Post by Ryder Blade on Mar 25, 2015 15:33:48 GMT -6
'What the hell, Dad?'
Ryder barges into my office, unannounced and without permission, and slams a palm on my desk angrily. I'm lucky I was not in the middle of something important – just some checks and balances – or we might have found ourselves in a compromising position. A word is definitely in order with Kyrill and Mike – this sort of thing should never, under any circumstances, happen. Not with Ryder. Not with anyone.
Still, I try my best to keep my irritation in check and my tone even as I scold:
'We knock before we enter Dad's office, Ryder.'
One look, however, is enough to tell me that he's nor Ryder; he's Jacobs. Again, an oversight. The boys are becoming lax. I might have to talk to my people soon, see if they have some new prospects. Preferably with a little more by way of wits than these two. In the meantime, however, we have an immediate problem to solve; and as I always say, if you want something done...do it yourself.
'Have a seat, Let me fix you a drink.'
'Drink-schmink!' he snaps. 'I want an explanation!'
Time to feign ignorance, as I take a long moment to pour him a shot of whisky (from the special bottle, of course) and slide it over to him. He gulps it down in one – good boy, Ryder – but is soon back on the offensive:
'Why the hell am I not in that contendership match, Dad? This is bullshit! I'm 2-0 at VoW, and you're gonna let them book a bunch of rookies for a ttitle shot, and not me?! What the actual fuck?! I thought you were supposed to look out for me! I'm the face of Sprintex, goddammit! How you gonna do me like this?!'
'I am looking out for you, Ryder', I interject, my tone hopefully icy enough for him to get the message – namely, that I will be damned if I let some young whippersnapper come into my office and give me any kind of lip or attitude. I didn't make it to where I am by letting people like Jordan Jacobs get their way with me. If anything, I get my way with them. This particular kid, however, seems a bit too dim – or perhaps proud – to realize that, as he once again demands:
'How?'
'By making sure you're on TV and not in the dark match, you goddamn moron!', goes the often-impatient voice in my brain – the one that causes everything that happens to happen. This time, however, I manage to stifle it, keeping my cool as I answer his question with another question:
'Have you looked at the card, Ryder?'
'Are you shitting me!? Of course I fucking looked at the card! I looked and saw five fucking rank newbs in a contendership match, and the guy who's 2-0 in the company booked in some random throwaway one-on-one match! Now if I'd known it was gonna be like this...'
'Look again.' This time, my tone is hard enough for him to get a clue, and he flips through his phone, looking for the card to VoW Nothing Else Matters. Eventually, he locates it in his email inbox, and holds it up to my nose accusingly. I feel like swatting the goddamn phone off his hand, calling Kyrill and Mike in here, and settling this little attitude problem once and for all; but I don't. Instead, I keep my calm and collected demeanor as I command:
'Look. At. The. Card. I don't need to see it. I know that card. I got you that match. I want you to look at it and tell me what you see.'
'I've been telling you! I see five newbs booked in...'
'NO, Ryder, goddammit!' It is my turn to stand up and slam a hand on my desk. A fellow can only take so much before his patience runs out. 'Look at what that goddamn match is labelled as!'
'Labelled as...?' His genuine confusion tells me this idiot didn't even pay attention to what it said on the card. All he saw was 'contendership', and when his name wasn't next to it, he decided to come and have a hissy fit in my office. What a consummate idiot. Looks like it's time for old Dad to explain to little Ryder about the birds and the bees...
'Yes, Ryder, labelled as. Or did you miss where it says it's a 'pre-show special'? I'm sure you're aware of what the term 'pre-show special' stands for?'
'A dark match. Derp. What's that got to do with...?' Suddenly, it dawns on him. I watch in barely disguised amusement as his eyes gaze up and away from the screen, widening at almost the same rate as his mouth. I can practically see every confrontational word he was preparing to spew at me get caught in his throat, to be replaced with a simple, solitary sound: '….oh.'
'That's right, Ryder. Oh. Dad gets you a spot in the supercard, and this is how you thank him? By saying you'd rather be in the pre-show than defend your Coolness Championship in the opening match of a Pay-Per-View?'
'Sorry, Dad', he mumbles into his shoes, his bravado all hut stamped out of him by my simple demonstration of a point. 'That was mondo lame-o of me.'
'Yes, Ryder. It was.' I nod, happy that the shift from Jordan Jacobs into Ryder Blade is taking effect, and right on schedule. Ryder is much easier to deal with than Jacobs – less of an ego, and a far greater willingness to listen to his old Dad. 'Now...are we going to act in a manner befitting the Undisputed Champion of Cool, or are we going to keep behaving like totally lame babies?'
'Naw, we're chill', he smiles. I nod, satisfied but still not letting it show:
'Good. Now, this match that you do have... I had Kyrill and Mike gather up some information on this Valquist guy. I have it here somewhere...'
'He looks like a total dorkasaurus', Ryder observes, as I rifle through my drawers looking for the print-out of Mike's e-mail.
'Well, he's not. Here. See for yourself.' I place the sheaf of papers in front of Ryder – having found them on the top drawer, underneath some of those oh-so-very-handy vials – and lean back on my chair, content to watch as he skims through his next opponent's profile. True to form, his first exclamation comes almost straight away, the moment he lays eyes on his opponent's age:
'Thirty-eight?! Man, this dude's old, bruh!'
'Are you calling Dad old, Ryder?' I quip, allowing a mischievous grin to broach my lips. 'And most importantly, are you calling Dad a 'bruh'?'
'Nah, sorry Dad', Ryder chuckles. 'I was talking about this Valkyrie guy. Dude's older than my lucky pair of boxers!'
'Don't think of it as 'old', Ryder', I advise. 'Think of it as 'experienced'. Which, let's face it, you're not.'
'What'chu talkin' 'bout, Dad!?' Ryder squints at me, all traces of Jordan Jacobs gone. If I didn't know better I would have thought this kid was one hell of a method actor. I know better, though – even if he himself doesn't. 'Are you saying the Blademeister, the Dude With The 'Tude, the Sprintex Superstar, the Undisputed, Undefeated Champion of Cool...can't beat Grandpa Abe Simpson here?' He smacks the stack of sheets with the back of an indignant hand, as I affect an appeasing demeanor:
'Of course that's not what I'm saying, Ryder. God, a strapping young guy like you? You're going to make mincemeat of that old geezer! I'm just saying...just in case he happens to have some tricks up his sleeve that you're not expecting...you should keep an eye out. That's all.'
'Tricks?!' Ryder now sounds incredulous. 'C'mon, Dad-a-rino! I know way more tricks than Old Man Valium! Way more bitchin' tricks, too! Ollies, no-complies, methods, grinds, tail-grabs, 360 spins...'
My mind suddenly begins to reel from all the terminology. I hold up a hand, attempting to cut off the young man across from me, but he is on a roll:
'In fact, tell you what, Dad. I bet the only tricks Valpiss has aren't up his sleeve – they're up his a--'
'Language, Ryder', I cut across, wishing I had remember to set up hidden cameras for this sort of meeting; the kid is giving me really good material that he may not remember when it comes time to shoot the video.
'Aw, c'mon, Dad! You tryin' to tell me I can't say 'ass'?! Bogus!' Ryder sounds to all the world like a petulant sixteen-year-old at the height of his 'nobody-understands-me' phase. Again, if I didn't know any better...
'I'd rather not. Sprintex has an image to uphold.'
'Image-schnimage! Get real, Dad-head! You can't be cool if you don't put a little flavor in your rap, you feel me?' God, it's uncanny. Uncanny. I'm a genius.
'Well, you're not rapping right now, Ryder, so save it for when you are. Speaking of which, it's time to get going. We've only got the location for a couple of hours this time, and we have to make the most of it.'
'Location? We're on location?' Ryder's eyes shine with excitement. He's not even at a mental age of sixteen anymore; right now, he's acting about twelve. I hope I haven't...but no, I'm sure I haven't. The boy's just excited, that's all.
'Whoa, there, slugger!', I chuckle, trying to appease him, but it doesn't work – he starts to bolt through the door, calling out for Kyrill and Mike to get the car ready because we have to go. Fortunately, I still have plenty of tricks left in my bag – and promptly employ a particularly effective one of them.
'Ryder!'
He whirls around, still on his natural high. I offset it with my calm demeanor as I once again point at the chair across from me. 'We're not in that much of a hurry. And Dad hasn't finished his drink yet. Speaking of which...' I produce the special bottle from its hideaway in the bottom drawer of my desk and hold it up invitingly. '...one for the road?'
An agonising moment elapses in which I think this final gambit is not going work, and Ryder is simply going to turn back around and go off to find my boys, and the whole rest of the day will potentially devolve into chaos. Fortunately, this stalemate lasts no more than a few seconds, after which Ryder subsides, his posture relaxing and his excitement subsiding as he walks back over to my desk and picks up the glass I poured for him. A moment later, when he raises it to his lips, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Things are going to be just fine.
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The latest video posted to the Visionaries of Wrestling website is yet another instalment of...
RADICAL
RAP
Sponsored by Sprintex ™
As it opens, our hero comes crashing in from stage right, bursting through the title card so that the letters dissolve into a puddle before disappearing from the screen completely. As they do, our titular hero turns to face the camera, stepping towards it as he begins:
'Yo, yo, yo, what's kickin' peeps? It's me, it's me, it's R-Y-to-the-B! The Blademeister! The Dude With The 'Tude! The Undisputed Champion of Cool! Ya boy Ryder Blade! Powered by Sprintex!'
A pause, as Ryder flashes a tub of Sprintex – along with his cheesiest grin - at the camera. Only after the mugging is complete does the Radical One continue:
'A week ago, the Blademeister proved once again why he is the undefeated Champion of Cool by kickin' that total loser Captain Cosmo's hiney all the way from here to the Milky Way! It was totally bitchin' awesome! But now the Dude With the 'Tude hears there's some totally lame-o hundred-year-old guy wanting to come after his belt at Nothing Else Matters, and the Blademeister thinks that is totally bogus! So Valium, I know you're totally watching this bruh...this one's for you.'
Blade clears his throat briefly, then launches into his usual illin' rhymes
Yo it's ya boy Ryder an' I'm here to say
Old Man Valium best get outta my way
Next Monday ain't gonna be your day
So step off, be chill, don't push it...okay?
You're washed-up, you're old hat, you're a has been
You're about a hundred – an' I'm just a teen!
You're outta your depth, if ya know what I mean
So get the hell outta people's TV screen!
I heard you did some stuff, some people say you rule
But at Nothing Else Matters I'll take your ass to school
'Cause young people rock and old people drool
And that is why you'll never be the Champion of Cool!
Go ask Captain Cosmo, he'll tell you about me
I kicked his weirdo ass across the galaxy!
And I can tell you now, that's how it's gonna be
At Nothing Else Matters – just you wait and see!
You think you have it easy on your comeback
But you better be ready, you better not slack
Bring all of your pills and your oxygen pack
Careful now, gramps – don't have a heart attack!
I'm signing off now, I'm wrappin' up this rhyme,
'Cause I've got better things to do with my time
I gotta go prepare, gotta be at my prime
Gotta be ready, to commit the crime
So see you next Monday, an' I hope you're hip
I hope you know you've stepped into a sinking ship
I hope you're ready to go on a real rough trip
'Cause grandpa, you ain't taking this here Championship!
The Undisputed Champion Of Cool holds his belt aloft one last time, his other hand proudly displaying the product he is a spokesperson for as he sneaks in one last plug:
'Sprintex - the only supplement that's Blademeister approved.'
And with this, the most bitchin' roster member in Visionaries of Wrestling walks off-screen, as the video wraps up.
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'CUT!'
The second Bob gives the order to wrap up, Ryder is up and running around, giving everyone high-fives.
'All right! Radical! Bitchin'!'
He takes a victory lap around the room – most of the crew returning his hand-slap – until he eventually comes face-to-face with me. He hesitates, but only for a split-second; soon, the big goofy grin returns to his face and he holds out his hand.
'Dad! Up top!'
I hold out my own hand, benevolently, and he slaps it. As he does, I compliment him:
'Atta boy, Ryder. Good job out there.'
'Thanks, Dad', he says, his face glistening with both sweat and pride. Not missing a bit, I casually remark:
'You must be thirsty after all that running around, right?'
'Huh? Oh...yeah...I guess...'
I smile. 'I figured. That's why I brought you something.' I reach out and pick up the already-prepared Sprintex milkshake on the table behind me. 'Here.'
'Bitchin'! Thanks, Dad!' I smile inwardly as he snatches the drink out of my hand and takes several large, loud, satisfied gulps.
Yup. Things are going to be just fine.
