Quality Trumps Your Quantity
* * *
Static... we cut into a vignette of Chris Cage's first segment, "Triumph Does Not Equal A Foundation"...
Chris Cage:
"He certainly has his own aura of charisma, he absolutely loves to indulge into. And by that, I mean the deep gash and crevice of that man-whore he calls a wench- I mean, woman."
Static break... now, we cut to a vignette of "Sounds of War; Sounds of Victory"
Chris Cage:
"And I am the one who will deliver a heavy dose of reality to a prima-donna cartoon character and his wenches."
Static break... now, we cut to Miss Sarah in a close up of the camera, responding...
Miss Sarah:
"He is just jealous that I picked the talent to manage. Girls like me? They only want the best. Not the second or third best."
Static break...
Our introduction seems off base as our view immediately opens up to one of the four Number One Contenders for the ROW Heavyweight Title on Monday. It's neither Chris Cage nor Jason Hartnell nor Jimmy Luciano, but the magnificent Ripplemagne! But... he seems... off.
Visage of the Patriarch of Pretty isn't exactly... pretty. Though his appeal isn't stricken by the ensemble he's wearing, it's still rather off beat. All of his champagne locks of hair are tied back in a generic ponytail as he grits his teeth, displaying his pearly whites.
The porcelain skinned lad, wearing no shirt, but a pair of black wrestling pants, white padded boots and gray tape around his hands and wrist. Flexing his rippling abdominal six pack and sculpted breast muscles, the unusual Ripplemagne turns to a small bald man with a goatee and a business suit.
There isn't much time to identify every trait of the man as the heel-ish Ripplemagne snatches a microphone from the man and pushes him off frame. There is venom in his voice was he points at the camera, irrate, for some inexplicable reason.
Ripplemagne:
"I. Am. The Ripp! Raaaaaah!"
Not the typical introduction of our, usually, fair spoken protagonist, but, then again, is anyone shocked?
The Ripp:
"This Monday is the crowning moment of everything that The Ripp is made of. It is the time where I will bring justice to the land and reign true as the Hero of The ROW! I will usher in a new age of life in this business and strike down anyone who comes before me because... without a shadow of a doubt... I. Will. Come out. Of Supremacy. The Champion!"
Going Hulk on the camera, Ripplemagne begans to beat on his chest and seems to resemble the Ultimate Warrior in his actions. Which is fairly amusing to anyone familiar with our fine, painted friend, Warrior. By his brutish mannerisms, we can only guess that Ripplemagne is acting a very good part or has finally lost it. Or wait... would he get it back because he's behaving a bit more normal than we're used to...
The Ripp:
"You boys better be prepared because The Ripp is going to step into that ring, show you what legendary is all about and leave you all on the mat. The only problem I'm going to have is deciding which one of you to pin for the three count when you're all lying on the floor, licking the scuffs and blood splatter off of my boots.
Understand one thing, boys; I am the best thing to ever happen to this business and this Monday? I'm going to prove it. Because I have delivered against Joe Morgan and in my illustrious career of a month, I have silenced every critic, every known opposition and every detractor with an indiscriminate vengeance.
So peddle yourselves on home before you get hurt because this is a man's world and you little sissy boys are about to see why I am the greatest in this business. Why I am the most dangerous. Why I am the most feared. And why you should never underestimate me.
Because I am that damn good! And you? You're all insects... stepping stones on my way to the top!"
Suddenly, static cuts through as 'The Ripp' continues his ranting and raving, but the sound cuts out, so we can only see his mouth moving and his arms flailing between static bursts. Suddenly, the screen blacks out and stays that way for a moment.
After about four seconds, there's a flash and we see the magnificent Ripplemagne, barren of a ponytail and his billowing hair hanging down adjacent to his right eye. Clad in his trench coat and, now, a Hunter Weiss t-shirt along with white dress gloves, we can see a clear distinction between 'The Ripp' and Ripplemagne as a haughty grin surfaces from the lips of our lovely Genitalia of Professional Wrestling.
We can only see his upper body, but it's irrelevant as he flicks his wrist and thrusts his face forward, tittering to the camera...
Ripplemagne:
"Now, now, folks. Did you really think that the infamous Ripplemagne would indulge in such inanities, earnestly spewing that self-made, idiosyncratic mumbo jumbo, sumptuously effused with the hackneyed malarkey of his droll competitors?"
A giggle escapes his lips as he rears back and swats a tuft of hair from his eye, puckering his lips at the camera before speaking again...
Ripplemagne:
"No, no, no. See, the Ripplemagne will spare our viewers three sections of mundane, repetitive proclamations without warrant and succinctly dissect matters during the Weapon Dance portion of Your Feature presentation...
...God, I hope I'm not as dull as these people after I take eight thousand bumps to the head in this business..."
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
We reopen to a familiar face -- well, at least to those familiar with all of Ripplemagne's installments -- as frame opens up on a girl other than Miss Sarah standing before the camera in black heels, and skinny jeans fitting, perfectly, around her slender frame. Topping it off, we have a 'cute and funky top', as we stagnate on still frame. After a few seconds, the beautiful girl exhales and licks her glowing pink lips to speak.
Mid-neck level blonde hair explodes around her model-esque features as she bats her long eye lashes and steps back rubbing the base of her wrist with the opposite hand. Finally, her English accent cuts the silence and we recognize her as Izabel from Your Feature Presentation I...
Izabel:
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I am Ripplemagne's financial manager and... un...for...tun...ately... Miss... Sarah... won't be joining us, today, on Your Feature Presentation. To those familiar with me from Ripplemagne's... 'debeauty'... in the Action Wrestling League, my name is Izabel.
First off, I hope everyone had a happy Easter and--"
It seems our setting is a fairly furnished kitchen of what is probably a hotel room. There's a swinging door beside Izabel which leads in and our of the moderate sized room and our view is, clearly, over a counter top with a 'window' into the next room, where The White Mage, lead camerawoman of Your Feature Presentation, is capturing the shot.
Over Izabel's shoulder, we can see several appliances such as an egg beater, a spoon, a bowl and an empty egg tray on a marble counter top. Beside that is a rather small stainless steel sink with a few objects in it, though the only one we can identify is the frying pan handle sticking out. It's obvious that breakfast has already been taken care of, so we don't have to worry abo-- Hold on? Is that Ripplemagne shouting from the other room?
Ripplemagne:
"Izzy! Oh, Izzy! Izzy-bella!"
There's a pause between Izabel cutting herself off and the calling as she turns only to see the white swinging door bash open, a young man barreling through the door passed her as the camera crosses to show him land on the back of his neck and roll, action movie-esque, back to his feet.
Before us is the gallant Ripplemagne, standing tall in the exact outfit he was wearing in the last shot. Hunter Weiss fan, anyone?
Izabel:
"Uh... ladies and gentlemen, the magnificent Ripplemagne!"
On the microwave, the digital text changes to the word 'Applaud' as we get a computer generated cheering to the young lad as he bows gracefully, hamming up the faux applause before turning to Izabel, holding up two waffles, one in each hand...
Again with the waffles?!
Ripplemagne:
"I has dilemma. Which waffle does the Ripplemagne eat first?"
Izabel:
"...One on the left."
Ripplemagne:
"Tee why."
With Ripplemagne scurrying out of the room, Izabel turns back to the camera and shakes her head...
Izabel:
"While Ripplemagne is eating, I'm going to take the time to explain The Weapon Dance portion of our show. Much like a weapon dance in a movie, The Weapon Dance is going to be the portion of Your Feature Presentation where Ripplemagne actually addresses his opponents..."
She tried to cough loud enough so that he would hear the last part, but there was no response from the other room. After a moment, she goes to speak again, but Ripplemagne jumps over the 'window' that we're getting the feed from and slides across the table, stumbling to his feet.
In one fell swoop, he yanks Izabel over and bends her backwards, planting one on her. Though, upon closer inspection, one may notice that Ripplemagne's white linen gloved hand is over her mouth, preventing their lips from touching...
Four seconds pass and, finally, Ripplemagne lifts her back up, taking a swat or two across the head, neck and shoulders...
Izabel:
"Rippie, I think it would be a good idea if you still focused on your match in spite of the Weapon--"
Taking his palm and pressing it to her face, Ripplemagne pushes her out of frame...
Ripplemagne:
"Beat it, squid. You're crampin' my-- OW!"
Though nothing was said, Ripplemagne reared back, grabbing his finger, as we acknowledge that Izabel bit him. Growling at her, Ripplemagne crosses his arms and theatrically turns away...
Ripplemagne:
"Your concern is duly noted, bonny, but we will have to consult... The Itty Bitty Kitty Committee!"
Our shot shifts over to a basket filled with six baby kittens, mewing around and stumbling over their own feet. An audible "aw" is heard from the "audience" as view shifts back over to Ripplemagne and Izabel...
Ripplemagne:
"Uh huh... well, it seems that the Itty Bitty Kitty Committee disapproves. Request denied."
Izabel:
"They didn't, actually, sa--"
Ripplemagne:
"Request denied, Bigtopian!"
Izabel:
"How am I a Bigtopian? You're taller than me..."
Ripplemagne:
"...Hm..."
...
Izabel:
"Well?"
Ripplemagne:
"Well, what?"
Izabel:
"What are y--"
Ripplemagne:
"Request denied, Lilliputian!"
Izabel:
"...I-I'm going to get a cup of coffee..."
Ripplemagne:
"Yeah?! With whose dick!?"
There's a brief period that the two just stare at each other before Izabel turns around, trying not to laugh, and walks out of the room...
Ripplemagne:
"'Sright. Man's crib. Best stay in yo' kitchen..."
The White Mage:
"...Monsieur Ripplemagne... you're the only one in the kitchen..."
Ripplemagne:
"...u."
The White Mage:
"I am in the living room..."
Ripplemagne:
"Look! Ninjas!"
Our camera view gets a shot of the window where we can see several Muslims practicing hijab on the balcony across from the window...
The White Mage:
"Um... Monsieur Ripplemagne... those are Muslims."
Ripplemagne:
"...Muslim Ninjas!"
The White Mage:
"Uh... do you think you should be making disparaging remarks about Islam on Your Feature Presentation? They can be kind of sensitive..."
Ripplemagne:
"You mean, do you think it's wise to jade public perception of reality and obscure facts in favor of catering to hypersensitive individuals and the 'open minded' Liberal media? Or are you referencing the systematic elimination of the word 'terrorist' in reference to our fundamentalist opposition in a frail attempt to build harmony between an uncivilized bunch?"
The White Mage:
"Getting very political, Monsieur Ripplemagne..."
Ripplemagne:
"And the Ripplemagne makes no apologies! When you factor in Jyllands-Posten, 9/11, sharia in correlation with Dar al-Islam and Dar al-Harb, the Barbary Wars, Ayatollah Khomeini and The Satanic Verses, Theo van Gogh, t--"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne! You may offend some of your viewers!"
Ripplemagne:
"I will not be silenced!"
Exclaiming loudly, Ripplemagne charges out of the swinging door, pushing Izabel aside as she was walking back, her coffee flying out of her hands. The White Mage keeps up with his swift moments as he runs down the hallway with his finger pointing in the air and his eyes tightly closed...
...Unfortunately, the latter led to disaster as he ran face first into a cement wall, getting thrown back about three feet and landing on his neck, performing a back somersault along the floor, back to his knees...
Izabel:
"Got that out of your system?"
Ripplemagne:
"I should be good for the next few days..."
Unwilling to walk across the hallway back to the room, Ripplemagne turns to the closest room and kicks the door, walking in on a woman in her bra and panties, garnering a scream from her. As he steps in, she runs passed him and out of the room, thinking he was a murderer or robber or something...
KNOW YOUR STARS... KNOW YOUR STARS... KNOW YOUR STARS...
It seems we're being treated to Nickelodeon's Know Your Stars segment of All That as Ripplemagne plops on a, nearby, forest green sofa...
RIPPLEMAGNE... HAS TWO EXTRA NIPPLES...
Ripplemagne:
"Fair enough..."
RIPPLEMAGNE... IS BEST FRIENDS WITH A LEPRECHAUN NAMED MARK...
Ripplemagne:
"Hey! She has a good heart!"
RIPPLEMAGNE... LIKES BIG BUTTS AND HE CANNOT LIE...
Ripplemagne:
"You otha' brothas can't deny."
RIPPLEMAGNE... DOES NOT LIKE PUDDING...
Ripplemagne:
"...Well, that's not true. Take it back. Now! Take it back!"
NO...
Ripplemagne:
"Listen, you floating, disembodied voiced bastard! I will not be slandered! The Ripplemagne will not have it! The Ripplemagne enjoys the pudding! He bathes in it!"
SOMETIMES FACT IS STRANGER THAN FICTION. T.M.I...
Ripplemagne:
"Victory is mine. Chock another one up for the magnificent one..."
Izabel:
"You're a dink."
Ripplemagne:
"You want my dick?"
Izabel:
"I said dink!"
Ripplemagne:
"Well, ladies and gentlemen, the Ripplemagne has to plow Izzy-bella and plunder her depths. Join us next time when we discuss the female reproductive organ and Ripplemagne's experience with such..."
Izabel:
"That's not wh--"
Ripplemagne:
"Cut feed now!"
An abrupt stop in film cuts Izabel off as there is a pause before the Batman television head roll with Ripplemagne's comes up, but opens up to...
The Weapon Dance
We reopen to Ripplemagne sitting atop a red throne in a completely darkened room with the only illumination directly over him. His right leg is crossed over his left and a grin is plastered on his face...
Ripplemagne:
"Lucy and Harty. Why does that sound familiar?"
Ripplemagne:
"Ah, yes. That's about right."
Without further deliberation, the scene cuts over to a vignette of Chris Cage's segment...
Chris Cage:
"Speaking of crowning achievements, I must applaud for my fellow victor, Ripplemagne. It seems, lately, behind the scenes, he has been making mentions of yours truly. Up until this point, I've only ever thought of him as a puppet, having his strings be pulled by other figures and the fans in order to garner praise for his 'act' of a character. Whether that is truly his own personality or not, the fact remains that he is nothing, but a buffoon. However, I'll give the puppet his due. He certainly has his own aura of charisma he absolutely loves to indulge into. And, by that, I mean the deep gash and crevice of that man-whore he calls a wench...
I mean 'woman'. Sorry, other events recently have made some of my words turn into other meanings."
*snip*
Chris Cage:
"There is no threat posed to me in this match. Nor do I expect to be 'shocked' or 'surprised' by any of these three when the time comes. Want the spoiler? Crave the ending? Like to know how it all ends? Rewind the tapes back to me delivering Canadian Warfare this past week and play it over three fold. One for each of them. And a three count for me.
The likes of Mikey Glyster, Ripplemagne, Lucian, Hartnell, and all the rest will forever be tacked onto words such as 'mediocre', 'mid-card', 'defeated' and all the others that mean the same damn thing. Whereas, Chris Cage will forever be synonymous with, but three words. World. Heavyweight. Champion."
Ripplemagne:
"Excellent.
A magnanimous grin will be etched on my face because, as you noisomely put it, you don't expect to be shocked or surprised. That, in of itself, is what such emotions entail. As you do not expect it, the task of doing so will be fairly simplistic.
Though, I do find something rather amusing. You go on to acknowledge that you will, indefinitely, win the Fatal Four Way Match. No more the alternative of Laurel and Hardy's segments, but it's convenient that your entire persona revolves around this 'truth teller' heel binge. Going so far as to name yourself as 'the man who has backed up everything he's said'; something you will 'continue to do'. 'I am the man who has already delivered upon every damn promise he set out to keep', were, I believe, your exact words.
So, out of curiosity, what happens if, hypothetically, you lose the Fatal Fourway Match for the title. You've made it an emphatic message that you plan to be the first Royal Ordinance Heavyweight Champion, but what if that's not the case?
Canadia, are you, then, suddenly, a liar? Pinocchio? Fletcher Reede? Jim Callahan? Al Gore? If you make promises that you don't keep, how valuable are those promises for the future?
Afterall, who can forget your apt allusion of Shaun Wilson as a 'victim'?"
Chris Cage:
"I've seen your style, and it's basic. Too simplistic. It's almost one hundred percent predictable. I'll even make a guarantee this damn good. I will beat you within a matter of twelve minutes. Right now, I am guaranteeing that promise. Twelve minutes. So why not make it interesting? Twelve minute time limit match. Why not?"
Ripplemagne:
"We, now, know that a time limit is irrelevant because it wasn't only twelve minutes that you didn't defeat him in. To this day, you haven't claimed victory over a man whose style you consider 'basic'.
This is the humility-reticent diatribe that plagues wrestling entertainment in cacophonous circumlocution. And its boundaries aren't exclusive to your broadcasts, mon ami. It's a circuitous cycle.
For every time you guarantee victory, Paesan', you devalue your words in the future to the point where every scintilla of what you have to say will be taken with a grain of salt. Guaranteeing victory before it comes is quite bold and the fervor behind such is illustrious, but should one fail in spite of their words, it goes without saying that the declaration, in the future, is hollow.
Unfortunately, you had little to say other than a circumlocution of how you were going to win, lavished with baseless ad hominems. Though, the Ripplemagne much preferred yours over... ugh... Jason Hartnel'sl..."
There's a brief pause as Ripplemagne smirks at the camera, rubbing his gloved hands together. After a second, he reaches for a stick on the side of his throne and pulls it out, displaying it along with a sad face drawn on with a sharpie...
Ripplemagne:
"Perhaps the most trying challenge to the Ripplemagne's attention span... ever... was watching the broadcast of 'Mr. Sadistic'. Unlike Canadia, Mr. Sadstick felt the need to make his broadcast into a college essay with an introduction, body and conclusion.
At first, the Ripplemagne thought this was a fairly novel idea... until he, actually, watched it. It was like reading a college essay where there was a paragraph break every twenty or so sentences. And each sentence was a run on with the exclusion of a fragment every eight lines.
My loquacious friend, many ideas can be conveyed without reiterating in a manner reminiscent of Mojo-jojo."
It seems as though Ripplemagne is speaking directly to the stick, pretending as though it is Jason Hartnell...
Ripplemagne:
"Then the scurrilous rewind bit was very trying on the magnificent one's attention span. Why film it? Why broadcast it? Why broadcast it in the middle of the otherwise consistent censure of your disputants? It's just curiosity -- I, as well as others, are bewildered by the home video docked in the center fold of the broadcast and how it was any more pertinent to the body of that 'Cure for Insomnia' piece of yours.
It's amusing how one of your chief chastisements of my broadcasts is irrelevance, yet that's the bulk of your artistry, Lee Groban.
And how the Hell did you get the narrator to castigate me, man? That's bullshit! I demand a refund for that blasphemy. That's some venomous shit, dude."
Jason Hartnell:
"Time to get down to business and put these other weaklings out of contention for the ROW Heavyweight Championship. Truth be told, the only thing fatal about this four-way is the atrocious lack of quality competitors I'll find myself in the ring with on Monday night. Looking over the names involved, it's evident to me there's no one that deserves to be in that ring with me. But that comes as no surprise.
So where should I start? How about with Ripplemagne. Thanks for the blow by blow recap of Spring Breakout, shithead. Although, I did manage to catch all of the action the first time around without having to sit through another nauseating edition of Rippletits ordering up a god damn waffle in a cafe.
I mean, shit, what the hell is with my opponents always wanting to talk about food at the moment? Yes, Luciano, you one dimensional dumb ass -- I'm, also ,looking at you. But I'll get to that in a moment. Indeed, Ripplemagne, or whatever ridiculous title you go by, you got passed Joe Morgan. Barely. Notice the emphasis on that word; because he's a guy that should have been dispatched with ease.
But then again, you're no wrestling prodigy, yourself, are ya'? Hell, you being in the main event, itself, is breaking new ground for you, isn't it, Rip'? Well, enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame, bitch, because I'll be making sure it doesn't last for so much as a minute longer. You're way out of your depth and, quite frankly, would be better off staying well away from me. But fate steered your ugly mug in my direction, which means I'm going to disembowel your career aspirations with the snap of your motherfucking neck. Then you can wheel yourself back over to the Action Wrestling League For Tots or whatever shit hole it is you're reppin' in your promos and leave the real main eventing to me."
Ripplemagne:
"...Rippletits? Seriously? After all of the deliberation, the best you can come up with... is Rippletits? Granted, Luciano's was, hardly, a novel nickname, it, at least, made me smirk.
Did you just open a dictionary and attach the first word that you found in it to the tailgate of my moniker or were you watching pr0n while thinking about the magnificent Ripplemagne again? With Kim Kardashian moaning from your computer speakers, all you could think about was that which, truly, tickled your fancy, huh? But oh! Someone is coming!
'I better close the video', he says. And as his finger drags over to the little X, the last thing locked in his gaze is billowing boobies. 'Oh! Rippletits! That's brilliant! Let me write it down!'
Which would, then, explain your unwarranted disdain and the random jibe at my appearance. The closet is a dark, lonely place, isn't it? Perhaps you should consult a therapist..."
A chuckle escapes the enigmatic lad's lips once again as he sits up and wipes a tuft of hair from his eye...
Ripplemagne:
"The only other explanation for your unprovoked, raucous castigation is an inferiority complex. Psychologically speaking, one does not go on the offensive where there is no combat or provocation, unless they feel threatened in some way, shape, form or fashion. It can be by peers or by that individual; which it is is irrelevant. Perhaps you feel you need to impress by belittling your opponents or mayhaps it's the fact that an eighteen year old rookie with only a month invested in the business is already vying for the top prize by your side, even though you've spent years to get to this point.
Personally, I don't think it's the latter inferiority complex after watching your rational discussion with Kurt Stone at Spring Breakout.
Much like Chris Cage, you make a lot of assumptions, guarantees and promises that print a lot of pressure on your forehead. Not only are you going to beat me, but you're going to beat me in fifteen minutes and break my neck? That's a heavy work load; good luck."
Jason Hartnell:
"And the only way those haters can try to make up for their own severe lack of ability is by taking aim at those who pass them by on the way up the ladder. They'll do anything they can in order to try and discredit you and run your name through the mud, all the while trying to take away from the accomplishments that have put you in the position of being one of the top dawgs in the first place. This particular breed of person, a hater, can be found across all professions in the world."
Ripplemagne:
"Hypocrisy and irony at its finest."
Jimmy Luciano:
"This fatal four way doesn’t even live up to the name. First of all, nothing is fatal about this match other than having to be in the ring with devout faggots Chris Cage and Ripplemagne.
They, practically, are wrestling liaisons to morons everywhere. Whatever they do, do the fucking opposite. This is, basically, a race between Jason and me to see who pins one of the two non-factors faster. It’s a one on one match between Luciano and Hartnell with the stipulations being that we are able to pin two other people, who, somehow, managed to qualify for the match.
How amusing right? Hartnell will look for the easy way out and so will I. It’s crystal fucking clear how this match breaks down. No analytical approach is needed. Regardless of how cheap it is to pick up a win over Cage and nipple ring… it’s a World Title match. You take the win if it’s presented and deal with the consequences later. Meaning, I’ll be more than happy to extend a shot to Jason Hartnell or even The Hen. My opponent is looking to win by any means and I am looking to one up the dramatic."
Ripplemagne:
"Hm... the Ripplemagne wonders how anyone can sit and draw up promotional pieces, week in and week out, about the same exact thing. Redundancy must be the forte of some here, but at least the Ripplemagne could stomach our Immortal boy's broadcast.
Unlike Sadstick..."
Rather amused, he tosses the stick out of frame...
Ripplemagne:
"...Who has no idea when to just shut up. Lucy, mon ami, your narratives and descriptive nature is, actually, quite good. The euphony of your words, however garrulous, are, indeed, poignant. I'd wager that you're a grandeur writer and narrator...
...But the problem is that you're an A-Class writer with no story to write. There is no depth... no meaning... no soul for the narration to drag the viewer along with. It's, essentially, a poem about nothing.
'Italian Stallion'... haha-ha..."
Everything blacks out as Ripplemagne sarcastically waves at the camera...
* * *
