Interlude

Interlude

::Disclaimer:: The following has been published by an XWF Staff writer and is the sole opinion and views of the writer.

"How it All Ends"

This is a story of a man who thought he could rule the world.

We begin where all things begin -- at the beginning. Our "Hero" is a man with short, dark hair, grizzled stubble and deep, purple bags under his eyes. He sits down at his locker, dressed in his ring gear, ice pack strapped to each limb. He's trying to ice himself down and get ready for what may be the fight of his life.

Take a moment, if you will, and look at this man carefully.

Do you notice the sagging of his jawline? The purple bags under his eyes?

Do you notice how, despite everyone else in the room, that this man sits in the corner, alone, with his head lowered, and does not move?

He sits there, yes, and he is thinking. His hands are knitted close together in closed, white knuckled fists. They're folded in his lap. 

And he's looking for all the world like a broken down Timex that refuses to lie still and die.

But that's the point, he thinks. That's the point of being a man, of being a professional wrestler. This is a man that believes that the world is his for the taking. That if he could find the right niche, to find the right combination, the door that blocks his progress would open wide like his girlfriend Velvet's legs, and welcome him into sweet, supple warmth of acceptance. 

But what does he really believe?

The man leans -- lurches -- forward in his steel chair. The entire locker room buzzing by him in a state of controlled chaos. Everyone barely able to contain themselves. This is an exciting night where futures and destinies become intertwined and entangled into one massive web of uncertainty.

This is the night where one false move, where one missed opportunity, can spell the difference between success and utter failure.

This is the night where one man who has never accomplished anything, who went through his life sleep walking his way into status, can now finally arise and become the man the man he always believed he could be.

This is Saturday Night Impact.

And this man is Michael James.

But what does he believe?

Does he believe he can beat Angelus? No doubt he does. He has to, right? Why else would he be so eager to proclaim that the XWF management has made a gross error in the booking of this match?

So, what's the problem then? Why does Michael James look so sad, so unassuming, so, dare this author say, downright defeated?

The answer may be more saddening than you believe, faithful reader.

You see, for the first time since he stepped through the doors of this great company, Michael James was the pinnacle of mediocrity. He inherited the moniker of the "Personification of Perfection" simply by telling himself that he was better than the next guy. 

But if this writer is being honest, Michael James is far from perfect and since he considers himself a stats geek, a 6-1 record, albeit respectable, is hardly anything to write home about to the length of pure puffery the James camp has been running with lately.

Think about it for a moment, dear reader.

Michael James is a man who prides himself on mediocrity. He's a man who believes that just "giving it your best shot" or "eating the willpower of men" is all you'll ever need to be successful in professional wrestling. Michael James is a man who the best wrestler the world of wrestling has ever seen…

…in his own mind.

So why is it that he sits there, concentrating on keeping his aching joints in check? Concentrating on how exactly he's going to put away Angelus, a man that is younger, stronger, and faster then he'll ever be? 

What is Michael James going to do when he realizes that for all the bells and whistles that he has, he's just not good enough to stop a man like Angelus?

Dear reader, I think you see Michael James as I do. Do you see it?

In James, this writer does not see a man, nor does he see competition for any other of the XWF talent roster. Instead, this writer sees a thing that has been worn out and abused. A poor, simple creature that has had the proverbial carrot dangled in front of his hungry, dilated eyes for far too long.

This writer sees Michael james as a man that is so devastated by the truth of himself that he buries it as far deep inside as he can. That way he doesn't have to look at it when he sees himself in the mirror.

This truth you ask? The truth is quite simple.

Michael James doesn't have it.

When the history of the XWF is written, and when all the scholars gather 'round to discuss the best that the company has offered, this writer guarantees you that the name Michael James will not find itself onto that list.

This writer thinks deep down inside, Michael James himself knows this to be true. He knows it and this is why he's afraid, faithful reader. He's afraid to admit the truth. 

It's a sad truth, isn't it? To see a man like Michael james, so determined to make his mark. So determined to have his name become synonymous with legend. To want and believe that people will still be talking about him and his accomplishments for years to come.

It must be a hard, bitter pill to swallow. But in honesty, dear reader, it is a pill he must swallow.

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Episode Four

Subject: Angelus

Date recorded: 12/21/12

Location: En route to Wilkes Barre, PA

Okay, last time, has anyone seen Christian Lost or Yan Yungsung?

I checked the obituaries this morning and didn't see their names. It saddened me that Lost's family would probably get all seven dollars in his checking account and Yan's family would just get a broken Sega Genesis and a ring worn Michael James jock strap.

I guess that just leaves you and I, Mike.

Am I sick of you yet? No, I find you amusing. I also find you delusional, but that's a story for another time. That sound you think you hear of people rushing to hear what you have to say? It's actually people turning the volume down or shutting you out like I do when I see you're talking.

No one cares, Mike.

You're boring.

A snooze fest.

And if you think anyone has to earn respect from you you're more delusional than I thought.

I can't believe anyone lets you waste so much tape as you just talk, and talk, and talk…

And talk.

Who you trying to convince, Mike?

Me or yourself?

Or maybe you're trying to convince your little harlot who just nods yes to everything you say because she can't think for herself.

Random thought, Mike. How old are you? Fifty? Fifty-five? I'm just guessing based on how haggard you look. And are you really trying to use the word "douche nozzle" in a sentence? 

Is that you being hip? I know you like to smoke cigarettes like you're the cool kid in class and you got those sweet sunglasses you like to wear at all times because your future is so bright, but seriously, Michael.

You're too old. Too tired. Too out of touch with reality.

Let it go. Lay down. Go be the old dog that has to die under the porch.

I'll send a nice gift basket to your girlfriend there, Velveeta Cheese or whatever the hell her name is.

This is my message for you, Mike. No matter how much you want to believe you live the life of a true champion, it's a fantasy. You have no storybook ending where you're holding the gold. There is no manifest destiny.

I want you to realize that, Michael, before you step into the ring with me on December 23rd.

This isn't make believe.

This is real life. There is no fantasy here. There are no vibrant color, no pixies, and no chance in hell of you walking out of Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania with another notch in the win column.

Take it for what it's worth, Mike. Because in the end, when I finally put you down, when you're left looking up at me with the crystal clear realization in your eyes, I want you to thank me.

I want you to thank me for beating some sense into you. 

I want you to thank me for bringing you back down to Earth.

You should be happy, Mike. No need for that little tough guy scowl of yours.

You have so much to look forward to.

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