The Art of the Diehl: Part One
May 21, 2016 20:00:20 GMT -6
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Post by Lyndon "Big" Diehl on May 21, 2016 20:00:20 GMT -6
The Art of the Diehl: Part One
Lyndon Diehl: What a dump.
This is the Lyndon’s judgement of his new place of business, the United Championship Infinite Warehouse, which, until someone manning the canon tells me otherwise, is located in the economically underdeveloped section of Chicago known as the “Back of the Yards”. Wherever the venue of the UCI broadcasts winds up being, it is clear Big is not impressed with it.
Ron Rostenkowski: UCI is a stripped down, bare bones operation. I’m sure most of its money is allocated for salaries.
Diehl’s manager is correct of course, but that doesn’t mean the journeyman jobber to the stars has to like what he hears. The amount of world class talent in such a fledgling operation is not the norm, and something Lyndon had not expected when he signed to join UCI.
Devon Womble: That would explain why only one of us could fly here first class, and why there’s no car service.
The personal trainer and occasional traveling companion of Lyndon Diehl, Miss Womble is used to theparticulars of the wrestler’s promises not quite meeting her expectations; which was one of the reason she knew she had to be the one to help the driver of the taxi van unload their bags. Lyndon was not one to do any form of heavy lifting if he could get away with it.
“Katherine Finch”: I like it. It’s got an edge. And character. It is the grimy grubby crucible that will forge a wrestling company of great renown, with us being part of that first smelting.
“Miss Finch” is the only person in our troupe who acts excited to be here. Just hired as Team LBD’s official spokeswoman, perhaps it is too soon for her to have her hopes dashed. Or perhaps she knows something the others don’t. Or maybe she’s just dumb as a stump. Irrespective of the reason, she happily begins taking pictures of the warehouse’s exterior with her phone.
Diehl: Darling, get one of me by the sign.
Lyndon stands next to the large UCI logo set into the brick and mortal wall and makes a solemn face.
Finch: That’s good, Big! Work that gravitas!
It is at this point the driver of the cab interrupts.
Ethnic Cabbie: The fare is $43.75. Which one of you pays, huh?
Diehl’s expression sours. He produces a billfold from his jacket pocket and hands their liveryman a business card.
Diehl: That card has the personal contact information for Mister Spencer Adams, one of the United Championship Infinite’s owners. He is the man to get in touch with for your disbursement, friend.
Now it’s the cabbie’s turn to look surly. Well, surlier.
Ethnic Cabbie: What? No! You pay me now for fare plus tip. Cash or credit.
Rostenkowski: Just give him the money, Lyndon.
Skinflint Lyndon is outraged. He points an accusing finger at the van, as if somehow played a part in his latest setback.
Diehl: No way that ride cost 40 bucks!
Rostenkowski: It’s seven in the morning in the fucking slums. We’re not going to haggle over price.
After a grunt of discontent Big concedes; handing the cab driver two twenties and a five. Enraged, the cabbie stomps back to his van, jerks open the door, and jumps in.
Diehl: Pain in the ass. Alright, let’s get inside. Oh, shit!
There’s a squeal of rubber on asphalt as the taxi pulls away quickly but makes a sudden stop. The vehicle then reverses, careening back towards the quartet. The rear tires jump the curb and the rear bumper smashes into the group’s stack of luggage, sending the suitcases and baggage flying.
Ethnic Cabbie: Fuck you, you Cracker Fucker! I hope you die here!
The van then sped off with the driver continuing to spew obscenities towards the party. Lyndon stared down at the results of the hit and run. One bag was completely run over, its contents crushed, while a valise had been forced open from the impact, creating a virtual double rainbow of spilled cosmetics. The other suitcases had been knocked towards the warehouse and bore some scuff marks, but at least had remained unopened. Devon glared at Big.
Womble: That’s my bag, and my make-up case.
Diehl: Darling, now’s not the time to worry about material things. We all could have gotten killed by that hothead. Ron, call the cops.
Rostenkowski: No. It’s done, Big. We’re moving on.
Devon most certainly was not.
Womble: All my samples were in that case: six hundred dollars’ worth.
Finch: Ooo, I like that one puddle of nail polish there. What’s the name? OOO! It’s even better mixed with that other puddle! Let me take a picture quick for reference.
Devon ignored “Katherine’s” question, focusing her ire on Big, who was surprisingly chastened.
Womble: You owe Mary Kay Cosmetics six hundred dollars, Big! Plus you owe me for the case and the bag and whatever clothes got damaged when that asshole ran it over.
Diehl: Darling, really I think you should be looking to recoup your losses by contacting the cab company- ow!!
Devon kicked him hard in the shin, a move that terrified “Katherine” and puzzled the usually learned Ron. Big’s reaction was to clutch his leg and stare daggers at the much smaller woman. His hissed through gritted teeth.
Diehl: Fine. But you can forget dinner at Ditka’s.
Womble: Whatever. I bet you weren’t even able to get reservations.
This was true. Diehl obviously didn’t acknowledge this, however. Instead he gathered up his wayward luggage and stomped towards one of the warehouse doors. He furiously knocked at it until a security guard spoke through the intercom.
Disembodied Voice: You Mister Diehl?
Diehl: Yes.
Team LBD had asked if they could use the fed’s recording equipment to put together Lyndon’s promo for his upcoming debut. They didn’t want any help in putting the piece together, and asked for total privacy while they did their work. This explained the odd scheduling. The guard buzzed the four in and led them to a studio that presumptuously exists in the warehouse. What happens next is the fruit of the quartet’s labors.
There is a graphic identifying the broadcast as “The Finch Report” which dissolves into a shot of “Katherine” and Diehl sitting at the standard “two chairs and a table” talk show set. Katherine is wearing a blue tee shirt with Free UCI emblazoned across it, while Lyndon has on a nice grey suit and red tie.
Finch: Welcome to “The Finch Report”, your unfiltered, unscripted source of all things considering the United Championship Infinite wrestling promotion. I am the show hostess, Katherine Finch. With me this morning is one of the many stars of UCI, the “Boss Hoss” Lyndon Diehl. Sir, thank you for coming.
Diehl: Thanks for having me.
Finch: Your bio says you have wrestled for over a decade all over the world. America, Canada, Mexico, Japan, England, Scotland, Botswana, Portugal, Myanmar….
She rattles off around a dozen more countries before an impatient Diehl cuts her off.
Diehl: Yeah, I’m a well-traveled yeoman wrestler who has finally found a permanent place to call home: UCI.
Finch: What made you chose this company?
Diehl: I saw a need, Katherine, and I knew I was the man to fill it. UCI is a brand new venture, started up by folks who don’t have that much experience in the promotion side of the business, at least relatively speaking. I can provide insight in how to help UCI grow and flourish. Also, my skills in the ring match my industry savvy. For a fed trying to gain a foothold in this current market, I am a valuable commodity.
Finch: Can you describe your style of wrestling?
Diehl: Old School, darling. I am big man smash mouth brawler who can dish out punishment as well as give it. There’s nothing fancy about my game. There doesn’t need to be.
There’s a cutaway montage that shows Lyndon “Dielivering” his big move, a running lariat, to a number of opponents. Then it’s back to Finch, who is in awe.
Finch: Oh my God! Are any of those men dead?
Lyndon grins good-naturedly.
Diehl: Aheheheh: a couple; but not by my hand. Wrestling’s a rough life, after all.
Finch: I understand why UCI signed you! You have the speed of a puma and the strength of a tiger. Your “Dieliverance” is as an avalanche of arm muscle, tendon, and bone. Watching you turn those jobbers inside out made me pee a little. Not really. That would be gross.
Diehl: Er, right. But it’s more than my physical abilities that make me a danger in the ring. There are few wrestlers in the world who is better at getting into his competition’s head that the Ol’ Boss Hoss. I can suss out a man’s motives, his flaws, his dreams, and his fears, within moments of meeting them. And sometimes I don’t even need the face time to figure out what makes them tick. Case in point Wade Moor.
She nods.
Finch: I know him. He’s The Godnilla. You’ll be facing him and the Trailer Park Prodigy Chance Von Crank this Sunday at UCI’s inaugural broadcast of Overload.
Diehl: That’s right. Me, him, and cvc will be wrestling in the first round of a tournament set to determine who the first UCI Champion will be.
More nodding from “Katherine”.
Finch: Earlier this week you called Wade Moor out for his morbid obesity. The back and forth between you two got the Twitterverse all a flutter. Were those digs part of your strategy to defeat him? Were they mind games?
Diehl gives her, and then the viewer, an oily smile.
Diehl: Let me tell you why I did it, Katherine. I took a shot at Wade Moor because of what he posted: some vague, easy to misconstrue phrase that no one in the UCI Galaxy should give a flying fuck about. But Moor did it anyway because in his warped brain such pronouncements make him complex. He thinks it gives him layers to post cryptic bullshit on social media and he expects his fellow disenfranchised neckbeards to lap it up.
Diehl: But I’m smarter than that. I can tell that there is “no there there” with Wade Moor. Those layers The Leviathan is trying to sell the public? Nothing but flab. Empty rhetoric that sloughs off of him every time he opens his crumb-caked piehole or starts tapping those sausage fingers on the keyboard. So what did I do? I popped his ego balloon with a well-aimed fat joke. I simultaneously exposed that pseudo-intellectual for what he is and got him talking about what really does matter for the fans, which is his match this Sunday against me and Chance Von Crank. And it worked like a charm. Wade Moor got HANGRY that I wasn’t taking him or his conceited Twitter talk seriously and came after me like I was made out of butterscotch pudding.
Finch: When you put it that way it makes perfect sense. Thank you.
Diehl: Don’t thank me yet, darling. My job’s only half done, after all. I may have revealed Wade Moor to be nothing but a posturing pud-knocker; but the real test? That comes at Overload. That’s when the talking stops and he and I and Chance Von Crank settle things up in the ring. And things aren’t always so cut and dried between the ropes. Wade Moor is a fake ass phony baloney prophet and President of the Bum Fuck Chapter of the Max Cady Fan Club, but there’s no doubt Round Boy can fight. He’s a former World Champion. And sure, it was for that piece of shit company “to the East”, but I’d be stupid not to recognize his talent. Wade Moor is strong and fast, for a fatso, and has a mean streak that’s going to make him a tough out. Combine those things with the fact I have to face TWO former WCF members at the same time; I got a rough row to hoe Sunday.
Finch: But what difference should it make what company your opponents used to wrestle in, Big? After all, Chance Von Crank and Wade Moor are not allies.
Diehl: Answering that question opens up a whole new kettle of fish. The reason their previous place of employment matters is at the crux of my crusade here in UCI. It is the Alpha and Omega of my raison de etre. Miss Finch, what I am about to tell you, and tell the entire UCI Galaxy, is the most important thing they will hear between now and the inaugural Overload. Whether or not they accept it will determine the success of not just my run with the company, but the very company itself. Because, Miss Finch, and I say this without a mote of hyperbole, if I fail, United Championship Infinite fails.
“Katherine” looks distraught. UCI can’t fail; she just got here!
Finch: What? What is it?
Diehl: Let me answer that question with a question, darling. What was the Wrestling Championship Federation most famous for?
Finch: Curtain jerking clusterfucks?
Diehl: That’s what it’s additionally famous for.
Finch: A weak field of prospective boyfriends?
Diehl’s gives her a bemused look, but bulls with his promo.
Diehl: No, what WCF is known for, what it is synonymous with, is Treachery. It is a federation whose very foundation is built on perfidy, deception and the most seditious of swerves.
Finch: Yes. Yes of course.
Diehl: And that is why none of the WCF expatriates can be trusted; because we cannot be sure how posthumous their prior partisanship truly is. You know about the cuckoo, Miss Finch? How a Mama Cuckoo will lay its eggs in the nest of another, less shiftless bird? And how when that Baby Cuckoo hatches it slowly but surely inveigles its way into ruling the roost? That is what is happening here, right now, in United Championship Infinite. And if we’re not careful, we UCI Loyalists will find ourselves tossed over the side to suffer the cruel fate gravity intends for us. SPLAT!
Diehl leans forward and slaps his meaty palm on the table top for effect. “Miss Finch” is archly distressed, clutching at her neck and gasping.
Finch: My God. What can be done to stop this?
Diehl: It’s going to take several things to prevent United Championship Infinite from becoming just another pie for Seth Lerch to finger; First and most important: the vigilance of the fans. They must be on the lookout for any examples of pro-Wrestling Championship Federation bias displayed by UCI Officials, from the vendor who stocks the craft service table to the referees to media members all the way up to the owners themselves. Any prejudice should be noted, reported, and decried by those who want to keep this company free of outside influences. You can be sure we at Team LBD will keep a collective eye on the company’s operations.
A resolute nod from the interviewer.
Finch: Yes. Yes we will.
Diehl: Another safeguard is one I have arranged at my own personal expense. I commissioned several Constitutional lawyers to draft an “Oath of Allegiance” to the United Championship Infinite, one that protects both the values of the institution and the rights of the individual who take it. For the moment, it is purely voluntary, but I feel having such a precaution in place lets us know who here in the company truly has its best interests at heart, and who here is a carpet-bagging sleeper agent waiting for that call from Reading to carry out the Lerchian Agenda.
Finch: Yes, of course. Absolutely. Where do I sign?
Diehl: Ha ha. Katherine, you’re not an official UCI employee, so there’s no need for you to make the pledge. However, despite my obvious loyalty to the federation, I have taken the extra step to demonstrate it by putting my fidelity in writing. Eddie Thorton and Thursday Kerrigan have too. But that’s all.
Finch: That’s it? I’m thunderstruck by this revelation, Big. There’s no reason not for anyone to sign the Oath of Allegiance.
Diehl: I totally agree, Kathy. No reason at all… unless you got something to hide. Moor was especially squirrely about it; refusing to sign while also attacking the intentions of poor Miss Kerrigan who did. It was disgusting.
Finch: Sounds to me like he was trying to obfuscate the issue.
Big winks at the blonde knowingly.
Diehl: Brilliant minds think alike. I’m going to keep my eye on Wade Moor, during and after the match. The man may resemble a bullfrog fat on flies, but underneath he’s all snake. And Von Crank ain’t much better. Neither of them can be counted on to make UCI great, but I guarantee come Sunday one’s going to be counted out. I’m winning my match at Overload and moving on in the tournament; and just as I pledged my allegiance to this great company I vow to the fans watching that I will be its first World Champion. UCI deserves no less.
That was the cue to finish. Finch closed the interview.
Finch: I’m afraid we are out of time. I’d like to thank Lyndon Diehl for agreeing to appear on “The Finch Report”, and for his efforts to turn UCI into a federation I would be proud to be a member of. But I’m not a member, because I’m objective. Tune in next week when I will be objective on another topic. Thank you, be safe, and be free.
Lyndon Diehl: What a dump.
This is the Lyndon’s judgement of his new place of business, the United Championship Infinite Warehouse, which, until someone manning the canon tells me otherwise, is located in the economically underdeveloped section of Chicago known as the “Back of the Yards”. Wherever the venue of the UCI broadcasts winds up being, it is clear Big is not impressed with it.
Ron Rostenkowski: UCI is a stripped down, bare bones operation. I’m sure most of its money is allocated for salaries.
Diehl’s manager is correct of course, but that doesn’t mean the journeyman jobber to the stars has to like what he hears. The amount of world class talent in such a fledgling operation is not the norm, and something Lyndon had not expected when he signed to join UCI.
Devon Womble: That would explain why only one of us could fly here first class, and why there’s no car service.
The personal trainer and occasional traveling companion of Lyndon Diehl, Miss Womble is used to theparticulars of the wrestler’s promises not quite meeting her expectations; which was one of the reason she knew she had to be the one to help the driver of the taxi van unload their bags. Lyndon was not one to do any form of heavy lifting if he could get away with it.
“Katherine Finch”: I like it. It’s got an edge. And character. It is the grimy grubby crucible that will forge a wrestling company of great renown, with us being part of that first smelting.
“Miss Finch” is the only person in our troupe who acts excited to be here. Just hired as Team LBD’s official spokeswoman, perhaps it is too soon for her to have her hopes dashed. Or perhaps she knows something the others don’t. Or maybe she’s just dumb as a stump. Irrespective of the reason, she happily begins taking pictures of the warehouse’s exterior with her phone.
Diehl: Darling, get one of me by the sign.
Lyndon stands next to the large UCI logo set into the brick and mortal wall and makes a solemn face.
Finch: That’s good, Big! Work that gravitas!
It is at this point the driver of the cab interrupts.
Ethnic Cabbie: The fare is $43.75. Which one of you pays, huh?
Diehl’s expression sours. He produces a billfold from his jacket pocket and hands their liveryman a business card.
Diehl: That card has the personal contact information for Mister Spencer Adams, one of the United Championship Infinite’s owners. He is the man to get in touch with for your disbursement, friend.
Now it’s the cabbie’s turn to look surly. Well, surlier.
Ethnic Cabbie: What? No! You pay me now for fare plus tip. Cash or credit.
Rostenkowski: Just give him the money, Lyndon.
Skinflint Lyndon is outraged. He points an accusing finger at the van, as if somehow played a part in his latest setback.
Diehl: No way that ride cost 40 bucks!
Rostenkowski: It’s seven in the morning in the fucking slums. We’re not going to haggle over price.
After a grunt of discontent Big concedes; handing the cab driver two twenties and a five. Enraged, the cabbie stomps back to his van, jerks open the door, and jumps in.
Diehl: Pain in the ass. Alright, let’s get inside. Oh, shit!
There’s a squeal of rubber on asphalt as the taxi pulls away quickly but makes a sudden stop. The vehicle then reverses, careening back towards the quartet. The rear tires jump the curb and the rear bumper smashes into the group’s stack of luggage, sending the suitcases and baggage flying.
Ethnic Cabbie: Fuck you, you Cracker Fucker! I hope you die here!
The van then sped off with the driver continuing to spew obscenities towards the party. Lyndon stared down at the results of the hit and run. One bag was completely run over, its contents crushed, while a valise had been forced open from the impact, creating a virtual double rainbow of spilled cosmetics. The other suitcases had been knocked towards the warehouse and bore some scuff marks, but at least had remained unopened. Devon glared at Big.
Womble: That’s my bag, and my make-up case.
Diehl: Darling, now’s not the time to worry about material things. We all could have gotten killed by that hothead. Ron, call the cops.
Rostenkowski: No. It’s done, Big. We’re moving on.
Devon most certainly was not.
Womble: All my samples were in that case: six hundred dollars’ worth.
Finch: Ooo, I like that one puddle of nail polish there. What’s the name? OOO! It’s even better mixed with that other puddle! Let me take a picture quick for reference.
Devon ignored “Katherine’s” question, focusing her ire on Big, who was surprisingly chastened.
Womble: You owe Mary Kay Cosmetics six hundred dollars, Big! Plus you owe me for the case and the bag and whatever clothes got damaged when that asshole ran it over.
Diehl: Darling, really I think you should be looking to recoup your losses by contacting the cab company- ow!!
Devon kicked him hard in the shin, a move that terrified “Katherine” and puzzled the usually learned Ron. Big’s reaction was to clutch his leg and stare daggers at the much smaller woman. His hissed through gritted teeth.
Diehl: Fine. But you can forget dinner at Ditka’s.
Womble: Whatever. I bet you weren’t even able to get reservations.
This was true. Diehl obviously didn’t acknowledge this, however. Instead he gathered up his wayward luggage and stomped towards one of the warehouse doors. He furiously knocked at it until a security guard spoke through the intercom.
Disembodied Voice: You Mister Diehl?
Diehl: Yes.
Team LBD had asked if they could use the fed’s recording equipment to put together Lyndon’s promo for his upcoming debut. They didn’t want any help in putting the piece together, and asked for total privacy while they did their work. This explained the odd scheduling. The guard buzzed the four in and led them to a studio that presumptuously exists in the warehouse. What happens next is the fruit of the quartet’s labors.
There is a graphic identifying the broadcast as “The Finch Report” which dissolves into a shot of “Katherine” and Diehl sitting at the standard “two chairs and a table” talk show set. Katherine is wearing a blue tee shirt with Free UCI emblazoned across it, while Lyndon has on a nice grey suit and red tie.
Finch: Welcome to “The Finch Report”, your unfiltered, unscripted source of all things considering the United Championship Infinite wrestling promotion. I am the show hostess, Katherine Finch. With me this morning is one of the many stars of UCI, the “Boss Hoss” Lyndon Diehl. Sir, thank you for coming.
Diehl: Thanks for having me.
Finch: Your bio says you have wrestled for over a decade all over the world. America, Canada, Mexico, Japan, England, Scotland, Botswana, Portugal, Myanmar….
She rattles off around a dozen more countries before an impatient Diehl cuts her off.
Diehl: Yeah, I’m a well-traveled yeoman wrestler who has finally found a permanent place to call home: UCI.
Finch: What made you chose this company?
Diehl: I saw a need, Katherine, and I knew I was the man to fill it. UCI is a brand new venture, started up by folks who don’t have that much experience in the promotion side of the business, at least relatively speaking. I can provide insight in how to help UCI grow and flourish. Also, my skills in the ring match my industry savvy. For a fed trying to gain a foothold in this current market, I am a valuable commodity.
Finch: Can you describe your style of wrestling?
Diehl: Old School, darling. I am big man smash mouth brawler who can dish out punishment as well as give it. There’s nothing fancy about my game. There doesn’t need to be.
There’s a cutaway montage that shows Lyndon “Dielivering” his big move, a running lariat, to a number of opponents. Then it’s back to Finch, who is in awe.
Finch: Oh my God! Are any of those men dead?
Lyndon grins good-naturedly.
Diehl: Aheheheh: a couple; but not by my hand. Wrestling’s a rough life, after all.
Finch: I understand why UCI signed you! You have the speed of a puma and the strength of a tiger. Your “Dieliverance” is as an avalanche of arm muscle, tendon, and bone. Watching you turn those jobbers inside out made me pee a little. Not really. That would be gross.
Diehl: Er, right. But it’s more than my physical abilities that make me a danger in the ring. There are few wrestlers in the world who is better at getting into his competition’s head that the Ol’ Boss Hoss. I can suss out a man’s motives, his flaws, his dreams, and his fears, within moments of meeting them. And sometimes I don’t even need the face time to figure out what makes them tick. Case in point Wade Moor.
She nods.
Finch: I know him. He’s The Godnilla. You’ll be facing him and the Trailer Park Prodigy Chance Von Crank this Sunday at UCI’s inaugural broadcast of Overload.
Diehl: That’s right. Me, him, and cvc will be wrestling in the first round of a tournament set to determine who the first UCI Champion will be.
More nodding from “Katherine”.
Finch: Earlier this week you called Wade Moor out for his morbid obesity. The back and forth between you two got the Twitterverse all a flutter. Were those digs part of your strategy to defeat him? Were they mind games?
Diehl gives her, and then the viewer, an oily smile.
Diehl: Let me tell you why I did it, Katherine. I took a shot at Wade Moor because of what he posted: some vague, easy to misconstrue phrase that no one in the UCI Galaxy should give a flying fuck about. But Moor did it anyway because in his warped brain such pronouncements make him complex. He thinks it gives him layers to post cryptic bullshit on social media and he expects his fellow disenfranchised neckbeards to lap it up.
Diehl: But I’m smarter than that. I can tell that there is “no there there” with Wade Moor. Those layers The Leviathan is trying to sell the public? Nothing but flab. Empty rhetoric that sloughs off of him every time he opens his crumb-caked piehole or starts tapping those sausage fingers on the keyboard. So what did I do? I popped his ego balloon with a well-aimed fat joke. I simultaneously exposed that pseudo-intellectual for what he is and got him talking about what really does matter for the fans, which is his match this Sunday against me and Chance Von Crank. And it worked like a charm. Wade Moor got HANGRY that I wasn’t taking him or his conceited Twitter talk seriously and came after me like I was made out of butterscotch pudding.
Finch: When you put it that way it makes perfect sense. Thank you.
Diehl: Don’t thank me yet, darling. My job’s only half done, after all. I may have revealed Wade Moor to be nothing but a posturing pud-knocker; but the real test? That comes at Overload. That’s when the talking stops and he and I and Chance Von Crank settle things up in the ring. And things aren’t always so cut and dried between the ropes. Wade Moor is a fake ass phony baloney prophet and President of the Bum Fuck Chapter of the Max Cady Fan Club, but there’s no doubt Round Boy can fight. He’s a former World Champion. And sure, it was for that piece of shit company “to the East”, but I’d be stupid not to recognize his talent. Wade Moor is strong and fast, for a fatso, and has a mean streak that’s going to make him a tough out. Combine those things with the fact I have to face TWO former WCF members at the same time; I got a rough row to hoe Sunday.
Finch: But what difference should it make what company your opponents used to wrestle in, Big? After all, Chance Von Crank and Wade Moor are not allies.
Diehl: Answering that question opens up a whole new kettle of fish. The reason their previous place of employment matters is at the crux of my crusade here in UCI. It is the Alpha and Omega of my raison de etre. Miss Finch, what I am about to tell you, and tell the entire UCI Galaxy, is the most important thing they will hear between now and the inaugural Overload. Whether or not they accept it will determine the success of not just my run with the company, but the very company itself. Because, Miss Finch, and I say this without a mote of hyperbole, if I fail, United Championship Infinite fails.
“Katherine” looks distraught. UCI can’t fail; she just got here!
Finch: What? What is it?
Diehl: Let me answer that question with a question, darling. What was the Wrestling Championship Federation most famous for?
Finch: Curtain jerking clusterfucks?
Diehl: That’s what it’s additionally famous for.
Finch: A weak field of prospective boyfriends?
Diehl’s gives her a bemused look, but bulls with his promo.
Diehl: No, what WCF is known for, what it is synonymous with, is Treachery. It is a federation whose very foundation is built on perfidy, deception and the most seditious of swerves.
Finch: Yes. Yes of course.
Diehl: And that is why none of the WCF expatriates can be trusted; because we cannot be sure how posthumous their prior partisanship truly is. You know about the cuckoo, Miss Finch? How a Mama Cuckoo will lay its eggs in the nest of another, less shiftless bird? And how when that Baby Cuckoo hatches it slowly but surely inveigles its way into ruling the roost? That is what is happening here, right now, in United Championship Infinite. And if we’re not careful, we UCI Loyalists will find ourselves tossed over the side to suffer the cruel fate gravity intends for us. SPLAT!
Diehl leans forward and slaps his meaty palm on the table top for effect. “Miss Finch” is archly distressed, clutching at her neck and gasping.
Finch: My God. What can be done to stop this?
Diehl: It’s going to take several things to prevent United Championship Infinite from becoming just another pie for Seth Lerch to finger; First and most important: the vigilance of the fans. They must be on the lookout for any examples of pro-Wrestling Championship Federation bias displayed by UCI Officials, from the vendor who stocks the craft service table to the referees to media members all the way up to the owners themselves. Any prejudice should be noted, reported, and decried by those who want to keep this company free of outside influences. You can be sure we at Team LBD will keep a collective eye on the company’s operations.
A resolute nod from the interviewer.
Finch: Yes. Yes we will.
Diehl: Another safeguard is one I have arranged at my own personal expense. I commissioned several Constitutional lawyers to draft an “Oath of Allegiance” to the United Championship Infinite, one that protects both the values of the institution and the rights of the individual who take it. For the moment, it is purely voluntary, but I feel having such a precaution in place lets us know who here in the company truly has its best interests at heart, and who here is a carpet-bagging sleeper agent waiting for that call from Reading to carry out the Lerchian Agenda.
Finch: Yes, of course. Absolutely. Where do I sign?
Diehl: Ha ha. Katherine, you’re not an official UCI employee, so there’s no need for you to make the pledge. However, despite my obvious loyalty to the federation, I have taken the extra step to demonstrate it by putting my fidelity in writing. Eddie Thorton and Thursday Kerrigan have too. But that’s all.
Finch: That’s it? I’m thunderstruck by this revelation, Big. There’s no reason not for anyone to sign the Oath of Allegiance.
Diehl: I totally agree, Kathy. No reason at all… unless you got something to hide. Moor was especially squirrely about it; refusing to sign while also attacking the intentions of poor Miss Kerrigan who did. It was disgusting.
Finch: Sounds to me like he was trying to obfuscate the issue.
Big winks at the blonde knowingly.
Diehl: Brilliant minds think alike. I’m going to keep my eye on Wade Moor, during and after the match. The man may resemble a bullfrog fat on flies, but underneath he’s all snake. And Von Crank ain’t much better. Neither of them can be counted on to make UCI great, but I guarantee come Sunday one’s going to be counted out. I’m winning my match at Overload and moving on in the tournament; and just as I pledged my allegiance to this great company I vow to the fans watching that I will be its first World Champion. UCI deserves no less.
That was the cue to finish. Finch closed the interview.
Finch: I’m afraid we are out of time. I’d like to thank Lyndon Diehl for agreeing to appear on “The Finch Report”, and for his efforts to turn UCI into a federation I would be proud to be a member of. But I’m not a member, because I’m objective. Tune in next week when I will be objective on another topic. Thank you, be safe, and be free.