Post by markflynn on Mar 25, 2023 22:40:12 GMT -5
6/1/98 - Battle Creek, Michigan - 4:40 AM
EH EH EH. An alarm clock blares… At a volume that doesn’t wake up OR fill you with energy, but just irritates you into falling back asleep…
“Ehhhhhhhhh…” A hand drowsily slaps atop the clock, resting on a nightstand. It drifts over to the dial… Switching to ‘Radio’ mode.
A young man stumbles out of bed… He peers out the window.
The sky is pure white. The sidewalk is frosty. The windows of the buildings he can see are either boarded with wood and nails or covered in graffiti.
Taped to the window, a little surface thermometer, with a smiling-sun-wearing-sunglasses sticker on the side.
“...Fuuuuuuck. 17 degrees.”
…Inhaaaaaaaaale.
“Great day for a run…. Great day for a run.” He mutters as if saying it will make it true.
He walks to the mirror, running some water over his face, eyeing his reflection..
18-year-old Marcus Flynn. Aspiring professional wrestler.
The camera pans over a scrap of paper that Flynn taped onto his mirror… From a talent scout that came to a local wrestling try-out last month…
Scrawny. Solid technique. Limited in submission moveset. Might have potential… Put on another 20 pounds of muscle. But, right now, it’s a no.
Flynn taps the note, which he’s taped up on the corner of his Submission-Hold-of-the-Month calendar… (This month’s is the Gory Special).
June 7th is circled. Marcus’ 19th birthday.
On the 19th’s square, he’s written three notes:
Flynn reaches out and taps the day twice. He looks his reflection in the eye.
“GREAT DAY for a RUN.”
***
Flynn jogs down the streets of Battle Creek. Side-stepping man-sized potholes…
The sun creeps over Battle Creek’s incredibly low skyline… Almost like it’s dreading to look upon this city that God forgot.
Flynn’s feet hit the parking lot of the local wrestling gym. Above it, in a banner with faded lettering and tattered material: BATTLE CREEK WRESTLING!
***
Flynn hits the ropes…
Baseball slides under on the other side…
Sprints on the outside…
As he hits the exterior corner of the ring…
He side-steps to the right, cutting under the bottom rope! He runs parallel to the ropes, runs to the corner.
Leaps in a single bound to the top rope!
Then, WHAM! PICTURE-PERFECT SPRINGBOARD DROPKICK!
A whistle blows.
A balding older man in a sweatsuit enters the ring. Standing over Flynn, who is breathing heavily.
Coach gives him notes on where he’s slow. He needs to grip the pole on the corner… Take advantage of your forward speed and use the rotational torque of your arm to accelerate.
When he cuts, he’s wasting precious split-seconds, coming to a stop before cutting in the ring.
…Flynn takes it in, humbly nodding.
Coach blows his whistle. Flynn hits the ropes…
***
Flynn is out at the picnic tables outside the gym with other local wrestlers. Lotta shorts and t-shirts.
“Dude, the Gory Special hasn’t been viable in top-level competition since the 70s!”
Flynn shakes his head, shaking a single-slice cheese sandwich at the other guy.
“It’s still viable, man! Gory Guerrero RULED the wrestling WORLD with that hold!”
“Nah, it’s been solved. Gory Special counter - disengage the heels, extend the hip flexors, NECKBREAKER.”
“But! What if, on heel disengagement, you sit-out and crank the neck from the mat!”
The other guy scoffs. “Then, you’re losing your stance and there’s a risk of the opponent slipping out!”
“A risk, but a manageable AND foreseeable risk!”
***
The rest of the wrestlers are headed home… As Flynn keeps running the ropes… Coach is standing in the corner… with a whistle and a stopwatch.
***
As the sky grows dark. Coach pulls away from the gym parking lot in a mini-van… A sticker on the back that says ‘My Grandson is an honor student at Battle Creek Elementary.’
Flynn waves goodbye… He checks his watch. 9 PM. He breaks into a run.
***
Flynn’s in black polo… He’s looking in the mirror of the gym, struggling to lift a pair of 40 pound free-weights, one in each hand…
Suddenly, a shadow looms! Footsteps start coming down the hall, he rapidly sets down the equipment and starts wiping down the weights like that’s what he was doing the whole time.
A manager walks in, scanning the empty gym, save for his employee.
Flynn waves.
Manager hands over a check.
***
Flynn jogs all the way home up the stairs.
***
EH EH.
Flynn groans… Lifting himself out of the bed.
He does the same thing. Tapping the note. And tapping the day on the calendar.
Looking himself in the mirror.
“GREAT DAY for a RUN.”
***
He’s once again running down the street. The same pothole Flynn leapt over has a bit of caution tape around it…
Flynn leaps through it like a marathon-runner across a finish line!
***
Flynn in the wrestling ring. He steps out of the corner, circling grapevining his steps, trying to get his footwork juuuust perfect.
Coach blows his whistle!
Flynn extends his outside foot, then switches directions.
Coach steps up, shaking his head.
“Stop on the inside foot, then push off! Can’t take an extra step if the opponent’s gonna switch directions on you! Timing, Marcus!”
…Flynn exhales, nodding.
Coach steps back, blowing his whistle again.
***
While the other guys eat lunch on the gym’s steps, Flynn walks across the street to the library.
He gets on a public computer…
He’s smiling as he pores over the keys, trying to write the perfect email…
“I hope thiiiiiiiiis… Finds you welllll…”
…
Flynn hammers ‘backspace’ as fast as he can.
“I am thrillllllled to heeeeeear… You’re looooooking for… undiscovered talent!”
Flynn nods, like Yes! He attaches a headshot…
***
Flynn sees Coach off again, as the sky darkens. He jogs over to the gym…
***
Flynn is bench-pressing…
Behind him is a poster that says ‘Never Lift Without a Spotter…’
Manager’s shadow looms… Flynn sets down the weights quickly and grabs a bucket and towel wiping down the weight…
…Instead, he walks on by.
…Flynn breathes relieved, as he goes back to lifting…
***
The alarm goes off.
Flynn taps the note. And the calendar.
“GREAT DAY for a RUN.”
***
Flynn runs by a postal worker in his apartment hallway…
Then, doubles back!
The mailman is one-step ahead before Flynn can ask and hands over a package.
On its letterhead is the logo for an exciting new wrestling enterprise:...
The XWF.
Flynn eagerly tears it open and tugs a sheet of paper out from inside.
He reads it as fast as he can, a giant smile on his face.
…
His eyes scan downwards…
…
As his smile slowly disappears.
***
Flynn tears the bottom of the letter off the rest of the page. He tears off a piece of tape and attaches it under the last note.
“Technical wrestlers are a dime-a-dozen. Gain more muscle, add high-impact moves. Submit again next year.”
…Flynn pulls off the cap of a marker with his teeth.
He crosses out ‘19’ and replaces it: “Make it by 20.”
Flynn touches the first rejection note. Then, the second rejection note.
Then, the day on the calendar.
Flynn catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Seeing how disappointed he is.
…He inhales.
And forces a smile onto his face.
“GREAT DAY… FOR A RUN.”
***
Flynn’s in the ring with a sparring partner. A guy bigger than him… More muscular. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed.
They circle-step for a minute… Collar-and-elbow, hammerlock, dip under his arm, snapmare takedown. Smooth as silk.
Coach stops his training partner to give him some advice on how to counter that…
The guy’s mouth hangs open… It’s not clear what’s getting in.
Meanwhile, Flynn tries to make eye contact with Coach, like ‘At least SOMEONE’s listening, right?”
Coach doesn’t seem notice… He blows his whistle. Drill resumes.
***
The wrestlers on the steps are all asking the new blonde slab-of-beef where he’s from.
Cali. He was big there, but was told he was too green to get upgraded straight to the pros… So they sent him here to develop with Coach.
Everyone seems impressed that he’s got West Coast pedigree.
…Behind the crew… Flynn chews on a cheese sandwich…
***
Flynn enters his work-gym, pulling his black polo over his head. When Manager sees him, he waves him over.
Flynn jogs up. Manager points to the corner. Newly-installed, automated security camera.
Manager smiles like ‘pretty neat, huh?’
…Flynn bares his teeth, trying his best to fake-smile.
***
Flynn lifts free-weights in the corner of the gym… Taking very slight steps to rotate juuuuuust as the camera rotates, staying perfectly under it at all times…
***
The library computer again.
“As a… rookie… to the business…”
…Flynn backspaces that.
“As an… untapped prospect!” Flynn grins, nodding. “I would love to grow WITH your rapidly-growing company!”
***
Another letter.
He tears it open, happily.
…
He exhales.
***
He tapes a new note under the first two.
“Solid mat-wrestling, but not what we’re looking for… Our technical wrestlers need more power moves…”
Flynn, using his teeth, bites off the thumbtack holding up his Submission-Move-of-the-Month calendar. Replacing it with a Slam-of-the-Month. (This month’s is the Nightmare Pendulum, complete with diagram!)
Flynn crosses out the second goal… And replaces ‘submission’ with ‘high-impact maneuvers. He crosses out ‘20’ and replaces it with ‘21’.
***
Flynn jogs up to the parking lot of the wrestling gym… Where it looks like a going-away party.
The blonde beefcake is waving goodbye on the steps of a bus leaving Battle Creek.
Turns out, he got offered a try-out for that XWF… The fastest-growing company in the wrestling industry.
…The blonde steps inside. The bus door closes.
***
Flynn tries to lift a sparring partner up into Suplex Position! Going for the Nightmare Pendulum!
…
Gooooooooooing…
…
Flynn drops the guy back to his feet, failing to get him up-and-over.
Coach walks up and starts admonishing Flynn on his lifting technique.
Flynn, frustrated tries to explain what he was doing. Coach raises his voice at Flynn pushing back on him!
***
Flynn sends another public library submission.
***
He tears the letter out, with a pair of scissors already in his hands.
…He double-takes at the note.
…
He shrugs.
He cuts it out and tapes it up.
“Boring tights. Get something with your name on ‘em.”
Flynn exasperatedly exhales.
***
Flynn delivers a running powerslam to a sparring partner!
After the slam, he kips up off the ground with adrenaline! All that time at the gym is paying off!
Coach walks up to tell him how he’s carrying weight… Improvements in the mechanical efficiency of the lift. Flynn rolls his eyes, that was picture-perfect!
Coach lifts his hands, like whatever, do it wrong.
***
Flynn is on the internet at the public library. Looking up how to make your own tights…
…Diagram looks very complicated.
He amends his search to… ‘How to sew name onto existing tights’.
***
Flynn, with a needle and thread, sews white letters, reading ‘MARCUS FLYNN’ onto the ass of his tights.
***
Another letter.
Flynn scans the bottom.
His face contorts in rage.
“OH C’MON…”
***
He tapes up the note under the last several.
“Fine high-impact moves. But, we’re really looking for more submission-based wrestlers right now. Develop your repertoire and we’ll revisit next year.”
Flynn pulls down his Impact-Move of the Month calendar…
Then shakes his head, and just thumbtacks the Submission-Move of the Month next to it.
On both, he writes “Make it by 25.”
***
Another letter in his hand.
Flynn tears it open.
…
Flynn squints at it.
…
His head bobs as he reads it.
…
He tears it off. And just stares at it.
“NOTE: This kid’s name sucks.”
…That’s it.
***
Flynn crosses out the goal on the calendar. Now, it says: “Make it by 28”.
***
Flynn spinebuster-slams a sparring partner onto his back!
Coach nods, fine technique, just watch the guy’s neck. *This is practice*, after all.
Flynn is looking a little grumpy at just receiving a note on what to do.
Coach blows his whistle.
The sparring partner bounces off the ropes.
Flynn lifts! Another spinebuster!...
But Flynn’s foot slips!
The partner lands RIGHT ON HIS NECK!
Coach runs in the ring, shoving Flynn off his partner.
Guy’s cradling his neck, his face contorted in agony.
Flynn’s face reddens… He walks up to try and check on the guy… but his Coach points him out of the ring… And out of the gym…
…Flynn covers his face… And walks out.
***
Flynn walks up to the gym, pulling his polo shirt over his head.
…As he walks in, he double-takes! Manager has a… lady-friend with him.
He gives Flynn a key to the place and strolls out to his car, date-in-tow.
Flynn smiles, pocketing the key…
He walks into the office and unplugs the security cameras.
***
Flynn, oh-so-carefully, with a needle and thread, unsews the ‘C-U-S’... And replaces it with a ‘K’.
***
Another letter.
He tears it open.
…
He leans back, his head hitting the wall.
‘Too short. Looking for monsters right now’
Flynn tears the letter in halves, quarters, then stuffs the scraps into his pockets…
He crosses out the third goal…
“Make it by 30.”
Flynn catches himself in the mirror…
…And he can’t smile.
“Great… Day...”
…
Flynn just exhales.
***
Flynn sits around the corner to the wrestling gym. A piece of paper in his hands…
A handwritten apology letter…
He scans it again for the wording. He nods, yeah, reads great.
He walks up.
…
In the parking lot.
An ambulance.
Lights flashing.
No sound.
***
Funeral.
Black-and-white picture of Coach in his younger days.
Goofy-ass singlet. Headgear. Total geek.
His wife is standing up at the podium.
She’s talking about how much wrestling meant to him…
…Flynn is sitting in the back, as far away as he can from anybody…
***
Flynn’s at his work gym’s parking lot, pulling on his polo.
Just in time to see Manager lock the doors…
And paste a ‘SOLD’ sign in the window.
He shows off a ring to Flynn on his finger, beaming happily.
He hands over Flynn’s last paycheck and walks away…
…
Flynn peers in the window, past the ‘SOLD’ sign. The lights are off… But the equipment’s all just in there…
…Flynn checks his pocket.
And finds the key Manager gave him.
***
Flynn drops a pair of free weights onto the floor of his apartment…
***
He’s in the wrestling gym. Running the ropes. Holding a stopwatch.
Alone.
***
Flynn’s in a bar.
A lukewarm beer in his hand.
On the TV, it’s a news story about the hottest new talent in the biggest wrestling company on the planet: the 22-year-old, wrestling wunderkind, THE Tristan Slater.
Some goofy-as-fuck anchorman-looking stooge is spoon-feeding Slater a question about what it takes to make it.
Slater laughs off the question.
“I guess it just came easy to me. I just put in the work and all this happened!”
…Flynn bitterly sips at his beer, staring daggers at the television.
***
Flynn is staring… exasperated at the email to the XWF Talent Scout. The one that… at this point, he’s spent 40% of his life, desperately trying to get a try-out with…
…
Flynn’s face lights up…
He reaches into his pockets.
“Looking… for… Monsters…” Say the scraps of paper.
…
Flynn removes from the email his smiling headshot.
…
And googles ‘monster men’…
Flynn’s eyes widen.
Perfect.
***
Flynn sits in the bar.
It’s Tristan Slater on the set of his Hollywood movie, the XWF United States title resting on his shoulder.
“I would never cheat. Anyone who cheats the system… Is only cheating themselves…”
Flynn covers his face… Letting the half-full bottle clatter to the floor of the bar.
***
Flynn tears open another envelope.
…
…His face… Lights up! Holy shit.
HOLY SHIT!
***
Flynn grabs a black sharpie and circles a date three weeks from now!
He writes in the center: XWF TRY-OUT!
Flynn circles the third goal on his calendar…
“Make it by 33!” He underlines it a few times, as if decorating the statement will make it happen.
***
A nerdy, balding man in a suit covered in flop sweat walks into the Battle Creek wrestling gym…
Steve Sayors, XWF’s Lead Journalist and Talent Scout…
A few wrestlers whisper, and look over, like, hey, it’s that guy!
Sayors looks around for the 400-pound freak of nature…
Instead, Flynn jogs up, excitedly shaking his hand.
…Sayors gets a look on his face like… whaaaaaaaaat?
Flynn mimes someone puking their guts out, saying that the monster has food poisoning.
Immediately, Sayors turns to walk out.
But, Flynn tugs him into a chair and begs for just a few minutes.
Sayors checks his watch, then begrudgingly shrugs.
Flynn pulls a sparring partner into the ring…
They circle!
They run the ropes.
Sayors’ frown… Slowly melts away… Into one of mild interest.
***
Flynn is looking over a contract that says ‘XWF Enhancement Talent’...
Sayors is trying to explain why the negative connotation around the term shouldn’t stop Flynn from thinking this is a goo-
FLYNN WRAPS SAYORS IN A BEARHUG AND LIFTS HIM OFF THE GROUND!
Flynn drops the weak, nerdy Sayors back onto the ground…And whips a sharpie out of his tights to sign the contract!
***
Flynn is standing in the hallway of the arena. The XWF logo hangs above him.
He looks up at it.
And taps it with his finger.
“GREAT DAY to WRESTLE.”
Flynn smiles.
***
He runs around the ring, in front of the live crowd. He slips back into the ring as ‘The Dawg’ Larry Atkins is in hot pursuit! Flynn grabs the pole and slips under the bottom rope!
‘The Dawg’ starts huffing and puffing, much bigger than the more limber Flynn!
Flynn leaps in a single bound to the top rope aaaaaaaand SPRINGBOARD DROPKICK!
“WOW!” Sayors calls, as the official counts to three! “What a huge upset!”
***
Flynn is caught in a cage match with a literal serial killer. (Seriously).
Flynn desperately stomps on his face…
The lumbering masked monster runs forward to wrap his deadly hands around Flynn’s throat… But Flynn climbs his opponent’s knee and shoulder like a ladder and hopes onto the cage wall! He’s up and over the side of the wall!
The Actual Escaped Mass-Murdered (for-real) grabs Flynn by the ankle… But Flynn kicks him in the face and leaps off the side, landing on his hands and face!
The crowd oooooohs! That was a fifteen-foot fall.
…
But he leaps to his feet! The crowd begrudgingly cheers!
“Somehow, some way! Mark Flynn is UNDEFEATED!”
***
Flynn is watching TV at his apartment, watching wrestling news.
The announcement drops! An XWF World Heavyweight Title Match between THE Tristan Slater… And Mark Flynn.
Tristan Slater is being interviewed on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
Leno asks what Slater thinks of his opponent.
Slater furrows his eyebrows in thought. He purses his lips.
“I’m not impressed with Mark Flynn. He’s basically… the King of the Mid-carders But people should buy tickets to see me.”
Leno laughs. The crowd laughs.
Flynn sniffs, like… All right.
***
The announcer is calling Flynn’s name. He walks down the ramp…
In a jacket that reads ‘King of the Midcarders’...
“Haha, it looks like Flynn is owning Slater’s comment ahead of their match!”
In the back, behind the curtain, Slater…
Doesn’t like that.
***
The official raises the belt in the center of the ring.
The Top Title in Wrestling Today.
The XWF World Heavyweight Championship.
On one side of the ring, The 22-0.
Top-Ranked Wrestler in the World.
THE World Heavyweight Champion.
THE TRISTAN SLATER.
And on the other side…
The 6-0 surprise phenom from Battle Creek, Michigan.
Mark Flynn.
The official calls for the bell.
The two step forward.
Flynn extends a hand…
“A little sportsmanship here from the challenger!”
Slater looks at his opponent’s hand like it might be dirty…
…
Slater stretches an arm forward.
This is it.
The biggest moment of Flynn’s career.
A shot at the World Heavyweight Ti-
SMAAAAAAAAAAACK!
…
Flynn drops to one knee.
“Wow! Tristan Slater just SLAPPED the taste out of Mark Flynn’s mouth!”
Slater circles the ring dominantly as the XWF Universe chants his name…
…
And Flynn’s face…
Contorts in rage.
“Flynn?”
***
“Flynn?”
It’s 2023.
Las Vegas, Nevada. The WrestleWars 8 News Junket.
Flynn blinks awake, lost in thought.
“Were you thinking about the… question?” Sayors offers, from the center of the flashing cameras and boom mics.
“I was thinking about how fucking GRATING your whispery voice is, Sayors.” Flynn sneers. “If you want a question answered, ask with some FUCKING VOLUME.”
Sayors blushes as he double-checks his clipboard. He puts the mic right under his chin.
“Why do you hate Tristan Slater so much?”
…
…Flynn smiles.
He laughs.
He just keeps laughing.
As cameras flash around him.
***
Why?
What is Mark Flynn’s damage?
His mental dysfunction?
What’s his problem with Tristan Slater?
Slater seems like a nice guy, right?
…I mean, sure, he decided to make a height joke in the title of his promo.
SURE. He spent his entire career at the top shoving down more talented wrestlers.
SUUUUUUUURE. Turns out, while he was shitting on indie wrestlers for doing the sport wrong, HE was injecting more steroids into his fucking ass cheeks than the top 10 homerun-hittingest batters of NINETEEN-NINETY-FUCKING-EIGHT.
…But none of that’s the real reason why I hate Slater.
I bring up his disgraced career because it irritates him. I bring up his asterisked-wrestling-records and his removal from the Hall of Legends because I live rent-free in his head.
No, Tristan.
The REAL reason I hate you. Is because the critics loved you.
For Fourteen years, I wallowed, struggling upstream through a constant river of shit. And every time I stepped in the ring. Every time, I begged for an opportunity, for a chance, for ONE FUCKING SHOT… to prove that I belonged in this sport.
I got told that I wasn’t what they were looking for.
They wanted a… Tristan Slater type.
A 6’4” bodybuilder. A goddamned adonis chiseled out of marble, like when God created fucking Adam.
Everyone pays to see the statue of David.
No one wants the leftover marble sheddings.
…
…And if they had it their way?
If Tristan had it his way?
I’d have quit. Hung up my boots. Dead.
Unknown.
Forgotten.
…
But I rejected that destiny.
I took the fucking reins of fate and I FORCED MYSELF TO THE TOP OF THE FUCKING WRESTLING INDUSTRY.
…
And when I got to the WGWF.
The place where I would sew my name permanently into fate’s tapestry.
Who was there waiting for me?
But you, Tristan.
Always you, Tristan.
Omnipresent.
Omnipotent.
Waiting at every opportunity.
To hold me fucking down.
To deny me MY DESTINY.
…
And I’m thankful you’re here, Tristan.
My ascendance story?
Incomplete.
Without you at the end.
…
Hey, Tristy?
You were a Hollywood actor once, right?
Cuz I’ve got the role of a lifetime for you.
You’ll play the part of Every Tastemaker…
Every Road Agent…
Every General Manager with a God Complex
That Held me down.
OVER MY 25-YEAR CAREER IN THIS BUSINESS.
…
And for one brief moment. In that steel cage.
I’ll beat you.
I’ll defeat the fucking sea of critics.
The leagues of doubters.
Who said Mark Flynn was too vanilla.
Too scrawny.
Too short.
And I’m going to take my fist.
And ram it through your face.
…
The rejected.
Will put on a clinic.
Against the STAR.
And demonstrate to the entire world.
That THE Tristan Slater.
Is A… ME-DEE-OH-KUR NOTHING.
EH EH EH. An alarm clock blares… At a volume that doesn’t wake up OR fill you with energy, but just irritates you into falling back asleep…
“Ehhhhhhhhh…” A hand drowsily slaps atop the clock, resting on a nightstand. It drifts over to the dial… Switching to ‘Radio’ mode.
A young man stumbles out of bed… He peers out the window.
The sky is pure white. The sidewalk is frosty. The windows of the buildings he can see are either boarded with wood and nails or covered in graffiti.
Taped to the window, a little surface thermometer, with a smiling-sun-wearing-sunglasses sticker on the side.
“...Fuuuuuuck. 17 degrees.”
…Inhaaaaaaaaale.
“Great day for a run…. Great day for a run.” He mutters as if saying it will make it true.
He walks to the mirror, running some water over his face, eyeing his reflection..
18-year-old Marcus Flynn. Aspiring professional wrestler.
The camera pans over a scrap of paper that Flynn taped onto his mirror… From a talent scout that came to a local wrestling try-out last month…
Scrawny. Solid technique. Limited in submission moveset. Might have potential… Put on another 20 pounds of muscle. But, right now, it’s a no.
Flynn taps the note, which he’s taped up on the corner of his Submission-Hold-of-the-Month calendar… (This month’s is the Gory Special).
June 7th is circled. Marcus’ 19th birthday.
On the 19th’s square, he’s written three notes:
- Gain 20 pounds.
- Work on submissions
- Make it in wrestling by 19.
Flynn reaches out and taps the day twice. He looks his reflection in the eye.
“GREAT DAY for a RUN.”
***
Flynn jogs down the streets of Battle Creek. Side-stepping man-sized potholes…
The sun creeps over Battle Creek’s incredibly low skyline… Almost like it’s dreading to look upon this city that God forgot.
Flynn’s feet hit the parking lot of the local wrestling gym. Above it, in a banner with faded lettering and tattered material: BATTLE CREEK WRESTLING!
***
Flynn hits the ropes…
Baseball slides under on the other side…
Sprints on the outside…
As he hits the exterior corner of the ring…
He side-steps to the right, cutting under the bottom rope! He runs parallel to the ropes, runs to the corner.
Leaps in a single bound to the top rope!
Then, WHAM! PICTURE-PERFECT SPRINGBOARD DROPKICK!
A whistle blows.
A balding older man in a sweatsuit enters the ring. Standing over Flynn, who is breathing heavily.
Coach gives him notes on where he’s slow. He needs to grip the pole on the corner… Take advantage of your forward speed and use the rotational torque of your arm to accelerate.
When he cuts, he’s wasting precious split-seconds, coming to a stop before cutting in the ring.
…Flynn takes it in, humbly nodding.
Coach blows his whistle. Flynn hits the ropes…
***
Flynn is out at the picnic tables outside the gym with other local wrestlers. Lotta shorts and t-shirts.
“Dude, the Gory Special hasn’t been viable in top-level competition since the 70s!”
Flynn shakes his head, shaking a single-slice cheese sandwich at the other guy.
“It’s still viable, man! Gory Guerrero RULED the wrestling WORLD with that hold!”
“Nah, it’s been solved. Gory Special counter - disengage the heels, extend the hip flexors, NECKBREAKER.”
“But! What if, on heel disengagement, you sit-out and crank the neck from the mat!”
The other guy scoffs. “Then, you’re losing your stance and there’s a risk of the opponent slipping out!”
“A risk, but a manageable AND foreseeable risk!”
***
The rest of the wrestlers are headed home… As Flynn keeps running the ropes… Coach is standing in the corner… with a whistle and a stopwatch.
***
As the sky grows dark. Coach pulls away from the gym parking lot in a mini-van… A sticker on the back that says ‘My Grandson is an honor student at Battle Creek Elementary.’
Flynn waves goodbye… He checks his watch. 9 PM. He breaks into a run.
***
Flynn’s in black polo… He’s looking in the mirror of the gym, struggling to lift a pair of 40 pound free-weights, one in each hand…
Suddenly, a shadow looms! Footsteps start coming down the hall, he rapidly sets down the equipment and starts wiping down the weights like that’s what he was doing the whole time.
A manager walks in, scanning the empty gym, save for his employee.
Flynn waves.
Manager hands over a check.
***
Flynn jogs all the way home up the stairs.
***
EH EH.
Flynn groans… Lifting himself out of the bed.
He does the same thing. Tapping the note. And tapping the day on the calendar.
Looking himself in the mirror.
“GREAT DAY for a RUN.”
***
He’s once again running down the street. The same pothole Flynn leapt over has a bit of caution tape around it…
Flynn leaps through it like a marathon-runner across a finish line!
***
Flynn in the wrestling ring. He steps out of the corner, circling grapevining his steps, trying to get his footwork juuuust perfect.
Coach blows his whistle!
Flynn extends his outside foot, then switches directions.
Coach steps up, shaking his head.
“Stop on the inside foot, then push off! Can’t take an extra step if the opponent’s gonna switch directions on you! Timing, Marcus!”
…Flynn exhales, nodding.
Coach steps back, blowing his whistle again.
***
While the other guys eat lunch on the gym’s steps, Flynn walks across the street to the library.
He gets on a public computer…
He’s smiling as he pores over the keys, trying to write the perfect email…
“I hope thiiiiiiiiis… Finds you welllll…”
…
Flynn hammers ‘backspace’ as fast as he can.
“I am thrillllllled to heeeeeear… You’re looooooking for… undiscovered talent!”
Flynn nods, like Yes! He attaches a headshot…
***
Flynn sees Coach off again, as the sky darkens. He jogs over to the gym…
***
Flynn is bench-pressing…
Behind him is a poster that says ‘Never Lift Without a Spotter…’
Manager’s shadow looms… Flynn sets down the weights quickly and grabs a bucket and towel wiping down the weight…
…Instead, he walks on by.
…Flynn breathes relieved, as he goes back to lifting…
***
The alarm goes off.
Flynn taps the note. And the calendar.
“GREAT DAY for a RUN.”
***
Flynn runs by a postal worker in his apartment hallway…
Then, doubles back!
The mailman is one-step ahead before Flynn can ask and hands over a package.
On its letterhead is the logo for an exciting new wrestling enterprise:...
The XWF.
Flynn eagerly tears it open and tugs a sheet of paper out from inside.
He reads it as fast as he can, a giant smile on his face.
…
His eyes scan downwards…
…
As his smile slowly disappears.
***
Flynn tears the bottom of the letter off the rest of the page. He tears off a piece of tape and attaches it under the last note.
“Technical wrestlers are a dime-a-dozen. Gain more muscle, add high-impact moves. Submit again next year.”
…Flynn pulls off the cap of a marker with his teeth.
He crosses out ‘19’ and replaces it: “Make it by 20.”
Flynn touches the first rejection note. Then, the second rejection note.
Then, the day on the calendar.
Flynn catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Seeing how disappointed he is.
…He inhales.
And forces a smile onto his face.
“GREAT DAY… FOR A RUN.”
***
Flynn’s in the ring with a sparring partner. A guy bigger than him… More muscular. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed.
They circle-step for a minute… Collar-and-elbow, hammerlock, dip under his arm, snapmare takedown. Smooth as silk.
Coach stops his training partner to give him some advice on how to counter that…
The guy’s mouth hangs open… It’s not clear what’s getting in.
Meanwhile, Flynn tries to make eye contact with Coach, like ‘At least SOMEONE’s listening, right?”
Coach doesn’t seem notice… He blows his whistle. Drill resumes.
***
The wrestlers on the steps are all asking the new blonde slab-of-beef where he’s from.
Cali. He was big there, but was told he was too green to get upgraded straight to the pros… So they sent him here to develop with Coach.
Everyone seems impressed that he’s got West Coast pedigree.
…Behind the crew… Flynn chews on a cheese sandwich…
***
Flynn enters his work-gym, pulling his black polo over his head. When Manager sees him, he waves him over.
Flynn jogs up. Manager points to the corner. Newly-installed, automated security camera.
Manager smiles like ‘pretty neat, huh?’
…Flynn bares his teeth, trying his best to fake-smile.
***
Flynn lifts free-weights in the corner of the gym… Taking very slight steps to rotate juuuuuust as the camera rotates, staying perfectly under it at all times…
***
The library computer again.
“As a… rookie… to the business…”
…Flynn backspaces that.
“As an… untapped prospect!” Flynn grins, nodding. “I would love to grow WITH your rapidly-growing company!”
***
Another letter.
He tears it open, happily.
…
He exhales.
***
He tapes a new note under the first two.
“Solid mat-wrestling, but not what we’re looking for… Our technical wrestlers need more power moves…”
Flynn, using his teeth, bites off the thumbtack holding up his Submission-Move-of-the-Month calendar. Replacing it with a Slam-of-the-Month. (This month’s is the Nightmare Pendulum, complete with diagram!)
Flynn crosses out the second goal… And replaces ‘submission’ with ‘high-impact maneuvers. He crosses out ‘20’ and replaces it with ‘21’.
***
Flynn jogs up to the parking lot of the wrestling gym… Where it looks like a going-away party.
The blonde beefcake is waving goodbye on the steps of a bus leaving Battle Creek.
Turns out, he got offered a try-out for that XWF… The fastest-growing company in the wrestling industry.
…The blonde steps inside. The bus door closes.
***
Flynn tries to lift a sparring partner up into Suplex Position! Going for the Nightmare Pendulum!
…
Gooooooooooing…
…
Flynn drops the guy back to his feet, failing to get him up-and-over.
Coach walks up and starts admonishing Flynn on his lifting technique.
Flynn, frustrated tries to explain what he was doing. Coach raises his voice at Flynn pushing back on him!
***
Flynn sends another public library submission.
***
He tears the letter out, with a pair of scissors already in his hands.
…He double-takes at the note.
…
He shrugs.
He cuts it out and tapes it up.
“Boring tights. Get something with your name on ‘em.”
Flynn exasperatedly exhales.
***
Flynn delivers a running powerslam to a sparring partner!
After the slam, he kips up off the ground with adrenaline! All that time at the gym is paying off!
Coach walks up to tell him how he’s carrying weight… Improvements in the mechanical efficiency of the lift. Flynn rolls his eyes, that was picture-perfect!
Coach lifts his hands, like whatever, do it wrong.
***
Flynn is on the internet at the public library. Looking up how to make your own tights…
…Diagram looks very complicated.
He amends his search to… ‘How to sew name onto existing tights’.
***
Flynn, with a needle and thread, sews white letters, reading ‘MARCUS FLYNN’ onto the ass of his tights.
***
Another letter.
Flynn scans the bottom.
His face contorts in rage.
“OH C’MON…”
***
He tapes up the note under the last several.
“Fine high-impact moves. But, we’re really looking for more submission-based wrestlers right now. Develop your repertoire and we’ll revisit next year.”
Flynn pulls down his Impact-Move of the Month calendar…
Then shakes his head, and just thumbtacks the Submission-Move of the Month next to it.
On both, he writes “Make it by 25.”
***
Another letter in his hand.
Flynn tears it open.
…
Flynn squints at it.
…
His head bobs as he reads it.
…
He tears it off. And just stares at it.
“NOTE: This kid’s name sucks.”
…That’s it.
***
Flynn crosses out the goal on the calendar. Now, it says: “Make it by 28”.
***
Flynn spinebuster-slams a sparring partner onto his back!
Coach nods, fine technique, just watch the guy’s neck. *This is practice*, after all.
Flynn is looking a little grumpy at just receiving a note on what to do.
Coach blows his whistle.
The sparring partner bounces off the ropes.
Flynn lifts! Another spinebuster!...
But Flynn’s foot slips!
The partner lands RIGHT ON HIS NECK!
Coach runs in the ring, shoving Flynn off his partner.
Guy’s cradling his neck, his face contorted in agony.
Flynn’s face reddens… He walks up to try and check on the guy… but his Coach points him out of the ring… And out of the gym…
…Flynn covers his face… And walks out.
***
Flynn walks up to the gym, pulling his polo shirt over his head.
…As he walks in, he double-takes! Manager has a… lady-friend with him.
He gives Flynn a key to the place and strolls out to his car, date-in-tow.
Flynn smiles, pocketing the key…
He walks into the office and unplugs the security cameras.
***
Flynn, oh-so-carefully, with a needle and thread, unsews the ‘C-U-S’... And replaces it with a ‘K’.
***
Another letter.
He tears it open.
…
He leans back, his head hitting the wall.
‘Too short. Looking for monsters right now’
Flynn tears the letter in halves, quarters, then stuffs the scraps into his pockets…
He crosses out the third goal…
“Make it by 30.”
Flynn catches himself in the mirror…
…And he can’t smile.
“Great… Day...”
…
Flynn just exhales.
***
Flynn sits around the corner to the wrestling gym. A piece of paper in his hands…
A handwritten apology letter…
He scans it again for the wording. He nods, yeah, reads great.
He walks up.
…
In the parking lot.
An ambulance.
Lights flashing.
No sound.
***
Funeral.
Black-and-white picture of Coach in his younger days.
Goofy-ass singlet. Headgear. Total geek.
His wife is standing up at the podium.
She’s talking about how much wrestling meant to him…
…Flynn is sitting in the back, as far away as he can from anybody…
***
Flynn’s at his work gym’s parking lot, pulling on his polo.
Just in time to see Manager lock the doors…
And paste a ‘SOLD’ sign in the window.
He shows off a ring to Flynn on his finger, beaming happily.
He hands over Flynn’s last paycheck and walks away…
…
Flynn peers in the window, past the ‘SOLD’ sign. The lights are off… But the equipment’s all just in there…
…Flynn checks his pocket.
And finds the key Manager gave him.
***
Flynn drops a pair of free weights onto the floor of his apartment…
***
He’s in the wrestling gym. Running the ropes. Holding a stopwatch.
Alone.
***
Flynn’s in a bar.
A lukewarm beer in his hand.
On the TV, it’s a news story about the hottest new talent in the biggest wrestling company on the planet: the 22-year-old, wrestling wunderkind, THE Tristan Slater.
Some goofy-as-fuck anchorman-looking stooge is spoon-feeding Slater a question about what it takes to make it.
Slater laughs off the question.
“I guess it just came easy to me. I just put in the work and all this happened!”
…Flynn bitterly sips at his beer, staring daggers at the television.
***
Flynn is staring… exasperated at the email to the XWF Talent Scout. The one that… at this point, he’s spent 40% of his life, desperately trying to get a try-out with…
…
Flynn’s face lights up…
He reaches into his pockets.
“Looking… for… Monsters…” Say the scraps of paper.
…
Flynn removes from the email his smiling headshot.
…
And googles ‘monster men’…
Flynn’s eyes widen.
Perfect.
***
Flynn sits in the bar.
It’s Tristan Slater on the set of his Hollywood movie, the XWF United States title resting on his shoulder.
“I would never cheat. Anyone who cheats the system… Is only cheating themselves…”
Flynn covers his face… Letting the half-full bottle clatter to the floor of the bar.
***
Flynn tears open another envelope.
…
…His face… Lights up! Holy shit.
HOLY SHIT!
***
Flynn grabs a black sharpie and circles a date three weeks from now!
He writes in the center: XWF TRY-OUT!
Flynn circles the third goal on his calendar…
“Make it by 33!” He underlines it a few times, as if decorating the statement will make it happen.
***
A nerdy, balding man in a suit covered in flop sweat walks into the Battle Creek wrestling gym…
Steve Sayors, XWF’s Lead Journalist and Talent Scout…
A few wrestlers whisper, and look over, like, hey, it’s that guy!
Sayors looks around for the 400-pound freak of nature…
Instead, Flynn jogs up, excitedly shaking his hand.
…Sayors gets a look on his face like… whaaaaaaaaat?
Flynn mimes someone puking their guts out, saying that the monster has food poisoning.
Immediately, Sayors turns to walk out.
But, Flynn tugs him into a chair and begs for just a few minutes.
Sayors checks his watch, then begrudgingly shrugs.
Flynn pulls a sparring partner into the ring…
They circle!
They run the ropes.
Sayors’ frown… Slowly melts away… Into one of mild interest.
***
Flynn is looking over a contract that says ‘XWF Enhancement Talent’...
Sayors is trying to explain why the negative connotation around the term shouldn’t stop Flynn from thinking this is a goo-
FLYNN WRAPS SAYORS IN A BEARHUG AND LIFTS HIM OFF THE GROUND!
Flynn drops the weak, nerdy Sayors back onto the ground…And whips a sharpie out of his tights to sign the contract!
***
Flynn is standing in the hallway of the arena. The XWF logo hangs above him.
He looks up at it.
And taps it with his finger.
“GREAT DAY to WRESTLE.”
Flynn smiles.
***
He runs around the ring, in front of the live crowd. He slips back into the ring as ‘The Dawg’ Larry Atkins is in hot pursuit! Flynn grabs the pole and slips under the bottom rope!
‘The Dawg’ starts huffing and puffing, much bigger than the more limber Flynn!
Flynn leaps in a single bound to the top rope aaaaaaaand SPRINGBOARD DROPKICK!
“WOW!” Sayors calls, as the official counts to three! “What a huge upset!”
***
Flynn is caught in a cage match with a literal serial killer. (Seriously).
Flynn desperately stomps on his face…
The lumbering masked monster runs forward to wrap his deadly hands around Flynn’s throat… But Flynn climbs his opponent’s knee and shoulder like a ladder and hopes onto the cage wall! He’s up and over the side of the wall!
The Actual Escaped Mass-Murdered (for-real) grabs Flynn by the ankle… But Flynn kicks him in the face and leaps off the side, landing on his hands and face!
The crowd oooooohs! That was a fifteen-foot fall.
…
But he leaps to his feet! The crowd begrudgingly cheers!
“Somehow, some way! Mark Flynn is UNDEFEATED!”
***
Flynn is watching TV at his apartment, watching wrestling news.
The announcement drops! An XWF World Heavyweight Title Match between THE Tristan Slater… And Mark Flynn.
Tristan Slater is being interviewed on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
Leno asks what Slater thinks of his opponent.
Slater furrows his eyebrows in thought. He purses his lips.
“I’m not impressed with Mark Flynn. He’s basically… the King of the Mid-carders But people should buy tickets to see me.”
Leno laughs. The crowd laughs.
Flynn sniffs, like… All right.
***
The announcer is calling Flynn’s name. He walks down the ramp…
In a jacket that reads ‘King of the Midcarders’...
“Haha, it looks like Flynn is owning Slater’s comment ahead of their match!”
In the back, behind the curtain, Slater…
Doesn’t like that.
***
The official raises the belt in the center of the ring.
The Top Title in Wrestling Today.
The XWF World Heavyweight Championship.
On one side of the ring, The 22-0.
Top-Ranked Wrestler in the World.
THE World Heavyweight Champion.
THE TRISTAN SLATER.
And on the other side…
The 6-0 surprise phenom from Battle Creek, Michigan.
Mark Flynn.
The official calls for the bell.
The two step forward.
Flynn extends a hand…
“A little sportsmanship here from the challenger!”
Slater looks at his opponent’s hand like it might be dirty…
…
Slater stretches an arm forward.
This is it.
The biggest moment of Flynn’s career.
A shot at the World Heavyweight Ti-
SMAAAAAAAAAAACK!
…
Flynn drops to one knee.
“Wow! Tristan Slater just SLAPPED the taste out of Mark Flynn’s mouth!”
Slater circles the ring dominantly as the XWF Universe chants his name…
…
And Flynn’s face…
Contorts in rage.
“Flynn?”
***
“Flynn?”
It’s 2023.
Las Vegas, Nevada. The WrestleWars 8 News Junket.
Flynn blinks awake, lost in thought.
“Were you thinking about the… question?” Sayors offers, from the center of the flashing cameras and boom mics.
“I was thinking about how fucking GRATING your whispery voice is, Sayors.” Flynn sneers. “If you want a question answered, ask with some FUCKING VOLUME.”
Sayors blushes as he double-checks his clipboard. He puts the mic right under his chin.
“Why do you hate Tristan Slater so much?”
…
…Flynn smiles.
He laughs.
He just keeps laughing.
As cameras flash around him.
***
Why?
What is Mark Flynn’s damage?
His mental dysfunction?
What’s his problem with Tristan Slater?
Slater seems like a nice guy, right?
…I mean, sure, he decided to make a height joke in the title of his promo.
SURE. He spent his entire career at the top shoving down more talented wrestlers.
SUUUUUUUURE. Turns out, while he was shitting on indie wrestlers for doing the sport wrong, HE was injecting more steroids into his fucking ass cheeks than the top 10 homerun-hittingest batters of NINETEEN-NINETY-FUCKING-EIGHT.
…But none of that’s the real reason why I hate Slater.
I bring up his disgraced career because it irritates him. I bring up his asterisked-wrestling-records and his removal from the Hall of Legends because I live rent-free in his head.
No, Tristan.
The REAL reason I hate you. Is because the critics loved you.
For Fourteen years, I wallowed, struggling upstream through a constant river of shit. And every time I stepped in the ring. Every time, I begged for an opportunity, for a chance, for ONE FUCKING SHOT… to prove that I belonged in this sport.
I got told that I wasn’t what they were looking for.
They wanted a… Tristan Slater type.
A 6’4” bodybuilder. A goddamned adonis chiseled out of marble, like when God created fucking Adam.
Everyone pays to see the statue of David.
No one wants the leftover marble sheddings.
…
…And if they had it their way?
If Tristan had it his way?
I’d have quit. Hung up my boots. Dead.
Unknown.
Forgotten.
…
But I rejected that destiny.
I took the fucking reins of fate and I FORCED MYSELF TO THE TOP OF THE FUCKING WRESTLING INDUSTRY.
…
And when I got to the WGWF.
The place where I would sew my name permanently into fate’s tapestry.
Who was there waiting for me?
But you, Tristan.
Always you, Tristan.
Omnipresent.
Omnipotent.
Waiting at every opportunity.
To hold me fucking down.
To deny me MY DESTINY.
…
And I’m thankful you’re here, Tristan.
My ascendance story?
Incomplete.
Without you at the end.
…
Hey, Tristy?
You were a Hollywood actor once, right?
Cuz I’ve got the role of a lifetime for you.
You’ll play the part of Every Tastemaker…
Every Road Agent…
Every General Manager with a God Complex
That Held me down.
OVER MY 25-YEAR CAREER IN THIS BUSINESS.
…
And for one brief moment. In that steel cage.
I’ll beat you.
I’ll defeat the fucking sea of critics.
The leagues of doubters.
Who said Mark Flynn was too vanilla.
Too scrawny.
Too short.
And I’m going to take my fist.
And ram it through your face.
…
The rejected.
Will put on a clinic.
Against the STAR.
And demonstrate to the entire world.
That THE Tristan Slater.
Is A… ME-DEE-OH-KUR NOTHING.