Post by Downfall on Feb 22, 2013 21:51:21 GMT -5
(Scene fades in to show a longview of an old, broken down neighborhood on the Southside of Chicago. The streets are lined with cars, but most of them are junked. Chainlink fences run the length of one side of the street, encasing a basketball court. A figure steps into view, the hem of his floor-length black leather duster sweeping around his black boots as he idly kicks a Corona bottle out of the way. He's walking down this old street, running his hand along the fence, his eyes distant and yet taking in every detail. The camera is cut close on his searching, wandering face. Finally, Downfall's eyes fasten on an old edifice he hasn't seen a couple of decades gone. P.S. 118, his old high school. It was closed due to redistricting in the early part of the latter decade, it's students shuffled off to several other schools in the area, and nobody really cared. Not about one small-sized under-funded public school in the middle of Chicago's neighborhoods.)
Downfall: Time has not been kind.
(That seems to be a constant theme in his life now. In the past decade since this school's closing it's become nothing more than another empty building being dissected by the city. Windows smashed by vandals. Pristine white walls tagged and scrawled by vandals, some spraypaint phrases legible, others incomprehensible. He thinks back to the days when he was here, a student... and the first time he'd laid eyes on the blonde angel named Michelle, the burgeoning young model who'd become his muse and a sounding board for his crazy dream of becoming a pro-wrestler. Standing across the street from his old school now, he had to wonder if alternate timelines were possible, could he go back and talk to one or both of them, save them some heartache. So lost in thought is he that he doesn't see two scrawny, young black boys, emerging from the basketball court as they nearly bump into him.)
Boy #1: Yo son, why you just standing there?
Boy #2: Yeah I mean other people have a right to this sidewalk too.
(At length, Downfall turns his ice-cold eyes towards them. Even the one so full of bravado can't help but flinch back from that evil gaze. Instead of malice, he asks them simply,)
Downfall: It's been a while since I've been home. Does mister Chen still run that bodega on the corner?
(Looking at each other frightfully, they turn their head back to him and nod simultaneously. He smiles, but his eyes are staring back through the mists of the past, his head slightly inclined, thinking.)
Downfall: When I was a little older than you, that old man taught me about the value of hard work as I stocked cans of beans into displays for criminally minimal wage. He busted my ass every day in ways my father never did. My father wasn't there, you see, to teach me the value of doing the work. Makes me wonder, where are your daddies?
(He glances at them, snickers devilishly, and shakes his head.)
Downfall: Never mind. The point is that I came straight there, from school every day and from there, he whipped a snot-nosed little boy into shape. In some ways, that's where my hunger came from, raising myself out of that menial job. He wasn't just giving me stockboy tasks for little pay for an under the table deal, he was challenging me to push myself out of that situation. You see?
(One of them nods, slowly. Downfall claps him on the shoulder.)
Downfall: Good kid. You might go far. Don't stay in this neighborhood. Find yourself a Mister Chen. Make him show you the value of your own hard work. Make yourself better and get out.
(He turns back towards the school.)
Boy #1: Yo man, what's your deal?
Downfall (distant again): Fuck off.
Boy #1: C'mon Jamel, this dude is trippin'.
(Downfall closes his eyes, visualizing the street as it was when he was a kid. He can see it in his mind's eye. But the other boy, the one called Jamel, he's still there, regarding Downfall thoughfully.)
Boy #2: You're someone famous, aren't you?
(He chuckles, thickly and with a black species of irony.)
Downfall: I'm someone who's been away too long. But now I'm back.
Boy #2: Back in Chicago? Hey... where you goin'?
(He's crossing the street, walking towards those white stone steps leading up to the brick school building. The kid continues to call after him, but Downfall has faded ghostlike into the haze of the setting sun. He stares in concern at the creepy man with the cold blue eyes and then he turns and runs after his basketball partner, wanting to put as much distance between them as he can. Downfall is at the big steel doors, long since padlocked together to keep out outsiders and squatters. However, a procured paperclip snik's into the lock, and a few deft turns and the padlock springs open. Downfall pulls the door, which is off-center and catches. He steps into a hallway strewn with bags of garbage and refuse from emptied lockers and years of homeless people sleeping in the abandoned building. He stands in the middle of the hall, with all it's open classrooms, open doors stretching to the end of the hall. It all has a creepy, horror movie vibe.)
Downfall: Once this was a bustling school, teaching kids in this neighborhood science, music, literature, art. But nobody remembers high school for those reasons. Mostly they remember it for the awkward experiences, like trying to get Mary Jane Rottencrotch to give you a handjob under the bleachers, getting caught smoking your first blunt in the boy's room, trying to figure out which clique you can tailor your dress and conform into. As generations pass, high schools, become less about what you learn from the books, less about the education of the mind, and more about the maintenance of a low mental standard. It's true, what they say, youth is wasted on the young.
(He enters into an old classroom. This one is still set up for class, almost as if the teacher could come in and give a lecture tomorrow. The teacher's desk and the small, shaped hard plastic blue student desks. He crosses over to the teacher's desk and kicks a leg up, sitting easily on the desk as he considers the empty blackboard. It's long been covered with cakes of dust.)
Downfall: Of course, it's not just teenaged high school brains that lack education and pertinent life experiences. Sometimes in the circles we travel there comes someone, or group of people who are so- willfully... BLISSFULLY... STUPID... that you just sit back and cannot believe the reality unfolding before you, that this person can draw air and change their own underwear without assistance. Sometimes someone as stupid as a Marcus Grant the Third comes along in life and you just want to break down and cry at the state of the educational systems that allowed them to slip through the cracks and waft through tests. You've got to wonder if maybe he was just the luckiest asshole in the world when it came to picking multiple choice, or maybe teachers just routinely decided to pass Marcus up from grade to grade so that he wouldn't repeat their class again. I sincerely cannot believe that someone as ignorant as Marcus was allowed to pass through this world without someone at least attempting to crack a book for him, but maybe they gave up after he couldn't pronounce any word bigger than the three letters in "bro".
(Wiping the blackboard off, he considers for a few moments. He holds an ancient piece of chalk between thumb and forefinger.)
Downfall: But if I'm relegated to the office of teaching this muscular meathead lessons this week, then I knew there was no way I could do it without visual aids. So sit up straight, you brainless choad, shut the fuck up, and listen to teacher. Because that mercifully short tirade you provided me has given ample opportunity for a necessary reeducation. Now, first and foremost, Marcus, your baffling usage of the word "bro" brings us to our first lesson.
(He quickly writes on the chalkboard and picks up a pointer stick, and whips it against the blackboard with a resounding crack.)
Downfall: Lesson number one - USE A THESAURUS. When you're stuck for new words, as you so obviously seemed to be, it's more than helpful to have a bigger vocabulary than one that consists of that overused douchebag terminology. Are you trying to be one of those Jersey Shore rejects with your stilted patois and mindless jabbering? Do you really think every sentence needed to be punctuated by the word bro, as if it somehow made whatever miniscule "point" you were making more valid? In fact, it just made you sound like an asshole. I was drawing a blank on your mental acuity before because I'd never had any experience on your way of thinking, but then you unwisely showed up and ran your mouth. Ya know Marcus, there's an old adage that says, "You can keep your mouth shut and let people think you're incompetent, or you can open your mouth and confirm their suspicions." And your limited vocabulary, use of the overly familiar and hated term 'bro' and the brief, cursory manner you even mentioned my name spell it all out. You are fucked, Marcus Grant. You were better off not even doing a promo because before, I would have just thumped you and sent you packing. But you had to run your mouth, and waste my time. That's the biggest crime of it all. I spent a good chunk of time earlier this week, letting the cameras follow me around, documenting my life, showing the trials I have been going through in my career, even the sacrifices I've made in my love life... and you - WASTE. MY. TIME. By spending five minutes making a fat camera man run laps while you give your spiel about fitness.
(Quickly writing something on the board and then with a 'wha-pshh" of the pointer smacking the chalkboard, pointing the new letters.)
Downfall: Lesson two, DON'T WASTE TIME. Every promo needs to have a point to it. I can't believe I actually have to coach you on this, but since you insulted my intelligence by throwing that shit towards a fan, the least I can do is clarify things for you. It's a bit like when a young puppy takes a dump on the rug, you're supposed to smack it, rub it's nose in it and make sure it knows never to do something that bad ever again. When I'm done mangling you, you are damnsure going to know next week that you DO NOT just come in, spend more time insulting the man-breasts of a camera-man and say one little phrase about your opponent. Give me something of substance, Marcus. To be honest I knew I was going to dominate you this week but I was hoping mentally you would provide enough challenge to lubricate the cogs in my brain; but you didn't. In the future, you'll know better. In the future you'll know that there are a few more things more important than finding different ways to call the crowd fat and out of shape. Speaking of which... so? The very fact that you spent so much time talking about fitness plans and whipping fans into shape and how much lard they have on their backsides is like listening to a man giving a monologue about how blue the sky is. Not only is it a trite, cliched observation, not even stating a fact, more like just commenting on a given. WASTING MY TIME. Nobody gives two shits about your fitness plan, your gym you probably rent out in the back of an unused Spirit Halloween store in the off-season, or your opinion on how out of shape the average wrestling fan is. I know the average wrestling fan is a fat cream puff stuffed with mayonaisse. But unlike you, I'm not going to spend so much time pandering to the fans instead of talking about my opponent, because I don't give a fuck about the fans and you shouldn't either. You could, instead, have come up with something different to say about your opponent, ya know, me. But you didn't know what to say.
(A few quick chalk slashes, and then the pointer is back as sub-sonic speed, smacking heartily into the old chalkboard.)
Downfall: Lesson number three, DO YOUR HOMEWORK. One line about me, "Downfall is an old timer." And I'll just guarantee you that you only came up with that because I put it out there first. Yes, Marcus, in my first promo I gave you every single thing you could know about me, but even if you wanted to go past that you could hit up Google, look at old matches on Youtube, hell you could probably find some VHS tapes if you look hard enough. You kept with the one thing that stuck out in your mind, that I was old, which actually ISN'T TRUE. I'm 36 fucking years old, Marcus. That's not even middle-aged by most people's standards. In wrestling standards, especially when you apply it to men with hardcore wrestling experience, and have been through as many battles as I've been, yes, my body is more broken down in some ways that an ordinary 36-year old man's. Yes, I may have some wear and tear. But that's because of what I've lived through, Marcus. That's because of all the shit I've survived. I've been beaten with chairs from every angle, broken half the bones in my body. I've been thrown off balconies. I've taken dives off Jumbotron's. All of this history attached to my name, all the wars I've been through... and all the championships I've won, when I walked through the fires and stood through the pain and blood and broken bones, and still claimed victory from certain defeat. You eschewed all that just so you could say "Downfall you're old, how good a shape can your body be in?" Well let me tell you, Marcus. If you had any conception of what you were in for, you would have found it in your research. You would have found, though sometimes broken down and occasionally wounded, the Beast Unleashed is never not dangerous.
(Putting the chalk down, he walks out of the classroom and down the ruined hallways, kicking aside a bag of trashed clothes.)
Downfall: I really have to wonder why you even bothered putting out such a pitiful and contradictory effort at all, Marcus. What did you gain by that, and furthermore, how weird and backwards do you have to be to hire Frank the cameraman to film your promos only to sit there and insult him until he cries. Which also begs the question, WHO WAS FILMING THAT WHOLE SCENE because it was already established that Frank the cameraman didn't have a camera set up, before a few of your harsh and nasty words hurt his feelings and made him cry. That was just a minor and trivial inconvenience of your entire flawed idiosyncrasy.
(He smirks and shakes his head in disbelief.)
Downfall: Overall, as a commercial for your personal trainer services, the whole debacle was fine. But if you're here in the TWF to hawk yourself as a trainer then you can get the fuck out of my way. Why is it, crapman, that this federation is just getting on it's feet and it's already infested by idiots like you, like the Green Man, like Tommy Contour with his MMA academy, who think the key to making themselves more interesting is throwing in some weird hook like being a weird dancing bitch in a green costume, or in your case being a narcissistic nitwit obsessed with flexing and flinching your muscles every two seconds and oiling your nipples up so they shine when you flex your pecs. All you are is a soulless shill, Marcus. All you are is a walking Bowflex ad. You aren't like me, at all. You brag about your physical prowess and being able to make anybody tap out, but you couldn't do that if I stood still and let you apply an armbar on me at will. You're just an extension of this new craze that is coming through wrestling. That everyone has to be a millionaire, or an assassin, or own their own business or have some side job in their spare time. Everyone's coming up with all these weird side gimmicks. But the men like me are few and far between. The men like ME, Marcus, who are warriors through and through. I am a wrestler. I'm not a billboard for some fucking nutrition system. I am a fighter, I am remorseless and, you'll find, I am the baddest motherfucker on the face of this planet.
(His grin into the camera is something inhuman, hungry. Predator's smile.)
Downfall: Your homework for the few days you have left before your test is for you to learn one, simple, vocabulary word. What best describes Downfall, your opponent and God King Wrestler. That word is "unfuckwithable." Learn it. Know it.
(As he walks to the end of the hallway he comes to two swinging double doors the enter into the old gymnasium. He peers inside. It's empty, except for the old bleachers, a basketball goal, and a single, tattered rope hanging from the ceiling. He enters the gym quietly, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, his muscles glisten in the low sundown light coming through the overhead windows, the dying orange light playing over his arms as he holds them out, taking a few deep breaths.)
Downfall: Don't you ever question me and my physical state, Marcus. You don't get to do that. Even at my worst I'm head and shoulders above you at your best. This was your chance to step up and show that you can hang with a former multiple champion and future owner of this entire backwater federation, but you floundered, and you failed, like the bitch you are. Eviscerating you with words was fun times, but it's not enough. I am going to manhandle you. I'm going to damage you so far beyond the ability of these "wrestling skills" I'm doubting you even possess. I'm not going to just trade amateur holds with you, I'm going to break fingers, I'm going to rip hair, I'm going to break skin and bleed you. I'm going to contort you and far from whipping my ass into shape, I'm going to twist you into an entirely new configuration. So hit your gym, Marcus. Let's see the fruits of that famed MG3 fitness system when I'm kicking your fucking teeth down your throat. You should have been a lot more educated in your approach. You should have been smart enough to run. Now your only choice is to give up... if I let you. See you in the ring, boy.
Downfall: Time has not been kind.
(That seems to be a constant theme in his life now. In the past decade since this school's closing it's become nothing more than another empty building being dissected by the city. Windows smashed by vandals. Pristine white walls tagged and scrawled by vandals, some spraypaint phrases legible, others incomprehensible. He thinks back to the days when he was here, a student... and the first time he'd laid eyes on the blonde angel named Michelle, the burgeoning young model who'd become his muse and a sounding board for his crazy dream of becoming a pro-wrestler. Standing across the street from his old school now, he had to wonder if alternate timelines were possible, could he go back and talk to one or both of them, save them some heartache. So lost in thought is he that he doesn't see two scrawny, young black boys, emerging from the basketball court as they nearly bump into him.)
Boy #1: Yo son, why you just standing there?
Boy #2: Yeah I mean other people have a right to this sidewalk too.
(At length, Downfall turns his ice-cold eyes towards them. Even the one so full of bravado can't help but flinch back from that evil gaze. Instead of malice, he asks them simply,)
Downfall: It's been a while since I've been home. Does mister Chen still run that bodega on the corner?
(Looking at each other frightfully, they turn their head back to him and nod simultaneously. He smiles, but his eyes are staring back through the mists of the past, his head slightly inclined, thinking.)
Downfall: When I was a little older than you, that old man taught me about the value of hard work as I stocked cans of beans into displays for criminally minimal wage. He busted my ass every day in ways my father never did. My father wasn't there, you see, to teach me the value of doing the work. Makes me wonder, where are your daddies?
(He glances at them, snickers devilishly, and shakes his head.)
Downfall: Never mind. The point is that I came straight there, from school every day and from there, he whipped a snot-nosed little boy into shape. In some ways, that's where my hunger came from, raising myself out of that menial job. He wasn't just giving me stockboy tasks for little pay for an under the table deal, he was challenging me to push myself out of that situation. You see?
(One of them nods, slowly. Downfall claps him on the shoulder.)
Downfall: Good kid. You might go far. Don't stay in this neighborhood. Find yourself a Mister Chen. Make him show you the value of your own hard work. Make yourself better and get out.
(He turns back towards the school.)
Boy #1: Yo man, what's your deal?
Downfall (distant again): Fuck off.
Boy #1: C'mon Jamel, this dude is trippin'.
(Downfall closes his eyes, visualizing the street as it was when he was a kid. He can see it in his mind's eye. But the other boy, the one called Jamel, he's still there, regarding Downfall thoughfully.)
Boy #2: You're someone famous, aren't you?
(He chuckles, thickly and with a black species of irony.)
Downfall: I'm someone who's been away too long. But now I'm back.
Boy #2: Back in Chicago? Hey... where you goin'?
(He's crossing the street, walking towards those white stone steps leading up to the brick school building. The kid continues to call after him, but Downfall has faded ghostlike into the haze of the setting sun. He stares in concern at the creepy man with the cold blue eyes and then he turns and runs after his basketball partner, wanting to put as much distance between them as he can. Downfall is at the big steel doors, long since padlocked together to keep out outsiders and squatters. However, a procured paperclip snik's into the lock, and a few deft turns and the padlock springs open. Downfall pulls the door, which is off-center and catches. He steps into a hallway strewn with bags of garbage and refuse from emptied lockers and years of homeless people sleeping in the abandoned building. He stands in the middle of the hall, with all it's open classrooms, open doors stretching to the end of the hall. It all has a creepy, horror movie vibe.)
Downfall: Once this was a bustling school, teaching kids in this neighborhood science, music, literature, art. But nobody remembers high school for those reasons. Mostly they remember it for the awkward experiences, like trying to get Mary Jane Rottencrotch to give you a handjob under the bleachers, getting caught smoking your first blunt in the boy's room, trying to figure out which clique you can tailor your dress and conform into. As generations pass, high schools, become less about what you learn from the books, less about the education of the mind, and more about the maintenance of a low mental standard. It's true, what they say, youth is wasted on the young.
(He enters into an old classroom. This one is still set up for class, almost as if the teacher could come in and give a lecture tomorrow. The teacher's desk and the small, shaped hard plastic blue student desks. He crosses over to the teacher's desk and kicks a leg up, sitting easily on the desk as he considers the empty blackboard. It's long been covered with cakes of dust.)
Downfall: Of course, it's not just teenaged high school brains that lack education and pertinent life experiences. Sometimes in the circles we travel there comes someone, or group of people who are so- willfully... BLISSFULLY... STUPID... that you just sit back and cannot believe the reality unfolding before you, that this person can draw air and change their own underwear without assistance. Sometimes someone as stupid as a Marcus Grant the Third comes along in life and you just want to break down and cry at the state of the educational systems that allowed them to slip through the cracks and waft through tests. You've got to wonder if maybe he was just the luckiest asshole in the world when it came to picking multiple choice, or maybe teachers just routinely decided to pass Marcus up from grade to grade so that he wouldn't repeat their class again. I sincerely cannot believe that someone as ignorant as Marcus was allowed to pass through this world without someone at least attempting to crack a book for him, but maybe they gave up after he couldn't pronounce any word bigger than the three letters in "bro".
(Wiping the blackboard off, he considers for a few moments. He holds an ancient piece of chalk between thumb and forefinger.)
Downfall: But if I'm relegated to the office of teaching this muscular meathead lessons this week, then I knew there was no way I could do it without visual aids. So sit up straight, you brainless choad, shut the fuck up, and listen to teacher. Because that mercifully short tirade you provided me has given ample opportunity for a necessary reeducation. Now, first and foremost, Marcus, your baffling usage of the word "bro" brings us to our first lesson.
(He quickly writes on the chalkboard and picks up a pointer stick, and whips it against the blackboard with a resounding crack.)
Downfall: Lesson number one - USE A THESAURUS. When you're stuck for new words, as you so obviously seemed to be, it's more than helpful to have a bigger vocabulary than one that consists of that overused douchebag terminology. Are you trying to be one of those Jersey Shore rejects with your stilted patois and mindless jabbering? Do you really think every sentence needed to be punctuated by the word bro, as if it somehow made whatever miniscule "point" you were making more valid? In fact, it just made you sound like an asshole. I was drawing a blank on your mental acuity before because I'd never had any experience on your way of thinking, but then you unwisely showed up and ran your mouth. Ya know Marcus, there's an old adage that says, "You can keep your mouth shut and let people think you're incompetent, or you can open your mouth and confirm their suspicions." And your limited vocabulary, use of the overly familiar and hated term 'bro' and the brief, cursory manner you even mentioned my name spell it all out. You are fucked, Marcus Grant. You were better off not even doing a promo because before, I would have just thumped you and sent you packing. But you had to run your mouth, and waste my time. That's the biggest crime of it all. I spent a good chunk of time earlier this week, letting the cameras follow me around, documenting my life, showing the trials I have been going through in my career, even the sacrifices I've made in my love life... and you - WASTE. MY. TIME. By spending five minutes making a fat camera man run laps while you give your spiel about fitness.
(Quickly writing something on the board and then with a 'wha-pshh" of the pointer smacking the chalkboard, pointing the new letters.)
Downfall: Lesson two, DON'T WASTE TIME. Every promo needs to have a point to it. I can't believe I actually have to coach you on this, but since you insulted my intelligence by throwing that shit towards a fan, the least I can do is clarify things for you. It's a bit like when a young puppy takes a dump on the rug, you're supposed to smack it, rub it's nose in it and make sure it knows never to do something that bad ever again. When I'm done mangling you, you are damnsure going to know next week that you DO NOT just come in, spend more time insulting the man-breasts of a camera-man and say one little phrase about your opponent. Give me something of substance, Marcus. To be honest I knew I was going to dominate you this week but I was hoping mentally you would provide enough challenge to lubricate the cogs in my brain; but you didn't. In the future, you'll know better. In the future you'll know that there are a few more things more important than finding different ways to call the crowd fat and out of shape. Speaking of which... so? The very fact that you spent so much time talking about fitness plans and whipping fans into shape and how much lard they have on their backsides is like listening to a man giving a monologue about how blue the sky is. Not only is it a trite, cliched observation, not even stating a fact, more like just commenting on a given. WASTING MY TIME. Nobody gives two shits about your fitness plan, your gym you probably rent out in the back of an unused Spirit Halloween store in the off-season, or your opinion on how out of shape the average wrestling fan is. I know the average wrestling fan is a fat cream puff stuffed with mayonaisse. But unlike you, I'm not going to spend so much time pandering to the fans instead of talking about my opponent, because I don't give a fuck about the fans and you shouldn't either. You could, instead, have come up with something different to say about your opponent, ya know, me. But you didn't know what to say.
(A few quick chalk slashes, and then the pointer is back as sub-sonic speed, smacking heartily into the old chalkboard.)
Downfall: Lesson number three, DO YOUR HOMEWORK. One line about me, "Downfall is an old timer." And I'll just guarantee you that you only came up with that because I put it out there first. Yes, Marcus, in my first promo I gave you every single thing you could know about me, but even if you wanted to go past that you could hit up Google, look at old matches on Youtube, hell you could probably find some VHS tapes if you look hard enough. You kept with the one thing that stuck out in your mind, that I was old, which actually ISN'T TRUE. I'm 36 fucking years old, Marcus. That's not even middle-aged by most people's standards. In wrestling standards, especially when you apply it to men with hardcore wrestling experience, and have been through as many battles as I've been, yes, my body is more broken down in some ways that an ordinary 36-year old man's. Yes, I may have some wear and tear. But that's because of what I've lived through, Marcus. That's because of all the shit I've survived. I've been beaten with chairs from every angle, broken half the bones in my body. I've been thrown off balconies. I've taken dives off Jumbotron's. All of this history attached to my name, all the wars I've been through... and all the championships I've won, when I walked through the fires and stood through the pain and blood and broken bones, and still claimed victory from certain defeat. You eschewed all that just so you could say "Downfall you're old, how good a shape can your body be in?" Well let me tell you, Marcus. If you had any conception of what you were in for, you would have found it in your research. You would have found, though sometimes broken down and occasionally wounded, the Beast Unleashed is never not dangerous.
(Putting the chalk down, he walks out of the classroom and down the ruined hallways, kicking aside a bag of trashed clothes.)
Downfall: I really have to wonder why you even bothered putting out such a pitiful and contradictory effort at all, Marcus. What did you gain by that, and furthermore, how weird and backwards do you have to be to hire Frank the cameraman to film your promos only to sit there and insult him until he cries. Which also begs the question, WHO WAS FILMING THAT WHOLE SCENE because it was already established that Frank the cameraman didn't have a camera set up, before a few of your harsh and nasty words hurt his feelings and made him cry. That was just a minor and trivial inconvenience of your entire flawed idiosyncrasy.
(He smirks and shakes his head in disbelief.)
Downfall: Overall, as a commercial for your personal trainer services, the whole debacle was fine. But if you're here in the TWF to hawk yourself as a trainer then you can get the fuck out of my way. Why is it, crapman, that this federation is just getting on it's feet and it's already infested by idiots like you, like the Green Man, like Tommy Contour with his MMA academy, who think the key to making themselves more interesting is throwing in some weird hook like being a weird dancing bitch in a green costume, or in your case being a narcissistic nitwit obsessed with flexing and flinching your muscles every two seconds and oiling your nipples up so they shine when you flex your pecs. All you are is a soulless shill, Marcus. All you are is a walking Bowflex ad. You aren't like me, at all. You brag about your physical prowess and being able to make anybody tap out, but you couldn't do that if I stood still and let you apply an armbar on me at will. You're just an extension of this new craze that is coming through wrestling. That everyone has to be a millionaire, or an assassin, or own their own business or have some side job in their spare time. Everyone's coming up with all these weird side gimmicks. But the men like me are few and far between. The men like ME, Marcus, who are warriors through and through. I am a wrestler. I'm not a billboard for some fucking nutrition system. I am a fighter, I am remorseless and, you'll find, I am the baddest motherfucker on the face of this planet.
(His grin into the camera is something inhuman, hungry. Predator's smile.)
Downfall: Your homework for the few days you have left before your test is for you to learn one, simple, vocabulary word. What best describes Downfall, your opponent and God King Wrestler. That word is "unfuckwithable." Learn it. Know it.
(As he walks to the end of the hallway he comes to two swinging double doors the enter into the old gymnasium. He peers inside. It's empty, except for the old bleachers, a basketball goal, and a single, tattered rope hanging from the ceiling. He enters the gym quietly, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, his muscles glisten in the low sundown light coming through the overhead windows, the dying orange light playing over his arms as he holds them out, taking a few deep breaths.)
Downfall: Don't you ever question me and my physical state, Marcus. You don't get to do that. Even at my worst I'm head and shoulders above you at your best. This was your chance to step up and show that you can hang with a former multiple champion and future owner of this entire backwater federation, but you floundered, and you failed, like the bitch you are. Eviscerating you with words was fun times, but it's not enough. I am going to manhandle you. I'm going to damage you so far beyond the ability of these "wrestling skills" I'm doubting you even possess. I'm not going to just trade amateur holds with you, I'm going to break fingers, I'm going to rip hair, I'm going to break skin and bleed you. I'm going to contort you and far from whipping my ass into shape, I'm going to twist you into an entirely new configuration. So hit your gym, Marcus. Let's see the fruits of that famed MG3 fitness system when I'm kicking your fucking teeth down your throat. You should have been a lot more educated in your approach. You should have been smart enough to run. Now your only choice is to give up... if I let you. See you in the ring, boy.