Play Time Is Over
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
When the lights go on and those dulcet, introductory tones cue, it's like my pores contract and a wave of psychosis overtakes me. The sympathetic nervous system of yours truly flares like the anguishing desire of a virgin to survive the crossfire of war; passion enthralls my person and the eerie quirkiness that makes my hands a pair of golden pillars that shines virtue like the New Colossus magnify and become solar flares. It's like looking at an ant under a microscope and seeing a Formic and truly getting to see all of the intricacies that make it; right down to the twitching feelers . Though, concepts like their ability to communicate wholly through the scent of smell will still slip under the radar, the rush spikes the thriller parameter of my person.
Any second now, Whitey is going to call "lights, camera, action" and the trademark overtone of "And now for your feature presentation" will fill the airwaves. It's on that stage where an imaginative young kid from suburban Queens collects an identity vastly different than the one superimposed on him as a child. It's on that stage that Eugene Fitzherbert becomes Flynn Rider and elicits a resounding "fuck you" to everyone who didn't believe in me growing up. It's where, day in and day out, I elicit a resounding "fuck you" to people like Xtremity who insist that they'll end Ripplemagnia.
It's where my birth names can all rest in peace in plots lined up in my backyard and the ghost of Christmas Future materializes into a tangible entity with a glowing pink aura exuding through the atmosphere in cyclones of whirlwinding euphoria. This, my friends, is my stage.
This is where Ripplemagne is seen by the whole world...
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
Hearing that introduction on a weekly basis again -- and not from drunken pals back home trying to be cute -- was invigorating. In the last few years of my life, I went from rags to riches; from nerd to superstar; from street rat to sultan. The kid who was always picked last for every sport in school, failed every class, was in fist fights every day and came home to be vastly dominated at everything by his much older, much larger brother -- was the diamond in the rough. And all of a sudden, found himself with the Midas touch. It's like crawling in the darkness fine-tuned my senses and made me a kind of... Supermagne.
My ego the size of Mt. Everest, I strode forth with that oh-so adorable smirk of mine that has captured the hearts and imaginations of the world. But oh, I was a wildman; a gunslinger. A contemporary John Wayne with the finesse of Revolver Ocelot and the badassery of that one nigga from Red Dead Revolver. Donning a white cowboy hat fashioned from what seemed to be velvet, I distinguished myself from the black hats/red shirts in this Wild West film. I tapped the front end of my hat as the reflecting lights beamed off of my aqua-marine, blue-green eyes and it was like you could see the sea floor; pirate chests and all.
A dashing cat with the swag of a thousand Kanyes, I streamed my lips in a metro coat of cherry chapstick and flashed my polished, razor sharp canine tooth which was obviously and unashamedly treated with those nifty little Crest White Strip doohickies. Dressing classy as per usual, I peacocked a fanciful tie-dye neck scarf, bleach-spotted bootcut jeans and a neon orange, fitted t-shirt with the emerald forested Tropicana logo centered over my boisterous pectorals.
Sh. I'm about to talk.
Ripplemagne:
"Stand back. There's a Hurrimagne comin' through."
Witty as always, I am. Ho, ho.
Ripplemagne:
"Might I just say that I love April Fools Day? It's the only day of the entire year that I can reasonably be a pest."
All was going typically.
But something still hadn't recovered since I departed last year. I mentioned that the lights, camera and action was invigorating... which it was. But in the back of my mind, I still knew something was wrong.
* * *
It was the last time I was in a Full Throttle Wrestling ring since my return last week. It was the only time in my illustrious, albeit brief, career that I -- the Patriot of Pretty -- ever submitted to a single foe. Ever withdrew from a single challenge.
October 13, 2010.
It happened so fast, most of the details are sketchy to me. The match, itself, was like a blur; maybe one of the fastest of my career. Whatever the events were that led up to it, one event is as a lucid in my mind as fine china. I can remember even the smell of the lard ass in the front row and in general, I have no recollection of the senses of things. I have perhaps the least photographic memory ever. But this was different.
We both went over the top rope to the ground floor below. Some 4chan brat with a V for Vendetta mask chucked a few handfuls of popcorn at us as we both shot back to our feet like superballs. Relishing in some busty broad two seats away from the /b/tard, screaming some shit to me that I ain't never even heard in pornos -- I stood erect (no, not in my pants, perv; my spine.) Hands on my hips, I chuckled to myself heroically like the nigga in Fable 1 before rearing my butterfly hands back and playing a crackling game of patty cake on Kaoru's face. I had the fucker on the run, but he played some biznitch move and kicked my leg out that I had injured a week before in a match with Damiel Santiago.
Needless to say, I dropped to a knee. You don't appreciate how loud a large man can slap on his own chest until you're standing in front of him like David facing down Goliath (without the sling/stone combo.) I remember looking up into his treebark eyes and saw genuine hatred and a desire to break me. And for a second, I wondered why. Him and I had never fought before and, really, our only communication was me countering his vitriolic attacks via promo that week. But he eventually charged at me like a bull infected with rabies in an attempt to knock my head off with a clothesline, but it was in that instant that I realized why he was trying to break me.
Because I stood for something. Something positive. The people loved me because my cheer was rivaled only by the man in red and white pajamas, himself. Their hope and aspirations for me was embedded in my spinal column as I tore myself from the ground and braced to intercept him with a flying lariat, but...
That's when it happened. As big as he was, he... didn't want to intercept me. I torpedo'd forward with my forearm unsheathed to topple the son of a bitch. But you could see my impasioned face morph into confusion as I sailed passed him at my side and transformed entirely when I tilted my head forward and saw what was in the crossfire of my meteorite-esque body.
Lina Zalizati.
* * *
Kaoru rushed over me like a rain cloud and began to rail into me, but I didn't feel a thing after that. Eventually, he put me in my own favorite submission and I tapped out before it was even fully applied.
Ripplemagne:
"You know, of all the geriatric mesomorphs in the Octane division, I get stuck in a singles competition with the guy who ruined his credibility by changing gimmicks. Do I even need to point out that he is merely a watered down, half-cast of yours truly? It's not that I'm saying he has no ring ability -- with a name like Scott Wrestling, he better. I, honestly, have no idea. I've never watched a single one of his matches. Has he even had any? Tiffany! Look into that!"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, I am Ze White Mage. Not Tiffany. Tiffany Siegel is the producer of ze Glenn Beck show."
Ripplemagne:
"Imbecile. I am Glenn Beck."
The White Mage:
"But zen who is Monseiur Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"Also me. Much the same as Aladdin, Flynn Rider, Johnny Bravo, the Fresh Prince, Kamina, Haruhi Suzumiya, V and Paris Hilton."
The White Mage:
"Paris Hilton?"
Ripplemagne:
"I like to spice up my schizoidocity every now and then. But point is, this Scott Wrestling bloke -- and I'm banking on him attempting to correct me with his new Robert Hancock name in a matter-of-factly tone. This Scott Wrestling bloke is kind of in league with the tonality in my last edition of Your Feature Presentation and my pre-match diatribe to Xtremity.
Which, by the way, I have a message for you, Xtremity: Ow, mother fucker! That kendo stick fucking hurt!
Anyway, de Magne believes--"
Even my commanding, Joe Pesci vocals was drowned out all of a sudden by a bestial crash of the revolving door being kicked open. Whitey behind the camera was so professional, not even paying heed to them coming in as she kept the camera in fixed position.
But I did. In seconds, there were six burly dudes in uniform with more hair on their arms than I had on my head. Though, obviously not as luxurious as my flowing locks. Ho-ho! What stuck out to me though was the woman who walked in last; tailored in a business suit of the finest craft, but eye-rollably fitted with pants instead of a skirt. Off the bat, I can tell whoever this is, I'm not going to get along with.
But there she was, looping chestnut hair weaving around her cream-toned, slender neck down to the middle of her back. The woman's hourglass frame was offset by her modest dress and stern expression, which was outfitted with low brows and a narrow nose cast into the air like a snooty tycoon.
More than a little aggravated by her brazen display of disrespect for the glory and splendor that is Your Feature Presentation, I puffed my chest and stepped up to the tallest son of a bitch in the party of people and locked gazes with him...
...For a second before walking passed him and confronting the woman with her prim and proper clipboard and polished heels. What? She seemed like the brains of the operation. I wasn't scared.
Ripplemagne:
"Oi, chocha. Now, the Ripplemagne is aware that he is a big celebrity with a sex appeal that would get the hex put upon him by the Greek God Apollo if it weren't for the fact that the Patriot of Pretty snee-snashed that nigga and left him in a ditch somewhere, but--"
???:
"Save the idle chit chat."
This little bitch. She actually held her clipboard in front of my face to cut me off while she said that. And in her tonality, I could feel my blood vessels burst with the inclination to rape and pillage Europe on a murderous conquest of American exceptionalism. I could hear it in her accent; she was from the cesspool of hot and cold belligerence coiled in a sickening and raunch keystone of Nanny Statism.
Manchester, England.
???:
"Girl with the camera, please see your way to the exit."
In the eyes of Whitey, I could see not only insult, but hurt. Tilting her head, she could only give the woman standing beside me a glare that could burn holes. But somehow, I could feel those laser beams hitting me as well. Maybe moreso.
The White Mage:
"Excuse me?"
???:
"You heard me. Leave here now. You are useless to the future proceedings of this contract and dismissed from your post as camera flunkie to the Ripplemagne. Go home and don't come back."
The sternness in this woman's voice cut through Whitey like razor blades and I never knew it before, but Whitey must have been a very sensitive person because I could actually see her eyes blanket in a glossy layer of tears yet to fall.
I didn't understand it, but Whitey actually flicked off her camera and left, gleaming her awestruck peepers into mine. It was a rarity, but I was actually like a deer in headlights as this all went on. It wasn't until the door swung behind Whitey that I could feel my body move again as my heart felt like it had leaped into my throat.
Ripplemagne:
"I do hope you're a rather fast talker."
???:
"An even faster thinker, fortunately for you. My name is Sophia Sheffield and by way of your new contract with Full Throttle Wrestling, I have been regrettably assigned to be your new manager."
Ripplemagne:
"Haha, cute April Fools joke. You can come on out now, Whitey. I'll say, you had me for a second, but a word of advice; make your April Fools Day pranks a little less over the top. The more believable, the more you can pitch. But giving me a manager that I didn't assign is j--"
???:
"I do not care for your classless, ignorant sputterings. You can read the contract for yourself."
Normally, when you call someone out on their April Fools prank, you stop at that point. But I decided to play along and take the contract in hand, eying it over.
Ripplemagne:
"Blah blah blah. 'Due to the unpredictability of contracting Mr. Ripplemagne, he will be assigned a manager/supervisor by the company to stifle liability for the company.'"
???:
"Play time is over."
My eyes were still scanning over the paper as the woman about-faced and marched from the room with the condescending pattering of her heels brisking her away. At the bottom of the page was her signature beneath his own.
Sophia Sheffield.
* * *
The following script is non-televised and is strictly behind the scenes content.
* * *
When the lights go on and those dulcet, introductory tones cue, it's like my pores contract and a wave of psychosis overtakes me. The sympathetic nervous system of yours truly flares like the anguishing desire of a virgin to survive the crossfire of war; passion enthralls my person and the eerie quirkiness that makes my hands a pair of golden pillars that shines virtue like the New Colossus magnify and become solar flares. It's like looking at an ant under a microscope and seeing a Formic and truly getting to see all of the intricacies that make it; right down to the twitching feelers . Though, concepts like their ability to communicate wholly through the scent of smell will still slip under the radar, the rush spikes the thriller parameter of my person.
Any second now, Whitey is going to call "lights, camera, action" and the trademark overtone of "And now for your feature presentation" will fill the airwaves. It's on that stage where an imaginative young kid from suburban Queens collects an identity vastly different than the one superimposed on him as a child. It's on that stage that Eugene Fitzherbert becomes Flynn Rider and elicits a resounding "fuck you" to everyone who didn't believe in me growing up. It's where, day in and day out, I elicit a resounding "fuck you" to people like Xtremity who insist that they'll end Ripplemagnia.
It's where my birth names can all rest in peace in plots lined up in my backyard and the ghost of Christmas Future materializes into a tangible entity with a glowing pink aura exuding through the atmosphere in cyclones of whirlwinding euphoria. This, my friends, is my stage.
This is where Ripplemagne is seen by the whole world...
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
Hearing that introduction on a weekly basis again -- and not from drunken pals back home trying to be cute -- was invigorating. In the last few years of my life, I went from rags to riches; from nerd to superstar; from street rat to sultan. The kid who was always picked last for every sport in school, failed every class, was in fist fights every day and came home to be vastly dominated at everything by his much older, much larger brother -- was the diamond in the rough. And all of a sudden, found himself with the Midas touch. It's like crawling in the darkness fine-tuned my senses and made me a kind of... Supermagne.
My ego the size of Mt. Everest, I strode forth with that oh-so adorable smirk of mine that has captured the hearts and imaginations of the world. But oh, I was a wildman; a gunslinger. A contemporary John Wayne with the finesse of Revolver Ocelot and the badassery of that one nigga from Red Dead Revolver. Donning a white cowboy hat fashioned from what seemed to be velvet, I distinguished myself from the black hats/red shirts in this Wild West film. I tapped the front end of my hat as the reflecting lights beamed off of my aqua-marine, blue-green eyes and it was like you could see the sea floor; pirate chests and all.
A dashing cat with the swag of a thousand Kanyes, I streamed my lips in a metro coat of cherry chapstick and flashed my polished, razor sharp canine tooth which was obviously and unashamedly treated with those nifty little Crest White Strip doohickies. Dressing classy as per usual, I peacocked a fanciful tie-dye neck scarf, bleach-spotted bootcut jeans and a neon orange, fitted t-shirt with the emerald forested Tropicana logo centered over my boisterous pectorals.
Sh. I'm about to talk.
Ripplemagne:
"Stand back. There's a Hurrimagne comin' through."
Witty as always, I am. Ho, ho.
Ripplemagne:
"Might I just say that I love April Fools Day? It's the only day of the entire year that I can reasonably be a pest."
All was going typically.
But something still hadn't recovered since I departed last year. I mentioned that the lights, camera and action was invigorating... which it was. But in the back of my mind, I still knew something was wrong.
* * *
It was the last time I was in a Full Throttle Wrestling ring since my return last week. It was the only time in my illustrious, albeit brief, career that I -- the Patriot of Pretty -- ever submitted to a single foe. Ever withdrew from a single challenge.
October 13, 2010.
It happened so fast, most of the details are sketchy to me. The match, itself, was like a blur; maybe one of the fastest of my career. Whatever the events were that led up to it, one event is as a lucid in my mind as fine china. I can remember even the smell of the lard ass in the front row and in general, I have no recollection of the senses of things. I have perhaps the least photographic memory ever. But this was different.
We both went over the top rope to the ground floor below. Some 4chan brat with a V for Vendetta mask chucked a few handfuls of popcorn at us as we both shot back to our feet like superballs. Relishing in some busty broad two seats away from the /b/tard, screaming some shit to me that I ain't never even heard in pornos -- I stood erect (no, not in my pants, perv; my spine.) Hands on my hips, I chuckled to myself heroically like the nigga in Fable 1 before rearing my butterfly hands back and playing a crackling game of patty cake on Kaoru's face. I had the fucker on the run, but he played some biznitch move and kicked my leg out that I had injured a week before in a match with Damiel Santiago.
Needless to say, I dropped to a knee. You don't appreciate how loud a large man can slap on his own chest until you're standing in front of him like David facing down Goliath (without the sling/stone combo.) I remember looking up into his treebark eyes and saw genuine hatred and a desire to break me. And for a second, I wondered why. Him and I had never fought before and, really, our only communication was me countering his vitriolic attacks via promo that week. But he eventually charged at me like a bull infected with rabies in an attempt to knock my head off with a clothesline, but it was in that instant that I realized why he was trying to break me.
Because I stood for something. Something positive. The people loved me because my cheer was rivaled only by the man in red and white pajamas, himself. Their hope and aspirations for me was embedded in my spinal column as I tore myself from the ground and braced to intercept him with a flying lariat, but...
That's when it happened. As big as he was, he... didn't want to intercept me. I torpedo'd forward with my forearm unsheathed to topple the son of a bitch. But you could see my impasioned face morph into confusion as I sailed passed him at my side and transformed entirely when I tilted my head forward and saw what was in the crossfire of my meteorite-esque body.
Lina Zalizati.
* * *
Kaoru rushed over me like a rain cloud and began to rail into me, but I didn't feel a thing after that. Eventually, he put me in my own favorite submission and I tapped out before it was even fully applied.
Ripplemagne:
"You know, of all the geriatric mesomorphs in the Octane division, I get stuck in a singles competition with the guy who ruined his credibility by changing gimmicks. Do I even need to point out that he is merely a watered down, half-cast of yours truly? It's not that I'm saying he has no ring ability -- with a name like Scott Wrestling, he better. I, honestly, have no idea. I've never watched a single one of his matches. Has he even had any? Tiffany! Look into that!"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, I am Ze White Mage. Not Tiffany. Tiffany Siegel is the producer of ze Glenn Beck show."
Ripplemagne:
"Imbecile. I am Glenn Beck."
The White Mage:
"But zen who is Monseiur Ripplemagne?"
Ripplemagne:
"Also me. Much the same as Aladdin, Flynn Rider, Johnny Bravo, the Fresh Prince, Kamina, Haruhi Suzumiya, V and Paris Hilton."
The White Mage:
"Paris Hilton?"
Ripplemagne:
"I like to spice up my schizoidocity every now and then. But point is, this Scott Wrestling bloke -- and I'm banking on him attempting to correct me with his new Robert Hancock name in a matter-of-factly tone. This Scott Wrestling bloke is kind of in league with the tonality in my last edition of Your Feature Presentation and my pre-match diatribe to Xtremity.
Which, by the way, I have a message for you, Xtremity: Ow, mother fucker! That kendo stick fucking hurt!
Anyway, de Magne believes--"
Even my commanding, Joe Pesci vocals was drowned out all of a sudden by a bestial crash of the revolving door being kicked open. Whitey behind the camera was so professional, not even paying heed to them coming in as she kept the camera in fixed position.
But I did. In seconds, there were six burly dudes in uniform with more hair on their arms than I had on my head. Though, obviously not as luxurious as my flowing locks. Ho-ho! What stuck out to me though was the woman who walked in last; tailored in a business suit of the finest craft, but eye-rollably fitted with pants instead of a skirt. Off the bat, I can tell whoever this is, I'm not going to get along with.
But there she was, looping chestnut hair weaving around her cream-toned, slender neck down to the middle of her back. The woman's hourglass frame was offset by her modest dress and stern expression, which was outfitted with low brows and a narrow nose cast into the air like a snooty tycoon.
More than a little aggravated by her brazen display of disrespect for the glory and splendor that is Your Feature Presentation, I puffed my chest and stepped up to the tallest son of a bitch in the party of people and locked gazes with him...
...For a second before walking passed him and confronting the woman with her prim and proper clipboard and polished heels. What? She seemed like the brains of the operation. I wasn't scared.
Ripplemagne:
"Oi, chocha. Now, the Ripplemagne is aware that he is a big celebrity with a sex appeal that would get the hex put upon him by the Greek God Apollo if it weren't for the fact that the Patriot of Pretty snee-snashed that nigga and left him in a ditch somewhere, but--"
???:
"Save the idle chit chat."
This little bitch. She actually held her clipboard in front of my face to cut me off while she said that. And in her tonality, I could feel my blood vessels burst with the inclination to rape and pillage Europe on a murderous conquest of American exceptionalism. I could hear it in her accent; she was from the cesspool of hot and cold belligerence coiled in a sickening and raunch keystone of Nanny Statism.
Manchester, England.
???:
"Girl with the camera, please see your way to the exit."
In the eyes of Whitey, I could see not only insult, but hurt. Tilting her head, she could only give the woman standing beside me a glare that could burn holes. But somehow, I could feel those laser beams hitting me as well. Maybe moreso.
The White Mage:
"Excuse me?"
???:
"You heard me. Leave here now. You are useless to the future proceedings of this contract and dismissed from your post as camera flunkie to the Ripplemagne. Go home and don't come back."
The sternness in this woman's voice cut through Whitey like razor blades and I never knew it before, but Whitey must have been a very sensitive person because I could actually see her eyes blanket in a glossy layer of tears yet to fall.
I didn't understand it, but Whitey actually flicked off her camera and left, gleaming her awestruck peepers into mine. It was a rarity, but I was actually like a deer in headlights as this all went on. It wasn't until the door swung behind Whitey that I could feel my body move again as my heart felt like it had leaped into my throat.
Ripplemagne:
"I do hope you're a rather fast talker."
???:
"An even faster thinker, fortunately for you. My name is Sophia Sheffield and by way of your new contract with Full Throttle Wrestling, I have been regrettably assigned to be your new manager."
Ripplemagne:
"Haha, cute April Fools joke. You can come on out now, Whitey. I'll say, you had me for a second, but a word of advice; make your April Fools Day pranks a little less over the top. The more believable, the more you can pitch. But giving me a manager that I didn't assign is j--"
???:
"I do not care for your classless, ignorant sputterings. You can read the contract for yourself."
Normally, when you call someone out on their April Fools prank, you stop at that point. But I decided to play along and take the contract in hand, eying it over.
Ripplemagne:
"Blah blah blah. 'Due to the unpredictability of contracting Mr. Ripplemagne, he will be assigned a manager/supervisor by the company to stifle liability for the company.'"
???:
"Play time is over."
My eyes were still scanning over the paper as the woman about-faced and marched from the room with the condescending pattering of her heels brisking her away. At the bottom of the page was her signature beneath his own.
Sophia Sheffield.
* * *
