Of Winners, Losers, and Cesspools
May 22, 2016 11:02:00 GMT -6
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Post by Wentworth Updegraff Jr. on May 22, 2016 11:02:00 GMT -6
Cesspool: (Noun)
1.an underground hole or container for holding liquid waste (such as sewage) from a building
2. a place or situation that is very dirty, evil, or corrupt
-Merriam Webster
The sun shines bright overhead, warming the smiling faces of the people milling about the park. Playground equipment and walking paths surround and lead outward from a large, stone fountain. Trees and flowers sprout up from the ground, greeting the Saturday morning revelers. Laughter can be heard rising above the low hum of the crowd, as a portly young child skips down the path toward the sound of running water, a dollar’s worth of quarters jingling in his pocket. He reaches the edge of the fountain and stops, pulling the change from his pocket. He closes his eyes, makes a silent wish, and tosses one of the coins into the water. A voice causes the child’s head to turn to the left, where he sees Wentworth Updegraff Jr. sitting on a bench, dressed in a black and grey Italian suit.
Wentworth:Hey kid. You want some good advice?
The child only stares at wentworth, slack jawed and confused. Wentworth continues as if the child had answered him.
Wentworth:You’re young, but I hope you remember this forever: wishes are for suckers. Losers wish. Winners go out and get. Winners don’t need to wish, because winners take. You know what a winner would do? A winner would take that change you got left, and go put it in a piggy bank. Save as much as possible, because shit’s about to get real. Oil is about to skyrocket, and everything’s going to collapse. You can thank Obama, the democrats, and their bleeding heart ideas about not bombing a country and seizing its oil reserves for that.
A fearful tear begins to well up in the child’s eye.
Kid:W-what’s a demokat?
Wentworth:A Democrat is an evil, impish little creature who wants to take all the money from good, hard working people like me, and give it to the lazy window lickers that work at places like Pizza Hut, McDonald’s and…*shudder* Wal-Mart. They’re going to collapse our entire economy, and by the time you’re all grown up, the government will be rationing water and forcing you into labor camps.
The floodgates burst, and the child begins to sob, a high pitched squeal coming from his open mouth, as he runs away from the fountain as fast as he can. Wentworth shakes his head, and stands to his feet, making his way in the opposite direction. Before leaving, he looks into the camera with a wry grin.
Wentworth:He’ll thank me some day.
___ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ __ _
“Clink clink” Ice cubes bounce against the sides of the glass. Wentworth Updegraff Jr. slowly pours himself a drink, and makes his way across his spacious living room. He watches through the panoramic windows as the sun rises lazily over the Danbury skyline, the buildings casting long shadows across the ground. Wentworth undoes his bow tie, and the top button of his shirt, before flopping down into a comfortable leather recliner. He takes a sip and smiles.
Wentworth:Oh scotch, you get me.
Reginald:Don’t you think it’s a tad early, sir?
Wentworth spins his chair around to see his butler dressed in a pristine servant’s tuxedo. The man’s ebony skin is wrinkled and sagging, but the energy of a much younger man is still evident in him, as he is already hard at work preparing for the day.
Wentworth:It’s still last night for me, Reginald.
Reginald:I told you sir, my name is Charles.
Wentworth:And I told YOU that as long as you work for me, your name is Reginald.
Reginald:Yes sir.
The butler’s tone is acidic, but Wentworth ignores it, taking another sip and turning back toward the sunrise. His gaze wanders over the ocean of pastel hues, taking in the beauty through weary, bloodshot eyes. Hazy ghosts of the night before dance on the edge of his memory, taunting him with their familiar song. He only smiles, and finishes his drink.
Wentworth:You should have been there, Reginald. The party was still in full swing when I left.
The old butler lets out a one-note laugh.
Reginald:I’m afraid my days of staying out past midnight drinking whisky ended with the Carter administration, sir.
Wentworth:Watch your mouth! Rednecks drink whisky. I drink scotch, and doing so in the company of beautiful women makes it a classy affair.
Reginald:Only until 2 in the morning. After that, it’s simply a bad decision.
Wentworth:Where were you four hours ago?
Reginald:Tucked safely in my bed, like most people.
Wentworth:If your legs were as fast as your tongue, I’d have breakfast already.
Reginald:Is that a request for breakfast, Master Updegraff?
Wentworth swirls the ice cubes around in the otherwise empty glass, staring intently past them. He turns his attention back out the window, to the sky that has slowly turned a bright orange.
Wentworth:... No. My stomach couldn’t handle it right now. I wouldn’t mind another drink, though.
Reginald:Sir, with all due respect I have never in my life seen you mind another drink.
Wentworth smirks at the man, as his glass is temporarily taken away.
Wentworth:Reginald… this is probably not my smartest question, but did you always want to be a butler?
The question gives the butler a moment of pause. He answers while pouring Wentworth’s drink.
Reginald:I suppose so, sir. It is a family profession. My father was a butler, and his father before him. Believe it or not, I have one nephew currently on staff at the white house. People may look down on it, but to me it is noble work.
Wentworth: Yes, but do you enjoy it?
Reginald pauses once again, searching his mind for the proper words.
Reginald:I suppose I enjoy it well enough. I believe we were put here to serve. Given that, what greater career could one have? Why do you ask, sir?
Wentworth:Just thinking…
Reginald:About Yale again, sir?
Wentworth:...yeah.
Reginald:I thought that might be the case.
Reginald sets the glass down next to Wentworth, followed by an envelope with the UCI logo in the corner. He stares at it for a good ten seconds before the sight actually registers. He snatches the envelope off the table and tears it open, pulling the letter out so recklessly that it almost tears in half. His eyes move over the letters, his lips moving as he reads. At a certain point, a wide smile appears on his face.
Wentworth:Reginald, call Martha, I’m going to need a new singlet.
Reginald:Already done, sir… I had a hunch.
Wentworth takes a swig of his drink, and hops up from his chair.
Wentworth:I’m going to need a new suit too. Call a press conference, we need to get out in front-
Reginald:Master Updegraff, it’s six A.M. on a Sunday. I think a press conference can wait until tomorrow.
Updegraff stops, his head dropping in exasperation. He quickly finishes his second drink, and begins walking toward his room.
Wentworth:Shit… it’s Sunday. Run me a shower, Reginald. Mass starts at eight.
___ _ _ _____ _____
The priest’s low, Latin droning echoes through the gigantic sanctuary. All around, gargoyles hang from the top of the walls, and paintings sit with judgmental stares permanently plastered on their faces. Golden cups and plates sit behind the priest, and elegant red drapery hangs from all angles. All of this is for a half empty room of mostly bored but obligated people. Wentworth lets his eyes drift around lazily. Of the dozen or so people he sees, half are wearing headphones, five are checking Facebook, and one is actually paying attention to the priest. Though, he’s so old, Wentworth thinks it may be dementia setting in. Updegraff silently curses himself for making this promise to his grandmother. A woman on her deathbed can be quite persuasive.
The priest says something, and without hearing the full sentence, Wentworth kneels robotically, along with the rest of the attendees. The small padded beam on the floor does little to alleviate his discomfort. The same can not be said for the attractive young woman that sneaks into the back of the room, and kneels just a few feet down the pew from Wentworth. Her tan skin hiding under long black locks and a modest green dress. He knows she’s there before he sees her. A sort of sixth sense he’s had since puberty. Once everyone is seated again, he inches over to her and whispers.
Wentworth:You’re not one of the regulars. New convert? It’s that cool new pope isn’t it? That guy is a marketing genius.
The woman gives him a genuine smile, and a look like she’s considering him for a moment.
Alicia:In from out of town. Visiting my parents.
Wentworth:A family girl. I like it. My name’s Allen.
Alicia:Alicia. Nice to meet you, Allen. Do you always make it a habit to pick up on women during mass?
He smirks.
Wentworth:Eh, nobody understands Latin anyway. Truth be told, I’m mostly here because I promised my grandma I would be. How about you? True believer?
Alicia:Great aunt.
Wentworth:And so dedicated that you even go when you’re out of town. That’s impressive. I wasn’t into you when you first walked in, but you’re looking better and better.
She chuckles and rolls her eyes, fiddling with a strand of her hair.
Alicia:Oh really?
Wentworth:No, not really. I hit confessional before the service, and had to go again about fifteen seconds after you sat down. Somehow I think Father Mulcahy will understand.
He motions toward one of the priests. When Alicia looks up, she sees him staring at her, but he immediately looks away. Alicia has to cover her mouth to cover her high pitched laughter.
Wentworth:Can you blame the guy? They don’t even get to take care of themselves. Poor bastards. Can you imagine any greater hell than a life of repression and frustration? All of it bubbling under the service just begging to be released… anyway, where are you from?
Alicia:Wow… does this usually work for you?
Wentworth:Eh, about fifty fifty. Is it working on you?
Alicia:No... but I’m intrigued. Tell you what, give me your number and I’ll give you a call next time I’m in town. Give you another shot at it. I feel like there’s some promise beneath the immature nonsense.
Wentworth:Not really. Mostly just more immature nonsense. I appreciate your commitment to second chances though.
Wentworth reaches forward, grabbing a pen and a tithing envelope from the back of the pew in front of him. He scribbles his number down and slides the paper into Alicia’s hand. She slips it into her handbag with a smile.
Alicia:Thanks. I think I’m gonna go so you can concentrate. Seems like you need it more than I do.
Without giving Wentworth a chance to protest, she gets up and makes her way toward the front of the room. He watches her for several minutes, before laughing at himself and shrugging.
Wentworth:I’ll count it as a win.
He sits for another ten minutes that feels like an hour. When he can’t take anymore, he rises from the uncomfortable wooden pew, crosses himself, and makes sure to slip an extra twenty in the donation box on his way out. He pays no attention to the ornate statues that move past him. He’s seen them more times than he cares to count. He does notice the warmth of the sunshine, and the soothing breeze, as he throws open the heavy wooden doors and steps out onto the sidewalk. Making his way down the road, he takes a deep breath, enjoying the smell of spring. He stands still and smiles to himself, before turning and ducking through the door to a small bar.
Inside, the air is thick with last night’s smoke. The space is small, occupied by only a few tables and the long, wooden bar. Behind it stands a portly, balding man, who is already pouring a drink for Wentworth. The hard soles of his leather shoes clap against the wooden flor as he steps over to the bar and has a seat.
Wentworth:How we doin’ Bruce?
Bruce:Makin’ it by. You’re late.
Wentworth:Stayed a little longer today.
Bruce:Little extra guilt, or pretty girl?
Wentworth:Pretty doesn’t even begin to describe her, Bruce. This is the kinda girl you just want to… get a hotel room and spend more than one night with. You know?
Bruce laughs and passes him a drink, fidgeting with his wedding ring.
Bruce:Yeah, I think I know what you mean.
Before either man can say another word, the door swings open violently. The sight of the short, thin figure in the pinstripe suit causes Wentworth to roll his eyes, and turn back toward the bar. Despite his obvious discomfort, the man strolls across the floor, and sits on the adjacent stool. Wentworth tries to ignore him for a moment, but can’t.
Wentworth:What do you want, Blake?
The oily voice of Blake Updegraff IV causes a shiver to run up Wentworth’s spine.
Blake:I heard a rumor that you signed a contract with UCI. Congrats.
Wentworth:Good news travels fast. I’m just going to assume you didn’t fly across the country to wish me luck, and I’ll ask my question again. What do you want, Blake?
Blake looks at the wrestler, his slicked back hair and smarmy grin only serving to annoy Wentworth more.
Blake:I wanted to congratulate my cousin. Is that so crazy. I also wanted to let you know that if I had been representing you, your contract would be twice the size it is.
Wentworth stares down at his drink, letting out a light chuckle as he swirls the melting ice.
Wentworth:There we are. I should have figured. I’m representing myself, and I’m doing just fine.
Blake:Oh yeah, I’m sure your year at Yale prepared you to be an effective sports agent. What was your major again? Art history? Come on, man.
Wentworth:Art history is a perfectly viable major.
Blake:Save it for your guidance counselor, hippie. The fact is you’re clueless, and after what happened… well wrestling was already a cesspool, but current events don’t make it any easier to navigate. Now, you might not like me, but I swim in cesspools for fun. It’s what I do.
Wentworth:In about two hours you’re going to realize what you just said. Call me when that happens.
Blake:Would you shut up?! I’m trying to help you not make the same mistake my father did. Went, I might be a garbage human being in most people’s eyes, but you’re family. I just want to help… and take ten percent. That’s a standard fee though. I think if you shop around, you’ll find it quite reasonable.
Wentworth:Christ Blake, did you really think this would work? You might be good, but you’re not good enough for me to forget how much I want to punch you in your stupid, stupid face. I don’t care how much more money you think you could get.
Blake:Not think, know, and I’m talking double. Not to mention you’re inexperienced as hell. Lord knows you could use me in your corner. I made Benjamin Atreyu, and I can make you even bigger. Don’t be an idiot.
Wentworth:Thanks Blake… but no thanks. I have things handled. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it-
Blake:Don’t try to convince me you do.
Wentworth:but I’m doing this on my own.
Blake:MisTAKE! You don’t have to believe me now. You’ll realize it soon. You have my number.
Wentworth stays silent, and keeps his eyes forward, taking a long sip of his drink. Blake smiles sheepishly, and nods.
Blake:Point taken. Good luck at the press conference tomorrow. I’ll be watching.
Wentworth rolls his eyes, and swirls his drink a bit more. Blake turns and makes his way out the door, leaving the bar in its Sunday morning silence. After a few moments, Bruce walks over to Wentworth, and pretends to polish a glass.
Bruce:Man, what a prick.
Wentworth laughs.
Wentworth:You should meet his cousin.
____ __ _ _ _ ______
A small group of reporters gathers at the base of the giant, concrete staircase that leads to Wentworth’s family home, Wentworth Manor. An empty podium stands at the top, awaiting the speaker, who is fifteen minutes late. The tone from the reporters grows more annoyed by the minute, as they stand under the hot sun. After a few more minutes, the large, oak front doors swing open, and Wentworth Updegraff steps forward. He approaches the microphone, smoothing out his tie before speaking.
Wentworth:Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for joining me here today. It is my honor and privilege to announce to you that upon their debut, I will begin my tenure as an in ring competitor for United Championship Infinite. This is a spectacular, and proud day for the Updegraff family. I am not allowed to divulge too many details yet, but from what I understand, UCI has shown true wisdom in placing me in the main event of their first show. By branding themselves around their obvious future mega star, they have shown great judgement, and only served to heighten my confidence in them. I am excited to perform on this stage, and even more excited to start on the ground level with a promising young company such as UCI.
Wentworth stops, allowing the reporters to pointlessly shout their questions in unison for a moment, before holding up his hand to silence them.
Wentworth:There will be no questions.
He turns on his heel, and makes his way back into the house to the sound of several angry reporters. Large paintings and intricate woodwork surround him as he makes his way down the main hall, into the library. Shelf upon shelf of books layer the room, beautiful furniture scattered across the hardwood floor. Wentworth smiles a self-congratulatory smile, before slumping down in an old, high back velvet chair, and removing his phone from his pocket. He turns on the camera function, and points it at himself.
Wentworth:Teddy, Jay, Shadow… I’m making this video especially for you, because there are some things a gentleman doesn’t say in the public eye, but sometimes they need to be said. The man you three will be facing on Sunday is no ordinary man. You might not know the name Wentworth Updegraff Jr. right now, but you will. I know just about every jackass on the planet pretends they’re destined for greatness, but I’m the real thing, and I’ve known it since I was ten years old.
He hops off the chair, and takes the camera down a hallway to the wooden door at the end. He throws it open and steps inside, allowing the small camera to pan around the room. Covering the walls are pictures, articles, trophies, and medals, all from Wentworth’s amature wrestling days. When the rotation is finished, he turns the camera back on himself, and continues speaking.
Wentworth:This room speaks for itself, but since some of you aren’t the brightest knives in the bush, I’ll speak for it just a little. Three time state champion. National champion my senior year. Full ride scholarships to some of the most prestigious schools on the planet. I don’t know what it’s like NOT to have someone say “All-American” before my name. Far be it for me to sound bragadocious, but I think the word prodigy is justified here. So did most of the local newspapers, come to think of it.
He gives the camera a wink, before leaving the room, and heading back to the library. This time he has a seat on a long, red sofa, using the room to stretch out and get comfortable. He snaps his fingers at a far off servant, before turning his attention back to the camera.
Wentworth: It’s not just that I’m one of the most physically gifted, hard working, competitive, good looking human beings on the planet. That’s only part of the picture. People these days discount how much breeding plays into it. My father was a winner, and his father was a winner, so it’s natural that their genes created yet another winner. That’s the thing, guys. You can work as hard as you want, be as big as you want, know everything about wrestling, and I STILL start with the advantage. I look around UCI, and all I see is loser genetics trying to exist in a winner’s world. I’m here to put a stop to it.
The servant returns, sliding small glass of amber liquid into Wentworth’s hands. He takes a drink, and smiles, savoring it with his eyes closed. After a moment, he opens them, and smiles at the camera.
Wentworth:Most people want to think they’re winners, but they’re not. They can’t be. There can only be a few of us, and after this tournament, there’s only going to be one. The other guys in my match have to stand back and ask themselves a question. When you guys look at this entire roster, and all the people involved in this tournament, do you REALLY see yourself rising to the top? Can you really say you think you’re good enough to be proclaimed the best of the ridiculous roster of talent we have? I think you know deep in your hearts that that’s not going to happen. There is one of us that can rise above, though. One of the four of us who is better than the rabble, better than the huddled masses that think they can be champion. I am greatness personified. I alone stand above the entire UCI roster. You don’t have to believe me now, because I intend to prove it this Sunday.
He drains the glass, and sets it on a nearby table, before hopping up and walking around the vast space surrounded by books. He runs his hand along a set of spines, reading the titles silently as he walks.
Wentworth:Don’t get me wrong, gentlemen. I look forward to our match, especially the chance to see you again, Jay. All three of you are… relatively talented wrestlers. It should be a fantastic match, but that doesn’t change the fact that when the bell rings, and you’re laying on the canvas, evolution will have run its course, and the true greatness, the man at the top of the food chain will be standing tall, ready to move on to immortality. I have no doubt that one or two of you will get a shot at the title eventually, but this isn’t your time, it’s mine. You can pretend all you want, but at the end of the day the laws of the nature will not be denied. The great rise to the top, while the mediocre fall at their feet, begging for scraps. Rest assured, when I am champion, my scraps will be generous. Good luck, boys. The inferior often need it to win.
Wentworth smiles, and gives the camera a wave, before sending the screen to black.
1.an underground hole or container for holding liquid waste (such as sewage) from a building
2. a place or situation that is very dirty, evil, or corrupt
-Merriam Webster
The sun shines bright overhead, warming the smiling faces of the people milling about the park. Playground equipment and walking paths surround and lead outward from a large, stone fountain. Trees and flowers sprout up from the ground, greeting the Saturday morning revelers. Laughter can be heard rising above the low hum of the crowd, as a portly young child skips down the path toward the sound of running water, a dollar’s worth of quarters jingling in his pocket. He reaches the edge of the fountain and stops, pulling the change from his pocket. He closes his eyes, makes a silent wish, and tosses one of the coins into the water. A voice causes the child’s head to turn to the left, where he sees Wentworth Updegraff Jr. sitting on a bench, dressed in a black and grey Italian suit.
Wentworth:Hey kid. You want some good advice?
The child only stares at wentworth, slack jawed and confused. Wentworth continues as if the child had answered him.
Wentworth:You’re young, but I hope you remember this forever: wishes are for suckers. Losers wish. Winners go out and get. Winners don’t need to wish, because winners take. You know what a winner would do? A winner would take that change you got left, and go put it in a piggy bank. Save as much as possible, because shit’s about to get real. Oil is about to skyrocket, and everything’s going to collapse. You can thank Obama, the democrats, and their bleeding heart ideas about not bombing a country and seizing its oil reserves for that.
A fearful tear begins to well up in the child’s eye.
Kid:W-what’s a demokat?
Wentworth:A Democrat is an evil, impish little creature who wants to take all the money from good, hard working people like me, and give it to the lazy window lickers that work at places like Pizza Hut, McDonald’s and…*shudder* Wal-Mart. They’re going to collapse our entire economy, and by the time you’re all grown up, the government will be rationing water and forcing you into labor camps.
The floodgates burst, and the child begins to sob, a high pitched squeal coming from his open mouth, as he runs away from the fountain as fast as he can. Wentworth shakes his head, and stands to his feet, making his way in the opposite direction. Before leaving, he looks into the camera with a wry grin.
Wentworth:He’ll thank me some day.
___ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ __ _
“Clink clink” Ice cubes bounce against the sides of the glass. Wentworth Updegraff Jr. slowly pours himself a drink, and makes his way across his spacious living room. He watches through the panoramic windows as the sun rises lazily over the Danbury skyline, the buildings casting long shadows across the ground. Wentworth undoes his bow tie, and the top button of his shirt, before flopping down into a comfortable leather recliner. He takes a sip and smiles.
Wentworth:Oh scotch, you get me.
Reginald:Don’t you think it’s a tad early, sir?
Wentworth spins his chair around to see his butler dressed in a pristine servant’s tuxedo. The man’s ebony skin is wrinkled and sagging, but the energy of a much younger man is still evident in him, as he is already hard at work preparing for the day.
Wentworth:It’s still last night for me, Reginald.
Reginald:I told you sir, my name is Charles.
Wentworth:And I told YOU that as long as you work for me, your name is Reginald.
Reginald:Yes sir.
The butler’s tone is acidic, but Wentworth ignores it, taking another sip and turning back toward the sunrise. His gaze wanders over the ocean of pastel hues, taking in the beauty through weary, bloodshot eyes. Hazy ghosts of the night before dance on the edge of his memory, taunting him with their familiar song. He only smiles, and finishes his drink.
Wentworth:You should have been there, Reginald. The party was still in full swing when I left.
The old butler lets out a one-note laugh.
Reginald:I’m afraid my days of staying out past midnight drinking whisky ended with the Carter administration, sir.
Wentworth:Watch your mouth! Rednecks drink whisky. I drink scotch, and doing so in the company of beautiful women makes it a classy affair.
Reginald:Only until 2 in the morning. After that, it’s simply a bad decision.
Wentworth:Where were you four hours ago?
Reginald:Tucked safely in my bed, like most people.
Wentworth:If your legs were as fast as your tongue, I’d have breakfast already.
Reginald:Is that a request for breakfast, Master Updegraff?
Wentworth swirls the ice cubes around in the otherwise empty glass, staring intently past them. He turns his attention back out the window, to the sky that has slowly turned a bright orange.
Wentworth:... No. My stomach couldn’t handle it right now. I wouldn’t mind another drink, though.
Reginald:Sir, with all due respect I have never in my life seen you mind another drink.
Wentworth smirks at the man, as his glass is temporarily taken away.
Wentworth:Reginald… this is probably not my smartest question, but did you always want to be a butler?
The question gives the butler a moment of pause. He answers while pouring Wentworth’s drink.
Reginald:I suppose so, sir. It is a family profession. My father was a butler, and his father before him. Believe it or not, I have one nephew currently on staff at the white house. People may look down on it, but to me it is noble work.
Wentworth: Yes, but do you enjoy it?
Reginald pauses once again, searching his mind for the proper words.
Reginald:I suppose I enjoy it well enough. I believe we were put here to serve. Given that, what greater career could one have? Why do you ask, sir?
Wentworth:Just thinking…
Reginald:About Yale again, sir?
Wentworth:...yeah.
Reginald:I thought that might be the case.
Reginald sets the glass down next to Wentworth, followed by an envelope with the UCI logo in the corner. He stares at it for a good ten seconds before the sight actually registers. He snatches the envelope off the table and tears it open, pulling the letter out so recklessly that it almost tears in half. His eyes move over the letters, his lips moving as he reads. At a certain point, a wide smile appears on his face.
Wentworth:Reginald, call Martha, I’m going to need a new singlet.
Reginald:Already done, sir… I had a hunch.
Wentworth takes a swig of his drink, and hops up from his chair.
Wentworth:I’m going to need a new suit too. Call a press conference, we need to get out in front-
Reginald:Master Updegraff, it’s six A.M. on a Sunday. I think a press conference can wait until tomorrow.
Updegraff stops, his head dropping in exasperation. He quickly finishes his second drink, and begins walking toward his room.
Wentworth:Shit… it’s Sunday. Run me a shower, Reginald. Mass starts at eight.
___ _ _ _____ _____
The priest’s low, Latin droning echoes through the gigantic sanctuary. All around, gargoyles hang from the top of the walls, and paintings sit with judgmental stares permanently plastered on their faces. Golden cups and plates sit behind the priest, and elegant red drapery hangs from all angles. All of this is for a half empty room of mostly bored but obligated people. Wentworth lets his eyes drift around lazily. Of the dozen or so people he sees, half are wearing headphones, five are checking Facebook, and one is actually paying attention to the priest. Though, he’s so old, Wentworth thinks it may be dementia setting in. Updegraff silently curses himself for making this promise to his grandmother. A woman on her deathbed can be quite persuasive.
The priest says something, and without hearing the full sentence, Wentworth kneels robotically, along with the rest of the attendees. The small padded beam on the floor does little to alleviate his discomfort. The same can not be said for the attractive young woman that sneaks into the back of the room, and kneels just a few feet down the pew from Wentworth. Her tan skin hiding under long black locks and a modest green dress. He knows she’s there before he sees her. A sort of sixth sense he’s had since puberty. Once everyone is seated again, he inches over to her and whispers.
Wentworth:You’re not one of the regulars. New convert? It’s that cool new pope isn’t it? That guy is a marketing genius.
The woman gives him a genuine smile, and a look like she’s considering him for a moment.
Alicia:In from out of town. Visiting my parents.
Wentworth:A family girl. I like it. My name’s Allen.
Alicia:Alicia. Nice to meet you, Allen. Do you always make it a habit to pick up on women during mass?
He smirks.
Wentworth:Eh, nobody understands Latin anyway. Truth be told, I’m mostly here because I promised my grandma I would be. How about you? True believer?
Alicia:Great aunt.
Wentworth:And so dedicated that you even go when you’re out of town. That’s impressive. I wasn’t into you when you first walked in, but you’re looking better and better.
She chuckles and rolls her eyes, fiddling with a strand of her hair.
Alicia:Oh really?
Wentworth:No, not really. I hit confessional before the service, and had to go again about fifteen seconds after you sat down. Somehow I think Father Mulcahy will understand.
He motions toward one of the priests. When Alicia looks up, she sees him staring at her, but he immediately looks away. Alicia has to cover her mouth to cover her high pitched laughter.
Wentworth:Can you blame the guy? They don’t even get to take care of themselves. Poor bastards. Can you imagine any greater hell than a life of repression and frustration? All of it bubbling under the service just begging to be released… anyway, where are you from?
Alicia:Wow… does this usually work for you?
Wentworth:Eh, about fifty fifty. Is it working on you?
Alicia:No... but I’m intrigued. Tell you what, give me your number and I’ll give you a call next time I’m in town. Give you another shot at it. I feel like there’s some promise beneath the immature nonsense.
Wentworth:Not really. Mostly just more immature nonsense. I appreciate your commitment to second chances though.
Wentworth reaches forward, grabbing a pen and a tithing envelope from the back of the pew in front of him. He scribbles his number down and slides the paper into Alicia’s hand. She slips it into her handbag with a smile.
Alicia:Thanks. I think I’m gonna go so you can concentrate. Seems like you need it more than I do.
Without giving Wentworth a chance to protest, she gets up and makes her way toward the front of the room. He watches her for several minutes, before laughing at himself and shrugging.
Wentworth:I’ll count it as a win.
He sits for another ten minutes that feels like an hour. When he can’t take anymore, he rises from the uncomfortable wooden pew, crosses himself, and makes sure to slip an extra twenty in the donation box on his way out. He pays no attention to the ornate statues that move past him. He’s seen them more times than he cares to count. He does notice the warmth of the sunshine, and the soothing breeze, as he throws open the heavy wooden doors and steps out onto the sidewalk. Making his way down the road, he takes a deep breath, enjoying the smell of spring. He stands still and smiles to himself, before turning and ducking through the door to a small bar.
Inside, the air is thick with last night’s smoke. The space is small, occupied by only a few tables and the long, wooden bar. Behind it stands a portly, balding man, who is already pouring a drink for Wentworth. The hard soles of his leather shoes clap against the wooden flor as he steps over to the bar and has a seat.
Wentworth:How we doin’ Bruce?
Bruce:Makin’ it by. You’re late.
Wentworth:Stayed a little longer today.
Bruce:Little extra guilt, or pretty girl?
Wentworth:Pretty doesn’t even begin to describe her, Bruce. This is the kinda girl you just want to… get a hotel room and spend more than one night with. You know?
Bruce laughs and passes him a drink, fidgeting with his wedding ring.
Bruce:Yeah, I think I know what you mean.
Before either man can say another word, the door swings open violently. The sight of the short, thin figure in the pinstripe suit causes Wentworth to roll his eyes, and turn back toward the bar. Despite his obvious discomfort, the man strolls across the floor, and sits on the adjacent stool. Wentworth tries to ignore him for a moment, but can’t.
Wentworth:What do you want, Blake?
The oily voice of Blake Updegraff IV causes a shiver to run up Wentworth’s spine.
Blake:I heard a rumor that you signed a contract with UCI. Congrats.
Wentworth:Good news travels fast. I’m just going to assume you didn’t fly across the country to wish me luck, and I’ll ask my question again. What do you want, Blake?
Blake looks at the wrestler, his slicked back hair and smarmy grin only serving to annoy Wentworth more.
Blake:I wanted to congratulate my cousin. Is that so crazy. I also wanted to let you know that if I had been representing you, your contract would be twice the size it is.
Wentworth stares down at his drink, letting out a light chuckle as he swirls the melting ice.
Wentworth:There we are. I should have figured. I’m representing myself, and I’m doing just fine.
Blake:Oh yeah, I’m sure your year at Yale prepared you to be an effective sports agent. What was your major again? Art history? Come on, man.
Wentworth:Art history is a perfectly viable major.
Blake:Save it for your guidance counselor, hippie. The fact is you’re clueless, and after what happened… well wrestling was already a cesspool, but current events don’t make it any easier to navigate. Now, you might not like me, but I swim in cesspools for fun. It’s what I do.
Wentworth:In about two hours you’re going to realize what you just said. Call me when that happens.
Blake:Would you shut up?! I’m trying to help you not make the same mistake my father did. Went, I might be a garbage human being in most people’s eyes, but you’re family. I just want to help… and take ten percent. That’s a standard fee though. I think if you shop around, you’ll find it quite reasonable.
Wentworth:Christ Blake, did you really think this would work? You might be good, but you’re not good enough for me to forget how much I want to punch you in your stupid, stupid face. I don’t care how much more money you think you could get.
Blake:Not think, know, and I’m talking double. Not to mention you’re inexperienced as hell. Lord knows you could use me in your corner. I made Benjamin Atreyu, and I can make you even bigger. Don’t be an idiot.
Wentworth:Thanks Blake… but no thanks. I have things handled. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it-
Blake:Don’t try to convince me you do.
Wentworth:but I’m doing this on my own.
Blake:MisTAKE! You don’t have to believe me now. You’ll realize it soon. You have my number.
Wentworth stays silent, and keeps his eyes forward, taking a long sip of his drink. Blake smiles sheepishly, and nods.
Blake:Point taken. Good luck at the press conference tomorrow. I’ll be watching.
Wentworth rolls his eyes, and swirls his drink a bit more. Blake turns and makes his way out the door, leaving the bar in its Sunday morning silence. After a few moments, Bruce walks over to Wentworth, and pretends to polish a glass.
Bruce:Man, what a prick.
Wentworth laughs.
Wentworth:You should meet his cousin.
____ __ _ _ _ ______
A small group of reporters gathers at the base of the giant, concrete staircase that leads to Wentworth’s family home, Wentworth Manor. An empty podium stands at the top, awaiting the speaker, who is fifteen minutes late. The tone from the reporters grows more annoyed by the minute, as they stand under the hot sun. After a few more minutes, the large, oak front doors swing open, and Wentworth Updegraff steps forward. He approaches the microphone, smoothing out his tie before speaking.
Wentworth:Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for joining me here today. It is my honor and privilege to announce to you that upon their debut, I will begin my tenure as an in ring competitor for United Championship Infinite. This is a spectacular, and proud day for the Updegraff family. I am not allowed to divulge too many details yet, but from what I understand, UCI has shown true wisdom in placing me in the main event of their first show. By branding themselves around their obvious future mega star, they have shown great judgement, and only served to heighten my confidence in them. I am excited to perform on this stage, and even more excited to start on the ground level with a promising young company such as UCI.
Wentworth stops, allowing the reporters to pointlessly shout their questions in unison for a moment, before holding up his hand to silence them.
Wentworth:There will be no questions.
He turns on his heel, and makes his way back into the house to the sound of several angry reporters. Large paintings and intricate woodwork surround him as he makes his way down the main hall, into the library. Shelf upon shelf of books layer the room, beautiful furniture scattered across the hardwood floor. Wentworth smiles a self-congratulatory smile, before slumping down in an old, high back velvet chair, and removing his phone from his pocket. He turns on the camera function, and points it at himself.
Wentworth:Teddy, Jay, Shadow… I’m making this video especially for you, because there are some things a gentleman doesn’t say in the public eye, but sometimes they need to be said. The man you three will be facing on Sunday is no ordinary man. You might not know the name Wentworth Updegraff Jr. right now, but you will. I know just about every jackass on the planet pretends they’re destined for greatness, but I’m the real thing, and I’ve known it since I was ten years old.
He hops off the chair, and takes the camera down a hallway to the wooden door at the end. He throws it open and steps inside, allowing the small camera to pan around the room. Covering the walls are pictures, articles, trophies, and medals, all from Wentworth’s amature wrestling days. When the rotation is finished, he turns the camera back on himself, and continues speaking.
Wentworth:This room speaks for itself, but since some of you aren’t the brightest knives in the bush, I’ll speak for it just a little. Three time state champion. National champion my senior year. Full ride scholarships to some of the most prestigious schools on the planet. I don’t know what it’s like NOT to have someone say “All-American” before my name. Far be it for me to sound bragadocious, but I think the word prodigy is justified here. So did most of the local newspapers, come to think of it.
He gives the camera a wink, before leaving the room, and heading back to the library. This time he has a seat on a long, red sofa, using the room to stretch out and get comfortable. He snaps his fingers at a far off servant, before turning his attention back to the camera.
Wentworth: It’s not just that I’m one of the most physically gifted, hard working, competitive, good looking human beings on the planet. That’s only part of the picture. People these days discount how much breeding plays into it. My father was a winner, and his father was a winner, so it’s natural that their genes created yet another winner. That’s the thing, guys. You can work as hard as you want, be as big as you want, know everything about wrestling, and I STILL start with the advantage. I look around UCI, and all I see is loser genetics trying to exist in a winner’s world. I’m here to put a stop to it.
The servant returns, sliding small glass of amber liquid into Wentworth’s hands. He takes a drink, and smiles, savoring it with his eyes closed. After a moment, he opens them, and smiles at the camera.
Wentworth:Most people want to think they’re winners, but they’re not. They can’t be. There can only be a few of us, and after this tournament, there’s only going to be one. The other guys in my match have to stand back and ask themselves a question. When you guys look at this entire roster, and all the people involved in this tournament, do you REALLY see yourself rising to the top? Can you really say you think you’re good enough to be proclaimed the best of the ridiculous roster of talent we have? I think you know deep in your hearts that that’s not going to happen. There is one of us that can rise above, though. One of the four of us who is better than the rabble, better than the huddled masses that think they can be champion. I am greatness personified. I alone stand above the entire UCI roster. You don’t have to believe me now, because I intend to prove it this Sunday.
He drains the glass, and sets it on a nearby table, before hopping up and walking around the vast space surrounded by books. He runs his hand along a set of spines, reading the titles silently as he walks.
Wentworth:Don’t get me wrong, gentlemen. I look forward to our match, especially the chance to see you again, Jay. All three of you are… relatively talented wrestlers. It should be a fantastic match, but that doesn’t change the fact that when the bell rings, and you’re laying on the canvas, evolution will have run its course, and the true greatness, the man at the top of the food chain will be standing tall, ready to move on to immortality. I have no doubt that one or two of you will get a shot at the title eventually, but this isn’t your time, it’s mine. You can pretend all you want, but at the end of the day the laws of the nature will not be denied. The great rise to the top, while the mediocre fall at their feet, begging for scraps. Rest assured, when I am champion, my scraps will be generous. Good luck, boys. The inferior often need it to win.
Wentworth smiles, and gives the camera a wave, before sending the screen to black.
