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Let's Talk About Probability; Showdown RP #1
Topic Started: Dec 30 2007, 09:19 PM (110 Views)
Alex Ross
The Perfect 10
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The camera is turned on and we cut into the inside of a car. The car is modern, featuring a GPS system, a touchscreen sound system, and other luxuries. "My Sharona" by The Knack is playing in the car. In the driver's seat sits the recently debuted Alex Ross. The camera pans out so one is to see his entire body, dressed in a black dress shirt, buttoned till about the third button from the top, un-tucked. His trendy faded jeans lead down to his Adidas All-Stars, which hold the gas pedal down quite firmly.

Alex Ross: MY-Y-Y-Y-Y-AH M-M-M-MY SHARONA.

Ross bangs on the steering wheel as if playing the drums to the song. His head bobs back and forth with the famous repeating guitar riff. As the song goes on, Alex begins to realize that he doesn't know all of the words to the song and that singing along would surely make him look like a complete ass. He stops singing altogether, finally just turning off the radio.

If you can't appreciate The Knack then you can go to fucking hell, okay? This is rock music. What are the odds there will ever be a song like this, something so simple blended into a total masterpiece? Slim-to-none. This song came out in 1979. One year later, Devo came out with "Whip It". Now, how similar do these songs sound, as far as background music? Very. What song am I still listening to today? "My Sharona". Enough said? Music just isn't the same anymore. NOTHING is the same anymore.

Remember when movies were overacted on purpose? They reflected their theatrical roots. Too-good-to-be-true endings with sappy love stories... Now we've got movies about martyrs and death. This is fucking America. This is the land of the American dream, which is quite obvious, I will point out. We let so many fucking things change that just didn't need to change.

Look at wrestling. Remember when every combatant was over-the-top? Remember when everyone had an identity? Now everyone seems to have an issue with that, identity... It's a funny thing, really. Identity is a lot harder to gain than to lose. My debut match is against "The Storyteller" this week on Showdown? HUGE identity problem. First off, the guy is batshit insane. You need not put forth ANY effort to find out some dirt on this guy. Google will tell you of his sick history. I am a fan of Google, it's so fucking handy. I read somewhere that this guy is actually from an insane asylum? So he checks out every week for his matches, does he? I don't buy it. This guy is a total fake. Oh my God, nobody knows how he gets out every week to compete! Well, why don't you just ask him? Does it have to be any harder than that? Oh wait, is he one of those big scary 7 footers that don't say much more than "ugh" and "hmmmph". Well then why don't you contact the asylum? Do they even have formal asylums anymore? I was pretty sure that they have maximum security confinement facilities, but it's not like we have these buildings that have barred windows that Retardo Ricardo can knaw through with his straight-jacket on. So just how do you do it, Mr. Teller?

I read somewhere else that this guy is a writer... Oh, well I guess he does have something going there with that whole "Storyteller" thing. I'm glad you found yourself a name that is very true to your personality. Personally, I was considering calling myself Gambler. What do you think, big man? Personally, I want to read this guy's books. I can't imagine the highly educated grammar in combination with beautiful metaphor. "Michael Morgan walk down street and dog make growl. Michael Morgon smash dog like egg on house at Halloween time." I'm sure this is Pulitzer quality stuff... But actually... Now that I've thought about it, I might pass on the books... But my six year old daughter might really love them, She's just out of Amelia Bedilia, so we're really looking for something fresh that she'll be interested in.

Something about this guy's story, though, there is a plot point missing. Why is he wrestling, exactly? Does Hulk need somewhere to vent? Isn't writing supposed to help someone vent? Where is your creative filter here, Lurch? Why do you do what you do? Why do you think you should be good at it? I wouldn't know from experience, because I'm quite the ace, myself... But I hear bad things about Jacks of all trades. Something about being a master of none? You might want to pick a clear route in your life, Tiny, because I have a feeling you're going to bite off more than that ape-jaw of yours can chew, which is a lot. This next match of yours is going to be the most challenging yet, I can assure you. The climax of your career, if you will. For one, I can move a lot faster than that barrel sized next of yours, so you're going to have to really work on your speed and reaction time. Second, you're from Maine. Enough said. Finally, what kind of a freak like you has to use two hands to give a little guy like me a chokeslam? Seriously, are you that special? Can't balance your 325 pound corpse enough to lift someone into the air for a second or two, only to drop them? You're a joke, Mr. Teller. You have so many unclear details about you. What kind of a writer allows details to slip from his own story?

I'm curious as to what happens when you tell this guy that he is and was Michael Morgan, this fictional character of his. Does he like spaz out and stab someone or what? Why don't we just find some meds for this freak? And if he doesn't know that he is his own character, then why the fuck is he so angry? According to him, he hasn't had a rough life at all, so quit the broken hearted titan act, Mark Twain. My God, you have more contradictions and mystery in your life than if Nancy Drew wandered over to the Holy Bible to interrogate Judas. You are not a person. You are many people with very very confusing lives. Am I in a handicap match? How many people are going to interfere with our match, out of that seven inch thick skull of yours?

So now let's talk about the probability that this guy really does surprise me and ends up pinning me for the one, two, three. He would not only have to actually move his limbs in such a way that I could be harmed, but he would then have to throw himself to the ground, onto me, without making a canyon in the arena. This sounds like a lot of work for a guy who sits at a typewriter eating pudding and weeps about a lost memory that he has found but is still lost because he hasn't found out that he really is that memory. No one in this sort of emotional state could ever concentrate on such a physical activity enough to be any good. Depression keeps you from being active, is he going to be a better athlete than I am? No chance. ZERO PERCENT chance of that.

Buuuuuut, let's say he isn't depressed, so his body is totally capable of mashing mine into a pulp. Now he has the obstacle of me actually having been through some wrestling training. Do they have training back at Happydale asylum, Mr. Karloff? Do you really have any experience in wrestling other than angst and liking to mush peoples' heads? Do you know any wrestling techniques other than "Rawr!"? I mean you're a one-time Hardcore champion, is that what it takes to win? Hardcore fighting? I could go hardcore, no problem. Hell I'll take one of those shock-sticks that you are ever-so familiar with and shove it straight into your digestive tract. Your odds, as far as skill? I'm going to say one out of six-hundred-sixty-six, just to tease you for your stereotypical big angry monster gimmick. Minus 10 points for originality purposes. You have the chokeslam, the height, the weight... I'm just wondering where you are religiously, whether there is a dark lord involved or not.

So howabout the probability of you stalking me with an obsession-like grudge after my win on Sunday night? One-hundred percent chance. I know your type all too well. You are going to think about this loss for the rest of your life, like you have to prove something to the world. I made a fool of you and you must avenge it. I'll tell you what, Silverback, no one gives a flying shit about you. None of the sVo fans will care whether or not you exist in this company, so your loss really doesn't bring a tear to anyone's eyes here. They boo you because you are a waste of space. A LOT of space. 6 feet and 10 inches of space that could be taken up by me and whatever lucky lady or ladies happen to be with me said evening. Who are you wrestling for? Do you want the fans on your side? Do you wish that someday you could be normal? Do you want to prove to the Troll King that Michael Morgan is the meanest, strongest, and toughest Muppet in all of David Bowie's Labyrinth? Well, get a fucking grip Ludo, you're useless. You aren't going to like what I'm saying, but you have to hear it. Obviously you are useless to the sVo, with your great push, stuck debuting up and coming superstars who will someday be World Champion. Wow, what a great career. You were obviously useless to your fiancee, who was banging Rabbi Rosenberg from Temple. This match is not going to be your last, I know. But you really should consider it, Frankenstein. Let's try and not let this novel of a career become a never-ending-story, okay? Let it go, I'm sure you'll find something you're good at... Maybe Monopoly or something? I bet you're a pro at Candy Land. Wrestling just isn't your thing, Hightower.

So think about it, Mr. Hyde. Maybe once you realize my bones will not be made into your bread, you will realize that when ROOKIES start getting the best of you, that it's time to go and let yourself remember that one time when you had that one title that was never really a respected title. Meanwhile, you can tune in every week on Sunday nights to watch the man responsible for the best choice you've ever made, work his way to the top and become what you never did... A STAR.


Alex Ross pulls into a parking lot at a neon covered hotel. He finds a parking spot right away and puts the vehicle in park. He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls the key from the ignition. Alex hops out of the car and the scene fades to black.
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