Post by chuck on Mar 17, 2017 3:56:16 GMT
Downtown Chicago, Illinois
August 2016
OFF CAMERA
It seemed that, more and more frequently, Chuck Matthews was spending his evenings at the old lounge in the higher floors looming over Chicago. He always stuck out: While the other patrons were often dressed well, decked out in suits, ties, cocktail dresses, the works, Chuck typically sat in his isolated corner of the bar, jeans and an old sports coat, a wrestling t-shirt stretched across his chest, a relic of his younger days in the sport.
Things were different then.
Tonight, Chuck leaves his drink half-finished, but still leaves a generous tip. Amy had served tonight. She was a student at Loyola, studying to be a psychologist. One always takes care of fellow alumni. He steps into the elevator, leaning against the mirrored interior, staring at his reflection in the ceiling. His eyes are baggy. They were always baggy. He’d been struggling to sleep lately… another episode of insomnia he couldn’t quite shake. One of these days, he’d have to remind himself to see a doctor. This wasn’t healthy.
The night was warm, but a strong breeze was coming in off the lake. Chuck wandered down the sidewalk, too deep in his thoughts to bother with a cab tonight. Besides that, he could probably use the exercise. He wandered down Madison, catching glimpses of his reflection in the darkened store windows: Reflections of a young man who’d been aged far beyond his years with stress. It seemed to be a running joke these days. Twenty-seven years old….and always seemed to look like he was about to retire.
A van pulls out of the alley, the headlights catching Chuck by surprise. He steps back, allowing it to pull forward. Rather than turn onto the street, the side door opens.
Voice: “Chuck Matthews.”
Chuck looks into the van, but the darkness of the alley and shadows in the vehicle hide any sign of movement, and conceal the speaker’s identity.
Chuck Matthews: “Do I know you?”
Voice: “We were sent by your brother.”
Chuck frowns.
Chuck Matthews: “I’m gonna need more than that.”
The man speaks something in Russian. Chuck stands for a moment, staring at the van. He shakes his head, and climbs in.
Two men sit in the back, looking forward. Both are heavily armed, wearing full riot gear. A third man, likely the speaker, sits between them, wearing a camouflage uniform and a general’s hat. He motions for Chuck to sit across from him.
General Ratburn: “Mr. Matthews.”
Chuck frowns.
Chuck Matthews: “General.”
General Ratburn: “If you’re anything like your brother, I’m sure you’d like to skip the formalities and get right to the point: We need you for a job.”
Chuck shakes his head.
Chuck Matthews: “Not this time.”
He slides open the door of the van, and makes a motion to leave.
General Ratburn: “It involves Roland Thorne.”
Chuck freezes, his foot hanging out of the van, just above the sidewalk. Chuck stares at the ground beneath him. The name circles in his head, dancing around his brain, kicking at memories he’d long tried to push back. Thorne.
Thorne.
Roland Thorne.”
Chuck grits his teeth and heaves himself back into the van, slumping in the seat.
Chuck Matthews: “You have ten minutes.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chuck’s Usual Promo Room
Present Day
On Camera
Chuck Matthews: “Hey there.
Remember me?
It’s always a little bit fun, wandering back into this sport. There’s always questions. Always concerns, whenever Chuck Matthews rears his head in the wrestling world, isn’t there? Always some sort of buzz. You feel it, don’t you? There’s that tension in the air. That sensation that everyone around you is holding their breath, sitting at the edge of their seats, waiting to see just what’s about to happen now, and what it’s going to mean as we move forward. That eerie feeling that maybe… perhaps… something very bad is about to happen.
Now, to be fair, I can certainly see where that comes about. It appears that at this point in my career, my reputation precedes me. I’ve got a very distinctive style. There’s a specific M.O. that comes into play, and by now, people know it well. So… yes, there’s a logic to the reactions. The questions. The hype. The panicked frenzy. I’m like a giant sleeping dragon that wakes up every now and then to stretch, and inadvertently crushes a few villages on his stroll before he finally lays down to go back to sleep.
‘That’s a weird analogy.’
But isn’t is so fitting? After all, I’m sure there are a fair number of competitors here in FSociety who are all too familiar with my work back in Inferno. Remember those good ol’ days? Remember how nobody pinned me, nobody submitted me, for an entire season? Well… until I tossed a match towards the end, but we can chat about that later. The point here is that, the last time any of you saw me in active competition, I was being hyped as one of the top dogs in the company… and yet, in a bizarre twist, I was also criticized for being one of the laziest workers Inferno had.
Ain’t that a kick in the head?
That’s really the take-home point, isn’t it? Sure, in my younger days, in the earlier stages of my career, I was power-hungry. Ruthless. My methods were questionable, my motives were self-serving, and I had no problem crushing good people and good companies to get what I wanted. See No Limits Wrestling Federation. See Pride Pro. See EXODUS. See Insurgency. World Championships. Network Takeover. Money. Business ventures. Each promotion, something new. Each company, another motive. Another master plan. I’ve spent years, doing the same thing over and over and over, and I keep doing it because nobody really knows how to handle it:
-Chuck Matthews forms a master plan to try and get money, championships, whatever.
-Company tries everything it can to outsmart Chuck Matthews and stop his plans.
-Chuck Matthews leaves company with money, championships, whatever.
This happens every. Single. Fucking. Time.
So you’ll have to forgive me when, inevitably, I get bored. That’s the problem I can’t seem to solve. That's the curse when you know the things I know. When there's no mystery, there's no surprise. When there's no surprise, there's no chance to fail. When there's no chance to fail.... there's just no FUN. I keep coming back to this industry, and truthfully, I can’t quite put my finger on why. On paper, there are no barriers left to cross. There’s little I haven’t done, and nothing I haven’t done that’s worth doing. Money? I pulled that with my con back in EXODUS. Fame? Nine successful years in the business will do that for you. A desire to be ‘the best?’ Come on, you know how I work. I don’t believe in that sort of nonsense.
And yet… here I am. And I’m already beginning to sound like I’m playing the same old song I did back in Inferno. The whole ‘Wrestler who hates wrestling’ gig. The guy who half-assed his way to a mid-tier championship, then auto-piloted through a world championship tournament only to throw the semi-final match, because it just....got....fucking......boring.
Now why did I come back?
That’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Why, with all his brainpower, with all the things he can do, does Chuck Matthews insist on coming back to the one thing he's lost all love for? Why does he continue to put his body at risk in the name of....what?
That, dear friends, is a mystery that may never be solved, but the fact remains: I spend my days relaxing, not bothering with the wrestling world, doing my own thing. Eventually, inevitably, somebody always manages to talk me into wandering back in here. And every time I do, there's always those first few return matches where we all pretend we don't know who Chuck is or what he does, and we say his 'Smartest Man in Wrestling' is a funny nickname, which shit, I'll agree with that. But I'm not one of those self-glorifying douchebags who gives himself his own nickname. But that's beside the point. Instead, I'm going to propose a radical idea here. Are we all ready?
'Don’t be a fucking idiot.
'
Let’s skip past the part where we pretend like I've never been exactly what they say I am, or that I’m some washed-up has-been, or that I should have retired years ago, because evidently twenty-five is peak retirement age these days. Let’s skip to the part where Aurora Graves and Kenzi Rydell see my name on the bill, do their homework, and realize: Playtime is over.
I don’t really know what all went on in that first season of FSociety. Truthfully, I don’t care It doesn't mean anything to me. I know, at some point, Tyson Gregory became champion of something or other, and I guess he’s the guy to beat if you want the big shiny belt. Whatever. If you know me, you know championships aren’t really my gig. I win them, sure… hell, I came close to taking two of them back in Inferno… but they’re not badges of honor for me anymore. They lose their luster. You get to a certain point in your career where championships are like the toy in the Happy Meal. I mean, yeah, when you’re young, they’re amazing and it’s the greatest thing in the world. Shit, you had to WORK for those things, convince mom and dad to buy you some overpriced fast food bullshit. But when you’re older? Yeah, they’re still pretty cool but come on, how hard did you REALLY work to get it?
Am I being disrespectful? Yeah, maybe. But this is the same old shit I’ve been preaching for years. I don’t know why you’re still shocked by it.
But… maybe there’s something different this time. Maybe I’ll go after it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll run roughshod over whoever stands in my way. Not like there’s anyone in any position to stop me. Harsh life lesson number one, boys and girls:
What Chuck wants, Chuck will get. It’s not a matter of ‘if,’ it’s a matter of ‘when.’
Nobody… and I’ll say it again for emphasis…. Nobody, in nine years, across four different companies, has been able to prevent it. It’s like death and taxes: When Chuck plans something, that plan will happen, and only if Chuck himself decides to pull the plug will it fail to come to fruition.
But by all means, tell me why you're different. Tell me why the sixtieth time is the charm. Tell me again that YOU, of all the professional wrestlers who came before you, is going to be the one to put Chuck Matthews out of action once and for all.
Implying anybody could convince me to hang my boots up for good.
Implying I'd ever let my entire plan ride on a fucking wrestling match, of all things.
Implying even if I did let a plan ride on a wrestling match, that I wouldn't have some sort of failsafe in the event that I lost the fight.
And you sit there and wonder why this sport bores me. There's nothing that I don't see coming anymore. There's nothing that comes as a shock.
That’s not ego.
That’s just how it works.
But, of course, I’m going to have to endure weeks of ‘Chuck isn’t really as smart as he says he is,’ or ‘For the so-called Smartest Man in Wrestling, you sure are dumb,’ or some other five-dollar phrases that people have been spouting since the dawn of fucking time.
And, when we reach the end of season two, they'll be the same people who refuse to acknowledge it when I walk out of their company with exactly what I came for. That’s the point, and unfortunately, that’s going to be the trap the two of you fall into. How do I know? Because you’re wrestlers. That’s how you think. I know how you think.
Why am I different?
Because I’m not a wrestler.
Wrestlers live and breathe this sport. I’ve made it abundantly clear I don’t particularly care for it… I just happen to be very, very good at it. Love of your career is a perk, not a requirement. You think that puts me at some sort of disadvantage? You think that makes you better than me at this?
You’re two more in a long, long line of people who thought the same thing.
They didn’t fare too well, either.
Here’s the bottom line: My skills, my way of tackling this industry, my way of looking at matches, looking at the way this business works… it gives me a distinct advantage. It’s an advantage I’ve used and re-used over and over again. Some people are stronger. Some people are faster. Nobody is smarter. That’s how I do things. I turn a wrestling match into a game of chess, and in this business, nobody does that better.
Don’t believe me? Take a look at our match, ladies. I implore you: Watch how I operate. Watch how I navigate. Watch how I test the waters, watch how I manipulate the currents. It’s all about control… all about knowing where the two of you are, and where you’re about to be. Knowing who the wildcard is. Knowing what I’m capable of. Discovering your weaknesses. Making them my strengths.
And that, dear ladies, is called the ‘Opening Gambit.’”
August 2016
OFF CAMERA
It seemed that, more and more frequently, Chuck Matthews was spending his evenings at the old lounge in the higher floors looming over Chicago. He always stuck out: While the other patrons were often dressed well, decked out in suits, ties, cocktail dresses, the works, Chuck typically sat in his isolated corner of the bar, jeans and an old sports coat, a wrestling t-shirt stretched across his chest, a relic of his younger days in the sport.
Things were different then.
Tonight, Chuck leaves his drink half-finished, but still leaves a generous tip. Amy had served tonight. She was a student at Loyola, studying to be a psychologist. One always takes care of fellow alumni. He steps into the elevator, leaning against the mirrored interior, staring at his reflection in the ceiling. His eyes are baggy. They were always baggy. He’d been struggling to sleep lately… another episode of insomnia he couldn’t quite shake. One of these days, he’d have to remind himself to see a doctor. This wasn’t healthy.
The night was warm, but a strong breeze was coming in off the lake. Chuck wandered down the sidewalk, too deep in his thoughts to bother with a cab tonight. Besides that, he could probably use the exercise. He wandered down Madison, catching glimpses of his reflection in the darkened store windows: Reflections of a young man who’d been aged far beyond his years with stress. It seemed to be a running joke these days. Twenty-seven years old….and always seemed to look like he was about to retire.
A van pulls out of the alley, the headlights catching Chuck by surprise. He steps back, allowing it to pull forward. Rather than turn onto the street, the side door opens.
Voice: “Chuck Matthews.”
Chuck looks into the van, but the darkness of the alley and shadows in the vehicle hide any sign of movement, and conceal the speaker’s identity.
Chuck Matthews: “Do I know you?”
Voice: “We were sent by your brother.”
Chuck frowns.
Chuck Matthews: “I’m gonna need more than that.”
The man speaks something in Russian. Chuck stands for a moment, staring at the van. He shakes his head, and climbs in.
Two men sit in the back, looking forward. Both are heavily armed, wearing full riot gear. A third man, likely the speaker, sits between them, wearing a camouflage uniform and a general’s hat. He motions for Chuck to sit across from him.
General Ratburn: “Mr. Matthews.”
Chuck frowns.
Chuck Matthews: “General.”
General Ratburn: “If you’re anything like your brother, I’m sure you’d like to skip the formalities and get right to the point: We need you for a job.”
Chuck shakes his head.
Chuck Matthews: “Not this time.”
He slides open the door of the van, and makes a motion to leave.
General Ratburn: “It involves Roland Thorne.”
Chuck freezes, his foot hanging out of the van, just above the sidewalk. Chuck stares at the ground beneath him. The name circles in his head, dancing around his brain, kicking at memories he’d long tried to push back. Thorne.
Thorne.
Roland Thorne.”
Chuck grits his teeth and heaves himself back into the van, slumping in the seat.
Chuck Matthews: “You have ten minutes.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chuck’s Usual Promo Room
Present Day
On Camera
Chuck Matthews: “Hey there.
Remember me?
It’s always a little bit fun, wandering back into this sport. There’s always questions. Always concerns, whenever Chuck Matthews rears his head in the wrestling world, isn’t there? Always some sort of buzz. You feel it, don’t you? There’s that tension in the air. That sensation that everyone around you is holding their breath, sitting at the edge of their seats, waiting to see just what’s about to happen now, and what it’s going to mean as we move forward. That eerie feeling that maybe… perhaps… something very bad is about to happen.
Now, to be fair, I can certainly see where that comes about. It appears that at this point in my career, my reputation precedes me. I’ve got a very distinctive style. There’s a specific M.O. that comes into play, and by now, people know it well. So… yes, there’s a logic to the reactions. The questions. The hype. The panicked frenzy. I’m like a giant sleeping dragon that wakes up every now and then to stretch, and inadvertently crushes a few villages on his stroll before he finally lays down to go back to sleep.
‘That’s a weird analogy.’
But isn’t is so fitting? After all, I’m sure there are a fair number of competitors here in FSociety who are all too familiar with my work back in Inferno. Remember those good ol’ days? Remember how nobody pinned me, nobody submitted me, for an entire season? Well… until I tossed a match towards the end, but we can chat about that later. The point here is that, the last time any of you saw me in active competition, I was being hyped as one of the top dogs in the company… and yet, in a bizarre twist, I was also criticized for being one of the laziest workers Inferno had.
Ain’t that a kick in the head?
That’s really the take-home point, isn’t it? Sure, in my younger days, in the earlier stages of my career, I was power-hungry. Ruthless. My methods were questionable, my motives were self-serving, and I had no problem crushing good people and good companies to get what I wanted. See No Limits Wrestling Federation. See Pride Pro. See EXODUS. See Insurgency. World Championships. Network Takeover. Money. Business ventures. Each promotion, something new. Each company, another motive. Another master plan. I’ve spent years, doing the same thing over and over and over, and I keep doing it because nobody really knows how to handle it:
-Chuck Matthews forms a master plan to try and get money, championships, whatever.
-Company tries everything it can to outsmart Chuck Matthews and stop his plans.
-Chuck Matthews leaves company with money, championships, whatever.
This happens every. Single. Fucking. Time.
So you’ll have to forgive me when, inevitably, I get bored. That’s the problem I can’t seem to solve. That's the curse when you know the things I know. When there's no mystery, there's no surprise. When there's no surprise, there's no chance to fail. When there's no chance to fail.... there's just no FUN. I keep coming back to this industry, and truthfully, I can’t quite put my finger on why. On paper, there are no barriers left to cross. There’s little I haven’t done, and nothing I haven’t done that’s worth doing. Money? I pulled that with my con back in EXODUS. Fame? Nine successful years in the business will do that for you. A desire to be ‘the best?’ Come on, you know how I work. I don’t believe in that sort of nonsense.
And yet… here I am. And I’m already beginning to sound like I’m playing the same old song I did back in Inferno. The whole ‘Wrestler who hates wrestling’ gig. The guy who half-assed his way to a mid-tier championship, then auto-piloted through a world championship tournament only to throw the semi-final match, because it just....got....fucking......boring.
Now why did I come back?
That’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Why, with all his brainpower, with all the things he can do, does Chuck Matthews insist on coming back to the one thing he's lost all love for? Why does he continue to put his body at risk in the name of....what?
That, dear friends, is a mystery that may never be solved, but the fact remains: I spend my days relaxing, not bothering with the wrestling world, doing my own thing. Eventually, inevitably, somebody always manages to talk me into wandering back in here. And every time I do, there's always those first few return matches where we all pretend we don't know who Chuck is or what he does, and we say his 'Smartest Man in Wrestling' is a funny nickname, which shit, I'll agree with that. But I'm not one of those self-glorifying douchebags who gives himself his own nickname. But that's beside the point. Instead, I'm going to propose a radical idea here. Are we all ready?
'Don’t be a fucking idiot.
'
Let’s skip past the part where we pretend like I've never been exactly what they say I am, or that I’m some washed-up has-been, or that I should have retired years ago, because evidently twenty-five is peak retirement age these days. Let’s skip to the part where Aurora Graves and Kenzi Rydell see my name on the bill, do their homework, and realize: Playtime is over.
I don’t really know what all went on in that first season of FSociety. Truthfully, I don’t care It doesn't mean anything to me. I know, at some point, Tyson Gregory became champion of something or other, and I guess he’s the guy to beat if you want the big shiny belt. Whatever. If you know me, you know championships aren’t really my gig. I win them, sure… hell, I came close to taking two of them back in Inferno… but they’re not badges of honor for me anymore. They lose their luster. You get to a certain point in your career where championships are like the toy in the Happy Meal. I mean, yeah, when you’re young, they’re amazing and it’s the greatest thing in the world. Shit, you had to WORK for those things, convince mom and dad to buy you some overpriced fast food bullshit. But when you’re older? Yeah, they’re still pretty cool but come on, how hard did you REALLY work to get it?
Am I being disrespectful? Yeah, maybe. But this is the same old shit I’ve been preaching for years. I don’t know why you’re still shocked by it.
But… maybe there’s something different this time. Maybe I’ll go after it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll run roughshod over whoever stands in my way. Not like there’s anyone in any position to stop me. Harsh life lesson number one, boys and girls:
What Chuck wants, Chuck will get. It’s not a matter of ‘if,’ it’s a matter of ‘when.’
Nobody… and I’ll say it again for emphasis…. Nobody, in nine years, across four different companies, has been able to prevent it. It’s like death and taxes: When Chuck plans something, that plan will happen, and only if Chuck himself decides to pull the plug will it fail to come to fruition.
But by all means, tell me why you're different. Tell me why the sixtieth time is the charm. Tell me again that YOU, of all the professional wrestlers who came before you, is going to be the one to put Chuck Matthews out of action once and for all.
Implying anybody could convince me to hang my boots up for good.
Implying I'd ever let my entire plan ride on a fucking wrestling match, of all things.
Implying even if I did let a plan ride on a wrestling match, that I wouldn't have some sort of failsafe in the event that I lost the fight.
And you sit there and wonder why this sport bores me. There's nothing that I don't see coming anymore. There's nothing that comes as a shock.
That’s not ego.
That’s just how it works.
But, of course, I’m going to have to endure weeks of ‘Chuck isn’t really as smart as he says he is,’ or ‘For the so-called Smartest Man in Wrestling, you sure are dumb,’ or some other five-dollar phrases that people have been spouting since the dawn of fucking time.
And, when we reach the end of season two, they'll be the same people who refuse to acknowledge it when I walk out of their company with exactly what I came for. That’s the point, and unfortunately, that’s going to be the trap the two of you fall into. How do I know? Because you’re wrestlers. That’s how you think. I know how you think.
Why am I different?
Because I’m not a wrestler.
Wrestlers live and breathe this sport. I’ve made it abundantly clear I don’t particularly care for it… I just happen to be very, very good at it. Love of your career is a perk, not a requirement. You think that puts me at some sort of disadvantage? You think that makes you better than me at this?
You’re two more in a long, long line of people who thought the same thing.
They didn’t fare too well, either.
Here’s the bottom line: My skills, my way of tackling this industry, my way of looking at matches, looking at the way this business works… it gives me a distinct advantage. It’s an advantage I’ve used and re-used over and over again. Some people are stronger. Some people are faster. Nobody is smarter. That’s how I do things. I turn a wrestling match into a game of chess, and in this business, nobody does that better.
Don’t believe me? Take a look at our match, ladies. I implore you: Watch how I operate. Watch how I navigate. Watch how I test the waters, watch how I manipulate the currents. It’s all about control… all about knowing where the two of you are, and where you’re about to be. Knowing who the wildcard is. Knowing what I’m capable of. Discovering your weaknesses. Making them my strengths.
And that, dear ladies, is called the ‘Opening Gambit.’”
