Post by Wentworth Updegraff Jr. on Jun 5, 2016 12:43:46 GMT -6
Loud music blares through the hotel suite filled by friends, acquaintances, and fame leeches from Wentworth Updegraff’s personal rolodex. Mostly, and entirely naked women in fancy masks move through the room, serving trays full of alcohol held above their heads. They pause occasionally to serve a group of revelers, before continuing on their path around the room. Loud chatter fills the room, as intoxicated party goers bustle about. The crowd parts as Wentworth Updegraff Jr. steps out amongst them, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, with the brand new Television title wrapped around his waist. In one hand he holds a microphone, in the other, a quickly disappearing glass of champagne. He moves through the crowd, and steps onto a small, makeshift stage in the front of the room. He taps the mic a few times, an irritating squeal letting him know it’s on.
Wentworth:Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for coming to my Television championship party! It’s an honor to have you all here, but it’s even more of an honor to have this little silver beauty wrapped around my midsection. Rest assured, it will be there for a very long time!
A cheer goes up from the crowd, as Wentworth’s eyes wander over their faces. The vast majority of them may as well be strangers, but they’re there to see Wentworth, and to him, that’s all that really matters. He gives them a smile, soaking up their sycophantic adoration for a moment before continuing.
Wentworth:Tonight is not the night for temperance, my friends! No no no. Tonight is a night to truly celebrate, to make this party the stuff of legend. Tonight I give you the task of putting Caligula to shame! To help you with that, allow me to introduce the man I have dubbed the enabler for the night. He is known coast to coast as the elder god of the element of party. His exploits are whispered in hushed tones among the most adventurous of festival goers. Ladies and gentlemen, the man Keith Richards once referred to as way too intense, Hunter Updegraff!
Wentworth steps to the side, and hands the microphone to a tall, lanky man covered in tattoos. On top of his head sits a set of corn row, and a pair of sunglasses with gold, diamond encrusted rims. The grill in his teeth matches the sunglasses, with the diamonds spelling out “Hunter” across his top teeth. Multiple gold rings adorn each hand, as he raises the microphone to his lips.
Hunter:YO YO YO! You are now rollin’ with a party run by Hunter Updegraff, AKA King Koopa Bloopa, AKA the white Oprah Winfrey, AKA Snidely Seat Wetter, AKA Billy McAwesomepants, AKA Lasagna Tom, AKA Darth Laid Her, AKA The Incredible Mr. X, AKA Dat Cracka, AKA Steve! That means we about to get stupid up in this bitch!
The crowd cheers again, as Wentworth stands off to the side, sipping his drink and watching his brother with amusement.
Hunter:Tonight I am your party facilitator! Anything you need, you come to me. I ain’t leavin’ here tonight ‘til everybody is swervin’ and all the bitches is naked! WHAT WHAT!
As the crow cheers him once more, he reaches into his pockets, and pulls out two handfuls of multi-colored pills. He tosses them out into the crowd, like candy at a parade. The party goers scramble to grab what they can, and jam it into their mouths. Hunter looks back and give Wentworth a wink, before dropping the mic and wading out into the crowd. Wentworth smiles, and turns to his left, making his way out onto the large patio. The platform overlooks the city, giving Wentworth a perfect view of the sparkling dots given off by the buildings and cars. A beautiful, impressionist tapestry of blinking lights weave their way across the horizon, eventually fading off into the darkness. Wentworth leans against the steel railing, letting the breeze cool his face as he takes a sip of champagne. He basks in the quiet for only a moment before the door open. He spins around to see the thin figure of Hunter Updegraff walking toward him.
Wentworth:Hey Hunter. Thanks for coming, man. I appreciate it.
Hunter:Naw dawg, thank YOU. After what happened in Mexico, the whole family turnt they backs on me. It was fucked up, but you was always there for me. That’s love, homie.
Wentworth shrugs, draining his drink.
Wentworth:You’re my big brother. You taught me how to pick up women for god’s sake. What am I supposed to do? Besides, most of our family’s a bunch of uptight assholes anyway. They just don’t get you… I mean, neither do I, but I’m not gonna be a dick about it.
Hunter:Fuck yeah, homie. Hey, speakin’ of pickin’ up women, you remember them flim flams we used to run on chicks back in the day? I thought of a new one. I call it “Hey, my brother’s the new TV champ.” I think it’s gonna do big numbers dawg. Ladies love the gold. You know.
Wentworth laughs and nods his head.
Wentworth:For sure. Why don’t you go in and keep the party moving? I’ll be in in a bit and we can give it a shot.
Hunter:Fa sho fa sho. I’ll see you in there.
Hunter turns and opens the door, allowing the music and loud voices to burst out onto the patio again. He pauses in the doorway, and throws his arms out wide.
Hunter:Hey HEEEEEEY! King Koopa Bloopa wanna see some titties!
Wentworth laughs at his brother, as the door swings shut, silencing the party once more. He sits in the relative silence, watching as tiny red lights below dot the road. A quiet hon or two drifts up from the congested road, as Wentworth turns around, and has a seat on the ground, his back against the concrete barrier. After a moment or two, he takes the title belt from his waist, and set it on his shoulder. He then pulls the cell phone from his inner breast pocket, and begins to record himself.
Wentworth:Hey there UCI fans! It’s three weeks in. I think I can call you that now. Anyway, it’s your Television champion speaking, so stop typing that blog about how much you’re going to hate the new Ghostbusters movie, and pay attention. I won’t take much of your time. I only wanted to take a moment and congratulate myself on being your first ever TV champion. It was a grueling task, but one I conquered quite honorably, if I do say so myself. Not everyone sees it that way though… those are the people I wanted to talk to tonight.
Wentworth’s typical jocular grin turns to a look of anger. He glares into the camera, silent for a few moments before speaking.
Wentworth:There are a lot of… misguided individuals out there who feel the need to spit on my title reign. They say that I only earned my shot by losing in the world title tournament. They say that if Jay Omega wasn’t on his way to the world title, he would have beaten me for this too. Those people don’t understand that I earned my title shot by getting screwed out of the World title by a spoiled little old money opportunist who never could have beaten me one on one. I got the title by valiantly defeating two of the best UCI has to offer. I don’t have to prove anything to anybody. I am YOUR television champion, and that’s just how it is. Learn to deal with it, haters.
Wentworth’s smile quickly returns, as he stands to his feet, and turns so the camera is facing the large window behind him. Inside, the party is raging. Lights flash, music thumps, and the guests inside are dancing like tomorrow won’t be coming.
Wentworth:You see that? That’s all for me. You know why? Because this is a big fucking deal. Some of you don’t understand quite how big, so allow me to explain. There is no world champion right now. No tag champions. No women’s champion. I am the ONLY champion in UCI. That means, for all intents and purposes, I am the world champion. I stand atop the roster as the only man so far deemed worthy of a championship. That means whoever wins the tournament must live up to my greatness. They must understand that I was there first, and thus, every fan in that audience will constantly be comparing them to the unattainable awesomeness that is Wentworth Updegraff Jr., YOUR television champion.
Wentworth turns back around, and hops up into a sitting position on the ledge. The only image the camera now has of him is his silhouette against the light pollution of the city below.
Wentworth:I suppose I should say a few words about my opponent, Shadowlove. People have been comparing us since day one. I guess because we’re both good looking, egotistical assholes. That’s where the similarities end and the differences begin. For instance, I don’t need a hired Thai ladyboy to speak for me. I speak for myself, always. It’s a skill you should learn. Another difference between you and I is that I’ve actually proven something so far. You say being TV champ would be just another day for you, but you’re NOT TV champ. Are you? No. You’re just another nobody, sitting beneath me, wishing they had what I have in spades. You can talk all you want, but none of it means anything until you actually take this title from me.
Wentworth stays on the ledge, letting his legs dangle free. He looks behind him across the cityscape, his invisible smile growing. After a few moments, he turns back to the camera.
Wentworth:You know, a lot of people like to talk about wrestlers having “it”. Nobody can quite explain what “it” is. But this intangible thing is the thing that takes somebody from a nobody to a star. Whatever it is, I have so much of it, I’m dropping a box of it off at Savers this weekend. On the other hand, all you seem to have is an amazing ability to blather on endlessly about nothing. You say a lot of words, but at the end of the day, you take forever to say nothing. It’s funny how that parallels your in ring work. You can look good, and flex all you want, but when that bell rings, your true weakness is revealed. You’re not a competitor. You’re a wannabe celebrity who nobody’s going to remember two weeks after you retire. I’m a legend in the making, and every person watching me stomp you into a crepe on Sunday knows it. You know it too. I can see it in your eyes. So keep talking. Keep talking all the way to Sunday. You won’t be able to talk once they wire your jaw shut.
Wentworth hops down onto the patio, and makes his way back toward the party, allowing the light from the window to reveal his smiling face once more.
Wentworth:Unlike you, I don’t need an hour and a half to say what I have to say. Sunday, I walk in TV champion, I walk out TV champion. That’s not a guess, that’s not me boasting, that’s a promise. I know someday I’m going to lose this championship, but it won’t be to a walking horse’s ass like Shadowlove. So bang the ladyboy again, and pretend you’re interesting enough to be controversial. I’ll be busy showing everybody why there’s nobody in the wrestling world who deserves this title more than me. Not you, not Jay Omega, no-fucking-body. Remember that Sunday when you’re trying to get yourself hyped up. You’re coming face to face with a man you just flat out don’t deserve to beat. I wish you luck, but I don’t see this ending well for you, or anyone else who wants to try me. Have a good week. It’s going to be your last for a while.
Wentworth gives the camera wink, before hitting a button and sending it to black. He takes a moment to post it, before turning and throwing open the door, allowing the music and flashing lights to flood over him.
Wentworth:Alright! Who wants to blow the TV champ?!
A roar goes up from the crowd, as Wentworth allows the door to shut behind him, bathing the patio in relative silence again.
________________________
The mid-day sun shines in through the panoramic window in Wentworth’s living room, causing him to stagger back in pain as he steps out of his room. Dressed in a long, black, silk robe, his hair is an unregulated mess. He shields his eyes long enough to stumble cross the room, and hit the button that darkens the window enough times to almost hide the outside entirely. He leans against the wall, only allowed a few seconds to catch his breath before Reginald’s voice causes a lightning bolt of pain to shoot through his head and down his spine.
Reginald:Exceptional party last night, sir?
Wentworth:Inside voice! Damn you man!
The butler chuckles, and lowers his voice to a whisper.
Reginald:My apologies sir. I only noticed you kept no female companion last night. That only happens when things get more rowdy than usual.
Wentworth:No fema… SHIT! Alicia! I’m late! Reginald, gather my shoes!
He shouts the last sentence, as he sprints back into his room, trying his best to ignore the excruciating pain radiating from his skull. In a panic, he throws on the first suit he can grab, still buttoning up the shirt as he runs out into the living room. He tucks it in, and slides on his shoes, all while tying his tie.
Reginald:The limo is ready, sir.
Wentworth shouts a thank you on his way out the door. He slams his fist into the elevator button multiple times until the doors open. He checks his watch as the tiny room begins its slow decent.
Wentworth:Alright, if I hurry she might still be there. Christ you’re an idiot, Wentworth.
The elevator opens, and he launches forward, out the front doors. He throws open the door to his limousine, all but diving in. The driver hits the gas before Wentworth can even get situated, sending them careening through the mostly empty streets. Wentworth adjusts his cuffs and tie, smoothing out his hair in the large mirror he had installed across from his seat. After a few minutes, the vehicle comes to a screeching stop, and Wentworth jumps out, keeping his composure and walking quickly into the little bistro. He looks around, and his heart drops when Alicia is nowhere to be found. He drops his head, and silently curses himself. Suddenly, the sound of his phone going off from his pocket draws his attention. He pulls it out to see a text message from Alicia.
I know I’m late sending this, but I’m not going to be able to make it. I got sucked into a meeting, and it’s going way longer than I thought. I’ll talk to you next time I’m in town though. Sorry :..(
He stares at the message, reading it over and over in his head. After a minute, he look at himself, realizing what he’s done for this woman. He has to laugh, almost too loudly. A nearby employee approaches him with a look of fear in her round, blue eyes.
Waitress:Sir… can I help you?
Wentworth:Yeah… yeah you can. Where’s the nearest bar. I need a bloody Mary worse than anyone has ever needed one before in their lives. Of course, if you serve them all the better. It would be an honor to be served by a waitress as beautiful as you.
She blushes, and shows him to a table. Wentworth winks at an imaginary camera, before taking a seat and opening the menu.
Wentworth:Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for coming to my Television championship party! It’s an honor to have you all here, but it’s even more of an honor to have this little silver beauty wrapped around my midsection. Rest assured, it will be there for a very long time!
A cheer goes up from the crowd, as Wentworth’s eyes wander over their faces. The vast majority of them may as well be strangers, but they’re there to see Wentworth, and to him, that’s all that really matters. He gives them a smile, soaking up their sycophantic adoration for a moment before continuing.
Wentworth:Tonight is not the night for temperance, my friends! No no no. Tonight is a night to truly celebrate, to make this party the stuff of legend. Tonight I give you the task of putting Caligula to shame! To help you with that, allow me to introduce the man I have dubbed the enabler for the night. He is known coast to coast as the elder god of the element of party. His exploits are whispered in hushed tones among the most adventurous of festival goers. Ladies and gentlemen, the man Keith Richards once referred to as way too intense, Hunter Updegraff!
Wentworth steps to the side, and hands the microphone to a tall, lanky man covered in tattoos. On top of his head sits a set of corn row, and a pair of sunglasses with gold, diamond encrusted rims. The grill in his teeth matches the sunglasses, with the diamonds spelling out “Hunter” across his top teeth. Multiple gold rings adorn each hand, as he raises the microphone to his lips.
Hunter:YO YO YO! You are now rollin’ with a party run by Hunter Updegraff, AKA King Koopa Bloopa, AKA the white Oprah Winfrey, AKA Snidely Seat Wetter, AKA Billy McAwesomepants, AKA Lasagna Tom, AKA Darth Laid Her, AKA The Incredible Mr. X, AKA Dat Cracka, AKA Steve! That means we about to get stupid up in this bitch!
The crowd cheers again, as Wentworth stands off to the side, sipping his drink and watching his brother with amusement.
Hunter:Tonight I am your party facilitator! Anything you need, you come to me. I ain’t leavin’ here tonight ‘til everybody is swervin’ and all the bitches is naked! WHAT WHAT!
As the crow cheers him once more, he reaches into his pockets, and pulls out two handfuls of multi-colored pills. He tosses them out into the crowd, like candy at a parade. The party goers scramble to grab what they can, and jam it into their mouths. Hunter looks back and give Wentworth a wink, before dropping the mic and wading out into the crowd. Wentworth smiles, and turns to his left, making his way out onto the large patio. The platform overlooks the city, giving Wentworth a perfect view of the sparkling dots given off by the buildings and cars. A beautiful, impressionist tapestry of blinking lights weave their way across the horizon, eventually fading off into the darkness. Wentworth leans against the steel railing, letting the breeze cool his face as he takes a sip of champagne. He basks in the quiet for only a moment before the door open. He spins around to see the thin figure of Hunter Updegraff walking toward him.
Wentworth:Hey Hunter. Thanks for coming, man. I appreciate it.
Hunter:Naw dawg, thank YOU. After what happened in Mexico, the whole family turnt they backs on me. It was fucked up, but you was always there for me. That’s love, homie.
Wentworth shrugs, draining his drink.
Wentworth:You’re my big brother. You taught me how to pick up women for god’s sake. What am I supposed to do? Besides, most of our family’s a bunch of uptight assholes anyway. They just don’t get you… I mean, neither do I, but I’m not gonna be a dick about it.
Hunter:Fuck yeah, homie. Hey, speakin’ of pickin’ up women, you remember them flim flams we used to run on chicks back in the day? I thought of a new one. I call it “Hey, my brother’s the new TV champ.” I think it’s gonna do big numbers dawg. Ladies love the gold. You know.
Wentworth laughs and nods his head.
Wentworth:For sure. Why don’t you go in and keep the party moving? I’ll be in in a bit and we can give it a shot.
Hunter:Fa sho fa sho. I’ll see you in there.
Hunter turns and opens the door, allowing the music and loud voices to burst out onto the patio again. He pauses in the doorway, and throws his arms out wide.
Hunter:Hey HEEEEEEY! King Koopa Bloopa wanna see some titties!
Wentworth laughs at his brother, as the door swings shut, silencing the party once more. He sits in the relative silence, watching as tiny red lights below dot the road. A quiet hon or two drifts up from the congested road, as Wentworth turns around, and has a seat on the ground, his back against the concrete barrier. After a moment or two, he takes the title belt from his waist, and set it on his shoulder. He then pulls the cell phone from his inner breast pocket, and begins to record himself.
Wentworth:Hey there UCI fans! It’s three weeks in. I think I can call you that now. Anyway, it’s your Television champion speaking, so stop typing that blog about how much you’re going to hate the new Ghostbusters movie, and pay attention. I won’t take much of your time. I only wanted to take a moment and congratulate myself on being your first ever TV champion. It was a grueling task, but one I conquered quite honorably, if I do say so myself. Not everyone sees it that way though… those are the people I wanted to talk to tonight.
Wentworth’s typical jocular grin turns to a look of anger. He glares into the camera, silent for a few moments before speaking.
Wentworth:There are a lot of… misguided individuals out there who feel the need to spit on my title reign. They say that I only earned my shot by losing in the world title tournament. They say that if Jay Omega wasn’t on his way to the world title, he would have beaten me for this too. Those people don’t understand that I earned my title shot by getting screwed out of the World title by a spoiled little old money opportunist who never could have beaten me one on one. I got the title by valiantly defeating two of the best UCI has to offer. I don’t have to prove anything to anybody. I am YOUR television champion, and that’s just how it is. Learn to deal with it, haters.
Wentworth’s smile quickly returns, as he stands to his feet, and turns so the camera is facing the large window behind him. Inside, the party is raging. Lights flash, music thumps, and the guests inside are dancing like tomorrow won’t be coming.
Wentworth:You see that? That’s all for me. You know why? Because this is a big fucking deal. Some of you don’t understand quite how big, so allow me to explain. There is no world champion right now. No tag champions. No women’s champion. I am the ONLY champion in UCI. That means, for all intents and purposes, I am the world champion. I stand atop the roster as the only man so far deemed worthy of a championship. That means whoever wins the tournament must live up to my greatness. They must understand that I was there first, and thus, every fan in that audience will constantly be comparing them to the unattainable awesomeness that is Wentworth Updegraff Jr., YOUR television champion.
Wentworth turns back around, and hops up into a sitting position on the ledge. The only image the camera now has of him is his silhouette against the light pollution of the city below.
Wentworth:I suppose I should say a few words about my opponent, Shadowlove. People have been comparing us since day one. I guess because we’re both good looking, egotistical assholes. That’s where the similarities end and the differences begin. For instance, I don’t need a hired Thai ladyboy to speak for me. I speak for myself, always. It’s a skill you should learn. Another difference between you and I is that I’ve actually proven something so far. You say being TV champ would be just another day for you, but you’re NOT TV champ. Are you? No. You’re just another nobody, sitting beneath me, wishing they had what I have in spades. You can talk all you want, but none of it means anything until you actually take this title from me.
Wentworth stays on the ledge, letting his legs dangle free. He looks behind him across the cityscape, his invisible smile growing. After a few moments, he turns back to the camera.
Wentworth:You know, a lot of people like to talk about wrestlers having “it”. Nobody can quite explain what “it” is. But this intangible thing is the thing that takes somebody from a nobody to a star. Whatever it is, I have so much of it, I’m dropping a box of it off at Savers this weekend. On the other hand, all you seem to have is an amazing ability to blather on endlessly about nothing. You say a lot of words, but at the end of the day, you take forever to say nothing. It’s funny how that parallels your in ring work. You can look good, and flex all you want, but when that bell rings, your true weakness is revealed. You’re not a competitor. You’re a wannabe celebrity who nobody’s going to remember two weeks after you retire. I’m a legend in the making, and every person watching me stomp you into a crepe on Sunday knows it. You know it too. I can see it in your eyes. So keep talking. Keep talking all the way to Sunday. You won’t be able to talk once they wire your jaw shut.
Wentworth hops down onto the patio, and makes his way back toward the party, allowing the light from the window to reveal his smiling face once more.
Wentworth:Unlike you, I don’t need an hour and a half to say what I have to say. Sunday, I walk in TV champion, I walk out TV champion. That’s not a guess, that’s not me boasting, that’s a promise. I know someday I’m going to lose this championship, but it won’t be to a walking horse’s ass like Shadowlove. So bang the ladyboy again, and pretend you’re interesting enough to be controversial. I’ll be busy showing everybody why there’s nobody in the wrestling world who deserves this title more than me. Not you, not Jay Omega, no-fucking-body. Remember that Sunday when you’re trying to get yourself hyped up. You’re coming face to face with a man you just flat out don’t deserve to beat. I wish you luck, but I don’t see this ending well for you, or anyone else who wants to try me. Have a good week. It’s going to be your last for a while.
Wentworth gives the camera wink, before hitting a button and sending it to black. He takes a moment to post it, before turning and throwing open the door, allowing the music and flashing lights to flood over him.
Wentworth:Alright! Who wants to blow the TV champ?!
A roar goes up from the crowd, as Wentworth allows the door to shut behind him, bathing the patio in relative silence again.
________________________
The mid-day sun shines in through the panoramic window in Wentworth’s living room, causing him to stagger back in pain as he steps out of his room. Dressed in a long, black, silk robe, his hair is an unregulated mess. He shields his eyes long enough to stumble cross the room, and hit the button that darkens the window enough times to almost hide the outside entirely. He leans against the wall, only allowed a few seconds to catch his breath before Reginald’s voice causes a lightning bolt of pain to shoot through his head and down his spine.
Reginald:Exceptional party last night, sir?
Wentworth:Inside voice! Damn you man!
The butler chuckles, and lowers his voice to a whisper.
Reginald:My apologies sir. I only noticed you kept no female companion last night. That only happens when things get more rowdy than usual.
Wentworth:No fema… SHIT! Alicia! I’m late! Reginald, gather my shoes!
He shouts the last sentence, as he sprints back into his room, trying his best to ignore the excruciating pain radiating from his skull. In a panic, he throws on the first suit he can grab, still buttoning up the shirt as he runs out into the living room. He tucks it in, and slides on his shoes, all while tying his tie.
Reginald:The limo is ready, sir.
Wentworth shouts a thank you on his way out the door. He slams his fist into the elevator button multiple times until the doors open. He checks his watch as the tiny room begins its slow decent.
Wentworth:Alright, if I hurry she might still be there. Christ you’re an idiot, Wentworth.
The elevator opens, and he launches forward, out the front doors. He throws open the door to his limousine, all but diving in. The driver hits the gas before Wentworth can even get situated, sending them careening through the mostly empty streets. Wentworth adjusts his cuffs and tie, smoothing out his hair in the large mirror he had installed across from his seat. After a few minutes, the vehicle comes to a screeching stop, and Wentworth jumps out, keeping his composure and walking quickly into the little bistro. He looks around, and his heart drops when Alicia is nowhere to be found. He drops his head, and silently curses himself. Suddenly, the sound of his phone going off from his pocket draws his attention. He pulls it out to see a text message from Alicia.
I know I’m late sending this, but I’m not going to be able to make it. I got sucked into a meeting, and it’s going way longer than I thought. I’ll talk to you next time I’m in town though. Sorry :..(
He stares at the message, reading it over and over in his head. After a minute, he look at himself, realizing what he’s done for this woman. He has to laugh, almost too loudly. A nearby employee approaches him with a look of fear in her round, blue eyes.
Waitress:Sir… can I help you?
Wentworth:Yeah… yeah you can. Where’s the nearest bar. I need a bloody Mary worse than anyone has ever needed one before in their lives. Of course, if you serve them all the better. It would be an honor to be served by a waitress as beautiful as you.
She blushes, and shows him to a table. Wentworth winks at an imaginary camera, before taking a seat and opening the menu.
