Post by Mike Laszlo on Aug 1, 2016 3:03:35 GMT
The scene opens up and I’m grabbing a Sparkling Ice Orange Mango drink from my bag...zero calories, great taste...and ad...I need to call them. I crack open the small eight ounce can, chug it, and toss the empty can into the bin nearby. I turn to the camera, feigning shock at it’s appearance, before turning toward it and digging in.
Let me guess...you’re going to tell me what’s in my head too?
The camera shakes from side to side.
Why not? You’re the cameraman. You’re the same equipment monkey who’s been in this company for quite some time. Surely you have something to add that Dre Cutler missed in his dissection of my brain. You’ve known me longer...come on...LET ME HAVE IT!!!
The camera doesn’t move. The man behind it perhaps is too scared to say anything. I hold out my hands to calm his nerves.
Alright, relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of...I’m not going to take this camera and hit you upside the head with it...though I might use it when we’re done, and bash in Dre Cutler’s face if that’s okay.
The camera nods...he’s clearly about to piss himself.
Dude...chill.
He aims the camera at me, the tremble only slightly noticeable.
So you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you Dre?
You know I’m overlooking you.
You know that I think you’re a joke.
You know that I believe you to be merely a stepping stone in my path to greatness.
I smirk and shake my head.
It’s amazing what you THINK you know based on watching some film. You think you’re so smart don’t you Dre, a student of the game right?
I point to myself.
I am the master of this game you little shit. I am the name recognized throughout the wrestling industry. I am the man who won the Heir to the Throne two years ago, made Angel tapout in the center of that damn ring, saved him from himself, and that was only me scratching the surface of my potential. That was when I cared...about them.
My arm goes out to the side, my index finger extended as I’m figuratively pointing at each and every fan in the audience.
That’s when I put them before me Dre, and although that got me to the match that I wanted, to the match that was my shot at the Imperial Championship...it was ME who got myself over! It wasn’t the pandering or the good feelings...it was me.
So you have to wonder Dre...what does that mean for the present? What does it mean that I’m looking out for one person and one person only...me!? What the hell does it mean for you that I’m in this with no other motive than to be the absolute best...not for them...for me.
I point behind me.
That’s the past Dre...that’s the me that was oppressed by morality, by doing things the right way to make people cheer for me. That’s back when I was their savior from the tyranny that was Angel Blake.
I point down to the ground…
Now the chains are off, the shackles have been unlocked, and it’s time to do this again...for me. I was only scratching the surface back when I beat Angel. Since then, I’ve grown. I’ve won tournaments...I’ve won Joker In the Pack Matches...and while you look at that as me just being good enough to get to the supposed glass ceiling, you need to see the broader perspective. You need to see that those title losses you reference are tainted. You need to see that when I had Renee Pleasant in a Crossface, the only reason he escaped as champion is the fact that Rob Diamond came out and Diamond Cut my wife on the outside of the ring. You need to realize that the night I cashed my Joker In The Pack briefcase in, and headlined the absolute biggest show in the history of this damn company, something you’ll never do, I had Roberto Verona tied up in the Entanglement in the center of that damn ring with nowhere to go, and only was ousted from behind by Jake Conway.
Check your facts asshole.
I spread my hands out in front of me.
So now we’re in the here and now. Now we’re talking about THIS Heir to the Throne Tournament. We’re talking about a match between me and you at Lineage with fifteen points on the line. A chance for me to springboard to the top again, tying with Adam Knite...again. A chance for you to do the same...though you won’t, and a chance this very moment to tell you how flawed your logic is...again.
I point my finger into the side of my head.
Think Dre...think long and hard. How did I win the Heir to the Throne two years ago? Was I the top seed? Was I the man with all the points? Come on Mr. Historian...impart your oh so vast knowledge upon me and the rest of the world!!
Nevermind...I’ll help you out.
The answer is no.
You see, this is where you’re wrong. This is where you let your little pee brain get you into trouble. I don’t care if I’m first or fourth in this tournament Dre. All I need to do is get in. All I need is to have a spot at the table, a chance to take the spotlight and make it my own, and just like last time...I’ll do just that.
====================================================
Title: Impatient
Location: Cleveland, Ohio
Time: 10:29 AM Local Time
With each push of my legs against the weight plate, I grunt, my face tenses up and the beads of sweat drip down the sides of my face.
Mike Laszlo: I won’t…
CLANK!
Mike Laszlo: Let it…
CLANK!
Mike Laszlo: Happen…
CLANK!
Mike Laszlo: AGAIN!!!
CLANK!
With the word “AGAIN!!” I let out a primal scream before pushing my knee possibly to its limits and beyond before nodding and having Ray help guide the machine into its resting position. For those of you who don’t know, or don’t remember, Ray is one of my best friends, and the manager of my West Coast Gym in Los Angeles. I asked him to fly to Cleveland to help me train, and get better. A former wrestler in his own right, he knew how to rehab from an injury similar to mine. He knew how to make the knee stronger, more durable, and more resistant after having a procedure done. Even he was shocked with my level of work.
Ray Gross: Dude, I’ve never seen you like this.
Mike Laszlo: Well I’ve never had a perceived weakness actually cost me a match.
Ray Gross: It happens. Especially this soon after coming back. You’ve only had a handful of matches since you’ve been back. It takes time…
Mike Laszlo: I don’t have time. That’s why we’re doing this. The Heir To The Throne continues this weekend, and I have a match against some punk who thinks that one minute he can butter me up, and the next, he can try to tear me down like I’m a fellow rookie that should affect. He doesn’t realize who he’s dealing with, and come Lineage, I get to teach his punk ass a lesson.
Ray Gross: Alright…
He stood.
Ray Gross: Get up. I want to see how you walk after that intense of a workout.
I got up and grimaced a bit. I started walking, a slight limp, but I pushed through any lingering pain or fatigue and the limp started to straighten out and things were normal again.
Ray Gross: Still weak.
Mike Laszlo: It straightened up.
Ray Gross: It did...and quickly...but the goal is to condition it enough to where there’s not even an initial moment of weakness.
I smacked the bar of a nearby piece of equipment.
Mike Laszlo: Son of a…
Ray Gross: Dude, you’ll be fine. Go wrap it in ice to take any inflammation down and we’ll get back to it.
I walked off to the training room. There was a physician there and I jumped up on the table.
Mike Laszlo: Ice me.
She did as told, grabbing an ice pack from the giant freezer, busting it up and placing it on my knee, the cold sensation enough to send a shiver up my spine which the lovely young lady detected.
Physician: Sorry, I know that’s a little cold.
Mike Laszlo: A little? It’s frozen.
She smiled and grabbed the gauze from the bench, perfectly wrapping it around my knee to keep the ice pack in place.
Physician: I know you’re trying to strengthen this, but don’t go too far. We don’t want you injuring yourself again. We liked having you around, but you’re place is in that ring...don’t forget that.
Mike Laszlo: Don’t worry...I don’t plan on getting hurt again.
She finished wrapping the knee and taped it up good and tight.
Physician: Alright, you’re good to go. If you need anything else...let me know.
I nodded and slid off the table.
Mike Laszlo: Thanks doc.
I headed out of the trainer room and headed back to where Ray was sitting on the weight bench.
Mike Laszlo: Hey! Is there anything we can do while this thing is wrapped up?
He looked at me in disbelief.
Ray Gross: Dude, you need to relax. You can’t put something like this on a rush. You’ll screw it up even more. Give it a little bit to cool down, and then we can work it again.
I was getting a little sick and tired of everyone deterring me from what I wanted.
Mike Laszlo: Is there anything...I can do...while this is wrapped.
The seething tone was quite detectable, and he wasn’t thrilled in the least. He stood up from the bench.
Ray Gross: You can practice not being an asshole. Wear the fucking ice for twenty minutes and we’ll get back to it. I’ll be in my office.
He stormed off and went into the office, sitting at his desk as I watched him go off. I sat on the weight bench staring at the bulky knee wrapped in ice. It pissed me off that I was limited in any way shape or form. The last time I had this is when I tore my meniscus in middle school when I was thirteen, skateboarding. I was told not to do too much on my knee for a couple months to allow it to heal...I didn’t listen. Within a month I was jumping on a trampoline, and playing basketball again. Back then I didn’t care about the risk...I was a kid. Now...there’s more on the line. My future in wrestling was on the line. The future of my family was on the line. The pressure was building and all I could do was sit there and wait...I wanted to punch somebody. Instead, I laid back on the bench and let out a deep sigh...fifteen...more...minutes…
==============================================
The scene comes back to me near catering in the backstage area of the XL Center in Hartford. I finish the sandwich I’m eating, crack open another Sparkling Ice, drink it and toss it as before. I then point into the camera after swallowing.
You thought you knew everything Dre, including how to approach this match. You thought you could talk me up, and fill my head with good thoughts, only to rip them back out one by one leaving an empty void. I hate to break it to you punk, but that’s not how you go about things. You don’t tell me I’m great...I already know this. You don’t butter me up...because it falls on deaf ears.
You sure as hell don’t expose yourself as the hypocritical little fuck you are.
You can’t tell me I’m one of the best names in this company, only to tell me I can’t break through the glass ceiling.
You can’t tell me that I’m a champion...yet can’t win the big one...it’s now how it works.
So let me tell you what I CAN do.
I can walk down that ramp at Lineage and I can beat you within an inch of your life, legally, and quite literally...and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. I can face off with you in the center of that ring and verbally abuse you while throwing you through the glass ceiling, sending shards of oppressing glass scattering all around you, prophetic of how your whole career is going to turn out as long as I’m around.
I can beat you, pin you, or make you tap in the center of that ring, take my points and walk away without a single care in the world, leaving you in the pit of mediocrity from which you will inevitable spend most of your career, and there’s not a single thing you can do to stop me.
I point into the camera again as I reference the man himself.
You tried your hardest to make this personal Cutler. You did your best to get inside my head, and I’m here to tell you now that you’ve succeeded in your task...but not to the results in which you desired.
I point into the side of my head.
You wanted to get in here and shake me. You wanted to rattle my confidence, make me question the bright spots in my career, and make me wonder if this indeed my tournament, or if I’m a mere pawn within it’s confines.
I pull my hand down slowly, a smirk sprawling over my face as I shake my head.
That’s not what you did though you loudmouthed little prick.
You didn’t shake my confidence, you reminded me of why it’s there in the first place. You didn’t make me quiver in my boots, you merely awoke a sleeping giant. Dre Cutler, you have single handedly screwed every single fucking person in this tournament with your loud mouth because you’ve turned loose a fury that you can’t even hope to avoid.
This is MY tournament.
You are MY opponent at Lineage and when I’m done with you...you’ll simply be known as MY victim.
I point down to the floor.
Consider this a notice to the rest of the field, the hasbeens, the stars, and the neverwas rookies like yourself who are trying to make a name for themselves. I’m here...I’m better than ever both mentally and physically, and I will take out anyone who gets in my way of becoming IWF’s first ever two time Imperial Champion.
I WON’T be stopped…
I CAN’T be stopped…
Let me guess...you’re going to tell me what’s in my head too?
The camera shakes from side to side.
Why not? You’re the cameraman. You’re the same equipment monkey who’s been in this company for quite some time. Surely you have something to add that Dre Cutler missed in his dissection of my brain. You’ve known me longer...come on...LET ME HAVE IT!!!
The camera doesn’t move. The man behind it perhaps is too scared to say anything. I hold out my hands to calm his nerves.
Alright, relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of...I’m not going to take this camera and hit you upside the head with it...though I might use it when we’re done, and bash in Dre Cutler’s face if that’s okay.
The camera nods...he’s clearly about to piss himself.
Dude...chill.
He aims the camera at me, the tremble only slightly noticeable.
So you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you Dre?
You know I’m overlooking you.
You know that I think you’re a joke.
You know that I believe you to be merely a stepping stone in my path to greatness.
I smirk and shake my head.
It’s amazing what you THINK you know based on watching some film. You think you’re so smart don’t you Dre, a student of the game right?
I point to myself.
I am the master of this game you little shit. I am the name recognized throughout the wrestling industry. I am the man who won the Heir to the Throne two years ago, made Angel tapout in the center of that damn ring, saved him from himself, and that was only me scratching the surface of my potential. That was when I cared...about them.
My arm goes out to the side, my index finger extended as I’m figuratively pointing at each and every fan in the audience.
That’s when I put them before me Dre, and although that got me to the match that I wanted, to the match that was my shot at the Imperial Championship...it was ME who got myself over! It wasn’t the pandering or the good feelings...it was me.
So you have to wonder Dre...what does that mean for the present? What does it mean that I’m looking out for one person and one person only...me!? What the hell does it mean for you that I’m in this with no other motive than to be the absolute best...not for them...for me.
I point behind me.
That’s the past Dre...that’s the me that was oppressed by morality, by doing things the right way to make people cheer for me. That’s back when I was their savior from the tyranny that was Angel Blake.
I point down to the ground…
Now the chains are off, the shackles have been unlocked, and it’s time to do this again...for me. I was only scratching the surface back when I beat Angel. Since then, I’ve grown. I’ve won tournaments...I’ve won Joker In the Pack Matches...and while you look at that as me just being good enough to get to the supposed glass ceiling, you need to see the broader perspective. You need to see that those title losses you reference are tainted. You need to see that when I had Renee Pleasant in a Crossface, the only reason he escaped as champion is the fact that Rob Diamond came out and Diamond Cut my wife on the outside of the ring. You need to realize that the night I cashed my Joker In The Pack briefcase in, and headlined the absolute biggest show in the history of this damn company, something you’ll never do, I had Roberto Verona tied up in the Entanglement in the center of that damn ring with nowhere to go, and only was ousted from behind by Jake Conway.
Check your facts asshole.
I spread my hands out in front of me.
So now we’re in the here and now. Now we’re talking about THIS Heir to the Throne Tournament. We’re talking about a match between me and you at Lineage with fifteen points on the line. A chance for me to springboard to the top again, tying with Adam Knite...again. A chance for you to do the same...though you won’t, and a chance this very moment to tell you how flawed your logic is...again.
I point my finger into the side of my head.
Think Dre...think long and hard. How did I win the Heir to the Throne two years ago? Was I the top seed? Was I the man with all the points? Come on Mr. Historian...impart your oh so vast knowledge upon me and the rest of the world!!
Nevermind...I’ll help you out.
The answer is no.
You see, this is where you’re wrong. This is where you let your little pee brain get you into trouble. I don’t care if I’m first or fourth in this tournament Dre. All I need to do is get in. All I need is to have a spot at the table, a chance to take the spotlight and make it my own, and just like last time...I’ll do just that.
====================================================
Title: Impatient
Location: Cleveland, Ohio
Time: 10:29 AM Local Time
With each push of my legs against the weight plate, I grunt, my face tenses up and the beads of sweat drip down the sides of my face.
Mike Laszlo: I won’t…
CLANK!
Mike Laszlo: Let it…
CLANK!
Mike Laszlo: Happen…
CLANK!
Mike Laszlo: AGAIN!!!
CLANK!
With the word “AGAIN!!” I let out a primal scream before pushing my knee possibly to its limits and beyond before nodding and having Ray help guide the machine into its resting position. For those of you who don’t know, or don’t remember, Ray is one of my best friends, and the manager of my West Coast Gym in Los Angeles. I asked him to fly to Cleveland to help me train, and get better. A former wrestler in his own right, he knew how to rehab from an injury similar to mine. He knew how to make the knee stronger, more durable, and more resistant after having a procedure done. Even he was shocked with my level of work.
Ray Gross: Dude, I’ve never seen you like this.
Mike Laszlo: Well I’ve never had a perceived weakness actually cost me a match.
Ray Gross: It happens. Especially this soon after coming back. You’ve only had a handful of matches since you’ve been back. It takes time…
Mike Laszlo: I don’t have time. That’s why we’re doing this. The Heir To The Throne continues this weekend, and I have a match against some punk who thinks that one minute he can butter me up, and the next, he can try to tear me down like I’m a fellow rookie that should affect. He doesn’t realize who he’s dealing with, and come Lineage, I get to teach his punk ass a lesson.
Ray Gross: Alright…
He stood.
Ray Gross: Get up. I want to see how you walk after that intense of a workout.
I got up and grimaced a bit. I started walking, a slight limp, but I pushed through any lingering pain or fatigue and the limp started to straighten out and things were normal again.
Ray Gross: Still weak.
Mike Laszlo: It straightened up.
Ray Gross: It did...and quickly...but the goal is to condition it enough to where there’s not even an initial moment of weakness.
I smacked the bar of a nearby piece of equipment.
Mike Laszlo: Son of a…
Ray Gross: Dude, you’ll be fine. Go wrap it in ice to take any inflammation down and we’ll get back to it.
I walked off to the training room. There was a physician there and I jumped up on the table.
Mike Laszlo: Ice me.
She did as told, grabbing an ice pack from the giant freezer, busting it up and placing it on my knee, the cold sensation enough to send a shiver up my spine which the lovely young lady detected.
Physician: Sorry, I know that’s a little cold.
Mike Laszlo: A little? It’s frozen.
She smiled and grabbed the gauze from the bench, perfectly wrapping it around my knee to keep the ice pack in place.
Physician: I know you’re trying to strengthen this, but don’t go too far. We don’t want you injuring yourself again. We liked having you around, but you’re place is in that ring...don’t forget that.
Mike Laszlo: Don’t worry...I don’t plan on getting hurt again.
She finished wrapping the knee and taped it up good and tight.
Physician: Alright, you’re good to go. If you need anything else...let me know.
I nodded and slid off the table.
Mike Laszlo: Thanks doc.
I headed out of the trainer room and headed back to where Ray was sitting on the weight bench.
Mike Laszlo: Hey! Is there anything we can do while this thing is wrapped up?
He looked at me in disbelief.
Ray Gross: Dude, you need to relax. You can’t put something like this on a rush. You’ll screw it up even more. Give it a little bit to cool down, and then we can work it again.
I was getting a little sick and tired of everyone deterring me from what I wanted.
Mike Laszlo: Is there anything...I can do...while this is wrapped.
The seething tone was quite detectable, and he wasn’t thrilled in the least. He stood up from the bench.
Ray Gross: You can practice not being an asshole. Wear the fucking ice for twenty minutes and we’ll get back to it. I’ll be in my office.
He stormed off and went into the office, sitting at his desk as I watched him go off. I sat on the weight bench staring at the bulky knee wrapped in ice. It pissed me off that I was limited in any way shape or form. The last time I had this is when I tore my meniscus in middle school when I was thirteen, skateboarding. I was told not to do too much on my knee for a couple months to allow it to heal...I didn’t listen. Within a month I was jumping on a trampoline, and playing basketball again. Back then I didn’t care about the risk...I was a kid. Now...there’s more on the line. My future in wrestling was on the line. The future of my family was on the line. The pressure was building and all I could do was sit there and wait...I wanted to punch somebody. Instead, I laid back on the bench and let out a deep sigh...fifteen...more...minutes…
==============================================
The scene comes back to me near catering in the backstage area of the XL Center in Hartford. I finish the sandwich I’m eating, crack open another Sparkling Ice, drink it and toss it as before. I then point into the camera after swallowing.
You thought you knew everything Dre, including how to approach this match. You thought you could talk me up, and fill my head with good thoughts, only to rip them back out one by one leaving an empty void. I hate to break it to you punk, but that’s not how you go about things. You don’t tell me I’m great...I already know this. You don’t butter me up...because it falls on deaf ears.
You sure as hell don’t expose yourself as the hypocritical little fuck you are.
You can’t tell me I’m one of the best names in this company, only to tell me I can’t break through the glass ceiling.
You can’t tell me that I’m a champion...yet can’t win the big one...it’s now how it works.
So let me tell you what I CAN do.
I can walk down that ramp at Lineage and I can beat you within an inch of your life, legally, and quite literally...and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. I can face off with you in the center of that ring and verbally abuse you while throwing you through the glass ceiling, sending shards of oppressing glass scattering all around you, prophetic of how your whole career is going to turn out as long as I’m around.
I can beat you, pin you, or make you tap in the center of that ring, take my points and walk away without a single care in the world, leaving you in the pit of mediocrity from which you will inevitable spend most of your career, and there’s not a single thing you can do to stop me.
I point into the camera again as I reference the man himself.
You tried your hardest to make this personal Cutler. You did your best to get inside my head, and I’m here to tell you now that you’ve succeeded in your task...but not to the results in which you desired.
I point into the side of my head.
You wanted to get in here and shake me. You wanted to rattle my confidence, make me question the bright spots in my career, and make me wonder if this indeed my tournament, or if I’m a mere pawn within it’s confines.
I pull my hand down slowly, a smirk sprawling over my face as I shake my head.
That’s not what you did though you loudmouthed little prick.
You didn’t shake my confidence, you reminded me of why it’s there in the first place. You didn’t make me quiver in my boots, you merely awoke a sleeping giant. Dre Cutler, you have single handedly screwed every single fucking person in this tournament with your loud mouth because you’ve turned loose a fury that you can’t even hope to avoid.
This is MY tournament.
You are MY opponent at Lineage and when I’m done with you...you’ll simply be known as MY victim.
I point down to the floor.
Consider this a notice to the rest of the field, the hasbeens, the stars, and the neverwas rookies like yourself who are trying to make a name for themselves. I’m here...I’m better than ever both mentally and physically, and I will take out anyone who gets in my way of becoming IWF’s first ever two time Imperial Champion.
I WON’T be stopped…
I CAN’T be stopped…
Well howdy there pardner.