The Piano in the Whorehouse (Buster Gloves vs. Mike Mason)
Feb 25, 2023 16:57:03 GMT -5
"Cholo" Giovanni Santana likes this
Post by Buster Gloves on Feb 25, 2023 16:57:03 GMT -5
Trying to be a good person in professional wrestling is like trying to play piano in a whorehouse.
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I need to make a few things very clear. People say I have much in common with ‘Marvelous’ Mike Mason. We both wrestle. We both love this country. We both look good in booty shorts. Truth is that none of the superficial crap means a damn thing. We ARE NOT cut from the same cloth. He’s a peacock with a protein shake addiction, who’s dancing on the graves of generations of soldiers, who gave him the freedom to say stupid sh*t on national television without any fear of being thrown in the volcano. I’ve spent time with the guy backstage and believe me when I say that he’s performing for an audience of one. The engine is running, but there’s nobody behind the wheel.
Destiny brings us together on BRAWL for one night only. ‘The Bull of the North’ and ‘The Marvelous One’ for a shot at the Intercontinental Championship at Wrestle Wars 8. To be dead-ass, I can't even think that far ahead right now because there’s 300 lbs of popcorn muscles and protein farts standing my way. This empty-headed meat wagon walks around, picks things up and puts them down, and tries to wrestlef*ck the roster until they fall asleep. The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. For all of his faults, and there are many, he’s got size on his side. But I’m smart enough to know you get off the tracks when a freight train is headed your way.
If size was the only thing that mattered, guys like Chris Page and J Mont would be single as a pringle. That’s why I have another game plan. You see, Mike Mason has a design flaw. He calls it a feature. The man's more concerned about his body and his image than he is about his honor. So, he’ll come out there on Monday Night, drink a pint of brake fluid, and start saying whatever unfiltered crap pops into his peanut brain. And then I’m gonna chin check him. I’m hitting him in the smile bones, over and over, until all his mirrors break.
Vanity is the quicksand of reason.
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Buster Gloves wakes up to the sound of his phone buzzing on his nightstand. He groggily reaches over to check it and sees a text from his manager, Theo Pryce, reminding him of his 11:00 a.m. meeting at the Eager Beaver Gentleman’s Club in Las Vegas, NV. Buster checks the time and realizes he overslept, again. He really shouldn’t have watched that Patrick Swayze marathon last night with his girlfriend, but you don’t turn the television off when ‘Roadhouse’ is on.
He takes a quick look in the mirror, runs his fingers over his shaven head, and grabs his things. As he exits his apartment, he catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror and thinks about how tired he looks. He's been spreading himself so thin lately. Traveling all over the country. Working for multiple feds. It’s been difficult getting mentally prepared for his upcoming fights, but it's all part of the job.
Buster makes his way to the elevator on the 22nd floor of the Velvet Rabbit Hotel and Casino. He’s been living here since signing with the WGWF. Discounted rates for the talent. Easy commute to work. He presses the button, impatiently waiting for it to arrive. He takes a deep breath, anxiously running his fingertips over a button on his polo shirt. A major promoter scheduled this meeting with Buster because of his affiliation with his new faction, the SAGA. It’s the first chance he’s had to represent the brand.
As the elevator doors open, Buster steps inside and presses the button twice for the lobby level. He leans against the wall, letting the instrumental music wash over him. Little does he know; his day is about to take an unexpected turn.
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As the doors close, the woman looks down and exhales, closing her eyes. Buster notices her smeared makeup on her freckled face. He can tell she's been crying and tries to avoid saying something stupid to comfort a random crying woman. He can’t help himself. "You okay?" he asks in a non-threatening tone.
The woman looks up, wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and fakes a polite laugh. "Yeah, I'm fine," she lies, her voice trembling.
Buster doesn't believe her, but he doesn't push the issue. Instead, he says something about the weather. The words are already out before he realizes he said them, but it’s all can think to mention while piecing together her story. Probably best to just ride out the rest of the trip in silence.
The elevator clunks and jolts to a stop. The lights flicker and revert to emergency lighting, leaving them in a dim situation. Panic starts to set in.
"Oh sh*t. Are we stuck?" the girl says, her voice trembling, trying to push the buttons on the control panel, but nothing happens.
"I think so," says Buster. “I can't believe this is happening. I have somewhere I have to be.”
“I need to get out of here.”
Buster reconsiders his own first world problems and tries to calm her down. "Hey, relax. They'll fix it in a minute. Probably a power issue or something."
But the silence and darkness begin to weigh on them. They slide down on the floor, leaning against opposite mirrored walls. Buster starts to fidget, his anxiety rising. That’s when he gets his first really good look at her. Her hair looks as if it were perfectly styled hours ago but has since been combed with a balloon. She’s been dolled up for some kind of performance. The fake breasts and wrist tattoos tell him that she’s either a stripper from the club, a call girl from the city, or both. His male gaze is returned with her own panicked look, as if he’s a threat.
A few pregnant moments of silence thicken the atmosphere. Once the stripper realizes death isn’t imminent, she makes conversation to diffuse the tension. Her job requires her to have polite bed-side manner. "So, what do you do?" she asks.
Buster hesitates before answering. "Ermmm… I'm a wrestler."
"Oh, that's cool," she replies, "I used to watch wrestling with my dad. I’ve met a few of you guys here in Vegas. One of my ex’s used to wrestle before he became a junkie."
Buster chuckles bitterly. "Yeah, it's not as glamorous as people think. It's just a job. It takes a toll on you."
The girl nods understandingly. "I can imagine. I mean, I know my job isn't exactly easy either. You can probably guess how I make my money. But at least I don't have to get beaten up for a living. Not usually."
Buster laughs ruefully. "I see your point. But it's not just the physical stuff that gets me. It's the mental and emotional toll too. I'm away from kids. And even when I'm home, I'm thinking about the next match, the next opponent."
"It sounds like you need a break," she says. "Maybe take some time off, recharge the batteries. Fall back in love with the job.”
Buster looks at the girl, surprised by the wisdom in her words. "Maybe I do need a break. Has that worked for you before?"
She is slow to respond, “…I don’t get much time off. This industry makes you work when you’re needed. Once in a while, I get to work a boat party or a destination event. I love the travel, but it’s still business. I’d rather be doing something else.”
“I hear that. God gave me this body. He gave me this ability. It’s all I know how to do. And the window of time I have to make my money is so short. It feels like every day could be the last one. Then I have to spend the rest of my life wishing I had pushed harder.”
The stripper listens intently, nodding along with his words. "You know, sometimes we get so caught up in what we're doing that we forget to live," she says. "Maybe it's time to take a step back and figure out what makes you truly happy. You only live once."
The woman seems at ease now and starts to talk more openly about her job as a call girl. She tells him about how she had just left the apartment of some weird goth couple that ordered her like she was a Door Dash burrito from Chipotle. She’s great at taking orders and has always been a pleaser, but this couple had very particular demands. What started at first as a sophisticated and sexy evening devolved into a grotesque, humiliating experience. They demanded things that made her uncomfortable. They had knives. They spoke to her as if she were subhuman and forced her to sleep at the foot of the bed like an animal. It wasn’t until sunrise that the couple fell asleep, and she had the courage to leave.
Buster listens intently, his heart breaking for her. "Hey, do you have a name?" he asks, trying to divert the painful memory.
The stripper casually reaches into her clutch bag and pulls out a business card.
“Lola Haze”
DANCER
DESIRE ENTERTAINMENT
There’s a link to her socials at the bottom.
“Lola?”
“It’s actually Rebecca. The Lola name came from the Rabbit in Space Jam. I used to love that movie when I was growing up.”
"Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rebecca," he says, managing a small smile. “I’m Buster. Not like the Tiny Toons bunny. Too many damn rabbits in this town.”
She laughs out loud and offers a real smile.
They sit in silence for a few moments before Buster speaks up again. "Hey, I'm sorry if I was rude earlier. I shouldn't have made assumptions about you. I'm just in a weird place right now."
"It's okay," Rebecca says softly. "It happens a lot. You said you had somewhere to be. You want to talk about it?"
“Sure… why not?”
As they wait for the elevator to be fixed, Buster opens about his struggles with balancing his personal life and his career, how he's been feeling burnt out lately, and how he questions his love of wrestling. His story is oddly familiar to hers… without the sex work.
For the first time in a long time, Buster feels like he's found someone who understands him. It’s funny how it can be easier confiding in a complete stranger than talking to someone you’ve known forever.
Just then, the elevator jolts back into motion. Rebecca’s face lights up as she claps, but then her face turns to disappointment, with the understanding that she and her new friend will probably never meet again. Buster had shown her more respect as a human being than anybody had done in a long time. Peace takes hold.
The elevator dings and the doors open. Rebecca steps out, but before she leaves, she turns to Buster and says, "Thank you for being kind to me. If you ever want to continue this conversation, call the number on the card."
The doors almost close again before Buster puts a foot out. He takes the card and sheepishly offers the girl a goodbye wave before he checks the time on his cell phone again.
A weight has been lifted. Maybe there is more to life than wrestling. It’s time for a change. But not before getting the job done. Some people are struggling to just survive in this world. Getting hurt for the enjoyment of others isn’t exactly a dignified profession, but it’s something he can endure for a while longer. It just all seems a little easier when someone shows you a little bit of compassionate and kindness.
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I live my life one match at a time. It feels like trying to drink from a firehose, but you catch what you can and make the most of every opportunity. That’s what this Intercontinental Tournament is to me. It’s an opportunity. The best opportunity I’ve had in a very long time. And intend to make the absolute best of it.
To me, being an Intercontinental Champion is more than a second-tier title. It represents my house, my country, and my people. It's about standing up for what's right and endeavoring to be a role model for the next generation.
So, I drank the blue liquid out of a magic 8-ball and saw the future. It showed ‘Marvelous’ Mike Mason getting f*cking slept by the hand of ‘The Bull God’, Buster Gloves. Mike doesn’t become champion. Neither does our friend Cholo. That championship belt goes around MY waist. The first Intercontinental Champion of the new era. I’m not winning it because I deserve it or because I’m wildly popular, I win it because I’m willing to do ANYTHING to get it. I want so much more than what I have right now, and I know that I have to go take it myself. Peter Vaughn taught me that. Chris Page taught me that. Win at all costs or never win at all.
Let me tell you what I’m sick of hearing about. How everyone wants to see Mike Mason versus Cholo at Wrestle Wars? Well, guess what, folks? You aren’t getting that chance. Because Cholo already punched a ticket and Mike Mason is gonna miss that bus. I’m taking his spot. I’m taking food out of his mouth. Because I want it more. If Mike Mason wants to have a sporting match with Cholo, he can do it any time. He can just roll up on WGWF DARK and squash it right there. That’s not what he’s doing though. He’s manipulating the situation. Leveraging the rivalry between them to get access and preferential treatment. I feel morally obligated to stop this man before he gains an even larger platform. I won’t allow him a bigger voice. I feel a duty to show audiences the real American way, not the cheap wish.com version he’s offering on a bi-weekly basis. He’s not right for the title and he’s even worse for politics.
Politics is when you say you’re gonna do one thing but you fully intend to do something completely different. Then you do neither what you said nor what you intended. By his own admission, Mike Mason is a politician, through and through. He says he’s gonna be a strong Intercontinental Champion that brings class and dignity to the sport, but he intends on being a low-life scumbag that uses his position to say hateful and foul things to a large audience. Good for us he won’t do either of those things, because I’m smashing this dude back to leg day.
The way I see it, I have a couple choices in my career. I can stay in Vegas and continue down the same path, playing second fiddle to cheaters and pretenders, and count the lights for Muscle Mountain over there. Or, I can course correct and go with option B. Take some risks and forge my own path. So, what’s it gonna take to win? He has the size advantage. The strength advantage too. What a fine physical specimen he is, huh? He’s great, but he ain’t no Tony Danza. He sure as sh*t ain’t no Patrick Swayze. He’s a 300 lb chicken wing with a face that looks like he’s giving child birth. I don’t need to be bigger or stronger than this waxed caveman, I just need to be more strategic. Brute force isn’t gonna help him when his eye swells shut. Brute force isn’t gonna get blood to his brain when I’m choking him out. The lion is the king of the jungle, not the elephant, I’m going for his eyes. I’m going for his throat. And I’m putting him to sleep.
Mike Mason isn’t here to be a champion. He’s here for a spotlight and a paycheck. He’s getting paid alright, but he’s not getting paid to win. He’s getting paid to leave after I end his campaign prematurely. All’s fair in wrestling and politics, so strap in while I use every tool in my disposal to denounce his candidacy for the office of champion. It’s time to make wrestling great again and ensure that ‘Mediocre’ Mike Mason never touches that Intercontinental Championship.
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Awesome things will happen to you if you choose not to be a miserable cow.