PROMO: Like a Small Death

[Guest Ace309]

The Ervin J. Nutter Center is silent. The fans, many of them drunk and many pleasantly annoyed at the heel, Thoth, walking off with the title once again, have all scattered off through Dayton. Somewhere, Chris Hicks and his drinking buddy from college are debating the workrate of the card; a Columbus teen who couldn’t make it to the show shuts off his television, pleased with the show, and fires up his Dance Dance Revolution hard pad.

 

In the bowels of the Nutt House, though, one man sits alone. His singlet is soaked in sweat. He wears a damp towel over his neck, with a large ice pack under it looking like a tumor on the back of his neck. His one hand holds the ice pack on while the other lays idly on his thigh. He stares at his bare waist, knowing that once again the sting of a World Title loss won’t fade easily.

 

Every loss in a title match is like a small death, he thinks to himself. That was the first thing that Marc Mandrake taught me in the training room, when I was just starting out in Empire State Wrestling. I was jobbing every month to wastes like Chris Cooper and Tommy Caliber, and Mandrake just told me over and over… when you’re jerking the curtain, it doesn’t matter what happens, but once you get in the ring and there’s a belt on the line, that’s when it counts. He sighs. I let myself down tonight. I embarrassed myself, and I submitted.

 

Once again, Tom Flesher looks down at his beltless waist.

 

I lost face.

 

The door swings open just a crack. Flesher turns his head quickly to look to the door, wincing as he remembers that he needs to baby his neck for the next few days. Standing in the doorway, no longer in his wrestling attire but now in a pressed pair of khakis and a light-blue polo shirt, is Robert Jackson Frost.

 

Pause.

 

“You lost, Face.”

 

“Funny, Frost,” says Flesher gruffly, his tone like sandpaper as he turns his head back to staring dejectedly at the concrete floor. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

 

Frost stands coolly in the doorway, his facial expression unchanging. Flesher turns his head back, more slowly this time, and growls, “Why do you need to be here right now?”

 

“We have unfinished business,” replies the giant matter-of-factly.

 

“Yeah? I’m finished with it,” says Flesher. “I know what you’re after, and I don’t have it. You’re going to have to see Thoth… and since he’s going to turn you down, you’ll have to go bother Brian. Maybe Mark, if you’ve got a title shot clause in your contract.”

 

“This isn’t about the belt,” says Frost, sounding a little frustrated, his tone a bit sharp. “That’s not important to me right now. Thoth has his toy, and as far as I’m concerned Taylor can chase after him if he wants to. But you, Tom… we never settled things.”

 

“Sure we did,” says Flesher, sounding irritated. “Ever seen Battleground? I know you probably don’t remember it, what with the German to the turnbuckles, but – ”

 

“That Taylor threw.” Frost stands still in the doorway, remaining calm. “Taylor took me out, and you got lucky with him. But you never beat me when it was all on the line.”

 

Flesher sighs. “So tell me,” he says, the sarcasm dripping like venom from his words. “Just tell me why I should get in the ring with you one more time.”

 

Without hesitation, Frost simply says, “Honor.”

 

Flesher says nothing.

 

“That’s all there is to it,” says Frost. “When I see you in the ring, I don’t see someone who beat me in a World Title match. I see someone who’s been dodging me since, and who needs to get knocked down a peg.”

 

Flesher rolls his eyes half-heartedly, trying to hold out and look uninterested, but clearly feeling his pride rising in his chest.

 

“Every time I see you win, it’s like a small death,” the Velvet Hammer says in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “And I need to get you in the ring… but I need to warn you. There’s no way I’ll lose, Face.”

 

With that, Frost steps back. “Remember that,” he says, as he turns away.

 

Flesher, meanwhile, sits on the bench, still not moving.

 

He’s wrong, Flesher thinks to himself. He can’t knock me out of the spotlight. He can’t beat me.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

There’s no way I’ll lose face.

 

 

~fin~

[Guest The Superstar]

Like I said, I love it.

 

Frost vs. Tom = (Y) x 10000

[Guest Beezel]

quality. very very high quality

[Guest Edwin MacPhisto]

Quoth the Faces (zing): ooh la la. I think I like where this is headed and I think this will be big for both of you. The proper blow-off to Frost/Tom has been a long-time coming and I will be glad to see it.

[Guest Beingz0wningj00]

Nice bit of literature there sir Thomas M. Flesh.

[Guest Suicide King]

As Muzz would say, "Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta."

[Guest WrestlingDeacon]

I just sent my promo in for the show and noticed this one. Without reading it first, I think mine ties in pretty well. I love the doublespeak with the face line and the quiet tension developed. But isn't the "small death" line from a Shakespearean play concerning female orgasms?

[Guest Edwin MacPhisto]

I just sent my promo in for the show and noticed this one. Without reading it first, I think mine ties in pretty well. I love the doublespeak with the face line and the quiet tension developed. But isn't the "small death" line from a Shakespearean play concerning female orgasms?

I was going to mention that this afternoon, Frost, but I couldn't find the exact play. On further thought, I recall that it's just a trend of the period, used often by Shakespeare in particular.

 

It's most obvious in the many lines surrounding "to die" in Romeo & Juliet, but is also prevalent in the comedies, especially As You Like It (Silvius representin') and Much Ado About Nothing. You'll also note it in just about any Shakespearean play with a swordfight, from the aforementioned R&J all the way to the histories like Henry IV--it's mixed with puns to suggest that the swords are just representative of a giant penis-fight, for better and for worse.

 

(On a sidenote, my favorite "My token represents my wang" moment in literature has to be the rundown in Stoker's Dracula, where we review Quincy Morris' big bowie knife, Dr. Seward's little lancet, and Jonathan Harker's absolute lack of a token altogether. No wonder Mina let Drac bite her.)

 

The OED confirms that, back in the day, "to die" meant, beyond kicking the bucket, to orgasm, and "the little death" did refer to the female orgasm in particular. Evidently the men get to have the big death. Go men.

[Guest Ace309]

Actually, I just stole the phrase "Every loss in a title match is like a small death" from a quote attributed to Sting in one of the Apter mags circa 1990. It was an article on the never-say-die attitude even face wrestlers have to have, and also mentioned Stan Hansen's pinky being crooked because he caught it in a turnbuckle and went on to win the match.

[Guest Kibagami]

Read what you want into the cane. I dare you.

 

I always enjoy reading your promos, Flesher. You have a better handle on characters than many people, and it always makes for a solid promo. Yours always further a rather concrete, straightforward angle -- I think I like it because it's so different from my overly dramatic approach to the promo. Nice bit of work.

 

K.

[Guest Muzz]

And you think you don't get comments.

 

I liked the promo very much, some sharp and interesting dialogue that builds nicely to the eventual confrontation between the two.

[Guest WrestlingDeacon]

My favorite double entrende in Shakespeare is from "Anthony and Cleopatra" when Cleo says, "If I had but your inches, I would show you that there was a heart in the Egypt." Meaning, that if she were a man with a penis, she would have a hard on right now.