Post by fdcm on Jun 7, 2007 0:27:58 GMT -6
A starlit night in downtown Dover. The scene finds us watching a large crowd waiting in line to get into the "Crazy Beaver" night club. Our camera follows one Miss Stephie Campbell as she waltzes right up to the bouncer, flashes her press pass and slips inside the door. We follow her into the massive party room inside, through the throng of frolicking drunks and morons, across the crowded dance floor, and after another flash of the press pass, through a small corridor and into what appears to be the VIP area. The now-familiar gigantic bodyguards stand on either side of the door, and the Flying Diamond Cutter Girls go about their various forms of business inside, some mixing drinks, others just looking great. At a small table in the center of the room is a big, stocky man in a suit, seated across from Ken Rosenberg and...
FDCM: Ah, finally. I'll take a vodka martini, and whatever Lawyer and-
Stephie: *ahem* FDCM, I'm not the d**n cocktail waitress. It's me, Stephie Campbell!
FDCM, Rosenberg and the as-yet-unnamed guest across the table all stare at her uncomprehendingly as we can almost literally see the champ's wheels turning.
FDCM: Stephie...Stephie...OH!! You're the girl from Nashville, that did the trick with her girlfriend and the jar of peanut butter...
Stephie: No.
FDCM looks at Rosenberg for help, who just shrugs and shakes his head.
Stephie: Stephie...Campbell! The POW: New England reporter? I just talked to you guys, like, YESTERDAY?
FDCM: Oh, right. You.
Rosenberg: It's coming back now.
FDCM: Totally.
Rosenberg: So sorry about that.
FDCM: You shoulda said something.
Stephie: I...I'm pretty sure I did...
Sighing and shaking her head, Stephie keeps her professional demeanor intact.
Stephie: But anyway. Wasn't it YOU who told me to come HERE? I don't exactly frequent decadent nightclubs as a hobby.
FDCM: Oh, right, right, I remember now. You wanted to get the exclusive scoop on the luncheon between me and Junior Zevon, right? Well, he never stated the terms of WHERE we'd be dining, and this is my kinda place so...here we are!
FDCM holds out his arms proudly. Stephie looks skeptical.
Stephie: Sooooo...where's Zevon?
FDCM: What're you, blind? He's right here, sitting across the table from me!
Stephie throws an awkward glance at the man seated at the table with FDCM. Nearly twice Zevon's size, dark skinned and sporting a giant afro, he is clearly not the New England Champion! He offers Stephie a cheesy grin as FDCM begins sipping on a beer brought to him by one of his girls.
Stephie: FDCM?
FDCM: Yeah, toots?
Stephie: That, uh...that isn't Zevon.
FDCM: What are you talking about?
Stephie: He's not Zevon. Not even a little bit. Not even close.
FDCM: Looks like the guy to me.
Stephie: Are you completely whacked? THIS is JR Zevon!
At this point Stephie produces a flyer for the upcoming Over In Dover supercard which depicts FDCM and Zevon standing face to face, looking intensely at each other. FDCM looks down at the flyer, then at "Zevon," then back again.
FDCM: You bastard!! You told me your name was Junior!!
"Junior:" Well...it is.
FDCM: Lying bastard! You expect me to believe there are TWO sets of parents out there unoriginal enough to name their son JUNIOR!?!?
Stephie: OK, first of all, Zevon's name IS NOT Junior, it's "J....R!!!" Like initials! And second of all...
FDCM: SILENCE!! If this man isn't Zevon, he is of no use to me! #17!!!!
FDCM makes meaningful eye contact with a FDC Girl standing behind Junior's chair. His eyes narrow as he clenches his fist.
FDCM: Kill him.
FDCGirl: Uh...what?
As everyone sits in shocked silence, Rosenberg leans over and discreetly whispers something in FDCM's ear, presumably to the effect of the illegalities of killing people.
FDCM: Oh...fine, then.
With a snarl, FDCM punches a conspicuously huge red button on his chair, which immediately causes the floor beneath Junior's seat to open up, dropping him into a nondescript black abyss.
Junior: Nooooooooo........
Stephie: ...where the hell did you just drop him!?
FDCM: He's now in the Flying Diamond Cutter Zone...an endless void occupied by all of my enemies!! Mwaha...mwahahahahahaha!!!
Everyone in the room, including Stephie and Rosenberg, stares at FDCM incredulously.
FDCM: ...actually, he's just back on the first floor of the club again.
Sure enough, moments later we see Junior walking around the dance floor in the background looking very, very confused.
Stephie: Well, this has been a...COMPLETE waste of time and all, so...I'm gonna go now...
FDCM: Wait. Didn't you want a story?
Stephie: Sure, but aside from you being completely delusional and having NO IDEA who your opponent even IS for this Sunday, I'm not sure there's much to write about here...
FDCM: Oh, but you're so wrong. Stay for just five minutes, and I think you'll see that, aside from his chameleon-esque physical appearance and the mind-bending grammatical intricacies of his first name, I've got Zevon f**king pegged.
Stephie looks back at FDCM, a bit taken aback by his intensity. After a moment, she seems to relent. After all, she DOES have a deadline...
Stephie: Five minutes.
FDCM: Seat's open.
Sure enough, the apparent trap door has now closed again, Junior's old seat still attached. Warily, Stephie slips into it and pulls out her notepad.
Stephie: So...let's hear it.
FDCM: Zevon, Zevon, Zevon...he's not a man I've met personally. He's not a man I've spent much time around. But even so...I know his game.
Zevon comes out and claims dutiful respect. He claims sportsmanship, he smiles and shakes hands for the cameras. Hell, even invites his opponent out to dinner. "May the best man win," and all that bullshit. But let me tell you something about Zevon...he's full of it. Behind it all, Zevon is just like everybody else. Bitter. Jealous. And full of disdain for men who are more successful than he is!
See, I understand Zevon's mindset. He fancies himself a crusader of the so-called "old school." A hero of yesterday. He aspires to be a champion, a TRUE champion, in the same vein as the Ric Flairs, the Bruno Sammartinos, the Lou Theszeseseses.
But here's the sad truth. It's true in life, and it's especially true in this business: what does not adapt, DIES. What does not evolve, DIES.
Zevon is a man who refuses to adapt, refuses to evolve! Hell, he's even PROUD of that fact! Proud that he fights for and represents an ideal that died decades ago! Proud...that he's a living relic of an age that is no longer relevant.
But here's my stance on things. The greatness of yesterday, is just that...YESTERDAY's news. What made you a champion in 1975 does NOT make you a champion today, and that's what Zevon does not understand.
Then, on the other hand...there's yours truly. A champion of TODAY, and of TOMORROW! The guiding light that will lead our grand sport into a new golden age...an age that will leave fossils like Zevon behind!
The ironic thing is that in terms of age, I'm one of the oldest men in this company and Zevon is one of the youngest. And yet it's ME who has changed with the times, who has adapted, and become better, faster and stronger, while idiots like Zevon stagnate and fade away.
The people don't want THAT kind of champion anymore...the rugged everyman. The beer-bellied average Joe that just scrapes by, that makes it on guts, drive and moxie. They don't wanna see overweight white guys in spandex underwear roll around for an hour. They want excitement! They want glamor! They want explosiveness! They want...BANG. Everything Zevon cannot give them...and everything I can.
So Zevon...take your vitamins, say your prayers, drink your milk. Or whatever other antiquated training methods you continue to subscribe to like they're the f**king Gospel! Prepare for me just like your idols would have...and wind up just like them: a forgotten, forlorn nobody punching subway tickets for coke money. Meanwhile, I'll be here in the VIP room, drinking Cristal like it's water, wiping my ass with 100 dollar bills and pissing excellence, while legions of die-hard fans fall before me like I'm the second coming of Christ!
And in the meantime, Zevon...you can go ahead and cut the nice-guy, respectful sportsman bullshit. Because when that bell rings Sunday, I'll be showing no mercy. I'll be coming at you like you're my most hated enemy, because you represent an era I cannot stand! An era of vanilla wrestlers, an era of mediocrity, an era of flat-out BOREDOM. An era that I plan to annihilate...by wiping out its greatest living champion!
And out of the ashes, the smoking rubble of what once was...THERE, will arise MY kingdom. MY glory! MY era...the era of FDCM.
Don't bother sugarcoating shit any longer, Zevon. Don't bother with the pillow talk, the ego-fluffing, the politics. Because I don't plan on doing any of that myself, and you've got some ground to cover..."champ."
Now then...I believe a little "discipline" is in order for a certain Flying Diamond Cutter Girl that refused an order a few minutes ago...Miss, Campbell was it? If you don't want to get your pretty little ass involved - which I certainly welcome, mind you - I recommend you and your camera crew go ahead and get the f**k out of here!
Blinking a couple of times, Stephie does not need to be told twice. Politely rejecting FDCM's "invitation," she and her camera crew quickly evacuate the VIP room.
One thing's for sure...World Champion or not, this guy's a little unstable. But is he really too much for Junior...er, JR Zevon?
FDCM: Ah, finally. I'll take a vodka martini, and whatever Lawyer and-
Stephie: *ahem* FDCM, I'm not the d**n cocktail waitress. It's me, Stephie Campbell!
FDCM, Rosenberg and the as-yet-unnamed guest across the table all stare at her uncomprehendingly as we can almost literally see the champ's wheels turning.
FDCM: Stephie...Stephie...OH!! You're the girl from Nashville, that did the trick with her girlfriend and the jar of peanut butter...
Stephie: No.
FDCM looks at Rosenberg for help, who just shrugs and shakes his head.
Stephie: Stephie...Campbell! The POW: New England reporter? I just talked to you guys, like, YESTERDAY?
FDCM: Oh, right. You.
Rosenberg: It's coming back now.
FDCM: Totally.
Rosenberg: So sorry about that.
FDCM: You shoulda said something.
Stephie: I...I'm pretty sure I did...
Sighing and shaking her head, Stephie keeps her professional demeanor intact.
Stephie: But anyway. Wasn't it YOU who told me to come HERE? I don't exactly frequent decadent nightclubs as a hobby.
FDCM: Oh, right, right, I remember now. You wanted to get the exclusive scoop on the luncheon between me and Junior Zevon, right? Well, he never stated the terms of WHERE we'd be dining, and this is my kinda place so...here we are!
FDCM holds out his arms proudly. Stephie looks skeptical.
Stephie: Sooooo...where's Zevon?
FDCM: What're you, blind? He's right here, sitting across the table from me!
Stephie throws an awkward glance at the man seated at the table with FDCM. Nearly twice Zevon's size, dark skinned and sporting a giant afro, he is clearly not the New England Champion! He offers Stephie a cheesy grin as FDCM begins sipping on a beer brought to him by one of his girls.
Stephie: FDCM?
FDCM: Yeah, toots?
Stephie: That, uh...that isn't Zevon.
FDCM: What are you talking about?
Stephie: He's not Zevon. Not even a little bit. Not even close.
FDCM: Looks like the guy to me.
Stephie: Are you completely whacked? THIS is JR Zevon!
At this point Stephie produces a flyer for the upcoming Over In Dover supercard which depicts FDCM and Zevon standing face to face, looking intensely at each other. FDCM looks down at the flyer, then at "Zevon," then back again.
FDCM: You bastard!! You told me your name was Junior!!
"Junior:" Well...it is.
FDCM: Lying bastard! You expect me to believe there are TWO sets of parents out there unoriginal enough to name their son JUNIOR!?!?
Stephie: OK, first of all, Zevon's name IS NOT Junior, it's "J....R!!!" Like initials! And second of all...
FDCM: SILENCE!! If this man isn't Zevon, he is of no use to me! #17!!!!
FDCM makes meaningful eye contact with a FDC Girl standing behind Junior's chair. His eyes narrow as he clenches his fist.
FDCM: Kill him.
FDCGirl: Uh...what?
As everyone sits in shocked silence, Rosenberg leans over and discreetly whispers something in FDCM's ear, presumably to the effect of the illegalities of killing people.
FDCM: Oh...fine, then.
With a snarl, FDCM punches a conspicuously huge red button on his chair, which immediately causes the floor beneath Junior's seat to open up, dropping him into a nondescript black abyss.
Junior: Nooooooooo........
Stephie: ...where the hell did you just drop him!?
FDCM: He's now in the Flying Diamond Cutter Zone...an endless void occupied by all of my enemies!! Mwaha...mwahahahahahaha!!!
Everyone in the room, including Stephie and Rosenberg, stares at FDCM incredulously.
FDCM: ...actually, he's just back on the first floor of the club again.
Sure enough, moments later we see Junior walking around the dance floor in the background looking very, very confused.
Stephie: Well, this has been a...COMPLETE waste of time and all, so...I'm gonna go now...
FDCM: Wait. Didn't you want a story?
Stephie: Sure, but aside from you being completely delusional and having NO IDEA who your opponent even IS for this Sunday, I'm not sure there's much to write about here...
FDCM: Oh, but you're so wrong. Stay for just five minutes, and I think you'll see that, aside from his chameleon-esque physical appearance and the mind-bending grammatical intricacies of his first name, I've got Zevon f**king pegged.
Stephie looks back at FDCM, a bit taken aback by his intensity. After a moment, she seems to relent. After all, she DOES have a deadline...
Stephie: Five minutes.
FDCM: Seat's open.
Sure enough, the apparent trap door has now closed again, Junior's old seat still attached. Warily, Stephie slips into it and pulls out her notepad.
Stephie: So...let's hear it.
FDCM: Zevon, Zevon, Zevon...he's not a man I've met personally. He's not a man I've spent much time around. But even so...I know his game.
Zevon comes out and claims dutiful respect. He claims sportsmanship, he smiles and shakes hands for the cameras. Hell, even invites his opponent out to dinner. "May the best man win," and all that bullshit. But let me tell you something about Zevon...he's full of it. Behind it all, Zevon is just like everybody else. Bitter. Jealous. And full of disdain for men who are more successful than he is!
See, I understand Zevon's mindset. He fancies himself a crusader of the so-called "old school." A hero of yesterday. He aspires to be a champion, a TRUE champion, in the same vein as the Ric Flairs, the Bruno Sammartinos, the Lou Theszeseseses.
But here's the sad truth. It's true in life, and it's especially true in this business: what does not adapt, DIES. What does not evolve, DIES.
Zevon is a man who refuses to adapt, refuses to evolve! Hell, he's even PROUD of that fact! Proud that he fights for and represents an ideal that died decades ago! Proud...that he's a living relic of an age that is no longer relevant.
But here's my stance on things. The greatness of yesterday, is just that...YESTERDAY's news. What made you a champion in 1975 does NOT make you a champion today, and that's what Zevon does not understand.
Then, on the other hand...there's yours truly. A champion of TODAY, and of TOMORROW! The guiding light that will lead our grand sport into a new golden age...an age that will leave fossils like Zevon behind!
The ironic thing is that in terms of age, I'm one of the oldest men in this company and Zevon is one of the youngest. And yet it's ME who has changed with the times, who has adapted, and become better, faster and stronger, while idiots like Zevon stagnate and fade away.
The people don't want THAT kind of champion anymore...the rugged everyman. The beer-bellied average Joe that just scrapes by, that makes it on guts, drive and moxie. They don't wanna see overweight white guys in spandex underwear roll around for an hour. They want excitement! They want glamor! They want explosiveness! They want...BANG. Everything Zevon cannot give them...and everything I can.
So Zevon...take your vitamins, say your prayers, drink your milk. Or whatever other antiquated training methods you continue to subscribe to like they're the f**king Gospel! Prepare for me just like your idols would have...and wind up just like them: a forgotten, forlorn nobody punching subway tickets for coke money. Meanwhile, I'll be here in the VIP room, drinking Cristal like it's water, wiping my ass with 100 dollar bills and pissing excellence, while legions of die-hard fans fall before me like I'm the second coming of Christ!
And in the meantime, Zevon...you can go ahead and cut the nice-guy, respectful sportsman bullshit. Because when that bell rings Sunday, I'll be showing no mercy. I'll be coming at you like you're my most hated enemy, because you represent an era I cannot stand! An era of vanilla wrestlers, an era of mediocrity, an era of flat-out BOREDOM. An era that I plan to annihilate...by wiping out its greatest living champion!
And out of the ashes, the smoking rubble of what once was...THERE, will arise MY kingdom. MY glory! MY era...the era of FDCM.
Don't bother sugarcoating shit any longer, Zevon. Don't bother with the pillow talk, the ego-fluffing, the politics. Because I don't plan on doing any of that myself, and you've got some ground to cover..."champ."
Now then...I believe a little "discipline" is in order for a certain Flying Diamond Cutter Girl that refused an order a few minutes ago...Miss, Campbell was it? If you don't want to get your pretty little ass involved - which I certainly welcome, mind you - I recommend you and your camera crew go ahead and get the f**k out of here!
Blinking a couple of times, Stephie does not need to be told twice. Politely rejecting FDCM's "invitation," she and her camera crew quickly evacuate the VIP room.
One thing's for sure...World Champion or not, this guy's a little unstable. But is he really too much for Junior...er, JR Zevon?