Bow Down

[Jakob]

BOW DOWN

Smoke clouded the nicely furnished room, giving everything a dirty, gritty appearance. Despite the smoke, the wealth of the room was beyond obvious. Plush armchairs and couches of deep purple lined the walls, and thick carpet laid on the floors. Two men sat on a couch in the middle of the room, facing a 55 inch LCD screen. The TV projected the bright rich colors of the Discovery Network's Planet Earth, but neither man was watching and the sound was muted.

Instead, one of them had a massive water bong up to his mouth and was ripping the fuck out of it. He pulled out the bowl and cleared it, obviously quite a pro at this thing. He passed the bong to his friend and blew out, coughing slightly.

Jakob: "Good hit. My turn."

Jakob lit the bowl up at ripped it, matching his friend's, former Absolute Pro commentator, Paul Alba, effectiveness.

Jakob: "Oh god that's good. It's been too long."

Alba: "We smoked this morning you fucking pothead."

Jakob: "Yeah, but it's still been too long. Don't judge me, you're smoking my weed in my house out of my bong you Jewish freeloader."

Alba: "Okay, okay, calm down you Russian socialist bastard."

Jakob chuckled heartily before clearing the massive blue device.

Alba: "Speaking of being a socialist, I heard you got a job. That's so unlike you..."

Jakob passed the bong over to Alba who didn't hesitate to load up a fatty bowl.

Jakob: "Father keeps threatening to cut me off. I know they're idle threats, but I figured I might as well get that fucking prick off my back."

Alba: "And you call me a freeloading Jew. I had a VERY respectable job calling matches two summers ago."

Alba lights up.

Jakob: "Yeah and how long did that last? A grand total of four shows maybe? What's left of that 500 dollars you made, Paulie?"

Paul Alba glares at Jakob as he inhales a whole shit ton of THC.

Jakob: "Most of the stints in wrestling have been pretty weak, I'll give you that. Turns out ECWF is full of Rock N Roll Gods and Champs and Jesus's which was just too much religion for me. . . and WAW had way to much attitude for me, and Grey County was out in the middle of fucking nowhere. . . okay I get it my career has been mostly bad choices and mistakes. . . but this is my chance to turn everything around. United Wrestling is my stepping stone to a greatness of my own."

Alba passes the bong to Jakob, who proceeds to rip it for the second time.

Alba: "What makes you think this will be any different? What makes you think this will be any better than that soup collection of shotty promotions?"

"Because," Jakob says with lungs still filled with smoke, "this place is UNITED...!"

Paul Alba sighs.

() () ()

Am I destined to lose my mind? Is it in God's will that I never become a successful professional wrestler? Am I meant to never prove my father wrong?

Grey County Wrestling didn't pan out, just like the rest of them. As soon as I was making my mark and finally showing the audiences (however small) what I can do, the fucking cunt closed it down because of apparent money issues. No notice, no apologies. Just an empty building for sale. God damn it.

But alas, there is a lining on this blue cloud . . . or, wait? How does the saying go? A white lining on something? I totally forgot. What was I talking about? Something to do with drugs? Heroin or coke?

Coke? Good.

I'm off that stuff, and that's the end of that. It was a bad experience, and I'll always regret it. I'm sorry, stop being such a dick about it.

This week I make my debut on pay-per-view for the Intercontinental Championship. At least these United bookers know their shit. They've got me booked in a title match at a paid event in my first match in more than two years. These guys don't need much proof. But you know what, fuckers? I'm going to win.

I suppose you might be wondering: "Why should I listen to this little Russian cunt? I mean, he may be stunningly handsome and stuff–but he's totally Russian." Well, after being a bit offended and possibly embarrassed, I'd say you don't have to believe me. I wouldn't give a bowl of. . . uhh "candy" for your affection or trust.

I'm better off on my own– or having sex. I'm really good when I'm having sex. Especially with hot women.

But I suppose I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, hmm? Three men stand in between me and what I presume to be a fairly respectable title belt. In every corporation that's worth while, the Intercontinental Championship has always been a token of talent and good fortune to come. If you compare Intercontinental title holders and World title holders, the list is shockingly similar. The belt is a stepping stone to greatness, and I shall step that stone until all you fuckers know my name.

But after looking at my opponents, I guess I should feel humbled. I'm not the lone rookie in this match. In fact, all three of my fellow competitors have yet to have a UWA match. Hmm, curious. This company is really looking to separate the men from the boys early, and they've picked the perfect way to do that. A ladder match- ohh scratch that- a barbed wire ropes ladder match. Jesus, Blake, violent much? I thought this was a wrestling promotion not auditions for the lead role in Cannibal Holocaust.

But- I suppose you have to crown a champion, and I suppose you don't want any ordinary boy to somehow stumble upon gold. I respect that, I respect your ambition. . . and I'll make sure the most deserving man walks out of Toronto with the belt.

But my sights aren't so limited. I'm not just focused on the Intercontinental belt. I see my horizon, and it doesn't end here. . . it can't end here. My focus is with the big dogs in this company. I don't know how Roy Speede happened upon the World championship this past week, but he did. The fact is, Speede has the right to call himself the best in this company, and until I dethrone him (and embarrass) him, he won't hesitate to reference his belt time after time.

So Roy, once I beat Dragon. . . and Faith. . . and Brooks, I'll be coming for you. You may have your sights set on Ebirah or Dudley, but don't expect me not to blind side the fuck out of you. You might not even know you've lost belt, much less you've lost it to me. Keep those eyes in the back of your head alert, because I won't show any mercy when I have the chance to take your livelihood, your health, and your belt. Punk.

But that's for the future, and this week I have the opportunity to jump start my career in a way I never could've hoped for. Midsummer Massacre, Toronto, August 8th, 2011 the reign of terror begins and there's nothing any one of you can do about it.

Go ahead and bow down if you'd like to keep your head.

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