IMPERTSONDATOR
We cut backstage and immediately hear boos as we see The Bayou Butcher, Paxton Ray, leaning against the wall. He looks more casual than usual – maybe because he doesn’t have a match tonight, or because he knows his ticket is booked for a Universal Title shot. In any case, he’s tossing something in the air and catching it, and as the camera man comes in a little closer, we see it is a balled up chain.
This little game happens a few more times before someone else enters the frame, causing the boos to instantly morph into cheers.
Jared Sykes is equally fidgety this evening, but in his case the object of his attention is a ring of keys that’s looped around his right index finger. There’s a rhythmic “spin, catch” to his movements with it, one that has him momentarily distracted from the destination his path backstage has taken him.
This isn’t the first time the two have shared space since Colossus, the battle royal at Culture Shock saw to that, but there’s no intimacy in a crowd of forty, and the worst moments shared between the two have always come when no one else is around. Common sense says that one should avoid the other like the plague, but the glint of mischief in Jared’s eyes says otherwise.
Jared Sykes: Paxton.
As Jared speaks, Paxton is in mid-chain toss. He looks up and catches the chain, then smirks.
Paxton Ray: Well if it ain’t the dead man.
Paxton looks up and down at Sykes, who despite being in street clothes can’t fully hide the damage he sustained two weeks ago at the hands of The Russian Bear.
Paxton Ray: Ya look like shit.
Jared Sykes: Maybe. Not feeling so hot either.
He shrugs then spins the keys in his hand one more time.
Jared Sykes: But I’ve got something in mind to set things right. Call it a “pick me up”.
Paxton nods, slowly pushing himself off the wall. He looks at the keys in Jared’s hands.
Paxton Ray: I think I know that look in your eye. You’re gonna do somethin’ stupid.
Paxton laughs.
Paxton Ray: I’ll tell ya this. You’re a dumb son of a bitch, but you’re also a tough son of a bitch.
Jared stands frozen, his brow furrowed in curiosity. This is a man who paralyzed one of his closest friends in Jonathan Rhine, then did his level best to do the same to Jared in the weeks leading to Colossus.
Jared Sykes: Okay.
Memories of the last year begin to play out in Jared’s head. Not just in his dealings with Paxton last fall, but in the Love Convoy’s equally morbid attempts to take him out of the picture. Of everything Ivan Stanislav has inflicted both mentally and physically over the past month.
He balls his fist around the keys, letting the teeth dig into the palm of his hand. When he speaks next, any sense of civility is gone from his voice.
Jared Sykes: So what is this? Take me out of my game a little so that when the violence starts that I won’t see it coming? Trying to get inside my head before Tropical Turmoil? I promise if you start rooting around in there you won’t like what you find.
Again Paxton nods.
Paxton Ray: I ain’t dumb like people think, but I am simple. I ain’t one for mental warfare. I jus’ call it like I see it. You’re dumb, so I said so. An’ you’re tough, so I said so. But I don’t care if ya see it comin’ or not. Violence is comin’ for ya and the rest of ‘em in a couple’a weeks.
Jared snorts a humorless laugh.
Jared Sykes: Good luck with that. Tell you what. You keep a close eye on what happens tonight, then we’ll see how confident you feel.
Paxton opens his mouth to retort, perhaps to ask what Sykes is planning, when he looks past Jared and stops.
It’s…well, it’s complicated. But what is literally in Paxton’s eyeline is the man calling himself (but definitively not) Chandler Tsonda. You know, refer to the earlier seg for context. He’s a proxy for the real thing. The left AirPod remains.
WHOOOOOOO!
Confused as they might be, the Phoenix crowd knows that on the other end of that AirPod is the voice of the real Chandler Tsonda. Still following? Great.
“Chandler Tsonda”: I’m Chandler Tsonda.
The Doppletsonda seems unsure of this and repeats it. Once more, with bravado.
“Chandler Tsonda”: I’m Chandler Tsonda. Of course I am! And you’re (taps earpiece) Paxton Ray, who I fucking hate. And you’re a grade-A cock. And I’m here to say: fuck you, man.
Jared doesn’t say anything. He looks first towards the imperTsondator, then to Paxton. Despite the history between them there’s a moment where the two are bonded by their shared confusion. An entire unspoken exchange takes place in the span of a glance.
“What the hell is this?”
“Fucked if I know.”
“Well, have fun with it.”
With his free hand Jared reaches out and taps the mimic on his shoulder. Good luck, buddy. You’re on your own.
Without a word the Dragonslayer turns and walks away. Paxton watches Sykes leave, snorts, then looks back at the man pretending to be Tsonda.
Paxton Ray: Ok, “Chandler.”
He doesn’t do the fake quotes thing with his fingers, but you can just hear it.
Paxton Ray: What else ya got?
“Chandler Tsonda”: Glad you asked. You’re probably used to getting by on fear and being generally intolerable. A whole locker room full of people either scared of you, or so scuzzed out by your swamp manners and crotch rot personality, that you can do what you want.
An awkward pause ensues. Clearly, the voice in the AirPod has told the Doppeltsonda to punctuate this next bit with a hand gesture. He sort of swings his arm like he’s using a telestrator.
“Chandler Tsonda”: But you don’t scare me. You can’t break me any worse than I’ve already been broken. I know a killer when I look him in the eye. And you? You ain’t no Lee Harvey Oswald, my boy.
Paxton Ray: Well yeah, because Oswald didn’t kill JFK. Read a book.
Paxton is still smiling, but there’s a hint of something underneath. Something that, if the man portraying Tsonda knew who he was talking to, would cause him to back away. Paxton takes another step towards the man.
Paxton Ray: I ain’t a shooter. If I wanted to take someone down I’d do it with my bare hands. An’ I have. Ask the voice on the other end’a that earpiece.
Perhaps it’s the sweat on his brow or the slight tapping of his toes, but it does not take a PhD in body language to detect the growing nervousness of the Not Tsuperstar.
“Chandler Tsonda”: Well, uhh, Chandler, I mean, me of course, I say that you and Nackedy got yourselves a nice win in the handicap match last week, and there’s no pissing over spilt milk, but you say the word and we go double or nothing in this bitch.
Doppeltsonda’s eyes go a little white with whatever is said next to him.
“Chandler Tsonda”: (mutters into his collar) Dude, no, I’m not gonna say that. This guy isn’t like some greased up fake wrestler with beach muscles. I think he’s some kind of violent psychopath, and maybe should be in jail? No way! If I call him a “piss poor excuse for a place to pour piss,” he’s, like, going to harm me.
Paxton’s grin grows wider and he takes two more steps towards the poseur until they are chest to chest.
Paxton Ray: That’s where you’re wrong, bucko. I don’t need ya t’say that to wanna harm ya.
Paxton raises his fist quickly and the Doppeltsonda flinches and cowers. He takes two big steps back, shielding his face with his arms. He talks fast, nervous as all hell in the presence of the genuinely intimidating Ray.
“Chandler Tsonda”: Please! I’ve got a family. Ok, I’ve got a dog. Ok, I have been seriously looking at some rescues. (to the voice on the phone) Sorry, dude. Not worth it, even for this pay day. This guy’s a sicko. He’ll break my face. (back to Paxton) I mean, no offense. You and Tsonda figure it out. I was never even here.
The not-ever-convincing Tsonda double chucks the left AirPod down onto the ground, and starts retreating with his hands raised. Once he’s about ten feet away, he turns and breaks into a dead sprint like the devil is chasing him.
Paxton watches him exit, then looks down at the AirPod. If the microphone on the camera were a little better, you’d probably be able to hear Chandler Tsonda plead with his lookalike to stand his ground. Paxton snarls and lifts his boot, then smashes down onto the AirPod.
Paxton Ray: Fuckin’ idiot.
We then cut to ringside.