One Night in Home

[Manhattan White]

~*~The video feed cuts in tight on Manhattan White’s face. He has a black bruise coming to the surface under his left eye and there’s a split in his lower lip. It cracks when he sneers and blood rises to the surface, bubbling and spilling down his chin. A crimson red towel hangs over his face, almost shielding his eyes.~*~

MW: Tomorrow night APW celebrates the Halloween season with One Night in Hell, a card jam packed with gimmicks and title matches, and all sorts of craziness to ensure the company with a buyout that’ll make the Food Network think twice before low-balling the company at the next contract negotiations. Blood will be spilled. Bodies will be broken and bruised. And the fans will look on as careers are ended. They’ll look on as new careers take root and grow. There’s been a lot of talking going on as participants barter for momentum and fan favor, and the match I’m involved in is no different. All of us –

~*~A lonely cough echoes in the cavernous room and Manhattan looks off camera at the source. A smile slides across his face and the blood runs down his chin faster before Manhattan turns back to the camera and begins again.~*~

MW: Almost all of us, I guess I should say, have cut shoots in preparation, in promotion of APW’s big Pay Per View Event. I’m sure Asylum’s great champion would argue that he doesn’t need to put words on record; that he doesn’t need to run his mouth to assure his position as the King of the Asylum. That he’s above doing promotional work for the company, because when you’re king, when you’re on top, why work any harder than you have to? He has nothing to prove, right? I mean, he’s got the title in his hands. He’s the number one guy, what else is there for him to do but stay the course, right? Seriously, when you’re booked in a match with five other people that don’t deserve to be listed with your name, what’s left to do but walk out into the ring, shut everyone down, and walk back out with your head held high and the title around your waist.

~*~Manhattan touches a finger to his lip, sees the blood, dabs at his lip again and the opposite side of his mouth curls into a smirk.~*~

MW: Or when you’ve been champion before, and you accomplished more in the time than some new guys’ career, what’s left to do but walk around feeling like that title is yours come Monday? That the pending match is merely a technicality, a bothersome chore that you just have to wander through until your hand is raised at the end, the ticker-tape and balloons falling from the ceiling, the fans cheering your name. When you’ve written off your fellow competitors as crazy people with no actual wrestling talent, where they don’t have the sense to pull off submission moves and countermoves, where all they know is picking up a pipe or a piece of wood and start to swing until bodies are strewn about the arena, what do you do? Apparently you dub yourself champion. You say that you’re the godsend of the show, that if those that are “so beneath” you were to even imagine winning, that ratings would fall off, fans would disappear.

~*~The red in the towel starts to darken as Manhattan White continues talking.~*~

MW: When you’re some drug addled badass that drives headlong into a card where they’re double-booked, one of the matches being a tag team match and your partner has gone missing, what do you do? You blindly march on, right? You tighten the laces on your boots, you walk down that aisle, you climb through those ropes and you duke it the fuck out. Because, man, really the smoke and the bitches will be backstage waiting for you with open arms. They’ll be waiting to put your various body parts in their mouths, in their bodies, giving it their all, just as long as that belt is bouncing off of their foreheads or smacking their asses with every thrust. And why worry, right? It isn’t like they’ll still be there in the morning. You won’t have to be bothered with being original or real, because they aren’t going to stick around long enough to require a complete conversation with you. They’ll have gotten what they wanted from you, used you up, and gone home to their real lives. And that’s fine with you, right? Because you’re hard. You’re real, like really real, right? When your body gives out, your hair all gone, a gut hanging over the waistband of your worn-out sweatpants, joints dried up and screaming with every move you make, you’ll still be a hardcore gangster because you were champion once. You’ll still be king when your couch has that permanent sunken look from watching late night television, because when you’re over, when it’s all said and done, the women, they leave, but that itch they give you stays with you forever.

~*~Manhattan takes the towel off his head, showing his hair is soaked in red. The muscles in his neck tighten as he rings the towel out and puts it back over his head. The red is a little lighter in volume, but still darker than before.~*~

MW: When you’re some child taking on the persona of a movie character from a film that’s older than you, wandering around, not truly understanding the ultra-violence that you preach, what’s left to do but take marching orders from the alleged voices in your head? You put your tights on, smear on some eyeliner and you walk out to that ring and you act as crazy as you can. You jump into a persona that you don’t truly understand and make a mockery of yourself in front of the whole world until you’re beaten by the basics. Take away the Chamber. Take away the weapons scattered throughout the arena. Take away five other people, hungry for the fame and fortune of winning that title, and really what’s standing in front of you, what is in your way are the shoes that you’ve stepped into. Pretending to be someone you’re not is the biggest mistake of your short-lived career. But that’s your choice and if it is what makes you happy, if that’s what leads you to believe that it’ll get you far in this business, fine. Do it up! Drool on yourself and speak gibberish. Scream at passersby and pee your pants. Be really crazy if that’s what you think will get you somewhere.

~*~His pink tongue sticks out between his lips, licking the blood from his mouth, and he spits it out off camera.~*~

MW: You stand up for two months and proclaim, “This is my comeback!” How long does that last? How long does a store proclaim, “Grand Reopening?” How long is an item that you buy off the shelves new and improved, now with riboflavin? You can slap a descriptor on something and believe that the label will get you somewhere, but until you prove that you belong where you are, it’s nothing but words. But fine, throw out the confetti, pound yourself on the chest and say, “Yes, this is it. This is me, and I am him, and here is where I’ll start.” Write off your competitors because this is where you belong, because you’re coming back, goddammit. No one and nothing else matters because this is your destiny, this is where you belong, and you’ll not fall flat on your face, because fate is not, under any circumstance, a twisted bitch.

~*~The camera doesn’t back off or lose focus. It holds tight on Manhattan White’s face, but we see that Manhattan stands.~*~

MW: There’s a running theme with this main event match. All five of my competitors suffer from a sense of entitlement. Rico thinks the match is his because he’s already the champion. He believes that the match is his, that the title will stay with him, because he’s already the champion and everyone else is beneath him. Sally thinks the title is hers because talent and time served is on her side, that her grace and balance will carry her through, because she’s a real wrestler. Jason Kash prays to the gods of ganja and badassery, knowing full well that they’ll carry him to the winner’s circle in a haze of green smoke, because all of his hard work and preparation will get him through the night. Mike Morrison is fucking lost in a character that he doesn’t even begin to comprehend, that he so-called insanity will win the match for him. Apparently crazy equals talent. And Tommy Knoxville seems to think that just because this is his grand return to the ring, that’s been going on for months now, that it is his right to win.

Champions never lose, talent and time served never fails to coincidence and youth, a clear mind and skill can’t defeat Kash’s overdone persona, acting silly is never looked upon as a waste of time, and comebacks never end in defeat. That’s what we’re lead to believe if you listen to this cast of competitors. What do I believe in? What case am I pleading? What platform or stance am I taking when I enter that ring? What is my campaign promise for One Night in Hell?

~*~Manhattan White whips the towel off his head and throws it off camera.~*~

MW: My name is Manhattan White and everyone has already written me off as a joke. Because I’m new to this company, because I’m knew to this industry, because everyone still thinks I’m an unknown, that I don’t have a snowball’s chance at getting past one opponent, let alone making it all of the way to the end of this match and winning. No one’s really seen what I can do yet. Everyone’s already forgotten that in my first match, I retired a staple in this company. And to be true, to be completely honest, I don’t think that’s something that guarantees a win for me. Just because I beat Bobby Bodacious and he hasn’t been heard from since doesn’t mean I’ll win. But he thought his career, his longevity up against my non-existent win earned him a win too.

There are no guarantees here. We’re just six people thumping our chests, talking shit on one another, trying to get in each other’s heads, praying that will be the edge that stands behind us in our respective corners when that starting bell rings. I promise nothing. I’m not expecting to win, I’m not standing before you believing that on Monday morning that title will be draped somewhere near my hotel room, watching over me while I sleep. I’m not running to the bookie Sunday morning and betting my life savings on Manhattan White. In a match like the Xtreme Elimination Chamber, anything can happen. Shit, Mike Morrison could be the very first competitor to do battle, and survive all of the way through and win the whole thing.

~*~Now the camera backs away from his face. We see that Manhattan White has been inside a wrestling ring this entire time. Surrounding him are the bodies of sparring partners and staff and customers of the gym he’s been in. They’re all unconscious, bleeding and broken. Weapons are scattered around the gym, broken and smashed to pieces. The smile on Manhattan White’s face widens and he limps a little toward the ropes, getting closer to the camera.~*~

MW: What I can guarantee is that Manhattan White is walking down that aisle on Sunday Night. He’s climbing into that Elimination Chamber and he’s going to give everything that he has. It isn’t because there’s some false sense of entitlement, or some grand illusion that the fame will make me any less empty. I don’t think that some façade that I’ve conjured is going to carry me through. I’m going to give the fans, this company, all of it because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else to be. That’s how I got out of where I grew up and became a successful, six-figure earning, well-adjusted contributor of society. And that is what will determine how far I make it in this business. Maybe I’ll become Champion on Sunday night, or maybe I’ll suffer some sort of injury that I’ll never recover from. Or perhaps I’ll figure out that I’m in way over my head and dawdle around in mid-card status until the company figures out that they can’t do anything with me, release me, and use my salary to fund some poorly made action movie starring Pence Weatherlight, or godforbid, C.J. Gates.

What I do know is that Rico, Sally, Tommy, Jason, and Mike need to be ready. They need to shut their mouths and come prepared. Because that’s what I’m doing. I’m walking down that aisle tomorrow night, and standing toe to toe with five other people; five people with no advantages, five people with no edge, five people with their own talents and circumstance on their sides. And I’m coming to that ring prepared to not be able to walk back out. That isn’t hysteria talking. It isn’t me thinking that I deserve something. I somewhat lucked my way into this match after Knoxville and I came to a draw and there were two empty spots still in this match. But I’m here now and you’re all going to have to deal with me. And if Hell and high water both come, so be it. Because I’ll stare each and every one of you in the face, I’ll look you all in the eye. You all think I’m some nobody, some joke over-stepping my bounds. After tomorrow night, everyone around the world will know the name…

~*~The scene fades to black and two words burn their way through the darkness.~*~

MANHATTAN WHITE