Post by Phil Atken on Aug 25, 2012 16:06:55 GMT -4
We find ourselves, as we often do, on many an occasion, time and time again, ad infinitum in the company of three shining lights, three men of virtuous virtues, three men for being three men, Phil Atken, suited and booted from the finest budget lines available, Dirk Dickwood, cigar in hand and not much else, Hank is attired in his favourite black “HANK” t-shirt and is standing off to the side, apparently watching the door of the hotel room that they do indeed find themselves occupying at this precise moment in time.
Atken: Hank, you best not let a single god damn midget through that door. I am tired of being terrorized by the little person community... their short, stubby legs are just an inhuman sight.
Dickwood: Relax, Phil, relax. We're at our... budget... accommodation so graciously provided to us by APW.
Dirk thumbs up his nose a little bit at their current living conditions as provided by APW. Two single beds looking rather uncomfortable and a rolled-out cot that has been Hank's sleeping location for a good few nights.
Atken: There's some kind of Person of Short Stature Convention down the stairs. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! I can feel them looking at me. Staring a hole through me with their beady little eyes. I know what they want Dirk, THEY WANT MY SOUL. My sexually arousing, charismatic soul. THEY CAN'T HAVE IT DIRK! The short people can't have my soul!
Dickwood: You've been listening to that Randy Newman fellow again haven't? What have I told you about listening to his smash hit number “Short People”? I told you it would make you paranoid, I warned you. I said “No Phil, don't listen to that sultry voice of Randy Newman, it is very dangerous, you will fear all little people not just those ones who enjoy dressing up as Jonathan Q. Knucklestein” I said that but nooooooooooooo, you didn't listen. You didn't listen even a little. In a grand survey of “people who listen” you would be dead last. Apart from the deaf people. They would have an excuse though, what with being deaf. You wouldn't though, as you are fully capable of using your ear holes to hear things.
Phil blinks a few times in confusion.
Atken: You what now?
Dickwood: What? I didn't say anything.
Atken: I could've swore that...
Atken looks over towards Hank, who simply replies by shrugging his giant broad shoulders in a manner which would imply that “he don't know”.
Dickwood: You've been staring at the door silently for two minutes. I was going to check and see if you were okay but I thought you might've been trying some kind of new fangled pre-Shockwave meditation technique.
Atken: Then who was talking about Randy Newman?
Dickwood: No one was talking about Randy Newman. No one ever talks about Randy Newman. Not unless a new Toy Story film comes out. Then he's really popular for a little while before people forget him again. Sometimes people will watch re-runs of Monk, turn to their friend and say “Oh hey, who sang these theme song again. Oh, that's right, Randy Newman” but that's about as far as discussion of Randy Newman goes. Ever.
Phil blinks a few more times. Still not entirely sure what is going on with his life.
Atken: I could've swore...
Phil's voice fades away as he tries to regain his bearings.
Dickwood: I'm starting to think these past few weeks have started to take their toll on you Phil. You're not your generally self-assured self. You seem rattled, you're never rattled. Not even when you lose over and over again. Really, until these past few days I had just assumed that you were incapable of feeling shame.
Atken: I'm not rattled. Not rattled at all...
Phil suddenly bolts behind Hank, using him almost as a human shield. Hank looks mild confused at this situation but doesn't stop it.
Atken: WHAT WAS THAT?
Dirk does a brief scan of the room, craning his neck to see if he can notice anything out of the ordinary, which he does not.
Dickwood: What was what?
Atken: I saw it! I saw a mini-Knuckles in the window.
Dickwood: Phil, you're being silly. There's no mini-Knuckles hovering about here. Knuckles hired a bunch of midgets, dressed them up to look like him to take you off your game. I think he's done a damn good job. First, you sign a contract for a match that could very well mark the end of your career if you do no tread extremely carefully and now you are jittering like some crack addled prostitute trying to do the sensible things in their life and go cold turkey. Knuckles has got in your head.
Atken: No seriously Dirk! Look! At the window.
Dirk turns around and once again observes the window. Once again there is nothing there.
Dickwood: Jesus Phil, there is nothing there. Nothing at all. Honestly, you need to calm yourself right now. People have committed suicide rather than admit Johnny Knuckles got into their heads. It is that shameful. I mean... seriously. Have you heard him? Have you seen him? That is not a man who should be in your head Phil. Now come out from behind Hank.
Phil sheepishly steps away from Hank and heads back towards the middle of the hotel room, where Dirk is reassuring him with every step him makes. Almost like a father encouraging his infant child to take their first steps.
Dickwood: There we go, that's much better. Now come on, come to Dirk. Hold my hand. There we go, that a boy! Now look, can you see any mini-Knuckles here? Any mini-Knuckles at all?
As the scene grows even more bizarre, Phil clings tightly to Dirk's hand and slowly begins to examine the room around him, being reassured by Dirk every time he makes the slightest movement. Eventually Phil seems to calm himself down that the room is free from invaders below five foot ball.
Dickwood: See, there's nothing to be scared of.
Dirk snaps his hand away from Phil's and promptly follows this up by slapping Phil right across the face, almost sending him flying down to the ground in the process.
Dickwood: Now bloody well snap out of it. I didn't build up an entire empire around you for you to stand there and be a gibbering wreck. I didn't work in the shadows to get you this damn career in APW when no one else would take you to see you toss it out of the fecking window because you couldn't even beat Johnny Knuckles, the wrestling version of the village bicycle. Everyone has been on top of Johnny, Phil. Everyone. Except you. You know what you're going to do? You're going to go to Shockwave. You're going to stand in that ring and face down Johnny Knuckles. When that bell rings, you're going to break every bone in his body. You're going to smash him up good and proper with a big pile of televisions. You are going to ensure that no one ever sees Johnny Knuckles enter an APW ring again and you're going to make sure that the reason for that, the reason Johnny Knuckles has to eat food through a straw is because he dared to get involved with Phil Atken.
Phil begins to rub away and nurse his jaw, his eyes growing wider as Dirk continues to rant and rave directly in to his face.
Dickwood: I'm tired of playing the role of the lackey Phil. I was cool with it when you were inching ever closer to gold in APW, when APW was handing you matches for title shots like they were going out of style. I was fine to just sit idly by and pretend to be the nice guy. You've shat the bed now though Phil, you've shat the bed good and proper. Daddy Dirk doesn't like to have to clean up after you. You understand me? If you don't want Hank here to remove every single tooth in that pretty little mouth of yours one by one, you're going to do what I ask. You're going to end the career of Johnny Knuckles and you're going to shout it from the roof tops. It's go time Phil, it's time to ascend. I'm ready and you sure as hell better be.
Phil continues to nurse his slap based injury, Dirk's palm print growing ever larger on his face in a nice glowing red.
Atken: I think I need to have a little nap. A nice little nap. Doesn't a nice nap sound good to you Dirk? I think it's just what the doctor ordered. Maybe when I wake up, we can pretend this was all a terrible nightmare. Yes, this was all a terrible nightmare where Dirk Dickwood actually speaks up for himself. Some kind of hell dimension I reckon. Now though, now is the time for napping.
Dickwood: Right fine. Take a rest, I'll allow it. I'll allow it because I'm a generous benefactor. I'm a lovely man really. Don't take to long though, APW want you to address the match and you're going to address it like the fucking man you are. Understand?
Atken: Right, right. I get it. Honestly, I get it.
We briefly fade out as Phil slowly lowers himself on top of his bed and closes his eyes. When we return, the exactly same Phil looks a little more stable, a bit more bright and a lot less haggered. Perhaps injected by some kind of miracle drug. Phil stands in the hotel room directly in front of the camera, looking down the lens with a giant grin. In his hand he appears to hold his copy of the contract for the match at Shockwave against Johnny Knuckles.
Atken: Hey Knuckles! Remember me? The man you sent a midget army after? The man you tricked in to signing a contract for quite possibly the most vicious sounding match he has ever had the pleasure in taking part of? Remember that? Oh man, how I laughed and laughed. Oh wait, that was you. For some reason, god knows why, you find that sort of thing funny. You find destroying a man's career, perhaps relegating him to a hospital bed to live the rest of his days a real knee slapper. I believe there is a name for people like you Johnny. It's sociopath. No sane, rational human being would act the way you do Knuckles. You are one step beyond and I started to question even entering the ring with you. I mean, what do I have to prove? Every one in APW already thinks I'm a joke, if I lose, well hey, that just reaffirms the belief in every single person on this damn roster who just doesn't believe in me. If I go through hell, if I put my body on the line, if I use everything in me to over come you Johnny? Well then “Oh hey, you only beat Johnny Knuckles, every one has done that. Come back when you can beat a real wrestler.”
It's quite the dilemma, isn't it Johnny? I don't have anything to gain from this little match of ours. There's no upshot for me. I either end up in the hospital at the hands of a man who just threw a party celebrating his grand multitude of losses or I beat a loser. Either way, my stature doesn't improve in this little promotion that we can home. That's just not quite cricket Johnny, Not quite cricket all all. In fact it's rugby.
For days, for days on end I look at the contract with one question on my mind, “is this worth it?”. Sure, APW would gleefully dump my rather toned posterior out of the door the second I refused to honour this little piece of paper that I have in my hand...
Phil waves about the contract in front of the camera.
Atken: … it really wasn't an easy choice to make. Do I risk my life, my livelihood just to appease a man like yourself Johnny? Or do I become a man of common sense and march right out of that door and jump aboard with another company that would be glad to have a man of my abilities, after all. What the upshot for me? What do I gain when I walk through that curtain at Shockwave? To me, the risk just didn't match the reward. It didn't make sense. I mean, I see what you get out of this, you're a sadist. You're a sad, sick and twisted man. You take to matches like this like a pig takes to wallowing around in a pit full of shit. So I totally get it, I understand your end. I know why this is no big deal to you but it does raise a question. Isn't this why you lose time and time again Johnny? Isn't this why you are branded as APW's lovable loser? You like to put your body through hell. You put yourself in matches that just completely break you.
By this point Johnny you must be a husk, right? You must be a broken shell. So as I started thinking about your current condition Johnny, all these thoughts were swirling around in this big ole noggin of mine. I know exactly why you can't win the big one, I know why you start . The mind is willing but the body, it's just not able. You've taken so much in the name of the APW fans, so many beatings. You've been broken time and time again but you still want to fight. You still want to fight because you can't stop yourself. It's a disease you have Knuckles.
That's when I realised the upshot for me. It hit me slap dab right in the middle of my face. I'm the cure. I'm the man who can release you from the cage of hardcore that you have imprisoned yourself in. Who better to do it than the man who has been campaigning for months on end for a little bit of sanity and decorum on Asylum. The man who always looks out for the best interests of his fellow wrestler. You're a lot smarter than you let on. You stalked me, you chased me, you harassed me but it was all a cry for help. I'm ready to answer that call.
I know, as a responsible adult, the best thing for your career Knuckles is for me to end it. Someone has to be the bad guy, someone has to put down Old Yeller not because they want to but because that dog, that dog needs it. That dog needs his release. When I walk into that ring on Sunday night I know that every thing I do doesn't break my belief in a safer wrestling environment, it strengthens it. I know that I'm doing the correct thing, the just thing. I'll know the job was well done when that ambulance shows up to take you away. I'm your angel of mercy Knuckles. See you on Sunday.
Atken: Hank, you best not let a single god damn midget through that door. I am tired of being terrorized by the little person community... their short, stubby legs are just an inhuman sight.
Dickwood: Relax, Phil, relax. We're at our... budget... accommodation so graciously provided to us by APW.
Dirk thumbs up his nose a little bit at their current living conditions as provided by APW. Two single beds looking rather uncomfortable and a rolled-out cot that has been Hank's sleeping location for a good few nights.
Atken: There's some kind of Person of Short Stature Convention down the stairs. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! I can feel them looking at me. Staring a hole through me with their beady little eyes. I know what they want Dirk, THEY WANT MY SOUL. My sexually arousing, charismatic soul. THEY CAN'T HAVE IT DIRK! The short people can't have my soul!
Dickwood: You've been listening to that Randy Newman fellow again haven't? What have I told you about listening to his smash hit number “Short People”? I told you it would make you paranoid, I warned you. I said “No Phil, don't listen to that sultry voice of Randy Newman, it is very dangerous, you will fear all little people not just those ones who enjoy dressing up as Jonathan Q. Knucklestein” I said that but nooooooooooooo, you didn't listen. You didn't listen even a little. In a grand survey of “people who listen” you would be dead last. Apart from the deaf people. They would have an excuse though, what with being deaf. You wouldn't though, as you are fully capable of using your ear holes to hear things.
Phil blinks a few times in confusion.
Atken: You what now?
Dickwood: What? I didn't say anything.
Atken: I could've swore that...
Atken looks over towards Hank, who simply replies by shrugging his giant broad shoulders in a manner which would imply that “he don't know”.
Dickwood: You've been staring at the door silently for two minutes. I was going to check and see if you were okay but I thought you might've been trying some kind of new fangled pre-Shockwave meditation technique.
Atken: Then who was talking about Randy Newman?
Dickwood: No one was talking about Randy Newman. No one ever talks about Randy Newman. Not unless a new Toy Story film comes out. Then he's really popular for a little while before people forget him again. Sometimes people will watch re-runs of Monk, turn to their friend and say “Oh hey, who sang these theme song again. Oh, that's right, Randy Newman” but that's about as far as discussion of Randy Newman goes. Ever.
Phil blinks a few more times. Still not entirely sure what is going on with his life.
Atken: I could've swore...
Phil's voice fades away as he tries to regain his bearings.
Dickwood: I'm starting to think these past few weeks have started to take their toll on you Phil. You're not your generally self-assured self. You seem rattled, you're never rattled. Not even when you lose over and over again. Really, until these past few days I had just assumed that you were incapable of feeling shame.
Atken: I'm not rattled. Not rattled at all...
Phil suddenly bolts behind Hank, using him almost as a human shield. Hank looks mild confused at this situation but doesn't stop it.
Atken: WHAT WAS THAT?
Dirk does a brief scan of the room, craning his neck to see if he can notice anything out of the ordinary, which he does not.
Dickwood: What was what?
Atken: I saw it! I saw a mini-Knuckles in the window.
Dickwood: Phil, you're being silly. There's no mini-Knuckles hovering about here. Knuckles hired a bunch of midgets, dressed them up to look like him to take you off your game. I think he's done a damn good job. First, you sign a contract for a match that could very well mark the end of your career if you do no tread extremely carefully and now you are jittering like some crack addled prostitute trying to do the sensible things in their life and go cold turkey. Knuckles has got in your head.
Atken: No seriously Dirk! Look! At the window.
Dirk turns around and once again observes the window. Once again there is nothing there.
Dickwood: Jesus Phil, there is nothing there. Nothing at all. Honestly, you need to calm yourself right now. People have committed suicide rather than admit Johnny Knuckles got into their heads. It is that shameful. I mean... seriously. Have you heard him? Have you seen him? That is not a man who should be in your head Phil. Now come out from behind Hank.
Phil sheepishly steps away from Hank and heads back towards the middle of the hotel room, where Dirk is reassuring him with every step him makes. Almost like a father encouraging his infant child to take their first steps.
Dickwood: There we go, that's much better. Now come on, come to Dirk. Hold my hand. There we go, that a boy! Now look, can you see any mini-Knuckles here? Any mini-Knuckles at all?
As the scene grows even more bizarre, Phil clings tightly to Dirk's hand and slowly begins to examine the room around him, being reassured by Dirk every time he makes the slightest movement. Eventually Phil seems to calm himself down that the room is free from invaders below five foot ball.
Dickwood: See, there's nothing to be scared of.
Dirk snaps his hand away from Phil's and promptly follows this up by slapping Phil right across the face, almost sending him flying down to the ground in the process.
Dickwood: Now bloody well snap out of it. I didn't build up an entire empire around you for you to stand there and be a gibbering wreck. I didn't work in the shadows to get you this damn career in APW when no one else would take you to see you toss it out of the fecking window because you couldn't even beat Johnny Knuckles, the wrestling version of the village bicycle. Everyone has been on top of Johnny, Phil. Everyone. Except you. You know what you're going to do? You're going to go to Shockwave. You're going to stand in that ring and face down Johnny Knuckles. When that bell rings, you're going to break every bone in his body. You're going to smash him up good and proper with a big pile of televisions. You are going to ensure that no one ever sees Johnny Knuckles enter an APW ring again and you're going to make sure that the reason for that, the reason Johnny Knuckles has to eat food through a straw is because he dared to get involved with Phil Atken.
Phil begins to rub away and nurse his jaw, his eyes growing wider as Dirk continues to rant and rave directly in to his face.
Dickwood: I'm tired of playing the role of the lackey Phil. I was cool with it when you were inching ever closer to gold in APW, when APW was handing you matches for title shots like they were going out of style. I was fine to just sit idly by and pretend to be the nice guy. You've shat the bed now though Phil, you've shat the bed good and proper. Daddy Dirk doesn't like to have to clean up after you. You understand me? If you don't want Hank here to remove every single tooth in that pretty little mouth of yours one by one, you're going to do what I ask. You're going to end the career of Johnny Knuckles and you're going to shout it from the roof tops. It's go time Phil, it's time to ascend. I'm ready and you sure as hell better be.
Phil continues to nurse his slap based injury, Dirk's palm print growing ever larger on his face in a nice glowing red.
Atken: I think I need to have a little nap. A nice little nap. Doesn't a nice nap sound good to you Dirk? I think it's just what the doctor ordered. Maybe when I wake up, we can pretend this was all a terrible nightmare. Yes, this was all a terrible nightmare where Dirk Dickwood actually speaks up for himself. Some kind of hell dimension I reckon. Now though, now is the time for napping.
Dickwood: Right fine. Take a rest, I'll allow it. I'll allow it because I'm a generous benefactor. I'm a lovely man really. Don't take to long though, APW want you to address the match and you're going to address it like the fucking man you are. Understand?
Atken: Right, right. I get it. Honestly, I get it.
We briefly fade out as Phil slowly lowers himself on top of his bed and closes his eyes. When we return, the exactly same Phil looks a little more stable, a bit more bright and a lot less haggered. Perhaps injected by some kind of miracle drug. Phil stands in the hotel room directly in front of the camera, looking down the lens with a giant grin. In his hand he appears to hold his copy of the contract for the match at Shockwave against Johnny Knuckles.
Atken: Hey Knuckles! Remember me? The man you sent a midget army after? The man you tricked in to signing a contract for quite possibly the most vicious sounding match he has ever had the pleasure in taking part of? Remember that? Oh man, how I laughed and laughed. Oh wait, that was you. For some reason, god knows why, you find that sort of thing funny. You find destroying a man's career, perhaps relegating him to a hospital bed to live the rest of his days a real knee slapper. I believe there is a name for people like you Johnny. It's sociopath. No sane, rational human being would act the way you do Knuckles. You are one step beyond and I started to question even entering the ring with you. I mean, what do I have to prove? Every one in APW already thinks I'm a joke, if I lose, well hey, that just reaffirms the belief in every single person on this damn roster who just doesn't believe in me. If I go through hell, if I put my body on the line, if I use everything in me to over come you Johnny? Well then “Oh hey, you only beat Johnny Knuckles, every one has done that. Come back when you can beat a real wrestler.”
It's quite the dilemma, isn't it Johnny? I don't have anything to gain from this little match of ours. There's no upshot for me. I either end up in the hospital at the hands of a man who just threw a party celebrating his grand multitude of losses or I beat a loser. Either way, my stature doesn't improve in this little promotion that we can home. That's just not quite cricket Johnny, Not quite cricket all all. In fact it's rugby.
For days, for days on end I look at the contract with one question on my mind, “is this worth it?”. Sure, APW would gleefully dump my rather toned posterior out of the door the second I refused to honour this little piece of paper that I have in my hand...
Phil waves about the contract in front of the camera.
Atken: … it really wasn't an easy choice to make. Do I risk my life, my livelihood just to appease a man like yourself Johnny? Or do I become a man of common sense and march right out of that door and jump aboard with another company that would be glad to have a man of my abilities, after all. What the upshot for me? What do I gain when I walk through that curtain at Shockwave? To me, the risk just didn't match the reward. It didn't make sense. I mean, I see what you get out of this, you're a sadist. You're a sad, sick and twisted man. You take to matches like this like a pig takes to wallowing around in a pit full of shit. So I totally get it, I understand your end. I know why this is no big deal to you but it does raise a question. Isn't this why you lose time and time again Johnny? Isn't this why you are branded as APW's lovable loser? You like to put your body through hell. You put yourself in matches that just completely break you.
By this point Johnny you must be a husk, right? You must be a broken shell. So as I started thinking about your current condition Johnny, all these thoughts were swirling around in this big ole noggin of mine. I know exactly why you can't win the big one, I know why you start . The mind is willing but the body, it's just not able. You've taken so much in the name of the APW fans, so many beatings. You've been broken time and time again but you still want to fight. You still want to fight because you can't stop yourself. It's a disease you have Knuckles.
That's when I realised the upshot for me. It hit me slap dab right in the middle of my face. I'm the cure. I'm the man who can release you from the cage of hardcore that you have imprisoned yourself in. Who better to do it than the man who has been campaigning for months on end for a little bit of sanity and decorum on Asylum. The man who always looks out for the best interests of his fellow wrestler. You're a lot smarter than you let on. You stalked me, you chased me, you harassed me but it was all a cry for help. I'm ready to answer that call.
I know, as a responsible adult, the best thing for your career Knuckles is for me to end it. Someone has to be the bad guy, someone has to put down Old Yeller not because they want to but because that dog, that dog needs it. That dog needs his release. When I walk into that ring on Sunday night I know that every thing I do doesn't break my belief in a safer wrestling environment, it strengthens it. I know that I'm doing the correct thing, the just thing. I'll know the job was well done when that ambulance shows up to take you away. I'm your angel of mercy Knuckles. See you on Sunday.
