Why so serious?

[Malaki Toala]

The rain patters down the window pane of a restaurant gently, cars rushing by as men and women clutch their umbrellas on their commute home from the daily grind. Waiters rush from table to table, taking the orders from patrons before bowing graciously and hurrying into the kitchen to face the increasing wraith of an overworked kitchen staff. The camera pans around the room until we find a small, dimly lit cubicle, occupied but Joey Leroux and Malaki Toala. Joey furiously wolfs down his spaghetti, twirling it haphazardly around his fork, consuming it as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Malaki sits opposite him, a picture of calm as he studies his glass of water, watching as it laps against the sides rhythmically. Pausing for a moment, Joey looks up, holding a fist to his mouth as he chuckles to himself, evidently pleased. 

Joey Leroux: Did you see the look on my father’s face? 

Malaki barely flinches. 

Malaki Toala: I had more important matters to concern myself with, Joey… 

Joey Leroux: I can’t wait to see how he reacts when you pin that glorified Rocky Horror reject and we let Roberto Verona take away the one thing he has always valued over family… his power… 

Malaki Toala: And what if I choose, Simon? 

Joey Leroux: Why on earth would you ever do such a thing like that? 

Malaki Toala: Because, contrary to popular belief, I am my own man. You shouldn’t just assume anything about this weekend, that’s a fool’s errand. 

Joey Leroux: Stop speaking in tongues. 

Malaki rolls his eyes and sighs. 

Malaki Toala: I don’t have time for your banter this week, Joey. 

Joey Leroux: Geeze, what crawled up your ass? 

Malaki Toala: This isn’t a joke, Joey. Some things are deadly serious. I worked hard to become Imperial champion and this weekend that son of a bitch is going to try and take this from me. If I fail I will fulfil his ridiculous prophecy and reforce the notion that his is somehow superior to the rest of us. 

Joey looks at Malaki hesitantly. 

Joey Leroux: You won’t lose… 

Malaki Toala: You’re many thing, Joey, but you’re not an idiot. I appreciate your blind support, truly, but there are no absolutes, even if Angel may wish to trade in them. I am a realist, there is no way to guarantee anything. 

Joey Leroux: Perhaps, but we do not court failure, remember? Well, something like that anyway… 

Malaki smiles. 

Malaki Toala: Aye, we don’t, but let’s not dig ourselves a grave too deep we are unable to scramble out before the dirt flung by out detractors consumes us. I’ll beat Angel to within an inch of his life and he’ll have to do worse to put me down, of that I am sure, but results in matches of this scale are another thing entirely. 

Joey Leroux: I could always try… 

Malaki suddenly looks up. 

Malaki Toala: No. 

Toala shakes his head. 

Malaki Toala: No tricks, Joey. I want to look that bastard in the eyes when I put him on his back and see what he has left when his tongue can no longer win his battles for him. I want to see know what he does when he can no longer rest on the perch her has so precariously built. 

Joey Leroux: I can barely understand a word you’re saying, where did you learn to speak so… 

Malaki cocks an eyebrow. 

Malaki Toala: Fluently? 

Joey Leroux: …fancy like? 

Malaki shakes his head. 

Malaki Toala: There is much that you do not know about me, I am not the uneducated oaf or the silent muscle you want to portray to the world. I have qualities that are more beneficial than stereotypes, they served their purpose. 

Joey Leroux: Are you dumping me? 

Malaki Toala: You have served me well, Joey. I do not repay good service with disloyalty, but things need to change. I am not your inferior, nor I your superior. We’re partners, we have equal say in my success. I am not your puppet, I am not your pawn to play games with. This feud with your father will end after this weekend… 

Joey Leroux: Oh yes, I’ll just ignore a life time’s torture to… 

Joey looks at Malaki and immediately thinks better of continuing. 

Joey Leroux: I’m sorry, continue… 

Malaki Toala: Whatever the result, the “master’s” game will be over and whoever is in charge, will be in charge. We cannot continue probing away at things that do not concern us. Once it is done, we stick to what’s important, my career. 

Joey Leroux: Can I really say no. 

Malaki’s lip curls as he smiles. 

Malaki Toala: No. 

Malaki pulls himself up, staring down at Joey. 

Malaki Toala: Let’s close this chapter, one and for all. No matter what. 

And so, the bell finally tolls. 

But for whom? 

Will it be I, the reigning… 

Defending… 

Imperial Champion? Or perhaps it will be you, Angel. 

The hand of the dictator and self-appointed leader of a new dawn, red or otherwise. One which you will usher in this weekend by vanquishing me. 

Perhaps. 

Yet, in truth, all that we are trading in is pure conjecture. You will stand there and prophesize about my supposed shortcomings and your vast wealth of virtues, basking in your self-applied platitudes. I will stand here and simply deal in facts. However, despite this, we shall be no closer to the truth, even if there are many who would write it for us. 

If you wish to celebrate prematurely, be my guest. You’ll be doing my preparation for me. 

I, on the other hand will stick to what I know best. The facts. 

Not half-truths, not ego-driven predictions and not false-agendas. Just the truth. 

So where do we begin? I suppose there is little sense in beating around the bush, so to speak, let me speak plain. I do not intend to dispense witty one liners, the weight of this weekend’s contest is far too heavy to waste my breath playing to a stereotype. These are my words, not Joey’s or anybody else’s, just as much as this belt is mine, and mine alone. 

Joey looks at Malaki, bowing his head respectfully as he backs away, slowly moving out of shot. Malaki pauses for a moment before clearing his throat and staring sternly into the camera. 

So here we are, alone at last, so let me be honest. 

You, Angel, are nothing but a false idol. 

Just another God amongst a host of Kings, Gods and all other manner of ranks unbefitting of a professional wrestler. Another moniker intended to instil fear into the hearts of men too cowardly to look beneath the surface. Suddenly the veneer of invincibility is a mask which is wearing thin to reveal something truly ugly beneath. 

Not a God, not even a demi-God, but a man. And one of little quality. After all, if you had any of that then perhaps your list of fallen foes would appear more impressive when the cold, revealing, light of day is reflected upon it. 

For all you have pontificated about vanquishing Roberto Verona, he still stands, bold and brash as ever and, ironically, in my corner. You put Falcon under your boot, only… not quite once again, he still walks among us, and he is anything but a faint whisper in the wind, in a month he may be in your position. Would you like to remind me again what sort of God smites a mere mortal man yet fails to land a fatal blow? What sort of dominant champion-elect only does half the job for a pro-longed period and then prophesizes that his luck will change in a match of this magnitude based on his force of will alone? 

I don’t need to indulge myself in melodramatic torture porn, don’t think your antics have gone unnoticed in the locker-room, nor do I need to play King, Emperor or God. Some may think that my personal life is but a pale reflection in comparison to the constant thrust of my colleague’s, that I am but a hollow shell, yet it isn’t ridiculous plot-twists, manufactured shock values or pithy little tales of woe that make men champions. 

It’s what they do inside that ring. 

When we step in there the fact that you’re more interesting than me ceases to be relevant, the fact that you have raised yourself so high will not prevent your fall and the fact that you have had all of your opposition silenced for you so that only your propaganda roars loud will do nothing to save you. 

Everything that has been used to build the polished product that is Angel Blake will be a complete non-factor. 

All of the carefully constructed pomp and splendour, all of the fear you have manufactured and all of the self-proclaimed titles will be of no consequence. And therein lies the essence of your ability to threaten my title reign this weekend, when push comes to shove and reality’s cold, harsh, gaze is looking you in the eyes and your aura of invincibility is washed away… 

What’s left? 

Just a man. 

Just flesh and bones. 

Just another opponent. 

Contrary to popular belief there is nothing special or exceptional about you, Angel. You’re no better than any man here, the very fact that you require so much bullshit to be built up around you suggests that perhaps you’re only half the man they are. You have pedigree, you have your past accomplishments, but the world is transitory, yesterday’s icon is tomorrow’s broken man and whilst many would proclaim that today’s champion could so easily be tomorrow’s has-been I am not the one who is making himself out to be something he is not. 

I am Malaki Toala, the Imperial Champion. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

There are no half-truths or honey-coated deceits in my words, they are strong and true. I am everything that everyone in this company dreams of, I am the pinnacle of professional wrestling and I am the litmus test that all challengers must pass if they wish to lay claim to this title. 

I don’t raise myself up above others through the strength of words alone, I do so through actions. I don’t proclaim myself to be anything more than I am, I rest confidently in my humility. I don’t play the games of God’s and Men, I play the only one that matters. 

This weekend you and I will step inside that ring, we will hit hard and fast and we will keep doing so until we discover whose resolve breaks first and whose quality shines through. 

I believe firmly, from this day to my last that every time I lace up my boots that man will always be me. You, no doubt, believe the same, yet there can never be two Imperial champions. Only one. This weekend one champion will walk in and if fortune favours the false prophets, a new one will walk out. 

Yet, despite all of the waves of momentum driving you into this moment as your pawns wax lyrical about your virtues to blemish your vices into insignificance, it is I that will stand true against the forces of nature. 

I don’t care about Roberto Verona or Simon de Montfort, neither factor into my preparation, despite the weight of the responsibility laid upon our shoulders. To me all that matters is putting you on your back first, I’ll worry about the implications of my victory later. You can concern yourself in the machinations of greater men if you wish, but to me there is only one mission, and one mission alone. 

Victory in battle. 

I will do whatever it takes to keep what is rightfully mine and prove to the world that I am more than a flash in the plan, that I deserve to stand beside men like Spike Kane when the annals of history remember my name. 

That I am the better man. 

At Night of the Immortals I am not coming to play games. 

I am coming to win.