Post by joe on Jan 3, 2014 14:58:55 GMT -5
The heavy crunch of snow underneath each of Joe’s footsteps opens the scene. Morning’s rays touch down on the frigid white layer covering the ground. Our view is of PURE’s own bulky bruiser as he trudges along up a slope. Today he wears a jean jacket with a red flannel shirt underneath. Escaping from the woolly beard and hair are long puffs of icy breath. The wrestler stops and gazes at something before him, the rising sun in the backdrop giving his eyes a luminescent appearance. Our camera follows his gaze to a gate with a security booth, beyond that one can see a giant boxy grey factory of some sort. Massive smoke stacks bellow thick smog emerge from the structure which appears to be rife with activity as the steady procession of a starting shift is lined up outside.
“There it is.” Remarks Joe.
He takes another few steps up the driveway towards the security booth as another panoramic view of the surroundings reveals this location is apparently just outside of the city. Mostly fields and a few other industrial facilities are in proximity. The camera returns to Joe as he beckons it to follow past a pedestrian gate. A uniformed security guard nods from behind the booth, acknowledging entry is OK.
“Sorry ‘bout the hike, we ain't got an employee parkin’ spot apparently. Let’s see what we got here. Take this you’ll need it.”
Joe hands an identification card on a lanyard marked “visitor” to the camera person while maintaining his steady march forward. He approaches a vast line of people that stretches around part of the building. As they see him they begin to cheer and raise their arms in greeting. Joe nods and waves back.
“Mornin’ everybody. Guess I’m a workin’ stiff here today, eh?” remarks the burly brawler. The line of employees wave and shout back. Joe stops to shake the hand of an older heavyset man in glasses.
“You gonna watch the bout at crisis?” inquires the wrestler.
“Oh hell yeah. You take’em down Joe. Teach those fools whose boss. I got it reserved on pay-per-view already.” He replies.
“Thanks pal. But you may wanna cancel that ‘cuz it ain’t gonna compare to bein’ there.” says Joe as he hands a pair of tickets to Crisis to the man and nods. He begins to make his way down the line as the workers erupt in celebration.
He stops again “What about you? PURE wrestling, you gonna tune into Crisis?”
A pair of employees in their twenties burst out in adulation, a lanky kid in a blue hoody fires off praise. “Oh you know it! Aubrey sucks, Bailey sucks, Madison sucks, there’s only Joe!”
His partner, in a black leather jacket with a black cap backs the statement. “Yeah! Bailey blows! Parker’s the pits! Badman Madison is gonna get schooled by Joe!”
Both lean in to slap hands with the burly brawler. He reaches into his pocket and fetches another pair of tickets and hands them to the duo. The fans give each other high fives and roar appreciation as Joe heads to the back of the line. He turns quickly to the camera, “Didn't know I had such a backing.” Joe reaches the end of the line as four employees stand around clutching bag lunches and getting in quick smokes before the shift.
“How we doin’?”
One of the workers nods, a middle aged man with a ponytail, “You’re that wrestler aren’cha? Joe Martinez?”
“Yes sir.”
Another woman with a brown heavy coat and short hair pipes up “Oh man, you’re ‘Average’ Joe? My little boy is always talking about you. You’re his absolute favorite. We tape the wrestling shows so he can watch them after school. They’re on after his bed time on the weekends.”
“Hey that’s great to hear. Glad he’s a fan.”
“Yeah well, Devin did get in trouble at school recently; he was trying to punch out his classmates out like you do.” She seems none too pleased.
Joe takes a moment to think, he strokes his beard. “Hmm, well I apologize, ma’am. Maybe I can explain to the little fella that you don’t knock out friends and why I do what I do and stuff.”
“Oh yeah?” she inquires.
“Yeah, but it’ll be hard with my schedule to find time to come to you. So how about we have a ringside chat at Crisis on the 5th?” With that he produces a trio of tickets from his pocket, “Bring yourself, bring him, bring dad along too.”
The woman and her colleagues all jump with delight. The woman accepts the gifts but adds “Well, we’ll take two…”
The bulky bruiser gets the hint and nods, he puts the third one back in his pocket.
Another worker leans in to the woman and asks, “Es luchador?”
The mother replies, “Si, lucha libre Americano. Me dio entradas.”
“Muy grande, almost campeon!” remarks Joe in Spanglish jokingly, making an arm flexing gesture.
The Spanish-speaking co-workers seems impressed.
As they continue to speak a loud whistle sounds. People begin to flick cigarettes and stand at attention. The staff begins to proceed inside the factory as the work day begins. Before long time cards are punched and people are suiting up in an assortment getup's including aprons, hard hats, knee pads, and coveralls. The procession breaks up into organized chaos as everybody makes their way to assignments. Sack lunches are tossed into fridges, check lists reviewed, supervisors run down task logs; As Joe stands at the time clock he watches the factory slowly come to life. Conveyor belts activate, forklifts are heard rumbling on, and the din of a work day is in full swing within a few minutes. A man in a collared shirt and dress slacks approaches Joe.
“Mister Martinez? Hi, I’m Sheldon Banks.” He reaches out a hand which Joe accepts and shakes graciously.
“Hey there sir, I guess I’m gonna be doin’ a tour now, eh?”
The man nods and ushers Joe forward as they make their way down a crowded hallway. The man hands Joe a hardhat. Joe takes a moment to tie his hair back as he follows.
The burly brawler finally turns to the camera as they make their way into a large subterranean warehouse. “We’re here are Play-cation Toys, which happens to be the company that’s going to be producing the PURE action figures. I figured I’d take a look under the hood and see how things are run.”
Sheldon begins to speak “Our facility starts with an above ground forty five thousand square foot shipping operation, the majority of what we do is actually underground for aesthetic purposes. We have a large manufacturing sector and our very own research and development lab onsite, which helps to-“
Joe cuts off the company man, “Hey buddy, where’s the PURE stuff at? Can we go there?”
“Oh certainly, we’re actually in that wing right now. PURE is the latest intellectual property we've acquired the license to so we hope to capitalize on the opportunity with this line of high quality toys.” Explains Sheldon as he shows Joe into a massive room. The wrestler stands at the top of the catwalk looking down on the row of employees assembling and packaging the figures. He decides to proceed down to the line level. “Let’s get down to the brass tacks, eh?” remarks Joe as he guides the camera man down the iron steps.
A group of women are putting together Anthony Bailey action figures. Joe recognizes the Spanish speaking female from earlier. He grabs one of the action figures and points to a certain part of its anatomy. “No huevos.” He says. The woman blushes and covers her mouth as she giggles.
Joe then looks into the camera. “I guess accuracy is important here; Bailey’s ball-less. Excuse the language but I don’t think there’s any other way to put it. We've seen it time and time again. From our first match-up to the pitiful display at the tag match last week. Oh you got some fight left in ya but just when you thought you were gonna pull away and take charge; you got pounded back into reality. It took both you and Aubrey to really stem the tide. When I start putting these battering rams to use I can fell any defense.” Joe makes two fists quickly before handing the toy back.
“I guess third time’s a charm, I might actually take you out of the game for good when we next meet up. It seems no matter how much I strike you down, Bailey, you keep getting back up. Maybe I should tell these folks to change that clown punching bag that always wobbles back up to be in your image. It’d be much more fitting, probably offer up more fight too. You see Bailey this ain't a time for playin’ around, this is the PURE Seattle championship that’s on the line. This is the belt that I rightfully ought'a deliver to the fine folks who slave away day in’n day out so they can come see their favorite wrestler take the opposition to the cleaners. This is the belt that’s made off the sweat of a hard day’s work. This is the belt they’re offerin’ up to the top tier competitor that wins time and time again. This is the belt that suits me a whole lot more than it does you. Anthony I've already established dominance over you, to get that belt you’ll need a whole lot more than prayers pal. I got your number, when we went one on one, that number looked more like zero. Now we’re going to be meeting up in a grand melee where everyone’s lookin’ out for themselves. Now we’re gonna be fighting in my natural environment, where anythin’ goes and the only person you can trust is yourself. You may thrive with a partner, but by yourself the simple fact is, yer easy pickin’s for the predators.”
Joe follows the assembly line up until the end. He sees Anthony Bailey’s action figure being thrown into a two pack with Jair Hopkins - A Dying Breed specialty tag team combo. Joe starts to chuckle. “It seems even in the make believe world of toys, Bailey can’t stand on his own two feet. Well it looks like at Crisis I will finally have to make this breed one step closer to extinction and snuff out Bailey. My apologies to the talented Hopkins for wiping out Bailey, as someone who prefers to do what’s right, I’m thinking it’s a necessary evil. I’d claim survival of the fittest, but…” Joe points to his physique. He then decides to move on. "Let's put it this way, You’re an Angelfish in a tank fulla piranhas."
As Joe makes his way down the line he comes to a second conveyor belt where ‘Madman’ Chris Madison figures are being made. There are barely any of the items rolling out. “Speaking of tanking…” The bulky bruiser remarks. “So Madison, I saw that you put up a nice fight before. It was an honor to work with such a distinguished competitor, but I have to say you dropped the ball. No not one of the ones Bailey’s missing. In fact ever since stepping into PURE it seems you haven’t really achieved the one thing you really need to set out to do, level Aubrey. Just when I soften’em up for ya, you fail to deliver. It seems your weakness is your specialty. The submission game may be something you’re an expert at but that harpy’s been showing you up every time you get near her. I almost feel sorry for ya. As your partner you had my sympathy, as my upcoming opponent however, yer drawin’ my ire. I can see now that depending on you to haul yer weight around is a fruitless waste’a time. So I recommend the fans don’t come to expect nothin’ from you. I at least can bank on the fact that Aubrey’s gonna keep you in line come Crisis, that even if you were a credible threat to my unstoppable charge, that there’s yer Kryptonite right in that ring able to shut you down at a moment’s notice.”
Joe follows the path of production. He sees the workers placing a replica of Madison’s trunk into the packaging. Joe laughs once more. “So they come with a change of shorts? I guess kids’ll be able to emulate the Madman in every way now. You guys ain't makin’ boots that quake to a go along with’em too are ya?” the worker smiles and shakes their head.
“Well anyway, regardless of whether Aubrey’s gonna hand out a whuppin’ once more to ya. I can say after seeing you fight first hand that I’m gonna eat you alive. Trust me; cuisine is obviously a specialty of mine. Normally I’d say this is a case’a fine dinin’ but when it comes down to that bell ringing feeding frenzy is more appropriate. The only reason Madison’ll have to be Mad is because he’s gonna lose - suffering that bitter taste of defeat.”
The camera follows Joe as he makes his way to another assembly line. There we see Aubrey J Parker figures being produced quickly. The line appears much larger and seems to have the most staff assigned to it. Joe approaches a worker, “Man you guys are makin’ these fast.”
“Oh yeah it’s our most popular one, we've already got tons of requests by retailers to stock the shelves full of them. We can hardly keep up with the demand.” Replies the man as he deftly manipulates the figures at breakneck speed, sticking pieces together.
“Why am I not surprised? Aubrey is a commodity. A mass produced fake piece’a plastic that’s hastily made. While I don’t wanna second guess the level of quality the fine folks here at the factory put in to each toy they make, I can say for sure that much like real life, it doesn't appear a lot of ‘caring’ is put into Aubrey J. You see Aubrey; you may be among the favorites to win this thing. You may be a dominant force in the ring so far but that reign has really been unfettered by my involvement. Once you add me to that equation; once you figure that the indomitable force, the thundering personality, the million-strong mauler is comin’ for ya, you see that things start skewin’ my way. Aubrey, I know you’re just as big a threat to me as anyone else in this comin’ match. I know that you got the history, the skill and wit to stand strong against anyone who comes your way. I've seen that knee bar you lock on folks to make’em quit, heck I've seen it time and time again on Madison. Thing is, unless all three of you plan on teaming up against me, it ain't gonna happen. At the tag match, I nearly sent my knuckles through to the back of your skull, this time I may just complete the objective. I think everyone at PURE, the fans included, are owed the favor of having me knock you down off yer high horse and trampled underfoot. That ego of yours doesn't just need a deflating, it needs to come crashing down like so many burning blimps from the thirties.”
Joe snatches up one of the Aubrey action figures as it speeds down the assembly line. “Parker you’re the type’a lady they’re looking up to as a shoe-in for victory. As much as folks hate ya, they cave in to the fact you bring a level a talent necessary to take home the gold. This time though the people have spoken, and they've deemed you a flash in the pan. They've called you out on your bull, much like I've seen through it. At Crisis my main goal is to disassemble you.” With that Joe starts picking the toy apart, he rips the legs from the sockets and plucks the arms off the torso. “I aim to take you apart, piece by piece with every one of my crushing blows. I already know I can dominate Anthony ‘barely there’ Bailey. I've seen that Madison is made’a clay, he’s constantly afraid’a breakin’. When I’m done rippin’ you to shreds they’re going to have to name an act after ya. They’ll be callin’ it an Aub Job to fall from the top when you’re a favorite. It won’t be an upset either because I've been hearing that folks are hoping you don’t win. I've been keen on the fact that down here on the street level, down where the common people are livin’, that’s where they’re diggin’ yer grave.”
Joe takes a moment to look around and ponders. He yells up to Sheldon once more, “Hey buddy, where’s the Joe’s?”
Sheldon points towards a door at the end of the titanic warehouse-like room. The bulky bruiser shrugs as he decides to head towards the opening. A nondescript hallway is before Joe. He decides to follow the path and comes upon a pair of double doors. As Joe flings them open, he see’s several individuals in business suits sitting around a table. A man in a lab coat points to blueprints on a wall. The camera focuses on the displayed depiction, which happens to be of a theoretical Joe Martinez action figure.
“Well look’it what we got here.” says Joe.
As the faces turn to him, most go from surprise to recognition; smiles and clapping are soon filling the room.
“So what’s going on here? No demand for the ‘average’ Joe?” inquires the burly brawler.
“No, no, that’s not it at all.” says a man in an orange dress shirt.
Another man in a white lab coat with an assortment of pens in his breast pockets chimes in, “No we’re actually, well, we’re waiting to see if you win the championship. Since it’s a real possibility it’d be a boon to sales so we decided to hold off.” The man presses a clicker and another slide on the drawing board appears where the Joe toy would come with its own belt. “If you take home the belt, we’d package it alongside you. If not well, it’ll come with the PURE power ring play-set.”
Joe nods approvingly. He turns back to the face the camera. “Now take a look at that. They’re looking at banking on the fact I might go home as champ. Oh sure they couldn't hold off on putting out the Parkers, and the Madisons and Baileys are already out in the world, but even the people here at Play-cation see the possibility that I’m a potential front runner in this coming fight. Just like the fans can see that I may not be coming from the top, but I’m ascending to the peak. I’m building a scaffolding outta slaughter that’s gonna get me to the top of the heap. They tell folks to aim high, so knocking skulls around like ping pong balls is what I’m lookin’ at doing. Come Crisis, I’m gonna be making gain’n’ giving pain.”
------------------
Through gritted teeth and multi-colored spots in an infinite void of black, Joe fought on with the strain. To be honest he hadn't been keeping as fighting fit as he was used to. He had been portly for ages, but usually there was a healthy layer of working class muscle beneath it all. His calloused hands were now clenched albino fists that shook with exertion. The bulky bruiser grunted and as he slowly eased the cinder blocks onto the floor and finally opened his eyes. He took a moment to pant and gain composure. The first thing his eyes caught sight of was streaks of golden light shining through lowered blinds, a myriad of tiny particles flowing through them like some kind of cosmic dust.
The burly brawler brushed the sweat soaked strands of black hair from his vision and steeled himself. He took a quick peak down at the chain that was wrapped around his knuckles, ensuring it was still properly secured through the stack of cinder blocks. Resigning himself to another go he braced his legs and with a loud almost snarling growl, lifted the column of man-made stones up. By now Joe was soaked in perspiration, it dripped liberally onto the floor beneath him in a ripe puddle. His muscles burned with the strain, he felt every aching pang of agony as his body protested but the burly bruiser kept himself going on will alone. There would be no giving up in the ring and no giving up now; finally when he felt he was satisfied he lowered the blocks again.
Upon loosening up, he felt light headed. The room began to spin. Before he could make his way to the folding chair he found himself drunk from exhaustion, every wobbly step betrayed his balance and soon the world faded from view as his large frame crashed down and away from consciousness.
When he awoke, the brilliant rays of sunshine had died away into darkness. Now crickets, traffic, and the occasional back alley disagreement were all he heard. Joe rolled over and pressed himself to a crawling position which was then hoisted upright. A dull soreness permeated his every movement. He shook off the cloudiness and stepped over to the fridge to imbibe the chilling relief of a tap water filled jug. Simple pleasures were best he decided. A quick shower and change of clothes later he enjoyed the evening’s itinerary; microwave burritos in front of the idiot box.
He chewed the rubbery tortilla and paste they claimed was beans with displeasure. It was food, he would concede that, however everything else claimed on the packaging was up for debate. As he watched the endless gala of distraction he found his mind wandered. He pictured himself before the screaming fans, standing on the ring post thanking everyone who’d made the concession of offering him the chance to be in the ring. He could almost feel the championship belt’s touch on his fingers; the concept filled him with electricity elevating him beyond the crappy studio apartment he now sat in. He imagined pointing his fingers out to all the spectators, bringing them along with him to the cusp of victory. He caught himself gesturing and immediately withdrew from the fantasy, a sheepish grin displayed his embarrassment though no one else was present. After slamming down a cold brew he decided to hit the sack.
Joe flicked off the TV.
“Oh god, right there. Oooo. Yeah baby, mmmm.”
The squeaking of bed springs in the neighboring apartment left no room for doubt.
The burly brawler grumbled. He turned and tried to adjust himself but it was to no avail. “At least someone around here is having fun.” He said to no one in particular. Joe moved the cot to the opposite side of the room, finding that it did nothing to diminish the sounds. Finally he pulled an archaic Discman from his belongings and threw on an old favorite. He headed out the door, lighting a bent cigarette he retrieved from his back pocket. The burly brawler took a casual stroll while in his ears confidence welled up in music form:
Joe’s anthem, the song chosen to enter PURE’s arena with now became a battle cry, a proclamation. He wasn't like others on the roster. Being backed by the masses - he was better.
“There it is.” Remarks Joe.
He takes another few steps up the driveway towards the security booth as another panoramic view of the surroundings reveals this location is apparently just outside of the city. Mostly fields and a few other industrial facilities are in proximity. The camera returns to Joe as he beckons it to follow past a pedestrian gate. A uniformed security guard nods from behind the booth, acknowledging entry is OK.
“Sorry ‘bout the hike, we ain't got an employee parkin’ spot apparently. Let’s see what we got here. Take this you’ll need it.”
Joe hands an identification card on a lanyard marked “visitor” to the camera person while maintaining his steady march forward. He approaches a vast line of people that stretches around part of the building. As they see him they begin to cheer and raise their arms in greeting. Joe nods and waves back.
“Mornin’ everybody. Guess I’m a workin’ stiff here today, eh?” remarks the burly brawler. The line of employees wave and shout back. Joe stops to shake the hand of an older heavyset man in glasses.
“You gonna watch the bout at crisis?” inquires the wrestler.
“Oh hell yeah. You take’em down Joe. Teach those fools whose boss. I got it reserved on pay-per-view already.” He replies.
“Thanks pal. But you may wanna cancel that ‘cuz it ain’t gonna compare to bein’ there.” says Joe as he hands a pair of tickets to Crisis to the man and nods. He begins to make his way down the line as the workers erupt in celebration.
He stops again “What about you? PURE wrestling, you gonna tune into Crisis?”
A pair of employees in their twenties burst out in adulation, a lanky kid in a blue hoody fires off praise. “Oh you know it! Aubrey sucks, Bailey sucks, Madison sucks, there’s only Joe!”
His partner, in a black leather jacket with a black cap backs the statement. “Yeah! Bailey blows! Parker’s the pits! Badman Madison is gonna get schooled by Joe!”
Both lean in to slap hands with the burly brawler. He reaches into his pocket and fetches another pair of tickets and hands them to the duo. The fans give each other high fives and roar appreciation as Joe heads to the back of the line. He turns quickly to the camera, “Didn't know I had such a backing.” Joe reaches the end of the line as four employees stand around clutching bag lunches and getting in quick smokes before the shift.
“How we doin’?”
One of the workers nods, a middle aged man with a ponytail, “You’re that wrestler aren’cha? Joe Martinez?”
“Yes sir.”
Another woman with a brown heavy coat and short hair pipes up “Oh man, you’re ‘Average’ Joe? My little boy is always talking about you. You’re his absolute favorite. We tape the wrestling shows so he can watch them after school. They’re on after his bed time on the weekends.”
“Hey that’s great to hear. Glad he’s a fan.”
“Yeah well, Devin did get in trouble at school recently; he was trying to punch out his classmates out like you do.” She seems none too pleased.
Joe takes a moment to think, he strokes his beard. “Hmm, well I apologize, ma’am. Maybe I can explain to the little fella that you don’t knock out friends and why I do what I do and stuff.”
“Oh yeah?” she inquires.
“Yeah, but it’ll be hard with my schedule to find time to come to you. So how about we have a ringside chat at Crisis on the 5th?” With that he produces a trio of tickets from his pocket, “Bring yourself, bring him, bring dad along too.”
The woman and her colleagues all jump with delight. The woman accepts the gifts but adds “Well, we’ll take two…”
The bulky bruiser gets the hint and nods, he puts the third one back in his pocket.
Another worker leans in to the woman and asks, “Es luchador?”
The mother replies, “Si, lucha libre Americano. Me dio entradas.”
“Muy grande, almost campeon!” remarks Joe in Spanglish jokingly, making an arm flexing gesture.
The Spanish-speaking co-workers seems impressed.
As they continue to speak a loud whistle sounds. People begin to flick cigarettes and stand at attention. The staff begins to proceed inside the factory as the work day begins. Before long time cards are punched and people are suiting up in an assortment getup's including aprons, hard hats, knee pads, and coveralls. The procession breaks up into organized chaos as everybody makes their way to assignments. Sack lunches are tossed into fridges, check lists reviewed, supervisors run down task logs; As Joe stands at the time clock he watches the factory slowly come to life. Conveyor belts activate, forklifts are heard rumbling on, and the din of a work day is in full swing within a few minutes. A man in a collared shirt and dress slacks approaches Joe.
“Mister Martinez? Hi, I’m Sheldon Banks.” He reaches out a hand which Joe accepts and shakes graciously.
“Hey there sir, I guess I’m gonna be doin’ a tour now, eh?”
The man nods and ushers Joe forward as they make their way down a crowded hallway. The man hands Joe a hardhat. Joe takes a moment to tie his hair back as he follows.
The burly brawler finally turns to the camera as they make their way into a large subterranean warehouse. “We’re here are Play-cation Toys, which happens to be the company that’s going to be producing the PURE action figures. I figured I’d take a look under the hood and see how things are run.”
Sheldon begins to speak “Our facility starts with an above ground forty five thousand square foot shipping operation, the majority of what we do is actually underground for aesthetic purposes. We have a large manufacturing sector and our very own research and development lab onsite, which helps to-“
Joe cuts off the company man, “Hey buddy, where’s the PURE stuff at? Can we go there?”
“Oh certainly, we’re actually in that wing right now. PURE is the latest intellectual property we've acquired the license to so we hope to capitalize on the opportunity with this line of high quality toys.” Explains Sheldon as he shows Joe into a massive room. The wrestler stands at the top of the catwalk looking down on the row of employees assembling and packaging the figures. He decides to proceed down to the line level. “Let’s get down to the brass tacks, eh?” remarks Joe as he guides the camera man down the iron steps.
A group of women are putting together Anthony Bailey action figures. Joe recognizes the Spanish speaking female from earlier. He grabs one of the action figures and points to a certain part of its anatomy. “No huevos.” He says. The woman blushes and covers her mouth as she giggles.
Joe then looks into the camera. “I guess accuracy is important here; Bailey’s ball-less. Excuse the language but I don’t think there’s any other way to put it. We've seen it time and time again. From our first match-up to the pitiful display at the tag match last week. Oh you got some fight left in ya but just when you thought you were gonna pull away and take charge; you got pounded back into reality. It took both you and Aubrey to really stem the tide. When I start putting these battering rams to use I can fell any defense.” Joe makes two fists quickly before handing the toy back.
“I guess third time’s a charm, I might actually take you out of the game for good when we next meet up. It seems no matter how much I strike you down, Bailey, you keep getting back up. Maybe I should tell these folks to change that clown punching bag that always wobbles back up to be in your image. It’d be much more fitting, probably offer up more fight too. You see Bailey this ain't a time for playin’ around, this is the PURE Seattle championship that’s on the line. This is the belt that I rightfully ought'a deliver to the fine folks who slave away day in’n day out so they can come see their favorite wrestler take the opposition to the cleaners. This is the belt that’s made off the sweat of a hard day’s work. This is the belt they’re offerin’ up to the top tier competitor that wins time and time again. This is the belt that suits me a whole lot more than it does you. Anthony I've already established dominance over you, to get that belt you’ll need a whole lot more than prayers pal. I got your number, when we went one on one, that number looked more like zero. Now we’re going to be meeting up in a grand melee where everyone’s lookin’ out for themselves. Now we’re gonna be fighting in my natural environment, where anythin’ goes and the only person you can trust is yourself. You may thrive with a partner, but by yourself the simple fact is, yer easy pickin’s for the predators.”
Joe follows the assembly line up until the end. He sees Anthony Bailey’s action figure being thrown into a two pack with Jair Hopkins - A Dying Breed specialty tag team combo. Joe starts to chuckle. “It seems even in the make believe world of toys, Bailey can’t stand on his own two feet. Well it looks like at Crisis I will finally have to make this breed one step closer to extinction and snuff out Bailey. My apologies to the talented Hopkins for wiping out Bailey, as someone who prefers to do what’s right, I’m thinking it’s a necessary evil. I’d claim survival of the fittest, but…” Joe points to his physique. He then decides to move on. "Let's put it this way, You’re an Angelfish in a tank fulla piranhas."
As Joe makes his way down the line he comes to a second conveyor belt where ‘Madman’ Chris Madison figures are being made. There are barely any of the items rolling out. “Speaking of tanking…” The bulky bruiser remarks. “So Madison, I saw that you put up a nice fight before. It was an honor to work with such a distinguished competitor, but I have to say you dropped the ball. No not one of the ones Bailey’s missing. In fact ever since stepping into PURE it seems you haven’t really achieved the one thing you really need to set out to do, level Aubrey. Just when I soften’em up for ya, you fail to deliver. It seems your weakness is your specialty. The submission game may be something you’re an expert at but that harpy’s been showing you up every time you get near her. I almost feel sorry for ya. As your partner you had my sympathy, as my upcoming opponent however, yer drawin’ my ire. I can see now that depending on you to haul yer weight around is a fruitless waste’a time. So I recommend the fans don’t come to expect nothin’ from you. I at least can bank on the fact that Aubrey’s gonna keep you in line come Crisis, that even if you were a credible threat to my unstoppable charge, that there’s yer Kryptonite right in that ring able to shut you down at a moment’s notice.”
Joe follows the path of production. He sees the workers placing a replica of Madison’s trunk into the packaging. Joe laughs once more. “So they come with a change of shorts? I guess kids’ll be able to emulate the Madman in every way now. You guys ain't makin’ boots that quake to a go along with’em too are ya?” the worker smiles and shakes their head.
“Well anyway, regardless of whether Aubrey’s gonna hand out a whuppin’ once more to ya. I can say after seeing you fight first hand that I’m gonna eat you alive. Trust me; cuisine is obviously a specialty of mine. Normally I’d say this is a case’a fine dinin’ but when it comes down to that bell ringing feeding frenzy is more appropriate. The only reason Madison’ll have to be Mad is because he’s gonna lose - suffering that bitter taste of defeat.”
The camera follows Joe as he makes his way to another assembly line. There we see Aubrey J Parker figures being produced quickly. The line appears much larger and seems to have the most staff assigned to it. Joe approaches a worker, “Man you guys are makin’ these fast.”
“Oh yeah it’s our most popular one, we've already got tons of requests by retailers to stock the shelves full of them. We can hardly keep up with the demand.” Replies the man as he deftly manipulates the figures at breakneck speed, sticking pieces together.
“Why am I not surprised? Aubrey is a commodity. A mass produced fake piece’a plastic that’s hastily made. While I don’t wanna second guess the level of quality the fine folks here at the factory put in to each toy they make, I can say for sure that much like real life, it doesn't appear a lot of ‘caring’ is put into Aubrey J. You see Aubrey; you may be among the favorites to win this thing. You may be a dominant force in the ring so far but that reign has really been unfettered by my involvement. Once you add me to that equation; once you figure that the indomitable force, the thundering personality, the million-strong mauler is comin’ for ya, you see that things start skewin’ my way. Aubrey, I know you’re just as big a threat to me as anyone else in this comin’ match. I know that you got the history, the skill and wit to stand strong against anyone who comes your way. I've seen that knee bar you lock on folks to make’em quit, heck I've seen it time and time again on Madison. Thing is, unless all three of you plan on teaming up against me, it ain't gonna happen. At the tag match, I nearly sent my knuckles through to the back of your skull, this time I may just complete the objective. I think everyone at PURE, the fans included, are owed the favor of having me knock you down off yer high horse and trampled underfoot. That ego of yours doesn't just need a deflating, it needs to come crashing down like so many burning blimps from the thirties.”
Joe snatches up one of the Aubrey action figures as it speeds down the assembly line. “Parker you’re the type’a lady they’re looking up to as a shoe-in for victory. As much as folks hate ya, they cave in to the fact you bring a level a talent necessary to take home the gold. This time though the people have spoken, and they've deemed you a flash in the pan. They've called you out on your bull, much like I've seen through it. At Crisis my main goal is to disassemble you.” With that Joe starts picking the toy apart, he rips the legs from the sockets and plucks the arms off the torso. “I aim to take you apart, piece by piece with every one of my crushing blows. I already know I can dominate Anthony ‘barely there’ Bailey. I've seen that Madison is made’a clay, he’s constantly afraid’a breakin’. When I’m done rippin’ you to shreds they’re going to have to name an act after ya. They’ll be callin’ it an Aub Job to fall from the top when you’re a favorite. It won’t be an upset either because I've been hearing that folks are hoping you don’t win. I've been keen on the fact that down here on the street level, down where the common people are livin’, that’s where they’re diggin’ yer grave.”
Joe takes a moment to look around and ponders. He yells up to Sheldon once more, “Hey buddy, where’s the Joe’s?”
Sheldon points towards a door at the end of the titanic warehouse-like room. The bulky bruiser shrugs as he decides to head towards the opening. A nondescript hallway is before Joe. He decides to follow the path and comes upon a pair of double doors. As Joe flings them open, he see’s several individuals in business suits sitting around a table. A man in a lab coat points to blueprints on a wall. The camera focuses on the displayed depiction, which happens to be of a theoretical Joe Martinez action figure.
“Well look’it what we got here.” says Joe.
As the faces turn to him, most go from surprise to recognition; smiles and clapping are soon filling the room.
“So what’s going on here? No demand for the ‘average’ Joe?” inquires the burly brawler.
“No, no, that’s not it at all.” says a man in an orange dress shirt.
Another man in a white lab coat with an assortment of pens in his breast pockets chimes in, “No we’re actually, well, we’re waiting to see if you win the championship. Since it’s a real possibility it’d be a boon to sales so we decided to hold off.” The man presses a clicker and another slide on the drawing board appears where the Joe toy would come with its own belt. “If you take home the belt, we’d package it alongside you. If not well, it’ll come with the PURE power ring play-set.”
Joe nods approvingly. He turns back to the face the camera. “Now take a look at that. They’re looking at banking on the fact I might go home as champ. Oh sure they couldn't hold off on putting out the Parkers, and the Madisons and Baileys are already out in the world, but even the people here at Play-cation see the possibility that I’m a potential front runner in this coming fight. Just like the fans can see that I may not be coming from the top, but I’m ascending to the peak. I’m building a scaffolding outta slaughter that’s gonna get me to the top of the heap. They tell folks to aim high, so knocking skulls around like ping pong balls is what I’m lookin’ at doing. Come Crisis, I’m gonna be making gain’n’ giving pain.”
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Through gritted teeth and multi-colored spots in an infinite void of black, Joe fought on with the strain. To be honest he hadn't been keeping as fighting fit as he was used to. He had been portly for ages, but usually there was a healthy layer of working class muscle beneath it all. His calloused hands were now clenched albino fists that shook with exertion. The bulky bruiser grunted and as he slowly eased the cinder blocks onto the floor and finally opened his eyes. He took a moment to pant and gain composure. The first thing his eyes caught sight of was streaks of golden light shining through lowered blinds, a myriad of tiny particles flowing through them like some kind of cosmic dust.
The burly brawler brushed the sweat soaked strands of black hair from his vision and steeled himself. He took a quick peak down at the chain that was wrapped around his knuckles, ensuring it was still properly secured through the stack of cinder blocks. Resigning himself to another go he braced his legs and with a loud almost snarling growl, lifted the column of man-made stones up. By now Joe was soaked in perspiration, it dripped liberally onto the floor beneath him in a ripe puddle. His muscles burned with the strain, he felt every aching pang of agony as his body protested but the burly bruiser kept himself going on will alone. There would be no giving up in the ring and no giving up now; finally when he felt he was satisfied he lowered the blocks again.
Upon loosening up, he felt light headed. The room began to spin. Before he could make his way to the folding chair he found himself drunk from exhaustion, every wobbly step betrayed his balance and soon the world faded from view as his large frame crashed down and away from consciousness.
When he awoke, the brilliant rays of sunshine had died away into darkness. Now crickets, traffic, and the occasional back alley disagreement were all he heard. Joe rolled over and pressed himself to a crawling position which was then hoisted upright. A dull soreness permeated his every movement. He shook off the cloudiness and stepped over to the fridge to imbibe the chilling relief of a tap water filled jug. Simple pleasures were best he decided. A quick shower and change of clothes later he enjoyed the evening’s itinerary; microwave burritos in front of the idiot box.
He chewed the rubbery tortilla and paste they claimed was beans with displeasure. It was food, he would concede that, however everything else claimed on the packaging was up for debate. As he watched the endless gala of distraction he found his mind wandered. He pictured himself before the screaming fans, standing on the ring post thanking everyone who’d made the concession of offering him the chance to be in the ring. He could almost feel the championship belt’s touch on his fingers; the concept filled him with electricity elevating him beyond the crappy studio apartment he now sat in. He imagined pointing his fingers out to all the spectators, bringing them along with him to the cusp of victory. He caught himself gesturing and immediately withdrew from the fantasy, a sheepish grin displayed his embarrassment though no one else was present. After slamming down a cold brew he decided to hit the sack.
Joe flicked off the TV.
“Oh god, right there. Oooo. Yeah baby, mmmm.”
The squeaking of bed springs in the neighboring apartment left no room for doubt.
The burly brawler grumbled. He turned and tried to adjust himself but it was to no avail. “At least someone around here is having fun.” He said to no one in particular. Joe moved the cot to the opposite side of the room, finding that it did nothing to diminish the sounds. Finally he pulled an archaic Discman from his belongings and threw on an old favorite. He headed out the door, lighting a bent cigarette he retrieved from his back pocket. The burly brawler took a casual stroll while in his ears confidence welled up in music form:
Every time I'm on the street
People laugh and point at me
They talk about my length of hair
And the out of date clothes I wear
They say I look like the living dead
They say I can't have much in my head
They say my songs are much too slow
But they don't know the things I know
I know I don't belong
And there's nothing I can do
I was born too late
And I'll never be like you
Joe’s anthem, the song chosen to enter PURE’s arena with now became a battle cry, a proclamation. He wasn't like others on the roster. Being backed by the masses - he was better.