Bridge to Terabithia

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(The content that was found here has long since been erased.)

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And now, for your feature presentation...

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The scene opens up before a solid white door, gold hinges matching the knob. There was a small crack at the center of the doorway, denting in a bit and exposing some of the golden-brown wood inside. The camera pans out a bit as a young lad with mid-length green hair and a timid look on his face, though he seemed rather at home in the geographical location he was in.

Despite looking nervous, he seemed to have a look of soothing grace that comes over a traveler when they come home after quite a long time away from home. His pale white skin shined in the overheard lamp, his unsaddled hair very festive for St. Patrick's Day. Bushy eyebrows and unkempt sideburns. he flared his nostrils to take in some more oxygen, licking his lips after coming in from the cold weather.

Clad in a bulky leather jacket, ear muffs concealed behind his moss-like hair and big frilly mittens, Jamie Irish turns to the camera man, rubbing his shoulders to warm the surface of his skin.

Jamie Irish:
"Shut the door behind you. It's brisk out there!"

A door was heard closing behind them as Jamie Irish dug into his pocket, straightening his shoulders and nodded. With a professional look on his face, Jamie Irish removes a microphone from his pocket and turns, knocking on the white wooden door behind him.

After a few seconds of waiting, the door knob finaly twists and the door slowly makes its way open. In that instant, Jamie Irish turned to see the home dweller of this abode in the doorway.

The young man's dark blonde hair flowed down the side of his cheek, hanging down with an unkempt feel to it; as though he just showered not too long ago. Still damp, he was parted on the side and kept from his face as the 'wings' hung down over his long, neat sideburns that stopped just an inch short of his jaw line.

The quirky stanced fellow had a haughty grin on his face, his frilly white gloved hand backwards on his hip and the other propped on the border of the doorway. His rosy pink lips and piercing blue-green eyes could part the Reed Sea as they captivated the audience by adding a gratuitous amount of character to his porcelain-esque skin, Italian nose and slight rounded square goatee.

This in conjunction to his nearly flawlessly shaped eyebrows made him quite a beautiful person. Slender was the best way of describing him as a navy blue robe hung down from his shoulders all the way down passed his knees, covering his white and blue pajama bottoms and skin tight white t-shirt beneath. Beyond that, he was clad only in navy blue ankle socks.

It was clearly the recently debuted Ripplemagne that stood before them, though he seemed a bit home bound at the moment. It was recognized that the Action Wrestling League's newest superstar was a New York resident despite the reaction he received last night in his match with Enigma and it seemed that he was spending time during the snowy weather at home before departing for Canada.

It took a few moments as he stood menacingly in the doorway with... wait... is that a tear in his eye? It seemed that a smile was on his face at first, but that might have just been from greeting the Action Wrestling League's favored interviewer, Jamie Irish.

Was... was Ripplemagne crying? It was just last night that he flopped on his first match in the professional wrestling business, but... tears? Well, a tear...

Jamie Irish:
"Ripp... Ripp... Ripplemagne...?"

There was a brief pause as Ripplemagne took a deep breath, wiped the tear from his eye and waved his hand, inviting them into his home. Off put by the sudden change in Ripplemagne' person, Jamie Irish awkwardly stepped through the doorway as the cameraman followed, the door closing behind them.

The television was heard in the background, but was just indecipherable noise as it was on the other side of the small home. Inside, it was rather well furnished and decorated. They were before a rather large living room with an enormous window/window-ledge combination with a plethora of nooks littered about the surface and topped off with long olive drapes. Bellowing at the top of the curtains were a wavelength of adjacently colored bordering for the them.

The multi-colored carpet formed no pattern in particular, but had a rather artistic sense to it as the camera cut through into the kitchen before we could get a better view of the long beige sofa and recliner, among the dining room and special characteristics to the home.

In the kitchen, everything was firmly mounted and served a rather eclectic perimeter to the room. Marble floors and black and white based cabinets, counters and decoration, the window sill was lined up with several potted plants which we can only distinguish to be things along the lines of growing parsley, garlic and other herbs.

A solemn look on his face, Ripplemagne leaned back along the edge of the black counter top and rested his frilly white gloved hands along the surface with an awkward look on his face...

Ripplemagne:
"Pleasure to meet you, Jamie. The Ripplemagne has seen you on quite a few occasions, but hasn't had the opportunity to speak with you. What brings you here on this snowy afternoon?"

Jamie Irish:
"I... I was going to... talk... to you ab...out... your... match with.. Enigma last nigh...t. Are you crying? It was just one match; your first one at that and it was actually a rather highly rated match."

Ripplemagne:
"Perish the thought, lad. Of course not..."

Regaining his composure, Ripplemagne pulled a television remote from his robe pocket, twirling it with his fingers and straightened it up at the ceiling before clicking a button situated toward the top, which was presumably the power button because the sounds of the television in the other room ceased, leaving a dry silence in the quaint household.

Ripplemagne:
"As if the Ripplemagne would ever sob over defeat in a professional wrestling competition. If you must know, the Ripplemagne just finished watching Bridge to Terabithia and it stirred up some emotions and empathy in the warm, humble heart of the magnificent Ripplemagne."

Jamie Irish:
"...Humble...?"

Ripplemagne:
"Let me let you in on a little secret, mon ami. My presence in the Action Wrestling League and the professional wrestling career outlet has naught to do with winning titles and earning a monetary payroll. If it did, the Ripplemagne could easily pursue ambition in politics in addition to the doctorate he is vying for. That's, easily, a far more grandiose excursion in terms of monetary success. You see, Patrick..."

Jamie Irish:
"It's Jamie. Or Irish. Or Jamie Irish."

Ripplemagne:
"Right, what did I say?"

Jamie Irish:
"Patrick..."

Ripplemagne:
"Uh huh...?"

Jamie Irish:
"Just because Patrick is an Irish name doesn't mean they are synonymous."

Doctorate, huh? In what? Being a clown? That was a lot of question marks, huh? Zomg! There's another one. Ha... we broke the chain.

Ripplemagne:
"...So, where was the Ripplemagne in his state of the Union address, Patrick?"

A sigh escaped Jamie Irish's lips as he seemed kind of uncomfortable before Ripplemagne, who was scratching his head for a moment before a metaphorical light bulb appeared above his head, prompting body language to follow suit and then, finally, continuation...

Ripplemagne:
"As the Ripplemagne was saying, professional wrestling offers him an outlet to challenge and be challenged. To compete, if you will. Not to mention travel, perform and poke fun at a few mamalukes along the way."

Strangely enough, Jamie Irish was quite a few inches taller than Ripplemagne, who accentuated this fact by slouching and leaning against the counter top...

Ripplemagne:
"All defeat equates to is further excitement. Have you ever watched the anime, Kaiji?"

Jamie Irish:
"No, I haven't..."

Ripplemagne:
"It's about this guy... named Kaiji... who cosigns a friend's papers and gets thrown into massive debt. In spite of this, he's offered a chance to wipe his debt by undergoing several trials and tribulations in the form of gambling. The consequences that shroud themselves in some of the gambles are being forced into slavery, larger debt, getting his ear drum drilled, losing four of his fingers, and even death.

One would presume with these risks and consequences, the main character would always win as he's an abnormally gifted intellectual with great psychoanalytical prowess. However, part of what makes the series so exciting is that he loses about as much as he wins -- true to the world of gambling. Sometimes part of his plan; sometimes out of poor luck; sometimes out of poorly played strategies. Still, sometimes out of cheating.

Because he doesn't always win, it makes the series very compelling as the gamble is much more enthralling when there's something valuable to lose. Correlate this to defeat in professional wrestling.

How exciting would such a career path be if the Ripplemagne always won? He'd be a bona fide Bill Goldberg and how fun is that? It's rare that the Ripplemagne loses at anything, but with an unpredictable, characteristic organization such as professional wrestling, there's always that gamble. That slight mistake or miscalculation you make that leads to your downfall.

That, my friend, is true bliss."

Jamie Irish:
"I don't understand..."

Ripplemagne:
"Alright, Paesan'... let me give you the antithesis, so that you can associate the two. Imagine you were the bottom of the barrel; you lose everything and never win at anything. Life sucks; nothing ever goes right. Does that sound appealing?"

Jamie Irish:
"Of course not."

Ripplemagne:
"That's because there's no variety. No form of semblance; no realization to break the chain of failure. You're spiraling in a continuous loop of certainty. It's boring.

On the flip side, you have someone who always wins. A true alpha male who is fairly unfamiliar with the concept of failure... of defeat. Continuous success is as boring as continuous failure; the only difference is you have the glory to fall back on as opposed to the rehashed feeling of shame.

Individuals such as this, usually, do things like deal drugs, gamble, rob banks, murder or do other things where the risk is high. Something to break that web of certainty and spice their life up. The alpha males will become the drug lords, gamble sharks and mob bosses. The beta males will, conversely, become dead beats, who continually follow the orders of the aforementioned alpha males.

You see, Patrick, I am that alpha male. Everything comes easy to me; the world is my oyster. I've been blessed with brains, brawn and beauty in addition to being socially dominant, and creatively brilliant. But my rush doesn't come from silly, hedonistic things like gambling, killing, robbing, drugs, prostitution, extortion, et cetera.

Being in the ring, knowing that the slightest twitch I make can be the difference between my skull getting broken open and me becoming world champion. Do you understand, now?"

Jamie Irish:
"Yes, I think I understand."

Ripplemagne:
"Of course you do. You're not quite an alpha male, but you're not quite a beta male either. The fact that you're making quite a hefty payroll in a company like the Action Wrestling League attests to the latter, but the fact that you're constantly bullied by the likes of Hunter Weiss and others verifies the former.

Or perhaps you are a beta male and I need to update the labels and refer to individuals who rank in that 'dead beat', decadent state as the gamma male. Mm... I quite like the sound of that..."

Jamie Irish:
"Um... yeah. So... uh... you're not upset about the loss?"

Ripplemagne:
"See? That's what I mean, Paesan'. You lack the fervor and tenacity of an alpha male. You perpetuate this air of level headed idiosyncrasies that just make you the best candidate for 'Future Cho Seung Hui of the A.W.L.!'

...But to answer your question, yes, the Ripplemagne is disappointed. Not upset; not angry... just disappointed. When you know that you're the best and that your disputant is beneath your caliber -- all due respect -- it is quite disconcerning when that individual is able to get a foothold over you in the ring.

In retrospect, the Ripplemagne may have gotten nervous and a wee bit overzealous in his debeauty match. Quite a numerable sum of people in comparison to the indies that I've experienced. And maybe there was just a touch of rookie mistakes on my part that led to my downfall before e-nig."

There was an air of astoundment and doubt as Jamie Irish listened to Ripplemagne. It seemed that the candid nature of Ripplemagne cut through Jamie Irish pretty deep, but made a lasting impression on him. Was... was he right about him?

A few minutes passed as Ripplemagne turned and swiped a piece of paper towel from the roll on the counter and raised it to his face, using it to blow his nose. Not too pleasant...

Either way, Jamie Irish took a moment before hesitantly asking a question...

Jamie Irish:
"So... um.... so, Ri-Ripplemagne... after the polls last night, it seemed a lot of the fans who watched your match were impressed with you in regards to talent, but disappointed and off put in terms of your attitude. A lot of people claim that you're far too arrogant for your own good."

As Jamie Irish said this, Ripplemagne tossed the rolled up paper towel in the nearby, waist level garbage filled with a black bag. Monotonously, a smile appeared on his face as he began to laugh manically, grabbing his chest before finally turning to Irish again...

Ripplemagne:
"Ah, Patrick. One would presume that to be quite the quandary for the Ripplemagne to face, yes? Afterall, he speaks in the third person at times, refers to himself as things like 'enigma' and God forbid he have a high self esteem!

You see, often times, the Ripplemagne is faced with claims of being 'arrogant' and other derivatives of the word. Often, this label is perpetuated by archetypal wimmenz biting their lips, fiending for the majesty of the Ripplemagne. Different psychological aspects come into play on why they refer to him as such, but it mostly comes down to the stigma attached to confidence in our world. When the television that we're so fondly attuned with broadcasts our heroes as self-conscious pudenda with absolutely no confidence or ego and the big, mean, obnoxious cheerleaders, jocks, villains and antagonists as 'arrogant', self-absorbed and one-track-minded, constantly reassuring that the latter are all 'shallow', it is not out of reason to conclude that these values would institutionalize themselves in our surface judgments.

The issue lies in the fact that it is only surface judgment. Pay attention, mon ami, because this information can, quite honestly, change the miserable interaction you have with the wimmenz to something... more desirable. Savvy? Excellent.

Deep down inside, in the subconscious recesses of our mind, confidence is a trait that we're all drawn to regardless of the media's poisoning of this trait. All great, real world, leaders have an air of confidence or they could not lead; they would be unable to speak, lacking the wherewithal and presence to enthrall a populace to their word.

It is why the 'popular people' in High School are always top dog in reality. Not because they're mean and nasty; that is a dupe and seldom the actual scenario, but its sale is worth the stigma imbues itself.

So, yes, if you want to get down to the simplistic nature of the situation, yes, I... the Patriarch of Pretty... am egotistical. This is, without a scintilla of hesitation, irrefutable fact. But if I may quote Tucker Max in regards to 'arrogance' and those claiming me to be such; 'When you're great, people often confuse candor and arrogance.'

I trust I don't need to explain that to you?"

Jamie Irish:
"Interesting outlook. Well, you were, quite obviously, booed during the match up despite your antics being quite similar to mocking babyfaces of the past. What do you have to say about the fans booing you in your own hometown?"

Another chuckle escaped the lips of Ripplemagne as it seemed rather eccentric and quirky this time around as he flicked his hair to the side, tittering slightly as Jamie Irish raised an eyebrow...

Ripplemagne:
"Well, first off, let me correct you on something. There were quite a number of individuals cheering the Ripplemagne; being that it was the Ripplemagne's debeauty, whereas Enigma has been around the block a few times, the home court advantage was his. You see, I may reside in New York and acquaint myself with a fair number of its residents, but Enigma has already built fame for himself. Thus, he is known far more than me.

Nevertheless, the reactions and onomatopoeias of the fans in the stands are irrelevant, in reality, despite what the babyfaces will attest to. In reality, all that matters is what the competitors do; once the people pay for their tickets, the show is in the hands of the competitors, actually, doing something. The spectators don't make the show; they, simply, fund it.

By no means is the Ripplemagne saying that they're irrelevant or worthless to the company because that would be outright duplicity, but the grotesque way that babyfaces fellate the egos of these people is as inane as the floccinaucinihilipilification of them stemming from the heels in this business.

You see, the whole world can think that 2+2=5, but that doesn't make it so. Naturally, this logic into account, one cannot assume that the quantitative populace of Action Wrestling League fans disliking me is affirmation that I am of modest ability.

Most would agree that the average person is mediocre, which can be paradoxical unless one accepts or considers that they are among the group of mediocrity. But this statement finalizes my appraisal. Quite obviously, those referring to the Ripplemagne as such were mere philistines, unable to appreciate a virtuoso at work. Judging by the detractors in relation to supports, the percentages and statistics seem about right in favor of my analysis.

The schadenfreude they took in the Ripplemagne's defeat didn't go unnoticed, but it's of very little consequence because... well... I'm sexy."

Jamie Irish:
"Well... that's fine and dandy. But you seem to be rather uncaring about the fans. Does this mean you're taking a heel course in the A.W.L.?"

Ripplemagne:
"You know, growing up in New York, you are raised to appreciate just how utterly imbecilic your typical, silly mark is.

But, by no means, does that mean that the Ripplemagne is taking a heel course. I believe I already made the distinction between babyface and heel very clear. The Ripplemagne would like to be the first to refer to himself as a betweener."

Jamie Irish:
"Um... use of 'betweener' has been around for years..."

Ripplemagne:
"h4x! Alright, then the Ripplemagne will refer to himself as professional wrestling's genitalia!"

An air of silence fills the air as the two exchange glances and Jamie Irish licks his lips, somewhat dumb founded about what to say...

Jamie Irish:
"...Professional wrestling's...?"

Ripplemagne:
"Genitalia! Think about it! We have the foot of professional wrestling; the heels. And then the babyfaces, which are, evidently, the face! The between area, simply, must be the genitalia!"

Jamie Irish:
"On that note, I think we're out of time..."

Ripplemagne:
"Boo!"

A countdown leader replaced the two of them as they waved goodbye and the scene finally ended...

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