[JoeBoXeR]

Singles Match
Jamie Flynn vs. Ronald Gay

(Normal RP Rules Apply)

[Mickey]

Desire. Fading.

So not too long ago, I got this letter from a long-time fan. After divulging trivial pieces of personal information for my consumption, he asked me one simple question; "Where do I get my ego from?"

A curious thought.

There's an echo that rains down from his words, piercing the light with an edge of darkness. Even his most subtle of allusions carry a scathing sharpness that few armors can reflect. There's nothing curious about these words, except for the ignorance of those who speak them.

Maybe it was the months I went undefeated? I'm sure there was enough success there for me to brandish some bravado, and maybe I even tucked some away for future use.

Of course, anyone who went back an watched me speak even a sentence can tell you I never boasted about any one victory, let alone consecutive ones. Oh, sure, I had to rebut a couple of misinformed persons from time to time.. But the fact is a couple of strung together wins isn't special enough to get me all aflutter.

Maybe I found ego in carrying Kyle Stevenson up to tag-team gold? Everyone and their brother shook their heads in disbelief when I pulled that one off, right?

I didn't. I never doubted that team for a second, even after I took the blame for our sole loss at an Unsanctioned pay per view. That wasn't a feat to behold, that was two men working together for a common goal. Nothing more.

Wait, I know.. Must be that hall of fame induction, right? Such an honor is bound to go to any man's head. Gotta believe that at the very least its vindication for a storied career.

Not this story. Not this career.

I put that plaque on e-Bay soon as I could. Not because I hold some kind of disdain for this federation - far from it. I hold this federation in quiet esteem. I did it because I can't allow myself to indulge in a gluttonous feast of praise, and continue on with all the weight that brings with it. I don't do this so that others can shower me with approval. If you want a gold star for your effort, fine. Take it. Tell yourself that everything you've done has been worthwhile and that you're a real go-getter. How many feel so glorified when others erupt at the mere mention of their name? How many find their ego in paltry awards and leather and gold placebos?

Where do I get my ego? Before you ask me that question; you better find some, bitch.

Falling down in circles as he passes overhead. An uncorrupted chorus of dignity sung by angels who have never wavered from their path.

The fact is that my anonymous fan and too many others have put me up on this pedestal solely to justify their own shortcomings. They can't fathom how one man can have so much success where they have found so little - and yet never be satisfied. All they want is a taste. They yearn for it so badly, they think surely I've had my fill. Never. I've never once cooled my lips with that ambrosia. Am I a lyrical demi-god? Certainly there are those out there who think so. In reality I use simple logic and make a priori arguments against the fallacious accusations others put against me. Am I the pinnacle of athletic prowess?

If that were the case, I could've taken on Phoenix and every one of his lackeys that night to emerge a champion for the ages.

How many more of you need to affix yourselves to my name to carry it up a little higher?

How many want to drag me down into the filth you call home just so you can say "he lives here, too"?

The fact is that everyone here has a choice. Settle and fall in line with all the rest, or set your sights for something higher. Don't be satisfied with what I do, carve out your own name or your own image. Otherwise, I will break you down as swiftly as I'm billed to do. Ronald Gay. So starving for some semblance of direction you call upon Ian to set you strait. Do you carry yourself with so little confidence? Are you that unable to tell when your best isn't good enough you need someone else to tell you? You're certainly not alone if that's the case. I suppose at some time or another most of this promotion has looked to someone else for guidance or reassurance. A pat on the back or a hug or maybe a simple nod in their direction.

None of that is going to put my shoulders to the mat. The level that Ian holds you to is fucking dog shit when stacked against the level of physicality I hold myself to week in and week out. You can think what you want about my claims, but the history more than justifies me when I say that no bar is ever high enough for me. Any time I see it raised I work steadfastly to raise it even moreso. An inch. And then another inch. Higher and then when I'm done I start all over again. That's how I live my life.

So look to Ian or look to god if you think his judgment will serve you better. But if you take nothing else from this week, remember this.

Where any number of athletes with my résumé could come in and downplay everything you've ever done and everything you haven't... I won't. I'll give you every benefit of the doubt and assume that you are the better athlete. I will work and train believing that you are the better man and that you won't hesitate to break me in half to attain your desires.

If my assumptions prove false and you bring any less than that? You won't be able to leave Rampage under your own power. That's a fucking promise.

You're still fading away.

[Emperor Ian]

Bud Adams stands backstage.

Bud: Hello folks, I'm standing with the preacher of the PWA, Ronald Gay. Thanks for being here Ronald.

Ronald: My pleasure Bud.

Bud: Joining him is his manager, Emperor Ian.

Ian: I told you guys last week, it's just Ian.

Bud: My apology.

Ian: And I'm glad that at least you remember that I am Ronny's manager now. Apparently, certain folks haven't been paying attention. In fact, I just recently received an offer from a powerful man to be my manager. I probably would have taken up the son of a bitches offer except for one little thing: I'm in a fucking wheelchair! Unless there is some paraplegic division I don't know about, I can't fucking wrestle. And barring some kind of miracle from Ronald's buddy, I'll never wrestle again.

Bud: Well I'm sorry about that-

Ian: Save it.

Bud: But at least you have a job managing Ronald Gay. I know it must be disappointing to have lost the chance at a shot at the t.v. title-

Ian: That's the what, second time...no third, third time he's had a chance to earn a title shot. And for the third time, he failed. That's who I'm managing. But hey, it's not like I did too much better. At least this week, there is nothing at stake.

Ronald: Well I wouldn't say nothing. I still have pride on the line.

Bud: Well-

Ian: Isn't pride a sin Ron?

Ronald: Well yes, but I...but there's a difference between the sin of pride and this kind of pride. The sin comes from overdoing it. Pride, like alcohol or eating junk food, is acceptable in moderation. The problem is that folks too often don't know when to say when.

Bud: Well-

Ian: Eh you'll probably just lose again anyway.

Bud: This week, you-

Ronald: That's a great attitude you have there Ian. I'm sure glad that I hired you to work for me. You're worth every penny.

Bud: Guys please!

Ian: What?

Bud: This week, Ronald takes on the returning Jaime Flynn, a former intercontinental, television, and tag team champion. This is a great opportunity to rebound from that stinging defeat. You two need to stay united if you want to have a chance to win.

Ronald: We are united, Bud. Sometimes even the strongest of foundations have their share of tremors.

Ian: Yeah, I just get a little grouchy every now and again.

Ronald: I admit I don't know all that much about my opponent. However, I would say that he is the position of being the one with something to prove. We have seen a good deal of talent come into the promotion, and many of those fellas did not last too long. Vitaly Petrov, Kyle Stevenson, SeVen, Joshua Danielson, Blazenwing's wife or whoever she was, the Wishing Star, and several others.

Ian: Trent Bradley.

Ronald: Yes, him too. Lots of folks who thought they could make it here, for the first time or a second, third, fourth run. However, they ended up crashing and burning. So I hope you understand Jimmy.

Bud: Jaime.

Ronald: Jaime, I hope you understand that I am just a little skeptical. Now this doesn't mean that you can't get the duke in our encounter. Kyle Stevenson was able to capture the money in the bank victory. Of course there were several competitors in that bout, and things got quite chaotic in there. He was able to take advantage of other wrestlers battling each other, and not focusing on him too much. You won't have that help this week. There was also of course Deacon Frost last week. He is a pretty big man though, much bigger than you.

Bud: So you don't think that he'll stick around?

Ronald: I don't know Bud. I hope he does, we've lost too many people already. And soon either Hayes or Engel will be gone as well. By the way, I glad that Jethro is back to his old self, though I can't fully trust him yet.

Bud: Well I'm afraid we are about out of time.

Ian: We just got here.

Bud: Well I have to go.

Ronald: Go where?

Bud clutches his stomach.

Bud: See ya later.

He runs off.

Ronald: Well that was rather rude.

Ian: I think he's about to shit his pants.

Ronald: Ian!

Ian: I just call them as I see them. Let's get outta here.

Ronald: Alright. God bless you all and you all bless God.

Ian: Amen.

fade out.

[Mickey]

Ignorance. Screaming.

In my time drifting through this industry, its become pretty much commonplace for me to hear people basically vomiting nonsense and hypocrisy on the air. After all, this is a sport built on ego. You have to sell your hype and if people aren't buying it you aren't working much longer.

So those without the substance to back up their claims need to exaggerate and elaborate with half-truths and un-truths. I suppose that's why this week as I set myself to return to competition I'm pleasantly surprised that Ronald Gay has taken the road less traveled: He made a completely factual statement and then backed it up accordingly. Which was that?

Well, he said he doesn't know anything about me.

Footsteps in the distance. There's an echo in the air that's been hovering just above the surface. Where his words echo purity, others descend further into disgust.

And I'll be god damned if he didn't do everything in his power to prove that's exactly the case. From the moment he pretended to forget my name it was quite obvious he finds happiness in self-ordained ignorance. But that's not even the half of it. He compares my athletic prowess and overall talent to the guys he's faced lately. Who? Namely Deacon Frost and Kyle Stevenson.

Lord have mercy.

Listen up, sport. You want to stack me up and measure my prowess against guys like that? Go ahead. Its bad comedy. Like when Matthew Engel wears aviator sunglasses. Sure, we all laugh. But we're laughing on the inside, and most importantly, we're laughing in disgust.

Its not an encouraging sight to behold at all as you cast me to the wayside and dive into a pool of naiveté. To think that a cretin like you managed to catch Jacob Seldon off guard and pick up a win, its almost an embarrassment to every three-count I've ever laid claim to. But instead of riding some kind of momentum off a victory like that, you've pacified yourself with a crippled, dimwitted manager and squandered a title contendership opportunity. Then, you stare right into the heart of a golden opportunity. Jamie Flynn, the name you either pretend to be ignorant to or maybe you were just terrified and forgot. Jamie Flynn stares you down this week and you don't just blink.. You shrug your shoulders and roll your eyes and brand yourself a pathetic, lackadaisical little bitch who obviously doesn't give two shits about putting in any amount of time or effort to better himself and his career.

Hell, why put forth the work, right? You can just pay a cripple whose career never took off to "manage" you in the right direction? Heaven forbid you objectively assess yourself and your paltry technical skills yourself.

I told you point blank how hard I work on this and any other given week. Marathon training sessions. Hours of tape. I keep balance with a vivid social life. I live this fucking sport. You want to downplay who I am and pretend this match means nothing to you? Do you remember what I said about how hard I was going to break you in half if you did that? If you came with anything less than your best?

Fine, bitch. Ask god to save you when you're pulled back in sheer agony and my knee presses down on your vertebrae.

I've got anywhere from four to seven seconds of leeway after you tap before the ref will disqualify. I plan on using every last fucking one of them.

Look for god in those seven seconds and let me know what he tells you. Let me know what you find.

You want to be skeptical of me? Tell me why. Break down my mannerisms and my behavior. Do you honestly see anything but the tenacity of a man who has broken down countless men and women in this sport to attain his ambitions? Deny me whatever you want, it doesn't make a difference. I don't need vindication from people like you who can't think or act for themselves. What I do want is to believe if even for a moment that everything I do is worth it in some form. That the tirelessly hours I grind away to better myself and raise the bar aren't being squandered on some piss-ant who can't even respect himself; let alone the man standing across from me.

You deny me that? I'll end your miserable career before you have a chance to desecrate yourself or this sport any further. Believe in that my friend.

You're still fading away.