A Very Merry Unbirthday
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
HA~CHOOOO~!
The White Mage:
"Santé, for le sixteenth time!"
Ripplemagne:
"What'chu gettin' mad for!? I can't control my... my... m-my..."
My unconscionably sexy, knobbish nose was a shade of red not far off from that of a fire truck and swiftly buried into the magnificent Ripplemagne's antecubital space; my perfectly crafted bicep flexing into my Adonis-like makeup as a brilliant ha-choo ignited like the fucking Fourth of July from my facial... face. Like an island rising from the ocean, my flushed face rose from my Machu Picchu-esque bicep; tear ducts filled with a twinkling gleam and jaw hanging about an inch lower than its proper alignment. Wincing, I could only grumble at the infernal plague that was upon me, blemishing the beauty and splendor that has come to be the Patriarch of Pretty's aesthetics. This infernal curse was like the rapture erupting from my nostrils! It burnt like the hot dick of Satan performing nasal sex!
Worse though. It was fucking with the Patriarch of Pretty's pretty! Unacceptable!
In a nasal, utterly feeble monotone, I cleared my throat and bridged my words from earlier together, full circle...
Ripplemagne:
"...Allergies."
Sniffling, everybody's favorite wrestler -- your American hero -- leaned back in his blessed breakfast stool. Such a stool was honored to be graced by the luscious, plump fanny that was stitched to the perfection that was the King of Hearts. Oh, it was true. Any wimmenz who dared to place their fanny in that stool after me would feel the sunshine and grace transcend them through their coola. Oh, yes, they'd feel a... a... a stigmata of Ripplemagne... Ripplemagne peeing in their butt.
Ah, such wimmenz could be envied. Such a jovial euphoria could be equated to immaculate conception. These wimmenz would feel the intense nirvana of the glorious one himself and be sainted for the temple that would become their bodies. People would make great pilgrimages from all points of the world to behold the transcendental fannies of these lucky wimmenz.
...I will not mention what happens with the men.
...No, really. I don't give a fuck how curious you are. Go to Hell.
In spite of the dapper creature that I am... these fucking allergies were determined to be the end of me. I aggressively mashed the arch of my nose with the backside of my fist. A quiet whimper with a puppy-dog echo creaked through the gloss of cherry chapstick on my luscious, rosy lips. Yes, I was whinging. These fucking sinuses have been inflamed for a few weeks now and I've suffered with the worst allergies my doctor has ever seen since I was an infant.
In my schnoz, I could actually feel the wads of snot vibrating against the cords of few and far nasal hairs coasting up my nostrils. The skanks mambo'd behind the bony frame at the peak of de Magne's nose. Oh, de Magne's poor, beautiful nose. To put it in perspective, my cilia looked like pulsing, red maces; spikes and all.
The cafones in the diner were all staring and it didn't have to do with fame or my incomparable good looks. Like Whitey said, that was the sixteenth time de Magne had ha-choo'd and the waiter hadn't even came to our table yet. The fat white couple and their young, obese look-alike, Junior flared their noses at me as if I had some fucking psychokinetic ability to be all 'hey, allergies, shut the fuck up.' I think these dumb fucks think that I actually wanted to feel like Lucifer just jizzed through my nasal passage all the way through to my medulla-fucking-oblongata.
...Kind of gives a whole new take on 'fucking your brains out', doesn't it? Lets just hope we don't wind up having a brain child. Oh-ho!
Anyway, the fucking trembling mustaches on the three carpenters with their pregg0r-looking beer guts was emblematic of the hostility these God damn hillbillies had for me at the moment. Excuse the fuck out of me for ruining your morning ingestion with the burning sensation in my fucking face..
...To put it in perspective, even family of fat, black people visiting from New York were staring at me like 'damn, shut the fuck up, man.' But fuck them; I could give two cum drops about what these vultures think. At this moment in time, the agonizing inflamation in my nostrils took more precedent than anything else. Imagine being completely immersed in water. What's on your mind?
You want to breathe, right? Nothing else matters besides the fact that you want to breathe. That's how I felt with this raping and pillaging of my adenoids. It was kind of a turn around because that passion; that 'nothing else matters besides this'... was normally something positive. If I were training, nothing else mattered besides being a champion. Number one. If I were reading, nothing else mattered besides ensuring that I knew ten times more than anyone else around me. Dance? Nothing else mattered besides being the best. Free running? Nothing else mattered besides being twelve paces ahead of all of my comrades. Writing? Nothing else mattered besides people garnering more from what I had to say than anyone else.
That's just the way I was.
Anyway, the waitress strolled by. She wasn't ugly, but not up to par for the King of Hearts; a little too pear-shaped and her hair was far too unkempt to be rocking against the Ripplemagne's testiculars as she gives him the gold. She sported an old fashioned black and white sundress and had her dusty-looking, cornflower hair held back by an ebony, hard plastic headband.
Waitress:
"Howdy, y'all. Cinnae git ye anythin'?"
The coarse, Texan accent of the woman was a bit over the top for my tastes. I always got a popsicle in my pants for a nice Southern accent -- particular Tennessee accents -- but it was just put on a little too thick for me to want to jizz on her tits, which I imagined looking like pink-tipped torpedos, sagging far too low for her age.
Ripplemagne:
"Y--"
Before I could take my order -- egg whites and turkey bacon on a whole wheat bagel with a fuck ton of hot sauce with a nice glass of ice cold OJ -- I was... taken aback a bit. I was actually cut off by the White Mage. Something she doesn't do too often.
The White Mage:
"Bonjour! We are actually waiting for a friend to join us, so can we hold off on le orders until then?"
See, now Whitey's mage had a way of making the surface of my flesh spark and peach hairs running up and down my forearms stand up on end. And, apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought so.
Waitress:
"Y'all ain't from around here, are ye? Y'all accents sound like them Frenchmen on the tele'. We don't get too many of yer kind 'round these parts."
The White Mage:
"Actually, I am from Gaia and Monsieur Ripplemagne is from New York."
Waitress:
"Gaia? I never heard'a that country. That one'a them third world places?"
...Wait. What friend were we waiting for?
Ripplemagne:
"Wait. What friend are we waiting for?"
As Whitey's gaze flipped toward me, her short cropped, brunette hair billowed around her sweet, creamy mug. A polite smirk appeared on her face as the waitress watched as the petite girl's crystalline blue eyes drew a line to my glorious blue-green eyes. It was a devious grin that captured the senses; so scintillating, so mesmerizing. But on the face of an angel like Whitey, it could do no wrong.
I didn't question it. My finely shaped brow rose with suspicion as the moments sped onward. A few minutes passed and the waitress went on her merry way.
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Hayter had quite a deal to say about you zis week. Are we going to roll le episode of Your Feature Presentation to refute him?"
Ripplemagne:
"That'd be a big ol' nay."
The White Mage:
"May I ask why?"
Ripplemagne:
"As I mentioned before, Hayter is a master of compacting his thoughts with reaction formation. As you know, I'm a very candid person. If I believe something, I say it even if it hurts me. Hayter, however, falls under the lump sum of people who do the opposite. I can imagine such a thing effecting his personal life; perhaps he fails to capitalize on speaking up when the pimple in his pants gets a little bubbly for the hot red head sitting next to him or a friend does something that irked him, but he keeps it to himself. Reaction formation is exactly as the name describes: formatting one's reactions to the events that they're given in life.
It's amusing that he describes me as wearing a facade, when his nature is just that. It tickles the soul to see how vastly his interpretation of me differs from his stablemate, Gabriella, who gave a very vivid chronicling of my persona in the events leading up to the Six Man Scramble. I believe she specifically stated that a lot of people believe that my eccentricities are an act, but she knows first hand that that is not so."
The White Mage:
"Well, yes. Anyone who has spent ze time to know you knows you are ze same silly head on and off ze camera."
Ripplemagne:
"In this line of business, it's fair to label anyone you can't clearly define as using a 'gimmick'. As I mentioned before, it's one of the ways that people who fear the unknown seek to cope with it. And because I don't clearly define myself as one thing, it seems to confuse shallow minded people like Hayter. Hayter, for example, can clearly be defined as an egotistical visionary, striving to be known as the best. Very one-dimensional and especially uninteresting. But because he is one-dimensional, he can't comprehend dynamic lifestyles."
The White Mage:
"Oho. So, much like zat Tenth Dimension video you showed me?"
To those of you who have not seen it, I recommend watching it.
Ripplemagne:
"Precisely. Why do we tell jokes, Whitey? Like, say you're at a party and goofing around by the water cooler. Why do we do this?"
The White Mage:
"Um. It makes people smile?"
Ripplemagne:
"Yes, to get a reaction from those around us. Seeing others smile is a gift and we treasure it. As social individuals, we seek to garner reactions from others. Hayter seeks to have people look at him and say 'he's damn good', but the dynamics that I work on are different. When I go out there, I seek to make people laugh, entertain them, make them believe -- make them feel good. And when they believe, they will believe in me and when they believe in me, I am invincible. Hence, the end result is the same; that I am damn good.
Hayter misconstrues this as meaning that I don't take anything seriously. That my bringing joy to others is a defense mechanism. Quite the contrary, I make jokes and all that jazz even in Church. So, can it be that I simply don't take anything seriously?
Of course not. I obviously know what I'm talking about in subjects like religion, psychology, politics, et cetera. And the simple fact of the matter is that I behave the way I do because it's satisfying. Look at any superstar who goes in day in and day out, who takes it seriously in the same way that Hayter believes we all should. They're dead inside. The difference here is the causation.
I don't joke because I don't take it seriously and I don't not take it seriously because I joke. I take it seriously because I joke and I joke because I take it seriously. When you're on fire for something, you live it in your heart and it becomes a an ignition of the heart that soars through the sunset for all of the world to see and cascades down in emerald swarms of passion. You will only see that kind of passion for someone who is on fire for what they're doing."
At this point, I begin to rabidly rub at my nose again, attempting to soothe the sick intensity going on inside my sinuses. After a moment, I could feel myself return to equilibrium...
The White Mage:
"It makes sense. Am I mistaken by presuming that it's a matter of comfort? The more comfortable you are with something, the more open you are to letting yourself out?"
Ripplemagne:
"That's a good way to look at it. Think back to High School. When you were new and didn't quite get the dynamics of the school, you acted all serious business and such. Fast forward to junior year, where you've made friends, and now you're cracking jokes and all that. You've gotten comfortable. I don't recall referring to Hayter as average, but I suspect that that was his way of weaseling out of responding to my elucidation of his hypocrisy.
It kind of amuses me that he first said he was born a winner and then he said he excelled at everything because of a book. Maybe he's into some Calvinist predestination shit, but he can't seem to get his own story straight, which leads me to believe he's speaking just for the sake of speaking.
He goes on to somehow correlate my optimism with being unable to admit weaknesses. It's very strange that he talks about me attempting to conceal my weaknesses, when I've been very candid since I started my career in professional wrestling. In fact, I had plans for the next episode of Your Feature Presentation to actually list all of my weaknesses, one by one.
Lad goes on and on about being unable to lose to me, but what happens if and when he does? Is he, then, a liar and all future declarations of victory are tainted? Time and time again, I've seen mamalukes like Dan Hayter guarantee victory and still come up short. Can anyone ever take such a claim seriously again? If I beat Hayter and he goes on to guarantee victory against Haze, should Haze take that with anything more than a grain of salt?
Then there's the whole VERITAS being more than an understanding, but a nation, blah, blah, blah. Which only serves to prove the point I made from the beginning about alliances, which he adamantly contested.
It's kind of amusing that he talks so much about me out of his ass, when there's so much information on me that he can dig up on Your Feature Presentation. Evidence that strikes what he's saying down."
The White Mage:
"Yes, I am certain that you could find something wrong with everything that Monsieur Hayter has said, but turn around."
Puzzled by the sudden shift, I flip my fringe from my eyes and gallantly turn my head to spot a beautiful woman standing behind me. Auburn hair of the sweetest oak and pools of green eyes comparable to the Nile River in HD. Fitted down her vixen frame was a short black dress with a white collar. It looked like she was trying to 'dress for success' (that's what my High School used to call when we had to wear business attire -- an act that I never once participated in), but still wanted niggas to be starin' at dat ass.
...Wait. I know her.
Holy shit! I know her!
...The red rose in her hair. I... I knew that girl. It had been about a year now, but....
Ripplemagne:
"Straylia!"
The hands of time seemed to go far too fast for me to savor this moment, but I felt the tender embrace of Miss Sarah meld into me as her creamy white hands wrapped around the back of my neck from beneath my arm pits. My bronze-like arms tightly wound around her head as I could feel the world spinning for a moment.
To those of you new to Your Feature Presentation, Miss Sarah was my old manager. With her by my side, we were on top of the world. Some of the best editions of Your Feature Presentation were all because of her. It was that era of Your Feature Presentation that made me known as the it guy to people like James Magnum and Shane Tallin. We started off small; Ripplemagne, The White Mage, Miss Sarah and Chris 'The Tang' Winters.
Wow. Was it only a year ago? It felt like centuries had past. I could still remember those fun times we had. Swimming in the world's most dangerous bodies of water, completely dominating entire shows and, man... just kicking back and having fun. The wins came with the price of me just being me and everyone I got in the ring with was like dominoes. Line 'em up and knock 'em down.
And through it all, Miss Sarah was by my side. After I was fired from my last promotion, Miss Sarah went back home to Australia and...
...Well, yeah.
Ripplemagne:
"What are you doing here?"
Miss Sarah:
"Well, Mage called and told me where you were this week and I wasn't doing anything, so I figured I'd stop by and say hello."
Miss Sarah, who I always called Straylia, had this thick Australian accent. It was so adorable because she'd always try so hard to do things and in this posh voice, she'd make a numbskull out of herself. She was so goofy, even though she tried so hard to act professional.
Ripplemagne:
"Does that mean you're coming back to Your Feature Presentation?!"
Miss Sarah:
"Unfortunately, no. I am settled in back home; I have a job, I'm in school."
Ripplemagne:
"So, to Hell with all of that! You'll make more as my manager and have a lot more fun doing it! And the only homework I give ya involves some giggity, giggity."
Miss Sarah:
"W--"
Ripplemagne:
"Wait for it."
Miss Sarah:
"I--"
Ripplemagne:
"Wait for it."
An intermission was politely placed between the end of that sentence and the beginning of the next.
Ripplemagne:
"Giggity goo."
Miss Sarah:
"I'm sorry. I just can't."
Ripplemagne:
"Do you know how hard it is to do the boring businessy stuff and be my sexy, nipple-touching self? Very difficult, Straylia! C'mon, I need you back."
The White Mage:
"Ahem. If you all don't mind, I am rather famished. Could we perhaps order breakfast? Did you eat, Miss Sarah?"
Miss Sarah:
"Oh, yeah. I had a punani from this little deli not too far from here."
Ripplemagne:
"...Wait. You had what!?"
Miss Sarah:
"A punani. You've never had one?"
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, de Magne has had much punani in his day and the Ripplemagne knows from experience that you are an avid lover of a tender mix of punani and--"
The White Mage:
"Miss Sarah, I believe ze word you are looking for is 'panini'."
Miss Sarah:
"...Oh."
Ripplemagne:
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The day kind of breezed by like a sand on a windy beach. I always had that problem. They say time flies by when you're having fun, but how short does that make life if you live it to the fullest? In a developmental stage where most people are still looking to find themselves, I've done much with my life. My list of things to do before I die seems like the Never Ending Story.
Sometimes, I worry that I don't have enough time. That I won't be able to do everything I want to do before death takes me.
...Then I snap back to reality and remember that I'm going to live forever. Silly Ripplemagne.
Several thousand sneezes, an endless banner of joy-lavished laughter, being chased out of a synagogue for heckling a speaker for Yom Kippur and four makeshift cowboy showdowns with horses and paintball guns later and the sun morphed into a crescent hologram in the sky. Bursting from the navy blue roof of our world, the moon seemed like its own entity. Extending its heart to us, wishing it could laugh along with us.
"Perhaps the stars in the sky are loved ones letting us know they are nearby, guiding us through the night."
I won't even get into my Water-Soul Theory. In the evening, we snuck down to the Gulf coastline and walked along the spongy soil. Splashing one another and laughing, we collected sea shells by the shore before loading back into the trailer and heading to the hotel we had booked.
We had gotten back at around three in the morning or so, which was kind of taboo for the rinky dink, country bumpkin town that we were in. We giggled and tittered as we snuck through the hallways with our index fingers and thumbs pressed together, pretending we were secret agents. I hummed the James Bond theme song and Miss Sarah led the three of us back to the room with even more theatrics in her secret agent impression than me.
Finally, we came upon the ivory-painted doorway. I goosed Whitey in the ass, prompting a very French scream from her lips before taking the room key in hand and jamming it in the rusty keyhole. It took a few twists and maneuvering, but I managed to slam the door open with my shoulder as I turned back to the girls with a chipper grin on my face. It was that moment in time that will live on in my mind forever, but even that was trumped by what happened next.
In a casual turn, I spun around to face inside the hotel room only to have the shit scared out of me when the lights went on by themselves. In my hazey sight, I could see what was a plethora of... people surrounding me...
...
"SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RIPPLEMAGNE!"
After tripping over my own feet and falling into the nearby trash can, there was just a moment in time where I was looking around me like a deer in headlights.
It was like my entire world came full circle. Before me were my cheerleaders, the Fire Ant, Lina Zalizati, Bucky Skyler... and friends from yesterday. Dwight Mare, Napalm, Regina Parish, CJ Davenport, Andy V., Valeah...
It had been a long time since I'd seen Miss Sarah, but even longer since I had seen any of these people. Napalm, an old rival and a tag team partner along with his wife, Regina and son, CJ. Andy V. and Valeah were a part of my entourage back in the day. Dwight Mare was a member of my stable, whom I had gone on to dominate my last promotion with. Bucky Skyler was a part of that same stable, as was...
...Well, he wasn't here. I guess I wasn't too surprised by that.
To see these faces was like euphoria incarnated with the feeling I get when I make sticky to pictures of Lina Zalizati and produced an offspring in my psyche. I was... enchanted.
Miss Sarah:
"We knew that you'd probably be busy on the 28th, so we decided to celebrate it early. Especially being that a lot of us were off from our jobs around now, making it easier to stop in Texas."
I... I... I...
Blacked out.
...
"You know, Hayter wasn't wrong about everything. He may be a fool in presuming a facade, but perhaps you should... come at him without the child's play. See if he has what it takes to destroy what's lied buried within you. Show him... show them all... show them the darker side.
Believe it."
* * *
Fin.
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
HA~CHOOOO~!
The White Mage:
"Santé, for le sixteenth time!"
Ripplemagne:
"What'chu gettin' mad for!? I can't control my... my... m-my..."
My unconscionably sexy, knobbish nose was a shade of red not far off from that of a fire truck and swiftly buried into the magnificent Ripplemagne's antecubital space; my perfectly crafted bicep flexing into my Adonis-like makeup as a brilliant ha-choo ignited like the fucking Fourth of July from my facial... face. Like an island rising from the ocean, my flushed face rose from my Machu Picchu-esque bicep; tear ducts filled with a twinkling gleam and jaw hanging about an inch lower than its proper alignment. Wincing, I could only grumble at the infernal plague that was upon me, blemishing the beauty and splendor that has come to be the Patriarch of Pretty's aesthetics. This infernal curse was like the rapture erupting from my nostrils! It burnt like the hot dick of Satan performing nasal sex!
Worse though. It was fucking with the Patriarch of Pretty's pretty! Unacceptable!
In a nasal, utterly feeble monotone, I cleared my throat and bridged my words from earlier together, full circle...
Ripplemagne:
"...Allergies."
Sniffling, everybody's favorite wrestler -- your American hero -- leaned back in his blessed breakfast stool. Such a stool was honored to be graced by the luscious, plump fanny that was stitched to the perfection that was the King of Hearts. Oh, it was true. Any wimmenz who dared to place their fanny in that stool after me would feel the sunshine and grace transcend them through their coola. Oh, yes, they'd feel a... a... a stigmata of Ripplemagne... Ripplemagne peeing in their butt.
Ah, such wimmenz could be envied. Such a jovial euphoria could be equated to immaculate conception. These wimmenz would feel the intense nirvana of the glorious one himself and be sainted for the temple that would become their bodies. People would make great pilgrimages from all points of the world to behold the transcendental fannies of these lucky wimmenz.
...I will not mention what happens with the men.
...No, really. I don't give a fuck how curious you are. Go to Hell.
In spite of the dapper creature that I am... these fucking allergies were determined to be the end of me. I aggressively mashed the arch of my nose with the backside of my fist. A quiet whimper with a puppy-dog echo creaked through the gloss of cherry chapstick on my luscious, rosy lips. Yes, I was whinging. These fucking sinuses have been inflamed for a few weeks now and I've suffered with the worst allergies my doctor has ever seen since I was an infant.
In my schnoz, I could actually feel the wads of snot vibrating against the cords of few and far nasal hairs coasting up my nostrils. The skanks mambo'd behind the bony frame at the peak of de Magne's nose. Oh, de Magne's poor, beautiful nose. To put it in perspective, my cilia looked like pulsing, red maces; spikes and all.
The cafones in the diner were all staring and it didn't have to do with fame or my incomparable good looks. Like Whitey said, that was the sixteenth time de Magne had ha-choo'd and the waiter hadn't even came to our table yet. The fat white couple and their young, obese look-alike, Junior flared their noses at me as if I had some fucking psychokinetic ability to be all 'hey, allergies, shut the fuck up.' I think these dumb fucks think that I actually wanted to feel like Lucifer just jizzed through my nasal passage all the way through to my medulla-fucking-oblongata.
...Kind of gives a whole new take on 'fucking your brains out', doesn't it? Lets just hope we don't wind up having a brain child. Oh-ho!
Anyway, the fucking trembling mustaches on the three carpenters with their pregg0r-looking beer guts was emblematic of the hostility these God damn hillbillies had for me at the moment. Excuse the fuck out of me for ruining your morning ingestion with the burning sensation in my fucking face..
...To put it in perspective, even family of fat, black people visiting from New York were staring at me like 'damn, shut the fuck up, man.' But fuck them; I could give two cum drops about what these vultures think. At this moment in time, the agonizing inflamation in my nostrils took more precedent than anything else. Imagine being completely immersed in water. What's on your mind?
You want to breathe, right? Nothing else matters besides the fact that you want to breathe. That's how I felt with this raping and pillaging of my adenoids. It was kind of a turn around because that passion; that 'nothing else matters besides this'... was normally something positive. If I were training, nothing else mattered besides being a champion. Number one. If I were reading, nothing else mattered besides ensuring that I knew ten times more than anyone else around me. Dance? Nothing else mattered besides being the best. Free running? Nothing else mattered besides being twelve paces ahead of all of my comrades. Writing? Nothing else mattered besides people garnering more from what I had to say than anyone else.
That's just the way I was.
Anyway, the waitress strolled by. She wasn't ugly, but not up to par for the King of Hearts; a little too pear-shaped and her hair was far too unkempt to be rocking against the Ripplemagne's testiculars as she gives him the gold. She sported an old fashioned black and white sundress and had her dusty-looking, cornflower hair held back by an ebony, hard plastic headband.
Waitress:
"Howdy, y'all. Cinnae git ye anythin'?"
The coarse, Texan accent of the woman was a bit over the top for my tastes. I always got a popsicle in my pants for a nice Southern accent -- particular Tennessee accents -- but it was just put on a little too thick for me to want to jizz on her tits, which I imagined looking like pink-tipped torpedos, sagging far too low for her age.
Ripplemagne:
"Y--"
Before I could take my order -- egg whites and turkey bacon on a whole wheat bagel with a fuck ton of hot sauce with a nice glass of ice cold OJ -- I was... taken aback a bit. I was actually cut off by the White Mage. Something she doesn't do too often.
The White Mage:
"Bonjour! We are actually waiting for a friend to join us, so can we hold off on le orders until then?"
See, now Whitey's mage had a way of making the surface of my flesh spark and peach hairs running up and down my forearms stand up on end. And, apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought so.
Waitress:
"Y'all ain't from around here, are ye? Y'all accents sound like them Frenchmen on the tele'. We don't get too many of yer kind 'round these parts."
The White Mage:
"Actually, I am from Gaia and Monsieur Ripplemagne is from New York."
Waitress:
"Gaia? I never heard'a that country. That one'a them third world places?"
...Wait. What friend were we waiting for?
Ripplemagne:
"Wait. What friend are we waiting for?"
As Whitey's gaze flipped toward me, her short cropped, brunette hair billowed around her sweet, creamy mug. A polite smirk appeared on her face as the waitress watched as the petite girl's crystalline blue eyes drew a line to my glorious blue-green eyes. It was a devious grin that captured the senses; so scintillating, so mesmerizing. But on the face of an angel like Whitey, it could do no wrong.
I didn't question it. My finely shaped brow rose with suspicion as the moments sped onward. A few minutes passed and the waitress went on her merry way.
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Hayter had quite a deal to say about you zis week. Are we going to roll le episode of Your Feature Presentation to refute him?"
Ripplemagne:
"That'd be a big ol' nay."
The White Mage:
"May I ask why?"
Ripplemagne:
"As I mentioned before, Hayter is a master of compacting his thoughts with reaction formation. As you know, I'm a very candid person. If I believe something, I say it even if it hurts me. Hayter, however, falls under the lump sum of people who do the opposite. I can imagine such a thing effecting his personal life; perhaps he fails to capitalize on speaking up when the pimple in his pants gets a little bubbly for the hot red head sitting next to him or a friend does something that irked him, but he keeps it to himself. Reaction formation is exactly as the name describes: formatting one's reactions to the events that they're given in life.
It's amusing that he describes me as wearing a facade, when his nature is just that. It tickles the soul to see how vastly his interpretation of me differs from his stablemate, Gabriella, who gave a very vivid chronicling of my persona in the events leading up to the Six Man Scramble. I believe she specifically stated that a lot of people believe that my eccentricities are an act, but she knows first hand that that is not so."
The White Mage:
"Well, yes. Anyone who has spent ze time to know you knows you are ze same silly head on and off ze camera."
Ripplemagne:
"In this line of business, it's fair to label anyone you can't clearly define as using a 'gimmick'. As I mentioned before, it's one of the ways that people who fear the unknown seek to cope with it. And because I don't clearly define myself as one thing, it seems to confuse shallow minded people like Hayter. Hayter, for example, can clearly be defined as an egotistical visionary, striving to be known as the best. Very one-dimensional and especially uninteresting. But because he is one-dimensional, he can't comprehend dynamic lifestyles."
The White Mage:
"Oho. So, much like zat Tenth Dimension video you showed me?"
To those of you who have not seen it, I recommend watching it.
Ripplemagne:
"Precisely. Why do we tell jokes, Whitey? Like, say you're at a party and goofing around by the water cooler. Why do we do this?"
The White Mage:
"Um. It makes people smile?"
Ripplemagne:
"Yes, to get a reaction from those around us. Seeing others smile is a gift and we treasure it. As social individuals, we seek to garner reactions from others. Hayter seeks to have people look at him and say 'he's damn good', but the dynamics that I work on are different. When I go out there, I seek to make people laugh, entertain them, make them believe -- make them feel good. And when they believe, they will believe in me and when they believe in me, I am invincible. Hence, the end result is the same; that I am damn good.
Hayter misconstrues this as meaning that I don't take anything seriously. That my bringing joy to others is a defense mechanism. Quite the contrary, I make jokes and all that jazz even in Church. So, can it be that I simply don't take anything seriously?
Of course not. I obviously know what I'm talking about in subjects like religion, psychology, politics, et cetera. And the simple fact of the matter is that I behave the way I do because it's satisfying. Look at any superstar who goes in day in and day out, who takes it seriously in the same way that Hayter believes we all should. They're dead inside. The difference here is the causation.
I don't joke because I don't take it seriously and I don't not take it seriously because I joke. I take it seriously because I joke and I joke because I take it seriously. When you're on fire for something, you live it in your heart and it becomes a an ignition of the heart that soars through the sunset for all of the world to see and cascades down in emerald swarms of passion. You will only see that kind of passion for someone who is on fire for what they're doing."
At this point, I begin to rabidly rub at my nose again, attempting to soothe the sick intensity going on inside my sinuses. After a moment, I could feel myself return to equilibrium...
The White Mage:
"It makes sense. Am I mistaken by presuming that it's a matter of comfort? The more comfortable you are with something, the more open you are to letting yourself out?"
Ripplemagne:
"That's a good way to look at it. Think back to High School. When you were new and didn't quite get the dynamics of the school, you acted all serious business and such. Fast forward to junior year, where you've made friends, and now you're cracking jokes and all that. You've gotten comfortable. I don't recall referring to Hayter as average, but I suspect that that was his way of weaseling out of responding to my elucidation of his hypocrisy.
It kind of amuses me that he first said he was born a winner and then he said he excelled at everything because of a book. Maybe he's into some Calvinist predestination shit, but he can't seem to get his own story straight, which leads me to believe he's speaking just for the sake of speaking.
He goes on to somehow correlate my optimism with being unable to admit weaknesses. It's very strange that he talks about me attempting to conceal my weaknesses, when I've been very candid since I started my career in professional wrestling. In fact, I had plans for the next episode of Your Feature Presentation to actually list all of my weaknesses, one by one.
Lad goes on and on about being unable to lose to me, but what happens if and when he does? Is he, then, a liar and all future declarations of victory are tainted? Time and time again, I've seen mamalukes like Dan Hayter guarantee victory and still come up short. Can anyone ever take such a claim seriously again? If I beat Hayter and he goes on to guarantee victory against Haze, should Haze take that with anything more than a grain of salt?
Then there's the whole VERITAS being more than an understanding, but a nation, blah, blah, blah. Which only serves to prove the point I made from the beginning about alliances, which he adamantly contested.
It's kind of amusing that he talks so much about me out of his ass, when there's so much information on me that he can dig up on Your Feature Presentation. Evidence that strikes what he's saying down."
The White Mage:
"Yes, I am certain that you could find something wrong with everything that Monsieur Hayter has said, but turn around."
Puzzled by the sudden shift, I flip my fringe from my eyes and gallantly turn my head to spot a beautiful woman standing behind me. Auburn hair of the sweetest oak and pools of green eyes comparable to the Nile River in HD. Fitted down her vixen frame was a short black dress with a white collar. It looked like she was trying to 'dress for success' (that's what my High School used to call when we had to wear business attire -- an act that I never once participated in), but still wanted niggas to be starin' at dat ass.
...Wait. I know her.
Holy shit! I know her!
...The red rose in her hair. I... I knew that girl. It had been about a year now, but....
Ripplemagne:
"Straylia!"
The hands of time seemed to go far too fast for me to savor this moment, but I felt the tender embrace of Miss Sarah meld into me as her creamy white hands wrapped around the back of my neck from beneath my arm pits. My bronze-like arms tightly wound around her head as I could feel the world spinning for a moment.
To those of you new to Your Feature Presentation, Miss Sarah was my old manager. With her by my side, we were on top of the world. Some of the best editions of Your Feature Presentation were all because of her. It was that era of Your Feature Presentation that made me known as the it guy to people like James Magnum and Shane Tallin. We started off small; Ripplemagne, The White Mage, Miss Sarah and Chris 'The Tang' Winters.
Wow. Was it only a year ago? It felt like centuries had past. I could still remember those fun times we had. Swimming in the world's most dangerous bodies of water, completely dominating entire shows and, man... just kicking back and having fun. The wins came with the price of me just being me and everyone I got in the ring with was like dominoes. Line 'em up and knock 'em down.
And through it all, Miss Sarah was by my side. After I was fired from my last promotion, Miss Sarah went back home to Australia and...
...Well, yeah.
Ripplemagne:
"What are you doing here?"
Miss Sarah:
"Well, Mage called and told me where you were this week and I wasn't doing anything, so I figured I'd stop by and say hello."
Miss Sarah, who I always called Straylia, had this thick Australian accent. It was so adorable because she'd always try so hard to do things and in this posh voice, she'd make a numbskull out of herself. She was so goofy, even though she tried so hard to act professional.
Ripplemagne:
"Does that mean you're coming back to Your Feature Presentation?!"
Miss Sarah:
"Unfortunately, no. I am settled in back home; I have a job, I'm in school."
Ripplemagne:
"So, to Hell with all of that! You'll make more as my manager and have a lot more fun doing it! And the only homework I give ya involves some giggity, giggity."
Miss Sarah:
"W--"
Ripplemagne:
"Wait for it."
Miss Sarah:
"I--"
Ripplemagne:
"Wait for it."
An intermission was politely placed between the end of that sentence and the beginning of the next.
Ripplemagne:
"Giggity goo."
Miss Sarah:
"I'm sorry. I just can't."
Ripplemagne:
"Do you know how hard it is to do the boring businessy stuff and be my sexy, nipple-touching self? Very difficult, Straylia! C'mon, I need you back."
The White Mage:
"Ahem. If you all don't mind, I am rather famished. Could we perhaps order breakfast? Did you eat, Miss Sarah?"
Miss Sarah:
"Oh, yeah. I had a punani from this little deli not too far from here."
Ripplemagne:
"...Wait. You had what!?"
Miss Sarah:
"A punani. You've never had one?"
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, de Magne has had much punani in his day and the Ripplemagne knows from experience that you are an avid lover of a tender mix of punani and--"
The White Mage:
"Miss Sarah, I believe ze word you are looking for is 'panini'."
Miss Sarah:
"...Oh."
Ripplemagne:
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The day kind of breezed by like a sand on a windy beach. I always had that problem. They say time flies by when you're having fun, but how short does that make life if you live it to the fullest? In a developmental stage where most people are still looking to find themselves, I've done much with my life. My list of things to do before I die seems like the Never Ending Story.
Sometimes, I worry that I don't have enough time. That I won't be able to do everything I want to do before death takes me.
...Then I snap back to reality and remember that I'm going to live forever. Silly Ripplemagne.
Several thousand sneezes, an endless banner of joy-lavished laughter, being chased out of a synagogue for heckling a speaker for Yom Kippur and four makeshift cowboy showdowns with horses and paintball guns later and the sun morphed into a crescent hologram in the sky. Bursting from the navy blue roof of our world, the moon seemed like its own entity. Extending its heart to us, wishing it could laugh along with us.
"Perhaps the stars in the sky are loved ones letting us know they are nearby, guiding us through the night."
I won't even get into my Water-Soul Theory. In the evening, we snuck down to the Gulf coastline and walked along the spongy soil. Splashing one another and laughing, we collected sea shells by the shore before loading back into the trailer and heading to the hotel we had booked.
We had gotten back at around three in the morning or so, which was kind of taboo for the rinky dink, country bumpkin town that we were in. We giggled and tittered as we snuck through the hallways with our index fingers and thumbs pressed together, pretending we were secret agents. I hummed the James Bond theme song and Miss Sarah led the three of us back to the room with even more theatrics in her secret agent impression than me.
Finally, we came upon the ivory-painted doorway. I goosed Whitey in the ass, prompting a very French scream from her lips before taking the room key in hand and jamming it in the rusty keyhole. It took a few twists and maneuvering, but I managed to slam the door open with my shoulder as I turned back to the girls with a chipper grin on my face. It was that moment in time that will live on in my mind forever, but even that was trumped by what happened next.
In a casual turn, I spun around to face inside the hotel room only to have the shit scared out of me when the lights went on by themselves. In my hazey sight, I could see what was a plethora of... people surrounding me...
...
"SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RIPPLEMAGNE!"
After tripping over my own feet and falling into the nearby trash can, there was just a moment in time where I was looking around me like a deer in headlights.
It was like my entire world came full circle. Before me were my cheerleaders, the Fire Ant, Lina Zalizati, Bucky Skyler... and friends from yesterday. Dwight Mare, Napalm, Regina Parish, CJ Davenport, Andy V., Valeah...
It had been a long time since I'd seen Miss Sarah, but even longer since I had seen any of these people. Napalm, an old rival and a tag team partner along with his wife, Regina and son, CJ. Andy V. and Valeah were a part of my entourage back in the day. Dwight Mare was a member of my stable, whom I had gone on to dominate my last promotion with. Bucky Skyler was a part of that same stable, as was...
...Well, he wasn't here. I guess I wasn't too surprised by that.
To see these faces was like euphoria incarnated with the feeling I get when I make sticky to pictures of Lina Zalizati and produced an offspring in my psyche. I was... enchanted.
Miss Sarah:
"We knew that you'd probably be busy on the 28th, so we decided to celebrate it early. Especially being that a lot of us were off from our jobs around now, making it easier to stop in Texas."
I... I... I...
Blacked out.
...
"You know, Hayter wasn't wrong about everything. He may be a fool in presuming a facade, but perhaps you should... come at him without the child's play. See if he has what it takes to destroy what's lied buried within you. Show him... show them all... show them the darker side.
Believe it."
* * *
Fin.
* * *
