OoC: So, for the record, there was once a time when Flesher and IL were drinking buddies during both their "run-o'-evil" (Durandal and Black Plague)... so there's a reminder so it's not -that- random.
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The Estádio Jornalista Mário Filho is relatively empty with the exception of staff already bustling about to help organize things for the upcoming Storm from the wake of From the Fire and perhaps a few wrestlers who deliberately arrive early, such as Insane Luchador. He stands isolated in center of the ring, absorbing the view of the empty chairs surrounding him, and can’t help but to recall the painful highlights of the All-Show Ironman match, leaving him beaten and battered, mentally and psychically. Now he finds his mind racing at a million miles an hour with thought after thought as he tries to therapeutically sort it all out inside that squared circle, alone.
Insane Luchador begins to pace and begins to speak out loud, “God, shit has really changed but some things never will…” while he surveys the ring, walking along the edge of the ring, hand brushing against the top rope. “Some things will never change… but what the hell is there to change anymore, anyway? Zyon hasn’t shown one fuckin’ instance of respect and neither has the rest of the federation; I’m still just drifting along. He’s forgotten my past, hasn’t he, he had to, or maybe he’s not aware of my past. Maybe he and everybody else has forgotten who I am, what my name means ,” he barks the end of the spiel loudly, listening to it bounce against the walls, and echoing right back at him without any response, as if it’s all fallen onto deaf ears once again. He shakes his head and reaches one of the turnbuckles as he slowly hoists himself to sit on the top turnbuckle, staring down at the canvas below.
“Or,” Luchador mumbles while rolling a sore shoulder, “Maybe my name has never meant anything at all…” His mind continues to race while fidgeting with his hands until he hears a familiar voice from behind.
“You know, Rickmen, they say you’re crazy and it’s times like now that I’m inclined to agree,” Flesher replies with a forced grin as Luchador quickly turns his head to see him standing at ringside with a chair by his side. He points to the chair and the Superior One simply laughs while shaking his head.
“What kind of a threat is a chair to you anyway? Besides, these babies don’t plant themselves, you know,” he jokingly says while getting down to one knee to slowly slide it underneath the ring. “Now Excalibur,” he says as he stands back up to look at Rickmen, “is your own damn job, which you seem to do well at, for the record.”
Finally a genuine grin comes across Luchador’s face before he admits, “I try, Tom, I try.”
“Yeah, I know, just not hard enough sometimes according to you,” Flesher says, still awkwardly staring up at Rickmen perched on the turnbuckle. Finally the Ill One hops down and grabs the top rope with one hand to vault down to ringside near him.
“Well,” IL replies and hesitates before asking, “Are you saying that in agreement?”
Flesher pauses, looking Luchador square in the eyes, and opens his mouth before stopping yet again. His hand reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck before his eyes wander down to the ring mats where he uses his shoes to break up a dirt stain, only to make it worse. He shrugs at the efforts, hey, he did try (and the union needs their work) before he realizes Luchador hasn’t broken eye contact.
“That’s not reassuring,” IL flatly says.
“Look, Rickmen, we go back, you know that and I know that.”
Luchador nods before replying, “Hell, I still enjoy a nice Black Mist occasionally.”
Flesher nearly cringes at the reminder of their old drink combination, Sprite and Jagermeister, before recalling Luchador’s drinking binge… which led to his alleged demise. “Yeah, I know.” He looks back into Luchador’s wary eyes before shaking his head.
“What?”
“What, what?” Flesher says before he realizes he keeps a bad poker face. “Look, I’m only going to say all this because, amazingly enough, you’ve never asked for any favors since I’ve had any control over things. Hell, I don’t think you’ve asked for any favors, ever. So I’ll try to just give you the blunt truth and cut the usual bullshit, alright?”
Luchador nods and takes a step closer to Flesher with his head slightly tilted to the side in curiosity.
“Andrew, you’ve been around for a long, long time, everybody knows that. You have had a long, long time to climb up the ladder to the top, in the JL and the WF. Sure, you had a nice run with the JL World Title at some point and I guess you have held a fair share of WF belts, just without any real memorable runs. No offense,” he quickly adds.
The Ill One simply grunts and waves his hand to dismiss the comment in Tom’s cue to continue.
“Everybody has their limits. Hell, I’ll let you in on a little secret- I have mine, ask Magnifico,” he lightly continues while trying to choose his words wisely since an unstable Rickmen is, well, an unstable Rickmen. “What I’m trying to say is that you’ve had a lot of time to improve, to change, Andrew, to evolve with the times… and you have, in the little ways. You’ve cleaned up your striking and you seem to have a wider arsenal of moves but at the end of the day, you’re still Insane Luchador. Perhaps that’s a good thing, perhaps it’s a bad thing. I mean, what’s your record?”
IL’s eyes narrow. “Fuck if I know, what’s your record?” He defensively shoots back at Flesher, who seems to take slight offense.
Tom tries to dig up that bit of trivia that was once deeply engrained in his mind before giving up. “I’m not too sure anymore but I don’t need statistics to show I’m one of the best to ever step foot into that ring.”
“Cut the bullshit.”
“Then don’t get bitchy with me, Rickmen, I don’t have to be here being your adviser, your shrink,” Flesher shoots back before calming down. “Just keep listening to what I have to say, alright?”
He grudgingly nods.
“So you’ve been around for a long time and I suppose you have the potential to stay around for a lot longer, but probably not at the speed you’ve been going at. It’ll all catch up to you eventually, Andrew, whether it’s when you’re thirty or fifty, it doesn’t matter. I just don’t want you to end up being one of those guys not remembering what day of the week it is or needing a cane to just get around. Look it’s no secret that we’re in a drought, everyone and their grandparents know that much. So I’m saying this in all honesty, because we need people in that squared circle, maybe it’s time to… well, you know.”
Luchador knows but still asks, “What?”
Flesher stares into Luchador’s face in an attempt to read him but the Ill One seems surprising serene, with the exception of his fiery eyes, which actually reassures the Superior One.
“What? To quit, to call it quits, Tom? It’s pretty damn tempting, it’s actually really fuckin’ tempting and maybe you’re right, maybe you’re right,” Rickmen begins on a tangent at a frantic speed. “I’ve had all the time in the world to become someone and it just seems like I’ve been slipping downhill, I feel like a fuckin’ shell of my former self, you know? Dropping old opponents’ names, dropping old spots, and trying to remind motherfuckers what I have done in the past to ignore the present, yeah we know it.” He pauses and watches Flesher raises his eyebrows at the “we” before he quickly says, “The Royal We, Tom.” He simply smirks with a nod and takes a step at Rickmen, cautiously putting a hand on his shoulder, hoping it won’t set Luchador off anymore because, really, he doesn’t feel like tossing his old friend over in an Exploder.
“Rickmen, I like you, you’ve been and most likely will still be a huge pain in the ass sometimes but I like you, alright? Here’s what I’m trying to say and you know what? I’ll use a phrase I’ve heard you drop a few times- it’s time to step down or throw down.” He gives a slight nod and finally turns around to part ways and Luchador stands absolutely still with those words echoing in his mind-
It’s time to step down or throw down.
