Post by Chris Card on Aug 26, 2017 19:19:13 GMT
I hear them. I hear the voices of malcontents around the locker room. I hear the clamour of the ill educated and bitter. “We have worked hard, slaved at our craft to enter a tournament as prestigious as Heir To The Throne. Why does the new face in the federation, a man who has beaten nothing but two of the finest ceiling inspectors the IWF employs, get that final place?” Obviously not using the purple prose as yours truly is capable of generating but I’m sure you get the general idea. So why am I in the qualifying match, staring opportunity in the face and welcoming its beckoning stare? Because I, Chris Card, have found myself in the right place at the right time. And those who have followed my career for at least a few of the years previous to my IWF debut will nod sagely in agreement when I add one more word for seasoning to that sentence. I have found myself in the right place at the right time… again. I hear those voices. And I ignore them.
Some may argue that staring down The Council is not the most ideal of situations to find myself in. The chaos that heralds a new order. Which, when you look at it, is amusingly paradoxical. They are the torch bearers in the kerosene facility and they do not care who gets burnt as the blaze rages. Any normal wrestler would have to be clinically insane to walk into that den of wolves knowing full well that they may either not survive or at least not ever be the same again. You’d have to be completely crazy. Well I’m Chris Card and I’m no normal wrestler. And the only crazy you’ll find coming from my little corner of the wrestling universe is, as I believe the slang term goes, crazy prepared.
First let’s discuss Rowan MacDonnough. The Irish Nightmare. Because I believe you will be showing your face around ringside, observing the oncoming carnage the way that your beloved wolf motif observes it’s prey before the kill. After all, you are licensed to manage Dean Harper, to accompany your little puppy to ringside and enjoy his personal torments. Or in your capacity as a member of The Council to watch Jason Sandman and Kole Kaos in their endless quest to spread violence and terror amongst the roster through their actions. I should be concerned, worried, more than a little perturbed by your potential ringside shenanigans. Should be. That’s really the key phrase that Chaos’ chosen footsoldiers need to be focused in on there.
You see, I’m not. In fact I welcome it. After all, you’re nothing more than an additional distraction for all of those involved in the match. Me. Sandman. Kole. Harper. The referee. And I thrive on environments where additional distractions flow like water. My ring craft may be nigh on peerless but my, how do I put this elegantly, shenanigan-craft is utterly unmatched within the storied annals of the wrestling industry. Don’t believe for one nanosecond that there is anything, any meagre sniff of a trick you can pull that I have not seen before. Or done. Twice. With a flourish. And if you think that your distance from humanity and penchant for extreme violence combined with your Gothic appearance frightens me? I have seen those who have reached into the depths of their very own soul and squeezed every last ounce of goodness out of themselves, not through outside trauma but for entertainment. So Rowan? If you want my advice if I were you I’d stay backstage, not for your own safety, not for mine but to genuinely improve your team’s chances of winning.
And on the shadowed ground where dark dominatrices dwell there are always followers offering their every last breath for their regard. Those poor, unfortunate souls who give their lives for another to win a fleeting moment of some twisted attention. Enter Dean Harper. The man who does not submit as the strength of his dark devotion carries him to feats beyond what sane men manage. Hint, Dean, people who don’t submit get things broken. And seeing as all of my better submissions are spinal locks, you place yourself under the real threat of being paralysed. And then what? What use is a devoted slave who cannot walk? I understand your position with Rowan, that when she says, “Jump,” you ask, “How high.” And that when she says, “Póg mo thóin,” you pucker those lips up and kneel. But jumping and ass kissing both require a fully aligned set of vertebrae. Wouldn’t failing so utterly as a human being that you become totally surplus to requirements just be such a waking nightmare for the miserable remainder of your existence? But I have a better solution. This match is your chance to prove yourself in a way that normal words and normal deeds never could.
Dean, the last thing you want to do is lock horns with me. I’m the most gifted technical wrestler in the match. I grind out wins. I will slow you down. How does that fit into the reckless nature of Dean Harper in the grand scheme of things? You want to show how devoted you are to Rowan, right? What greater devotion could you show than by earning a place on The Council? And if you took down one of their own they would have to take you seriously, SHE would have to take you seriously. Prove that in the yard where the wolves play, you’re a puppy no more. Take down the biggest, baddest dog in the fight. Step to someone who is more violent, more powerful, more dangerous than your meager reputation suggests that you are. Dean Harper? If you want my advice, if I were you I’d go straight for Jason Sandman.
Ahhh, Jason Sandman. Sometimes I just want to grab you by the lapels, not that you wear suits and ask, “What the hell happened, man?” You were a one man army. You were a threat to any wrestler who dared to set foot into the ring with you. You were dangerous on so many levels. You were, you were, you were. And now what are you? You’ve been relegated to being the muscle behind someone else’s ideology. Maybe The Council got to you, brainwashed you into their way of thinking. Maybe you’re happy to play understudy, waiting for a chance to strike when Xavier Cross and Kole Kaos have their inevitable fight over the leadership of the group. Because I do not buy this whole collective responsibility game. In life there are leaders and followers. And then there are those who march to the beat of their own drum. You’re no leader. You never have been, that just isn’t the way you are. But you’re certainly a man who could carve his own path to devastating effect.
So why aren’t you, Jason? Are you waiting for a tear in the space-time continuum to open up and past Jason Sandman to boot you up the ass until present Jason Sandman learns to stand on his own two feet again? Or is now the time for you to go all carpe diem on someone and place yourself in the only stable Jason Sandman has ever needed. The Jason Sandman stable. Tearing down the established order and remaking it in The Council’s own image? This isn’t your fight, Jason. Your fight is making your own personal Mount Rushmore of wrestling where the only face is your own and it comes to life and headbutts any idiot who comes to add a second visage. This is Rowan’s vision, Cross’s vision, Kole’s vision. You are merely the provider of additional violence when needed.
You’re better than this, Angel of Death. You’re better than going down in history as a footnote in some other wrestler’s grand scheme. You barely deserve the New Age Punisher nickname any more. Prove why they call you The Daddy. Take the fight to those who would use you as a pawn in a greater game. You see, Jason. I’m not your enemy in this match. I’m here to help you realise your true potential. So look at me across the ring, nod, offer me a manly fist bump maybe and then go and rip the biggest head off The Council’s hydra that you can. If you want my advice, if I were you Jason I would sever the ties that bind you to your lowly position, rediscover your inner fire and passion and tell the world through your actions that Sandman Is Their Daddy. And that process begins by making Kole Kaos... Drown. In. Styx.
Kole. I had to laugh at your random anti capitalist polemic as you ranted vaguely in our esteemed champion’s direction. I love the fact that you, in your focused little way, seem to believe that there is some connection between the creeping tendrils of globalisation and the vague notion of order. There isn’t. In fact, capitalism profits on chaos. Where there is uncertainty, there are profits. Where there is disharmony, there are profits. Where there are bodies festering, lying in the streets, their bodies riddled with gunshot wounds, somebody, somewhere just made a tidy sum on the bullets. Every time you commit some vicious act, live on television, you’re not tearing the system down. Because somebody paid to see it and somebody will pay to see more. And somebody at IWF central just put a down payment on another Bentley. Your great vision, Kole, is a man pissing in the wind.
It must burn you somewhere deep inside that you have to fight in this qualifying match in the first place. After all, the malicious machinations of Roberto Verona, a man who I understand your personal distaste for exceeds all bounds of comprehension, made what I would personally consider a moderate error by allowing your stable to air all their dirty laundry in public on Sacrifice in a manner which, though it may have amused him at the time, should have allowed The Council to shuffle the pack in whichever way they wanted to guarantee that bye for whichever of your ranks you chose. I know how you were instructed that if you made a mockery of the contest then you would all have been disqualified. But though “The Council love fighting,” you have to feel that as the true agent of Chaos on Earth, something should have been done to guarantee your own position, rather than the Viking’s, in the tournament proper. Someone who knows how to game the system properly would have ensured that you were the one who went through without any provable grounds for disqualification. I could waste a good few minutes of everyone’s time listing all the ways I’d have done it myself.
But maybe you didn’t think of that, Kole? Maybe you’re too caught up in your own hype to do what’s best for your stable. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Obviously what’s best for your stable in this tournament is a Kole Kaos victory. Who is more effective at burning the system down than the Avatar of Chaos itself? You should have won that match, Kole. Instead you have to fight your, and you can put the most sarcastic of air quotes around this you can manage, “brothers,” again. You have to fight Sandman again. You have to fight The Council’s personal lackey, Rowan’s pedicurist and coffee procurer Dean Harper. Or will you?
You see, Kole Kaos, you might have got the message about me by now. I love chaos. Chaos allows me the wiggle room to get myself out of tight spaces that would be about to crush a normal man. What you will need to bring to defeat me is a little technical flair, which you don’t have, and a whole lot of control, which you don’t have. So why bother? You’ll be all fresh for the second round if you barely have to get into any conflict at all and the key thing I’ve spotted is that Verona hasn’t reinforced his stipulation to not make a mockery of the tournament. And Dean Harper will do anything Rowan wants. Anything. I’m sure the rest of The Council will be fine leaving the pin on Harper to you, won’t they? And you’ll be nice and fresh for the Viking and the King of Detroit. Easy. If you want my advice, if I were you I’d go and have a chat with Rowan right now. Why take the hard path when the easy path is so much gentler. It’s a plan so malevolent you’ll wish you thought of it yourself.
~~~~~~
A sumptuous office in downtown Yokohama fades into view as the camera pans around to the exquisitely dressed figure of Chris Card relaxes in a black leather chair. Card lights a huge, well rolled cigar and shuffles through the paperwork arranged neatly in plies on his rented desk. Tapping the cigar into a large pewter ashtray he exhales a cloud of thick smoke into the air and awaits the arrival of his business contact. There is a knocking sound, pleasing to the ear in that way only a pure oak door can produce.
Chris Card: Come in!
Stepping into the office is the suited figure of the IWF’s colour commentator, Vasco Dias. He raises an eyebrow at the surroundings and walks confidently into the meeting room. Card smiles as he notes Dias’ presence from the comfort of his chair.
Vasco Dias: You don’t do things by halves, do you Chris?
Chris Card: My people only set up the finest of premises, Vasco. You should have figured this out by now.
Vasco Dias: So to what do I owe the honor of an appointment with your good self.
Card lets out a stifled chortle at the association of “good” with his name.
Chris Card: I was impressed with your calling of my match on Sacrifice. Maybe a little less so with Terri’s but I do realise that play by play is a difficult job.
Vasco Dias: Ah, it’s not so hard. Terri just makes it look that way.
Vasco chuckles openly at his own humour. Card smiles along before answering with a flat...
Chris Card: Indeed. Cigar?
Card slides a lacquered humidor across the desk, teasing the lid open as he pushes to reveal a full selection of the highest quality tobacco products. Vasco takes one and snips the top off with the cigar clipper provided. He lights it and takes a quick puff.
Vasco Dias: Ohhhh. That’s the good stuff.
Chris Card: You won’t see any this good from your average IWF wrestler. I have no idea what Kole Kaos smokes but I’m betting they’re not a patch on those. I know Jason Sandman wouldn’t know a full flavoured Cuban from an inferior machine rolled Phillies. It’s all blunt feed to him.
Vasco Dias: You’re speaking my language, Chris.
Chris Card: I’m about to speak the universal language, Vasco. You made that throwaway comment about me on Sacrifice.
Vasco Dias: Which one?
Chris Card: The Real Man’s Wrestler.
Vasco Dias: Yes. I remember. It seemed to fit at the time.
Chris Card: I like it. But more than me liking it, my marketing team like it.
Vasco Dias: You have a marketing team?
Chris Card: Vasco, Vasco, Vasco. Of course I have a marketing team. Chris Card the brand is worth money. I know the IWF takes its cut because I’m on their time. But you, Sir, could well be eligible for a slice of the pie as it were.
The rising tone of one who is intrigued enters Vasco’s voice.
Vasco Dias: Go on...
Chris Card: It’s your line. It came out of your mouth. I could not possibly hope to claim full copyright over it. So I’m offering you a percentage of my merchandise gains...
Vasco Dias: Go oooooonnnnn…
Chris Card: From THIS.
Card reaches underneath the desk and unfurls a folded up T-shirt in his hands. He holds it out for Vasco to get a long hard look at. Across the front are emblazoned the words, alternating by line in purple and white, “REAL MAN’S WRESTLER.”
Vasco Dias: OK. I like it.
Chris Card: It’s a prototype I had my people whip up. I’m sure that if I get your name on this piece of paper right here, I’ll get it out and into production as soon as possible.
Vasco Dias: And I’ll just see the money start rolling in, right?
Chris Card: Well, if you look at this paragraph, here.
Card points with a fountain pen at a densely written piece of text somewhere lower down the contract.
Chris Card: You will realise that you have obligations to fulfil under the broader terms of the deal.
Vasco Dias: Obligations?
A concerned look from Dias is met with the most crocodylinian of smiles from Card.
Chris Card: In order to make money, branding must remain strong. This is where your honeyed vocal talents come in, Vasco. “Real Man’s Wrestler.” Get it over on commentary. You have a unique position of power to push this brand forward. And if you do, everyone profits. The IWF profits from T-shirt sales. You profit from your agreed cut.
Vasco Dias: And you profit?
Chris Card: Every day. From being me. It’s good to be Chris Card. Scotch?
Vasco Dias: Well if you’re offering.
Vasco scratches his signature down on the contract as Chris opens a well stocked mini fridge and removes a cut crystal decanter, half full of caramel brown liquid. He pours a shot for both himself and Vasco and the pair clink their glasses together as the scene fades.
~~~~~~
So what next? What if the eternal mastermind places in motion a sequence of events that lead him past the unfocused throng of humanity that constitutes the core of The Council? If technique, flair, style and an unshakable lack of faith in the competence of the refereeing corps carries me one step further towards glory? What then? Can I go deeper? Can I go all the way and win this tournament? Well, if I can crawl my way out of that nest of vipers then the rest of the federation needs to be scared. Very scared.
Second round. Ulf Hednir. The Heathen. As much as I told Jason Sandman that he should be busying himself striking his own path of destruction and pay no attention to what the latest Evil Plan Tee Em of The Council is, I’m sure every second damn person you meet out there is telling you have have no place with them. I don’t want to beat a dead horse but they think you’re stupid. I’ll venture naive but as an outsider to the situation I can’t overly comment. Certainly fighting someone else’s battles for them may be the way of the Viking but wouldn’t you rather eat from the top table in the long house? Be the Jarl, not the Serf.
Now I know you’ve read the sagas. I have. Understanding differing cultures is a fine educational pursuit. But don’t you think that the modern interpretations have such a heavy influence of a Christian morality, that sense of good and evil, that the true nature of the Gods is lost on many modern audiences? After all, even the most noble of the Gods can be petty and fallible. Not for a true Heathen are the all knowing, all seeing, infallible super-deities as those of Abrahamic traditions. And the reverse is also true. The desire for Christian Scholars to paint Loki as a Lucifer cognate is strong. Somewhere along the road intelligence and trickery became confused with evil. And all those trickster gods lost their lustre. Loki. Coyote. Anansi.
Ulf Hednir, some day I’m sure that you will be carried off to Valhalla on the wings of Valkyries. And you can carry that seal of approval from me for the rest of your career. But to lose is to learn and every loss that I have ever handed out is a learning experience for the recipient. Technique comes with experience and pain is a fine teacher. Just know that if you get frustrated by a superior technique, I am fully aware that you like to slow it down and figure out where you’re going wrong. Which comes as a huge handicap when where you’re going wrong is slowing it down. And if you do have visions of your gods, get your finest communing ritual ready. Because you will need Loki to turn up in person to outwit me.
And what of Ryan Shane, The King Of Detroit? Not the first time our paths have crossed. And you have grown as a professional wrestler in that time. But you know this. Never would your critics, of which there have been many over time, have realised what a success you would have become. And you’ve become somewhat of an egotist along the journey. That little repeated dripping sound from your tap of self doubt appears to have been thoroughly banished as the years have gone by. The time has come. Right Now finally IS now. If it is destined that we meet in the tournament, and I will be doing everything I can to make it happen, you are the opponent that I look forward to meeting the most. Let’s do this. Mano a mano. You have a level of technical skill that nearly, so very nearly matches my own. It’s certainly close enough to make it very interesting.
Forget all these blundering brawlers, these daredevil risk takers who put their bodies on the line when they just don’t need to. Forget the powerhouses whose feats of strength are only matched by their lack of craft. Technical wrestling is where it’s at. You know this, Ryan. So do I. So if you’re as good as I think you are then we are going to have the writers in the sheets dropping snowflakes on our confrontations now and in the future like it’s Nunavut in November. But just remember. This is if you’re as good as I think you are. Because you’re not as good as YOU think you are. And I’m a better judge of your talent than you are.
And then the final showdown. Such occasions, such ceremony. Made for Chris Card. Here’s where it gets interesting. Because if you prepare to be in the final you have to overlook the competitors in earlier rounds. Fortunately for me, I’m a good little boyscout. I am always prepared. I have plans upon plans for every possible outcome. People talk about plan B? You need to start listing Chinese pictograms along with all my plans. I have the conditioning not to be tired after two what will be undoubtedly difficult matches. I have the training to adapt my game to any opponent. I wear my moniker, “Technical Perfection,” with pride and I damn well live up to it.
So if, and what kind of professional wrestler would I be if I did not add the qualifier, and when I reach the final be it Mason St. Croix, that fellow adept of the mat game and military tough athlete, be it Seth Evans, the only other active member of the IWF roster who has ever had the term “hybrid style” applied to him or be it The Eternal Underdog, Jayson Matthews, a man who has, in the nicest way possible, all the qualities of used chewing gum in that many have tried but no one can quite get rid of the resilient little human… whoever it is, I will make their day a hell of a lot more interesting than it already was. As in the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.”
You would have to be a simple fool to put the entire roster on notice. And I, Chris Card, am no fool. I am merely giving everyone that I may face across the night’s wrestling related festivities a polite warning. Chris Card is coming. Go about your business as normal and accept defeat if it happens. I don’t want to set the world on fire. I don’t represent a concept, an ideal. I don’t stand for a lost culture or a city. I am no military hero, no beacon of hope for the downtrodden or a guardian of the people. I am simply a professional wrestler. And I am very, very, veeeeeery good at it.
DEAL WITH IT!
Some may argue that staring down The Council is not the most ideal of situations to find myself in. The chaos that heralds a new order. Which, when you look at it, is amusingly paradoxical. They are the torch bearers in the kerosene facility and they do not care who gets burnt as the blaze rages. Any normal wrestler would have to be clinically insane to walk into that den of wolves knowing full well that they may either not survive or at least not ever be the same again. You’d have to be completely crazy. Well I’m Chris Card and I’m no normal wrestler. And the only crazy you’ll find coming from my little corner of the wrestling universe is, as I believe the slang term goes, crazy prepared.
First let’s discuss Rowan MacDonnough. The Irish Nightmare. Because I believe you will be showing your face around ringside, observing the oncoming carnage the way that your beloved wolf motif observes it’s prey before the kill. After all, you are licensed to manage Dean Harper, to accompany your little puppy to ringside and enjoy his personal torments. Or in your capacity as a member of The Council to watch Jason Sandman and Kole Kaos in their endless quest to spread violence and terror amongst the roster through their actions. I should be concerned, worried, more than a little perturbed by your potential ringside shenanigans. Should be. That’s really the key phrase that Chaos’ chosen footsoldiers need to be focused in on there.
You see, I’m not. In fact I welcome it. After all, you’re nothing more than an additional distraction for all of those involved in the match. Me. Sandman. Kole. Harper. The referee. And I thrive on environments where additional distractions flow like water. My ring craft may be nigh on peerless but my, how do I put this elegantly, shenanigan-craft is utterly unmatched within the storied annals of the wrestling industry. Don’t believe for one nanosecond that there is anything, any meagre sniff of a trick you can pull that I have not seen before. Or done. Twice. With a flourish. And if you think that your distance from humanity and penchant for extreme violence combined with your Gothic appearance frightens me? I have seen those who have reached into the depths of their very own soul and squeezed every last ounce of goodness out of themselves, not through outside trauma but for entertainment. So Rowan? If you want my advice if I were you I’d stay backstage, not for your own safety, not for mine but to genuinely improve your team’s chances of winning.
And on the shadowed ground where dark dominatrices dwell there are always followers offering their every last breath for their regard. Those poor, unfortunate souls who give their lives for another to win a fleeting moment of some twisted attention. Enter Dean Harper. The man who does not submit as the strength of his dark devotion carries him to feats beyond what sane men manage. Hint, Dean, people who don’t submit get things broken. And seeing as all of my better submissions are spinal locks, you place yourself under the real threat of being paralysed. And then what? What use is a devoted slave who cannot walk? I understand your position with Rowan, that when she says, “Jump,” you ask, “How high.” And that when she says, “Póg mo thóin,” you pucker those lips up and kneel. But jumping and ass kissing both require a fully aligned set of vertebrae. Wouldn’t failing so utterly as a human being that you become totally surplus to requirements just be such a waking nightmare for the miserable remainder of your existence? But I have a better solution. This match is your chance to prove yourself in a way that normal words and normal deeds never could.
Dean, the last thing you want to do is lock horns with me. I’m the most gifted technical wrestler in the match. I grind out wins. I will slow you down. How does that fit into the reckless nature of Dean Harper in the grand scheme of things? You want to show how devoted you are to Rowan, right? What greater devotion could you show than by earning a place on The Council? And if you took down one of their own they would have to take you seriously, SHE would have to take you seriously. Prove that in the yard where the wolves play, you’re a puppy no more. Take down the biggest, baddest dog in the fight. Step to someone who is more violent, more powerful, more dangerous than your meager reputation suggests that you are. Dean Harper? If you want my advice, if I were you I’d go straight for Jason Sandman.
Ahhh, Jason Sandman. Sometimes I just want to grab you by the lapels, not that you wear suits and ask, “What the hell happened, man?” You were a one man army. You were a threat to any wrestler who dared to set foot into the ring with you. You were dangerous on so many levels. You were, you were, you were. And now what are you? You’ve been relegated to being the muscle behind someone else’s ideology. Maybe The Council got to you, brainwashed you into their way of thinking. Maybe you’re happy to play understudy, waiting for a chance to strike when Xavier Cross and Kole Kaos have their inevitable fight over the leadership of the group. Because I do not buy this whole collective responsibility game. In life there are leaders and followers. And then there are those who march to the beat of their own drum. You’re no leader. You never have been, that just isn’t the way you are. But you’re certainly a man who could carve his own path to devastating effect.
So why aren’t you, Jason? Are you waiting for a tear in the space-time continuum to open up and past Jason Sandman to boot you up the ass until present Jason Sandman learns to stand on his own two feet again? Or is now the time for you to go all carpe diem on someone and place yourself in the only stable Jason Sandman has ever needed. The Jason Sandman stable. Tearing down the established order and remaking it in The Council’s own image? This isn’t your fight, Jason. Your fight is making your own personal Mount Rushmore of wrestling where the only face is your own and it comes to life and headbutts any idiot who comes to add a second visage. This is Rowan’s vision, Cross’s vision, Kole’s vision. You are merely the provider of additional violence when needed.
You’re better than this, Angel of Death. You’re better than going down in history as a footnote in some other wrestler’s grand scheme. You barely deserve the New Age Punisher nickname any more. Prove why they call you The Daddy. Take the fight to those who would use you as a pawn in a greater game. You see, Jason. I’m not your enemy in this match. I’m here to help you realise your true potential. So look at me across the ring, nod, offer me a manly fist bump maybe and then go and rip the biggest head off The Council’s hydra that you can. If you want my advice, if I were you Jason I would sever the ties that bind you to your lowly position, rediscover your inner fire and passion and tell the world through your actions that Sandman Is Their Daddy. And that process begins by making Kole Kaos... Drown. In. Styx.
Kole. I had to laugh at your random anti capitalist polemic as you ranted vaguely in our esteemed champion’s direction. I love the fact that you, in your focused little way, seem to believe that there is some connection between the creeping tendrils of globalisation and the vague notion of order. There isn’t. In fact, capitalism profits on chaos. Where there is uncertainty, there are profits. Where there is disharmony, there are profits. Where there are bodies festering, lying in the streets, their bodies riddled with gunshot wounds, somebody, somewhere just made a tidy sum on the bullets. Every time you commit some vicious act, live on television, you’re not tearing the system down. Because somebody paid to see it and somebody will pay to see more. And somebody at IWF central just put a down payment on another Bentley. Your great vision, Kole, is a man pissing in the wind.
It must burn you somewhere deep inside that you have to fight in this qualifying match in the first place. After all, the malicious machinations of Roberto Verona, a man who I understand your personal distaste for exceeds all bounds of comprehension, made what I would personally consider a moderate error by allowing your stable to air all their dirty laundry in public on Sacrifice in a manner which, though it may have amused him at the time, should have allowed The Council to shuffle the pack in whichever way they wanted to guarantee that bye for whichever of your ranks you chose. I know how you were instructed that if you made a mockery of the contest then you would all have been disqualified. But though “The Council love fighting,” you have to feel that as the true agent of Chaos on Earth, something should have been done to guarantee your own position, rather than the Viking’s, in the tournament proper. Someone who knows how to game the system properly would have ensured that you were the one who went through without any provable grounds for disqualification. I could waste a good few minutes of everyone’s time listing all the ways I’d have done it myself.
But maybe you didn’t think of that, Kole? Maybe you’re too caught up in your own hype to do what’s best for your stable. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Obviously what’s best for your stable in this tournament is a Kole Kaos victory. Who is more effective at burning the system down than the Avatar of Chaos itself? You should have won that match, Kole. Instead you have to fight your, and you can put the most sarcastic of air quotes around this you can manage, “brothers,” again. You have to fight Sandman again. You have to fight The Council’s personal lackey, Rowan’s pedicurist and coffee procurer Dean Harper. Or will you?
You see, Kole Kaos, you might have got the message about me by now. I love chaos. Chaos allows me the wiggle room to get myself out of tight spaces that would be about to crush a normal man. What you will need to bring to defeat me is a little technical flair, which you don’t have, and a whole lot of control, which you don’t have. So why bother? You’ll be all fresh for the second round if you barely have to get into any conflict at all and the key thing I’ve spotted is that Verona hasn’t reinforced his stipulation to not make a mockery of the tournament. And Dean Harper will do anything Rowan wants. Anything. I’m sure the rest of The Council will be fine leaving the pin on Harper to you, won’t they? And you’ll be nice and fresh for the Viking and the King of Detroit. Easy. If you want my advice, if I were you I’d go and have a chat with Rowan right now. Why take the hard path when the easy path is so much gentler. It’s a plan so malevolent you’ll wish you thought of it yourself.
~~~~~~
A sumptuous office in downtown Yokohama fades into view as the camera pans around to the exquisitely dressed figure of Chris Card relaxes in a black leather chair. Card lights a huge, well rolled cigar and shuffles through the paperwork arranged neatly in plies on his rented desk. Tapping the cigar into a large pewter ashtray he exhales a cloud of thick smoke into the air and awaits the arrival of his business contact. There is a knocking sound, pleasing to the ear in that way only a pure oak door can produce.
Chris Card: Come in!
Stepping into the office is the suited figure of the IWF’s colour commentator, Vasco Dias. He raises an eyebrow at the surroundings and walks confidently into the meeting room. Card smiles as he notes Dias’ presence from the comfort of his chair.
Vasco Dias: You don’t do things by halves, do you Chris?
Chris Card: My people only set up the finest of premises, Vasco. You should have figured this out by now.
Vasco Dias: So to what do I owe the honor of an appointment with your good self.
Card lets out a stifled chortle at the association of “good” with his name.
Chris Card: I was impressed with your calling of my match on Sacrifice. Maybe a little less so with Terri’s but I do realise that play by play is a difficult job.
Vasco Dias: Ah, it’s not so hard. Terri just makes it look that way.
Vasco chuckles openly at his own humour. Card smiles along before answering with a flat...
Chris Card: Indeed. Cigar?
Card slides a lacquered humidor across the desk, teasing the lid open as he pushes to reveal a full selection of the highest quality tobacco products. Vasco takes one and snips the top off with the cigar clipper provided. He lights it and takes a quick puff.
Vasco Dias: Ohhhh. That’s the good stuff.
Chris Card: You won’t see any this good from your average IWF wrestler. I have no idea what Kole Kaos smokes but I’m betting they’re not a patch on those. I know Jason Sandman wouldn’t know a full flavoured Cuban from an inferior machine rolled Phillies. It’s all blunt feed to him.
Vasco Dias: You’re speaking my language, Chris.
Chris Card: I’m about to speak the universal language, Vasco. You made that throwaway comment about me on Sacrifice.
Vasco Dias: Which one?
Chris Card: The Real Man’s Wrestler.
Vasco Dias: Yes. I remember. It seemed to fit at the time.
Chris Card: I like it. But more than me liking it, my marketing team like it.
Vasco Dias: You have a marketing team?
Chris Card: Vasco, Vasco, Vasco. Of course I have a marketing team. Chris Card the brand is worth money. I know the IWF takes its cut because I’m on their time. But you, Sir, could well be eligible for a slice of the pie as it were.
The rising tone of one who is intrigued enters Vasco’s voice.
Vasco Dias: Go on...
Chris Card: It’s your line. It came out of your mouth. I could not possibly hope to claim full copyright over it. So I’m offering you a percentage of my merchandise gains...
Vasco Dias: Go oooooonnnnn…
Chris Card: From THIS.
Card reaches underneath the desk and unfurls a folded up T-shirt in his hands. He holds it out for Vasco to get a long hard look at. Across the front are emblazoned the words, alternating by line in purple and white, “REAL MAN’S WRESTLER.”
Vasco Dias: OK. I like it.
Chris Card: It’s a prototype I had my people whip up. I’m sure that if I get your name on this piece of paper right here, I’ll get it out and into production as soon as possible.
Vasco Dias: And I’ll just see the money start rolling in, right?
Chris Card: Well, if you look at this paragraph, here.
Card points with a fountain pen at a densely written piece of text somewhere lower down the contract.
Chris Card: You will realise that you have obligations to fulfil under the broader terms of the deal.
Vasco Dias: Obligations?
A concerned look from Dias is met with the most crocodylinian of smiles from Card.
Chris Card: In order to make money, branding must remain strong. This is where your honeyed vocal talents come in, Vasco. “Real Man’s Wrestler.” Get it over on commentary. You have a unique position of power to push this brand forward. And if you do, everyone profits. The IWF profits from T-shirt sales. You profit from your agreed cut.
Vasco Dias: And you profit?
Chris Card: Every day. From being me. It’s good to be Chris Card. Scotch?
Vasco Dias: Well if you’re offering.
Vasco scratches his signature down on the contract as Chris opens a well stocked mini fridge and removes a cut crystal decanter, half full of caramel brown liquid. He pours a shot for both himself and Vasco and the pair clink their glasses together as the scene fades.
~~~~~~
So what next? What if the eternal mastermind places in motion a sequence of events that lead him past the unfocused throng of humanity that constitutes the core of The Council? If technique, flair, style and an unshakable lack of faith in the competence of the refereeing corps carries me one step further towards glory? What then? Can I go deeper? Can I go all the way and win this tournament? Well, if I can crawl my way out of that nest of vipers then the rest of the federation needs to be scared. Very scared.
Second round. Ulf Hednir. The Heathen. As much as I told Jason Sandman that he should be busying himself striking his own path of destruction and pay no attention to what the latest Evil Plan Tee Em of The Council is, I’m sure every second damn person you meet out there is telling you have have no place with them. I don’t want to beat a dead horse but they think you’re stupid. I’ll venture naive but as an outsider to the situation I can’t overly comment. Certainly fighting someone else’s battles for them may be the way of the Viking but wouldn’t you rather eat from the top table in the long house? Be the Jarl, not the Serf.
Now I know you’ve read the sagas. I have. Understanding differing cultures is a fine educational pursuit. But don’t you think that the modern interpretations have such a heavy influence of a Christian morality, that sense of good and evil, that the true nature of the Gods is lost on many modern audiences? After all, even the most noble of the Gods can be petty and fallible. Not for a true Heathen are the all knowing, all seeing, infallible super-deities as those of Abrahamic traditions. And the reverse is also true. The desire for Christian Scholars to paint Loki as a Lucifer cognate is strong. Somewhere along the road intelligence and trickery became confused with evil. And all those trickster gods lost their lustre. Loki. Coyote. Anansi.
Ulf Hednir, some day I’m sure that you will be carried off to Valhalla on the wings of Valkyries. And you can carry that seal of approval from me for the rest of your career. But to lose is to learn and every loss that I have ever handed out is a learning experience for the recipient. Technique comes with experience and pain is a fine teacher. Just know that if you get frustrated by a superior technique, I am fully aware that you like to slow it down and figure out where you’re going wrong. Which comes as a huge handicap when where you’re going wrong is slowing it down. And if you do have visions of your gods, get your finest communing ritual ready. Because you will need Loki to turn up in person to outwit me.
And what of Ryan Shane, The King Of Detroit? Not the first time our paths have crossed. And you have grown as a professional wrestler in that time. But you know this. Never would your critics, of which there have been many over time, have realised what a success you would have become. And you’ve become somewhat of an egotist along the journey. That little repeated dripping sound from your tap of self doubt appears to have been thoroughly banished as the years have gone by. The time has come. Right Now finally IS now. If it is destined that we meet in the tournament, and I will be doing everything I can to make it happen, you are the opponent that I look forward to meeting the most. Let’s do this. Mano a mano. You have a level of technical skill that nearly, so very nearly matches my own. It’s certainly close enough to make it very interesting.
Forget all these blundering brawlers, these daredevil risk takers who put their bodies on the line when they just don’t need to. Forget the powerhouses whose feats of strength are only matched by their lack of craft. Technical wrestling is where it’s at. You know this, Ryan. So do I. So if you’re as good as I think you are then we are going to have the writers in the sheets dropping snowflakes on our confrontations now and in the future like it’s Nunavut in November. But just remember. This is if you’re as good as I think you are. Because you’re not as good as YOU think you are. And I’m a better judge of your talent than you are.
And then the final showdown. Such occasions, such ceremony. Made for Chris Card. Here’s where it gets interesting. Because if you prepare to be in the final you have to overlook the competitors in earlier rounds. Fortunately for me, I’m a good little boyscout. I am always prepared. I have plans upon plans for every possible outcome. People talk about plan B? You need to start listing Chinese pictograms along with all my plans. I have the conditioning not to be tired after two what will be undoubtedly difficult matches. I have the training to adapt my game to any opponent. I wear my moniker, “Technical Perfection,” with pride and I damn well live up to it.
So if, and what kind of professional wrestler would I be if I did not add the qualifier, and when I reach the final be it Mason St. Croix, that fellow adept of the mat game and military tough athlete, be it Seth Evans, the only other active member of the IWF roster who has ever had the term “hybrid style” applied to him or be it The Eternal Underdog, Jayson Matthews, a man who has, in the nicest way possible, all the qualities of used chewing gum in that many have tried but no one can quite get rid of the resilient little human… whoever it is, I will make their day a hell of a lot more interesting than it already was. As in the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.”
You would have to be a simple fool to put the entire roster on notice. And I, Chris Card, am no fool. I am merely giving everyone that I may face across the night’s wrestling related festivities a polite warning. Chris Card is coming. Go about your business as normal and accept defeat if it happens. I don’t want to set the world on fire. I don’t represent a concept, an ideal. I don’t stand for a lost culture or a city. I am no military hero, no beacon of hope for the downtrodden or a guardian of the people. I am simply a professional wrestler. And I am very, very, veeeeeery good at it.
DEAL WITH IT!
Well howdy there pardner.