Prose and Cons

[Ryan Ruckus]

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A TALE OF TWO PITIES

From the darkness, a familiar voice:

It was the best of our sport, it was the worst of our sport, it was the age of the real, it was the age of the phony, it was the epoch of madcap genius, it was the epoch of mindless brawn, it was the season of strategy, it was the season of stroke, it was the spring of new horizons, it was the winter of same old shit, we had success within our reach, we had failure at our feet, we were all dreaming in legend, we were all awake in mayhem--in short, the battle was so unlike any battle before, that all of its noisiest fanatics insisted on its being hyped, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Both were destined to be weighed and measured.
One was doomed to be found wanting.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“C’mon, mate. I gotta take a shit!”

FADE IN – On the interior of a Starbucks bathroom and Ryan Ruckus, who sits fully-clothed on the porcelain toilet, smoking a cigarette and speaking into a handheld flip cam.
Or at least he was, until being so rudely interrupted by-

Knock. Knock. Knock.

R2: Occupied!

“You’ve been in there for 20 minutes.”

Ruckus yells toward the bathroom door.

R2: You can’t rush genius!

“Tell that to security.”

R2: Ugh, fine!

Standing, our hero drops the flip cam into his pocket, flushes the toilet to keep up appearances, and opens the bathroom door- To find a line of people, seven-strong, winding through the coffee joint and looking super-pissed. It is now that we realize the bathroom is unisex, and the only one of its kind in the building.

R2: I swear, no one appreciates the classics anymore.

Ruckus exhales a plume of smoke into the face of a bearded man, who is doing the poo-poo dance just outside the bathroom door. The man gives Ruck a look like, ‘we’d scrap if I weren’t about to shit myself,’ and instead simply mumbles-

“…jack-off.”

-As he pushes past our hero and shuts the bathroom door behind him. Ruckus gives half a smirk to the other folks in line, then saunters to the counter and requests a-

R2: Venti caramel macchiato, my good man.

-Except, the vendor is a woman. A burly, flannel-wearing woman, but a woman nonetheless. Her response is quick and simple.

“No smoking in the beanery, asshole.”

Ruckus scoffs, shaking his head. The nerve of these people! He wouldn’t even be cutting a promo from the crapper of some ubiquitous coffee cult, if it weren’t for the fact that APW studios were booked solid with promos shoots for the federation’s ‘good old boys;’ those select few Megastars who –despite their obvious inferiority- were given preferential treatment due to some illusion of loyalty or tenure. And it prompts the only response Ryan Ruckus can muster these days-

R2: Hmph. Why am I not surprised?

* * *


Nepotism.

It’s something I’m no stranger to. Hell, I make my home in the town that does it best. But it’s a dirty town, far from what the Universal Studios brochures promote. And it’s a dirty thing, nepotism. Especially when you’re on the shit end of it. Same as deceit. Same as class warfare. Same as prejudice. But there’s hope, because the upside of all of them is the same thing as well.

Opportunity.

When the odds are stacked against you, there’s a chance to win in spite of them. A chance to stick your tongue between your teeth and blow some raspberries. A chance to put those middle fingers up and give a wink. A chance to say- “I did this, even though you tried to stop me.”

“I am legend.”

. . .

And that’s exactly what I plan to say, once Mayhem’s come and gone. There’s not a person in the back, nor on the smart mark interwebz, who can convince me that I’m not supposed to lose this Mayhem match. Sure, they’ll let me in the rucker, let me turn my fame and talent into buy rates for the company, let me use my face to get your asses in their seats. But to let me be their undisputed champ and figure-head? No way, Ruck-Heads, that just isn’t in the cards.

Because they know they can’t run me.

And it scares them.

Not without good reason, truth be told. It only takes a few mouse clicks to find the legacy I’ve built through my career. Generally, it’s a two-part process. I show up, then I take over. Sin City Wrestling? It wasn’t even Sin City Wrestling when I got there. It was EWW. Ever heard of them? Ruck no, you haven’t. But despite Cameron Blake’s pathetic attempts to keep me down, I won his global title and I took his federation.

It wasn’t personal, not that time. I simply saw something I loved, being rucked about for the sake of a pig-man’s ego, and I saved it from itself, and turned it in to a two-time Hall of Fame company. A company that attracted talent like MDK. Like Bryan Payne. Like Kram. Even APW’s own Pence Weatherlight jumped ship to Las Vegas. And to top it all off, the feather in the cap, Georgie Nickles. First-ever female True Experts champion. And who was the creative force behind her rise to that never-repeatable accolade?

That’s right, kids.

Me.

Hell, ask Lester, he knows. He was so acutely aware of the Sin City influence, that he hijacked our show back in 2009, to promote his epic feud with Crazyman Joel Bryant. Just like he did with my Survive and Conquer winnings --parlaying the crime into some weak attempt to gain crowd favor-- And just like he had done hundreds of times before that day, he pimp-limped in, belittled everyone, tried to make the whole damn show about him, and then pimp-limped out. At the time, I gotta admit, I was livid. I felt he’d shit on our hospitality and riled our roster to the point of near mutiny. But now, looking back –as I did, just this morning—it doesn’t make me livid anymore.

Cause it’s so laughably transparent.

There he was, this 23-year-old, wanna-be-badass, man-child, trying to build heat against a legend in this business, and he turned to the most-watched venue at the time to get his face seen and his feeling heard. But rather than be gracious and respectful and collaborative –like any self-secure star in this business would have done, you hypocritical current world champion puffed his chest out like the cock of the walk, man-handled unsuspecting members of the front office, and made it unmistakably clear just how uncertain of he was of himself. He knew that with his high school bully routine, he’d never be accepted with the open arms of a world-class fed. So he did the only thing a scared, self-conscious, moose-humping street thug could do. He tried to steal it.

Except, that shit he tried to steal? That stage so integral to his success? That platform he needed so desperately to succeed?

I built it.

Because that’s what I do. Be it failing federation, or over-rated wrestler, I spin that shit to gold like a two-tone-shaded alchemist named Rumplestiltskin. I am a visionary. I am a vanguard. I am a better-maker by trade.

And business has been good.

My track record speaks for itself. Just look at Siberia. The deadliest digs in the history of our sport, but it didn’t stop me from winning the Voyle title in my third match there. It didn’t stop me from knocking the Warden from his ergonomic chair, and taking control of the place. It didn’t stop me from revolutionizing the place to the point that it fostered another True Expert champ, Hannibal Cage, and became such a hot commodity that the Experts host their annual tournament there to this day.

And the legend repeats.
Again and again.

From the third Efed Knights tournament, where I circumvented politics and won the whole thing; to On Hallowed Ground, where my creative direction set the stage for the unforgettable main event; to the Contourage where I turned competition into comrades; to the Free Agency, where I ‘played’ Lester’s sidekick, only to see him fall before me once again. Each and every time, I was this inconspicuous guy who slinked through the door, side-stepped the glass ceiling, and stealthed my way to the top of the food chain.

I don’t just win.

I revolutionize.

So, I feel Jeff’s trepidation. I comprehend the beads of sweat across his brow. I can guess why I’ve never ranked higher than 12 on the Most-Wanted list. I can’t for the life of me fathom why I’ve been out-ranked by such startling talent as XXX Fire, Cid Phoenix, Blade, and Branden Harvey, but I can savvy my spot, because I see where Jeff’s coming from. I understand why last year’s S&C winner was awarded a Heavyweight title shot, while I had to compete in a contender match for mine. I grasp why I had to face Level One for my shot, even though he finished fifth in that event. I didn’t face C.J. Gates, who placed fourth. I didn’t face Terry Marvin, who placed second. I faced Level One. Even though I bested him in two straight S&Cs, he was put in my path as a way to slow my rise. Because Jeff knows Level One is APW. He may not be homegrown, but he’s certainly assimilated. He is an Action-Packed borg. Not Jeff, not Sally Talfourd, not Biggs or Branden Harvey… Why do you think Jeff suddenly changed the name of the fed’s top title, if not to make Lester seem even more important than his ego and hype already dictate. The message was simple. Lester Only is the only world-class competitor on this roster.

Until I got here.

But the difference is, President Jeff didn’t make me. APW didn’t make me. I am the only Self-Made Megastar left on the roster. I came in, I cleared the lot of them in one spectacular night, and I put APW back on the map. Just look at the number of free agent acquisitions since I got here, and you’ll see I speak the truth. Because the name Ryan Ruckus is why marquees were invented, and it’s just my style to play that fact out loud.

And it eats our ‘fearless’ President alive.

So that’s why I get more than my fair share of roadblocks. That’s why AJ King and Terry Marvin are either fired or on suspension. One minute they were here and squandered, the next minute they were fed up and aligned with me, and the minute after that, where are they? Same place as my unbiased opportunity.

Vanished.

That’s why most of my matches involve more than one opponent who needs vanquishing. And that’s why Lester Only is supposed to win this match. Because if he doesn’t, everything thing he and his cheerleader Jeff have built will come crashing down around them in one giant Cluster-ruck.

RUBAR.

Big time.

And truth be told, Ruck-Heads, I couldn’t be more tickled by the prospect. Because it wasn’t my intention to take over this time. I thought APW was solid and Jeff was doing a good job. But then I started paying attention, and I realized I was getting rucked. Because I’m not just fighting a man, and I’m not just fighting a front office. I am fighting a regime. I am fighting three years of Level One tyranny. And while he’s faked this new-foot-forward face turn, let’s be honest; he’s a leopard, and leopards never change their spots.

This time, I am fighting for every incoming free agent to ever try to make a living here. Cause though they’ll never admit it, every single person in the back ,with the exception of Lester and Jeff, have secretly wished for a long time now, that someone would put Lester Only to rest. So, this time, I guess I’m fighting for them too. This time, the revolution I bring is personal. Because, this time, they insulted me. This time they challenged me; they threw down a gauntlet and dared me to rise above. So, that’s exactly what I’m going to do .

Cause though the bullshit in my way may change-
The story stays the same.

This Ruck’s for you.

* * *


A RUCKWORK SCOURGE

That familiar voice again…

There was me, that is Ruckus, and my three droogs, that is Doug, Rick, and Extream, and Extream, being really extreme, we sat outside APW headquarters, making up our master minds what to do with the evening, a stark pre-pay per view bastard, though dry. The APW was a wrestling-plus monster, and you may, o my Ruck-Heads, have forgotten what these monsters were like, things changing so slowly these days and everybody not so discerning between works and real life, not being all that “smart” to begin with. Well, what they sold there was wrestling plus something else. So you could see it mixed with politics, and backstage deals, and honor feigned for prejudice, giving you a nice quiet horrorshow, fifteen minutes admiring Jeff and all his holy chosen few. Or you could spice it up with patron saints of sin, and this would sharpen the monster and make it ready for a bit of brand new world, which is what we all were doing on the evening I am documenting.

Who needs Ultra-violence,
When you’ve got guerilla marketing?

Clang. Bang. Thunk.

“What do you want us to do with this leftover paint, R2?”

*Sigh* Ruckus turns off the flip cam again.

R2: I don’t care, man. Jackson Pollack it across the parking lot or something. Spell out, ‘Ruck the World.’

Rick Gardner cracked a smile and shuffled off across the blacktop, outside APW Headquarters. Ruckus watched him go with a look of satisfaction not recently found on his two-tone-shaded face. Leave it to old friends and new mayhem to bring out the best in a Patron Saint of Sin.

For the first time in more than three years, the original four members of wrestling’s greatest stable, Something Wicked, had reunited for a one-off adventure of extreme headquarter makeover, a game which used to be common place, but had, in years passed, as all things often do, petered out to the brink of non-existence. Yet here they were, Ryan Ruckus, “The Professor” Doug E Fresh, “Risk Business” Rick Gardner, and Extream, all gathered toward a common goal. And when these four former running buddies put their heads together… Well, “watch your asses,” didn’t seem warning enough.

“What do you think?”

-Doug asked, as he walked to stand beside his tag team partner. And Ruckus looked across the parking lot to scan the finished product.

The high-rise corporate headquarters of Action Packed Wrestling wasn’t all that different from any other office building. Multiple floors of cement and metal, giant window panes adorning them, with big LED-orange letters below the building’s apex. Only, the sign which used to bear the federation’s acronym, now bore a slightly-different message.

A.R.W.

-And below that, a new namesake:

All Ruckus Wrestling.

Ryan smirked and --pulling off his trademark shades-- wiped a single tear of joy from his ice-blue eyes. The altered brand name sign was not enough, on its own, to have inspired such emotion. But a thorough scan of the surrounding grounds might aid in understanding.

On every surface the eye could see, a trace of paint was present. Trees, sidewalks, windows, production trucks, trashcans, posters, Jeff’s personal parking spot. All of them bearing those three bright red letters and the words they represent.

A.LL
R.UCKUS
W.RESTLING

-To the point where those unaware of APW’s existence would simply assume the whole tableau was some experimental art world installation. A sort of Kubrickian street level film set. And if you’re one of the four men who made it all possible, or even more, the namesake of the fictional (unfortunately) new company, it’d be enough to pull your heart strings too.

Probably.

“Not bad for a night’s work, eh?”

Doug puts a hand on Ruck’s shoulder and admires their work. But Ruckus simply lights a smoke and smirks.

R2: My friend, we’re just getting started. –beat- You still got the jet?

And in the background, Rick and Ex get excited.

Road Trip!

* * *


Villain.

(n) - A person guilty or capable of a crime or wickedness.

Heh.
Aren’t we all?

Is there an honest man or woman walking, who can claim to have been righteous all their lives?

I know I can't claim as much.

And neither can your hero of the week, Lester Only.

They say, it is easier for a man to kill the light inside himself than it is to fight the darkness all around him. And it sounds cool, all poetic, but it's also a little bit over-dramatic. I simply say, get in where you fit in and believe in Chuck Darwin. Inherent evil is a fallacy. No one is born a bad guy. But this world quickly teaches you, you've only got yourself and six-point-something billion others are competing, same as you. So, it's not really good and evil we're talking, but rather social opinion and survival of the fittest.

One doesn't have to side with the majority to survive.

Take it from me.

I take exception to the term villain. Especially when it comes from the mouths of hypocrites. I, like every good antagonist ever penned, have only done what adaption has taught me. I have learned the unfortunate truth that you take what you want and you don't let it go. There are those who exploit weakness and kindness, those unscrupulous few who will flip the script the very moment it's convenient and then tell you that they're stealing all your dreams for your own good. But even they, whether revered or reveled, are not villains in the sense most often used. They're simply players in a game.

And the best player wins.

Crimes are only crimes when defined by appointed authority. WIckedness is only wickedness in relation to the whining of the weak.
"Boo hoo hoo," they cry, "you beat me at my own game before I could do the same to you." Well, no shit, Sherlock. That's how this thing works. And I'm real about that. And I always have been.

But every now and then, you have your hypocrites.

Yes, every now and then, you have these jokers who pretend themselves Paladins. Pretend they're noble and just and righteous, all the while plotting your demise. All the while, being far more unscrupulous via the spice of false pretense than any honest man, regardless of his exploits.

Charlatans, schemers, wool-covered wolves. These are your "heroes."
And you cheer their smiling faces as they sheer sweaters from your back.

It's like the song says. The devil you know beats the devil you don't. Because the latter comes to you in guise of angels. Luring your faith unto them, until it suits them to flip their selfish script yet again.

It's just so… icky.

Lucky for me, I don't need your faith in my facade to achieve my goal. I don't need your sweaters to keep me warm or hide my intentions. All I need from you is the understanding that I'm going to do what I have to to get what I want.

(A little appreciation for the honesty wouldn't hurt.)

If I have to form alliances until it suits me to be rid of them, I'll do it. If I have to comic-ballet my way through 39 other competitors to conquer, I'll do it. If I have to throw mid-card title matches, so as not to get stuck in the middle of the show, while waiting for a chance to hit the main event scene, I'll do it. I'll rig hammers, hire herpe-infested hookers, make peace treaties, break peace treaties, smash merchandise tables and Johnny Chase's arm, lie, cheat, steal, punch Will Smith in the mouth, employ hero coaches and and tour bus strippers, get bionic implants, change my theme song, drop your Undisputed champion's face on his own title belt every day of the week, if it means I'm the number one guy.

And I'm frank about that.

I'm the devil you know.

If Only your heroes were more like me.


* * *

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF LESTER

You know the drill by now.

During the whole of the fun-filled, reminiscing flight, in the summer of the year, when the clouds hung hung like bleating sheep amid the heavens, I had been passing with my posse, on private jet, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as my two-tone shades turned dim, within view of the melancholy House of Lester. I don't know how it was - but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable annoyance pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; cause the feeling could not be curbed by thoughts of boobs or cigarettes, with which my mind usually receives even the most perturbing images of the disgusting or unfair. I looked upon the scheme before me - upon the over-compensating house, and the quaint features of the landscape - upon the walls built of lies - upon the Windexed two-way windows - with an utter disdain of destiny which I can compare only to the worst bad trips on LSD. earthly sensation The bitter lapse into unjust reality - the intended dropping off of the carefully-crafted veil. There was anticipation, a sinking of the stomach, a quickening of the heart - an unmistakable logic of thought which no goading of law or good sense could torture into naught. What was it - I wondered - what was it that so enlivened me in the contemplation of the fall of the House of Lester?

Oh, that's right.
The asshole had it coming.

"It says here, you tried to get fitted for bionic implants?"

Doug E Fresh smiles wide in the seat across the aisle from Ryan Ruckus. He's reading from the online article at Smart Mark Central. The article written by a sworn enemy of our hero, yet written anyway, through professional necessity thanks to Andrew Meltzer. An article we were not given permission to reprint.

Ruckus presses stop on the flip cam and turns to Doug.

R2: I had half-a-million dollars burning a hole in my pocket. What would you have spent it on?

"Booze."

Extream exclaims from the front of the plane. Rick Gardner laughs and gives him a high-five. Doug gives both of them the finger. Then turns back to Ruckus.

Doug: Good to see some things still haven't changed.

R2: How do you mean?

Doug: Once an Abraham Man, always an Abraham Man. Or do you want me, the guy who knows you better than anyone else in this business to overlook the fact that you play the zany braggart, even though your evil genius brain is always working over-time?

Ruckus gasps.

R2: Doug! Spoilers…

And they both smile huge.

TIME LAPSE - to the private jet touching down in a cleared patch of field. Rapid fire cuts of the Something Wicked gang donning their ninja suits- grabbing their necessary gear- doing drawn out and complicated handshakes- and approaching a house with just a couple lights on.

Rick: You ready to do this?

Ruckus nods.

R2: Hell to the yeah.

Thunk! Scrape! A crowbar wedges into a door frame. Slam! The door is kicked inward by Extream's right combat boot. Scream! A woman we recognize goes white as four men, clad in black face masks enter her home. Scramble! Topple! Scurry! The kitchen table gets knocked over as the woman falls to the fall and crab-walks to the back of the house. Sob! Wail! The woman's two babies bleat their shrieks from the nursery upstairs. And laugh! The four intruders suddenly stop, stare down at the woman, and chuckle.

One of them is crooning.

Singing in the rain. Just singing in the rain. What glorious feeling I'm-

Another of the intruders slaps him.

"That was last sequence, idiot.

Shriek! Clang! The woman backs against a couture and reaching up, yanks a drawer from it's track. Silverware clamors to the floor all around her, and she grabs the biggest knife she can find, holding it out in self-defense.

It makes the lead intruder laugh.

Oh, calm down. We didn't come to touch you. Wouldn't want to catch something. Just wanted to give you a little be-lated baby shower gift. Something you and the yougins can look at from time to time.

Reaching into the satchel at his waist, the lead intruder retrieves a multi-colored scrap book, the kind bored, redneck house wives make on Sunday afternoons because no soap operas are on. Holding it up the leader shows the woman the title, spelled in construction paper.

"Who's your Daddy, Really?"

-Then, satisfied she's gleaned the message, the intruder tosses the scrapbook near the overturned table and gives the frightened woman a tiny salute.

All the best…

-And never taking his shaded-stare of the wide-eyed face of the woman, the lead intruder and his three accomplices back slowly from the room and out the door they came in.

They're gone for at least two minutes before the woman even dares to move. But finally, she's secure that the criminals have gone, and she scoots across the floor to grab the scrapbook which seemed to be the seed of all the terrorism. Slowly cracking its cover, the woman's eyes scan.

To the Misses and the Lil'ns:

Your daddy said, not too long back, that he didn't have a clear remembrance of the monster he used to be. So, 'lest he or any of you should forget, I've compiled this scrapbook to keep things in perspective. I urge you to return to this volume in the very best of times, to be reminded that it never lasts for long.

Love,
Moi
(which really is the gayest way to refer to one's self.)

For a split-second, the woman motions to throw the book aside, simple ready to be rid of it. But her curiosity is far too piqued to not investigate, and finally she starts turning pages.

And each and every one of them is adorned with a picture and blurb, detailing every vile moment of a familiar wrestler's career. Every transgression. Every shortcut. Every act of sabotage or sadism. All of them chronicled and documented for posterity.

And we would show them to you here, but they are far too sick and retched to make air. However, if your curiosity is uneatable, like the woman's in our story, we urge to research the information for yourself.

It's out there, and plenty of it.

Trust us.

* * *

Pew. Pew. Pew. Pyro shoots off in all directions. And a camera pans to Ryan Ruckus, standing in front of an A.R.W. backdrop.

R2: Hey there, wrestling fans, and welcome to another Ruckus-packed edition of All Ruckus Wrestling. My original intention for this show was to defeat every important member of the APW roster in a single night. But then I remembered, I already did that, back in January. So instead, I've decided to regale you with a video package displaying my greatest achievements. So, enjoy.

I know I will.



Fade from black to an image of a younger Ryan Ruckus, face-painted, debuting in his first-ever match against Steve Johnson. Time lapse to Ruckus booting his opponent in the gut and nailing a sit-out facebuster.

The Face-Pop.

Dissolve from there to a glimpse of R2 in the ring with his friend and tag team partner, Doug E. Fresh, as Something Wicked captures it's first tag team title.

They seem happy.

Jump cut to Doug hitting Ruckus with a chair, and the ensuing ladder match which garners Ruckus his first singles title. A mid-card belt.

And he stayed at that level for a year.

Wipe to a close up of another title in Ryan's hand. The SCW Global strap. Time lapse to the second time he held the belt, now a two-time grand slam champion and a hall of fame active wrestler.

Cross fade to our hero hitting the Deal Breaker cutter on Roughkut's own, Jack Hondo, to be victorious in the 3rd annual Efed Knights tournament.

Dissolve that to R2 as the last regional competitor left standing, against the TFWF champion, Sebastien Cross, in the Experts world vs regional fed survivor match.

Cross-fade to Ruckus landing atop Level One at New Year's Revolution, to eliminate the three-time world champ from Survive and Conquer.

Fade to the harsh reality of Siberia, Russia. Pan the rusty bars. See the hopelessness and gray. Then see Ryan Ruckus holding high the Voyle title and sitting with his feet up on the Warden's desk.

Dissolve to the forming of the One RIng Circus, and his main event match, teaming up with MDK, altering pulling the swerve that shocked the world and aligning with the CWC.

Wipe to that same team debuting in the TFWF (where a lot of folks can't hack it) and capturing his 3rd federation tag team title. See Ornery Hillman and MDK turn on him once it's clear he's a break-away star in the group.

Fade that to book signings, club openings, hollywood movie debuts, and the cementing of Ryan Ruckus as one of the most-prolific crossover stars to ever come from professional wrestling.

Wipe that to Ruckus watching as CJ Gates and Sally Talfourd eliminating Level One from this year's Survive and Conquer. If you zoom in close, you'll see the smallest smile.

Dissolve that to a bigger smile, as Ruckus stands atop the cage, victorious. The conqueror of 40 men and women.

Fade to you-know-who hooking his hand behind Lester Only's neck and dropping his big head onto the undisputed title.

Over.
And over.
And over again.


And finally, jump cut to Ruckus holding that same title above his head.

Then we're back to our host, in front of the ARW backdrop.

R2: Impressive right? I'm just getting started. See you next time, when there will be even more footage of me making Lester look second-rate.

Big Smile-

R2: G'night, folks.

FADE OUT.

* * *

Lester Only.

An act of god (and/or mortal-run utility companies) has contributed quite recently to the misappropriation of my time.

You said you wanted the absolute best Ryan Ruckus.

I apologize for my part in that not being very likely.

Maybe next time.

Maybe not.


See you at Mayhem.

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