Post by George Duke on May 7, 2007 15:40:13 GMT -6
A clip George Duke's last match is shown. He and his opponent go crashing through flaming tables. The clip pauses and the camera pans out. The video is being shown on a TV at the corner bar.
"And that's what did it."
George refers to a cast on his left forearm. A group of enthusiastic wrestling fans gather around to see. They always make a fuss over him when he comes in, which is probably the main reason he comes. The bar makes an event out of watching POW every week, and Duke is a popular star among the middle-aged regulars.
George doesn't have a hospital bill, claiming that the nameless doctor is an 'old friend of his'. Any questions about his injury recieve all different sorts of vague answers. It's shady, at best - but Duke is determined to continue on.
After the video is over the small crowd dissapates, each man going back to his table. George stays at the bar, nursing the same beer from a half hour ago. He leans foward on the shakey stool onto the smooth wooden bar. He looks in the dirty mirror and sees his old scars and new gashes. He hasn't really taken a close look in the mirror for a while. He moves his head a bit to make sure it isn't just the spots on the mirror. No, Duke's head is a battleground of scars and cuts. He looks like Hell because of it, but he's still proud. It proclaims the world that he's a wrestler - a damn good one. It lets everyone on both sides of the lockerroom know that he wrestles with heart and he takes the lumps like a man. Unfortunately, men like George are a dying breed. The classic American fighting spirit is nearly gone. That John Wayne attitude has mostly dissapeared among his countrymen, and has been replaced with a more cocky attitude. More talk, less walk - in other words - bullshit.
He and the bartender have been discussing this for nearly an hour, with the occasional self-affirming glance in rhe mirror. The topic of conversation eventually segways into business.
"Which is why you have foreign stars coming in. The young guys are washed up before they even get wet. No one has the right attitude - nobody cares and nobody's doing it for the right reasons. That's why you get guys from all over the world that come in and destroy us. Most of us have gotten lazy. and you get a guy that still has the right attitude and values and he'll wipe the floor with him. We've gotten fat, mataphorically, at least. These guys are still hungry - they get to the top in their country and then they come to America, after the big money and fame. We're seen as a mecha in the wrestling world, because of our past glory. Nobody seems to realize that we're done. We're 'sports entertainment' now. It's all a big show - you take any tough guy from South Philly and he'll kill anyone of McMahon's paper champions. We're like Rome. We had a ton of sucess and glory - and we got fat and proud. A hungry man can take a fat man any day, because he really wants it. America is not my America any more. Wrestling is not my sport anymore. It's sad - but it's going to change."
Sam nods in agreement as George continues.
"I'm going to take it back, you see. This week, I'm up against two foreign stars. El Gran Bárbaro is from Paraguay. He's a very strong man, but he's agile. He worked his way up in Mexico, where they really take pride in wrestling. Death Adder is from Mexico. He's trained in their Lucha style, and he's got a broad background in all sorts of styles. They were brought up right in this sport, and now they've come here to make it big - to prove they're better. And you know what? They're right. They'll probably destroy everyone else they come in contact with... But not us."
Duke looks once again into the mirror, scanning the scars while Sam serves a beer to a thirsty customer. George thinks about his lineage - liars, cheats and theives. Graverobbers and murderers. Tyrants and fighters. A man can do anything if he's hungry enough.
"You see, I still have that old-world attitude. We're on the same page. Like him or not - Reagan had that attitude. That's why the whole world was scared shitless of us. Nobody would screw with us until he was out of office. I have that attitude. It hasn't left me like it left everyone else in this country. Look at my head, Sam. See all this mess? Most people would comb their hair over it or get surgery. Not me. I like it - I love it, in fact. This mess on my head validates what I do. These scars are my pride and joy. This cast on my arm, too. I take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Me and my opponents are on the same page, as far as spirit. FDCM is no slouch, either. You want to talk talent? Christ, this man has more than most of all the rosters of the world. This is going to be a good bout for anyone who likes real wrestling. You'll love it, Sam."
George winks and pays for his drink. He struggles a bit to get his cast into his coat. He lights a cigar on his way out of the dimly lit bar, but stops at the door and turns back.
"Of course, I could be completely wrong. These guys might be bottom of the barrel in their own country. They could've just come here because their gimmick would pay. Genuine foreign stars will draw money - maybe they're cashing in. If that's the case, they're in for an ass-whipping. If that's the case, they're no different from the bastards we have in our own country..."
Duke shakes his head as he walks out the door and dissapears into the night, leaving a thin stream of smoke behind him.
"And that's what did it."
George refers to a cast on his left forearm. A group of enthusiastic wrestling fans gather around to see. They always make a fuss over him when he comes in, which is probably the main reason he comes. The bar makes an event out of watching POW every week, and Duke is a popular star among the middle-aged regulars.
George doesn't have a hospital bill, claiming that the nameless doctor is an 'old friend of his'. Any questions about his injury recieve all different sorts of vague answers. It's shady, at best - but Duke is determined to continue on.
After the video is over the small crowd dissapates, each man going back to his table. George stays at the bar, nursing the same beer from a half hour ago. He leans foward on the shakey stool onto the smooth wooden bar. He looks in the dirty mirror and sees his old scars and new gashes. He hasn't really taken a close look in the mirror for a while. He moves his head a bit to make sure it isn't just the spots on the mirror. No, Duke's head is a battleground of scars and cuts. He looks like Hell because of it, but he's still proud. It proclaims the world that he's a wrestler - a damn good one. It lets everyone on both sides of the lockerroom know that he wrestles with heart and he takes the lumps like a man. Unfortunately, men like George are a dying breed. The classic American fighting spirit is nearly gone. That John Wayne attitude has mostly dissapeared among his countrymen, and has been replaced with a more cocky attitude. More talk, less walk - in other words - bullshit.
He and the bartender have been discussing this for nearly an hour, with the occasional self-affirming glance in rhe mirror. The topic of conversation eventually segways into business.
"Which is why you have foreign stars coming in. The young guys are washed up before they even get wet. No one has the right attitude - nobody cares and nobody's doing it for the right reasons. That's why you get guys from all over the world that come in and destroy us. Most of us have gotten lazy. and you get a guy that still has the right attitude and values and he'll wipe the floor with him. We've gotten fat, mataphorically, at least. These guys are still hungry - they get to the top in their country and then they come to America, after the big money and fame. We're seen as a mecha in the wrestling world, because of our past glory. Nobody seems to realize that we're done. We're 'sports entertainment' now. It's all a big show - you take any tough guy from South Philly and he'll kill anyone of McMahon's paper champions. We're like Rome. We had a ton of sucess and glory - and we got fat and proud. A hungry man can take a fat man any day, because he really wants it. America is not my America any more. Wrestling is not my sport anymore. It's sad - but it's going to change."
Sam nods in agreement as George continues.
"I'm going to take it back, you see. This week, I'm up against two foreign stars. El Gran Bárbaro is from Paraguay. He's a very strong man, but he's agile. He worked his way up in Mexico, where they really take pride in wrestling. Death Adder is from Mexico. He's trained in their Lucha style, and he's got a broad background in all sorts of styles. They were brought up right in this sport, and now they've come here to make it big - to prove they're better. And you know what? They're right. They'll probably destroy everyone else they come in contact with... But not us."
Duke looks once again into the mirror, scanning the scars while Sam serves a beer to a thirsty customer. George thinks about his lineage - liars, cheats and theives. Graverobbers and murderers. Tyrants and fighters. A man can do anything if he's hungry enough.
"You see, I still have that old-world attitude. We're on the same page. Like him or not - Reagan had that attitude. That's why the whole world was scared shitless of us. Nobody would screw with us until he was out of office. I have that attitude. It hasn't left me like it left everyone else in this country. Look at my head, Sam. See all this mess? Most people would comb their hair over it or get surgery. Not me. I like it - I love it, in fact. This mess on my head validates what I do. These scars are my pride and joy. This cast on my arm, too. I take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Me and my opponents are on the same page, as far as spirit. FDCM is no slouch, either. You want to talk talent? Christ, this man has more than most of all the rosters of the world. This is going to be a good bout for anyone who likes real wrestling. You'll love it, Sam."
George winks and pays for his drink. He struggles a bit to get his cast into his coat. He lights a cigar on his way out of the dimly lit bar, but stops at the door and turns back.
"Of course, I could be completely wrong. These guys might be bottom of the barrel in their own country. They could've just come here because their gimmick would pay. Genuine foreign stars will draw money - maybe they're cashing in. If that's the case, they're in for an ass-whipping. If that's the case, they're no different from the bastards we have in our own country..."
Duke shakes his head as he walks out the door and dissapears into the night, leaving a thin stream of smoke behind him.
