(THE SCENE: Outside the Vito Genovese Memorial Bingo Complex and Auction Barn, THE PHANTOM ROCKER approaches her car – a sweet 1987 IROC-Z. After she unlocks the door and prepares to get inside, she hears a familiar, angry voice…)
DONITA: HEY!
(ROCKER turns around to see her alleged older sister DONITA ZAPATA.(“alleged” sister, as in confirming such things would reveal a masked wrestler’s identity, which is illegal – but c’mon, that’s totally what the deal is) DONITA is conspicuously wearing her own early 90s-esque clothing, as opposed to the glam rock themed stuff she was forced to wear as a result of losing the “Hair Metal vs. Mask” match a while back)
ROCKER: Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell are you doing!?
(DONITA angrily shoves a piece of paper into ROCKER’s hands)
ROCKER: Wait… What is…
DONITA: It’s from the Tri-State Area Athletic Commission. And it’s says that you can fuck off, Lita.
ROCKER: But-but-but-
DONITA: A lucha de apuestas contract can’t be open-ended, unless it’s a mask or a loser-leaves-town situation, and how long I had to wear that bullshit was never specified. Add in your abuse of the situation, all your goddamn Skittles or whatever, and the commission ruled that- like I said – you can fuck right off.
ROCKER: So… Are you just going to…
DONITA: What!?
ROCKER: Well… I mean… I just thought that…
DONITA: Lita, if you are about to tell that you had hoped this would be bring us together or some shit, don’t bother. I am fucking done with you. Congratulations.
(ROCKER, looking like she’s on the verge of tears, angrily throws the car door open, gets inside, and starts the engine. DONITA smugly looks on, then starts to turn around, before being interrupted)
ROCKER: I guess you’ve got a point, Donita. I mean, being forced by someone from your own family to look and act a certain way against your will? Why, that must have been awful.
(ROCKER guns the engine, recklessly backs out of her spot, and tears ass out of the parking lot, squealing tires and throwing rocks and shit everywhere. DONITA just stands and stares as she drives off, suddenly with a very distraught look on her face)
MEANWHILE…
(THE SCENE: The STRUGGLE Pro offices, in the old Blockbuster, where company president NATE RUGGLE, head booker UNCLE ABDUL, and wrestlers/”special consultants” GUMMO NAKAMURA and BUSINESS CLOWN discuss the company’s financial options in the wake of their recent entry into Super Crisis Mode.)
NATE: So what did we figure out as far as the Hapsburg option?
CLOWN: Eh, it’s a no-go. He’s a fucking idiot, but he’s a fucking idiot from old money. If we were gonna try some sort of grift on that guy, we’d either have to find a way to eliminate the other 40-ish people already running program on the bastard or find a time machine and get in sometime in the 1790s.
GUMMO: Yeah, that’s pretty much what my boys figured out, too. Too many hands already in that cookie jar. Also, I looked into the kinda goods his companies distribute – and as a legitimate businessman, I would never be involved in such things, of course – if someone were to hijack the shit, there’s no way to fence that kinda merchandise. I could find a buyer for TVs or phones or something, but I got no connection to anybody who’d want spy drones and nerve gas. Well, at least not in bulk.
NATE: Just gonna pretend I never heard any of what you just said, Gummo.
ABDUL: …And if we brought him in as a traditional money mark, there’s a good chance that he’d take over the whole thing, get bored, sell it off, and then kill us all with falcons.
CLOWN: Say what?
ABDUL: You don’t wanna know.
(suddenly, there is a faint, yet strangely disconcerting squeaking sound, and everyone turns around to see the mercenary tag team of EXECUTIVE SOLUTIONS, WILHELM KRUGER and MAD DOG WOCIEJCHOWSKI, standing next to a dry-erase board, where MAD DOG is attempting to do the “nails on a chalkboard” thing, and finding out much too late that it only works on an actual chalkboard)
NATE: Please stop.
MAD DOG: …Sorry.
KRUGER: So, we hear you’ve got a bit of a problem, regarding your tag team belts. You know us, and you know how we earn a living. We’ll get ’em back for you, but it won’t be easy. Grim Reapers are a bad tag team. Beat you up, lock on one o’ those submission holds, and down you go. But it’s not gonna be cheap. You want to get those belts back and get your audience back on a payin’ basis, you gotta ante up, unless you wanna be on welfare for the whole winter.
NATE: Sooo… what are we talking about here?
KRUGER: We’ll catch ’em for five, and we’ll kill ’em for ten.
MAD DOG: Kill ’em metaphorically, of course.
NATE: Wait… Ten… Thousand?
(WILHELM nods, and NATE, ABDUL, GUMMO, and CLOWN look back and forth at each other for a few seconds, before simultaneously bursting into uproarious laughter)
NATE, ABDUL, GUMMO, and CLOWN: AAAAHHHH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
NATE: Hahaha… Oh… Oh man… That is… Ahahahahah, oh god… Hahaha, oh man, I can’t – hahaha- I can’t breathe – hahaha-ooohooo-hahaha…
WILHELM: Okay, well, how about just eight then?
ABDUL: Hahaha, eight thousand!? Damn son, I needed that. Listen, you two have had one match with us, and while I’d lay most of it on Vanzetti and his boy blue, you still lost that match. You want a shot at the titles, you earn it like anyone else, and you get paid like anyone else. We got a lot of other teams trying to get a title shot – too many, to be honest – and if you want to skip to the front of the line, you’re gonna have to beat some of those teams. flights to the west coast are too goddamn expensive to send a different set of idiots over there every week. You want a shot, you gotta earn that shot, otherwise, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
MAD DOG: Well, then I guess you better warn all those other teams, then.
ABDUL: You said “then” twice.
MAD DOG: It was a cool line otherwise, though.
ABDUL: Actually? Yeah… Kinda.
(MAD DOG looks at ABDUL with a smug look on his face and just kind of nods his head for an uncomfortably long time)
NATE: Do you guys have anywhere else to be right now?
MAD DOG: Honestly, no.
NATE: You can’t stay here, though.
MAD DOG: …Okay.
(EXECUTIVE SOLUTIONS leave)
NATE: Soooo… How should we deal with that situation?
ABDUL: Well, right now, the Bads are the highest ranked team whose last match wasn’t literally them losing the tag titles. We can throw the Execs at ’em, and either see if they’re for real, or just get ’em stabbed a bunch of times. Hell, maybe if we’re lucky, it’ll be both. And we’ll go from there, I guess.
CLOWN: I like how you shorten all the team names.
ABDUL: It’s a gift I have.
MEANWHILE…
(THE SCENE: The home of STRUGGLE Pro Wrestling legend YUMIKO LA GRANGE, located in a quiet neighborhood in the South Central Tri-State Area suburbs. The three remaining members of the JEZEBEL-GUN faction – Yumiko, JEZEBEL GRIM, and TOSHIYO NAKANO – have just completed a semi-daily training session in the home’s garage/makeshift wrestling gym. TOSHIYO has already gone to the main part of the house to take a shower. (the hot water is broken in the apartment she shares with Jezebel) JEZEBEL has just finished pulling up the foam rubber mats from the floor and leaned them up against the wall, and YUMIKO has is taking advantage of her seniority to just kind of sit back and watch.)
JEZEBEL: That fuckin cousin of yours, man…
YUMIKO: Hm?
JEZEBEL: This whole situation… She shoulda gone home when she was supposed to. It’s like she’s avoiding shit over there, but she ain’t saying what.
YUMIKO: Well, you know… When I got divorced, I would have killed to be an entire ocean away from the general state of my life.
JEZEBEL: Well, yeah, but it’s been like a whole damn year now. And MOSES ain’t paying her while she’s over here on bonus time. And don’t get me wrong, it ain’t like I want her gone. I mean hell, she’s my best friend, I can cover the rent on my own, and the place is dangerously close to sanitary for the first time ever. But now with all this shit going on with the office, man, I don’t know how bad it’s gonna get. Like… What happens if I get released? Or even if I just gotta take a pay cut? I mean, it’s already not like I’m making the kinda money they’re giving to Bird, or Evil, or hell, you for that matter.
YUMIKO: Eh, you have a locally-famous name, you were just in a featured match on a major card, and somehow, you “lead” a faction. I think you are probably safe.
JEZEBEL: Yeah, well… I’m sure Hogarth and Grizzle and that Gunnar kid probably thought they were safe, too. And if I gotta suck it up and move back home, I dunno if daddy’s gonna want some stranger living in his house.
YUMIKO: Do not worry about it. In a worst-case scenario, I have an extra room, since Crawdad left. And I can actually stand Toshiyo, so it would be an upgrade.
JEZEBEL: Thanks, I mean, I didn’t wanna ask, and nothing might happen at all, but I just kept getting worried she’d end up outdoors, like that Parking Lot weirdo.
YUMIKO: Hey now, Parker is a nice person. He just has… Problems.
JEZEBEL: Man, I dunno, dude’s been gainfully employed for like two or three years now, and he’s still in that dead-ass car. I get real serial killer vibes off him.
YUMIKO: Well, he… He means well. I was in a very bad place once, and he gave me his Pop Tarts…
JEZEBEL: Is… Is that some kinda innuendo?
(YUMIKO just rolls her eyes and shakes her head, then begins the routine of painfully removing her knee braces and Ace-bandaging bags of ice in their place. JEZEBEL cringes at the sight.)
JEZEBEL: Is that gonna be me someday?
YUMIKO: Eh, you strike me more as a chronic head injury girl.
JEZEBEL: That’s reassuring. Sounds about right, though.
YUMIKO: You really should stop headbutting people a hundred times a match.
JEZEBEL: …And you need to stop basing half your offense around kneeing people in the damn head, but welp, here we are.
YUMIKO: Actually, it is the big aerial stuff that does it. This all began with that corner back flip Irish whip reversal going wrong.
JEZEBEL: …Which you also still do.
YUMIKO: (sighs) Yup.
JEZEBEL: Eh, well. If only there were something we could do to simultaneously manage your pain and smooth over my anxiety.
(YUMIKO has already loaded her early-2000s vintage boombox with fresh batteries and CD copy of Police in Helicopter by John Holt, and is in the process of pulling like a dozen of those cheap little plastic-sleeved popsicles out of the deep-freeze)
YUMIKO: (in an exaggeratedly serious tone) Your theory of such a pain management panacea intrigues me, and as scholars, I feel that we need to discuss this further. (she hands JEZEBEL the boombox)
JEZEBEL: (solemnly) Yes, as scholars.
YUMIKO: But perhaps a more proper forum for this scholarly discussion of pain management techniques would be in the backyard, next to the pool.
JEZEBEL: Yes. The pool.
(TO BE CONTINUED in a future installment of The Invisible Backstage Camera)
MEANWHILE…
(Outside the Vito Genoviese Memorial- You know what? Fuck it, I’mma just call it “The Vito” this time. Outside The Vito, a very nervous looking ZIPPITY DUDA paces back and forth, stoppping only momentarily to watch some maniac zoom by in an IROC with Britny Fox’s “Long Way to Love” blasting out of it. Finally, he stops and looks to see what it is he has been waiting for – SKIP LEGDAY walking out of The Vito. Before approaching, ZIPPITY tries to psyche himself up.)
ZIPPITY: Okay, Zip.. It’s okay. You can do this. Okay.
(As SKIP walks nearby, ZIPPITY runs up to him and immediately just fuckin’ blows it, stammering and generally being incoherent)
ZIPPITY: Hey-I-Uhh-Skip-I-Uhhh-It’s just-I-Uhhh-Well
SKIP: Slow down, bro, breathe. Are you okay? Do you need a doctor or something?
ZIPPITY: Look, I uh… (exhales sharply) I need your help with something.
SKIP: If this is one of those “looking for a burly protector” kinda deals, I can help out in an emergency, but as far as a long-term ongoing deal, I kinda got my hands full with the Captain.
ZIPPITY; What? no, nothing like that.
SKIP: Well, just saying, bro, you might want to look up someone like Treat Boy or maybe Lorelei for something like that.
ZIPPITY: Oh, okay… But no, it’s something else… Something personal. Look, I don’t know how to say this…
SKIP: Bro, I’m flattered, but I’m exclusively into girls.
ZIPPITY: What!? No! i mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Look, it’s just… Well… It’s my mom….
SKIP: Bro, that’s sick. I am not going to beat up your mom.
ZIPPITY: No, no, no, it’s just… she doesn’t respect me.
SKIP: Uhh… Bro, you don’t need me, it sounds like you need a therapist. I mean, I can give you Dr. goldstein’s number if you need it.
ZIPPITY: No, that’s not- Wait, you’re in therapy?
SKIP: Body dysmorphia.
ZIPPITY: Oh. But it’s just… she doesn’t respect me because I’m a cruiswerweight.
SKIP: But… You’re like four feet tall, bro. What else were you gonna be?
ZIPPITY: Exactly!
SKIP: Still don’t see where I figure into this.
ZIPPITY: Look, just… (looks around nervously) Let’s just say someone might want to try and pack on a lot of mass in a short amount of time…
(SKIP raises an eyebrow and says nothing)
ZIPPITY: …I’m thinking you might know a way to make that happen. If you know what I mean.
SKIP: (firmly) Hard work and dedication, bro. And I think it’s time to end this conversation.
(SKIP turns and starts to walk away, but ZIPPITY grabs his arm and spins him back around. SKIP looks more surprised than angry at this happening.)
ZIPPITY: Goddammit, Skip! Don’t play innocent with me! Look at yourself! Human beings aren’t supposed to look like that! Not without… You know… Help.
(SKIP looks furious for a second, then closes his eyes and exhales slowly, as though in some sort of brief-yet-deep meditative state, then just kind of nods to himself. When he speaks, his tone is firm, yet almost shockingly calm and reassuring.)
SKIP: Look, bro. Let’s just say for the sake of argument that something like that exists, and that I could make a couple of phone calls to my guy and get you hooked up with some. And let’s say that this magic substance works, and you start making some serious gains. Well, what then?
ZIPPITY: What then? Professional success, money, theoretically girls, I suppose…
SKIP: No, I mean in the big picture. You’re looking, but you’re not seeing, bro. Listen to yourself. Bro, your inner psyche is a frayed rope stretched to its breaking point. You’re walking on a razor’s edge, and if you add some serious mass to that, you’re just gonna get cut. Your emotions are a raging tempest that threatens to consume and destroy all you’ve ever loved, bro.
ZIPPITY: What…. the hell does any of that mean?
SKIP: Listen to me, bro. (SKIP leans in very closely and speaks with the utmost of deadly-seriousness) With great gains come great responsibility, bro. And I don’t think you could handle that.
(ZIPPITY looks down as if he is in deep contemplation, then just shakes his head, throws his hands up, and starts to walk away)
ZIPPITY; Eh, screw this, I’ll just ask Gummo.
(SKIP immediately cringes, knowing that GUMMO NAKAMURA would not share his views, re: gains and responsibility. This could become a problem eventually. Or maybe it won’t? Maybe the right call here is to just let things happen as they may. The answer here, as always, is to just be. SKIP felt a great calm come over him as he turned his face toward the sky. The sun was shining. Somewhere, a bird chirped.)
(TO BE CONTINUED IN A VERY SPECIAL EPISODE OF THE INVISIBLE BACKSTAGE CAMERA)
MEANWHILE…
(Across town, inside the seemingly nondescript metal building that would soon serve as the home base for the fledgling Tri-state Lucha Libre promotion, promoter and lucha libre legend PUÑO DORADO walks alone through the recently finished interior of the arena area. He takes a seat in one of the empty ringside chairs and just takes in the view, beaming with pride. His life’s work has nearly come to fruition, and he is temporarily lost in the moment. That is, until the silence is shattered by approaching footsteps, and he soon finds himself looking up at JOAQUIN SALAZAR, who is a TSLL wrestler, and rumored to be several other things. DORADO does not seem happy to see him.)
(NOTE: all dialogue from here on out is translated from Spanish, unless otherwise noted)
DORADO: You. What do you want?
JOAQUIN: You seem upset to see me, old man. No matter, I was just stopping by to admire my arena.
(DORADO is immediately furious, and stands up, face-to-face with the younger, smaller man)
DORADO: Your arena!?
JOAQUIN: Do I stutter, old man?
DORADO: You listen to me, you little punk! I have worked for years to-
JOAQUIN: No, you listen to me! Yes, you have worked hard, and my father is very appreciative of this. Appreciative enough to pay for this building. And you would do well to remember that.
DORADO: But our arrangement is finished! I have done everything that has been asked of me!
JOAQUIN: …So now, you sit back and wait for us to ask for something else.
(DORADO looks like he is about to absolutely knock the shit out of this kid, but knowing better than to tempt fate, he simply picks up a chair and hurls it, clattering across a row of similar seating. He opens his mouth and raises a finger as though to speak, but stops himself, makes a fist, and storms out of the arena, as JOAQUIN quietly chuckles to himself. He turns to leave, but upon opening the exit door, he finds himself face to face with a very large man in a black mask, the terrifying EL HIJO DEL BEATRIZ NEGRO.)
JOAQUIN: Get out of my way.
EHDBN: Or what?
JOAQUIN: (indignantly) What do you even mean? Move!
EHDBN: Don’t think I will.
JOAQUIN: Do you know who I am!?
EHDBN: Does it matter?
JOAQUIN: you listen to me! My father is a very powerful and dangerous man, and if you-
(EHDBN looks behind JOAQUIN at nothing in particular)
EHDBN: So, is he here?
JOAQUIN: What?
EHDBN: Yes, your father is a dangerous man. In Mexico. And me? I’m a very dangerous man right fucking here. And from what I can tell, you’re all alone, boy.
EHDBN: You see, you can come in here, living your little lucha libre fantasy with your dad’s money, and your fancy car, and your fancy clothes, and your cute little muscles, and you think you own this place. But you see that ring over there? It’s mine. And no matter who you are, or who your daddy is, you remember that. In that ring, you’re nothing but meat. That ring belongs to me, and when you’re inside it, you belong to me.
(EHDBN smiles an absolutely evil smile, kind of pats JOAQUIN on the cheek a few times, then turns and starts to walk away. With some distance between them, the previously silent JOAQUIN suddenly finds his courage.)
JOAQUIN: Listen, you son of a bitch! When my father hears how you have disrespected me, he’ll-
EHDBN: He’ll what? Blow up my house? Let him try. Sic his sissy little son on me? You don’t scare me, obviously. Send his thugs after me? fine. He can send whoever he wants, but tell him to not send anyone he wants back. I am El Hijo De Fucking Beatriz Negro! I have no fear! I am fear! And you should go fuck off back to Mexico before you get hurt, boy.
(EL HIJO DEL BEATRIZ NEGRO walks out, slamming the door behind him. JOAQUIN, suddenly now worried, sinks into one of the chairs on the back row. And he is all alone.)