Origins of a Villanous Nature: Issue 1
Jul 3, 2016 13:09:10 GMT -6
Spencer Adams, Dustin Beaver, and 2 more like this
Post by Wentworth Updegraff Jr. on Jul 3, 2016 13:09:10 GMT -6
Wentworth sighs for the fiftieth time, and stares out the window, watching a flock of birds jerk back and forth, before flying out of sight. He shifts in the uncomfortable chair, and moves his eyes back to the frail, shrunken man that lays in the bed before him. Most of him is covered by a blanket, but Wentworth can still see his somewhat unfamiliar face. The sterile stench of cleaning solution wafts through his nostrils, causing him to wince at a fleeting childhood memory. The sun shines outside, making him wish he were anywhere but here, and sending a wave of guilt crashing through his soul. He sits, legs crossed.
Wentworth’s mind drifts back to the man his father used to be. Tall, strong, steadfast. A picture of masculinity. The pathetic figure in the bed amounts to not much more than loose skin stretched over a dying skeleton. Where there was once a thick head of hair, now there is only scalp, and a few straggling strands of silver. The man’s chest moves slightly beneath the blanket with each breath. Wentworth spends some time counting actual seconds, before getting to his feet and walking over to the window. He stares out onto the front lawn of the hospice center. Watching as a sullen looking family of four make their way inside, tears dripping from the mother’s eyes. His heart breaks for them, but he doesn’t have long to consider it, before the raspy voice behind him takes his attention.
Wentworth Sr.: Take care of Hunter. He’s going to need you
The younger Wentworth refuses to turnaround, knowing that he won’t see his father looking at him. He’s been in the coma for a month, and that’s where he’ll stay until he dies. Wentworth doesn’t want to know that for sure right now, so he keeps his gaze out on the lawn.
Wentworth Jr.:He needed you while you were here.
Wentworth Sr.:That was always your problem. You look backwards too often. That’s not where life is, dear boy. Life is in front of you.
Wentworth Jr.:How would you know? You spent most of your life in a fucking board room. Maybe I wouldn’t NEED to take care of Hunter if you gave half a shit while you were here.
His father’s voice returns, stronger and angry this time.
Wentworth Sr.:Would you stop being a damn fool for a minute?! I made mistakes, but you’re not going to fix my mistakes or yours by sitting here being mad at me, and whining about your feelings. That sort of behavior is for psychologists and Democrats. You’re an Updegraff, god dammit. Chin up, chest out, eyes forward! Always forward!
A rage tear falls down the younger Wentworth’s cheek, as he spins to confront his father. When he looks at the man, lying motionless in the bed as he has for the last month, his shoulders drop, and he forgets what he was going to say. He lets the silence hang in the room like a fog cloud, as he makes his way back to the chair and sits down. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, saying a silent prayer to a god he’s not sure he believes in. The feeling of his phone vibrating from inside his breast pocket brings him out of his trance. He takes it out and checks the text message.
Wentworth:Son of a bitch.
At that moment, he looks up and sees the nun standing in the doorway. The scandalized look stays on her face, even as she continues on her way down the hall.
Wentworth:Great… sorry, sister!
He shakes his head at himself, as he hops up and quickly makes his way out of the room. He walks briskly down the hall, and soon finds himself stumbling out into the bright, mid day sun. He squints, letting his eyes adjust as a long, black limousine pulls up by the curb. He slips inside, where his brother Hunter is already waiting for him, wearing a black and white striped shirt with the words “Henchman #1” written across it.
Wentworth:Alright, what’s the big news?
Hunter:Bad news, boss man. I had the suits over at HQ take a look at Omega’s restraining order. The bitch is air tight. The only way you’re gonna get anywhere near him is to get him to sign a contract for a match.
Wentworth:Well shit…
Hunter:Well, what you think we should do?
Wentworth stays silent for a while, pouring himself a drink from the bottle that sits on the inside of the door. He takes a sip before answering.
Wentworth:Sometimes, in chess, you have to just keep shuffling pieces around and wait for your opponent to make a mistake. Rest assured, Omega will slip up, and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when he does. All we have to do is wait. What I really need to worry about is… Dustin Beaver.
Wentworth cringes as he says the name, taking another deep drink from his glass. He pauses for a moment, staring out the window as the town flies by in a blur.
Wentworth:I still can’t believe that pile of hair gel and shitty jokes beat me… took MY title. That punk is no TV champion.
Hunter:The ladies love him, though.
Wentworth:Little girls love him. Star fucking tabloid junkies love him. They eat that shit up. You know why?
Hunter:Tell me, boss.
Wentworth:They love him because he’s a mirror. He shows them what they’re used to, what they’re comfortable with. Mediocrity masquerading as greatness. They love that shit, because if a no talent hack like Dustin Beaver can be famous, so can they. It helps them sleep at night. Then, when they see true greatness, it frightens them. It makes them uncomfortable, because people like me remind people like them that if you don’t have the natural, god given talent, there’s a ceiling they’ll never get past. When someone like Beaver takes a title from someone like me, it makes them think maybe that ceiling isn’t there anymore. It makes the peasants think they can be truly great. This Sunday, I have to remind them that that ceiling is there. I have to crush Dustin Beaver under my foot, and prove that when you’re born mediocre, you just can’t fuck with those of us who were born extraordinary. Though if I’m going to remind the filthy masses of their place, I guess I have to start with their paper hero. Get your phone out. I want to record this.
Hunter quickly obeys, turning on his camera and pointing it at the seething man across from him.
Wentworth:Alright, Beaver. Listen up. There’s a fact you have to face up to this week. That title you’ve been carrying around and gloating about… it doesn’t belong to you. You knew that the second you took it though, didn’t you? Do you remember that night? Remember how the title felt a little heavier than you thought it would? How you suddenly felt the white hot target on your back, felt the eyes of the locker room on you every minute of every day? That’s not something a… person like you is meant to deal with. Your job is to look pretty, smile, and get little girls to buy programs. That’s great, Dustin. We need guys to do that. What you are not is the kind of man who holds something as prestigious as the television title. Not for long, anyway.
The limo pulls to a stop in front of the monstrous Updegraff Manor. Wentworth finishes his drink, and climbs out, making his way up the marble staircase, as Hunter follows with the camera. Wentworth pauses, running his hand along the bared teeth of a gargoyle almost the same size as him. He spins around, and leans against the railing of the stairs, continuing his speech.
Wentworth:Dustin, all you have to do is look around to understand what you are up against. Being among the cream of the crop isn’t just something I stumbled into. I have it running through my veins. My family is built on excellence. I was bred to be the sophisticated wrestling machine you see before you. I was MEANT to be the television champion. I want you to understand, I respect what you’ve been through. Born into the middle, worked your way up to be a big time wrestling star. Then you fluked your way to a win over one of the greatest up and coming talents the world has ever seen. If I were you, I’d be over the moon right now. Make sure you keep one foot on the ground though. Your reality is about to come crashing down on you like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
He continues up the stairs, and through the gigantic oak front doors. He moves quickly through the large foyer, his shoes clapping in rhythm against the black and white checkered tile. He makes his way into a small side room. Ornate maroon wall paper surrounds him, the tile floor giving way to a beige carpet. He steps past a number of tall bookshelves toward a globe in the corner. He opens it, revealing several crystal bottles filled with different colored liquids. He calmly pours himself a drink, and a pauses. He stares at the hidden bar for a minute, before flipping it over with his free hand, sending shards of glass and alcohol flying everywhere. In a fit of rage, he stomps the glob flat, and grabs a small, plaster bust from one of the shelves. He throws it against the wall, shattering the work of art into hundreds of pieces. He slams his fist into the wall several times, leaving a small dent before he stops, his heavy breathing now the only sound. He takes a moment to compose himself, before running a hand through his disheveled hair, and turning back to the camera, his tone now quiet, but acidic and biting.
Wentworth:How… I need to know how the fuck a worm like you beat me. How in the hell does someone who represents everything weak and disgusting about our society get to hold my television title above their head?! It’s a question that’s kept me up for the last two weeks. I’ve played the match over and over in my head close to a thousand times, and I just can’t figure out where I went wrong. I might not be able to figure out how you did it, but one thing is for sure. You damn sure will not do it again. You might be holding that belt for now, but it’s mine. You had better understand that fact, and get comfortable with it. I was destined for greatness, and I will jump off a cliff before I let a mealy mouthed little son of a bitch like you derail that.
Wentworth takes another breath, calming himself before downing his drink, and setting the glass on a table. He wipes some excess liquid from his upper lip, before reaching down and unbuckling his belt, he slowly removes it, and slaps the leather against his palm. A sick smile spreads across his face.
Wentworth:Do you know why I made our match a strap match, little Dustin? I made our match a strap match because when I look at you, I see a little kid who was never spanked, never punished for being an obnoxious, attention hungry little brat. I’m going to fix that for you. I’m going to punish you, not only for who you are, but what you’ve done. You need to be punished for the simple act of being Dustin Beaver, but I am also going to punish you for having the audacity to think you actually deserve that title. I am going to redden your skin, leave welts bigger than you’ve ever seen, make you bleed if I have to. Whatever I need to do to show you and the world that that title never belonged in your spray tanned hands. I’m going to take that strap that binds us, and beat you to within an inch of your life, and I’ll do it all with a smile on my face.
Wentworth has a seat in a high backed leather chair, and crosses his legs in front of him, his calm demeanor returning.
Wentworth:The night you took the title from me might be the greatest night of your life now, but just wait. That night, you took out a loan you couldn’t afford to pay back, and the bank of Updegraff is about to come repossess your shit. After I make you pay for your little fluke, you’re going to wish you never held that title in your hands to begin with. You’ll rue forever the day you stepped in front of the rampaging train that is my destiny. I won’t underestimate you this time. This time I know exactly who you are, and what you bring to the table. It might be impressive, but it’s no match for the skills I’ve been perfecting all my life. You had better be prepared. This Sunday, I’m coming for my title, and I’m not a happy man.
Wentworth stands to his feet, and makes his way out the door, back into the entry parlor. He steps around the spiral staircase, and steps out the front door, back into the sun. He hops up on the wide, stone porch railing, and has a seat, looking out at the wide swath of land owned by his family.
Wentworth:All that being said, I want to take a moment to talk about Jay Omega. This man that so many of you hold up as a hero is nothing but a fraud. Would a hero feel the need to behave as this man has? You may cheer for him, but when you do, you cheer for a man who, rather than face an opponent head on, files a restraining order. He is not your brave guardian. He is a tiger without teeth. A pathetic also-ran who has gone farther in this business than he ever deserved. Because of his little restraining order, I can’t come near him, but I promise you I will get him to agree to fight me, and when he does, you’ll all be able to see him for the glad handing charlatan that he really is.
Wentworth drops down, and walks down the steps, watching as some servants in the distance brush one of the family’s many horses.
Wentworth:I want Dustin and Jay to serve as a warning to the entire roster. Anybody who steps in front of me will be destroyed. I am not a loveable alcoholic playboy, I am not a loud mouthed braggart overcompensating for my inadequacies. I am greatness personified, and there isn’t a person in the locker room that can stand up to me. I don’t expect you to believe it without proof. Watch what I do to Dustin. Watch what I do to Omega. Let that show you what it’s like to get in my way, and let it help you never to make that stupid, stupid decision. It’s too late for Dustin. I’ll see you Sunday, my little friend. The clock ticks on.
Half of his mouth curls upward in a grin, as the camera fades to black.
Hunter:Fuck yeah homie! You about to crush some bitches! Chuch!
Once the camera turns off, the cocky self assured look in Wentworth’s eyes fades. He stares down at the ground for a moment, smile slowly disappearing.
Wentworth:You know it. As long as I got you next to me.
Hunter:You really think you got this one in the bag?
Wentworth:I can’t promise anything. Dustin is a lot better than people think he is. It’s infuriating. Losing to him was… humiliating. I’ll do whatever it takes not to let that happen again.
Wentworth’s phone goes off in his pocket. He pulls it out to check it, and his breath catches in hsi throat when he sees it’s a text message from Alicia.
Hey. I know last time didn’t end up looking real good for me, but I was hoping you’d give me a chance to redeem myself. I’m going to be in town next week. You have time in your schedule for me?
Wentworth stares at it, grinning once again. Even chuckling at himself.
Hunter:What is it? Is it from a girl? Ooooooooh! Wentworth likes a giiiiiiirl! Is she hot? Yo, I’ll be my boy pulled some bangin’ tail! Tell me about it.
Wentworth:It’s nothing. Not yet anyway. Just a girl I met at church.
Hunter tousles Wentworth’s hair, but the younger brother quickly slaps his hands away.
Hunter:You gonna text her back?
Wentworth stares down at his phone again for a solid minute before answering.
Wentworth:I don’t know… I don’t know.
Wentworth’s mind drifts back to the man his father used to be. Tall, strong, steadfast. A picture of masculinity. The pathetic figure in the bed amounts to not much more than loose skin stretched over a dying skeleton. Where there was once a thick head of hair, now there is only scalp, and a few straggling strands of silver. The man’s chest moves slightly beneath the blanket with each breath. Wentworth spends some time counting actual seconds, before getting to his feet and walking over to the window. He stares out onto the front lawn of the hospice center. Watching as a sullen looking family of four make their way inside, tears dripping from the mother’s eyes. His heart breaks for them, but he doesn’t have long to consider it, before the raspy voice behind him takes his attention.
Wentworth Sr.: Take care of Hunter. He’s going to need you
The younger Wentworth refuses to turnaround, knowing that he won’t see his father looking at him. He’s been in the coma for a month, and that’s where he’ll stay until he dies. Wentworth doesn’t want to know that for sure right now, so he keeps his gaze out on the lawn.
Wentworth Jr.:He needed you while you were here.
Wentworth Sr.:That was always your problem. You look backwards too often. That’s not where life is, dear boy. Life is in front of you.
Wentworth Jr.:How would you know? You spent most of your life in a fucking board room. Maybe I wouldn’t NEED to take care of Hunter if you gave half a shit while you were here.
His father’s voice returns, stronger and angry this time.
Wentworth Sr.:Would you stop being a damn fool for a minute?! I made mistakes, but you’re not going to fix my mistakes or yours by sitting here being mad at me, and whining about your feelings. That sort of behavior is for psychologists and Democrats. You’re an Updegraff, god dammit. Chin up, chest out, eyes forward! Always forward!
A rage tear falls down the younger Wentworth’s cheek, as he spins to confront his father. When he looks at the man, lying motionless in the bed as he has for the last month, his shoulders drop, and he forgets what he was going to say. He lets the silence hang in the room like a fog cloud, as he makes his way back to the chair and sits down. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, saying a silent prayer to a god he’s not sure he believes in. The feeling of his phone vibrating from inside his breast pocket brings him out of his trance. He takes it out and checks the text message.
Wentworth:Son of a bitch.
At that moment, he looks up and sees the nun standing in the doorway. The scandalized look stays on her face, even as she continues on her way down the hall.
Wentworth:Great… sorry, sister!
He shakes his head at himself, as he hops up and quickly makes his way out of the room. He walks briskly down the hall, and soon finds himself stumbling out into the bright, mid day sun. He squints, letting his eyes adjust as a long, black limousine pulls up by the curb. He slips inside, where his brother Hunter is already waiting for him, wearing a black and white striped shirt with the words “Henchman #1” written across it.
Wentworth:Alright, what’s the big news?
Hunter:Bad news, boss man. I had the suits over at HQ take a look at Omega’s restraining order. The bitch is air tight. The only way you’re gonna get anywhere near him is to get him to sign a contract for a match.
Wentworth:Well shit…
Hunter:Well, what you think we should do?
Wentworth stays silent for a while, pouring himself a drink from the bottle that sits on the inside of the door. He takes a sip before answering.
Wentworth:Sometimes, in chess, you have to just keep shuffling pieces around and wait for your opponent to make a mistake. Rest assured, Omega will slip up, and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when he does. All we have to do is wait. What I really need to worry about is… Dustin Beaver.
Wentworth cringes as he says the name, taking another deep drink from his glass. He pauses for a moment, staring out the window as the town flies by in a blur.
Wentworth:I still can’t believe that pile of hair gel and shitty jokes beat me… took MY title. That punk is no TV champion.
Hunter:The ladies love him, though.
Wentworth:Little girls love him. Star fucking tabloid junkies love him. They eat that shit up. You know why?
Hunter:Tell me, boss.
Wentworth:They love him because he’s a mirror. He shows them what they’re used to, what they’re comfortable with. Mediocrity masquerading as greatness. They love that shit, because if a no talent hack like Dustin Beaver can be famous, so can they. It helps them sleep at night. Then, when they see true greatness, it frightens them. It makes them uncomfortable, because people like me remind people like them that if you don’t have the natural, god given talent, there’s a ceiling they’ll never get past. When someone like Beaver takes a title from someone like me, it makes them think maybe that ceiling isn’t there anymore. It makes the peasants think they can be truly great. This Sunday, I have to remind them that that ceiling is there. I have to crush Dustin Beaver under my foot, and prove that when you’re born mediocre, you just can’t fuck with those of us who were born extraordinary. Though if I’m going to remind the filthy masses of their place, I guess I have to start with their paper hero. Get your phone out. I want to record this.
Hunter quickly obeys, turning on his camera and pointing it at the seething man across from him.
Wentworth:Alright, Beaver. Listen up. There’s a fact you have to face up to this week. That title you’ve been carrying around and gloating about… it doesn’t belong to you. You knew that the second you took it though, didn’t you? Do you remember that night? Remember how the title felt a little heavier than you thought it would? How you suddenly felt the white hot target on your back, felt the eyes of the locker room on you every minute of every day? That’s not something a… person like you is meant to deal with. Your job is to look pretty, smile, and get little girls to buy programs. That’s great, Dustin. We need guys to do that. What you are not is the kind of man who holds something as prestigious as the television title. Not for long, anyway.
The limo pulls to a stop in front of the monstrous Updegraff Manor. Wentworth finishes his drink, and climbs out, making his way up the marble staircase, as Hunter follows with the camera. Wentworth pauses, running his hand along the bared teeth of a gargoyle almost the same size as him. He spins around, and leans against the railing of the stairs, continuing his speech.
Wentworth:Dustin, all you have to do is look around to understand what you are up against. Being among the cream of the crop isn’t just something I stumbled into. I have it running through my veins. My family is built on excellence. I was bred to be the sophisticated wrestling machine you see before you. I was MEANT to be the television champion. I want you to understand, I respect what you’ve been through. Born into the middle, worked your way up to be a big time wrestling star. Then you fluked your way to a win over one of the greatest up and coming talents the world has ever seen. If I were you, I’d be over the moon right now. Make sure you keep one foot on the ground though. Your reality is about to come crashing down on you like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
He continues up the stairs, and through the gigantic oak front doors. He moves quickly through the large foyer, his shoes clapping in rhythm against the black and white checkered tile. He makes his way into a small side room. Ornate maroon wall paper surrounds him, the tile floor giving way to a beige carpet. He steps past a number of tall bookshelves toward a globe in the corner. He opens it, revealing several crystal bottles filled with different colored liquids. He calmly pours himself a drink, and a pauses. He stares at the hidden bar for a minute, before flipping it over with his free hand, sending shards of glass and alcohol flying everywhere. In a fit of rage, he stomps the glob flat, and grabs a small, plaster bust from one of the shelves. He throws it against the wall, shattering the work of art into hundreds of pieces. He slams his fist into the wall several times, leaving a small dent before he stops, his heavy breathing now the only sound. He takes a moment to compose himself, before running a hand through his disheveled hair, and turning back to the camera, his tone now quiet, but acidic and biting.
Wentworth:How… I need to know how the fuck a worm like you beat me. How in the hell does someone who represents everything weak and disgusting about our society get to hold my television title above their head?! It’s a question that’s kept me up for the last two weeks. I’ve played the match over and over in my head close to a thousand times, and I just can’t figure out where I went wrong. I might not be able to figure out how you did it, but one thing is for sure. You damn sure will not do it again. You might be holding that belt for now, but it’s mine. You had better understand that fact, and get comfortable with it. I was destined for greatness, and I will jump off a cliff before I let a mealy mouthed little son of a bitch like you derail that.
Wentworth takes another breath, calming himself before downing his drink, and setting the glass on a table. He wipes some excess liquid from his upper lip, before reaching down and unbuckling his belt, he slowly removes it, and slaps the leather against his palm. A sick smile spreads across his face.
Wentworth:Do you know why I made our match a strap match, little Dustin? I made our match a strap match because when I look at you, I see a little kid who was never spanked, never punished for being an obnoxious, attention hungry little brat. I’m going to fix that for you. I’m going to punish you, not only for who you are, but what you’ve done. You need to be punished for the simple act of being Dustin Beaver, but I am also going to punish you for having the audacity to think you actually deserve that title. I am going to redden your skin, leave welts bigger than you’ve ever seen, make you bleed if I have to. Whatever I need to do to show you and the world that that title never belonged in your spray tanned hands. I’m going to take that strap that binds us, and beat you to within an inch of your life, and I’ll do it all with a smile on my face.
Wentworth has a seat in a high backed leather chair, and crosses his legs in front of him, his calm demeanor returning.
Wentworth:The night you took the title from me might be the greatest night of your life now, but just wait. That night, you took out a loan you couldn’t afford to pay back, and the bank of Updegraff is about to come repossess your shit. After I make you pay for your little fluke, you’re going to wish you never held that title in your hands to begin with. You’ll rue forever the day you stepped in front of the rampaging train that is my destiny. I won’t underestimate you this time. This time I know exactly who you are, and what you bring to the table. It might be impressive, but it’s no match for the skills I’ve been perfecting all my life. You had better be prepared. This Sunday, I’m coming for my title, and I’m not a happy man.
Wentworth stands to his feet, and makes his way out the door, back into the entry parlor. He steps around the spiral staircase, and steps out the front door, back into the sun. He hops up on the wide, stone porch railing, and has a seat, looking out at the wide swath of land owned by his family.
Wentworth:All that being said, I want to take a moment to talk about Jay Omega. This man that so many of you hold up as a hero is nothing but a fraud. Would a hero feel the need to behave as this man has? You may cheer for him, but when you do, you cheer for a man who, rather than face an opponent head on, files a restraining order. He is not your brave guardian. He is a tiger without teeth. A pathetic also-ran who has gone farther in this business than he ever deserved. Because of his little restraining order, I can’t come near him, but I promise you I will get him to agree to fight me, and when he does, you’ll all be able to see him for the glad handing charlatan that he really is.
Wentworth drops down, and walks down the steps, watching as some servants in the distance brush one of the family’s many horses.
Wentworth:I want Dustin and Jay to serve as a warning to the entire roster. Anybody who steps in front of me will be destroyed. I am not a loveable alcoholic playboy, I am not a loud mouthed braggart overcompensating for my inadequacies. I am greatness personified, and there isn’t a person in the locker room that can stand up to me. I don’t expect you to believe it without proof. Watch what I do to Dustin. Watch what I do to Omega. Let that show you what it’s like to get in my way, and let it help you never to make that stupid, stupid decision. It’s too late for Dustin. I’ll see you Sunday, my little friend. The clock ticks on.
Half of his mouth curls upward in a grin, as the camera fades to black.
Hunter:Fuck yeah homie! You about to crush some bitches! Chuch!
Once the camera turns off, the cocky self assured look in Wentworth’s eyes fades. He stares down at the ground for a moment, smile slowly disappearing.
Wentworth:You know it. As long as I got you next to me.
Hunter:You really think you got this one in the bag?
Wentworth:I can’t promise anything. Dustin is a lot better than people think he is. It’s infuriating. Losing to him was… humiliating. I’ll do whatever it takes not to let that happen again.
Wentworth’s phone goes off in his pocket. He pulls it out to check it, and his breath catches in hsi throat when he sees it’s a text message from Alicia.
Hey. I know last time didn’t end up looking real good for me, but I was hoping you’d give me a chance to redeem myself. I’m going to be in town next week. You have time in your schedule for me?
Wentworth stares at it, grinning once again. Even chuckling at himself.
Hunter:What is it? Is it from a girl? Ooooooooh! Wentworth likes a giiiiiiirl! Is she hot? Yo, I’ll be my boy pulled some bangin’ tail! Tell me about it.
Wentworth:It’s nothing. Not yet anyway. Just a girl I met at church.
Hunter tousles Wentworth’s hair, but the younger brother quickly slaps his hands away.
Hunter:You gonna text her back?
Wentworth stares down at his phone again for a solid minute before answering.
Wentworth:I don’t know… I don’t know.