An Enigmatic Turnover

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Enigma:
"I suppose in the end, all of this is mere educated guesses until the two of us are fighting inside that ring on Sunday night. Till that night, I'll be left with the only thing I can do, prepare both mentally and bodily for the fight that is ahead of me. I hope you do the same for this fight that is ahead of us and you are able to surprise, maybe even impress me when we lock up, Ripplemagne. But I hope there are no hard feelings between the two of us, no matter what the decision may be or how it comes about. Because you may want to pin those ears back Ripplemagne as this Master of a Thousand Holds is in it to win it come Sunday night."

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And now, for your feature presentation...

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A black sky painted the scenery of meagerly illuminated ravine as a gust of cold wind bellowed through the grass, causing it to crackle into a synchronized dance. The only light came from that of the overhead, artificial bulbs arching over the scene and allowing for a clear shot. In the distance, there were a few trailers, which, presumably, housed equipment and allowed for a safe haven from the rather brisk weather conditions in New York at the time. They were fairly polished and from the unshielded windows, you could tell that the inside was pretty lush and luxurious.

Who the Hell knows why anyone would host their segment here? Either way, a marsh-like tree folded upward and around onto the kodak-esque shot, leaking a few droplets of water left behind from the earlier rainy conditions. From the angle, most of the scene couldn't be made out, but it didn't matter as it was soon broken when a figure popped up from... under(?)... the camera with a big, hearty smile on his face and a cheerful disposition.

But it quickly faded into mystery and aura... or perhaps gas. No, definitely mystery and aura. He had his white-linen gloved hand on his chin; that was a surefire measure of determining. But this lasted for only a moment as the blue-green eyed wonder flicked his dark blonde hair out of his eye and reinstated a smirk...

Ripplemagne:
"Ou~! Enigmatic~! Ho-oh.

Yes, yes, ladies and gentlemen... behold the magnificent Ripplemagne. Unfortunately, in this edition of uh... something or other... the Ripplemagne will not be joined by a guest. As my 'guest', here, is more of the segment that accompanied my disputant for my debeauty. You see, I'm a fairly combative person; that is, I enjoy being challenged and I have an insatiable appetite to engage in a mental conflict with individuals such as Enigma. Thus, my 'guest', will be none other than Enigma...

Hm-hm-hm. With a name like that, one would imagine that he'd have something... y'know... enigmatic to broadcast. Instead, the Ripplemagne was disappointed as he was forced to watch five minutes of... well... er... suffice to say, it wasn't very enigmatic.

The Ripplemagne will never understand why superstars broadcast promotional content of demure quality with absolutely nothing useful to say. You see, this promotional content of our dear, sweet Enigma reeked of the same jargon and mundane chastisement of one's opponent lavished with dull, pointless anecdotes about the federation's current events.

Honestly, lads, it's a broadcast on the Action Wrestling League website. You need not repeat the current events that have been recited by every other superstar before you, the newscasts, the Action Wrestling League homepage and every fan site on the planet."

A sigh escapes Ripplemagne's lips as he steps back, revealing his classic attire of a black trench coat, bootcut jeans and a skin tight (red) t-shirt. Now pacing back and forth, Ripplemagne seems rather conflicted and disheartened by Enigma's promo'.

Ripplemagne:
"If you had taken all of this dead horse beating nonsense out, you may have saved the Ripplemagne about half of the time he wasted watching your webcast, Enigma. Do you see what you did now? You wasted the Ripplemagne's time. He has places to see, people to do.

...Er... wait. I think I got that one backwards...

It would have been much more productive to, simply, say 'Ripplemagne sucks and I'm going to beat him up'.

You can go on about there being billions of Action Wrestling League fans -- somewhat of an exaggeration, by the way. You can rant, rave and attempt to discredit the Ripplemagne as a rookie not worth acknowledging. You can dig into my personal profiles and rattle on about the Ripplemagne having never submitted. You can spew psychobabble in the hopes that you can paint a picture of the Ripplemagne. In the end, it's all rather elementary nonsense.

You were quick to jump on the 'lulz not impressed' railroad of tediously overdone, but really, all that came down to was the fact that the Ripplemagne took your moniker and used it in application to himself. Amusing that you claim that I am not, whilst I see no such thing in you. Seems we're at a stalemate.

Afterall, 'Master of a Thousand Holds'? Seriously? You couldn't think of something a little less... overdone? And you're meaning to convey that you're unimpressed with me? No, no. Don't get it confused. I'm not going to sit here and beguile you with pseudo-apathetic 'I don't cares' and try to convince you that your opinions mean nothing to me in spite of the fact that I'm, actually, responding to you."

A not too oftenly seen admission. It seemed that he was a little more candid than most competitors. There was an air about him that didn't seem like a guise; he smiled into the camera and seemed, genuinely, happy to be where he was.

Ripplemagne:
"Quite the contrary, dear Enigma. I find you quite... arousing..."

Scratching forward into the air like a feline and purring like a kitten, he opened a somewhat sarcastic, somewhat erotic grin.

Ripplemagne:
"You read me like a book and that unleashes my inner manhood into a state of bliss that transcends the fabric of reality, sending me into coats of ecstasy lavished in the epitome of eternal desire!"

Clenching his fists to his sides and staring up into the moonlit sky, he began to empty his vocals into the midnight air with passion and conviction... though it seemed rather mocking.

Ripplemagne:
"How you deduced my internal desires eludes me, but a man who can rip into the fiery depths of my soul and pull out such wonders deserves my undying respect. How... oh how... did you ever figure out my deepest, darkest secret of masochism in the ring?

Oh dear, oh me, oh my, oh bother. How could I live down this devastating embarrassment? This humiliation will linger for years to come! Of course I have never submitted in the ring because I, in the deepest trenches of my heart, mind, body and soul, truly, enjoy it. In fact, I'm getting a jolly just thinking about it.

Oh, how I have duped my friends and family. Please hear my plight! For I have tainted myself. All of this time, I hoped people would see it for its surface value; that I, simply, found surrender to be out of mental peripherals -- that it was just a bred mentality of win or go down fighting. In the end, belief in this was just a pipe dream as I should have suspected that some astute young buck in a mask would be able to crack my code."

Suddenly, the passion turned into a cheerful titter as he pulled a masterlock from his pocket, punched in three inputs and opened it before tossing it to the side with a relieving sigh.

Ripplemagne:
"Honestly, 'Enigma', you try just a tad too hard. In your segment, you referred to me as a 'self absorbed brat', 'more concerned with insulting the opposite sex'. Beyond the fact that the latter is simple fratire while the former is subjective, why does this irk you so?

Does sexism -- even on the level of chaffing with a friend of that criteria -- strike such a nerve that you felt it necessary to gloss over that in an attempt to discredit me? Perhaps you'd like to discuss why it makes you so uncomfortable instead of trying to line up the pieces and figure out why I made the comment in the first place.

Perhaps this is another sign that you shouldn't be trying to psychoanalyze anyone. In the end, you become just another faux Freud.

I'm glad you did say something though. The match will be much more entertaining when one of us has to eat our words."

Turning his back, Ripplemagne threw his hand up effeminately and walked off stage as everything faded to black.

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