share my anger.”
”I’ve had sixty-eight years to be angry…”
”AND THEY’RE DOING IT AGAIN! If he wins, where does it stop, Mr. Gordon?! It starts with one unimaginative German, and then he sets an example for the rest of ‘em. Then all of those motherfuckers are gonna come over here and start throwing their weight around. It starts with wrestling, and then it becomes the entertainment industry, and then the media, and then us: America.
“Those idiots don’t know what a real hero looks like! Who knows what kind of false history has been pumped into their brains over the decades, y’know? To them, the Killerplauze could look like the second-coming of Jesus. God… It’ll be like the Mexican invasion all over again, but with nicer cars.”
”Then don’t lose.”
”That’s fantastic advice.”
Sarcasm.
”Would you rather I tell you how to outwrestle him? Surely you hear how silly that sounds.” Gordon shrugs. ”I’ve never met this lad.”
”No. I’m sure I can outwrestle him. I wanted you to tell me how to hate him-- but that’s clearly not something you’re interested in doing. So I’ll just have to do my best. I’ll just have to look at him as if he were the Undisputed Champion.”
”You hate your Undisputed Champion?”
Evan’s eyes drift up to the eyes of Gordon again, and a broad grin crosses the face of our North American Champion.
”Yes.”
Gordon nods firmly and his eyes drop toward the small envelope again. Evan doesn’t miss a beat-- his gaze follows Gordon’s, and his grin only broadens.
”I’ll break the Killerplauze for you, Gordon.”
”I don’t see why that’d be necessary.”
”Open the envelope and you will. I’m sure.”
Gordon doesn’t respond. If Evan weren’t so sure of himself, he’d be able to convince himself that Joseph C. Gordon hadn’t even heard him.
”I’ll twist him into a goddamn pretzel, I swear. He… He walks out on a match and disgraces the sport you helped build. He tries to pump up the country that tried to break you and millions of others down. He forces it down our throats, Mr. Gordon. Taking that lying down? I’d be doing you an injustice. I’d be letting North America down. So it’s in my, and everyone else’s best interest, if I give the Killerplauze the beating of his lifetime this Monday night. My initial goal was to break his jaw so he couldn’t spew anymore bull--”
He’s interrupted as Gordon rips the envelope open. Evan blinks a few times, but smiles in satisfaction as Gordon retrieves a few Polaroids from the envelope. While he waits for his elder to view the photos and allow them to register, Evan continues.
”He made it this way, you know. He made it so this became America vs. Germany. I was willing to leave well enough alone and just face him in the most brutal match of his life, but he wanted to bring the whole damn CONTINENT into it! So I’m fighting for all of us, man! I’m fighting so shit like this doesn’t ever happen again!”
To emphasize what “this” was, Evan points to the stack of Polaroids in Gordon’s hands. The man looks wildly uncomfortable and unsettled by the photographs. He lowers them, slowly and ever-so-delicately into his lap, sighing as he drifts his eyes back toward the champ.
”He can impersonate a German entertainer, but I won’t let him impersonate a North American Champion.” Evan arches his eyebrows and nods quickly to the old man. ”I’m fightin’ for you.”
Gordon narrows his eyes inquisitively at Evan again before his eyes drift one final time to the photographs in his lap. Gordon shakes his head with a deep sigh emanating from his lungs and lies both of his hands on the table.
”If you must hate him… Then hate him for being able to possibly sink to a level lower than even yourself. You are the scum of the Earth. But him? He’s something much worse.
“Child… I don’t like you. I’ve quickly decided that I detest your company. You make for a very rude house-guest, and I think the fact that I accepted payment for this ‘interview’ makes it all the more disgusting. But-- you have a twisted sense of respect for history, as difficult as that was for me to locate.”
Gordon, looking troubled, casts his gaze elsewhere.
”But him? As I’ve said, I barely know the man, but I get a horrible feeling about him; a prickly, itching one. And I’d much rather you defeat him than see him rename anything the ‘German Championship’ out of spite.
“But you’re both lost. The both of you. You’ve got no idea how to identify with the society which surrounds yourself, so both of you pretend to be people you aren’t.”
”Excuse--?”
”With him, it is Stefan Raab.“
“Be quiet.“
“And with you?”
”Careful.”
“It’s Evan Envi.”
It is not long after that comment that Envi has stormed out of the house. It’s only a matter of minutes, actually, before he’s comfortably seated in the seat of his rental car-- a red 2012 BMW M6 Coupe. Red isn’t typically Evan’s color, but it was the only color available, and who was he to complain under the circumstances? He was damned lucky to get it. In all reality, he was barely of age to rent a car in most states.
He pulls out of the driveway and onto the long, winding back-road leading toward civilization before reaching into his pocket and retrieving his iPhone. He raises it to his lips and says in a very clear voice, ”Call Sienna.”
”Calling Sienna!”
Evan brings the phone to his ear, waiting patiently for a while before his sister finally picks up on the other line, presumably on one of the very last rings.
”Just met with old man Gordon… Yeah, it was fine… No, we just had a nice leisurely conversation… Nothing in particular; just about you, the Greco-Roman wrestling technique, Raab being a crazy, fraudulent bastard… Stuff like that… Yeah, it was all light-hearted.”
Our scene is briefly interspersed with grayscaled images from the past. Images of Mr. Gordon looking with disgust at the images of the fallen family members and friends in Majdanek. Some of them are already deceased-- one of them featuring vicious bullet wounds in his sternum. Others are sickly, and lying down, while several pictures feature the smiling faces of the Nazi soldiers themselves.
”Yeah, he gave me advice. I’m just gonna have to destroy Raab, sis. I thought that beating Carmen was enough to prove to everyone that I’m the bar, but people feel that Raab isn’t in any position to lose this. He’ll sink to any depths to have his German Championship…
So I’ll be sinking lower, to retain my North American Title… Alright… Yup… Love you too, sis. See you soon.”
With that, Evan hangs up the phone and pushes down on the gas of the M6. Before hitting the very bottom of the pedal, the car drops into another gear, allowing it to accelerate to over 100mph. Evan smiles, satisfied, as he’s pushed back into his seat.
Authentic German-engineering at its finest.
”Well. At least they’ve done something right.”
Snicker.
Darkness.
