'The Wolf of Self-Promotion.' || Victory II.
Sept 17, 2016 7:16:32 GMT
Valentina Lemay, Ernie Parker, and 3 more like this
Post by Deleted on Sept 17, 2016 7:16:32 GMT
You know what I often find relaxing whenever people talk wise about you out of the side of their mouths? The fact that my bank account has a lot of zeroes in it. Like a lot. To paraphrase a popular Rihanna song – you can say whatever you want about me but uhhh…still got my money. Because as you know…I still got my money, and these broke bastards can’t measure up to a legend at the bank.
It’s fascinating, though, to see just how and where people will lay their cards. You can show your hand and risk everyone knowing what you’re willing to do…or “show ‘em just enough to win, Milty”. The former is the kind of thing that causes people to go into battle gung ho, devil may care, throwing all caution to the wind and not realizing there’s more fighting to be done on the back end and that you probably shouldn’t be expending yourself so damn soon. The latter? Oh, that’s my wheelhouse. The latter lets people know that you’ve got something up your sleeve and you’re keeping everything close to the vest out of fear that your heralded plan will be thwarted by a herd of interlopers, trying to take everything you’ve conjured up. Because the illusion of a plan – the mere thought of it – is far more sinister than the actual plan itself.
Whenever you have someone who people believe is a shady, conniving bastard that’s always up to no good, you tend to think the worst of them. Tend to believe that they spend most of their time plotting and scheming and generally being a scammer, trying to figure out ways to bilk people out of something that’s theirs. Be it money, land, accomplishments – you name it, and a wolf in sheep’s clothing has their eyes firmly locked on it. That person can come in peace, seemingly being the type of guy or girl that doesn’t want any trouble…only to leave where they were a complete mess of wreckage, littered with bodies strewn about in their wake.
If you hadn’t noticed, that’s the kind of guy I am. And that’s the kinda guy that’s gonna be able to succeed in this Championship Series.
The concept of “fairness” flew out the window the minute all eight of us were announced as participants in this Championship Series. To be frank, there’s nothing inherently fair about going into a match figuratively blind as to who you’re going to be face. You’ve conveniently opened the floodgates to all forms of sanctioned chaos known to man. What Valentina Lemay has done with Victory is that she has turned it into her very own Lord of the Flies, where every man – and woman – is out to gun for themselves, trusting no one and expecting less trust to be given to them. Ratcheting up the desperation to a dangerous level that would leave a regular human being appalled when they find out just what lengths the eight of us might be willing to go in order to attain victory.
Because that’s what this is all about, right? Winning.
It’s all any of us eight in the Series care about because it’s become clear that it’s the only thing to care about. The prize of the Internet Championship was seen as nothing more than a consolation prize that not one of us wanted to put our hands on. Why? Because in order to get that EOW Ultimate Championship, we must go all in when it counts. And this coming Sunday night? That’s the first of many times where what we do inside that ring counts for something richer in the grand scheme of things.
And speaking of schemes: What if I told you I had something up my sleeve that would make…six out of my seven opponents completely furious with me?
At this point – it’s all expected behavior.
Kiss, kiss – mwah, mwah.
There’s something about the Championship Series that has made me admit to something that I don’t really like admitting: When I’m pushed into a spot where I’m left with no other alternatives but to plot, I become desperate. My thinking and focus become sharper on that prize, and all rational thought begins to leave my head the closer and closer I get to the date of fruition. And that’s when moral ambiguity becomes the norm, and when that happens, things become a bit more dangerous.
As I’ve mentioned before, my father’s a district attorney in Los Angeles, California, and he’s been around the block a few times but what intrigues me the most are the stories (he doesn’t put names on them, of course) of rampant corruption, coercion, collusion, cronyism and other illegal business practices that happen with the super rich clients he undertakes. The most fascinating thing about the world of big business is that even if you think behaviors have been fixed and practices have been cleaned up, it’s all just a smoke screen to mask the even worse shit that takes place when no one is batting an eyelash. The kinda shit that gets heaped on the shoulders of The Illuminati because people dimwittedly have the belief that a secret society of rich people are running the country and making sure it goes the way it’s currently going because regular people are stupid and need to believe in fairy tales. Even the most sinister of fairy tales, hoss. So what underhanded, sinister, Stalin-esque fuckery was I up to today?
A lunch meeting. Yeah.
What, did you think me and Benny (Newsom) was running some kinda secret society, Stonecutters meeting beneath the Empire State Building? Please; that won’t happen for another decade from now – we’ve just gotten our certification in that area. I recognize that I’ve said too much.
“The suit’s runnin’ late, man. Any later, and I’ll two knuckles deep in that cute Colombian chick over there that’s been givin’ me the eye all day after I have my fifth Jack and Coke.” Again, I wasn’t one known for having any sort of tact when around people.
The bar and grille Benjamin and myself were in was scantly filled—it was a late lunch seeing as most of the Wall Street fat cats had found their way to their lunches a bit earlier than us. Although, golf course meetings are often all the rage when you really think about it. And despite my lark about the guy we were meeting with being a suit, we both were in our finest suits, seated comfortable at a back booth – the kind that would usually hide anything secretive from the prying eyes of the public. Real nefarious look to it, which was the ideal way to be.
“Seriously, these big business types always stress the benefits of being ‘on time’, and this fuckhead can’t even make it to a midday meeting with minutes to spare. I’ve got shit to do, man.”
“Quit being impatient, Matt; the guy said 3:30, and it’s only 3:25. Since when are you the one obsessive about punctuality?” The dismissive aside from my Chief of Staff was punctuated with a smooth gulp of Hennessy, showing off that the both of us were indeed problem alcoholics before the age of 30. And to think, Missus Arlotti said my attitude wouldn’t allow me to move ahead in life and achieve something worthwhile.
Yeah, well JOKES’ ON YOU, BITCH!
“My punctuality issues stems from the fact that one day in eighth grade, I was late coming back from something and I saw there was a huge ruckus. And as I turned down the hall, one of my friends told me that this really hot chick got into a fight with another hot chick and they all saw titty.” I pontificated, swirling the glass that was in my hand to cause the ice cubes to bounce off the inside of the container. “And from that day forward, I vowed to never be late again on account of…what if I get to see titty? What if, Benny? What if?”
He looked at me with a puzzled expression, shaking his head from side to side. It’s not like I had to convince the bastard about my motives. He could understand clearly what I meant by that; he just wanted to have the moral high ground, which – if you really think about it – is something all us elitist, yuppie cunts strive for.
“Yeah, well we both know what specific pair of tits you wanna be around to see; so let’s just leave it at that.” Subtlety between us wasn’t really something that was practiced. It was all innuendo and thinly veiled references.
“B-I-N-G-O, and she’s got a damn nice rack.” I winked and shot him a finger gun gesture in response. See what I mean? There was no soft-shoeing it with our conversations.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for my lateness.” The voice came from out of nowhere, breaking us out of our conversational rhythm.
He looked like your typical ad executive – mid-40’s, hair starting to gray, a slick, thin-cut suit with an even more egregious shit-eating grin on his face. AKA my kind of person. I’ve dealt with dudes like this throughout my entire life: The quick-talking bastard that not only had a drinking problem but was also probably cheating on his wife with a bevy of women (hookers, his secretary, some young barely-of-legal-age woman that gets passed around by him and his friends) and almost lost his ass either gambling or in the stocks. Possibly both now that I look at him. Whatever.
The three of us shared a quick handshake – his grip was firm, all in an attempt to try and gain some sort of dominance early on; I’ve seen this movie before and he ain’t gonna outgrip me. Nevertheless, we took a seat in the booth and this guy (name was Baron Scott, powerful name really) took command when it came to holding court.
“As you guys know and discussed with me, I’m a consultant to all the big companies when it comes to advertising: Nike, Apple, Under Armour, Netflix, Hulu, Samsung, Verizon, AT&T to name a few. I’m the guy they call when they need guidance as to how they should handle the advertising for their products and promotions. When my name gets mentioned…people know. I’m kind of a big deal.”
A shark – we’re talking a fucking shark.
“So what did you two want to know?”
“Well…” I took a slow sip of my J&C, a slick grin coming across my face as I shot Benny a look, “We’re coming to you, unofficially, on behalf of the company I’m apart of – Epic Online Wrestling. And we have some doubts about people who could be seen as the quote-unquote ‘face’ of the respective brands—specifically, Victory.”
“It’s a grand show. Awesome show. Massive show. ‘Uuuuuuuuuuge, okay?” Benjamin doing his best Donald Trump impressive (sans the racism, sexism, and all other ‘isms; basically the self-aggrandizement was what he was channeling). “The best type of show Hulu can ever and will ever see. Monster ratings; highest rated show you’ll ever watch. It hasn’t had an episode yet – I know-I know – but when it does, it’ll take off like gangbusters, and it’ll be all because of this man over here.” Benny pointed at me when he said this.
At the risk of sounding like Terrell Owens when he was sticking up for/crying about Tony Romo: That’s my Chief of Staff.
“Okay…”
“Which is why we gotta make it a point to show you the people who believe they’re worthy of being something but aren’t really of worth. You get me?”
“It’s basically us telling you what people think is good versus what is good.” My way of emphasizing this point was to tap both of my index fingers on my chest, the obvious sign of what I felt was good and better than most of the other options on the Victory roster.
Baron was still undeterred, trying to piece all of this together and figure out what kind of game we were trying to play/what angle we were coming from. He didn’t look baffled; more on the confused-but-I’ll-give-it-a-shot vibe was coming from him, which was good! There wasn’t any outright dismissal of what we were trying to tell him, if at all. Wanna know what really sold it?
We brought charts. Photographic evidence to back up our claims. Those business guys? They don’t like charts…THEY LOVE ‘EM!
So, Benjamin slides (more like plops) a folder that was loaded with stuff, color-coded and all that jazz right in front of Baron. “I’m a…gotta say, I’m a little impressed by the preparation the two of you have made today.”
“Well…y’know; dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” Benny was the king of schmoozing these guys; fake laughter, even faker smile. I often wondered which of us was the more disingenuous, and sometimes he’d amaze me. “Now, if you could open to the first picture, you’ll see our first subject.”
Taking heed, Baron opened the folder and went to the first picture, a promotion 8x10 of Bryan Williams that appeared as though it was fresh off the presses (do they still use presses? No? Yes? Who knows).
“Ah, yes; that guy. Bryan Williams—not the lying broadcaster that appeared to have died and resurrected himself from the rubble of a burning building in south Kabul. We’re talkin’ about the wrestler.” I eloquently began to say, looking at Baron who examined the picture. “When you see him, what do you see?”
“Well, for one, Mr. Page, I see a man who’s got a great look about him. Seems solid, looks youthful and in the best shape of his life. And looking at the notes that your…I’m guessing manager or whatever, has placed, he’s got a lot of accomplishments that an ad company can run to provide legitimacy. What uh…what seems to be the issue?”
Almost as if it were on cue, Benny and I looked at each other with knowing grins. He (Baron) didn’t know, and it was obvious. Even with an eye as trained as his, there was still something blind to what could so easily be picked up by someone like myself.
“I mean there’s nothing wrong per se but…I mean, look at him. Look at the hair; it’s stringy, badly conditioned. I bet he’s never ever seen a hairdresser a day in his life. Limp and lifeless and like it’s been underneath a Goddamn bandana for months on end. It’s awful and gauche. Very gauche. He’s got that typical, patchy-lookin’ beard that all the guys nowadays have to signify that they’re ‘tough bad asses’ when all they’re really doin’ is following trends. It’s a…it’s a trendy look if you like lookin’ at a savage. And above all else his shape…he looks like he could get doughy. Like, y’know if you give him a few weeks as the guy, he’ll come back 20 or 30 pounds overweight because he got so damn gluttonous and lost all type of discipline and self-control. Would that honestly be the type of guy you’d want to put on billboards? A fat, doughy bearded dude with bad hair and an immense lack of discipline? You might as well find one of those overweight and out of shape wrestling fans that populate airports at 5 in the morning, lookin’ for an autograph to sell.”
“Baron? Can I call you ‘Baron’? Baron, Bryan Williams, he…he looks very ungood. Visibly appalling to most people. I mean I can’t stomach to look at him, and he’s probably the tamest.” Benjamin spoke up to add his two cents, backing up my theory.
“And all the accolades and accomplishments? Who cares? I mean so what you won some who-gives-a-fuck championship outta Western Japan or somethin’ back in 2009? A) This is America; we speak American here. No one in their right mind is stupid enough to care about accomplishments that were attained ages ago; it shows a sign of weakness. Resting on your laurels is weakness.”
“STRENGT’! NO WEAKNESS! We don’t do weakness!” You’re at a seven and I need you to take it down to a four, Benjamin. Love the enthusiasm, though.
Wordlessly, I gestured for him to go ahead and flip to the next set of pictures, which was another promotional 8x10, this time of Jason Kaine. Ugh…okay. Both Benny and I grimaced at the picture, neither of us having a good poker face about our true feelings about the guy who talked a big game but came off as more like a puppy yelling at the mailman out of the window.
“Okay, this guy looks—” We had to stop him.
“—No.” I stated as Benjamin roughly yanked the picture out of the folder, unceremoniously ripped it into pieces before tossing the shards over his shoulder like a handful of salt.
“But he…”
“Trust me; he’s not even worth our time. He looks ‘roided out. Has worse hair than Bryan Williams – shocking, I know – and just offers up countless diminishing returns. Like who would wanna put him up on the pillar of greatness when you know he’s gonna bring about awfulness? Like he put everyone on notice, and we’re all like ‘uhhhh…nah, bruh’. He’s straight up garbage.”
“Haute…garbáge.”
“Mmhmm. What he said.”
“O…kay; a bit perculiar but we’ll continue on, I guess.” Baron shot the both of us a look, not entirely knowing how to navigate through any of this, and we weren’t going to make it any easier on him. Not one bit, man.
The next picture was Finn Whelan, doing his best to look as menacing and cool and edgy as possible, causing me to shrug passive aggressively.
“He looks like an interesting sort. Seems like he would have some promise to him.”
“Yeah, well…I mean does he? Does he really?” I scrunched my face up in a ‘c’mon, really’ style of expression to display my obvious questioning of his statement. “I mean sure, you’d get the teeny boppers with his sorta impish, not yet a boy-not yet a man look but really…is that someone you wanna put stock in? He’s a short little Irish guy; are we gonna put that much behind him? Do you think he can push t-shirt sales and all that jazz? There’s no real demand for whatever he’s supplyin’; it’d be a questionable move to put his ass on any type of billboard in the United States. Ireland, sure; they love their little micks but domestically? It’d be a bit wacked to do that. Like, turn to the next guy.”
Dutifully, he turned the page to the next picture, which was of another participant in the Championship Series – Connor Jacobs. Oh, the smiling, fun-lovin’ scamp that seemed to think he was still living out a high schooler’s dream.
“Connor Jacobs; those two are obsessed with each other. It’s like a high school beef – the jock messing with the art student. When I say they plain ol’ don’t like each other? They plain ol’ don’t like each other. And it’s because of that that it’s dangerous to put either one of them on any sort of advertising. To be honest, I’d kick both their asses in a heartbeat but you know, that’s neither here nor there. They’d just be sniping at each other like little children for no reason. And that doesn’t help. And there’s also the fact that Connor…well…” My voice drifted off for a few seconds. “I’m not accusing him of anything but he just looks like the type to maybe get into some legal trouble of the sexual assault kind. And given that our society has turned a corner on that sorta thing, it’d be gauche to have his face anywhere near your product. I’m helpin’ you out, bro.”
“That’s…that’s some insightful information there—”
“—Quit with the yackin’ and go to the next picture. Time is money.” I interrupted him, tapping the face of my Rolex watch.
The next picture…or should I say pictures were of Jack Owyns and Mysti Savage – two people who I’d strap to individual hydrogen bombs and send to Fallujah.
“First of all, Jack Owyns? The most angry fat guy you’ll ever meet. And you’re probably wondering ‘where is all the fat’, well photoshop. Magical work with the airbrush to make him look like he’s slim but we know…he’s fat and angry about it. I mean he can’t go five seconds without saying ‘fuck’ and offending wide swathes of people because of his clear low self-esteem. That’s why he lashes out at me; I’m clearly better than him and he can’t take it so he has to lash out, and you don’t want that. Nor do you want Mysti Savage because…well, she’ll get naked and say some weird Sinéad O’Connor shit then claim people giving her hate is because they’re jealous. Also, we’re all under the impression that she might be on the hardest of drugs, and quite honestly? I don’t think you wanna promote that. No, I’m pretty sure that’s frowned up; like she might fail a drug test because she full on shot heroine into her vagina.”
“My God…that doesn’t sound safe at all.”
“Nope. Done with one of those huge turkey baster-lookin’ hypodermic needles to fit in that wide chasm she calls a vagina.” The visual aid Benjamin threw out there probably wasn’t needed but Baron needed to understand the horror.
He shuddered at the visual, trying to find some way to get that image clear out of his head before turning the page to the next picture, that of Felix Hartley. “Okay…what would be the actual issue with her? She looks like someone who was made to be in print ads everywhere.”
“…actually, nothing.” I simply stated.
“Yeah, I got nothin’.”
“If you wanted to make money, you could slap her face on anything. Probably would make way more money than if I was on the damn thing.”
Puzzled, Baron shook his head once more and turned the page, showing off my brand new 8x10 autographed promotional picture. I looked grand in it, to be quite honest.
“Lemme guess—”
“—I am a hunk of twisted steel and sex appeal. With only 3.1% body fat, I am amazing. I won’t get you into trouble; you’ll have the ladies wanting to buy because they see me. You’ll have the men who want to be me buying. And even my haters – the people who love bashing me, they won’t stop talking about me. I mean…I’m the perfect candidate, really. I’m like Kanye. Sure, controversy surrounds me but guess what? I make greatness look easy. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what we all want?”
Isn’t it?
Yeah; that’s what I thought.
It’s fascinating, though, to see just how and where people will lay their cards. You can show your hand and risk everyone knowing what you’re willing to do…or “show ‘em just enough to win, Milty”. The former is the kind of thing that causes people to go into battle gung ho, devil may care, throwing all caution to the wind and not realizing there’s more fighting to be done on the back end and that you probably shouldn’t be expending yourself so damn soon. The latter? Oh, that’s my wheelhouse. The latter lets people know that you’ve got something up your sleeve and you’re keeping everything close to the vest out of fear that your heralded plan will be thwarted by a herd of interlopers, trying to take everything you’ve conjured up. Because the illusion of a plan – the mere thought of it – is far more sinister than the actual plan itself.
Whenever you have someone who people believe is a shady, conniving bastard that’s always up to no good, you tend to think the worst of them. Tend to believe that they spend most of their time plotting and scheming and generally being a scammer, trying to figure out ways to bilk people out of something that’s theirs. Be it money, land, accomplishments – you name it, and a wolf in sheep’s clothing has their eyes firmly locked on it. That person can come in peace, seemingly being the type of guy or girl that doesn’t want any trouble…only to leave where they were a complete mess of wreckage, littered with bodies strewn about in their wake.
If you hadn’t noticed, that’s the kind of guy I am. And that’s the kinda guy that’s gonna be able to succeed in this Championship Series.
The concept of “fairness” flew out the window the minute all eight of us were announced as participants in this Championship Series. To be frank, there’s nothing inherently fair about going into a match figuratively blind as to who you’re going to be face. You’ve conveniently opened the floodgates to all forms of sanctioned chaos known to man. What Valentina Lemay has done with Victory is that she has turned it into her very own Lord of the Flies, where every man – and woman – is out to gun for themselves, trusting no one and expecting less trust to be given to them. Ratcheting up the desperation to a dangerous level that would leave a regular human being appalled when they find out just what lengths the eight of us might be willing to go in order to attain victory.
Because that’s what this is all about, right? Winning.
It’s all any of us eight in the Series care about because it’s become clear that it’s the only thing to care about. The prize of the Internet Championship was seen as nothing more than a consolation prize that not one of us wanted to put our hands on. Why? Because in order to get that EOW Ultimate Championship, we must go all in when it counts. And this coming Sunday night? That’s the first of many times where what we do inside that ring counts for something richer in the grand scheme of things.
And speaking of schemes: What if I told you I had something up my sleeve that would make…six out of my seven opponents completely furious with me?
At this point – it’s all expected behavior.
Kiss, kiss – mwah, mwah.
September 15th, 2016 || Manhattan, New York.
There’s something about the Championship Series that has made me admit to something that I don’t really like admitting: When I’m pushed into a spot where I’m left with no other alternatives but to plot, I become desperate. My thinking and focus become sharper on that prize, and all rational thought begins to leave my head the closer and closer I get to the date of fruition. And that’s when moral ambiguity becomes the norm, and when that happens, things become a bit more dangerous.
As I’ve mentioned before, my father’s a district attorney in Los Angeles, California, and he’s been around the block a few times but what intrigues me the most are the stories (he doesn’t put names on them, of course) of rampant corruption, coercion, collusion, cronyism and other illegal business practices that happen with the super rich clients he undertakes. The most fascinating thing about the world of big business is that even if you think behaviors have been fixed and practices have been cleaned up, it’s all just a smoke screen to mask the even worse shit that takes place when no one is batting an eyelash. The kinda shit that gets heaped on the shoulders of The Illuminati because people dimwittedly have the belief that a secret society of rich people are running the country and making sure it goes the way it’s currently going because regular people are stupid and need to believe in fairy tales. Even the most sinister of fairy tales, hoss. So what underhanded, sinister, Stalin-esque fuckery was I up to today?
A lunch meeting. Yeah.
What, did you think me and Benny (Newsom) was running some kinda secret society, Stonecutters meeting beneath the Empire State Building? Please; that won’t happen for another decade from now – we’ve just gotten our certification in that area. I recognize that I’ve said too much.
“The suit’s runnin’ late, man. Any later, and I’ll two knuckles deep in that cute Colombian chick over there that’s been givin’ me the eye all day after I have my fifth Jack and Coke.” Again, I wasn’t one known for having any sort of tact when around people.
The bar and grille Benjamin and myself were in was scantly filled—it was a late lunch seeing as most of the Wall Street fat cats had found their way to their lunches a bit earlier than us. Although, golf course meetings are often all the rage when you really think about it. And despite my lark about the guy we were meeting with being a suit, we both were in our finest suits, seated comfortable at a back booth – the kind that would usually hide anything secretive from the prying eyes of the public. Real nefarious look to it, which was the ideal way to be.
“Seriously, these big business types always stress the benefits of being ‘on time’, and this fuckhead can’t even make it to a midday meeting with minutes to spare. I’ve got shit to do, man.”
“Quit being impatient, Matt; the guy said 3:30, and it’s only 3:25. Since when are you the one obsessive about punctuality?” The dismissive aside from my Chief of Staff was punctuated with a smooth gulp of Hennessy, showing off that the both of us were indeed problem alcoholics before the age of 30. And to think, Missus Arlotti said my attitude wouldn’t allow me to move ahead in life and achieve something worthwhile.
Yeah, well JOKES’ ON YOU, BITCH!
“My punctuality issues stems from the fact that one day in eighth grade, I was late coming back from something and I saw there was a huge ruckus. And as I turned down the hall, one of my friends told me that this really hot chick got into a fight with another hot chick and they all saw titty.” I pontificated, swirling the glass that was in my hand to cause the ice cubes to bounce off the inside of the container. “And from that day forward, I vowed to never be late again on account of…what if I get to see titty? What if, Benny? What if?”
He looked at me with a puzzled expression, shaking his head from side to side. It’s not like I had to convince the bastard about my motives. He could understand clearly what I meant by that; he just wanted to have the moral high ground, which – if you really think about it – is something all us elitist, yuppie cunts strive for.
“Yeah, well we both know what specific pair of tits you wanna be around to see; so let’s just leave it at that.” Subtlety between us wasn’t really something that was practiced. It was all innuendo and thinly veiled references.
“B-I-N-G-O, and she’s got a damn nice rack.” I winked and shot him a finger gun gesture in response. See what I mean? There was no soft-shoeing it with our conversations.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for my lateness.” The voice came from out of nowhere, breaking us out of our conversational rhythm.
He looked like your typical ad executive – mid-40’s, hair starting to gray, a slick, thin-cut suit with an even more egregious shit-eating grin on his face. AKA my kind of person. I’ve dealt with dudes like this throughout my entire life: The quick-talking bastard that not only had a drinking problem but was also probably cheating on his wife with a bevy of women (hookers, his secretary, some young barely-of-legal-age woman that gets passed around by him and his friends) and almost lost his ass either gambling or in the stocks. Possibly both now that I look at him. Whatever.
The three of us shared a quick handshake – his grip was firm, all in an attempt to try and gain some sort of dominance early on; I’ve seen this movie before and he ain’t gonna outgrip me. Nevertheless, we took a seat in the booth and this guy (name was Baron Scott, powerful name really) took command when it came to holding court.
“As you guys know and discussed with me, I’m a consultant to all the big companies when it comes to advertising: Nike, Apple, Under Armour, Netflix, Hulu, Samsung, Verizon, AT&T to name a few. I’m the guy they call when they need guidance as to how they should handle the advertising for their products and promotions. When my name gets mentioned…people know. I’m kind of a big deal.”
A shark – we’re talking a fucking shark.
“So what did you two want to know?”
“Well…” I took a slow sip of my J&C, a slick grin coming across my face as I shot Benny a look, “We’re coming to you, unofficially, on behalf of the company I’m apart of – Epic Online Wrestling. And we have some doubts about people who could be seen as the quote-unquote ‘face’ of the respective brands—specifically, Victory.”
“It’s a grand show. Awesome show. Massive show. ‘Uuuuuuuuuuge, okay?” Benjamin doing his best Donald Trump impressive (sans the racism, sexism, and all other ‘isms; basically the self-aggrandizement was what he was channeling). “The best type of show Hulu can ever and will ever see. Monster ratings; highest rated show you’ll ever watch. It hasn’t had an episode yet – I know-I know – but when it does, it’ll take off like gangbusters, and it’ll be all because of this man over here.” Benny pointed at me when he said this.
At the risk of sounding like Terrell Owens when he was sticking up for/crying about Tony Romo: That’s my Chief of Staff.
“Okay…”
“Which is why we gotta make it a point to show you the people who believe they’re worthy of being something but aren’t really of worth. You get me?”
“It’s basically us telling you what people think is good versus what is good.” My way of emphasizing this point was to tap both of my index fingers on my chest, the obvious sign of what I felt was good and better than most of the other options on the Victory roster.
Baron was still undeterred, trying to piece all of this together and figure out what kind of game we were trying to play/what angle we were coming from. He didn’t look baffled; more on the confused-but-I’ll-give-it-a-shot vibe was coming from him, which was good! There wasn’t any outright dismissal of what we were trying to tell him, if at all. Wanna know what really sold it?
We brought charts. Photographic evidence to back up our claims. Those business guys? They don’t like charts…THEY LOVE ‘EM!
So, Benjamin slides (more like plops) a folder that was loaded with stuff, color-coded and all that jazz right in front of Baron. “I’m a…gotta say, I’m a little impressed by the preparation the two of you have made today.”
“Well…y’know; dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” Benny was the king of schmoozing these guys; fake laughter, even faker smile. I often wondered which of us was the more disingenuous, and sometimes he’d amaze me. “Now, if you could open to the first picture, you’ll see our first subject.”
Taking heed, Baron opened the folder and went to the first picture, a promotion 8x10 of Bryan Williams that appeared as though it was fresh off the presses (do they still use presses? No? Yes? Who knows).
“Ah, yes; that guy. Bryan Williams—not the lying broadcaster that appeared to have died and resurrected himself from the rubble of a burning building in south Kabul. We’re talkin’ about the wrestler.” I eloquently began to say, looking at Baron who examined the picture. “When you see him, what do you see?”
“Well, for one, Mr. Page, I see a man who’s got a great look about him. Seems solid, looks youthful and in the best shape of his life. And looking at the notes that your…I’m guessing manager or whatever, has placed, he’s got a lot of accomplishments that an ad company can run to provide legitimacy. What uh…what seems to be the issue?”
Almost as if it were on cue, Benny and I looked at each other with knowing grins. He (Baron) didn’t know, and it was obvious. Even with an eye as trained as his, there was still something blind to what could so easily be picked up by someone like myself.
“I mean there’s nothing wrong per se but…I mean, look at him. Look at the hair; it’s stringy, badly conditioned. I bet he’s never ever seen a hairdresser a day in his life. Limp and lifeless and like it’s been underneath a Goddamn bandana for months on end. It’s awful and gauche. Very gauche. He’s got that typical, patchy-lookin’ beard that all the guys nowadays have to signify that they’re ‘tough bad asses’ when all they’re really doin’ is following trends. It’s a…it’s a trendy look if you like lookin’ at a savage. And above all else his shape…he looks like he could get doughy. Like, y’know if you give him a few weeks as the guy, he’ll come back 20 or 30 pounds overweight because he got so damn gluttonous and lost all type of discipline and self-control. Would that honestly be the type of guy you’d want to put on billboards? A fat, doughy bearded dude with bad hair and an immense lack of discipline? You might as well find one of those overweight and out of shape wrestling fans that populate airports at 5 in the morning, lookin’ for an autograph to sell.”
“Baron? Can I call you ‘Baron’? Baron, Bryan Williams, he…he looks very ungood. Visibly appalling to most people. I mean I can’t stomach to look at him, and he’s probably the tamest.” Benjamin spoke up to add his two cents, backing up my theory.
“And all the accolades and accomplishments? Who cares? I mean so what you won some who-gives-a-fuck championship outta Western Japan or somethin’ back in 2009? A) This is America; we speak American here. No one in their right mind is stupid enough to care about accomplishments that were attained ages ago; it shows a sign of weakness. Resting on your laurels is weakness.”
“STRENGT’! NO WEAKNESS! We don’t do weakness!” You’re at a seven and I need you to take it down to a four, Benjamin. Love the enthusiasm, though.
Wordlessly, I gestured for him to go ahead and flip to the next set of pictures, which was another promotional 8x10, this time of Jason Kaine. Ugh…okay. Both Benny and I grimaced at the picture, neither of us having a good poker face about our true feelings about the guy who talked a big game but came off as more like a puppy yelling at the mailman out of the window.
“Okay, this guy looks—” We had to stop him.
“—No.” I stated as Benjamin roughly yanked the picture out of the folder, unceremoniously ripped it into pieces before tossing the shards over his shoulder like a handful of salt.
“But he…”
“Trust me; he’s not even worth our time. He looks ‘roided out. Has worse hair than Bryan Williams – shocking, I know – and just offers up countless diminishing returns. Like who would wanna put him up on the pillar of greatness when you know he’s gonna bring about awfulness? Like he put everyone on notice, and we’re all like ‘uhhhh…nah, bruh’. He’s straight up garbage.”
“Haute…garbáge.”
“Mmhmm. What he said.”
“O…kay; a bit perculiar but we’ll continue on, I guess.” Baron shot the both of us a look, not entirely knowing how to navigate through any of this, and we weren’t going to make it any easier on him. Not one bit, man.
The next picture was Finn Whelan, doing his best to look as menacing and cool and edgy as possible, causing me to shrug passive aggressively.
“He looks like an interesting sort. Seems like he would have some promise to him.”
“Yeah, well…I mean does he? Does he really?” I scrunched my face up in a ‘c’mon, really’ style of expression to display my obvious questioning of his statement. “I mean sure, you’d get the teeny boppers with his sorta impish, not yet a boy-not yet a man look but really…is that someone you wanna put stock in? He’s a short little Irish guy; are we gonna put that much behind him? Do you think he can push t-shirt sales and all that jazz? There’s no real demand for whatever he’s supplyin’; it’d be a questionable move to put his ass on any type of billboard in the United States. Ireland, sure; they love their little micks but domestically? It’d be a bit wacked to do that. Like, turn to the next guy.”
Dutifully, he turned the page to the next picture, which was of another participant in the Championship Series – Connor Jacobs. Oh, the smiling, fun-lovin’ scamp that seemed to think he was still living out a high schooler’s dream.
“Connor Jacobs; those two are obsessed with each other. It’s like a high school beef – the jock messing with the art student. When I say they plain ol’ don’t like each other? They plain ol’ don’t like each other. And it’s because of that that it’s dangerous to put either one of them on any sort of advertising. To be honest, I’d kick both their asses in a heartbeat but you know, that’s neither here nor there. They’d just be sniping at each other like little children for no reason. And that doesn’t help. And there’s also the fact that Connor…well…” My voice drifted off for a few seconds. “I’m not accusing him of anything but he just looks like the type to maybe get into some legal trouble of the sexual assault kind. And given that our society has turned a corner on that sorta thing, it’d be gauche to have his face anywhere near your product. I’m helpin’ you out, bro.”
“That’s…that’s some insightful information there—”
“—Quit with the yackin’ and go to the next picture. Time is money.” I interrupted him, tapping the face of my Rolex watch.
The next picture…or should I say pictures were of Jack Owyns and Mysti Savage – two people who I’d strap to individual hydrogen bombs and send to Fallujah.
“First of all, Jack Owyns? The most angry fat guy you’ll ever meet. And you’re probably wondering ‘where is all the fat’, well photoshop. Magical work with the airbrush to make him look like he’s slim but we know…he’s fat and angry about it. I mean he can’t go five seconds without saying ‘fuck’ and offending wide swathes of people because of his clear low self-esteem. That’s why he lashes out at me; I’m clearly better than him and he can’t take it so he has to lash out, and you don’t want that. Nor do you want Mysti Savage because…well, she’ll get naked and say some weird Sinéad O’Connor shit then claim people giving her hate is because they’re jealous. Also, we’re all under the impression that she might be on the hardest of drugs, and quite honestly? I don’t think you wanna promote that. No, I’m pretty sure that’s frowned up; like she might fail a drug test because she full on shot heroine into her vagina.”
“My God…that doesn’t sound safe at all.”
“Nope. Done with one of those huge turkey baster-lookin’ hypodermic needles to fit in that wide chasm she calls a vagina.” The visual aid Benjamin threw out there probably wasn’t needed but Baron needed to understand the horror.
He shuddered at the visual, trying to find some way to get that image clear out of his head before turning the page to the next picture, that of Felix Hartley. “Okay…what would be the actual issue with her? She looks like someone who was made to be in print ads everywhere.”
“…actually, nothing.” I simply stated.
“Yeah, I got nothin’.”
“If you wanted to make money, you could slap her face on anything. Probably would make way more money than if I was on the damn thing.”
Puzzled, Baron shook his head once more and turned the page, showing off my brand new 8x10 autographed promotional picture. I looked grand in it, to be quite honest.
“Lemme guess—”
“—I am a hunk of twisted steel and sex appeal. With only 3.1% body fat, I am amazing. I won’t get you into trouble; you’ll have the ladies wanting to buy because they see me. You’ll have the men who want to be me buying. And even my haters – the people who love bashing me, they won’t stop talking about me. I mean…I’m the perfect candidate, really. I’m like Kanye. Sure, controversy surrounds me but guess what? I make greatness look easy. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what we all want?”
Isn’t it?
Yeah; that’s what I thought.
