“Rockstar” Randy Ramon vs. Jamison Logan

[Shawn]

[v.o.] “How did I even get here?

“Not like… here in this bar.  Not physically here...

“Not like… why am I still on this slab of rock hurtling through space at several thousand miles per hour here...”

Smoke billows through the air of a dark, back alley dive bar, somewhere in The Middle of Nowhere, USA.  The usual dive bar décor covers the wall in a who’s-who of shitty beer and cheap whiskey.  This is the exact kind of place that someone would visit either when they’re so lost that they don’t know any better, or when they do know better but just don’t want to be found.  

[v.o.] “But I mean like.. on an existential level.  What the fuck even happened?”

A rough looking fellow in a beat up leather jacket and dark sunglasses sits in the corner.  He silently drinks the last sips from a glass of Tullamore Dew, unwilling to sink to the depths it would take to consume the swill served at a place like this if you don’t order by name.

[v.o.] “I’m Randy Ramon, and this is my story.”

He slams the glass down on the table as the scene shifts.



It shifts to Quinta da Boa Vista city park, not far from the Maracanã Stadium in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.  Two people make their way through the park fighting, nay, beat the holy hell out of one another as they stumble towards the shore line of a body of water.

[v.o.] “That’s me and… well, I guess his name isn’t really important to you, since you’ll never meet him and thus his existence is completely and totally inconsequential.  So, for now, let’s just call him Ass-butt McGee.  The story of Ass-butt and I goes way back to the beginning of the pandemic era.  Back when everything went to shit, Ass-butt and I were good friends.  We teamed together, we hung out together, went to shitty dive bars together.  It was great… that is… until he - on the night I won a tournament that crowned my partner and I as the Tag Team Champions - tried to end my career with a lead pipe sneak attack to the back of the knee.  Not cool, right?  So we fought a bunch.  Blood everywhere.  My partner carved his partner’s chest with a piece of glass.  His partner tried to hang me on a cross.  We all said some things we didn’t mean.  Water under the bridge, right?  Heh, actually… good choice of words right there…”

Ass-butt locks our protagonist into a modified crossface chickenwing.  One man cinches the hold deeper, the other fights it off with all of his might.  The two begin to tumble… a bridge crosses the body of water not far from them.

[v.o.] “Alright, freeze it there.  You see that?  He called that hold the Ass-Butt Blaster Extravaganza or something.  I mean you and I both know he didn’t, but it was a dumb name either way.  I don’t know how but… he always got away with it.”

Ass-butt’s right arm illuminates in the overlay, showing it’s firmly wrapped around the Rockstar’s neck… a blatant and obvious choke.

[v.o.] “How?  How is that even legal?  I know what you’re saying… ’oh, you’re fighting in the park and it’s obviously not a sanctioned match!’ Yeah, well no shit Sherlock.  He did it in the ring, too.  He won World Championships with that shit!”  

An extremely pregnant pause.

[v.o.] “He… he took my World Championship with that shit…”

A follow-up pause that’s so pregnant it’s probably having triplets.

[v.o.] “He… took everything from me.  The World Championship.  The Tag Team Championships.  A good friend.  My pride.  Everything.  So, maybe that’s why it’s not so surprising what happened next.”

Someone hits ‘play’ and the scene resumes.  The two flail into the water, slowly sinking under, sure to pop back up at any second.  Right?  Wrong.  A few seconds turn into a few minutes turn into a few hours turn into a few days, and there is no movement whatsoever.

[v.o.] “At the end of it all, he even took my life…

“Or, so I thought.”

The scene rewinds back to a few minutes after the two went under water.  This time, a figure on the far right of the screen is illuminated.  Someone - or something - drags a body from the water.  

[v.o.] “See that?  That long hair?  Those chiseled abs?  That’s obviously me.  There’s nothing Ass-butt-ian about that body.  It has to be me.  But who pulled me out?  Everyone I care about was back at that arena… this wasn’t a planned fight or sanctioned match - no one knew where to find us.  So who saved me?”

Flash forward to a sterile room with white walls and masked professionals lingering around.

[v.o.] “One minute I’m going under water and scratching and crawling for my life… the next I’m in this Brazilian hospital in their version of the ICU.  They’re poking and prodding and needling and just making my life a living hell.”

Flash to a run-down hotel, where our hero argues with a front desk worker.

[v.o.] “I finally get out of there and head back to my hotel - and obviously, because hotels, they’ve thrown all of my shit away and are completely and utterly useless - but there’s a note at the front desk for me.  It’s not signed, or dated, but it says that if I want answers, to be in this booth at this bar, on this night.  It doesn’t say anything about the Irish Whiskey - that… that was my choice.  About the only one I’ve got to make for myself since that night in the park.”



We cut back to the bar, and he’s since refilled the drink.  He takes a sip.

[v.o.] “So now I sit here, anxiously waiting to find out why the hell I’ve been summoned here, who the hell by, and - I cannot stress enough that this is above all else - why the hell I’m still here.

He takes another sip as the door swings open, drawing the attention of the Rockstar and the other two people in the bar who can be bothered to look up from their phones.

In walks a huge, hulking, superhero movie henchman looking guy.  You know the type.  So big, bald, wide, and muscular that their head looks too small for their body, which is about to burst out of their finely pressed suit..  Your typical henchman, straight out of Eastern Europe or something.  As he slams the door behind him, his eyes search the darkness, looking for the recipient of the large manilla envelope that rests in, and is dwarfed by, his left hand.  After a beat, he spots his prey.

“You Randy?”

The Rockstar adjusts himself in his seat, feeling his natural fight or flight instincts kicking in.  Where’s the door?  Where’s the nearest weapon?  He eyes up a pool cue mounted on the wall a few steps away.

“Who’s asking?”

The man smiles a creepy smile, then responds in a thick accent.

“Wouldn’t you like to know…”

Henchman grabs a chair at the table and plops into it, testing its absolute limits, and sets the envelope down on the table.  

“...and you will.  When time is right.  Time is not right… now.”

Randy leans back in his own seat, aggressively and frustratingly crossing his arms.

“So… then why am I here?  Why am I alive?  Why am I not a bloated corpse in some Brazilian morgue?”

Henchman smiles.  

“In time.”

He slides the envelope across the table, directly in front of the Rockstar.

“Open.”

Randy hesitantly lifts the envelope from the table.  He undoes the fastener and pulls out two items: a photo and a stack of papers.

“What is this? Who is this?”

He asks.  The photo is stamped “Jamison Logan” and shows a hulking man with lots of tattoos and - from the look on his face - a natural disposition towards inflicting pain on others.

“He is man we need you to… how you say… take care of.”

“You want me to…?”

He makes a gesture sliding his thumb across his own throat.

“No, no.  Murder too… messy.  Not like that.  Just send… message.”

Randy holds up the papers that accompanied the photo.

“Uh huh… and this?”

“Contract.  Supreme Championship Wrestling.  You sign, we do rest.”

The Rockstar slowly nods his head, taking this all in.

“What if I refuse?”

Now it’s Henchman’s turn to chuckle.

“Then you go back in lake.  No come out.”

A very long pause ensues.

“But… man… I wanted to be done with all of this.  I just… I wanted to refocus on my music, do some traveling.  I got this Get Out of Jail Free card and wanted to use it.”

Henchman rises from his seat.  An imposing figure if there ever was one.

“Why you think you have this card?”

“But…”

Henchman moves towards the door.

“Take care of Mr. Logan, yes?”

“But…”

“Take care of it, Mr. Ramon!”

Henchman exits as the Rockstar slams his hand down on the table out of frustration.

“Bar man!” he shouts, “Another!”

Shaking his head, he reads the contract on the table in front of him as the scene fades.