...the lines you amend...
[[San Francisco]]
[[Ten-oh-three in the morning]]
[[The life of a professional wrestler is not without its perks. One of which is the absence of a need to get up in the morning and trudge off to an office somewhere. This in turn saves on a hell of a lot of stress when it comes to annoying coworkers, annoying clients and annoying office politics.]]
[[It also eliminates the need to get up and go in the morning. Angelica - she's not a morning person. Nine is the same as the crack of dawn for her. She's not lazy, just more effective as the day wears on. She works out at night. Reads. Studies. Reads some more. Right now that's what she's doing. Again - no book cover. You're in the dark.]]
[[You're always in the dark.]]
Angelica: So. Let me review Joe. Your friends in high school - obviously not the sharpest melon ballers in the drawer - name you Joe Boxer because your first name is Joe and you're the only boxer in your circle of friends. They name you after a brand of mens underwear, because... well, they're typical teenagers who are typically limited to boob and fart jokes. And then you, embarking on a professional wrestling career, deciding that you hate your own name, decide that you would be better served by keeping said nickname.
And this contradicts the fact that you're a complete idiot how? Oh right, the lame sex joke about breaking me on men's underwear that didn't really make much sense! Right, how could I forget.
Face it Joe. You're outclassed. By me, by Kellie, by Lisa, by Aarya. Hell, even Protean being silent is outclassing you. It's just that easy.
You see Joe, there's a difference between let's say Surge making a lame sex joke because I'm a woman, and me making fun of you because of the innane, childish, and, dare I say it, copyright infringing-upon name that you chose. Notice a difference there. You chose your dumb name, unless you mean to tell me your high-school chums held a gun to your head and forced you to choose it.
Choice.
It's a funny thing. When you make a bad choice, I get to call you on it. Don't like it? Tough shit. Make better choices.
[[Back to Shawn. Does this guy ever let things lie? Does Ang?]]
Shawn, one of these days you'll learn to quit while you're ahead. Or, you know, not quite as far behind as you will be after you open your mouth. Because every time you start putting words into sentences, you start losing ground.
You see Shawn, it doesn't really matter that you pretend not to care that I called you on exploiting your dead friend to get a bit sympathy from the crowd. What matters is that your legions upon legions of fans - and by that I mean all two of them - now know that you are nothing but a half-assed hack who needs the tragedy of a loved ones death to make a point.
[[New target. Vicious.]]
Travis. Well I guess I struck a nerve. That's okay. Like you said - I'm here to antagonize. I'm here to cause problems. I'm here to mess up your self-image, to challenge your indulgent philosophies with a touch of reality. I'm here to stir the pot, as it were. But me and my personality, as much as it seems to grate on you, doesn't change the truth of what I say. That car crash. A news report televised live to the LWF public. Next thing you know you come on television all piss and vinegar and start talking about idiots driving stolen cars over black ice and using big words in an effort to make your vocabulary look big, even if you don't know what those words mean.
Have you looked up the definition of scapegoat yet?
You just buried the most important thing in your life? Great. Then what the fuck are you doing on T.V. cutting meaningless promos? Wait - because it's your sport. Because it's how you cope. Right. And I'm Mother Theresa come back from the dead.
The bottom line is, Travis, that no matter what you are profiting from your loved ones death. I don't know - maybe you didn't intend for it to work out this way. But I don't buy it. I've been there. Like you said, back when Gabby was fighting in the PWA the camera was there all the time. At her behest and at mine. I was different then. So was she. So was wrestling. Hell, I remember a certain wrestler killing himself on video-tape to the strains of "Rent" for the ratings. So yeah, I was a bit of a drama queen. So was everyone else. Do you know what me having walked in your shoes means though?
I know what it's like.
You called it selling the drama. Making things interesting. You just go that extra step. Sure - maybe you've got the good sense not to let someone video-tape you at her grave site with the sad cliche single rose or what have you. But you're still there. Selling the drama. Taking her name and using it for every drop of sympathy it's worth.
You want to prove to me, to the world, that you're not just some media whore? You want to prove me wrong?
Don't mention her. Ever again. If she didn't exist, if you didn't let her get involved before this, why start now? Just drop the subject. I promise I'll tow the line. You leave her out of this, and I'll leave her out too. I'll move on with my life. You bring her in, you mention her name, how much you hurt inside because she's dead, and she's fair game again.
Simple enough isn't it?
Oh, and by the way, that bit about breaking my arm? Cute. It ain't happening though. Because the minute you think you have me cinched in tight, the minute you think you've got me beaten, is the minute that it all falls away and you find yourself on your back. Better men than you have tried to break my arm Vicious. They failed. You will too. Because as much as you want to be, as much as you pretend to be, you're not. You're nothing.
[[Fade]]