Post by jackbull on Jul 29, 2011 15:58:07 GMT -5
As the camera walks down the backstage corridor we can here someone singing. Well, attempting to. The sound is awful, like a cat being savaged by a wild fox.
“Ooooh if I don’t get some shelter…. Oohhh I’m gonna fade away!”
The voice sounds vaguely like Jack Bull, in a very off key, slightly drunken way. The camera shows us the locker room door and a hand reaches up to open it, pushing it backwards and entering. As we come into the locker room proper, we see the room is almost empty. It’s nice and clean, obviously having been given the once over after the show.
All the lockers bar one are closed. In front of said locker is an open, more than half empty crate of 24 beer cans. Running along the middle of the locker room is a low bench… standing upon which is Jack Bull, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt with a white bulls head on it.
Bull has a beer in one hand and is dancing back and forth with his lips pouted out like Mick Jagger.
“Waaarrrr children!! It’s just a shot away… It’s just a shot away! Waaarrr! Children! It’s just a shot away… it’s, just, a shot, away! Yeeeaahhh!”
Bull stops suddenly when he notices the camera, then throws his arms out in a welcome!
“WAAZZUUUUUUUUP!!”
Bull tries to carefully step down off the bench but stumbles, falling sideways and slamming violently against the lockers.
“Ahh, fuck! It’s cool though, it’s cool. Waazzuuuup! Come, come,”
Bull beckons the camera to come further into the locker room. As we approach the camera pans left, showing the entrance of the showers. Though we can’t see inside, we can hear the sound of water still running. The camera presses on though and Bull pats the bench, beckoning the cameraman to sit down in front of his open locker. As the staff duly obliges, Bull steps back to set himself up in front of the locker.
“Hold on a second. Let me get set,”
Bull takes a long swig from his beer, finishing the last of the can before throwing it away. He then steps back and slides into the locker.
“Just gonna take a seat in here, in here, in here… woah fuck!”
Whatever it was that Bull tried to sit on had just broken, sending him sliding down to the floor of the locker with a crash, prompting him to begin cackling with laughter.
“Hahaha Fuck! Where’s my beers? I need beers…”
Bull tries to reach out and grab a beer from the open crate, but he appears firmly wedged into the locker. Thinking on his butt, Bull reaches out with his leg and starts using his heel to try and hook one of the beers and knock it over.
After several failed attempts, he finally manages to land his heel on the top of one of the cans, pulling back and knocking it down. With the skill of an experienced drunk, he uses his heel to slowly roll the can back towards himself, finally bringing it within arms reach.
Bull stretches out and grabs the beer before sinking back into the locker. His inebriated fingers fumble at the ring pull, forcing him to hold the can right up to his face, just a few inches from it. He mumbles something to himself as he sticks his tongue out and finally manages to hook a finger on the ring pull. With a triumphant laugh he opens the can, sending a jet of fizzed up and frothing beer flying out of the can and into his face.
Having spat out some of the beer and wiped his eyes so he can see again, Bull now opens his arms and smiles at the camera.
“Waazzzzuuuuup!!
Yo-yo. It’s been an up and down week,”
Bull slaps himself on the knee and closes his eyes in laughter. At first his mouth is open but there is no sound, then suddenly it comes squeaking out. Having eventually finished congratulating himself on his joke, he finally settles down, wiping some spittle and beer from his mouth before looking up at the camera.
“So how you guys doin’ huh? Everyone doin’ good? Everyone ok huh? That is… fucking awesome dudes. Just awesome. No I’m glad. Honestly I’m glad. I’m very happy for everyone. I’m glad that everyone is feeling fucking awesome!
You know I’m drunk right? I know, I know, I hide it well. But yeah, I’m drunk. In fact dudes, I am fucked! Shit I don’t think I’ve been this drunk since the last time I went out with CJ,”
Bull begins laughing again as he tilts his head back. In the background somewhere we hear a moaning noise.
“Don’t worry about that. That’s nothing. That’ll all be ok, trust me. But seriously though, dudes, seriously, I’m glad that everyone is awesome. I’m glad that everyone is having a such a great time. Shit I wonder what happened to CJ? Where did that dude go? I don’t even hear from him anymore,”
Jack sighs a little, staring at the floor for a minute.
“I miss that dude. But he went away. He went away huh. But it’s cool, because everyone is awesome right? I’m awesome, you guys watching this are awesome. Everyone in the locker room is awesome. All the backstage dudes are awesome; you know, Curt, Randy, Lou, Andy, John etc. All those dudes who we owe a lot too. Everyone is awesome, except maybe Mark Rivera. But other than that, everyone is awesome,”
“But my boy CJ? Guess he just didn’t fit in. Didn’t fit the mould I guess. Shit. People come, people go. People make their choices I guess. But it doesn’t matter, because everything is awesome. I’m awesome, you guys are awesome. Everything is awesome,”
Bull stops to take a swig of his beer.
“Everything is awesome, right? Right? Everything is awesome right? Everybody is feeling awesome? Except me maybe. Except me. I’m just a drunk, and an asshole,”
Bull takes another sip of beer.
“Right? Yeah I said it. I said it. I’m an asshole. I get it. Everyone is awesome but not me right? Because I’m an asshole. Because everyone thinks I’m an asshole right? Well, frankly… fuck you!”
Bull flips the bird with his non-beer holding hand.
“Yeah fuck you. Fuck ‘em. Fuck everybody. Fuck everything,”
Bull stops for another sip of beer.
“Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em. You don’t like me? Tough shit! Huh pal. What are you gonna do huh? You gonna hit up some message board huh? Right some nasty shit about me? You gonna post shit on your facebook wall? Tell people how much you hate me? Good. Fuck you,”
Bull takes another sip.
“What? What? The fuck are you staring at? Not you dick, put your hand down and just hold the camera steady. I mean them. The people out there watching. What everyone thinks Jack Bull is all Mr. Nicey, nicey? Ohhhh I get it. See I didn’t realise you couldn’t be a good guy, a good guy in here you know…”
Bull taps his heart.
“… without like… picking flowers and shit. Is that what people want? People want me to pick flowers, and hug some fucking trees and shit? To prove I’m a nice guy right? Fuck that shit!”
Bull squints, staring just off to camera.
“What? Swea? Sweating? Sweating? What the fuck are you talking about? What the fuck does that mean?”
Bull makes a swiping motion at his neck.
“No sweating? What am I sweating round my neck or something? No sweating? Ohhh, no swearing. What’s that? What does that thing with your hand mean? Is that like… turn it down? Turn it down? Tone it down! You want me to tone down the swearing!! Ah right, I get it,”
Bull takes another swig of beer.
“Fuck you dude. I’ll swear if I want. You don’t wanna air it then fine, but I’m swearing. Now where was I? You made me lose my place!”
Bull stops to take another sip while he thinks about what he was saying.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah. I got it. And three, two, one, action. So yeah, you want me to be a nice guy right? You want me to stop being an asshole right? HA! Who do you think I am huh? Do I ask you to change? No, no I don’t. So shut the hell up!”
“So why isn’t Jack Bull awesome huh? Everyone else is awesome, so why isn’t Jack Bull awesome? I mean we got beer. We got, uh…”
Bull reaches down underneath him into the locker and pulls something out.
“We got, uh, Jock straps! Oh fuck dude that is nasty. Get that shit away from me! Oh wait that’s mine. Or is it? Ah fuck it, who cares. We got beer, we got jock straps, we got a passed out dude trying to cool off in the shower, and we got a cameraman. Put that all together and what do you get? That’s right, a sausage-fest!”
“But that’s not why Jack Bull isn’t awesome. That’s not what’s annoying Jack Bull. What’s annoying Jack Bull, and what is making his night, uh, non-awesome, is stuff. Stuff. Stuff with Titan. And stuff with Mark Rivera,”
Bull takes another sip of his beer.
“See, shit, in 1999. 19-fucking-99, around like October, Novembery type time, I walked out on to a stage. I don’t remember what stage it was. I don’t even remember where it was. But I walked out on to some stage, and then I walked down to some ring and I wrestled a match against some fucking nobody who you don’t ever hear about anymore,”
“And that was the inauspic, inauscop, inauspicad, inauspicious! That was the inauspicious debut of the man they now call Jack Bull over here in the United States of America! USA! USA! USA! USA!”
Bull stops to take a swig.
“Shit I don’t even know why I’m singing that. I’m not even from this country. But fuck it. That was my debut here in the US of A. And now, twelve years later here I am. Here I am in, sitting inside a locker with a beer in my hand talking to you. So what’s this got to do with Titan? Or Mark Rivera? Simple. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Did I spell that right? Yeah. Cool,”
Bull shakes his beer a little and then drains what’s left of the can, beer spilling over the corners of his mouth. He finishes with a serious burp before chucking the can off screen. We hear a groan coming from the direction of the showers.
“Shut up dude. It’s not the end of the world. Beer,”
Bull reaches out at first, but then immediately remembers his predicament, reverting to the foot method of capturing beer. After two or three tries he gives up.
“You know what, fuck that. Dude, get up and grab me a beer,”
The cameraman gets up and grabs a beer, chucking it to Bull, before dragging the whole case over to him.
“That’s the spirit. Thank you dude. Respect for that,”
The cameraman sits down and gets set again as Bull cracks open his beer, a little more carefully this time.
“Alright, we ready? And three, two, one, action. So yeah, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by a lack of beer, all I want is respect. R-E-S, you get the picture. I want respect for what I’ve done. For what I’ve achieved. See I see you there Titan, and I think to myself how the fuck? How the fuck are you our world champion?”
“I mean don’t get me wrong, I look around the locker room and what I see is a bunch of people who would take 15 minutes to open a fucking door if they didn’t have personal assistants to do it for them. I see human beings so fucking laughably inept at life that this clown show we call wrestling is the only place that they can realistically seek gainful employment,”
“I know. I know this is what we’re dealing with here. But I wanna ask you a question Titan. I wanna ask you one simple thing; where did you get that title? Huh? Where did you get that belt? Who did you take it from? I know the answer. You know the answer. Everybody knows the fucking answer,”
“You got it from The Scorpion King right. The Scorpion King. That fucking greasy haired, mentally handicapped Oblivion wannabe. In fact, actually, while I’m here I just wanna give a nod to The Scorpion. Any one at home who gets that gets a free beer!”
Bull holds up his can, then takes a long swig.
“And there is my problem dude. It’s the same problem that I have with you and that piece of crap Mark Rivera. ‘Cos, and here’s the funny thing Tit, I can call you Tit can’t I? Here’s the thing Tit, I already pinned that God bothering hippy. Not once Tit. Twice. Shit if you include our Pure title encounters, that’s four times now!”
“But you see, Mark Rivera doesn’t want someone like me as the face of his shitty ass Asylum. So guess what? I pin him at Retribution and where’s the ref? Missing in action dude. Can you believe that shit? So instead of a one, two and a three, all I get is a long pause,”
“Shit I could have sat down in that ring and fried a damn egg in the amount of time it took a replacement ref to get there, all the while with my boot laid over the Scorpions chest, racking up the three counts like a pinball stuck between two bumpers. But instead what did I get? I got precisely diddly shit, that’s what I got!”
Bull pauses for a sip break.
“So then I get another shot and I’m thinking to myself, now we’re talking. I’m thinking this is it, this is my time! This is the chance to set right the wrongs of the past. But no. That butt humping, suit wearing jack off Mark Rivera decides to slip himself into the limelight as the guest ref and surprise, sur-fucking-prise!”
“Once again Jack Bull is there, once again with The Scorpion laying prone on the canvas while I make the cover. What else did you expect? But what’s this? No count! Or a count so fucking slow that a sloth would think it was in slow motion. And that’s how the story ends right? I’m supposed to just nod and say ‘yeah, that was my crack at the whip done’? Fuck that man!”
“You want me to sit here and clap my hands and tell you, ‘Titan, you the man. Titan, you the champ!’ then you know what, I’ll sit here and I’ll clap my hands for a second,”
Bull puts his beer down securely, then claps a slow, mocking clap.
“You the man Titan!”
Bull gives it a few more claps then stops and picks up his beer to take another long swig.
“You the man Tit. You the fucking man! And by man of course, I mean you’re the asshole with the belt, and I’m the asshole without one. But everybody knows son. Everyone in that audience knows. Everyone at home knows. Everyone in this locker room knows. Every time we show up at an arena. Every time we show up at a fan event. Every time we go on TV. Everyone knows who the true champion is now. And everyone knows who the paper champion is,”
Bull takes another sip break.
“And you’ll never escape that, will you? You’ll never be able to get away from the facts. It happened right there on TV, there’s video evidence. How many people do you think still have that match on their Ti-Vo huh? How many people took pictures? How many eye witnesses were there in that building, sending text messages to their friends and posting on Twitter about that bullshit?”
“And how do you think the fans feel about it huh? Mark Rivera just robbed them. They paid good money to watch a match where four guys go at it for the world title, and they just got robbed. They were expecting a fair competition if nothing else. Instead they got that piece of shit ending? Now how do you think our fans feel about that Tit?”
Bull stops for a burp, followed promptly by another sip.
“Of course they’ll let you know dude. Next time you head out for a match, you’ll hear something that’s gonna scare the shit out of you! Yeah, even a big, dumb bastard like you. It’s gonna scare the shit out of you and make you nervous as hell. Because you’re gonna walk out there into that arena and what you’re gonna hear, you steroid pumped piece of shit, is the sound of twenty thousand people whispering to each other,”
“Oh they’re gonna be whispering all right. Each and every person in that building is gonna lean towards the person next to them and quietly whisper ‘here comes the paper champ’. You’re gonna have twenty thousand people whispering to each other, telling each other that you’re a poser, that you got the belt over your shoulder but all your respect is still back in that original arena where we faced off,”
“And the scary thing, at least from your perspective, is that you know they’re all right. You know that those people aren’t just telling tales out of school. You know, I know, and they know, that every time you look at me you’ll be looking at your superior. You’ll be looking at the true champion!”
“Now how does that make you feel huh? Angry perhaps? Well shit, there’s a surprise! You’re always angry. That’s probably the only emotion a pent up, roided up dickhead like you can express. Every week you stick your face in front of a camera or you come down to the ring and get on the mike, and sure enough, yep, thought so, we got an angry Tit on our hands,”
Bull indulges in another sip break.
“You stand there and you thump your chest and you tell people ‘I’m gonna rip that guys dick off next week’ and then you go out there and you beat up some nobody, but ultimately you don’t rip the dick off shit! You talk the talk real well, you tell people about all the crazy, angry shit you’re gonna do to them. But you don’t walk the walk. Shit I’ve seen people in wheelchairs who can walk the walk better than you,”
“And you know what, that used to bug the shit out of me. It used to eat me up inside that I went into Retribution and pinned the champ, clean, right there in the middle of the ring, but still wasn’t the number one guy. And then it used to eat me up inside that I went into that show, into that Sunday Night Vengeance, and pinned The Scorpion, pinned Roy Viper, and yet still came out empty handed. It was fucking gnawing right at my stomach, like stomach cramps after a bad case of food poisoning,”
“That was until tonight. Until I started getting drunk after the show. Huh buddy, getting drunk tonight!! Then, then Titty boy, then I saw something that changed everything. Literally everything. See I saw a Roy Viper interview. Roy the fucking greasy haired, unwashed, stinking, ‘alternative lifestyle‘, gypsy, thieving, probably drug addled, Paddy fucking the Cobra, Viper. And you know what he said Titty? Do ya?”
Bull lifted his beer can to his lips and had a refreshing sip.
“He said that with one chair shot, one fucking chair shot, he had left a longer lasting mark, more of a legacy on this company than most champions and legends ever do. And I had one of those moments ‘champ‘. I had one of those moments that only the truthful kiss of alcohol can shed light on,”
“I suddenly realised that what I just heard that gypsy fucking scumbag say, was in fact the most profound thing that I’ve ever heard come out of the mouth of any wrestler since I first got interested in this business. Now how about that huh? Not bad for a stinking, thieving Irishman!”
“See right then, right at that moment I realised something champ. I realised that not only is Roy Viper ten times fucking smarter than you’ll ever be, which frankly isn’t an achievement I’d want to put on my resume, considering that there are fucking paperweights with more personality and intelligence than you. I realised champ, not only is Roy Viper smarter than you’ll ever be, but I also realised that you can take that belt of yours, you can take your title, and you can shove it up your habitually and regularly stretched rectum!”
“Because at the end of the day, all you got right there is a piece of leather with a few gold plates on it. That’s it! That’s fucking it Titty boy. It’s just an inanimate object, albeit one that has more charm and charisma than you could ever dream of. It’s a strap for you to use to spank your bitch manager with. And that’s all it is. Now how about that for profound statements huh? You got a few pounds of leather and metal, but I got what really matters. I got the respect that I craved so highly,”
“Ever since I was kid I’ve wanted to be above everyone else. Not just to be liked or any of that shit. But to be above everyone. I’ve always wanted to find myself in a position where I can look down on all the people who I went to school with, all those people who used to give me shit, so that I could piss on every single one of them. Well here I am!”
“And I think back now to all the useless, good for nothing dumbasses that I used to work with and I smile. I think of all those people who thought they were better than me because they started working at some place like a year before I did. Well now look where we are. While those fucking low life scumbag pieces of arrogant shit are sweeping the floor at fucking McDonalds, I’m here, living the dream, getting shit faced with my buddy and celebrating being one of the best wrestlers, one of the toughest men, in the entire world,”
“Not only that though. I walk out there into that arena, or any other fucking arena, and I know that you’ll be watching me on a monitor somewhere, watching a real champion at work. And until you otherwise pin me or make me tap out in a fully sanctioned match, then you’re just gonna have to live with that. Now how does that make you feel bitch?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’m calling you for what you are. You’re a little bitch compared to me, just like Luck is a little bitch. Him and Dave were getting trashed tonight, absolutely fucking destroyed, when out come a set of brass knuckles and a bent fucking ref. See he’s just like you man. Without Rivera watching over you, setting shit up for you, you’re both a pair of little bitches in comparison,”
Jack stopped for a swig.
“You don’t have the heart, the guts, the determination, or the toughness to stand toe to toe with Jack Bull. You hearing this bitch? Is your fucking roid compatible hearing aid switched on? Maybe you could get your manager to record this and then translate it into crayon for you? How about that?”
“Maybe you could call fucking Sesame Street and see if they’ll do a one off episode just for you, translating what I’m saying into some numbers and word games for you? I can just see the director now looking at the word ‘fuck’ and then having a think about how he’s gonna translate that, before turning to his assistant and saying ‘right guys I‘ve got an idea. Go fetch Burt and Ernie…’”
“Man I’d love to be there, to see your face when you first saw that image on TV. Your childhood crush getting fucked in the ass by another puppet. Then Burt and Ernie sitting there afterwards sharing a cigarette and an awkward conversation. With Burt getting all angry and disgusted about what he’s done while Ernie’s crying ‘why won’t you just hold me Burt!’ And there you’ll be, sitting there in a pool of your own tears wishing you could wind back the clock and un-watch that moment,”
Bull took another swig break and ended up draining what was left of the can before crushing it and tossing it. He paused now though, not ready to take up another beer just yet.
“The fact that I was getting at champ, before we got diverted by all that talk of Sesame Street Sodomy, was that you just can’t handle someone like me. And yeah, I’m sure Rivera will work something out to keep you clean, keep you away from me. I don’t think he wants anyone rocking the boat after all, what with your big match coming up against Sabora,”
“Shit this a dream come true for Rivera! Here comes Sabs back from the fucking ether or wherever the hell it was he disappeared to, and now he gets a ready made main event match for Scars and Stripes dropped in his fucking lap. You defending the belt against the man you took it from huh? But that still doesn’t change a thing. Whether you walk out of that event with the title, or whether Sabs walks out of that event with the title, fact is everyone still knows who the real deal is,”
“Which, surprisingly enough, gives me comfort. It replaces that gut wrenching feeling inside, and replaces it with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Knowing that here amongst my peers, trying to find someone with a clean win over Jack Bull is like trying to find an honest man in Congress,”
“And the knowledge, the knowledge that I’m still fucking number one baby! No matter what you, or Sabs, or Luck with his little piece of paper says, Jack Bull is still the man to beat, still the true if not undisputed champion of the world. Shit, if I was a smoker you know that’s what I’d be doing right now? I’d be puffing away on a big, fat, true Cuban cigar and you’d have no choice but to look at my smug face and know, know that I am better than you can ever dream about,”
“Now how does that feel? How does that catch you champ? How does it feel to know that you’re nothing but an impostor, an imitator, a shadow of a champion? How does that feel to know that without Mark Rivera to hold your hand for you, you’re nothing but my bitch? How does that feel to know that you’ve got a locker room full of guys and gals back here who are laughing at you behind your back? How does it feel to know that there will be literally millions of people watching Scars and Stripes, giggling at you and Sabora going at in the most pointless world title match ever seen? Huh?”
“I wonder what that’s like? See I wouldn’t know, because I’ll be busy in the battle royal match, with all eyes on me as I go about kicking ass and taking names. I’ll be busy fighting off guys left, right and center who all want a piece of the true champion. They’ll all be picking up scars as they try and earn their stripes, if you see what I mean? The sad thing is, it’ll be a waste of time,”
“Number one because that’s my match for the taking. That’s my win in the bag right there, I just haven’t collected it yet. And number two, because in the highly unlikely event, in fact no. In the extremely, insanely unlikely event that someone out there manages to put yours truly over the top rope, then what? They go on and get a shot, but what at? That belt that you’ve got around your waist? Please!”
“You tell me now champ, who actually wants a shot at that worthless piece of shit? Until that things ends up around the waist of its proper owner, then it’s nothing more than a symbol of Rivera’s corruption. It’s just an object that you happen to be carrying around at the time, keeping it warm for me until the day I come to collect it,”
“And mark my words champ, I’m coming to collect. You can hide behind your manager for as long as you want. You can hide behind Mark Rivera for as long as you want. But those guys are not invulnerable. They can and will be broken down and when they do champ, it’ll just be me and you left. One on one. For my title. And that’s a fact, Asshole!”
“Now excuse me, I have to puke,”
Bull grabs the sides of the locker and hauls himself up, ducking to one side and unleashing an almighty jet of vomit. Satisfied that there is no follow up, he grabs a beer can, pops it open and washes out his mouth, spitting the ensuing vomit/beer mixture onto the floor. Then we hear another groan coming from the showers.
“Oh yeah, shit. Go check him out, see if he’s ok,”
The cameraman gets up and climbs over the bench, heading for the showers. As he turns the corner he finds a fully clothed Xplode, his attire completely soaked through, crawling on the floor.
“Tonight - I think I drank - all the fucking Vodka in the entire world. Every last drop. And now… I feel like shit. Excuse me for a second,”
Xplode hauls himself up on his arms and lets rip a very light coloured stream of vomit, that is probably about 50% pure vodka. His guts emptied, he lowers himself right back to the floor, his face laying sideways on the cool caress of the tiles, some of his long hair dipping into the puke.
“I’m going to sleep now,”
“Ooooh if I don’t get some shelter…. Oohhh I’m gonna fade away!”
The voice sounds vaguely like Jack Bull, in a very off key, slightly drunken way. The camera shows us the locker room door and a hand reaches up to open it, pushing it backwards and entering. As we come into the locker room proper, we see the room is almost empty. It’s nice and clean, obviously having been given the once over after the show.
All the lockers bar one are closed. In front of said locker is an open, more than half empty crate of 24 beer cans. Running along the middle of the locker room is a low bench… standing upon which is Jack Bull, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt with a white bulls head on it.
Bull has a beer in one hand and is dancing back and forth with his lips pouted out like Mick Jagger.
“Waaarrrr children!! It’s just a shot away… It’s just a shot away! Waaarrr! Children! It’s just a shot away… it’s, just, a shot, away! Yeeeaahhh!”
Bull stops suddenly when he notices the camera, then throws his arms out in a welcome!
“WAAZZUUUUUUUUP!!”
Bull tries to carefully step down off the bench but stumbles, falling sideways and slamming violently against the lockers.
“Ahh, fuck! It’s cool though, it’s cool. Waazzuuuup! Come, come,”
Bull beckons the camera to come further into the locker room. As we approach the camera pans left, showing the entrance of the showers. Though we can’t see inside, we can hear the sound of water still running. The camera presses on though and Bull pats the bench, beckoning the cameraman to sit down in front of his open locker. As the staff duly obliges, Bull steps back to set himself up in front of the locker.
“Hold on a second. Let me get set,”
Bull takes a long swig from his beer, finishing the last of the can before throwing it away. He then steps back and slides into the locker.
“Just gonna take a seat in here, in here, in here… woah fuck!”
Whatever it was that Bull tried to sit on had just broken, sending him sliding down to the floor of the locker with a crash, prompting him to begin cackling with laughter.
“Hahaha Fuck! Where’s my beers? I need beers…”
Bull tries to reach out and grab a beer from the open crate, but he appears firmly wedged into the locker. Thinking on his butt, Bull reaches out with his leg and starts using his heel to try and hook one of the beers and knock it over.
After several failed attempts, he finally manages to land his heel on the top of one of the cans, pulling back and knocking it down. With the skill of an experienced drunk, he uses his heel to slowly roll the can back towards himself, finally bringing it within arms reach.
Bull stretches out and grabs the beer before sinking back into the locker. His inebriated fingers fumble at the ring pull, forcing him to hold the can right up to his face, just a few inches from it. He mumbles something to himself as he sticks his tongue out and finally manages to hook a finger on the ring pull. With a triumphant laugh he opens the can, sending a jet of fizzed up and frothing beer flying out of the can and into his face.
Having spat out some of the beer and wiped his eyes so he can see again, Bull now opens his arms and smiles at the camera.
“Waazzzzuuuuup!!
Yo-yo. It’s been an up and down week,”
Bull slaps himself on the knee and closes his eyes in laughter. At first his mouth is open but there is no sound, then suddenly it comes squeaking out. Having eventually finished congratulating himself on his joke, he finally settles down, wiping some spittle and beer from his mouth before looking up at the camera.
“So how you guys doin’ huh? Everyone doin’ good? Everyone ok huh? That is… fucking awesome dudes. Just awesome. No I’m glad. Honestly I’m glad. I’m very happy for everyone. I’m glad that everyone is feeling fucking awesome!
You know I’m drunk right? I know, I know, I hide it well. But yeah, I’m drunk. In fact dudes, I am fucked! Shit I don’t think I’ve been this drunk since the last time I went out with CJ,”
Bull begins laughing again as he tilts his head back. In the background somewhere we hear a moaning noise.
“Don’t worry about that. That’s nothing. That’ll all be ok, trust me. But seriously though, dudes, seriously, I’m glad that everyone is awesome. I’m glad that everyone is having a such a great time. Shit I wonder what happened to CJ? Where did that dude go? I don’t even hear from him anymore,”
Jack sighs a little, staring at the floor for a minute.
“I miss that dude. But he went away. He went away huh. But it’s cool, because everyone is awesome right? I’m awesome, you guys watching this are awesome. Everyone in the locker room is awesome. All the backstage dudes are awesome; you know, Curt, Randy, Lou, Andy, John etc. All those dudes who we owe a lot too. Everyone is awesome, except maybe Mark Rivera. But other than that, everyone is awesome,”
“But my boy CJ? Guess he just didn’t fit in. Didn’t fit the mould I guess. Shit. People come, people go. People make their choices I guess. But it doesn’t matter, because everything is awesome. I’m awesome, you guys are awesome. Everything is awesome,”
Bull stops to take a swig of his beer.
“Everything is awesome, right? Right? Everything is awesome right? Everybody is feeling awesome? Except me maybe. Except me. I’m just a drunk, and an asshole,”
Bull takes another sip of beer.
“Right? Yeah I said it. I said it. I’m an asshole. I get it. Everyone is awesome but not me right? Because I’m an asshole. Because everyone thinks I’m an asshole right? Well, frankly… fuck you!”
Bull flips the bird with his non-beer holding hand.
“Yeah fuck you. Fuck ‘em. Fuck everybody. Fuck everything,”
Bull stops for another sip of beer.
“Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em. You don’t like me? Tough shit! Huh pal. What are you gonna do huh? You gonna hit up some message board huh? Right some nasty shit about me? You gonna post shit on your facebook wall? Tell people how much you hate me? Good. Fuck you,”
Bull takes another sip.
“What? What? The fuck are you staring at? Not you dick, put your hand down and just hold the camera steady. I mean them. The people out there watching. What everyone thinks Jack Bull is all Mr. Nicey, nicey? Ohhhh I get it. See I didn’t realise you couldn’t be a good guy, a good guy in here you know…”
Bull taps his heart.
“… without like… picking flowers and shit. Is that what people want? People want me to pick flowers, and hug some fucking trees and shit? To prove I’m a nice guy right? Fuck that shit!”
Bull squints, staring just off to camera.
“What? Swea? Sweating? Sweating? What the fuck are you talking about? What the fuck does that mean?”
Bull makes a swiping motion at his neck.
“No sweating? What am I sweating round my neck or something? No sweating? Ohhh, no swearing. What’s that? What does that thing with your hand mean? Is that like… turn it down? Turn it down? Tone it down! You want me to tone down the swearing!! Ah right, I get it,”
Bull takes another swig of beer.
“Fuck you dude. I’ll swear if I want. You don’t wanna air it then fine, but I’m swearing. Now where was I? You made me lose my place!”
Bull stops to take another sip while he thinks about what he was saying.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah. I got it. And three, two, one, action. So yeah, you want me to be a nice guy right? You want me to stop being an asshole right? HA! Who do you think I am huh? Do I ask you to change? No, no I don’t. So shut the hell up!”
“So why isn’t Jack Bull awesome huh? Everyone else is awesome, so why isn’t Jack Bull awesome? I mean we got beer. We got, uh…”
Bull reaches down underneath him into the locker and pulls something out.
“We got, uh, Jock straps! Oh fuck dude that is nasty. Get that shit away from me! Oh wait that’s mine. Or is it? Ah fuck it, who cares. We got beer, we got jock straps, we got a passed out dude trying to cool off in the shower, and we got a cameraman. Put that all together and what do you get? That’s right, a sausage-fest!”
“But that’s not why Jack Bull isn’t awesome. That’s not what’s annoying Jack Bull. What’s annoying Jack Bull, and what is making his night, uh, non-awesome, is stuff. Stuff. Stuff with Titan. And stuff with Mark Rivera,”
Bull takes another sip of his beer.
“See, shit, in 1999. 19-fucking-99, around like October, Novembery type time, I walked out on to a stage. I don’t remember what stage it was. I don’t even remember where it was. But I walked out on to some stage, and then I walked down to some ring and I wrestled a match against some fucking nobody who you don’t ever hear about anymore,”
“And that was the inauspic, inauscop, inauspicad, inauspicious! That was the inauspicious debut of the man they now call Jack Bull over here in the United States of America! USA! USA! USA! USA!”
Bull stops to take a swig.
“Shit I don’t even know why I’m singing that. I’m not even from this country. But fuck it. That was my debut here in the US of A. And now, twelve years later here I am. Here I am in, sitting inside a locker with a beer in my hand talking to you. So what’s this got to do with Titan? Or Mark Rivera? Simple. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Did I spell that right? Yeah. Cool,”
Bull shakes his beer a little and then drains what’s left of the can, beer spilling over the corners of his mouth. He finishes with a serious burp before chucking the can off screen. We hear a groan coming from the direction of the showers.
“Shut up dude. It’s not the end of the world. Beer,”
Bull reaches out at first, but then immediately remembers his predicament, reverting to the foot method of capturing beer. After two or three tries he gives up.
“You know what, fuck that. Dude, get up and grab me a beer,”
The cameraman gets up and grabs a beer, chucking it to Bull, before dragging the whole case over to him.
“That’s the spirit. Thank you dude. Respect for that,”
The cameraman sits down and gets set again as Bull cracks open his beer, a little more carefully this time.
“Alright, we ready? And three, two, one, action. So yeah, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by a lack of beer, all I want is respect. R-E-S, you get the picture. I want respect for what I’ve done. For what I’ve achieved. See I see you there Titan, and I think to myself how the fuck? How the fuck are you our world champion?”
“I mean don’t get me wrong, I look around the locker room and what I see is a bunch of people who would take 15 minutes to open a fucking door if they didn’t have personal assistants to do it for them. I see human beings so fucking laughably inept at life that this clown show we call wrestling is the only place that they can realistically seek gainful employment,”
“I know. I know this is what we’re dealing with here. But I wanna ask you a question Titan. I wanna ask you one simple thing; where did you get that title? Huh? Where did you get that belt? Who did you take it from? I know the answer. You know the answer. Everybody knows the fucking answer,”
“You got it from The Scorpion King right. The Scorpion King. That fucking greasy haired, mentally handicapped Oblivion wannabe. In fact, actually, while I’m here I just wanna give a nod to The Scorpion. Any one at home who gets that gets a free beer!”
Bull holds up his can, then takes a long swig.
“And there is my problem dude. It’s the same problem that I have with you and that piece of crap Mark Rivera. ‘Cos, and here’s the funny thing Tit, I can call you Tit can’t I? Here’s the thing Tit, I already pinned that God bothering hippy. Not once Tit. Twice. Shit if you include our Pure title encounters, that’s four times now!”
“But you see, Mark Rivera doesn’t want someone like me as the face of his shitty ass Asylum. So guess what? I pin him at Retribution and where’s the ref? Missing in action dude. Can you believe that shit? So instead of a one, two and a three, all I get is a long pause,”
“Shit I could have sat down in that ring and fried a damn egg in the amount of time it took a replacement ref to get there, all the while with my boot laid over the Scorpions chest, racking up the three counts like a pinball stuck between two bumpers. But instead what did I get? I got precisely diddly shit, that’s what I got!”
Bull pauses for a sip break.
“So then I get another shot and I’m thinking to myself, now we’re talking. I’m thinking this is it, this is my time! This is the chance to set right the wrongs of the past. But no. That butt humping, suit wearing jack off Mark Rivera decides to slip himself into the limelight as the guest ref and surprise, sur-fucking-prise!”
“Once again Jack Bull is there, once again with The Scorpion laying prone on the canvas while I make the cover. What else did you expect? But what’s this? No count! Or a count so fucking slow that a sloth would think it was in slow motion. And that’s how the story ends right? I’m supposed to just nod and say ‘yeah, that was my crack at the whip done’? Fuck that man!”
“You want me to sit here and clap my hands and tell you, ‘Titan, you the man. Titan, you the champ!’ then you know what, I’ll sit here and I’ll clap my hands for a second,”
Bull puts his beer down securely, then claps a slow, mocking clap.
“You the man Titan!”
Bull gives it a few more claps then stops and picks up his beer to take another long swig.
“You the man Tit. You the fucking man! And by man of course, I mean you’re the asshole with the belt, and I’m the asshole without one. But everybody knows son. Everyone in that audience knows. Everyone at home knows. Everyone in this locker room knows. Every time we show up at an arena. Every time we show up at a fan event. Every time we go on TV. Everyone knows who the true champion is now. And everyone knows who the paper champion is,”
Bull takes another sip break.
“And you’ll never escape that, will you? You’ll never be able to get away from the facts. It happened right there on TV, there’s video evidence. How many people do you think still have that match on their Ti-Vo huh? How many people took pictures? How many eye witnesses were there in that building, sending text messages to their friends and posting on Twitter about that bullshit?”
“And how do you think the fans feel about it huh? Mark Rivera just robbed them. They paid good money to watch a match where four guys go at it for the world title, and they just got robbed. They were expecting a fair competition if nothing else. Instead they got that piece of shit ending? Now how do you think our fans feel about that Tit?”
Bull stops for a burp, followed promptly by another sip.
“Of course they’ll let you know dude. Next time you head out for a match, you’ll hear something that’s gonna scare the shit out of you! Yeah, even a big, dumb bastard like you. It’s gonna scare the shit out of you and make you nervous as hell. Because you’re gonna walk out there into that arena and what you’re gonna hear, you steroid pumped piece of shit, is the sound of twenty thousand people whispering to each other,”
“Oh they’re gonna be whispering all right. Each and every person in that building is gonna lean towards the person next to them and quietly whisper ‘here comes the paper champ’. You’re gonna have twenty thousand people whispering to each other, telling each other that you’re a poser, that you got the belt over your shoulder but all your respect is still back in that original arena where we faced off,”
“And the scary thing, at least from your perspective, is that you know they’re all right. You know that those people aren’t just telling tales out of school. You know, I know, and they know, that every time you look at me you’ll be looking at your superior. You’ll be looking at the true champion!”
“Now how does that make you feel huh? Angry perhaps? Well shit, there’s a surprise! You’re always angry. That’s probably the only emotion a pent up, roided up dickhead like you can express. Every week you stick your face in front of a camera or you come down to the ring and get on the mike, and sure enough, yep, thought so, we got an angry Tit on our hands,”
Bull indulges in another sip break.
“You stand there and you thump your chest and you tell people ‘I’m gonna rip that guys dick off next week’ and then you go out there and you beat up some nobody, but ultimately you don’t rip the dick off shit! You talk the talk real well, you tell people about all the crazy, angry shit you’re gonna do to them. But you don’t walk the walk. Shit I’ve seen people in wheelchairs who can walk the walk better than you,”
“And you know what, that used to bug the shit out of me. It used to eat me up inside that I went into Retribution and pinned the champ, clean, right there in the middle of the ring, but still wasn’t the number one guy. And then it used to eat me up inside that I went into that show, into that Sunday Night Vengeance, and pinned The Scorpion, pinned Roy Viper, and yet still came out empty handed. It was fucking gnawing right at my stomach, like stomach cramps after a bad case of food poisoning,”
“That was until tonight. Until I started getting drunk after the show. Huh buddy, getting drunk tonight!! Then, then Titty boy, then I saw something that changed everything. Literally everything. See I saw a Roy Viper interview. Roy the fucking greasy haired, unwashed, stinking, ‘alternative lifestyle‘, gypsy, thieving, probably drug addled, Paddy fucking the Cobra, Viper. And you know what he said Titty? Do ya?”
Bull lifted his beer can to his lips and had a refreshing sip.
“He said that with one chair shot, one fucking chair shot, he had left a longer lasting mark, more of a legacy on this company than most champions and legends ever do. And I had one of those moments ‘champ‘. I had one of those moments that only the truthful kiss of alcohol can shed light on,”
“I suddenly realised that what I just heard that gypsy fucking scumbag say, was in fact the most profound thing that I’ve ever heard come out of the mouth of any wrestler since I first got interested in this business. Now how about that huh? Not bad for a stinking, thieving Irishman!”
“See right then, right at that moment I realised something champ. I realised that not only is Roy Viper ten times fucking smarter than you’ll ever be, which frankly isn’t an achievement I’d want to put on my resume, considering that there are fucking paperweights with more personality and intelligence than you. I realised champ, not only is Roy Viper smarter than you’ll ever be, but I also realised that you can take that belt of yours, you can take your title, and you can shove it up your habitually and regularly stretched rectum!”
“Because at the end of the day, all you got right there is a piece of leather with a few gold plates on it. That’s it! That’s fucking it Titty boy. It’s just an inanimate object, albeit one that has more charm and charisma than you could ever dream of. It’s a strap for you to use to spank your bitch manager with. And that’s all it is. Now how about that for profound statements huh? You got a few pounds of leather and metal, but I got what really matters. I got the respect that I craved so highly,”
“Ever since I was kid I’ve wanted to be above everyone else. Not just to be liked or any of that shit. But to be above everyone. I’ve always wanted to find myself in a position where I can look down on all the people who I went to school with, all those people who used to give me shit, so that I could piss on every single one of them. Well here I am!”
“And I think back now to all the useless, good for nothing dumbasses that I used to work with and I smile. I think of all those people who thought they were better than me because they started working at some place like a year before I did. Well now look where we are. While those fucking low life scumbag pieces of arrogant shit are sweeping the floor at fucking McDonalds, I’m here, living the dream, getting shit faced with my buddy and celebrating being one of the best wrestlers, one of the toughest men, in the entire world,”
“Not only that though. I walk out there into that arena, or any other fucking arena, and I know that you’ll be watching me on a monitor somewhere, watching a real champion at work. And until you otherwise pin me or make me tap out in a fully sanctioned match, then you’re just gonna have to live with that. Now how does that make you feel bitch?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’m calling you for what you are. You’re a little bitch compared to me, just like Luck is a little bitch. Him and Dave were getting trashed tonight, absolutely fucking destroyed, when out come a set of brass knuckles and a bent fucking ref. See he’s just like you man. Without Rivera watching over you, setting shit up for you, you’re both a pair of little bitches in comparison,”
Jack stopped for a swig.
“You don’t have the heart, the guts, the determination, or the toughness to stand toe to toe with Jack Bull. You hearing this bitch? Is your fucking roid compatible hearing aid switched on? Maybe you could get your manager to record this and then translate it into crayon for you? How about that?”
“Maybe you could call fucking Sesame Street and see if they’ll do a one off episode just for you, translating what I’m saying into some numbers and word games for you? I can just see the director now looking at the word ‘fuck’ and then having a think about how he’s gonna translate that, before turning to his assistant and saying ‘right guys I‘ve got an idea. Go fetch Burt and Ernie…’”
“Man I’d love to be there, to see your face when you first saw that image on TV. Your childhood crush getting fucked in the ass by another puppet. Then Burt and Ernie sitting there afterwards sharing a cigarette and an awkward conversation. With Burt getting all angry and disgusted about what he’s done while Ernie’s crying ‘why won’t you just hold me Burt!’ And there you’ll be, sitting there in a pool of your own tears wishing you could wind back the clock and un-watch that moment,”
Bull took another swig break and ended up draining what was left of the can before crushing it and tossing it. He paused now though, not ready to take up another beer just yet.
“The fact that I was getting at champ, before we got diverted by all that talk of Sesame Street Sodomy, was that you just can’t handle someone like me. And yeah, I’m sure Rivera will work something out to keep you clean, keep you away from me. I don’t think he wants anyone rocking the boat after all, what with your big match coming up against Sabora,”
“Shit this a dream come true for Rivera! Here comes Sabs back from the fucking ether or wherever the hell it was he disappeared to, and now he gets a ready made main event match for Scars and Stripes dropped in his fucking lap. You defending the belt against the man you took it from huh? But that still doesn’t change a thing. Whether you walk out of that event with the title, or whether Sabs walks out of that event with the title, fact is everyone still knows who the real deal is,”
“Which, surprisingly enough, gives me comfort. It replaces that gut wrenching feeling inside, and replaces it with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Knowing that here amongst my peers, trying to find someone with a clean win over Jack Bull is like trying to find an honest man in Congress,”
“And the knowledge, the knowledge that I’m still fucking number one baby! No matter what you, or Sabs, or Luck with his little piece of paper says, Jack Bull is still the man to beat, still the true if not undisputed champion of the world. Shit, if I was a smoker you know that’s what I’d be doing right now? I’d be puffing away on a big, fat, true Cuban cigar and you’d have no choice but to look at my smug face and know, know that I am better than you can ever dream about,”
“Now how does that feel? How does that catch you champ? How does it feel to know that you’re nothing but an impostor, an imitator, a shadow of a champion? How does that feel to know that without Mark Rivera to hold your hand for you, you’re nothing but my bitch? How does that feel to know that you’ve got a locker room full of guys and gals back here who are laughing at you behind your back? How does it feel to know that there will be literally millions of people watching Scars and Stripes, giggling at you and Sabora going at in the most pointless world title match ever seen? Huh?”
“I wonder what that’s like? See I wouldn’t know, because I’ll be busy in the battle royal match, with all eyes on me as I go about kicking ass and taking names. I’ll be busy fighting off guys left, right and center who all want a piece of the true champion. They’ll all be picking up scars as they try and earn their stripes, if you see what I mean? The sad thing is, it’ll be a waste of time,”
“Number one because that’s my match for the taking. That’s my win in the bag right there, I just haven’t collected it yet. And number two, because in the highly unlikely event, in fact no. In the extremely, insanely unlikely event that someone out there manages to put yours truly over the top rope, then what? They go on and get a shot, but what at? That belt that you’ve got around your waist? Please!”
“You tell me now champ, who actually wants a shot at that worthless piece of shit? Until that things ends up around the waist of its proper owner, then it’s nothing more than a symbol of Rivera’s corruption. It’s just an object that you happen to be carrying around at the time, keeping it warm for me until the day I come to collect it,”
“And mark my words champ, I’m coming to collect. You can hide behind your manager for as long as you want. You can hide behind Mark Rivera for as long as you want. But those guys are not invulnerable. They can and will be broken down and when they do champ, it’ll just be me and you left. One on one. For my title. And that’s a fact, Asshole!”
“Now excuse me, I have to puke,”
Bull grabs the sides of the locker and hauls himself up, ducking to one side and unleashing an almighty jet of vomit. Satisfied that there is no follow up, he grabs a beer can, pops it open and washes out his mouth, spitting the ensuing vomit/beer mixture onto the floor. Then we hear another groan coming from the showers.
“Oh yeah, shit. Go check him out, see if he’s ok,”
The cameraman gets up and climbs over the bench, heading for the showers. As he turns the corner he finds a fully clothed Xplode, his attire completely soaked through, crawling on the floor.
“Tonight - I think I drank - all the fucking Vodka in the entire world. Every last drop. And now… I feel like shit. Excuse me for a second,”
Xplode hauls himself up on his arms and lets rip a very light coloured stream of vomit, that is probably about 50% pure vodka. His guts emptied, he lowers himself right back to the floor, his face laying sideways on the cool caress of the tiles, some of his long hair dipping into the puke.
“I’m going to sleep now,”