THE VOICE

Nick Stuart: Well, that was sure an encounter between the Colton lad and the Universal Champion! Now, I understand that Simon Tillier is standing by with the Intense Champion, The Anglo Luchador.

The camera throws backstage to find Tillier, dressed in his Men’s Wearhouse finest holding a microphone next to The Anglo Luchador, dressed in khaki board shorts, flip flops, a blue t-shirt that says “I Burnt Down The Learning Tree And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt” enveloping a chibi-styled head of Jacob Mephisto, his mask, and of course, the Intense Championship snugly fitted around his waist.

Simon Tillier: That’s right! I’m here with Anglo Luchador, and I’m getting word that you will be defending that title around your waist at ReVival 14. Do you have any preference as to who will step up to the plate, or…

TAL: Let me stop you right there, Simon. When I put that open challenge out at ReVival 11, I meant that anyone who wanted to step up to the plate, as you termed it, could get a plate appearance if they wanted to. I meant that, so no, I don’t care. Granted, Anna Daniels probably should be next in line, but I understand if the office doesn’t want to run that back just yet.

Simon Tillier: You’re not afraid of her, are you?

TAL: Absolutely not, Belmont. I’m just saying. I’ve been to hell and back with her twice now, and three is a magic number. I’m just saying, it’s not up to me at this point. The only thing up to me is calling out John Boy.

Simon Tillier: Speaking of that, Hoyt Williams has levied some heavy accusations at you… oh no

TAL: What do you mean oh no?

Tillier taps the luchador on his shoulder and turns around to find the PRIME Five-Star Champion, Rezin, walking up from stage right along with his Lindsay Troy-mandated trainer and parole officer, Rocko Daymon.

TAL: Oh hey Rocko, long time, no see.

Rocko Daymon: Oh, I know, we have–

Rezin: HEY, SHUT UP! We ain’t here to reminisce; I’m on CHAMP business!

Rocko grumbles and hobbles into the background. The Escape Artist comes around to the other side of the reporter and luchador, his own championship belt worn upside down around his waist. His hungry and maniacal gaze quickly finds Tillier, who all but shrinks in place.

Rezin: What we got goin’ on here, Simon? Branchin’ out into interviewin’ the other champs now? Trynna move up in the backstage reporter world? Is bein’ on Five Star duty not cuttin’ it for ya anymore?

Simon Tillier: I mean–I’m just doing–we were only–

Rezin: Calm your taters, bruh, I’m just ribbin’ ya.

Rezin tussles the junior reporter’s hair and redirects his attention back to the Anglo Luchadore. He notes the Intense Championship hanging around his waist and nods, impressed.

Rezin: I see those shrooms I gave ya did the trick. Any lingerin’ side effects?

TAL: Well, I had the malicious desire to bash a friend’s eye out with a barbed wire-entwined baseball bat. Also, I’m pretty sure I got shingles on seven out of ten of my toes.

The Goat Bastard palms his forehead.

Rezin: Damb, forgot to warn ya ‘bout those! Should go away in a couple of years, if you’re lucky. So hey, man…

Rezin moves in, cutting Simon out of the picture. TAL tenses up, not sure what to expect.

Rezin: Been meanin’ to ask you something…

TAL: If it’s about the t-shirt, I get them made myself.

Rezin leans in even closer. Very much into TAL’s personal space at this point. To his credit, the Intense Champion doesn’t flinch.

Rezin: …do you feel it, too?

TAL: I get the feeling you’re not talking about a bad sciatic nerve.

The Escape Artist’s eyes grow wider. For once, they don’t quite look crazed. 

If anything, they look desperate.

Rezin: The voice, my dude…

The Anglo Luchador glances questionably over to Simon, possibly for some pointers on how to deal with this. Tillier simply shrugs. Rezin, meanwhile, begins tapping his head.

Rezin: The one up here… the one that keeps on naggin’ ya.

He unstraps the Five Star Championship from his waist and holds it in his hands.

Rezin: The one that keeps on saying things like, “You don’t deserve this. This shouldn’t be yours to carry. You ain’t anything but an imposter, and errybuddy out there KNOWS IT!” It just keeps GOIN’ and GOIN’, and I dunno if what I’m ignorin’ is the harsh truth, or the after effects of a bad acid trip!

He points to TAL.

Rezin: But you? Dude, I watch you walk around here cool as a Canadian cucumber, just brushin’ off bad vibes like it ain’t anything but dust on your shoulder. I look at you and go, “GODDAMB, now THAT dude is a CHAMPION!”

Looks to the belt, eyes longing for answers.

Rezin: …but what the hell am I?

Back to the fellow champion.

Rezin: So tell me, dude… champ to champ… how do you do it? What’s the secret sauce you lay on that champion-style cheesesteak of yours?

The old luchador gives a single, muted laugh while bowing his head. After the momentary reaction to Rezin’s question, he lifts his head to look him dead in the eye.

TAL: Buddy, I hear the voice too.

Rezin looks at him in disbelief.

TAL: I hear it in whispers. Hushed tones. I don’t know if it’s someone speaking in the air ducts, or if it’s someone hacking my phone, or if it’s just my imagination. But there’s a voice that tells me I’m not good enough. I don’t deserve this title around my waist. It tells me my ultimate dream, winning the thing Youngblood has now? It’s pie in the sky. I’ll never earn it. I can’t beat anyone above me in the rankings. Youngblood? Loss. Impulse? Loss. Atken? Choked out. Daniels? Lost one-on-one. It’s a whisper but whispers can be loud.

Rezin is shocked at what the luchador is telling him.

TAL: But you didn’t ask me if I wallow in it. No. You asked me why I carry myself the way I do.

Rezin: Uh YEAH.

TAL: Well, I have to. Sometimes, you just have to be the guy who walks tall, carries a big stick. Because at the end of the day, if you’re not in this business to shut every single one of those voices up? You’re in the wrong one. If I didn’t think I could beat any of those wrestlers ahead of me in the rankings, any of the fighters clawing at my heels for this title, I’d quit on the damn spot.

Rezin gives his best Keanu whoaaaa.

TAL: That’s the paradox of being a wrestler. Sometimes, the cacophony is too loud. But your fist has to be even louder. And judging by the title you have? You ain’t smokin’ mids.

The Escape Artist turns back to his trainer lingering behind him for confirmation. Daymon is nodding at him in silent agreement.

Rezin: Well shucks, that’s a relief… for a minute there, I thought I’d smoked myself into psychosis!

Simon Tillier: Um… you sure that’s not already the case?

Rezin leers at the junior reporter, looking he may snap into a murderous rage. Instead, he takes a deep breath and shakes his finger as a warning.

Rezin: Dambit, Simon… lucky for you, I’m tryin’ REEEAAAL HARD to curb back on my angry outbursts! But don’t get funny and try TESTIN’ ME, buster! I can still take that head of faster than a jackrabbit on a date!

He lightly slaps the Intense Title around the Anglo Luchador’s waist with the back of his hand, moving his own belt onto his shoulder.

Rezin: Thanks for the rap, champ. Keep that lucha ish lookin’ libre for me, will ya?

With his chest puffed out to an almost absurd degree, the Five Star Champion moves along with his head held up a bit higher. Before following, Daymon salutes the Intense Champion with his cane.

Rocko Daymon: My thanks, old friend. Good to see you are well.

TAL: Thanks. Empire Boyz stick together. Keep it a buck.

Rocko grunts and nods once before shuffling on after Rezin. Simon also walks off assuming the interview is over.

TAL: Well, I guess I’m all alone now. Nick, Rich, back to you!

The camera cuts back to the broadcast desk.

Richard Parker: The nerve of him! Doing Simon’s job for him!

Nick Stuart: Well, it wasn’t like Simon was in the frame anymore. But enough about that, we have some action to get to! Pete Whealdon! Cancer Jiles! Next!