A Ripplemagne Shoot
* * *
Romans 12:2
"And be not conformed to this world; but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God."
(Except you, Oliver Creed.)
* * *
A Ripplemagne Shoot
The stoic nature of the opening ignites concern amidst the words "A Ripplemagne Shoot". The unsanctioned premise of this is enough to cut the bickering of a crowded ball. Hazy and murky, our filter begins to pick up picture rather than a pitch of darkness, fazing in the image of the beloved Suicide King, Ripplemagne. There's a quake in the lens as we start to get a clear picture, starting with Ripplemagne's fair complexion and voluminous champagne hair.
There is no facepaint to be seen, but we can garner that he's donning one of his skin tight "Believe" t-shirts in a forest green along with a black scarf loosely tied under his chin. Beyond that, we can't see below his waist to garner what else he's donning, but it seems that a litter of bracelets and wrist bands are adorning his forearms.
Shortly after our picture clears and we have a lucid visual of the Patriarch of Pretty, he rocks his head back, so that we can see his glistening, dew-like blue-green eyes sparkle against the gleam of the overhead lights cascading down on him to accentuate his appeal amidst the settingless scene behind him.
Ripplemagne:
"Aloha and a very merry unbirthday to you folks at home! Well... unless it is your birthday, in which case, uh... feliz happy birthday and whatnot!"
He begins with a soft, gentle smirk while speaking to the folks at home as he extends his fair greeting. As he progresses, he seems to confuse himself as he jumbles into being politically correct to those of us whose birthday is it.
Ripplemagne:
"We won't be shifting gears this week with the usual 'and now, for your feature presentation' because our sponsors felt that the comedic overtones and the ability to make people smile was conflicting with Global Extreme Wrestling's outlaw image. More 'match talk' and the 'real Ripplemagne' was demanded from management of G.E.W."
Unlike the chipper, childlike voice we've become accustomed to, the bass of his voice comes out through his chest in a soft, meticulous tone. It's almost like there's an immediate shift from a greeting we'd have grown to expect from the eccentric lad to a cut and dry, serious gab. We don't see the lovable smirk that we've come to know and love, but rather a stern demeanor with his eyes fixed on the camera lens with an element of focus.
Ripplemagne:
"Naturally, they overlooked one minute little detail: that the 'real Ripplemagne' is the Ripplemagne you get week in and week out; an individual who doesn't let life's woes ail him and spreads good cheer and happiness to everyone he's around regardless of what's going on in his own life. But they don't want the 'real Ripplemagne' as they claim; they want belly aching and moans about how my life sucks, how the world is out to get me and how much I hate my parents.
But I offer my deepest sincerities if I don't believe that everyone on the planet lives in a distopia. In reality, I have a perfect family, the world by the balls and I genuinely enjoy my life. So, once again, I'm going to offer my apologies that I'm not a drug addict like Mark Chapman or a pedophile like Kameron Chase. I'm sorry I can't entertain you by degrading myself and taking years off of my life. I'm sorry if I don't have an angsty past that keeps me awake at night, sobbing. I'm sorry I sleep like a baby."
The word 'sorry' is especially accentuated as he continues with a venomous bass in his voice, rearing his head in every time he says the word 'sorry' to make it especially sarcastic.
Ripplemagne:
"Sure. I could make a tragedy of my life. Tell you how I was raised by a single mother, was in physical confrontation on a weekly basis as a youngin, verbal ones on a daily basis, was the scape goat of the entire educational system, or how Mary J. Rottencrotch dumped me on prom night, leaving me to cry the rest of the night in my bedroom. Okay, the last one is a fabrication, but I could make my today a misery; start taking cocaine, shoot up on 'roids and chug bottles of Jack Daniels to inebriate myself to the point where I can't even remember that I'm the magnificent Ripplemagne."
There's a bit of a shift from the monotonous tone to his more quirky, confused self after the Mary J. Rottencrotch comment and he begins to talk as if he doesn't have a care in the world, passing off everything he just said as if they were pissant matters to involve onself in. There's a bit of a grin shining through his face at the mention of his own name, but it begins to fade as he continues with an almost gurgling, mad dog-esque hypothetical tone. There's even more of a cold, heartless, seething gab exuding from his lips at this point...
Ripplemagne:
"Or I could warp my thoughts. Let my brain spin on its axis and let the venom, scorn and vehemence out. Make Shane Tallin and Troy Gafgen's match at Extreme Extravaganza look like some greasy hobo banging on some pots at the subway corner of Times Square in Manhattan... to my three ring circus, aquarium, museum, and nightclub. I could make Klown squeemish and Reaper nauseous. I could become an entity... an envoy... an enigma... of hate and sadism. I could be a shock rocker and leave you stunned with every edition of Your Feature Presentation. Send you on nerve trips and keep you from sleeping at night with my antics."
After all of that, we see him begin to breathe heavy as he turns to give us a side view of him; his hand reaching over to his face and onto his forehead. Each breath rattling from his lips is like a quaking gurgling coming from his chest; his eyes with almost a worried look on his face. For a moment, he seems to lose himself, but he manages to turn back to the camera and straight himself out with a deep breath.
With a thumb wiping a tuft of hair from his eye, he continues with a less scornful bass and raspiness coming from his throat. Now, he begins to writhe with more sarcasm, but with a more quizzical tone..
Ripplemagne:
"Or there's always going the route of paying Kammy-baby a few sexual favors. Oh, yes! Then I'll even have a rape story to bitch, moan and groan about for six seasons! Hey! I can even segway that misery into other forms of misery like self mutilation! You know, I'd probably be quite the afficianado of grinding a cheese grater along my abdominals. In fact, I can say with sheer confidence that I could make you weep for me and leave a tear in your eye about the condition I'm in. What's a few forks to the forearm in the hue of being a proper badass?"
There's almost a derranged tone in his voice as if he would do it, but at the same time, it's like he's making fun of it. We see his eye almost beam off in a separate direction than the other as he cackles himself and straightens up to continue upright and monotone...
Ripplemagne:
"But I don't leave you in shock or dismay with each broadcast of Your Feature Presentation. No, no. Quite the contrary, I try to leave you with a smile on your face by the end of it. And we, at Your Feature Presentation, much like the gummi ship at Donald and Goofy's disposal, run on smiles.
...But we're all, apparently, 'too funny' and 'too happy'."
We see the childish, immature side of Ripplemagne that we're familiar with come out a bit more at the mention of Donald and Goofy. A soft smile adorns his face, but it segways into more brain storming...
Ripplemagne:
"But y'know, I could probably play up the fact that I'm straight edge and make a gimmick out of that. Perhaps sell the idea that I'm not ossified at every waking moment of the day. I could even come up with a cute little backstory about my dad being a raging alcoholic and how he beat me every day of my life, so I decided that I never wanted to be like him. Yeah, I could sell that idea."
It's almost like he genuinely believes himself when he talks... or at least, it seems that way by his facial expressions. But it's like, from there, he snaps back to reality and nips it in the bud...
Ripplemagne:
"No doubt I could do what we all expect of James Magnum sometime this week --probably the night before Chaos -- and talk about how the sun was in my eye during my title match on Sunday. We'll ignore the fact that the Jokers Wild tried with everything in their power to keep me grounded on the canvas for a count of three and couldn't do it. We'll ignore the fact that there is likely some black omen of voodoo that follows Collision Course like that little ghost from Earthbound, ensuring that the goldmembers change hands for that night -- because there's no way any night can showcase every single goldmember change hands without it being due to some supernatural intervention."
We see his composure returning as his veins stop buldging and his cheeks return to their normal pigment from its rouge-like state. The word 'ignore' is especially prominent amongst this bulk of diction, but as this section of dialogue goes by, he gets progressively more and more humored. But in an instant, he snaps back to his stern words...
Ripplemagne:
"Fact of the matter is that I don't have a coil of tin wrapped around my waist anymore and I'm, technically, not undefeated anymore. Though, by Dave Richmond standards, I guess that can be debated. Regardless, I'm not going to list off every blaring anomaly and obstacle that stood in Entrée ex Machina's way that night. You all know what you saw and everyone will come to their own conclusions.
Likewise, though, I could have spent the same time in the days leading up to Collision Course to run my opponents' names in the muck and play tit-for-tat with their not so poignant debasing. But my silence to their existence speaks more than any words will in regards to my feelings toward them.
In fact, I take it as rather complimentary that even though I have a shoulder-to-shoulder brethren in the tag team division -- that the entire division seems to focus solely on me. In fact, I adorn the idea that I'm so widely discussed despite having less in-ring experience than perhaps anyone else on the roster... around my waist with more pride than I would any hunk of scrap metal. It behooves me to say that these miscreants and cafones make a career out of getting ratings by dropping the name 'Ripplemagne' as often as they can.
It's kind of amazing, isn't it? Two weeks ago, I turned nineteen and I am a commodity with more draw than 90% of the entire roster. I'm involved in every major development in this company, directly or indirectly, and Chaos will mark my tenth match in Global Extreme Wrestling.
And the best part? I have not a care about any of them and sleep like a baby.... er... one without gas."
A titter escapes his lips as he looks around the room with a half-smirk and a roll to his eyes. After shaking his head and absorbing just where he is, he connects back with the feed and continues his tirade...
Ripplemagne:
"...Better yet, I can emulate 'Saint' Magnum and do all of the talking on Your Feature Presentation with my dreary personal life of trying, desperately, to find Chelsea Reed's six pound G-spot with index and digitus medius extended like an archetypal beta male. Yes, indeedy doo.
Oh, wait. I got it. Instead of letting Chelsea Reed slide her five foot clitoris through the magnificent Ripplemagne's glorious, porcelain glutes as part of the initiation to Reed's Angels, I can take the K.C. McGrath circuitous route to having a Gooey-worthy outlaw image.
Oh, yes. See, I come from a rather large family; my grandmother had eight kids and they all had their own kids. So, as you can imagine, I have a surplus of cousins and, mathematically and genetically speaking, probability is in favor of at least one of them being female. So, after I take a round of ecstasy, get hazed out of my mind, put a cock ring on to avoid getting an erectile dysfunction and purge any possible vomit from my system... we have lift off!
Actually, between Brookeback Magnum, Kammy-baby and his pole-polishing baby brother -- and lets be honest with ourselves for a moment and add Tony Harrison to that list too -- I feel like we're the riot squad storming a gay pride parade gone renegade. Maybe they should indoctrinate Ace Static into their little club because he seems overtly concerned with my sexuality despite having no basis to go on -- more so than any 'heterosexual' male should be.
Judging by the clearly decadent nature of Kammy-baby and Brookeback Magnum, one has to wonder just how safe Ryan and McKenzie are in their custody. You know, with all of the traveling we do, CJ could really use some playmates. So, if you bucks ever drop the ball with the toddlers, I'll be more than happy to sign the adoption papers."
There seems to be more sarcasm lavished with a snarky attitude toward the two juggernauts of the business. There's a wink that follows this length of hypothesizing as if to imply that he would be a better father than either of them.
Ripplemagne:
"Or, y'know, I can waste five minutes of your life with self hype and match-of-the-week trash talk like The Tang's old buddies in the Puppet Masters -- or, more contemporary, like Ace Static and his Hollywood Undead-reminiscent butt buddies. I can tell you how good I am and how bad everyone else is, but John F. Kennedy once said 'If we are strong, our strength will speak for itself. If we are weak, words will be no help.'
It'd be simple to spend an entire promotional segment using Ace Static's mediocre life as a pin cushion like I did on the Global Extreme Forums. It'd be easy to just take everything he's said and contrast it to the sheer level of ass kickery I bestowed upon him -- to which he never had the jewels to even retort to appropriately."
Snickering to himself, Ripplemagne rears his head back and clenches his chest gently before refocusing on the camera. There's absolute silence except for his razor-like words cutting the tension and echoing like a superball crashing along every surface of the room.
Ripplemagne:
"So, if any of you take a particularly negative stance against the jovial nature of Your Feature Presentation and the King of Hearts... well, excuse the fuck out of me for not adding to the negativity of your daily lives with negativity of my own...
You know what? No.
I'm not sorry. And I'm not going to change Your Feature Presentation because some people love to be miserable. I'm not going to whine and sniffle about how unfortunate I am. I'm not going to waste my time with hackneyed jargon about how badly I'm going to kick Random Opponent of the Week #36's ass or how much of a big doo doo head he is.
And do you know why I'm not going to? Because I started Your Feature Presentation to escape that monotony. I, genuinely, enjoy what I do because I hate what they're asking me to do and how rampant it runs in this line of work. I'm psychologically irked by the idea that people will stand behind the camera and actually talk about nothing for five minutes. It enrages me to watch the wrestling industry get polluted by the same preaching from every philistine lacking verbal werewithal and microphone skills. It makes me sick to see people sit behind a camera, giggling to themselves with their pinkies up their asses, trying to find as many ways to insult their foe as possible by changing the first letter of their names and hypocritically imbuing them with the negative attributes that adorn themselves.
Oh, haha. Nipplemagne. Lololololol. Dats like totally a burn, man! You guys are fucking hilarious and like so totally unique! Yeah, I never heard that one before! Nope. You're the first. Every single one of you are the first to come up with that one.
And I'm sure you're the first to call me effeminate, homo, skinny, short and/or retarded. Nah, no one could have used those goodies in the past! They're too unique and only your astute, Sherlock-esque observations can articulate just how asinine my lifestyle is! Give yourself a pat on the back because you're just swell! And, boy... if you're clever enough to come up with Nipplemagnet, then you are the cream of the crop!"
The sarcasm has reached critical mass as even the White Mage behind the camera is unable to properly hold the camera in the wake of Ripplemagne's mannerisms right now...
Ripplemagne:
"And I'm not going to base my wrestling career on how drugs, alcohol and tobacco are Satan either because I'm not your preacher and it's a stupid gimmick. It's stupid when CM Punk does it, it's stupid when Gabriella does it and it's stupid when everyone else does it. It's splendorous and two thumbs up when you make the call against intoxicating yourself, but to base my entire wrestling career on that is obnoxious.
Well, I guess if you're a heel in the business, it's a dandy way of catching heat from the fans by insulting them, but honestly? It's not all that shocking and the idea behind blanketing myself with it as my veil doesn't sound particularly engaging. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd drop Your Feature Presentation all together and quit wrestling if that was how I had to behave."
Using a rapid twist of his neck to flick the hair of of his face, Ripplemagne pauses and thinks to himself for a moment with his eyes closed. When he continues, he remains with his eyes closed for the first few words, but by the end of the sentence, he's looking back at the camera...
Ripplemagne:
"You like what I did to these Dead Nations on the Global Extreme Forums? I'm sure I could make a gimmick out of verbally deriding my opponents like Rurik Krychek does. Afterall, I put him to shame in the first few editions of Your Feature Presentation and demo'd these Dead Nations after their continual attempts to decry me on the forums. And y'know what? I could do it successfully. But that's Baldr's schtick; the Ripplemagne prefers to entertain without destroying my opponent's semblance of reality."
Shrugging off this notion, Ripplemagne seems rather jaded and dissociated at this point, but as he looks away and looks back, he pauses and gathers himself. In this instant, we see his nostrils flare for a moment and his face go stern as he takes a few steps closer to the camera...
Ripplemagne:
"So, cut me off. Ban Your Feature Presentation from the G.E.W. website. Without a doubt, this is Chelsea Reed attempting to curb my growth in the company, but I don't care. We'll create our own website and syndicate Your Feature Presentation there under our own grounds and come back at you like the hammer of Thor breaching your loading docks and come back with more fervor, more determination, more followers and completely eclipse this entire company! But I will not be someone I'm not and turn Your Feature Presentation into something it's not because management doesn't approve of it being 'too random'."
There seems to be more charismatic growth as he begins to electrify the air around him with a speech in a rapid, energetic tone as if he were trying to will an army to life...
Ripplemagne:
"Maybe I didn't make myself clear. See that lion that appears on the titantron before I come to the ring? You see the fangs on my facepaint? I am the King of my Pride... and I don't know how eager you'd be to prod Aslan, Christian or Simba with a stick, but it would be very unfortunate of you to climb into the cage with me after poking me behind it.
Do what you have to do, but we, at Your Feature Presentation, won't sell out."
The final words ring and echo in a more cybernetic fashion, which can no doubt be attributed to the White Mage's video editing. Nevertheless, there's a monotous fade that blacks out with Ripplemagne standing firm amidst his creation of Your Feature Presentation.
When it finally goes black and there is silence, we can hear the audio of "Beautiful" by Eminem cutting in...
"Lately, I've been hard to reach;
I've been too long on my own.
Everybody has a private world...
Where they can be alone.
Are you calling me?
Are you trying to get through?
Are you reaching out for me?
I'm reaching out for you--"
"I'm just so fucking depressed;
I just can't seem to get out this slump.
If I could just get over this hump,
But I need something to pull me out this dump.
I took my bruises, took my lumps, fell down and I got right back up.
But I need that spark to get psyched back up in order for me to pick the mic back up.
I don't know how or why or when I ended up in this position I'm in;
I'm startin' to feel distant again,
So I decided to just pick this pen...
Up to try to make an attempt to vent, but I just can't admit...
Or come to grips with the fact that I may be done with rap.
I need a new outlet.
And I know some shits so hard to swallow, but I just can't sit back and wallow...
In my own sorrow.
But I know one fact;
I'll be one tough act to follow.
One tough act to follow.
I'll be one tough act to follow.
Here today,
Gone tomorrow,
But you got to walk a thousand miles...
In my shoes...
Just to see...
What it's like to be me.
I'll be you.
Let's trade shoes just to see what it'd be like to...
Feel your pain, you feel mine;
Go inside each others' minds...
Just to see what we find -- look at shit through each others' eyes.
But don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
I think I'm starting to lose my sense of humour.
Everything's so tense and gloom; I...
Almost feel like I gotta check the temperature of the room...
Just as soon as I walk in.
It's like all eyes on me, so I try to avoid any eye contact...
'Cause if I do that, then it opens the door for conversation;
Like I want that.
I'm not looking for extra attention;
I just wanna be just like you.
Blend in with the rest of the room.
Maybe just point me to the closest restroom?
I don't need no fuckin' man servant, tryin'-a follow me around and wipe my ass;
Laugh at every single joke I crack and half of them ain't even funny, like...
'Ahahaha! Marshall, you're so funny, man; you should be a comedian! God damn!'
Unfortunately, I am,
I just hide behind the tears of a clown.
So, why don't you all sit down;
Listen to the tale I'm about to tell.
Hell...
We don't gotta trade our shoes and you ain't gotta walk no thousand miles
In my shoes...
Just to see...
What it's like to be me.
I'll be you.
Let's trade shoes just to see what it'd be like to...
Feel your pain, you feel mine;
Go inside each others' minds...
Just to see what we find -- look at shit through each others' eyes.
But don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Nobody asked for life to deal us with these bullshit hands we're dealt.
We gotta take these cards ourselves...
And flip them.
Don't expect no help.
Now, I could of either just sat on my ass and pissed and moaned,
Or take this situation in which I'm placed in...
And get up and get my own.
I was never the type of kid to wait by the door and pack his bags,
Or sat on the porch and hoped and prayed for a dad to show up...
Who never did.
I just wanted to fit in in every single place,
Every school I went.
I dreamed of being that cool kid,
Even if it meant acting stupid.
Aunt Edna always told me,
'Keep making that face' and it gets stuck like that.'
Meanwhile, I'm just standing there...
Holding my tounge, tryn'-a talk like this.
Then I stuck my tounge on that frozen stop sign pole at eight years old.
I learned my lesson then,
'Cause I wasn't trying to impress my friends no more.
But I already told you my whole life story,
Not just based off my description.
'Cause where you see it from where you're sitting...
Is probably a hundred and ten percent different.
I guess we would have to walk a mile in each others' shoes.
At least.
What size you wear?
I wear tens.
Let's see if you can fit your feet...
In my shoes...
Just to see...
What it's like to be me.
I'll be you.
Let's trade shoes just to see what it'd be like to...
Feel your pain, you feel mine;
Go inside each others' minds...
Just to see what we find -- look at shit through each others' eyes.
But don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you."
"Lately, I've been hard to reach;
I've been too long on my own.
Everybody has a private world...
Where they can be alone.
Are you calling me?
Are you trying to get through?
Are you reaching out for me?
I'm reaching out for you--"
"Yeah, to my babies...
Stay strong.
Dad will be home soon.
And to the rest of the world...
God gave you them shoes to fit you.
So, put them on and wear them...
Be yourself, man,
Be proud of who you are.
Even if it sounds corny...
Don't ever let no one tell you you ain't beautiful."
* * *
Romans 12:2
"And be not conformed to this world; but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God."
(Except you, Oliver Creed.)
* * *
A Ripplemagne Shoot
The stoic nature of the opening ignites concern amidst the words "A Ripplemagne Shoot". The unsanctioned premise of this is enough to cut the bickering of a crowded ball. Hazy and murky, our filter begins to pick up picture rather than a pitch of darkness, fazing in the image of the beloved Suicide King, Ripplemagne. There's a quake in the lens as we start to get a clear picture, starting with Ripplemagne's fair complexion and voluminous champagne hair.
There is no facepaint to be seen, but we can garner that he's donning one of his skin tight "Believe" t-shirts in a forest green along with a black scarf loosely tied under his chin. Beyond that, we can't see below his waist to garner what else he's donning, but it seems that a litter of bracelets and wrist bands are adorning his forearms.
Shortly after our picture clears and we have a lucid visual of the Patriarch of Pretty, he rocks his head back, so that we can see his glistening, dew-like blue-green eyes sparkle against the gleam of the overhead lights cascading down on him to accentuate his appeal amidst the settingless scene behind him.
Ripplemagne:
"Aloha and a very merry unbirthday to you folks at home! Well... unless it is your birthday, in which case, uh... feliz happy birthday and whatnot!"
He begins with a soft, gentle smirk while speaking to the folks at home as he extends his fair greeting. As he progresses, he seems to confuse himself as he jumbles into being politically correct to those of us whose birthday is it.
Ripplemagne:
"We won't be shifting gears this week with the usual 'and now, for your feature presentation' because our sponsors felt that the comedic overtones and the ability to make people smile was conflicting with Global Extreme Wrestling's outlaw image. More 'match talk' and the 'real Ripplemagne' was demanded from management of G.E.W."
Unlike the chipper, childlike voice we've become accustomed to, the bass of his voice comes out through his chest in a soft, meticulous tone. It's almost like there's an immediate shift from a greeting we'd have grown to expect from the eccentric lad to a cut and dry, serious gab. We don't see the lovable smirk that we've come to know and love, but rather a stern demeanor with his eyes fixed on the camera lens with an element of focus.
Ripplemagne:
"Naturally, they overlooked one minute little detail: that the 'real Ripplemagne' is the Ripplemagne you get week in and week out; an individual who doesn't let life's woes ail him and spreads good cheer and happiness to everyone he's around regardless of what's going on in his own life. But they don't want the 'real Ripplemagne' as they claim; they want belly aching and moans about how my life sucks, how the world is out to get me and how much I hate my parents.
But I offer my deepest sincerities if I don't believe that everyone on the planet lives in a distopia. In reality, I have a perfect family, the world by the balls and I genuinely enjoy my life. So, once again, I'm going to offer my apologies that I'm not a drug addict like Mark Chapman or a pedophile like Kameron Chase. I'm sorry I can't entertain you by degrading myself and taking years off of my life. I'm sorry if I don't have an angsty past that keeps me awake at night, sobbing. I'm sorry I sleep like a baby."
The word 'sorry' is especially accentuated as he continues with a venomous bass in his voice, rearing his head in every time he says the word 'sorry' to make it especially sarcastic.
Ripplemagne:
"Sure. I could make a tragedy of my life. Tell you how I was raised by a single mother, was in physical confrontation on a weekly basis as a youngin, verbal ones on a daily basis, was the scape goat of the entire educational system, or how Mary J. Rottencrotch dumped me on prom night, leaving me to cry the rest of the night in my bedroom. Okay, the last one is a fabrication, but I could make my today a misery; start taking cocaine, shoot up on 'roids and chug bottles of Jack Daniels to inebriate myself to the point where I can't even remember that I'm the magnificent Ripplemagne."
There's a bit of a shift from the monotonous tone to his more quirky, confused self after the Mary J. Rottencrotch comment and he begins to talk as if he doesn't have a care in the world, passing off everything he just said as if they were pissant matters to involve onself in. There's a bit of a grin shining through his face at the mention of his own name, but it begins to fade as he continues with an almost gurgling, mad dog-esque hypothetical tone. There's even more of a cold, heartless, seething gab exuding from his lips at this point...
Ripplemagne:
"Or I could warp my thoughts. Let my brain spin on its axis and let the venom, scorn and vehemence out. Make Shane Tallin and Troy Gafgen's match at Extreme Extravaganza look like some greasy hobo banging on some pots at the subway corner of Times Square in Manhattan... to my three ring circus, aquarium, museum, and nightclub. I could make Klown squeemish and Reaper nauseous. I could become an entity... an envoy... an enigma... of hate and sadism. I could be a shock rocker and leave you stunned with every edition of Your Feature Presentation. Send you on nerve trips and keep you from sleeping at night with my antics."
After all of that, we see him begin to breathe heavy as he turns to give us a side view of him; his hand reaching over to his face and onto his forehead. Each breath rattling from his lips is like a quaking gurgling coming from his chest; his eyes with almost a worried look on his face. For a moment, he seems to lose himself, but he manages to turn back to the camera and straight himself out with a deep breath.
With a thumb wiping a tuft of hair from his eye, he continues with a less scornful bass and raspiness coming from his throat. Now, he begins to writhe with more sarcasm, but with a more quizzical tone..
Ripplemagne:
"Or there's always going the route of paying Kammy-baby a few sexual favors. Oh, yes! Then I'll even have a rape story to bitch, moan and groan about for six seasons! Hey! I can even segway that misery into other forms of misery like self mutilation! You know, I'd probably be quite the afficianado of grinding a cheese grater along my abdominals. In fact, I can say with sheer confidence that I could make you weep for me and leave a tear in your eye about the condition I'm in. What's a few forks to the forearm in the hue of being a proper badass?"
There's almost a derranged tone in his voice as if he would do it, but at the same time, it's like he's making fun of it. We see his eye almost beam off in a separate direction than the other as he cackles himself and straightens up to continue upright and monotone...
Ripplemagne:
"But I don't leave you in shock or dismay with each broadcast of Your Feature Presentation. No, no. Quite the contrary, I try to leave you with a smile on your face by the end of it. And we, at Your Feature Presentation, much like the gummi ship at Donald and Goofy's disposal, run on smiles.
...But we're all, apparently, 'too funny' and 'too happy'."
We see the childish, immature side of Ripplemagne that we're familiar with come out a bit more at the mention of Donald and Goofy. A soft smile adorns his face, but it segways into more brain storming...
Ripplemagne:
"But y'know, I could probably play up the fact that I'm straight edge and make a gimmick out of that. Perhaps sell the idea that I'm not ossified at every waking moment of the day. I could even come up with a cute little backstory about my dad being a raging alcoholic and how he beat me every day of my life, so I decided that I never wanted to be like him. Yeah, I could sell that idea."
It's almost like he genuinely believes himself when he talks... or at least, it seems that way by his facial expressions. But it's like, from there, he snaps back to reality and nips it in the bud...
Ripplemagne:
"No doubt I could do what we all expect of James Magnum sometime this week --probably the night before Chaos -- and talk about how the sun was in my eye during my title match on Sunday. We'll ignore the fact that the Jokers Wild tried with everything in their power to keep me grounded on the canvas for a count of three and couldn't do it. We'll ignore the fact that there is likely some black omen of voodoo that follows Collision Course like that little ghost from Earthbound, ensuring that the goldmembers change hands for that night -- because there's no way any night can showcase every single goldmember change hands without it being due to some supernatural intervention."
We see his composure returning as his veins stop buldging and his cheeks return to their normal pigment from its rouge-like state. The word 'ignore' is especially prominent amongst this bulk of diction, but as this section of dialogue goes by, he gets progressively more and more humored. But in an instant, he snaps back to his stern words...
Ripplemagne:
"Fact of the matter is that I don't have a coil of tin wrapped around my waist anymore and I'm, technically, not undefeated anymore. Though, by Dave Richmond standards, I guess that can be debated. Regardless, I'm not going to list off every blaring anomaly and obstacle that stood in Entrée ex Machina's way that night. You all know what you saw and everyone will come to their own conclusions.
Likewise, though, I could have spent the same time in the days leading up to Collision Course to run my opponents' names in the muck and play tit-for-tat with their not so poignant debasing. But my silence to their existence speaks more than any words will in regards to my feelings toward them.
In fact, I take it as rather complimentary that even though I have a shoulder-to-shoulder brethren in the tag team division -- that the entire division seems to focus solely on me. In fact, I adorn the idea that I'm so widely discussed despite having less in-ring experience than perhaps anyone else on the roster... around my waist with more pride than I would any hunk of scrap metal. It behooves me to say that these miscreants and cafones make a career out of getting ratings by dropping the name 'Ripplemagne' as often as they can.
It's kind of amazing, isn't it? Two weeks ago, I turned nineteen and I am a commodity with more draw than 90% of the entire roster. I'm involved in every major development in this company, directly or indirectly, and Chaos will mark my tenth match in Global Extreme Wrestling.
And the best part? I have not a care about any of them and sleep like a baby.... er... one without gas."
A titter escapes his lips as he looks around the room with a half-smirk and a roll to his eyes. After shaking his head and absorbing just where he is, he connects back with the feed and continues his tirade...
Ripplemagne:
"...Better yet, I can emulate 'Saint' Magnum and do all of the talking on Your Feature Presentation with my dreary personal life of trying, desperately, to find Chelsea Reed's six pound G-spot with index and digitus medius extended like an archetypal beta male. Yes, indeedy doo.
Oh, wait. I got it. Instead of letting Chelsea Reed slide her five foot clitoris through the magnificent Ripplemagne's glorious, porcelain glutes as part of the initiation to Reed's Angels, I can take the K.C. McGrath circuitous route to having a Gooey-worthy outlaw image.
Oh, yes. See, I come from a rather large family; my grandmother had eight kids and they all had their own kids. So, as you can imagine, I have a surplus of cousins and, mathematically and genetically speaking, probability is in favor of at least one of them being female. So, after I take a round of ecstasy, get hazed out of my mind, put a cock ring on to avoid getting an erectile dysfunction and purge any possible vomit from my system... we have lift off!
Actually, between Brookeback Magnum, Kammy-baby and his pole-polishing baby brother -- and lets be honest with ourselves for a moment and add Tony Harrison to that list too -- I feel like we're the riot squad storming a gay pride parade gone renegade. Maybe they should indoctrinate Ace Static into their little club because he seems overtly concerned with my sexuality despite having no basis to go on -- more so than any 'heterosexual' male should be.
Judging by the clearly decadent nature of Kammy-baby and Brookeback Magnum, one has to wonder just how safe Ryan and McKenzie are in their custody. You know, with all of the traveling we do, CJ could really use some playmates. So, if you bucks ever drop the ball with the toddlers, I'll be more than happy to sign the adoption papers."
There seems to be more sarcasm lavished with a snarky attitude toward the two juggernauts of the business. There's a wink that follows this length of hypothesizing as if to imply that he would be a better father than either of them.
Ripplemagne:
"Or, y'know, I can waste five minutes of your life with self hype and match-of-the-week trash talk like The Tang's old buddies in the Puppet Masters -- or, more contemporary, like Ace Static and his Hollywood Undead-reminiscent butt buddies. I can tell you how good I am and how bad everyone else is, but John F. Kennedy once said 'If we are strong, our strength will speak for itself. If we are weak, words will be no help.'
It'd be simple to spend an entire promotional segment using Ace Static's mediocre life as a pin cushion like I did on the Global Extreme Forums. It'd be easy to just take everything he's said and contrast it to the sheer level of ass kickery I bestowed upon him -- to which he never had the jewels to even retort to appropriately."
Snickering to himself, Ripplemagne rears his head back and clenches his chest gently before refocusing on the camera. There's absolute silence except for his razor-like words cutting the tension and echoing like a superball crashing along every surface of the room.
Ripplemagne:
"So, if any of you take a particularly negative stance against the jovial nature of Your Feature Presentation and the King of Hearts... well, excuse the fuck out of me for not adding to the negativity of your daily lives with negativity of my own...
You know what? No.
I'm not sorry. And I'm not going to change Your Feature Presentation because some people love to be miserable. I'm not going to whine and sniffle about how unfortunate I am. I'm not going to waste my time with hackneyed jargon about how badly I'm going to kick Random Opponent of the Week #36's ass or how much of a big doo doo head he is.
And do you know why I'm not going to? Because I started Your Feature Presentation to escape that monotony. I, genuinely, enjoy what I do because I hate what they're asking me to do and how rampant it runs in this line of work. I'm psychologically irked by the idea that people will stand behind the camera and actually talk about nothing for five minutes. It enrages me to watch the wrestling industry get polluted by the same preaching from every philistine lacking verbal werewithal and microphone skills. It makes me sick to see people sit behind a camera, giggling to themselves with their pinkies up their asses, trying to find as many ways to insult their foe as possible by changing the first letter of their names and hypocritically imbuing them with the negative attributes that adorn themselves.
Oh, haha. Nipplemagne. Lololololol. Dats like totally a burn, man! You guys are fucking hilarious and like so totally unique! Yeah, I never heard that one before! Nope. You're the first. Every single one of you are the first to come up with that one.
And I'm sure you're the first to call me effeminate, homo, skinny, short and/or retarded. Nah, no one could have used those goodies in the past! They're too unique and only your astute, Sherlock-esque observations can articulate just how asinine my lifestyle is! Give yourself a pat on the back because you're just swell! And, boy... if you're clever enough to come up with Nipplemagnet, then you are the cream of the crop!"
The sarcasm has reached critical mass as even the White Mage behind the camera is unable to properly hold the camera in the wake of Ripplemagne's mannerisms right now...
Ripplemagne:
"And I'm not going to base my wrestling career on how drugs, alcohol and tobacco are Satan either because I'm not your preacher and it's a stupid gimmick. It's stupid when CM Punk does it, it's stupid when Gabriella does it and it's stupid when everyone else does it. It's splendorous and two thumbs up when you make the call against intoxicating yourself, but to base my entire wrestling career on that is obnoxious.
Well, I guess if you're a heel in the business, it's a dandy way of catching heat from the fans by insulting them, but honestly? It's not all that shocking and the idea behind blanketing myself with it as my veil doesn't sound particularly engaging. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd drop Your Feature Presentation all together and quit wrestling if that was how I had to behave."
Using a rapid twist of his neck to flick the hair of of his face, Ripplemagne pauses and thinks to himself for a moment with his eyes closed. When he continues, he remains with his eyes closed for the first few words, but by the end of the sentence, he's looking back at the camera...
Ripplemagne:
"You like what I did to these Dead Nations on the Global Extreme Forums? I'm sure I could make a gimmick out of verbally deriding my opponents like Rurik Krychek does. Afterall, I put him to shame in the first few editions of Your Feature Presentation and demo'd these Dead Nations after their continual attempts to decry me on the forums. And y'know what? I could do it successfully. But that's Baldr's schtick; the Ripplemagne prefers to entertain without destroying my opponent's semblance of reality."
Shrugging off this notion, Ripplemagne seems rather jaded and dissociated at this point, but as he looks away and looks back, he pauses and gathers himself. In this instant, we see his nostrils flare for a moment and his face go stern as he takes a few steps closer to the camera...
Ripplemagne:
"So, cut me off. Ban Your Feature Presentation from the G.E.W. website. Without a doubt, this is Chelsea Reed attempting to curb my growth in the company, but I don't care. We'll create our own website and syndicate Your Feature Presentation there under our own grounds and come back at you like the hammer of Thor breaching your loading docks and come back with more fervor, more determination, more followers and completely eclipse this entire company! But I will not be someone I'm not and turn Your Feature Presentation into something it's not because management doesn't approve of it being 'too random'."
There seems to be more charismatic growth as he begins to electrify the air around him with a speech in a rapid, energetic tone as if he were trying to will an army to life...
Ripplemagne:
"Maybe I didn't make myself clear. See that lion that appears on the titantron before I come to the ring? You see the fangs on my facepaint? I am the King of my Pride... and I don't know how eager you'd be to prod Aslan, Christian or Simba with a stick, but it would be very unfortunate of you to climb into the cage with me after poking me behind it.
Do what you have to do, but we, at Your Feature Presentation, won't sell out."
The final words ring and echo in a more cybernetic fashion, which can no doubt be attributed to the White Mage's video editing. Nevertheless, there's a monotous fade that blacks out with Ripplemagne standing firm amidst his creation of Your Feature Presentation.
When it finally goes black and there is silence, we can hear the audio of "Beautiful" by Eminem cutting in...
"Lately, I've been hard to reach;
I've been too long on my own.
Everybody has a private world...
Where they can be alone.
Are you calling me?
Are you trying to get through?
Are you reaching out for me?
I'm reaching out for you--"
"I'm just so fucking depressed;
I just can't seem to get out this slump.
If I could just get over this hump,
But I need something to pull me out this dump.
I took my bruises, took my lumps, fell down and I got right back up.
But I need that spark to get psyched back up in order for me to pick the mic back up.
I don't know how or why or when I ended up in this position I'm in;
I'm startin' to feel distant again,
So I decided to just pick this pen...
Up to try to make an attempt to vent, but I just can't admit...
Or come to grips with the fact that I may be done with rap.
I need a new outlet.
And I know some shits so hard to swallow, but I just can't sit back and wallow...
In my own sorrow.
But I know one fact;
I'll be one tough act to follow.
One tough act to follow.
I'll be one tough act to follow.
Here today,
Gone tomorrow,
But you got to walk a thousand miles...
In my shoes...
Just to see...
What it's like to be me.
I'll be you.
Let's trade shoes just to see what it'd be like to...
Feel your pain, you feel mine;
Go inside each others' minds...
Just to see what we find -- look at shit through each others' eyes.
But don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
I think I'm starting to lose my sense of humour.
Everything's so tense and gloom; I...
Almost feel like I gotta check the temperature of the room...
Just as soon as I walk in.
It's like all eyes on me, so I try to avoid any eye contact...
'Cause if I do that, then it opens the door for conversation;
Like I want that.
I'm not looking for extra attention;
I just wanna be just like you.
Blend in with the rest of the room.
Maybe just point me to the closest restroom?
I don't need no fuckin' man servant, tryin'-a follow me around and wipe my ass;
Laugh at every single joke I crack and half of them ain't even funny, like...
'Ahahaha! Marshall, you're so funny, man; you should be a comedian! God damn!'
Unfortunately, I am,
I just hide behind the tears of a clown.
So, why don't you all sit down;
Listen to the tale I'm about to tell.
Hell...
We don't gotta trade our shoes and you ain't gotta walk no thousand miles
In my shoes...
Just to see...
What it's like to be me.
I'll be you.
Let's trade shoes just to see what it'd be like to...
Feel your pain, you feel mine;
Go inside each others' minds...
Just to see what we find -- look at shit through each others' eyes.
But don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Nobody asked for life to deal us with these bullshit hands we're dealt.
We gotta take these cards ourselves...
And flip them.
Don't expect no help.
Now, I could of either just sat on my ass and pissed and moaned,
Or take this situation in which I'm placed in...
And get up and get my own.
I was never the type of kid to wait by the door and pack his bags,
Or sat on the porch and hoped and prayed for a dad to show up...
Who never did.
I just wanted to fit in in every single place,
Every school I went.
I dreamed of being that cool kid,
Even if it meant acting stupid.
Aunt Edna always told me,
'Keep making that face' and it gets stuck like that.'
Meanwhile, I'm just standing there...
Holding my tounge, tryn'-a talk like this.
Then I stuck my tounge on that frozen stop sign pole at eight years old.
I learned my lesson then,
'Cause I wasn't trying to impress my friends no more.
But I already told you my whole life story,
Not just based off my description.
'Cause where you see it from where you're sitting...
Is probably a hundred and ten percent different.
I guess we would have to walk a mile in each others' shoes.
At least.
What size you wear?
I wear tens.
Let's see if you can fit your feet...
In my shoes...
Just to see...
What it's like to be me.
I'll be you.
Let's trade shoes just to see what it'd be like to...
Feel your pain, you feel mine;
Go inside each others' minds...
Just to see what we find -- look at shit through each others' eyes.
But don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you.
Don't let them say you ain't beautiful.
They can all get fucked; just stay true to you."
"Lately, I've been hard to reach;
I've been too long on my own.
Everybody has a private world...
Where they can be alone.
Are you calling me?
Are you trying to get through?
Are you reaching out for me?
I'm reaching out for you--"
"Yeah, to my babies...
Stay strong.
Dad will be home soon.
And to the rest of the world...
God gave you them shoes to fit you.
So, put them on and wear them...
Be yourself, man,
Be proud of who you are.
Even if it sounds corny...
Don't ever let no one tell you you ain't beautiful."
* * *
