Charlie Nav presents Spider Monkey
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Well that just figures.
[Open up on a view of nothing special. A wrestling ring. The man known as Spider Monkey is seen sitting in the corner, his back pressed up against the bottom turnbuckle. We appear to be in a small, sweaty gym somewhere; the locale no doubt of a cheap-ass indy show. A couple of scrawny, pimple-faced teenagers scurry about in the background, setting up chairs and doing other random tasks as they get the place ready for whatever show is scheduled to appear.]
I mean really; once a jobber, always a jobber… right?
[Spider Monkey is dressed in a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a faded black “Showtime” Trey Slater t-shirt. His ghastly yellow lucha mask is covering his face, although the fact that it’s not tied on, combined with the haphazard way it’s sitting on his head, tells us that it was merely thrown on for the purposes of the this interview. He sits in the corner with his knees up in front of him and his arms resting on top of them.]
Last time out on Flawless I go out there… me… some goof in a mask with a history of participating in – and losing – more meaningless matches than can be possibly counted, and I do what? I beat a supposed “promising young rising star”. I do what no one – least of all myself – thought could be done and I actually *win* the frickin’ match. And what happens?
[Spider’s head flops back, banging off the middle turnbuckle.]
They throw my ass in the be-all end-all of faceless nobody matches – the battle royal.
[He pounds the back of his head a couple times off the turnbuckle.]
And who just happens to be one of my opponents in this little soiré? None other than the same reject I just beat.
[Spider Monkey shakes his head slowly, his chest vibrating as he lets out a slight chuckle.]
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even surprised. I should be used to it by now. I should have known that winning that match wouldn’t mean dick. He was a nobody, *I’m* a nobody, and there wasn’t a fan in that audience who cared one iota about that match. Seriously. Not a one. We were there to provide a nice ten minute distraction until the real talent came out. That’s all. So why on God’s green earth would I ever even entertain the notion that securing a win might mean something?
I know there are people who are probably telling me right now that I should just shut the hell up and be happy about the fact that I’m even being given this “opportunity”. You know, because the supposed carrot dangling in front of my face in the form of a shot at the Crown Jewel. But c’mon… who are they kidding? Does anyone out there *really* think that I’m going to be given a real shot at that title?
[Reaching with both hands, Spider grabs the tab rope and thrusts his pelvis upward, bringing himself up to his feet before backing into the corner and propping his elbows across the ropes.]
Look at me. I’m a frickin’ joke. This company had so little faith in my ability to make people care about something other than another trip to the restroom that they threw me out there with Charlie Nav. I guess they figured that some speck of whatever fan interest he’s got left *might* rub off on me. Maybe – just maybe – if *everything* goes right I might carve out a niche as some mid-level guy that people hate just enough to wanna pay to see lose now and then.
But the Crown Jewel? Me? Get real.
[Spider reaches around with his right hand and begins to slowly rub the back of his neck and head. He seems pensive.]
That title is meant to go to the guy who this company plans to build around. The guy they think can draw fans and money and who will help them secure the precious ratings Brian McCoy was yapping about on Flawless. They want a star in that position, not some pissant in a gay yellow mask.
So why? Why even play this stupid charade? I mean we got eight guys here who have about as much chance of becoming household names in DWS as that assface James Varga does of ever being funny. And yet they’re gonna throw us out there next time on Flawless and expect people to actually believe that whoever wins the thing just might be the first-ever Crown Jewel champion.
[Grabbing the top rope once again, Spider begins to spastically rock back and forth in the corner, kinda banging his body up against the corner buckle in an anxious dance.]
A battle royal, for Christ’s sake. A match specifically designed for guys who are so inept in the ring that the victory is secured just by throwing some schlub over the top rope. To hell with pesky things like pinfalls or submission or any of that wrestling crap. Naw, let’s just let the idiots throw some wild punches and see if we can find a winner without anybody embarassing themselves. Then we at least have a patsy in place for when it comes time to crown that new champion.
Why else would you even see names like Saerin Aurora or Anythony Rydel on the card? In all the years he’s been taking up space in this business, has Saerin Aurora ever done anything more noteworthy than wear a skirt? And just who the hell is Anthony Rydel anyway? I’ve never heard of the guy. Has any of you?
Or how about Johnny Regal – the “American Eagle”.
[The spastic body banging has ceased. Spider Moneky’s shoulder slump and he simply shakes his head.]
They tried to make it seem like this guy’s “return” was something special, but please. When was the last time *anyone* paid the price of admission to see Johnny Regal? Where does his name appear in the history books as having done anything of note?
Lorenzo Richards? Core?
Ditto, boys. You two are nothing more than a footnote on the undercard from hell. I should know – we can smell our own. Welcome to loserville, population us.
[Now starts the pacing. It’s really just a simple case of Spider walking in slow circles near the corner, running his hand absent-mindedly along the ring ropes as he vents his frustration with the whole situation.]
Ooh, or Prime. Another wet noodle who couldn’t get it up long enough to put up much of a showing against
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(Looks like another file corrupted, as I pretty clearly remember finishing this one. Pity.)