Midlife Meltdown

[Peter Shelley]

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A

WHY DON'T YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?

PRODUCTION

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TEAM TURTLE FILMS


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RAINBOW CYBORG PRODUCTIONS


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STARRING


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PETER SHELLEY


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STEPHEN SHELLEY


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JEFFERSON JANWELL (JJ) SHELLEY


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MOLLY HEATH


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AND AUSTIN MATHESON AS
“DOCTOR DOUCHEBAG”


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IN

MIDLIFE MELTDOWN


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This is it.

The moment we've all been waiting for.

Everything is to play for.

All eyes, all four of them at least, are on Peter Shelley as he squares up to putt on the final hole of a game of nine on the sun-soaked green of the Hillcrest Country Club golf course. Neck and neck from start to finish, a victory or a draw all hinges on this one last putt. Peter's eyes flick back and forth from hole to ball, a seven and a half foot stretch between a victory speech and a mutually reluctant nod of begrudged respect.

”Come on dad. Screw it up, I know you can,” goads Stephen like the devil on his shoulder, who despite his best efforts can't escape the prison of his inherited genetics and the competitiveness with which it brings. ”Screw it, screw the pooch.”

His taunting words sail over Peter's head as he loses himself in the tension of the moment, a vice grip on every screed of conscious thought he can harness. In a beautiful instant, nothing else matters right now besides getting the ball into that hole. The blasts of falling bombs couldn't shatter the focus as just like his hero Kanye, Peter is definitely in his zone. After what feels like an eternity, he draws back and taps the ball with a meticulous and calculated nudge, watching transfixed with baited breath as it painfully crawls across the green and sails slowly towards its intended destination. A bead of sweat ebbs down the side of his face as it continues its hinging journey until finally...

”YESSSSS!” Peter roars in celebration, throwing his golf club high above his head and fist pumping at his bitter, beaten son. ”EAT MY SHIT, STEPHEN!” he cries in a fit of sheer joy. The spoils of war, an unreasonably high adrenaline burst pounds through Peter's veins like the spreading cracks in a burst dam. Caught up and oblivious in his moment of victory, both men turn to face their unimpressed caddy, arms folded and completely embarrassed by Peter's low class and vulgar display of enthusiasm and all-around poor sportsmanship. ”Sorry,” mutters Peter, his eyes sinking to the floor but with the winning smile still painfully etched into his drawn cheeks.

***

With “Panama” by Van Halen blasting out the open windows, Peter leans back in the passenger seat of Stephen's silver gray Dodge Challenger with a lit cigarette between his lips as they roar through the streets of Beverly Hills. With the day still young, the sun shines brighter than a bolt of lightning coming from a clear blue sky and with it being early Saturday afternoon, the streets are packed with citizens flooding out from their Paradise City homes to bask in the beauty of the day. As Stephen focuses on the road and tries to find the nearest highway, Peter mutters inanely about the NFL season.

”Y'know, I keep saying it every year but I think this is the year for the Jaguars. Their fans are like prophets from doomsday cults. Every year there's a little voice of doubt in the back of your mind asking what if the Jags actually pull their fingers out their asses and just destroy the season? Like, undefeated streak, superbowl, the works. But then like most apocalypse theories, they always fall flat. Well surely on a long enough timeline, one of those theories has gotta' be true, right?” whitters Peter mindlessly, oblivious to his son paying him absolutely no attention in the conversation.

”I mean God, when was the last time they even won the Superbowl? Or have they ever? It's just crazy awful. But still, even the Red Sox and the The Washington Generals got the upset eventually right?” Peter continues as they drop down onto freeway. Peter flicks ash out of the open window before throwing the whole cigarette out onto the hot road beneath them where another car instantly snuffs it out with its tires.

”The Jags should get me to run the team. I'd set those guys straight. Now, I know what you're thinking Stevie, I'm a die-hard Raiders fan for life and you're right I am. But that doesn't mean I can't reach out to a struggling side in the name of good old fashioned competition, right? I'd be an excellent coach, Hell, maybe even a player. I'm more built for baseball but with my speed, my accuracy and my killer Hail Mary's, I could be a real play maker and help The Jagapocalypse come true. What do you think?” Peter asks. No answer follows and Peter sighs and looks morosely out the window.

”Typical college kid. No attention span. Probably thinking about getting laid or where the doob is coming from. I know that's how I operated back in the day. God bless UCLA. How's your little robot squeeze anyhow? Still going to that body paint rave?” Peter chides, desperately trying to get just a reaction even if no conversation follows.

”Dad, please, stop calling her robot squeeze. I care about her a lot and I don't appreciate you objectifying her like that. And FYI, yes, we're totally still going to that rave.” Stephen grunts defiantly. He pulls into the next lane and speeds ahead of a dilapidated looking old woman in a blown out junker that wouldn't look out of place on a 1940's Soviet production line.

”Objectifying? Son, I don't objectify broads. I'm very much the modern man. Sometimes though? You gotta' be honest with yourself and recognise some of the true laws of life. Women, and the notion of love, will lead you into decision making thought processes which at the time seem great but you'll later realise are the psychological equivalent of throwing a lit match onto an oil spill. Soon your brain will look like Vietnam circa '68. Body paint raves, like my decision to get married are the same 'matches'. Soon you'll be smoking crystal and getting your hog pierced,” The car screeches to a halt as Stephen slams off the brakes, switches off the radio and locks eyes ablaze with his antagonistic and narrow minded dimwit father.

”That is ENOUGH. You had your fun with your win today. Don't start talking shit about Molly or what I choose to do in MY life. And I would NEVER get my 'hog' pierced.” seethes Stephen, breath ragged and red-faced as he struggles to contain the pent up anger. Peter's eyebrows crumple as a worried expression paints across his face.

”... But you're open to crystal meth, right?” he pokes. Stephen growls and floors the pedal while “Panama” fades out over the speakers.

***

Some hours later, a sinking sun casts a hazy blood orange glow over the fields of gold that is The City of Angels. Overlooking Hollywood and further afield from the heights of Mount Lee, Peter Shelley and his wayward son Stephen prepare feverishly for their final activity in a day of blown fuses, golfing triumphs and father-son bonding that can only result in even more repressed hatred and disappointment respectively. Mounting a studio grade camera on a tripod and positioning it to face out and over the city below, Peter manipulates every last follicle of hair on his head into its' prim position to ensure that the first impression he is about to create is the optimal one he can possibly hope for.

He'd been putting it off all week thanks to a major two for one offer on laziness and nerves, but now it was time for Peter to get in front of the electric eye and reveal himself to the world, announce his intentions as a professional wrestler and most of all? Talk some serious, serious smack about his opponent, “The Last King” Scott Wilson. As the camera rolls, Peter looks almost poignant and dignified in his crisp, ash suit and slate painted tie, staring into the vast expanse of his own home town below. After a long pause, he turns around to face the camera.

”It's beautiful, isn't it? They call it The City of Angels, The City of Flowers and Sunshine, The Land of Milk and Honey and if you spend even an hour walking through these living, breathing city streets, you'll discover why. You can find anything you want here if you look hard enough. Money, fame, fortune, power, a reasonably priced massage parlour that isn't stingy on “the favours” if you're a gentleman and something of a regular. It's all out there just waiting to be picked up off the sidewalk, or at Madam Wong's Bath House on 5th Street. It's a city that has strong-armed and pioneered a global industry, bringing the entire world a century of faces and names that have touched the hearts and minds of people everywhere for generations and now the city is preparing to do it one more time.

This week, Tinsel Towns' patented star machine cranks out another name that will completely revolutionise the face of professional wrestling everywhere and that name ladies and gentlemen is my name. That name is “The Shooter” Peter Shelley and in a matter of days, I will splash onto your screens in dramatic fashion. I will remodel the landscape of Action Packed Wrestling and Asylum like nobody before me and nobody after me. Forever. Now my name may not be one you've heard before but as shows go by, weeks turn to months and months to years, it'll be burning on the tip of your tongue and in your imaginations just like your favourite A-listers. I will become the hottest commodity to EVER step foot not just in an Action Packed Wrestling ring, but any ring ever. The throne of this sport is sitting empty and I am just the man to fill it.

Now you're probably sat home in your well-respected positions as armchair critics, nursing a room temperature Coors in one hand and a set of bloody knuckles from when your wife 'headbutted your fist' in the other and asking yourselves how this guy, some middle aged, middle class, middle minded Californian from a cushy place in a cushy city is going to come into a young man's game and re-write the textbook. Not just master the old formula but create a whole new one for instant superstar status in a game dominated by bigger, badder, bolder men.

Critics accuse Los Angeles of being a city that digs its nails into the already vast rift between winners and losers and pulls it apart to gaping proportions, sucking all of society's dregs into an endless abyss of mediocrity in the middle. Well in a world that idealises and embodies success, even a simple look at my endless list of accolades shows that I was born to sit upon that perch with the winners circle. Whether it be my fifteen year career as a successful stock broker, my degree in Finance, my numerous triathlon wins, my twelve consecutive Father-Son golf trophies with my dear junior Stephen at one of LA's most competitive country clubs and my beautiful home in the hills, Beverly of course, it's plain to see that I am not just winning but that I've already won at the game of life. So what else is there to do? Add to the list with more and more accomplishments.

Now while you people may not know my name in rank and file with the likes of Brad, George, Marlon, Leonardo, Val, it's only an inevitability that I explode onto the screen and get the red carpet recognition that I deserve. That said, I already know YOUR name, Scott Wilson. That's right, Seattle's own Scott Wilson, a newcomer just like myself to the fast moving, make or break world of professional wrestling. I know every little thing about you Scott. The suits at Asylum have given me the starring role, or rather, the 'bit-part' of kicking your ass from post to post this Sunday and I can tell you with total certainty that I am a 'method actor' and more than cut out for the job.

I've done my research alright. I've seen your matches, I've heard the rave reviews about the hot young masked rookie sensation that's burning through wrestlers like a H2 Hummer through gasoline. I've watched you end matches and often nights for your opponents with that sweet little Vertebreaker of yours and yes, Scott, you can very much color me impressed. I am definitely a fan. But I KNOW I'm better than you and you do too. You're a man of mystery Scott, a true enigma if ever there was one. Efforts to dig into your personal past proved... troublesome compared to your wrestling history but then it hit me. You wear a mask and you make every effort to distance yourself from the origins that made you who you are, which I can totally understand because I'd be in denial too if I was born in Seattle.

But transnational Boeing's worth of baggage or not, it really doesn't matter because it's indicative of exactly the type of person you are. We, by which I mean myself and everyone watching at home, don't need to see your face to recognise you for who you are. You're a completely worthless coward who runs from his problems, simple as. Well let me tell you now, there's no running from twenty time triathlon participant Peter Shelley, nor is there any cycling or swimming from me but where we're going I don't think that really applies. You can waste all the high school gym rookies you like Wilson. When going one on one with a professional like Shooter Shelley, the true chinks in your armour will shine brighter than the California sun.

The inner turmoil and the weakness that you desperately try to run from will burst out of you like the candy in a pinata and true to capitalist form, I will be there, on you like a rabid dog scooping up every last bit of the spoils in my watering mouth. And believe me when I say am chomping at the god damn bit, famished if you must to knock that crown off of your concealed little head. You may call yourself The Last King Scott, but no crowns are recognised in the Turtleocracy. Not since the passing of the late, great, King of Pop himself Michael Jackson who God rest his soul, just like you had a sordid past for which he probably was innocent for but desperately sought to get away from have we recognised those credentials.

So when the lights are on bright and you stand in the midst of it all with a true professional, a sharp shooter, a man who knows nothing of failure and you find your focus readjusted and a true appreciation for where you REALLY stand in this world you seek to conquer I want you to do something for me. When you find yourself staring at the sky, flat on your back, shoulders pressed to the mat as the referee counts to three and awards me my victory by birthright I want you to look deep into your heart, deep into your soul and ask yourself just one thing Scott Wilson. Where IS your crown really, King Nothing?”

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Credits roll.

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