Post by Awesome Stick Labor on Jun 29, 2015 20:03:13 GMT
I'm not in the mood for the usual riff-raff tonight. In fact, I've got something I'd like to get off my shoulders. Personally I hate talkin' off-shop matters when I'm supposed to be talkin' shop, but as a native Texan who's kept an eye on current events for the past few days, my heart's tellin' me to speak my mind.
So if y'all don't mind, I'd like to take just a wee l'il bit of your time.
I'm gonna say this once and be done with it: with the recent news regarding the same-sex marriage ruling and the Confederate flag debate, I've come to one conclusion. The Civil War didn't really end with Lee's surrender to Grant at Appomattox Court House, VA in 1865. In our hearts and minds in the 21st century, it is still ongoing--people on both sides of the coin, deep down within their hearts, still tend to resent one another and/or their beliefs. Sadly, if there truly is to be a "united" United States, then my generation--and those who came before mine--is going to have the hardest time living in it.
My solution is real simple: hatred is wrong--it tears families and, in the worst case, countries completely apart. Hatred between those who espoused more federal rule and states' rights led to the Civil War, and we are on the verge of a second conflict unless we simply learn to accept people for what they want to believe in. We might not LIKE something, but to say that one hates someone just 'cuz they believe in something we don't is utter rubbish. Hatred is what sparked the Civil War 155 years ago--and we don't need that in our lives.
That's how I'm really feelin' these days—torn between what my conscience is tellin' me and what others are thinkin' of me. In my mind right now, I'm fightin' my own Civil War. Should I hate Alex Atwater for his talents alone, or should I simply despise his motivations?
Simply put, the angel and the asshole are poppin' in my head, waitin' for me to make a choice.
**********
Episode III
ABNORMALITY
So if y'all don't mind, I'd like to take just a wee l'il bit of your time.
I'm gonna say this once and be done with it: with the recent news regarding the same-sex marriage ruling and the Confederate flag debate, I've come to one conclusion. The Civil War didn't really end with Lee's surrender to Grant at Appomattox Court House, VA in 1865. In our hearts and minds in the 21st century, it is still ongoing--people on both sides of the coin, deep down within their hearts, still tend to resent one another and/or their beliefs. Sadly, if there truly is to be a "united" United States, then my generation--and those who came before mine--is going to have the hardest time living in it.
My solution is real simple: hatred is wrong--it tears families and, in the worst case, countries completely apart. Hatred between those who espoused more federal rule and states' rights led to the Civil War, and we are on the verge of a second conflict unless we simply learn to accept people for what they want to believe in. We might not LIKE something, but to say that one hates someone just 'cuz they believe in something we don't is utter rubbish. Hatred is what sparked the Civil War 155 years ago--and we don't need that in our lives.
That's how I'm really feelin' these days—torn between what my conscience is tellin' me and what others are thinkin' of me. In my mind right now, I'm fightin' my own Civil War. Should I hate Alex Atwater for his talents alone, or should I simply despise his motivations?
Simply put, the angel and the asshole are poppin' in my head, waitin' for me to make a choice.
**********
Episode III
ABNORMALITY
June 10, 2015 – 10:00 PM
WEEK 1, DAY 6 - INVESTIGATION
”You're never gonna see me for the love that's blind;
slip into the dark side and cross the line.
On the dark side—oh, yeah;
on the dark side—oh, yeah.”
slip into the dark side and cross the line.
On the dark side—oh, yeah;
on the dark side—oh, yeah.”
We find ourselves outside Jack Gaither's house as the familiar-looking gray Aston-Martin pulls into the driveway, its stereo speakers blasting a tune from the Eddie and the Cruisers soundtrack. Stepping out the right-hand driver's side door, we spot Jack pulling several pizza boxes out from the passenger side before closing the door. Yet something catches the corner of his eye.
JACK GAITHER: What the hell...?!
Jack sets the food on the hood of the classic car and takes a closer look at the driver's side door. Upon closer inspection, the Texan raises his eyebrows when he sees a pattern of four scratch marks that only could've been made by a small pocketknife; he pulls out a mini-flashlight and examines the damage closely before calling out to his fiancee and son.
JACK: Kirk? Fiona?! Y'all might wanna take a look at this!
**********
Alex, I understand that ya served your country and all that goodness, BUT...what's your reasoning behind it all?
Son, I've toured dozens of bases and plied my craft in front of hundreds of service members over the years. I've had the supreme honor and privilege to know lots of folks who've given their lives to defend this great nation of ours; yet they each have a vastly different reason for wantin' to join the battlefield. Some have got relatives in the service, others want to follow their their high school buddies in hopes that they pursue their biggest dreams together. And then there's the folks who simply wish to better themselves in some way shape or form after goin' through a life of hell and chaos. Yet deep down in your heart and soul, you're only in it for the reward that's given for a job well done—for the dough. To you, money is God. You treat those around you not as loyal friends and true, but simply as “customers” who're bought, sold, and herded like cattle.
But livin' an honest life doesn't entail makin' tons of green on a daily basis.
Yet you're still too young and full of yourself to figure that out. Wait 'til you're 33 and have been in the wrasslin' gig as long as I have. You'll start to realize that, in fact, money is the root of ALL evil.
**********
Alex, I understand that ya served your country and all that goodness, BUT...what's your reasoning behind it all?
Son, I've toured dozens of bases and plied my craft in front of hundreds of service members over the years. I've had the supreme honor and privilege to know lots of folks who've given their lives to defend this great nation of ours; yet they each have a vastly different reason for wantin' to join the battlefield. Some have got relatives in the service, others want to follow their their high school buddies in hopes that they pursue their biggest dreams together. And then there's the folks who simply wish to better themselves in some way shape or form after goin' through a life of hell and chaos. Yet deep down in your heart and soul, you're only in it for the reward that's given for a job well done—for the dough. To you, money is God. You treat those around you not as loyal friends and true, but simply as “customers” who're bought, sold, and herded like cattle.
But livin' an honest life doesn't entail makin' tons of green on a daily basis.
Yet you're still too young and full of yourself to figure that out. Wait 'til you're 33 and have been in the wrasslin' gig as long as I have. You'll start to realize that, in fact, money is the root of ALL evil.
**********
Moments later, Kirk McFly and his mother--each sporting their blue and green-hued sleepwear respectively--rush out of the house's front door to see the damage that's been done to the vehicle.
JACK: Look at these scratches on the door.
Kirk takes his father's flashlight and inspects the abnormalities with a hint of vigor.
KIRK MCFLY: Looks like these marks were made with a small pocketknife.
FIONA MCFLY: I see four of them around the door's lock.
The teenager stands up and turns toward his father.
KIRK: It appears as if Mr. Janeway's been in this car...but why? Dad, you mentioned something about drinking a bottle of water on your way back home from Arnold's. How did the water taste?
JACK: It tasted like piss—like Kentucky red-eye.
FIONA: Say...you don't suppose...?
Fiona's eyebrows perk up just a tad before she takes the pizzas back into the house. A minute or so later, she comes back out--only this time, she's carrying an empty bottle of Kentucky red-eye whiskey, which was stuffed into a large sandwich baggie.
FIONA: Does this bottle look familiar?
JACK: Yeah...that's the Kentucky red-eye bottle Miss Shelby gave us when we were at Doc's place.
Jack slowly shakes his head, realizing the facts that have fallen before him.
JACK: He jimmyed the lock to the car, broke in, and spiked my water.
KIRK: That's a logical assumption, dad...but why couldn't Mr. Janeway just bust out the window with a crowbar or somethin' like that?
FIONA: Aren't ya barmy, young lad?! He'd have set off the alarm!
The ex-quarterback begins to understand why his longtime bully would break into his fiancee's car without tripping the alarm.
JACK: That's it. He must've known there was a concert goin' on, and so with everyone in the bar, he went out there and took his chances. Unfortunately, we need to find the pocketknife Russell was usin'. Without it, we can't put our case together.
Kirk looks down at the calendar on his Samsung Galaxy smartphone.
KIRK: That's right. Testimony begins this coming Friday, and my suspicion is that he'll call Mr. Morita as a witness.
Jack turns his attention towards the general direction of Arnold's bar and nods his head, sighing to himself.
JACK: Which means...we ain't got a helluva lot of time before we have to jog his memory.
**********
Alex, before you sit there and preach to the choir that I'm gonna get a good ol'-fashioned Texas ass-whuppin'--which is, by the way, the most cliché expression a Texas boy like yourself could spout—lemme make one thing perfectly clear. I don't hate you 'cuz you're a talented sumbitch. I do, however, despise your pursuit of dollar signs over takin' the time to give hugs to the people who worship you every single week. Look at ME, bud: I've toured the planet longer than you to realize that I couldn't give two shits about makin' money. To me, the prospects of earnin' loads of lettuce never crossed my mind when I first got started into this gig. Yet while you were servin' your country as a hired gun, I was doin' more to better myself in the worlds of academia and wrasslin'.
And I did it all my way.
Guess what, son? Just 'cuz I didn't join your ass on the battlefield doesn't make me less of an American. I'm proud to be an American, but I'm more than just a dude who serves the fine folks at home. I've served the freedom-lovin' folks who resides in every corner of the globe with DISTINCTION in the nearly eight years I've been tourin', and I shall continue to do so in the present day.
And boy, do I have a newsflash for you.
For a guy that's 25 years young, you are NUTS to think that you can whip my ass for a second time—especially when you and I are gonna have ourselves a l'ilt hardcore match as part of the Heir to the Throne series. Yet as you sit there and mosey around town, thinkin' about the ways in which you can pick me apart like the toppings on a pizza, here's the fun part of this predicament that you're stuck in:
You just picked your own goddamn poison.
Had ya taken the time to THINK about my resume instead of comin' up with some lame-ass generalization that I worked for a bunch of piss-ant companies, you should've come to the absolute, God's honest truth: in every promotion I've worked for—from the indies to IWF—there was nothin' that excited me more than to take a weapon and thump an opponent's skull with it. I love playin' with toys in the ring, son. Hardcore ain't just a tiny nuance of my talents—it's my wheelhouse, my bread and butter. Seriously dude, I can't WAIT to bring my personal bag o' goodies to the ring so I can grab the tools I need to rip the bangs off of your head and tu rn your ass into raw brisket meat. Think about it, bubba: when you're rollin' around the deck, all torn up like itty-bitty Chicken McNuggets, you're gonna realize that pickin' your own poison wasn't a very sound tactical plan at all.
And I—not you—will have the heads-up in the Heir to the Throne.
That's how I see it.
Alex, before you sit there and preach to the choir that I'm gonna get a good ol'-fashioned Texas ass-whuppin'--which is, by the way, the most cliché expression a Texas boy like yourself could spout—lemme make one thing perfectly clear. I don't hate you 'cuz you're a talented sumbitch. I do, however, despise your pursuit of dollar signs over takin' the time to give hugs to the people who worship you every single week. Look at ME, bud: I've toured the planet longer than you to realize that I couldn't give two shits about makin' money. To me, the prospects of earnin' loads of lettuce never crossed my mind when I first got started into this gig. Yet while you were servin' your country as a hired gun, I was doin' more to better myself in the worlds of academia and wrasslin'.
And I did it all my way.
Guess what, son? Just 'cuz I didn't join your ass on the battlefield doesn't make me less of an American. I'm proud to be an American, but I'm more than just a dude who serves the fine folks at home. I've served the freedom-lovin' folks who resides in every corner of the globe with DISTINCTION in the nearly eight years I've been tourin', and I shall continue to do so in the present day.
And boy, do I have a newsflash for you.
For a guy that's 25 years young, you are NUTS to think that you can whip my ass for a second time—especially when you and I are gonna have ourselves a l'ilt hardcore match as part of the Heir to the Throne series. Yet as you sit there and mosey around town, thinkin' about the ways in which you can pick me apart like the toppings on a pizza, here's the fun part of this predicament that you're stuck in:
You just picked your own goddamn poison.
Had ya taken the time to THINK about my resume instead of comin' up with some lame-ass generalization that I worked for a bunch of piss-ant companies, you should've come to the absolute, God's honest truth: in every promotion I've worked for—from the indies to IWF—there was nothin' that excited me more than to take a weapon and thump an opponent's skull with it. I love playin' with toys in the ring, son. Hardcore ain't just a tiny nuance of my talents—it's my wheelhouse, my bread and butter. Seriously dude, I can't WAIT to bring my personal bag o' goodies to the ring so I can grab the tools I need to rip the bangs off of your head and tu rn your ass into raw brisket meat. Think about it, bubba: when you're rollin' around the deck, all torn up like itty-bitty Chicken McNuggets, you're gonna realize that pickin' your own poison wasn't a very sound tactical plan at all.
And I—not you—will have the heads-up in the Heir to the Throne.
That's how I see it.
Well howdy there pardner.