Rivers /vs/ Shaw

[RP# 2]

“Our fatigue is often caused not by work, but by worry, frustration and resentment.”

- Dale Carnegie

Its kind of amazing, if not bizarre; the similarities between the roaring ocean currents and the roar of an audience, captivated but fickle. Each existing in their own moment. Beholden to absolutely no one. Slowly the waves, violent and calm, ascend up and descend back down the sandy beaches. The tides changing their minds and redirecting themselves. All accordingly. It’s in their very nature. Many wrestlers have felt this same recourse, one in the same. One week they’re beloved. An arena of strangers who know them well, clamoring in support. But not unlike the changing tides, that support can, and eventually does get redirected somewhere else. It’s the harsh reality of this profession. You can reach the top, the peek of industry. But like the laws of gravity dictate, “what goes up, must come down”. That blunt force trauma. That impact. That seismic quake; a proverbial fall from grace. It can turn bone to dust, leaving egos a mush among the craters debris. So easily swept back into the ocean currents then.

A body of water. So utterly unpredictable. A calming stillness whipped into a frenzy. Such a peculiar dichotomy. Such a balance. Delicate and harsh, all at once. Maybe in some way this is a pretentious allegory for the balance struck by professional wrestlers, no? Teetering on the precipice of artful grace and the intention to willingly harm another person. Consent made for mutual destruction. Of course, much like the previously stated fickle nature of swaying opinions, the old will come and fall, leaving in their wake an opening for the inevitable continuation that the next generation will willingly undertake. A vicious cycle and self fulfilling prophecy to be sure.

“Fuck!” utters Ethan beneath his breath. This simple phrase carrying a callousness offset by exhaustion. The thirty two year old falls to a knee in the ring. He takes deep labored breaths, attempting to regain some composure. The musty air of the old training facility seemed stagnant. Like nothing in the room had moved in the last two decades. It was heavy and odd. Old and new.

“Oh come on! Are you kidding me?”

Joshua’s words reverberated around the room. Seemingly crawling into Ethans ear, clattering about, and crawling back out the other. Joshua stood on the outskirts of the ring, feet firmly dug into the wooden flooring, a fist bouncing off the canvas of the ring apron. His displeasure took no precautions in masking itself. It was more evident than the creaking floorboards beneath the ring that seemed to sing in harmony every time Ethan would run the ropes.

“Gimme another 25 runs, Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Joshua, his words shaking the cobwebs draped along the pillars of the room, old and long abandoned. At least no spiders would come forward.

“You can’t… be serious” mutters Ethan back. Every few words were spaced as he gasped for air. He raises his hand, open palmed. Joshua groans in revulsion, letting some choice words spill out from under his tongue as he picks up and tosses a water bottle to Ethan.

“How the hell are you burnt out already? You think you're match with Shaw is going to be shorter longer than 15 minutes? Maybe that 6 man ladder match made you lazy, is that it? Didn't have to do as much work with 5 other guys in the ring with you?” inquires Joshua, who simultaneously brushes off some dust from his rather lavish blue suit.

Clutching the top rope with a single hand, Ethan hoisted himself up, catching his balance, as he proceeded to lean on and over the ropes, closest to Joshua.

“Watch the suit, watch the suit!”

Joshua shouted, extending both arms upwards and taking two massive steps back from the ring. Ethan seemed puzzled.

“What are you on about?” he inquires, still leaning on the ropes, fixating his gaze onto Joshua. The look of disrelishing abhorrence painted almost cartoon like on his managers face. This becoming even more apparent as Joshua removed his red tinted sunglasses, revealing his wide eyed expression of disbelief.

“Why are you even wearing sunglasses in doors?” Without giving any heed to Ethans second quip, his manager begins using his hands to brush what seems to be absolutely nothing from his suit.

“Watch the sweat, BUB. This is a three thousand dollar suit I’ll have you know.”

Wiping his hand along the creases of his forward, Ethan accumulates a small abundance of sweat, flicking it directly towards Attwood.

“Hey, HEY!” shouts Attwood, backing up further and further.

“Three thousand dollars eh? Does that explain why I’m training in a gym from the 1950s. The fucking floor sounds like its going to give out.”

Ethan, now standing on his own, no longer using the ropes for support, hops a few times. The natural bounce of the ring seemingly exaggerated by the give in the wooden floor below. Attwood pays no real mind to this, rather putting his sunglasses back on, grabbing a chair and decidedly sitting in it in the most delicate fashion imaginable. Ethan rolled his eyes, knowing full well he wasn’t going to receive any verbal confirmation. Though it didn’t take a detective to figure it out.

“You’ve got a ring to train in, don’t ya?” there was a lingering coldness to Attwoods words.

“So use it. I don’t need you embarrassing me by losing to an old man in the first round, buddy”.

Only a few steps into running the ropes once more, (as per his managers request) Ethan halts firmly, redirecting his stare and focus back to Attwood. An air of disbelief danced less-than-gracefully between the two men. Ethan scoffs at the notion of him embarrassing Joshua. In fact, he began to ponder, who was Joshua to insult the age of Teddy Shaw? Between Attwood, Shaw and Terry Marshall, his manager was a member of the upper-echelon in terms of age demographic.

“Aren’t you like fifty-” Ethans comment is abruptly disarmed as Attwood ascends from his seat, his voice raised and aggravated. Accompanied by an aggressively pointed finger.

“Watch it buddy!”

“Ahh, there’s the Canadian in you.”

“Why don’t you try running the ropes instead of running your mouth?”

Placing his hands along his hips, Ethan sways his head from side to side before launching a mouthful of spit to the outside of the ring, though not in the direction of Attwood.

“Disgusting” retorts Attwood.

“You know, you only have a manager contract because “I” took you on. We’re supposed to be friends, so I got you the damn job. Whatever the hell all of… this is, it isn’t working for me anymore”. More than a hint of weary distaste dithered on the tail of Ethans words.

Unbeknownst to Ethan (though every passing day it seemed to Attwood that it'd become more and more evident), Attwood had in fact been playing a “long game” so to speak. His re-acquaintance with an old friend wasn’t mere coincidence the week before making a professional debut in IIW. Attwood was starved for power and money, and through this, he was getting his desired wishes. Though if he continued to let his facade drop like this, things would inevitably become more and more difficult. Operating under these perimeters wasn’t much to be sought for. And Joshua knew this. He had to step his act up.

Taking a quick and short breath, Attwood raises his hands. Palms faced forward toward Ethan. Every muscle in Attwoods body was relaxed, holding no hint of tension. This is stark contrast to the high-blood-pressure-inducing behavior he had been exhibiting. A generous smile slinked onto his face. As he spoke, there was a genuinely apologetic tone to his voice. So much softer than previously. So believable. An excellent snake he was.

“Ahh, dammit, you’re right Ethan. I’ve been acting like an asshole lately. And look, I’m sorry. I’ve been in this industry about as long as Teddy Shaw has, managing talent all over the world. You trained at the school I worked for back up in Canada. I’ve seen you wrestle from day one of training. I guess… I’m just so hard on you because I see something in you.”

Ethans tension was becoming tenuous. His anger beginning to seem like some disillusionment. A misconception or understanding perhaps? He now faced Attwood once more, clearly interested in what his manager had to say.

“What I see in you I’ve seen before. Not a lot, but often enough. I’ve come face to face with kids I thought would and could take over this industry. Change it for the better. But I always watch them squander it. Got me thinking, “heck, maybe I’m not hard enough on them?” you understand? I put you in this tournament because I don’t only believe, but I KNOW you can win this. I know you can cement yourself in this industry.”

Attwood spoke with a brilliant clarity to his words. Such a soft and heartfelt cadence. Ethan was listening and truly believing this pseudo-sincerity. His own facial landscape had become rearranged in the wake of Attwoods “change of heart”.

“I mean, yeah, I’ve seen that happen too” retorted Ethan, in complete agreement. His previous resentment was washing away.

“Perfect”, thought Attwood to himself. His sincere smile masking a subtle coil of deceit.

“My guy, I know Teddy Shaw. I’ve worked around him. I’ve seen what he’s all about, and he is certainly ALL about everything. And that’s no joke.”

Ethan nodded in silent agreement.

“Look, if I’m being honest with you kiddo… I didn’t expect that Shaw was even going to be in this tournament. Much less in a first round match with you.” “Lucky me, round one with the legend himself” “You can beat him. But you need to focus! You need to be pushed to your outer most limits. You think I brought you to this… this dump of a gym because I wanted my fancy suit to get covered in soot? No! Its because you need every obstacle possible in front of you. Muscles don’t get stronger when they get acclimated to a regiment, right?!”

“You know what… no, no they don’t” remarked Ethan. His voice carried differently now, like a light bulb had just been sent a current.

“I think I actually get why you’ve been such an asshole lately”

A devious little simper coiled like a serpent on the lips of Attwood. Catching himself giving away physical clues, he covered his mouth, feigning a cough. Hook, line and sinker.

“You know what kid. Why don’t you go shower down. I think we’re good for today”.

“Oh, are you sure? I mean, I really don’t mind running the ropes again” Ethan sputtered back, now seemingly wanting to push himself even further. As if he had come across some genuine epiphany, and not a clever rouse perpetuated by his manager. Attwood couldn’t help but cackle at this a bit. “Feign another cough” he thought to himself.

“No no Ethan. You’re good. I think… No, I know that you have what it takes to put that old mutt, Teddy Shaw down. Teach him that he should have stayed retired. Teach him the generation that he and I come from is expired. Teach him that the RIVERS. ARE. RISING.”

This could almost be inspirational if it wasn’t the devil himself speaking. Still, Ethan was in no position to know this. To him this was indeed inspirational. In contrast to the smile on his managers face, Ethan bore a genuine smile, one teetering to the brim with aspirations.

“Okay” he said softly, dropping to his back and rolling out of the ring.

“Just remember-” started Attwood,

“Shaw once superkicked Ronnie Reynolds through a cage door to try and escape an adversary. The man scaled the-”

“Battledome. Yeah I remember watching that match” spoke Ethan in rebuttal.

“He was scared, so like a sick dog on the verge of death, he fled. Do not be scared of him. Don’t. He’ll run from you. Just be aggressive kid” spouted Attwood back before he leaned down grabbing picking something up.

“Hey, catch!” touted Attwood, tossing a towel over to Ethan, who snagged it on of the air with a free hand. The men exchanged a nod, as Ethan slumped, tired and broken down, to the locker room to shower. Attwood would stand and watch Ethan disappear around the hallway. A slight buzzing protrudes from Attwoods pant pockets. Retrieving his phone and glancing at the caller ID, Attwood smiles and answers.

“Arthur... Fancy me and Ethan coming home for a little visit?”

_________________________________

A vague wisp of butter scented popcorn proliferates the room, bouncing from wall to wall, tickling Ethans senses. How peculiar that the smell reminded him of cheapness. Of stale old age and memories past. Ethan stood before a simple set of curtains, the small buzzing of a crowd restless through them. Attwood leaned against a concrete wall, eyes like daggers, glued to his cell phone as he typed incessantly.

“I don’t want to be here Josh” muttered Ethan, though his complaints seemingly feel upon deaf ears, Joshua paying him no mind.

“Just head out whenever you hear your music sir”

Ethan turned his attention to a stagehand standing directly behind him, clipboard in firmly in hand, hat turned backwards. “Such professionalism” Ethan scoffed internally as he eyed the young man who was attempting to give him instructions.

“Ohh, that’s how this works? No shit, eh? Thanks Sherlock”

An overabundance of sarcasm teetered through his words. The young man simply reflected Ethans own gaze back at him, before rolling his eyes and strolling a few short steps away, seeking refuge and comfort in a more secluded part of the disgustingly small backstage area. Though calling it a “backstage” seemed a rather generous turn. Maybe a fib?

“Look man, whatever. I’m just here for a paycheque” rebuts the young man. Ethan shook his head, in utter disbelief that the school he called home while training would hire someone who had no drive for the industry to work their shows. Again, much like calling where he stood a “backstage”, calling the events the school threw a “show” seemed just as generous.

“There he is! My god it must have been, what, a year?” a firm hand slaps the left shoulder of Ethan from behind. There stood a short, balding, sleezy looking man. His beard thin and sparse, while his red colored mustache stood unruly. Prominent and scuzzy was he. Ethan forced a smile.

“Arthur, you look just as much a con man as the day I left”

Arthur laughed, though it soon turned to a wheeze as he broke into a small coughing fit.

“Still smoking I see”

“They may have raised the price of Canadian Classics, but that aint about to stop me” retorted Arthur, slowly easing out of his fit. Upon hearing the voice of Arthur, Attwood quickly places his cellular device into the confines of his suit pockets. He hurriedly sways over to Arthur and Ethan, firmly placing a hand on Arthurs shoulder as he shakes his hand with a slight aggression, though maybe it’s simply excitement.

“Arthur Edward, you sonuvabitch” Joshua would sputter out.

“Speaking of con men; how are ya Joshua. Must have been a few weeks huh?” just as Arthur murmurs his response back, the uproarious orchestral boom of Ethans theme music (“Modern Wolf Hair” as performed by Chiodos) penetrates the buzzing arena. Ethan hastily makes his way through the curtains previously described, while Attwood leaned in close to Arthur, speaking a whisper with gentle cadence.

“He doesn’t know. Lets uh, lets talk business after, yeah?”

Arthur, with an iota of wonder colored on his face, gives Attwood a peculiar look. Though no longing curiosity seemed to stand, as Arthur abruptly seemed to shrug this off, giving a Attwood a firm nod in agreement. That snakey smile coiling on the lips of both men.

On the other side of the aforementioned curtain, Ethan had already strolled the small aisle and entered the schools ring. Unlike IIW, here in his home, Ethan received a standing ovation from the 50 to 60 individuals in attendance sparsely placed around the ring.

“Pass me that microphone!” he shouted to a ringside crew member who promptly obliged.

“Welcome home! Welcome home!” echoed the crowd from the flooring to the dusty rafters not high above the squared circle. A genuine smile spread brightly on Ethans lips.

“Oh Canada-” the crowd break their chant into a small indy-rific choir of cheering, adoring the positive bravado being spoken of their country.

“Oh Canada - right now I’d rather be anywhere else” spouted Rivers back in retaliation to their cheers. Somewhat shockingly, this isn’t met with chorus of boos, a few to be sure, but rather a soft laughter makes its away around those in attendance, thinking it some joke.

“Sure. Laugh it up. Mhm. But I’m serious my Canadian geese. See it’s not that I don’t love this country, it’s just I’ve been in a little country called - heh – lemme rephrase that; I’ve been to a BIG country called America. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

It’s here that the crowd abandoned all hope that Ethan was being sarcastic. The passing of laughter had repackaged itself as a swelling of boo’s.

“The last half of this year I selling out stadiums all across that beautiful nation. I’ve been getting paid. I’ve been proving everyone apart of this “promotion” wrong, and myself right. Now I always thought that my first visit back, to my home and native land – so glorious and free – that I would be doing it somewhere that actually mattered, not in this dingy gymnasium. Hell, I was just training in a gym from the 1950s, and that place could hold more people annnd was cleaner. Damn. Step it up Arthur. No wonder you lost me to an actual promotion like IIW. ”

Some of the small promotions fateful begin to chant in unison.

“Shut the fuck up! * Clap clap clap clap clap * Shut the fuck up!”

Ethan smirks, doing nothing to shield his reaction to the crowds visceral reaction.

“What can I say? I’m actually getting paid.” scoffs Rivers. “You sold out! You sold out!” retaliates the crowd once more, being further provoked. Given the diminutive size of the audience, one wrestler standing off near the timekeeper is entirely audible to the room as he shouts

“Why’d you come back? Go back to IIW”

The crowd becomes electrified as they hear this from a local competitor. Ethan, smile still etched along his face, turns to face the man. His face seems entirely befuddled.

“I’m not going to lie. I came up here and even I don’t know who that guy is” says Ethan, voice dripping in condescension.

“I’ll tell you all why I’m here, but not because this curtain jerker asked – why I’m here is just, well, why I’m here. So if you hosers will shut your maple mouths, I’ll tell you”.

Backstage, peeking around the curtains, Attwood and promotion owner Arthur, are listening keenly, a handful of cash being transferred between the two parties halted. Arthur didn't appear to be taking the words of Ethan too positively.

“What. The fuck. Is this?” Arthur grimaced through clenched teeth.

“This isn’t what I’m paying you for Attwood”

“I-I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing Arthur”.

Attwood was equally as perplexed by Ethans words. His dealing with Arthur behind Ethans back to make money in exchange for an ‘assumed’ positive promo endorsing the two mens former home, was heading south. And fast. Back in the ring Ethan had retired to leaning in the rings corner.

“Ya listening Arthur? Good. When I first started training, I had the support of no one here. I said I was going to be the best pure wrestler in the world, you old con men running this place laughed in my face. I said I wanted more money. Laughed in the face. I said I was going to go to a real promotion and… you guessed right. Laughed in my face. And yet here I am. After touring the states, arenas of 1000s, I’m back in this literal shithole, rambling to fifty nobodies from my hometown.”

“I work for a real company. I work for the IIW. And now, after racking up an undefeated streak, forming The Summit and earning a shot at the International Championship, I have the opportunity to wrestle the great! Late- well, no, he’s not dead, but his age and absence from this industry would have you believe it…. Teddy. Shaw. So uh, how's that for impressive, huh dweebs?”

Ethan sharply swung around, leaning over the ropes of the ring and pointing to the local wrestler who had heckled him earlier.

“Who was your last match against, Ryan McCann? Hahaha, I’m kidding. He’s way beyond anybody in this place.” his words followed by launching spit onto the floor mats positioned down around the ring.

“I thought it would be… poetic, in a sense, to return home to announce that not only do I plan on winning the 2021 Ice Crown Tournament, but that I do it out of sheer spite for this place. For all of you. And for Arthur Edward. See, you and Teddy Shaw aren’t all that different Arty. You’re both far beyond your prime, should have left this industry a long time ago, and are both using ME to further your own careers. I know my manager paid you to get me hear to say nice things. And I know the only reason Teddy Shaw is coming out of retirement is because he knew exactly how much wrestling a hot young prospect like me would do for not only his legacy, but for his wallet. And suuure, I can’t knock my grandfather trying to line his pockets. I mean, sitting at home doing nothing for years and years must have really made the bank account take a hit.”

“Shaw, I don’t blame you. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. If I were somehow in such an unfavorable position like you I’d do the same thing. Sure I would. Suuure. But here’s the thing, I was talking to grand ma and she doesn’t seem to think you have the heart for this. To be fair! Maybe I misheard her. Maybe she said you’re heart wasn’t in it. Maybe she thinks that because you’re out here to make a paycheque off of everything I’VE been building while you’ve been at home crocheting. Maybe that’s why these people here in Canada think you’re going to lose too” Ethan tosses both arms up into the air, as though he meant to rally them in agreement. While the audience does in fact respond, it’s anything but agreeable to Rivers points. “No we don’t! No we don’t!” erupts all around him.

“Exactly!” shouts Ethan, all smiles and feigned denial.

“Teddy bear, ol’ pal of mine, I heard what you had to say about me. Yeah you said I’d call you out for your age, and uhhh, no shit friend. That isn’t low hanging fruit if it’s limp branch has the fruit touching the ground. It’s like you said yourself; “Isn’t Teddy done? Didn’t he wreck his back”? Suddenly a chance at me comes along and he’s out of retirement. I’m starting to wonder if you ever even really hurt your back old timer. But sure. Sometimes miracles happen! Why not. But why don’t we get the doctors involved, yeah? Because the only miracle I smell is illegal, performance enhancements. And I’m sure we all know my stance on breaking the rules, oui? We do this BY. THE. BOOKS baby. I want Shaw tested or heck, maybe I won’t even get in that ring at Ice Crown.”

Akin to throwing caution to the proverbial wind, Ethan tosses his shoulders back, shrugging with his lips pursed in an impossibly annoying fashion.

“No. Because then I’d have my lavish undefeated streak unfairly taken away from me. So like the beacon of purity that I am, I will fight the odds and overcome that dastardly villain, Teddy Shaw. I guess wisdom does come with old age, because you were wise to tell me to “pay attention” when you’re too broke on your own. Subtle way to get a hand out. But here’s the real cold hard facts friend. You’re old, I’m young. You’re slow and… weeell, I’m fast. You’re yesterdays news and me, oh, I’m todays headlines baby. 2021 Newcomer of the Year says it best. But uh, thanks maybe I should write you a little cheque for writing this entire speech for me amigo. Because that’s all straight from the horse mouth. You were certainly right about potential and performance not being the same thing. So lets look at the statistics. I don’t know, off the top of my head lets look at the success rate we’ve both had in, ohhh, I don’t know, say three years? My performance says I’ve been great. Yours say you had “potential” too, but… hey, you said it. They aren’t the same. But yeah, we know Teddy, you were at the top of your game when you retired. Congrats. A man smart enough to walk away, but stupid enough to come back.”

Ethans tone had lost the sarcastic swagger it was previously dancing with. In its place, a much more sullen, brooding heir had swept in.

“As for your little statement about me not being in your league; you were debuting when I was just some kid from butt-fuck-nowhere Canada. You were winning championships left, right and center while I was still in school. You were headlining shows while I was in this absolute dumpster fire, trying to break into this business. But guess what amigo? In that first round of the tournament, you stand across from three people. Me, myself and I. I may have only been here for half of a year compared to your decades. But isn’t interesting that we find ourselves in the exact same place? The Big Draw couldn’t draw a picture without it being of me! My face. So face it Teddy, you’re washed up. And now you're washing up the wrong river. Teddy Shaw, Arthur Edward and every dirty little dweeb hear can kiss my ass. I IMPLORE you all to watch and see me put the pro in professional wrestling. “Amigo”, you can call me Frank friggin’ Darabont, because at the Ice Crown Tournament I’m going to give you the real Shaw Shank Redemption.”

With a single hand extended out straight and forward, Ethan purposely drops the mic. A static and bass heavy thud reverberates from PA system to PA system upon the impact. Ethan can’t help but to feel a bit alleviated from all of his previously pent up frustrations, basking in the showering cascade of boos from his former stomping ground.

“Attwood, what the hell just happened in my ring?!” screams Arthur Edward, both of his sweaty palms firmly clutched the openings of Attwoods expensive suit. Attwood in defense simply had his hands up, stuttering. Failing to verbalize any proper response.

“Gimmie that!” Arthur releases one handful of Joshuas suit. Using his now free hand, he hastily grabs and pries the stack of cash that Attwood was holding. The fees for Ethans appearance.

“Hey! We had a deal!” stammers Attwood, as Arthur shoves Attwood back.

“Yeah, exactly what I thought” Arthur growls back, stashing the money into his ripped jean pockets. Disgruntled and cursing beneath his breath, Arthur begins to slink away. He doesn’t make it but a few steps before whirling around.

“You and Rivers stay the hell out of my company. Keep my name and my school out of your mouths or I’ll sue you for… for, for slander. Get out!”

Attwood remains entirely perplexed at how the situation backfired this greatly. Had Ethan finally caught on to his back door dealings he pondered. His heart racing, his pockets now more empty than had they come in the first place. Suddenly his confusion begins to become replaced with anger. His loose hand not coiled into a firm fist, shaking as he peers around the corner, fixated on Ethan who's just strolled through the curtains, slapping Attwood himself on the back,

"Respect gets you no where, right?"