Three Seconds

The scene is backstage in the soundstage/designated interview area. The Anglo Luchador stands alone in his gear and a t-shirt that says “I GAVE GARBAGE BAG JOHNNY A FIFTY CENT CHIP AND ALL I GOT WAS A STAIN ON THIS SHIRT.”

TAL: Brandon Youngblood, PRIME Hall of Famer, historical Five Star Champion. The good news is that you’re going to be guaranteed gold after this match. The bad news is I’m fixing to make you settle for that Five Star Championship you’ve so lovingly held in years past. I’m sure you won’t mind. I’ve got bigger and badder dreams.

The old luchador swivels his head as to crack his neck.

TAL: You’ve been to the top of the mountain before. I’m shocked you decided to come back for this reboot seeing as though one of your stature may not have any more lands to conquer, but you’re back for some reason, a reason I can’t put my finger on. I know the reason that I’m back. I’ve only been to the mountaintop twice in my career, and both times, I was knocked off before I could make my pour-over coffee and gaze upon the wide world at my view. I’m sick of hearing about how great the view is from people like you, from Nova, from Tchu or Dan Ryan or Lindsay Troy. I want to see it to believe it. My momma named me Thomas, so don’t be shocked if I have my doubts.

His eyes grow wider from behind his lucha mask.

TAL: The journey may be long and arduous, but it all ends in three seconds. Let’s play good news/bad news again, only reversing the order. The bad news is my journey can end in three seconds, and I’ll have to go back to my gods and explain to them why I’m going home early, or how I intend to save lucha libre in this country despite failing in this tournament. The good news, however, is that I only need three seconds to keep my journey going.

He nods and inhales deep.

TAL: Three seconds. That’s it. That’s all. I’ve forgotten more ways to pin a man’s shoulders to the mat than most wrestlers have learned. To them, hooking the leg is a sometimes affair. For me, if all I’m doing is shooting a half and grabbing a leg, that means I’ve been concussed. You’ve so far met the loverboy and crimson snow. You’re the one-seed on this side of the bracket, but like that jackass Jiles showed against Nova last week, that seed means jack and squat outside of anywhere but the bandwidth of know-it-all smarks on Twitter with egos bigger than their brains.

He raises his right arm and grabs that wrist with his left hand.

TAL: Brandon Youngblood. PRIME Hall of Famer. Historical Five Star Champion. Three seconds are all I need to make those epithets and accomplishments mean nothing. I’m stamping my ticket to Culture Shock three seconds at a time. I don’t care if you’re King Ess of Eff Mountain or one of those security guard luchadores who patted me down in an uncomfortably inappropriate manner a few minutes ago. Nothing’s stopping me from making you and everyone who tunes in respect the art of lucha again.

He high-tails it off the set as the picture cuts to the next scene.