Post by Joshuritanzu on Sept 2, 2021 14:36:10 GMT -5
In the opinion of Scratch Strange, there are two kinds of claustrophobic spaces on this Earth: the unfamiliar and uncomfortable spaces that strangle, and the familiar places that comfort like a security blanket. Unfortunately, airplanes fall into the former of those two categories, and the red-headed Australian street urchin had a ticket for a seat in the middle of the row.
Twenty-three and a half hours. Just shy of a full day. That’s, approximately, how long it would take Scratch to travel from Melbourne to New York City, the site of the next episode of Tuesday Night Sin. He did his best to get comfortable in his cramped, narrow seat on the Qantas airline flight to his first stop, Los Angeles; it’s hardly any use.
The thing about twenty-three and a half hours is that it is a lot of time; to think. Stew. Anticipate. And what Scratch Strange had to anticipate was a fated, vis-a-vis encounter with the Revolution-1 International Champion, Jason Ryan. Scratch closed his eyes and debated internally what the best form of pre-match therapy would be. In most cases, his musical performances were what relieved his tensions and silenced his stressors. As far as he knew, though, basement punk shows didn’t take place in the economy cabin. Still, he knew he’d need to parse his thoughts and feelings before stepping foot in that ring in Yankee Stadium.
Another meditative option for Scratch was songwriting, but there was a sad, underlying truth about Jason Ryan that the Aussie already knew: Jason Ryan didn’t deserve to have a song written about him. Lucky for the champion, though, Scratch had a restless wrist and a notebook that had all but fallen apart. As the plane sailed through cloud and clear blue sky, Strange put pen to paper, his inner monologue reading as he wrote - and yes, the voice in his head has an accent, too.
Scratch places his pen down, unsure of how to continue. He’d gotten most of what little he thought about Jason Ryan off his chest already. Did he still have some respect for the guy? Sure. Clearly, you don’t earn championships or top-tier opportunities by being some push-over or slouch. Ryan could clearly go as far as his in-ring work. Strange just felt it was such a shame that he’d moved up from one champion to another, and he had almost nothing new to say.
The Aussie peered over the shoulder of the sheila next to him and out the window to their left. The sun had begun setting over the Pacific Ocean, casting shades of magenta and tangerine across the sky in contrast to the deep blue of the ocean beneath it. The colors shimmered on the tips of the waves below. Soon, the sky would darken and the stars would come out from their cosmic hidey-holes and light up the universe like fairy lights across the ceiling of the world we share. That inspired something in Strange, and he began to write again.
Twenty-three and a half hours. Just shy of a full day. That’s, approximately, how long it would take Scratch to travel from Melbourne to New York City, the site of the next episode of Tuesday Night Sin. He did his best to get comfortable in his cramped, narrow seat on the Qantas airline flight to his first stop, Los Angeles; it’s hardly any use.
The thing about twenty-three and a half hours is that it is a lot of time; to think. Stew. Anticipate. And what Scratch Strange had to anticipate was a fated, vis-a-vis encounter with the Revolution-1 International Champion, Jason Ryan. Scratch closed his eyes and debated internally what the best form of pre-match therapy would be. In most cases, his musical performances were what relieved his tensions and silenced his stressors. As far as he knew, though, basement punk shows didn’t take place in the economy cabin. Still, he knew he’d need to parse his thoughts and feelings before stepping foot in that ring in Yankee Stadium.
Another meditative option for Scratch was songwriting, but there was a sad, underlying truth about Jason Ryan that the Aussie already knew: Jason Ryan didn’t deserve to have a song written about him. Lucky for the champion, though, Scratch had a restless wrist and a notebook that had all but fallen apart. As the plane sailed through cloud and clear blue sky, Strange put pen to paper, his inner monologue reading as he wrote - and yes, the voice in his head has an accent, too.
“Jason Ryan being on the busted-up television screen in my bedroom makes me gag. Makes me want to vomit just a bit. But it’s not for the reasons that his solipsistic ego wants to believe it is.
What makes me nauseous going into this match is that I’m wrestlin’ the same guy I did last time. Only difference is this guy has got a bigger waist, and a shinier belt ‘round it.
Guys like Jason Ryan and Jalen Prince are cut from the same unwashed cloth, and it’s taken me a bit to figure out why I feel that way, but it’s come to me. These guys cling to the ideals of what they thought made wrestlers cool when they were young and watching through the lens of their undeveloped preteen mind. You can tell who their favorite wrestlers were, ‘cause they’re little more than a sickly regurgitation of those guys. They bring fuck-all to the table in terms of ideas that they’ve come up with themselves.
It’s pretty plain to see, but it’s unsurprising because they’re not all that different from the majority of wrestling fans. They grew up watching family and advertiser-friendly wrestling, and they would almost certainly wet the bed if they were so lucky as to hear someone say ‘bitch’ or ‘shit’ on television. So now that they themselves are on television, they don’t just push the envelope, they put the thing through the damn shredder. The dafties shouldn’t even be given microphones, they’re risking the Hulu Plus deal every time they flap their lips.
What they fail to realize is that in the pursuit of being what they thought was edgy, revolutionary, and cool, they’ve morphed themselves into the antithesis of it. They can drop all the ‘fucks’ and ‘shits’ and ‘cunts’ they’d like, they can lean on a stream of vulgarity as long as the Great Wall of China. When it’s in every line you speak, though, none of those lines are special. When you use it to emphasize every point, none of ‘em stick out anymore. It all blends into a drab, gray block of filler dialogue.
Oh, boy. Another tasteless, tawdry, profane wrestler dressed in red-and-black. That’s just what the industry needed.
Is this really what Revolution-1 considers a championship-caliber competitor? You’d think that the guys sat at the top of the card would be the ones who are the most cutting-edge. The ones who are doing something that the world has never seen before. Yet I’m wrestling someone whose shtick is no different than what I could find at the slummiest little indie back in Victoria. I could waltz into a show where the ring is held together with duct tape and Elmer’s glue, where the ropes are literal string, and none of the boys in the squared circle know their hammerlocks from their cravats, and I’d still see someone grab the damn Rock Band microphone they’re using for promos and spew the same tired dribble that Jason Ryan would.
The horse is dead. Stop beatin’ it. Fuck’s sake.
The horse is dead. Stop beatin’ it. Fuck’s sake.
Same goes for the tired threats and generic self-image he makes. ‘Those you love will pay for your foolishness, and the price will be fatal.’ Perhaps I’m missing bits and pieces of his career, but I don’t think the bloke is a murderer. To be frank, I don’t think he’d have the gall to kill even if you put his finger on the trigger. He’d tremble. Not that I wouldn’t, I couldn’t end someone’s time on Earth either. Just goes to show he’s as human as anyone, no matter what he says or how he postures.”
Scratch places his pen down, unsure of how to continue. He’d gotten most of what little he thought about Jason Ryan off his chest already. Did he still have some respect for the guy? Sure. Clearly, you don’t earn championships or top-tier opportunities by being some push-over or slouch. Ryan could clearly go as far as his in-ring work. Strange just felt it was such a shame that he’d moved up from one champion to another, and he had almost nothing new to say.
The Aussie peered over the shoulder of the sheila next to him and out the window to their left. The sun had begun setting over the Pacific Ocean, casting shades of magenta and tangerine across the sky in contrast to the deep blue of the ocean beneath it. The colors shimmered on the tips of the waves below. Soon, the sky would darken and the stars would come out from their cosmic hidey-holes and light up the universe like fairy lights across the ceiling of the world we share. That inspired something in Strange, and he began to write again.
“Wrestling is like earth.
It’s meant to be a space full of color and life. We need that color to create contrast, to define ourselves. Every wrestler, like every person who sleeps under the moon and stars we share, should be unique. Idiosyncratic. We’ve all got our little quirks and tics that make us, well... tick. And boiling yourself down to a caricature, depriving yourself of that personality… It’s inhumane. And not in the way that Jason Ryan wants to be seen as inhumane, not in the way that has fans chanting, ‘Die Jason Die,’ when he’s in the ring. It’s inhumane in that he’s cheating himself out of the experience of being human. I don’t agree with the sentiment that I want to see Jason Ryan die, and truthfully, I don’t think he can die.
‘Cause he hasn’t begun living.
‘Cause he hasn’t begun living.
I could write for the rest of this flight and catalogue all the things I dislike about Jason Ryan, but I am a firm believer that actions speak much louder than words. The biggest indictment of Jason Ryan’s character that I can express will be through my actions on Sin. Because no matter what he says, what he does, what he attempts to put me through;
I refuse to look Jason Ryan in the eyes.
If we lock-up, I won’t look at ‘im. If he stomps a mudhole in me in the corner, I won’t look at ‘im. If he superkicks me on the eye, I won’t look at ‘im. He could hit every move in his arsenal, pin me to the mat for three seconds, and I still won’t look at ‘im.
Because Jason Ryan doesn’t deserve that fleeting moment of connection with a genuine human being until he learns to become one himself.”