Post by fdcm on Mar 26, 2007 0:30:18 GMT -6
Justin McCreery was having a bad day.
It had looked like such a good job. "Assistant to the Vice President of Talent Relations." Not too shabby considering the ink on his degree wasn't even dry yet. Or, so he thought.
Turns out that prestigious-sounding title was nothing more than the shiny wrapping paper and pink bow put on being a bitch to the stars. Arrange such-and-such's limo ride. Make sure so-and-so is satisfied with his hotel room. Don't let whatshisface get mauled to death at his autograph signing.
But this...this takes the cake.
He's standing in front of the most ridiculous dressing room he's ever seen. The list of demands had seemed to take hours to finish scrolling out of the damned fax machine. And yet they'd fawned over every little detail. Bent to every whim.
The thing he was trying to figure out was why.
Word was that FDCM's surprise appearance might make the DVD sales jump 3%. 3% didn't sound like all that much to McCreery, but they were seemingly enough for Mr. Capaci. Enough to make sure his latest star was as comfortable as possible.
And if Mr. Capaci thought it was a good idea...well, it was a good idea to agree, let's leave it at that.
And now it was time to go and do what he did best...kiss ass professionally.
With a heavy sigh, he knocks on the door. After a moment, it is cracked open and a young woman's head peaks around.
FDCGirl: Oh, it's you. Come on in.
The door opens fully into some kind of bizarre, acid trip utopia. It's all just the way the lunatic had asked...plush red carpets, huge, outlandish furniture. All four walls are covered, every square inch, with posters, magazine clippings, and a gigantic framed portrait of - who else? - Flying Diamond Cutter Man.
Reclined beneath it in what could only be described as a throne is FDCM himself, wearing a carbon copy of Hugh Heffner's pajamas-and-robe getup, the UWL Championship slung over his shoulder as usual. He appears to be drinking champagne out of an honest-to-God goblet.
His harem of FDC Girls are scattered around him, two in the chair with him, the others in his hot tub, on his couch, and so on. Pink Floyd blasts with heightened bass from a top-of-the-line stereo in the corner. There is no Plastic Ono Band anywhere to be seen, thank you very much. There is apparently a bubble machine somewhere in here too, as the things are floating everywhere.
With a sigh, McCreery metaphorically puckers up.
McCreery: Hello Mister...er, Diamond Cutter Man. I'm here from Talent Relations, just wanted to make sure everything is...to your liking. (pompous ass. This is the worst.)
FDCM: Yeah, I suppose it's alright...a little smaller than my old dressing room but it'll do for now. ...wait, who the hell are you?
One of the girls seated next to FDCM speaks up.
FDCGirl: Mr. DCM, He just told you. He's from Talent Relations. Remember? This is Mr. McCreery. We met him at the contract signing.
FDCM: McQueery, huh? That's a pretty unusual name, son.
McCreery: Well actually, it's pronounced...
McCreery is cut off as the music's volume suddenly doubles in volume as the song changes over to "Have a Cigar." The camera pans over as a monkey scampers away from the stereo system.
FDCM: Don't mind if I do.
With a quick clap of his hands, FDCM summons another FDCGirl carrying a tray on which is a large box of Cubans. FDCM gingerly plucks one from the tray and pops it into his mouth. The woman lights it for him and then disappears to...wherever the hell she came from.
McCreery: Did...the monkey just...
FDCM: What? He likes this song.
FDCM puffs thoughtfully for a moment, luxuriously blowing a smoke ring into the air. After about 30 seconds, he appears to realize that McCreery is still standing there.
FDCM: Whaddyou want?
McCreery: ...well look, it isn't really my job to say this but...don't you have a match in, like, two days?
FDCM: Sure. So?
McCreery: With Rich Morrison? Main event-caliber talent?
FDCM: Get to the point, McQueery.
McCreery: Shouldn't you be...you know...preparing?
FDCM: Preparing!? What the hell do you call what I'm doing right now!?
McCreery: ...I call it sitting in a recliner drinking champagne and smoking while being surrounded by beautiful women.
FDCM: Yes, and it's f**kin' great!
For a few awkward moments, McCreery just stares at FDCM. Eventually, the 'champ' seems to get the point.
FDCM: Ohoho, I get it. They sent you here to talk shop. Make sure their investment will be made good on? Say no more, McQueery.
With another quick clap of FDCM's hands, two more girls wheel out a gigantic flatscreen TV to the center of the room.
FDCM: Ladies, please show Mr. McQueery the Rich Morrison Highlight Reel, if you would.
FDCM explains himself to a clearly befuddled McCreery as the women put in the DVD and get it ready.
FDCM: This is a mix tape of all Morrison's greatest hits since coming to POW, painstakingly compiled by my staff. By studying this, I can analyze all his strengths and weaknesses and determine the best way to defeat him.
McCreery: I see...
The lights dim as the obscenely huge screen begins to role the DVD. What follows is, indeed, a comp of all Morrison's "finest" moments...being pinned by Shawn Stevens for the POW Title. Hanging on for dear life to the scaffold at All In. And numerous clips, including many from his most recent interview, of trademark Rich Morrison Diatribes about how he's being held down.
After about 45 seconds, the disc ends and the lights come back up.
McCreery: ...that's it?
FDCM: Yeah, well. Nobody said he was the most worthy adversary.
McCreery: You've gotta be kidding! You mean to tell me, with complete sincerity, that you're "preparing" for this match by watching Rich get pinned and do interviews?
FDCM: ...what else?
McCreery: Oh, I don't know...wrestling, maybe?
FDCM lowers his sunglasses and stares blankly at McCreery for a few moments, before exhaling a giant puff of smoke and replying.
FDCM: If you're implying that Rich Morrison can do something other than complain and lose, I'm afraid I don't follow.
McCreery can do nothing but release a giant sigh of exasperation.
FDCM: Well it's true, you know. Look, I've fought a thousand nobodies like Morrison in my career. This business is full of them...so-called "blue chippers" that spend years mired in the uppercard, complaining about being "held down" by main eventers like myself. Bitching about "politics" and "glass ceilings" and "prejudices" and "cliques" and blah blah f**king blah.
You can tell a lot about someone by how they interview. I listened to Morrison's promo on me, I listened to it good and hard. And I took it to heart.
And objectively, what did he do? He postured, he talked tough, he tried to talk me down. Yawn. And then he launched into his classic diatribe about how sure he is that this is a blowoff match before I go have my *real* feud with Shawn Stevens. "And wah wah wah, poor Rich, poor little ol' me, you just KNOW I'm gonna get shoved right back down the pecking order into the midcard again."
Well Rich, I just have one thing to say to that...
FDCM stops to take another long drag off his cigar, then carelessly blows the smoke out in the face of one of his girls while absentmindedly stubbing the cigar out on the leg of the other. With a shriek she jumps off the chair and hurries into the bathroom to tend to her burn. FDCM doesn't seem to notice.
FDCM: Of course you're going back to the midcard. Tough breaks kid, but face the facts. You were just keeping my seat warm for me. You think Tito Capaci looks at you and sees a main eventer? You think he ever really thought you'd beat Shawn Stevens and become a champion? You mentioned forgetting what gold looks like. I'm not sure you ever really knew. In case you're wondering...
FDCM pats the championship belt still nestled close to his right shoulder.
FDCM: This is what gold looks like. Shiny, beautiful, flawless. The center of attention wherever it goes, and coveted by all. Just like the men who carry it. Just...like...me.
I've seen your act before Rich. To be honest, you remind me a lot of Shawn Stevens. Both arrogant, overhyped, overrated, smarmy little punks who have been given everything. He made a career out of his brother's name and reputation, and from the looks of things you've made one out of your parents' money. Or maybe you made it out of hanging out with an actual talented worker like Chester Coban! Or maybe it was from making yourself look and feel better by beating up on jabronis like Rob Matthews...
Fact is, you're both great at riding the coattails of others. But what are you gonna do when you have to stand up for yourself? When Coban isn't around to pull your weight? When your jobber buddy Matthews isn't there for you to get your little pick-me-up victory over? What are you gonna do when your destiny is in YOUR hands...and yours alone?
Go ahead and lift your weights, Rich. Run your laps, or spit your words, or do whatever it is you do to make yourself feel like you're better prepared for the ass kicking and ego slaying you're about to receive. But don't go getting the delusion in your head that it will be anything less.
Because at the end of the day...you'll do what all people like you do when you cross paths with people like me.
You'll lay down and get the hell out of the way. You'll go back to the undercard where you belong. And you'll go back to muttering and complaining while the true stars shine high above...forever out of your reach.
You don't like what I'm saying to you, Rich? You don't like what I think? You don't like what I do? You don't like the way I am?
Answer this: What the hell do you think you can do about it? I'm the champ!
McQueery! I think your time is up now. Go tell your boss everything is fine here. And as far as "business" is concerned...after this Tuesday, I'm sure he'll have no doubt that the Champ can deliver.
Without another word, a speechless McCreery is ambushed by about seven FDCGirls who quickly usher him out of the dressing room, shutting the door behind him. Leaving the "champ" to his excesses and delusions...
...as he's being pushed out, a scrawny blonde head pops up from underneath the bubbling water of FDCM's jacuzzi...why, it's wrestling reporter extraordinaire, Kip Anderson!
Kip: What was that all about?
FDCM: Huh? Oh, some guy came to ask me some questions.
An indescribably dark look comes across Kip's face.
Kip: Someone else was interviewing you?
FDCM: ...well, yeah, I guess you could say that. Hey, what the hell happened to No. 36? I wanted a massage, dammit!
FDCM gets up and goes looking for the girl that fled to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Kip stares daggers at the door which McCreery just left through.
Kip: Bastard...
It had looked like such a good job. "Assistant to the Vice President of Talent Relations." Not too shabby considering the ink on his degree wasn't even dry yet. Or, so he thought.
Turns out that prestigious-sounding title was nothing more than the shiny wrapping paper and pink bow put on being a bitch to the stars. Arrange such-and-such's limo ride. Make sure so-and-so is satisfied with his hotel room. Don't let whatshisface get mauled to death at his autograph signing.
But this...this takes the cake.
He's standing in front of the most ridiculous dressing room he's ever seen. The list of demands had seemed to take hours to finish scrolling out of the damned fax machine. And yet they'd fawned over every little detail. Bent to every whim.
The thing he was trying to figure out was why.
Word was that FDCM's surprise appearance might make the DVD sales jump 3%. 3% didn't sound like all that much to McCreery, but they were seemingly enough for Mr. Capaci. Enough to make sure his latest star was as comfortable as possible.
And if Mr. Capaci thought it was a good idea...well, it was a good idea to agree, let's leave it at that.
And now it was time to go and do what he did best...kiss ass professionally.
With a heavy sigh, he knocks on the door. After a moment, it is cracked open and a young woman's head peaks around.
FDCGirl: Oh, it's you. Come on in.
The door opens fully into some kind of bizarre, acid trip utopia. It's all just the way the lunatic had asked...plush red carpets, huge, outlandish furniture. All four walls are covered, every square inch, with posters, magazine clippings, and a gigantic framed portrait of - who else? - Flying Diamond Cutter Man.
Reclined beneath it in what could only be described as a throne is FDCM himself, wearing a carbon copy of Hugh Heffner's pajamas-and-robe getup, the UWL Championship slung over his shoulder as usual. He appears to be drinking champagne out of an honest-to-God goblet.
His harem of FDC Girls are scattered around him, two in the chair with him, the others in his hot tub, on his couch, and so on. Pink Floyd blasts with heightened bass from a top-of-the-line stereo in the corner. There is no Plastic Ono Band anywhere to be seen, thank you very much. There is apparently a bubble machine somewhere in here too, as the things are floating everywhere.
With a sigh, McCreery metaphorically puckers up.
McCreery: Hello Mister...er, Diamond Cutter Man. I'm here from Talent Relations, just wanted to make sure everything is...to your liking. (pompous ass. This is the worst.)
FDCM: Yeah, I suppose it's alright...a little smaller than my old dressing room but it'll do for now. ...wait, who the hell are you?
One of the girls seated next to FDCM speaks up.
FDCGirl: Mr. DCM, He just told you. He's from Talent Relations. Remember? This is Mr. McCreery. We met him at the contract signing.
FDCM: McQueery, huh? That's a pretty unusual name, son.
McCreery: Well actually, it's pronounced...
McCreery is cut off as the music's volume suddenly doubles in volume as the song changes over to "Have a Cigar." The camera pans over as a monkey scampers away from the stereo system.
FDCM: Don't mind if I do.
With a quick clap of his hands, FDCM summons another FDCGirl carrying a tray on which is a large box of Cubans. FDCM gingerly plucks one from the tray and pops it into his mouth. The woman lights it for him and then disappears to...wherever the hell she came from.
McCreery: Did...the monkey just...
FDCM: What? He likes this song.
FDCM puffs thoughtfully for a moment, luxuriously blowing a smoke ring into the air. After about 30 seconds, he appears to realize that McCreery is still standing there.
FDCM: Whaddyou want?
McCreery: ...well look, it isn't really my job to say this but...don't you have a match in, like, two days?
FDCM: Sure. So?
McCreery: With Rich Morrison? Main event-caliber talent?
FDCM: Get to the point, McQueery.
McCreery: Shouldn't you be...you know...preparing?
FDCM: Preparing!? What the hell do you call what I'm doing right now!?
McCreery: ...I call it sitting in a recliner drinking champagne and smoking while being surrounded by beautiful women.
FDCM: Yes, and it's f**kin' great!
For a few awkward moments, McCreery just stares at FDCM. Eventually, the 'champ' seems to get the point.
FDCM: Ohoho, I get it. They sent you here to talk shop. Make sure their investment will be made good on? Say no more, McQueery.
With another quick clap of FDCM's hands, two more girls wheel out a gigantic flatscreen TV to the center of the room.
FDCM: Ladies, please show Mr. McQueery the Rich Morrison Highlight Reel, if you would.
FDCM explains himself to a clearly befuddled McCreery as the women put in the DVD and get it ready.
FDCM: This is a mix tape of all Morrison's greatest hits since coming to POW, painstakingly compiled by my staff. By studying this, I can analyze all his strengths and weaknesses and determine the best way to defeat him.
McCreery: I see...
The lights dim as the obscenely huge screen begins to role the DVD. What follows is, indeed, a comp of all Morrison's "finest" moments...being pinned by Shawn Stevens for the POW Title. Hanging on for dear life to the scaffold at All In. And numerous clips, including many from his most recent interview, of trademark Rich Morrison Diatribes about how he's being held down.
After about 45 seconds, the disc ends and the lights come back up.
McCreery: ...that's it?
FDCM: Yeah, well. Nobody said he was the most worthy adversary.
McCreery: You've gotta be kidding! You mean to tell me, with complete sincerity, that you're "preparing" for this match by watching Rich get pinned and do interviews?
FDCM: ...what else?
McCreery: Oh, I don't know...wrestling, maybe?
FDCM lowers his sunglasses and stares blankly at McCreery for a few moments, before exhaling a giant puff of smoke and replying.
FDCM: If you're implying that Rich Morrison can do something other than complain and lose, I'm afraid I don't follow.
McCreery can do nothing but release a giant sigh of exasperation.
FDCM: Well it's true, you know. Look, I've fought a thousand nobodies like Morrison in my career. This business is full of them...so-called "blue chippers" that spend years mired in the uppercard, complaining about being "held down" by main eventers like myself. Bitching about "politics" and "glass ceilings" and "prejudices" and "cliques" and blah blah f**king blah.
You can tell a lot about someone by how they interview. I listened to Morrison's promo on me, I listened to it good and hard. And I took it to heart.
And objectively, what did he do? He postured, he talked tough, he tried to talk me down. Yawn. And then he launched into his classic diatribe about how sure he is that this is a blowoff match before I go have my *real* feud with Shawn Stevens. "And wah wah wah, poor Rich, poor little ol' me, you just KNOW I'm gonna get shoved right back down the pecking order into the midcard again."
Well Rich, I just have one thing to say to that...
FDCM stops to take another long drag off his cigar, then carelessly blows the smoke out in the face of one of his girls while absentmindedly stubbing the cigar out on the leg of the other. With a shriek she jumps off the chair and hurries into the bathroom to tend to her burn. FDCM doesn't seem to notice.
FDCM: Of course you're going back to the midcard. Tough breaks kid, but face the facts. You were just keeping my seat warm for me. You think Tito Capaci looks at you and sees a main eventer? You think he ever really thought you'd beat Shawn Stevens and become a champion? You mentioned forgetting what gold looks like. I'm not sure you ever really knew. In case you're wondering...
FDCM pats the championship belt still nestled close to his right shoulder.
FDCM: This is what gold looks like. Shiny, beautiful, flawless. The center of attention wherever it goes, and coveted by all. Just like the men who carry it. Just...like...me.
I've seen your act before Rich. To be honest, you remind me a lot of Shawn Stevens. Both arrogant, overhyped, overrated, smarmy little punks who have been given everything. He made a career out of his brother's name and reputation, and from the looks of things you've made one out of your parents' money. Or maybe you made it out of hanging out with an actual talented worker like Chester Coban! Or maybe it was from making yourself look and feel better by beating up on jabronis like Rob Matthews...
Fact is, you're both great at riding the coattails of others. But what are you gonna do when you have to stand up for yourself? When Coban isn't around to pull your weight? When your jobber buddy Matthews isn't there for you to get your little pick-me-up victory over? What are you gonna do when your destiny is in YOUR hands...and yours alone?
Go ahead and lift your weights, Rich. Run your laps, or spit your words, or do whatever it is you do to make yourself feel like you're better prepared for the ass kicking and ego slaying you're about to receive. But don't go getting the delusion in your head that it will be anything less.
Because at the end of the day...you'll do what all people like you do when you cross paths with people like me.
You'll lay down and get the hell out of the way. You'll go back to the undercard where you belong. And you'll go back to muttering and complaining while the true stars shine high above...forever out of your reach.
You don't like what I'm saying to you, Rich? You don't like what I think? You don't like what I do? You don't like the way I am?
Answer this: What the hell do you think you can do about it? I'm the champ!
McQueery! I think your time is up now. Go tell your boss everything is fine here. And as far as "business" is concerned...after this Tuesday, I'm sure he'll have no doubt that the Champ can deliver.
Without another word, a speechless McCreery is ambushed by about seven FDCGirls who quickly usher him out of the dressing room, shutting the door behind him. Leaving the "champ" to his excesses and delusions...
...as he's being pushed out, a scrawny blonde head pops up from underneath the bubbling water of FDCM's jacuzzi...why, it's wrestling reporter extraordinaire, Kip Anderson!
Kip: What was that all about?
FDCM: Huh? Oh, some guy came to ask me some questions.
An indescribably dark look comes across Kip's face.
Kip: Someone else was interviewing you?
FDCM: ...well, yeah, I guess you could say that. Hey, what the hell happened to No. 36? I wanted a massage, dammit!
FDCM gets up and goes looking for the girl that fled to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Kip stares daggers at the door which McCreery just left through.
Kip: Bastard...