Create What You Want, Take All the Parts You Need

[Manhattan White]

~*~Manhattan White sits on the balcony of his hotel room, over-looking the beach. He stretches back into one of the matching chairs and kicks his feet up on the railing, breathing in the Hawaiian air. His hand brings up an over-sized drink and he frowns, picking out all of the froo-froo decorative umbrellas, curly straws, and other assorted nonsense. He flicks each item over the railing and hears kids down below cursing him.~*~

So, let's recap, shall we? I debut against an APW veteran at Shockwave, one of the organization's top Pay Per Views, and I dominate the Hell out of the Bodaciousness to the point where he hasn't been heard from again. And then I'm set up to appear in the follow-up Asylum in a main event match to decide who I was going to beat ultimately, to end up a number one contender. Let me say that again for those of you that might be a little slow on the uptake. My second scheduled match in this organization and I'm battling for the number one contender's spot.

~*~Manhattan White takes a sip of his drink, cringes, takes one last look at the beverage and chucks the liquid over the side of his porch. This time a woman down below screams.~*~

So, here’s what I figure happened, because if you gander at my record, I’m still undefeated being featured in, but one, match. Management heard my pleas for change, the listened to the words I said in the promotional shoots I’ve recorded, and they thought, “Let’s see what the guy can do. Chances are good he’ll come out at Shockwave, have his ass handed to him, and go running back to his bloated paychecks where he came from.”

~*~He leans back in his chair again and looks off into the distance across the clear blue sky. A smirk crawls across his face as he eyes the APW camera crew off to the side.~*~

And what happened? Hmm? The bell rang three times and a hand was raised. But it wasn’t the over-hyped Bobby Bodacious. It wasn’t the guy that everyone had seen come down the aisle, put on his tired old show, and walk out a victor because of time he’d put in. It wasn’t the guy that the company had pushed and pushed and pushed because he had a certain look or a certain swagger. It wasn’t the guy with the catchy phrases, the t-shirts with slogans that make all of the teenage boys giggle. It wasn’t the guy that management had counted on. It was the guy that everyone had figured would pick up his ball and go home the first time he tried something new.

Let me tell you something, this guy doesn’t go home. He doesn’t carry a ball. He doesn’t play well with others. That’s the shit you learn when you come from a place like mine. If I carry anything with me, I carry around the scars and wounds that Camden, New Jersey gave me. I carry the lessons and battles I’ve fought through, the battles I’ve won and the ones that I’ve lost. That’s how I’ve come to be the man I am. That’s how I’ve come to be successful in the life I’ve lived, and that will be the way I’ll continue to be head and shoulders above the rest of the jokers in APW.

~*~Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, Manhattan White looks directly into the camera.~*~

So, I walk away from Shockwave with a debut win and I’m told that I’m being set for the main event match at the next Asylum, as I’ve said. I travel, I work out, I study the matches and shoots of my opponents. I walk the streets of the city, I take in the local flavor and culture, trying to find my place in their world, to figure out what it is they want to see. Then Sunday rolls around and I’ve been dropped from the card. That’s right, the guy that proved everyone wrong, showed them all that an underdog can still bite back, I was yanked from the card without so much as a word of explanation.

~*~Manhattan chuckles, wipes the side of his nose with his hand, and sits back in the chair.~*~

You know what, you know what happened, I know what happened, so I’ll cut to the chase. APW staff panicked. “Oh shit, maybe there’s something to this. What if we are putting on a weak show, and this guy’s got the goods to prove our formulaic bullshit wrong?” So, they do the only thing they can do to control me. I get yanked. And it looks like they did the same thing to Knoxville. Suddenly he wasn’t in the main event either. So, here we are, facing each other in a spot for the Elimination Chamber at the next pay per view.

Tommy, I like your style, I like the way you carry yourself. Although I’ve seen a shit-ton of guys just like you, and APW could go out in the streets of Honolulu at night, and start throwing rocks into the dark alleyways, and they could probably hit half a dozen of jerkoffs just like you with each toss, from what I’ve seen, you look pretty genuine. You don’t seem to be walking around playing some ridiculous character, pretending to be someone you’re not. I’m not saying you and I are alike, and I sure as Hell am not saying that I like you, or that we should join forces and take down the evil powers that rule this company with an iron first, or that I’m going to take it easy on you.

I’m not here to make friends. I know who I can trust and I don’t know anyone in this company. So if you think for one second that I’m going to turn my back on you, or give you an opening that I’m going to pay for, or soon regret, guess again. No one is getting off easy. Come Sunday night, I’ll be walking down that aisle with my eye on you, and I don’t plan on blinking once until that match is over. I don’t plan on taking a single breath until that bell is rung, and I don’t plan on letting up on you until my hand is raised in victory.

As for joining forces? No. Not a chance. And before you get your panties in a twist, no, I know, you didn’t ask, you didn’t offer. I’m just saying, we’re in similar spots here, the forgotten. The genuine. The real. We’re not putting on some façade meant to entertain. We do our jobs in that ring, we wow the fans inside those ropes. We fill those seats with our blood, sweat, and the tears of our enemies. And as for the “iron fist” of our overlords…

~*~Manhattan makes a fist at the camera and waves it back and forth, and quickly the gesture gets blurred out.~*~

They don’t mean jack, Jack. There’s a reason we’re last on that card. You and me, we’re going to get out there and put a real show on. The fans who can’t be here in gorgeous Hawaii, they might as well set their DVRs to the last twenty minutes of Asylum, because that’s when the real show begins. Here’s the real challenge to you Tommy. I’m coming. I’ll be there. Whether we’re locked out, or the lights go down, or someone comes along and traps us in our respective locker rooms, I challenge you not to give up. I challenge you to bring everything you’ve got. Fight me in the dark, climb through the ceilings and air ducts until we meet, find me in the parking lot. The cameras will have no choice but come. Because even though APW fears us, they can’t ignore us forever. They can’t keep the fans from us forever. Bring your best Tommy, and do your worst. Do your worst. Because Sunday Night, I’ll be bringing me everything that I have. I always will.

~*~There’s a knock at the door. Manhattan White looks over his shoulder and then gives the camera a curious look.~*~

But there’s one thing we’ve got to address right quick. This whole cutting myself to see myself bleed, and having thoughts of making me bleed all over the canvas running through your mind all day.

~*~Manhattan White looks over his shoulder at the camera as he starts walking toward his hotel room’s door, chuckling.~*~

Dude…for real? All day? I mean, I realize that I keep focused on the goals that I want to achieve, that I don’t like to rest until I’ve reached the absolute pinnacle of my profession, but sometimes I like to think about girls, and beer, and healthy shits. You know? I’m real. I’m human. I’m a guy.

~*~He stops and with one eye closed points at the camera with questions all over his face.~*~

What exactly does that make you, hombre? I mean, thinking about me and my bodily fluids all day, I guess, could still make you a man, by definition, but what sort of man would that be, exactly?

~*~His hand pivots at the wrist as if the conclusion he’s reached is that Tommy’s a little “iffy.” He snorts, looks at the floor a moment in his amusement and looks at the door when there’s another knock. The camera crew follows Manhattan to the door and stands in the bathroom doorway so we see his profile as he reaches for the door to the outside of his room.~*~

So, go ahead, profess your foregone conclusions about our match. Make your claims about what kind of person I am, the type of competitor I can be, the “little bitch” that I am. Put it all on the line, and come out to that ring with all the hope in the world that this time…THIS TIME…is your time. It won’t matter, because whether we have the match in the ring, in the dark, in the light, in a utility closet, in the parking lot, or in your dreams, one thing is certain. It all ends with you on your back, looking above you, watching your hopes and dreams float away…

~*~Manhattan opens the door and his eyes widen with shock. He opens to speak, but can’t. A shadow is cast over him as the person in the hall steps closer.~*~

You’ve been dumping shit off your balcony. People have been complaining…

~*~Manhattan swallows hard as sweat beads on his forehead.~*~

Jesus…you are a big bitch…

~*~The scene fades.~*~