Just Tap And I'll Let Go
* * *
Ripplemagne:
"...Just who do you think you're kidding, Danny? Hehehe-hehe. I can taste the doubt in your eyes as you attempt to format your reactions just do deal with me. An 'understanding', a 'truce'? Sorry to break it to you, sweet pea, but that's what you call an alliance. Don't believe me? Google it.
You know, Hayter, there's a psychological defense mechanism known as 'reaction formation' that I think you'd be interested in reading into. Mon ami, you couldn't be more right when you contrasted yourself from me. But the differences lie in mental aptitude because as I hear you haphazardly attempt to justify your actions, it's like a fine novel. I read you off the pages like a lucid storybook.
See, you attempt to convince yourself that you're a league above me. No, not me. You have no intention of convincing me that you can beat me; if you did, you would say nothing. Instead, you have to tell me, so that you -- yourself -- can believe it. In the hopes that you will say something of merit that will pierce my flesh and cause me to stumble, thus humanizing me in your eyes. But, realistically, we both know that you see me as a deity of unconscionable prowess. We both know it, Hayter, so lets not dance around the subject.
It is no wonder that you beg me to be the one to put a round through your medulla oblongata like Ol' Yeller. You beg me to be the one to end your torment because you know that there's no other like me. Someone who can do the impossible, see the invisible, and bring forth the wrath of Heaven with a snap of his fingers. Which leads us to two possibilities.
Uno -- the less likely scenario -- is you truly wish for me to be the one to end you, so that you can pry yourself from your proverbial 'prison'. And dos -- the option I believe to be the likely scenario -- is that you're making excuses before the battle even begins. You know that, unlike any adversity you've faced thus far, the magnificent Ripplemagne is the one who you stand the most chance of losing to.
How do I evidence this, you ask? Your own words, paesan'. Your own mamaluke words. On one hand, you beg for me to free you from your prison -- and on the other, you desperately try to convince yourself that you will beat me and make statements like 'You think I'll let you take my tin ticket?' Considering how matter-of-factly you speak of me, Daniel, I don't think it's a simple case of you not being sure if you want to win or lose. Do get your lies straightened out before you attempt to talk down to me via promotional broadcast again.
Spin this any way you want. You know full well that you are simply setting yourself up to format your reaction should you lose this upcoming match. You know full well that you're going to mask your disappointment by thanking me for freeing you from the 'prison' that is the Octane division."
Panning out from the radio broadcasting this rerun of Ripplemagne calling Dan Hayter out on one of the wrestling talk programs, we find ourselves in his midst...
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
Yeah. That's me. A phi phenomenon in the sky, soaring through the everblue expanse of the world above. The heavens sing my chorus genuflected to a parade of harps in the sky. In my hand, I hold the key to an abyss of dreams and fantasy; each fingertip of mine wielding the rapture of the Olympians. So many people misjudge my strengths and weaknesses; citing my success as a byproduct of my hummingbird-like speed, my technical unorthodoxy or in-ring charisma.
These shallow minds are incapable of seeing beyond even the mist that blankets the first layer of my thoughts. It's rather adorable, really. I speak to you candidly for just a moment when I tell you; my success and majesty all comes from within. Say whatever you will about the tangible, but my preserverence stems from the intangible. My ability to outthink anyone; my ability to transcend mortal limits and break every boundary that attempts to confine me.
Whether it's shattering the illusions of limitations by going one step farther than I should in my fitness routines; whether it's remaining on my feet after losing pints of my own lifeblood. Some say the sky's the limit, but such people think too small. They bound themselves to the notion that there is such a thing as limits.
I believe. I believe, so I ask you to believe. The people who believe in me, you give me the fervor to go that much farther. Just the knowledge that you are with me, believing that I am the one who can do anything -- it's enough to keep me going. It's for this reason that my favorite word in the English language is 'believe'; it is a word that encompasses everything a man needs to succeed.
I can do anything. I will do everything. And all I need to do it is for you to believe in me.
So many people truly underestimate just how far the human will can take us. So many will quit running a marathon at the first wrenching of agony. They give up. They cry to quit rather than cry to keep going.
It's this very aspect that separates me from the broken masses. They allow themselves to be broken; to submit. I, however, may be physically broken... but I will never allow anyone to break my will.
A lot of people have made a big stink over my public declaration that I will never tap our or submit in any match ever. Some have cited it as a weakness of mine, while others have questioned the practicality of it. Somehow, these people have missed the point and never even bothered to inquire before they jumped to conclusions.
Doesn't seem to be a very scientific method of analyzing something. But I suppose simple minds will jump to their own conclusions based on scant evidence just to soothe their own ego and crimp the fear of the unknown. See: spontaneous generation.
Lets turn the timetables back. Roll the gears of chronology back to the days when the world was a bigger place. Scratch away the layers like and scratch-and-sniff. See the days go by as every muscle in my body compacts and every bone delongates (it's a word now, suck-a mah balls.)
The carpet was a vast array of different color palettes streaming across the floor. A green rocking chair was perched in the corner of the apartment living room pointed in the direction of a big screen television that could pass as a small truck. This was before the invention of flat screen televisions, so this was kind of the Mercedes of televisions for the time.
Atop the carpet was a fit, muscular young man with curly golden hair; clean shaven and clad in royal blue velour sweatpants and a baggy white tanktop. Etched into his diesel bicep was a tattoo of a red rose with the word 'mom' beneath it. Believe it or not, this was not me. I guess the tattoo kind of gives that away. This was my brother, whom I had aptly and creatively nicknamed 'butthead'.
In his clutches a petite, fragile-looking child. Pale skin and twig-like limbs made 'im the epitome of all that was ectomorph. The little runt sported a caesar cut that kept his golden hair a mere strip of stubble across his scalp. The little'un was traped in a pair of gray Phat Farm, velour sweatpants probably ten sizes too big and much like the larger one, topped it all off with a white tanktop.
...That. Was me.
In the age before I was good at... really anything. I lost every video game I played with my family members, I was the runt of the litter (ho-oh, Dan Hayter reference) amongs my brother and male cousins, I was terrible at every sport I played (a fact that has not changed to this day), was entire grade levels behind my classmates, had 0.01 friends in school (yeah, that least 1 is based on people who were friends sometimes, but very rarely) and the whole nine. The only reason I even got by in school is because, somehow, someway, I always tested in the genius range on my tests despite lacking the attention span to even sit through a paragraph of reading.
Back then, I pretty much hated everything.
There I was, screaming in perhaps the severest form of agony I had ever faced at that point in my life. Tears streamed down my rouge-esque cheeks as I could hear my fragile, little bones cracking. Wrenched behind my back was this bony little arm with less muscle mass than a jar of mayonnaise. To this day, i still think that the most agonizing wrestling hold is the hammerlock.
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
His voice rang through my mind as I could see the reflection of his smiling fucking face in the reflection of the window.
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
What was really seconds felt like an eternity of suffering as I could hear the crackles and ripples in my shoulder popping out of place. The joints throughout my arm buckled as my chin quivered and my body finally dropped, hand tapping against the carpet.
The entire world opened up as I felt my arm release from his grip. But that feeling of relief was only an amenity to whitewash the shame. In the days to come, the abuse of my brother multiplied as he used that quitter mentality against me. He'd antagonize me for being a pussy; a little girl who fucking gave it up because of a little pain. And I'd rage and charge him again, but I'd just wind up in another predicament, where I'd be forced to tap out. He exploited it and knew he could make me submit whenever he wanted.
My victory only came in the form of a move that I'd later dub the Sandman's Serenade. There we were; I was on my knees on the hardwood hallway floor. The narrow strip of moving space offered very little maneuvering room and I was in a rear naked choke before I even knew it was coming.
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
Little Magne:
"NO!"
At the time, he thought I was bullshitting about sticking out the hold. But the seconds turned into minutes and my frail, struggling body finally dangled from his rock hard muscles like a ragdoll. When he released me and my damn-near lifeless body toppled to the hardwood floor like one of my old toys, he just stepped away without a word. No snide remark, no smug declaration of victory; he just... walked away.
And I sat there, my face beat red and the veins in my neck bulging. Clasping my throat, I watched him walk into our shared bedroom and grinned. I had won.
He couldn't break me.
From that day forward, I vowed that surrender was never an option. Despite the intense beatings and thorough breakdowns of my tiny frame, I couldn't be beaten. Physically, yes, my brother held victory over me. Mentally, he could never break my spirit. And I think when he realized that is when he developed his first measure of pride in me. It was a strange relationship that my brother and I had, but the more aggression he showed me, the more I thought he hated me at the time. But when I got older, I learned that that was his way of showing that he loved me.
I suppose I should thank him. If it weren't for him giving me a dead arm every day of my life, lifting me up to the ceiling by my ears or jawline, throwing me into things and all that jazz... I probably wouldn't know how to throw a punch to save my life. But because of him, I stand in the front of the line amidst the Octane-ranked superstars.
* * *
Time coasted along and I think the next time my brother was able to look at me and say 'that's my brother' to his friends with a smile on his face was when he brought me along to his buddy's house. Grand Theft Auto III was just released and a group of them were trying it out for the first time.
I don't even remember what happened that night. My only recollection of the night was beating polygon taxi cab drivers across the back of the head with a bat. Yeah, the sting of 9/11 was still fresh in all of our spirit, especially being that we were all direction effected by it. Story for another time though.
At some point in the night, my brother's mesomorphic, steroid-packed buddy and I had it out. I'm guessing that he was about eight years older than me being that my brother was such. Who knows though? All I know is that he was big; even bigger than my gym rat brother. He must've done something to piss me off, but Hell if I can remember what it was. Knowing me, he probably said that Hulk Hogan could beat Sting or something like that.
Anyway, I rushed him, throwing my fists at him wildly. Effortlessly, he blocked and dodged every hit I threw. This went on for maybe five minutes, which doesn't sound too long, but I'd like to see you ceaselessly go at the speed bag for five minutes straight. Now imagine you're like 12 and you can begin to picture my exhaustion.
With every furious punch I threw, my body stepped in, waddling like a penguin over my own weight. It was like Al Gore trying to box with fifty pound dumbells in each hand. With every backhand I took across my face, my knees buckled, but I'd somehow manage to catch myself before dropping. The force of a good slap from someone that much larger than you when you're not even fully developed was like a lot to take in. In the hands of a master, a slap can be as devastating as a haymaker.
That's the position I found myself in as my scraggily body was pounded and battered. I could feel myself blacking out, but I somehow stayed on my feet. My brother's voice was the only thing I could hear as his friends were just random noise.
'Butthead':
"Fake him out!"
My brother tended to do this thing where when him and I were boxing, he'd pretend like he was going to hit me with one hand and catch me with the other. Being thrown off guard in such a way made my defenses open to get hit.
Being coached by my brother and the feeling of him actually rooting for me for once motivated me. Gritting my teeth, I lashed out against the hulking figure in front of me and balled up my little knuckles and went to collide it into his jaw. Spotting it without much problem, he placed his hands in front of his face, but was surprised to feel my other hand plunged into his stomach. By the time he had realized what had happened, I had unleashed a three hit combo into his face.
I think roid rage kicked in because at that point he began crack me in the face with twice as much force and was unrelenting in the attacks. I stumbled and stirred, but refused to give in until my brother finally stood up and got between us. The fight was over and I was still standing.
* * *
The ages passed by and I became the head honcho of High School, able to outshine anyone in combat. And finally, I found myself in the ring; fame and fortune surrounded me along with thousands of screaming fans. They all believed in me. I had matches where blood poured forth from my veins like the sharp rapids of Niagra Falls. Matches where my respiration was entirely hampered and oxygen wasn't getting to my lungs. Matches where injuries hindered me in the ring.
But all of these matches had one thing in common. Into adulthood, I still never said die. I never quit, I never threw in the towel and I always finished the match. Quite typically, until my hand was raised.
I believe. Do you?
* * *
Fin.
* * *
Ripplemagne:
"...Just who do you think you're kidding, Danny? Hehehe-hehe. I can taste the doubt in your eyes as you attempt to format your reactions just do deal with me. An 'understanding', a 'truce'? Sorry to break it to you, sweet pea, but that's what you call an alliance. Don't believe me? Google it.
You know, Hayter, there's a psychological defense mechanism known as 'reaction formation' that I think you'd be interested in reading into. Mon ami, you couldn't be more right when you contrasted yourself from me. But the differences lie in mental aptitude because as I hear you haphazardly attempt to justify your actions, it's like a fine novel. I read you off the pages like a lucid storybook.
See, you attempt to convince yourself that you're a league above me. No, not me. You have no intention of convincing me that you can beat me; if you did, you would say nothing. Instead, you have to tell me, so that you -- yourself -- can believe it. In the hopes that you will say something of merit that will pierce my flesh and cause me to stumble, thus humanizing me in your eyes. But, realistically, we both know that you see me as a deity of unconscionable prowess. We both know it, Hayter, so lets not dance around the subject.
It is no wonder that you beg me to be the one to put a round through your medulla oblongata like Ol' Yeller. You beg me to be the one to end your torment because you know that there's no other like me. Someone who can do the impossible, see the invisible, and bring forth the wrath of Heaven with a snap of his fingers. Which leads us to two possibilities.
Uno -- the less likely scenario -- is you truly wish for me to be the one to end you, so that you can pry yourself from your proverbial 'prison'. And dos -- the option I believe to be the likely scenario -- is that you're making excuses before the battle even begins. You know that, unlike any adversity you've faced thus far, the magnificent Ripplemagne is the one who you stand the most chance of losing to.
How do I evidence this, you ask? Your own words, paesan'. Your own mamaluke words. On one hand, you beg for me to free you from your prison -- and on the other, you desperately try to convince yourself that you will beat me and make statements like 'You think I'll let you take my tin ticket?' Considering how matter-of-factly you speak of me, Daniel, I don't think it's a simple case of you not being sure if you want to win or lose. Do get your lies straightened out before you attempt to talk down to me via promotional broadcast again.
Spin this any way you want. You know full well that you are simply setting yourself up to format your reaction should you lose this upcoming match. You know full well that you're going to mask your disappointment by thanking me for freeing you from the 'prison' that is the Octane division."
Panning out from the radio broadcasting this rerun of Ripplemagne calling Dan Hayter out on one of the wrestling talk programs, we find ourselves in his midst...
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
Yeah. That's me. A phi phenomenon in the sky, soaring through the everblue expanse of the world above. The heavens sing my chorus genuflected to a parade of harps in the sky. In my hand, I hold the key to an abyss of dreams and fantasy; each fingertip of mine wielding the rapture of the Olympians. So many people misjudge my strengths and weaknesses; citing my success as a byproduct of my hummingbird-like speed, my technical unorthodoxy or in-ring charisma.
These shallow minds are incapable of seeing beyond even the mist that blankets the first layer of my thoughts. It's rather adorable, really. I speak to you candidly for just a moment when I tell you; my success and majesty all comes from within. Say whatever you will about the tangible, but my preserverence stems from the intangible. My ability to outthink anyone; my ability to transcend mortal limits and break every boundary that attempts to confine me.
Whether it's shattering the illusions of limitations by going one step farther than I should in my fitness routines; whether it's remaining on my feet after losing pints of my own lifeblood. Some say the sky's the limit, but such people think too small. They bound themselves to the notion that there is such a thing as limits.
I believe. I believe, so I ask you to believe. The people who believe in me, you give me the fervor to go that much farther. Just the knowledge that you are with me, believing that I am the one who can do anything -- it's enough to keep me going. It's for this reason that my favorite word in the English language is 'believe'; it is a word that encompasses everything a man needs to succeed.
I can do anything. I will do everything. And all I need to do it is for you to believe in me.
So many people truly underestimate just how far the human will can take us. So many will quit running a marathon at the first wrenching of agony. They give up. They cry to quit rather than cry to keep going.
It's this very aspect that separates me from the broken masses. They allow themselves to be broken; to submit. I, however, may be physically broken... but I will never allow anyone to break my will.
A lot of people have made a big stink over my public declaration that I will never tap our or submit in any match ever. Some have cited it as a weakness of mine, while others have questioned the practicality of it. Somehow, these people have missed the point and never even bothered to inquire before they jumped to conclusions.
Doesn't seem to be a very scientific method of analyzing something. But I suppose simple minds will jump to their own conclusions based on scant evidence just to soothe their own ego and crimp the fear of the unknown. See: spontaneous generation.
Lets turn the timetables back. Roll the gears of chronology back to the days when the world was a bigger place. Scratch away the layers like and scratch-and-sniff. See the days go by as every muscle in my body compacts and every bone delongates (it's a word now, suck-a mah balls.)
The carpet was a vast array of different color palettes streaming across the floor. A green rocking chair was perched in the corner of the apartment living room pointed in the direction of a big screen television that could pass as a small truck. This was before the invention of flat screen televisions, so this was kind of the Mercedes of televisions for the time.
Atop the carpet was a fit, muscular young man with curly golden hair; clean shaven and clad in royal blue velour sweatpants and a baggy white tanktop. Etched into his diesel bicep was a tattoo of a red rose with the word 'mom' beneath it. Believe it or not, this was not me. I guess the tattoo kind of gives that away. This was my brother, whom I had aptly and creatively nicknamed 'butthead'.
In his clutches a petite, fragile-looking child. Pale skin and twig-like limbs made 'im the epitome of all that was ectomorph. The little runt sported a caesar cut that kept his golden hair a mere strip of stubble across his scalp. The little'un was traped in a pair of gray Phat Farm, velour sweatpants probably ten sizes too big and much like the larger one, topped it all off with a white tanktop.
...That. Was me.
In the age before I was good at... really anything. I lost every video game I played with my family members, I was the runt of the litter (ho-oh, Dan Hayter reference) amongs my brother and male cousins, I was terrible at every sport I played (a fact that has not changed to this day), was entire grade levels behind my classmates, had 0.01 friends in school (yeah, that least 1 is based on people who were friends sometimes, but very rarely) and the whole nine. The only reason I even got by in school is because, somehow, someway, I always tested in the genius range on my tests despite lacking the attention span to even sit through a paragraph of reading.
Back then, I pretty much hated everything.
There I was, screaming in perhaps the severest form of agony I had ever faced at that point in my life. Tears streamed down my rouge-esque cheeks as I could hear my fragile, little bones cracking. Wrenched behind my back was this bony little arm with less muscle mass than a jar of mayonnaise. To this day, i still think that the most agonizing wrestling hold is the hammerlock.
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
His voice rang through my mind as I could see the reflection of his smiling fucking face in the reflection of the window.
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
What was really seconds felt like an eternity of suffering as I could hear the crackles and ripples in my shoulder popping out of place. The joints throughout my arm buckled as my chin quivered and my body finally dropped, hand tapping against the carpet.
The entire world opened up as I felt my arm release from his grip. But that feeling of relief was only an amenity to whitewash the shame. In the days to come, the abuse of my brother multiplied as he used that quitter mentality against me. He'd antagonize me for being a pussy; a little girl who fucking gave it up because of a little pain. And I'd rage and charge him again, but I'd just wind up in another predicament, where I'd be forced to tap out. He exploited it and knew he could make me submit whenever he wanted.
My victory only came in the form of a move that I'd later dub the Sandman's Serenade. There we were; I was on my knees on the hardwood hallway floor. The narrow strip of moving space offered very little maneuvering room and I was in a rear naked choke before I even knew it was coming.
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
'Butthead':
"Just tap out and I'll let go."
Little Magne:
"NO!"
At the time, he thought I was bullshitting about sticking out the hold. But the seconds turned into minutes and my frail, struggling body finally dangled from his rock hard muscles like a ragdoll. When he released me and my damn-near lifeless body toppled to the hardwood floor like one of my old toys, he just stepped away without a word. No snide remark, no smug declaration of victory; he just... walked away.
And I sat there, my face beat red and the veins in my neck bulging. Clasping my throat, I watched him walk into our shared bedroom and grinned. I had won.
He couldn't break me.
From that day forward, I vowed that surrender was never an option. Despite the intense beatings and thorough breakdowns of my tiny frame, I couldn't be beaten. Physically, yes, my brother held victory over me. Mentally, he could never break my spirit. And I think when he realized that is when he developed his first measure of pride in me. It was a strange relationship that my brother and I had, but the more aggression he showed me, the more I thought he hated me at the time. But when I got older, I learned that that was his way of showing that he loved me.
I suppose I should thank him. If it weren't for him giving me a dead arm every day of my life, lifting me up to the ceiling by my ears or jawline, throwing me into things and all that jazz... I probably wouldn't know how to throw a punch to save my life. But because of him, I stand in the front of the line amidst the Octane-ranked superstars.
* * *
Time coasted along and I think the next time my brother was able to look at me and say 'that's my brother' to his friends with a smile on his face was when he brought me along to his buddy's house. Grand Theft Auto III was just released and a group of them were trying it out for the first time.
I don't even remember what happened that night. My only recollection of the night was beating polygon taxi cab drivers across the back of the head with a bat. Yeah, the sting of 9/11 was still fresh in all of our spirit, especially being that we were all direction effected by it. Story for another time though.
At some point in the night, my brother's mesomorphic, steroid-packed buddy and I had it out. I'm guessing that he was about eight years older than me being that my brother was such. Who knows though? All I know is that he was big; even bigger than my gym rat brother. He must've done something to piss me off, but Hell if I can remember what it was. Knowing me, he probably said that Hulk Hogan could beat Sting or something like that.
Anyway, I rushed him, throwing my fists at him wildly. Effortlessly, he blocked and dodged every hit I threw. This went on for maybe five minutes, which doesn't sound too long, but I'd like to see you ceaselessly go at the speed bag for five minutes straight. Now imagine you're like 12 and you can begin to picture my exhaustion.
With every furious punch I threw, my body stepped in, waddling like a penguin over my own weight. It was like Al Gore trying to box with fifty pound dumbells in each hand. With every backhand I took across my face, my knees buckled, but I'd somehow manage to catch myself before dropping. The force of a good slap from someone that much larger than you when you're not even fully developed was like a lot to take in. In the hands of a master, a slap can be as devastating as a haymaker.
That's the position I found myself in as my scraggily body was pounded and battered. I could feel myself blacking out, but I somehow stayed on my feet. My brother's voice was the only thing I could hear as his friends were just random noise.
'Butthead':
"Fake him out!"
My brother tended to do this thing where when him and I were boxing, he'd pretend like he was going to hit me with one hand and catch me with the other. Being thrown off guard in such a way made my defenses open to get hit.
Being coached by my brother and the feeling of him actually rooting for me for once motivated me. Gritting my teeth, I lashed out against the hulking figure in front of me and balled up my little knuckles and went to collide it into his jaw. Spotting it without much problem, he placed his hands in front of his face, but was surprised to feel my other hand plunged into his stomach. By the time he had realized what had happened, I had unleashed a three hit combo into his face.
I think roid rage kicked in because at that point he began crack me in the face with twice as much force and was unrelenting in the attacks. I stumbled and stirred, but refused to give in until my brother finally stood up and got between us. The fight was over and I was still standing.
* * *
The ages passed by and I became the head honcho of High School, able to outshine anyone in combat. And finally, I found myself in the ring; fame and fortune surrounded me along with thousands of screaming fans. They all believed in me. I had matches where blood poured forth from my veins like the sharp rapids of Niagra Falls. Matches where my respiration was entirely hampered and oxygen wasn't getting to my lungs. Matches where injuries hindered me in the ring.
But all of these matches had one thing in common. Into adulthood, I still never said die. I never quit, I never threw in the towel and I always finished the match. Quite typically, until my hand was raised.
I believe. Do you?
* * *
Fin.
* * *
