The American Dream (ALL)

[johnmwhite]

--It's a new day in REW. A cold day, a quiet day, a day where little is happening. The air stands still outside the Starmaker arena, chilled by the curtain of winter that swiftly falls. Inside, the empty halls and vacant stands leave room for frosted air to stretch its legs, lounging lazily in its own solitude. No one has been here for a while. No one is likely to come again soon. The holidays have killed the crowd, drawing their eyes away from out morality play to the real life dramas of family, food and... football.--

Voice: Through early morning fog I see...

--A voice sings quietly, soft yet sharp, shattering the silence. A whistle accompanies, ringing the halls with a creepy echo, like the ominous peel of a church bell. To the beat of the tune comes a click; the sound of wood hitting a concrete floor. Panning down to the empty arena, we see a lone figure striding through the seats as though walking across the sea. He perches in the third row, purple sports coat a spark of colour in the dingy auditorium. John Michael White flashes his devilish grin, looking out at the dusty canvas of the ring.--

John Michael White: At our last event, a certain somebody laid down the law. He warned us we best start pulling our weight, or we would be facing the business end of his Buster Sword. And then... where did our SOLDIER boy go? What's the matter, Cloud? Wolverine got your tongue? They certainly got your balls...

--John Michael White adjusts his grip on his cane. As he moves around his jacket falls open, revealing a blue sweatshirt with a large maize M in the centre.--

John Michael White: But that is besides the point. You, it appears, expect us to do all the work here. You expect us to pick someone we don't like, or someone we do, and bully, cajole, besmirch or outright attack them, generating conflict and driving issues that give you some idea of what the hell kind of matches to book. Why, it's almost as if you were under the mistaken impression that you run some kind of wrestling federation!

Make no mistake, Cloud: You do not run anything. I won't sit here and lay out the same old spiel from yet another old-timer who thinks because he has gold and a list of accomplishments a mile long, he's actually the one in power. That old story is worn as thin as the tread on a Buckeye's back tyres, if you know what I mean. The fact is at this point there is nothing left for us to run. Not you, not I, not Holiday and not Jaxson Kyzer, not even the Standard Blake Worship. And didn't he used to be the Better Pick? Now he is merely standard... says it all, I suppose.

You see, that is the standard we face now. Turn up, make a lot of noise, get in the face of the world champion. Or in Blake's case, get your face burned off by the world champion. Whatever, let's not split hairs. It's simply that we are walking the same paths, following the same beat, going round and round on an ever-shrinking wheel. And I am repeating myself again. I have said this several times before. You can probably tell my now that I am tired of this dance and I want to go home. But the night is young... so let us change the music.

--John Michael White raises his cane, pointing out toward the ring.--

John Michael White: In that ring you will see four of the most accomplished competitors this world has known, facing off in the confines of a cell, for the highest prize this game knows: bragging rights. And you know what? I don't care.

--The REW World Champion and longest reigning Ring Wars World Champion and man with a 100% record against Aaron Holiday and... you get the idea. He's good. Just never good enough to be satisfied, it seems.--

John Michael White: What will we accomplish, come the end? When the smoke clears and they wash down the chickenwire and mop up the blood and teeth and chunks of flesh... when they finally get the burning smell out of the building... what will we say? If I win, will Jaxson Kyzer still say he's been kicking my ass for years? I don't think I have even seen him in years, and I do not recall looking at the lights at any point with him leaning over me. And Blake Worship... there's a man I have revenged upon several times for what he did to me. And still, like Jesus on the cross, I thirst.

--The lawyer sighs. With only the cold light of dawn upon him, spilling in from the high windows at the top of the auditorium, his bald head and angled face look scarred and weary.--

John Michael White: We all know where we will be in 2012, gentlemen. Whoever wins and whoever loses, we will not take our lumps, we will not lick our wounds. We will not acquiesce to the better man. We will deflect, deny, demand revenge. Whoever loses, none of us wins. But... I have a cunning plan.

--JMW raises his cane, pointing it to the sky.--

John Michael White: I'm not coming. I'm not turning up. The tag team match of the decade can limp along on three wheels, because John Michael White is through. The fact is, gentlemen, none of you excite me any more. The bloodlust, the hunger, I won't deny it's still there. That deep desire to outwit, outflank, outthink an opponent and wrestle them into submission with my mind and body in perfect concert still screams like an addiction just bubbling beneath the surface. But you're not ever going to be enough of a fix. And you're only really interested in me because you know me, you know I will provide the fix that you so desperately seek as well. The gold is almost immaterial at this point - you want me an Aaron Holiday because there is no one else you could countenance fighting. To be more accurate, there is no one else you could countenance losing to.

--The REW World Champion taps his cane on the concrete floor, shaking his head.--

John Michael White: Prove me wrong. I don't want to be the king of a crumbling castle. I don't want to be constantly looking over my shoulder and seeing the same three faces. I am tired of the past haunting me. If we are to fight, it is time we fought for the future. If you want me to consider fighting in this spectacle you envision, I want one iron-clad guarantee: you're here for the long haul. Which means, quite simply, if you want to be in the ring with the champions, you have to earn it. Climb the ladder, rise up the ranks, deal with the plebs you barely acknowledge even exist: the rest of the roster. And what's more, I want you to respect them.

That's it, my friends. That's what we did back in the old days, and since you are so desperate to relive them, let's do it properly.

--The lawyer reaches into his top pocket and takes out a cigar. He lights it with a deft flick of his fingers, sending smoke into the grey morning air.--

John Michael White: It's time you made something of yourselves again. Call it my American Dream: You can be at the top of the card too, but you have to work for it. And if you don't earn it, you don't get it. You come out here and give me the same crap about how great you used to be and how no one else can touch you, and I will walk... or limp... away from this place right here and right now. So what'll it be, boys?

TBC by ?

[Blake Worship]

The scene opens in an office suite atop the Golden Towers. On one side of the room, a TV displays John M. White cutting a promo in the StarMaker Arena, a world below the office in which said TV now plays. Behind the lone cherry red mahogany in the room sits a large executive armchair, turned towards the window at the rest of existence. As JMW's promo comes to an end, the chair fidgets a bit, alluding to the presence of life within it, out of view.


You ready...?


The voice is deep and fear-inspiring, and REW lead cameraman Harvey stumbles a bit from his once sure position to answer it.


Harvey: *ahem*! Um, uh-yeah! Rolling in 3, 2,... [points at the chair]


Knowing his cue, the chair slowly turns to reveal none other than The Standard Blake Worship. He is dressed casually in a gray hooded sweatshirt covered by a Nike tracksuit, a stark contrast to the lush office that surrounds him. Blake's face, while also mostly hairless in recovery from JMW's attack, is stoic, looking dead into the camera as though looking into the eyes of one his former students... or victims...


Worship: As you all may have noticed, I haven't exactly done a whole lot of... talking... since I made my return. And with good reason, because as I said in one of my few statements upon showing up, my mere presence demands attention. Which brings me to the man this full service announcement is directed to. The rest of you at home, feel free to watch at your leisure if you wish, but there is only one whose attention need be at full capacity, and that is one John M. White.


Blake looks down at the desk in front of him, unable to hide a slight smirk before looking back up at the camera, bringing up his clasped hands to rest his bottom lip on for a moment before continuing.


Worship: You see, I was quiet for a reason. Not only because I knew I need not speak to get attention, but also because the truly frightened and weak would speak for me. The rookies and mid-carders will look on in awe and in earnest, either seeing the perfect target to "make a name" for themselves on, or the perfect example of a ringer whose path they should avoid at all costs. The veterans will grimace at their pitiful luck, and the greats will merely chuckle at how interesting things have suddenly become. Men who don't run from a fight but embrace it. And then there's that... special breed... the type who sense fear from miles away like a dog runs from a hurricane. We fear what we cannot change, what we cannot stop... and JMW cannot stop ME.


Worship drops his arms down folded upon the desk, his face now stern, concentrated.


Worship: This is the part where I list all the ways in which John M. White is, as we say where I'm from, bitch-made. Let's start with my return. As JMW puts it, "Turn up, make a lot of noise, get in the face of the world champion." Well, I did turn up, that much is true. As for the noise, the crowd took care of that for me, because once again, I DID NOT SPEAK. And quite frankly, I haven't kept tabs on this place enough to know OR care who the fuck the World Champion even is. Shit, I only read the Title History the other day for kicks, which by the way lists C.A. Slater as the World Champion. I guess I've returned just in time for another lawyer-run tyranny, because clearly things are not on the up-and-up.

Worship: Anyway, so what does this "World Champion" do as soon as he sees me? He spits whiskey in my face and lights me on fire. Cute. And for what? To "show me who's boss"? No... because underneath all his pretty words and clever games John is naught but a petty scared old man who weasels his way to the top and uses whatever despicable loophole he can to cling to it. A man who revels in the glory days of old and plays as if he's still up to snuff, when in reality he has to attack defenseless men just to stay a step ahead. But hey, that's REW for you, right?


Blake half-smiles as he poses his question, only for it to fade back into his stern and now slightly perturbed expression.


Worship: Or is it? Is Real Extreme Wrestling the place where men turn fancy words into greatness? Is it the place where we distort the facts to suit ourselves, rather than let our ring prowess do all the talking? Is it the place where pseudo-powerful men make stipulations, as if the world gives a damn? In JMW's mind, it is. So let's set the record straight.

Worship: For one thing, shut the fuck up about Ring Wars. That place is dead, and until it comes back as it once was, which will likely never happen, it doesn't need be spoken about. This is R-E-W, the place where I--let me say it again--I, as in me? That's right, ME! I, and only I, hold the longest REW World Title reign in this fed, and that is--count'em up you pompous fuck--SIX months! And I defended that title more times than months that I held it, while you've defended it less and with less pride. Your skills don't win for you, your mouth does. For that reason and that alone I am not The Better Pick Blake Worship, but The Standard Blake Worship. The man crowned by Scotty Raven himself with the nickname "Mr. REW". The man who can move from guest appearance to Main Event at the drop of a hat, not because I shun grunt work or discount other ringers, but because I'm JUST THAT DAMN GOOD!


Worship is borderline bestial now, one hand pressed firmly into his desk, nails digging into the cherry-colored wood.


Worship: So don't try and sit around like you're God's gift to this place, when it was ringers like ME, like Jayson Ray, like CloudStrife, like T-Money, hell even like Jaxson Kyzer... it was ringers like THAT that made this place worth even fucking coming to. YOU'RE HERE because of the name ringers like US made for REW. To hear someone like fucking YOU speak to someone like ME, about... "being in it for the long haul"...? Boy, I oughta slap the taste out yo damn mouth, bitch are you blind?! The only reason you're not a "pleb" down there with the rest of them now is because I haven't been around this place long enough to stomp you quietly into nothingness. Your existence this long in my domain is surprising at most, but still, ultimately... ill-fated. The only thing that remains now, is how you wish to begin your funeral. We can have our fight, and let the people who made "this" show the people who think they run "this" that they really don't run shit. Or, we can skip all the antics and get right down to fighting for the rights to the reign you foolishly and unrightfully claim, just for shits and giggles. The same WHT that, by the way, even if you were still the World Champion right now, you'd need to hold until December 26th of this year to equal six months. By my math, you're about due for a World Title defense pretty soon, ain'tcha? By golly you are!

Worship: So now what?! Scream bloody murder! Cry wolf! Read some ancient tome from the 60 B.C.s about how common social and professional protocols don't warrant such blatant affront upon your title, personage and reputation! I DON'T GIVE A FUCK! At the end of the day, for all the shit you talk, the person most deserving of that belt is ME! I've done my dirty work, I made this shithole fun for fucks like you to join up and think you're the one that "made it special". Bitch please... my McDonald's binge shits are more special than you. Of course, this is the part where you whine about me doing exactly what you didn't want to hear, as if I was ever supposed to listen to some shit YOU told me to do in the first place. So go on then, limp away. Thereby summing up just how in fact bitch-made you are. Meanwhile, ringers like myself, Jaxson... the real living catalysts around here to this place's success... we'll be at the top of every card or somewhere close, because that's the way it's always been, and that's the way it's always gonna be. No matter what you do, John, pretty soon I'll remind this fed that I, Blake Worship, am The Standard by which all else is measured... and you, JMW?


You just don't stack up.


Fade to black...


TBC...?