Raike versus Knux

“Pure Morning” and a close up of a crystal ball fade into a shot of Johnny Raike posing in his living room, only notable change to the tasteful yet understated décor of the room being a framed, signed copy of Alladin Sane. Johnny is actually bundled up for once, a Chanel scarf clashing horribly with a pine green and black drug rug. He shrugs to the camera.

Johnny: “Well, that miserable little shit winter found us again. I would like to challenge them to a match so I can kick their ass so hard they can toss their own salad, but winter has so far declined to anthropomorphize. Disappointing, but outside of my control.”

Johnny pauses to consider what he just said.

Johnny: “Disappointing, but outside of my control. I could say that about some recent developments in my life. Not just my idol passing away much too young, but losing perhaps the greatest rock persona genius ever to live and having to face off against a paint-by-numbers, soulless “rock” band front man, with none of the technique that drives true hard rock, or the heart and guts to stand up and not give a single fuck like a true punk rocker. Yours is the kind of uncreative, derivative dreck that somehow stays wildly popular and chokes good music out of top forty and onto the college airwaves. I won't say you're like Nickelback, but only because I don't want to say things that can't be retracted later. I mean, dear shit man, your big moment of the last show was ripping off a thirteen year old Fountains of Wayne song! That's what we get from the Rock Star? That's what you had to show us? I took down a man in under eight minutes! Even if you wanna write him off and say I just put down some backyard scrub of a nobody, even if you say I sullied my legacy by stepping in the ring with a man fresh off a stint in a pysch ward, that it was unfair of me to wrestle such a clearly unfit person, if you say I am the worst wrestler you have ever seen, at least you've seen me wrestle. Not change a word, ride some coattails and prima donna the fuck out.”

Johnny heaves out a sigh, some real frustration bellowing forth from him.

Johnny: “And then here's the thing, Luke. I picked up the DVD. New company, officially got a win, thought I did pretty good against a guy I know can wrestle. And I heard all about you. And I heard how bored Constance was. And then I heard more about you. Then I got called boring. And sloppy. And I watched you walk out that curtain, go out to the ring, and tell the world why you wouldn't be fighting. And I thought, ok, that should be that, right? I mean, live this seemed to play great but now I have to sit here and only hear about you. We can get into the many flaws of Constance Church, the dime-store hipster shit, later, I want to know what the fuck you've done that got you this much coverage. Are...are you bank rolling this place or something? Am I going to get to beat up on my boss? Oh, shit, that would be fun. Not that kicking your teeth down your throat won't be fun regardless of our hierarchical status. It'll bring a smile to my face and warmth to my heart to do so. It's so important to find joy in your work.”

The Thigh-High Thriller stretches and rolls his shoulders and head, amping up as if for a fight. He gives a challenging smile to the camera, lots of perfect teeth showing.

Johnny: “And that's where it's going to make all the difference, Luke. That's where I'll have you beat. I'm not telling you don't try to have it all. If you had wrestled last week, I would likely be telling you how impressed I was that you could tour and fight at the same time. That would take some brass plated balls. Keeping in fighting shape while on a tour bus. At the mercy of the bountiful foodstuffs of the high way. Fried chicken. Burgers, more and more massive the further you tour in the south. Taco's served on a wrap that might be up to thirteen percent latex, and that's to say nothing of your room service dinners. My, how do you find time for leg day? Burning the candle at both ends is dangerous, my dear, as you'll find out in Purity when I personally light it for you!”

The American Wet Dream nods to emphasis his point, but quickly starts shaking his head, looking bemused.

Johnny: “And, my darling, don't think of trying to beg off from this one. I'm not a journeyman, I've proven myself time and again, I don't need any free wins on my way to becoming the Pure Champion. You try to dodge this and I will come and get you. I will drag your goldbrickin' ass out into the middle of that ring, and I will proceed to answer the age old question of how many kicks does it take to get the tootsie roll center of a rock stars head. I'm putting my two bits on forty-seven, but I'm gonna try real hard to make it forty-two. You can actually show up and fight me, if you think that sounds like a less painful ordeal. I'd go for that one, it features the less pissed off pissy little fae boy. You don't want to be on the end of a faerie grudge. We're vicious, vindictive little creatures. You've already got your publicists sins to die for, you really shouldn't add any more at the moment. I'd love the excuse to grow my nails out again, but I wouldn't think you'd like it.”

The Most Liberated Man In Professional Wrestling gives a theatrical gasp of delight.

Johnny: “Speaking of things people don't like, Constance! I was wondering when I would segue back to that unpleasant topic. I find it's often best to just let my thoughts finish all the way out, really get the most out of them. Unlike what Constance is getting being front row, fuck it, better than front row to what may in fact be the best company opening show I've ever seen, certainly the best I've ever been on. And yet there's this constant wish you were watching on mute. I tried that, but I miss the crowd noises too much, and occasional insightful comment from Philo. Ever call that pin sloppy again and you and I will have issues, but other than that, keep on keeping on, you happy little pot head. On a completely, totally, and in all ways unrelated note, you should stop by the kissing booth and meet Lydia some night. You two would have a lot in common, and you should totally ask her for a green kiss. First one's on me. Just be sure you tell that to one of the staff that isn't the real ingenue one. Poor little lamb.”

Johnny gives a sigh, shrug, and 'what are you gonna do?' look to the camera. A roll of the eyes and a brushing of the hands brings the Brutiful One back on topic.

Johnny: “Constance, here's the thing I really don't get. You know this sport. You knew Cameron. You knew Richter. I can't remember if you knew Harris's victims, really wasn't focused on that at the moment, but you know wrestling. And yet you sit there like you don't know what's going on in front of you, tearing down the hard work and effort I've put my body through, the craft I am currently dedicating my life to perfecting, and you're talking nine pounds of unfounded shit. On everyone. Except for your precious Luke Knux, you relevance desperate star fucker. I don't know what voice crawled inside your head and told you aggressively disaffected was the new cool, but up your Thorazine and kill that little fucker, the bastard is lying to you. It's not. It's friggin' annoying. Maybe not as annoying as the thought of Luke Knux being considered a hotter prospect than me. But annoying none the less. I would love to know just how much money this Rock Star had to spend to get into the good graces of both our oh so talented announce crew, but I hope it was at least five figures, or my respect for you will go even lower. Oh, and sweetie, if you don't like what I said, just know I'll say it to your face any time you feel like stepping into my ring and shutting me up.”

A double salute of the bird from the Sissyboy Savior.

Johnny: “Look, I don't want to get into a fight with the ring announcer. I'd much rather just get into this fight with Luke, assuming he'll actually get his ass-kicking boots on. But I have put in too much time and effort and blood to stand by and be mocked by some armchair warrior who wouldn't be able to last two seconds with Alex Cross as he is at this very moment. Okay, honey. You have no right to talk down about anyone, you have not earned that, and you are actively hurting our company to continue to do so. What you are doing is bad for everyone in this place, including Luke Knux. After all, if Knux is the only reason to watch our shows, why would anyone stick around once he was finished? Or show up before he went on, for that matter. And as much as I'm sure that Luke Knux is enjoying the fantasy of the fans wanting him and only him, even his ego knows that's not true. If the object of your likely one sided crush could pull in a decent gate promoting himself in just one much, he would. But here he is. Well. Maybe. We're just going to have to see if he show up to the Amusement Park next Thursday.”

A doubtful look from Johnny Raike.

Johnny: “But if you talk this place into the ground, why, you'll never get close to your precious little rock star again. Might want to get to him before I do though, I don't plan on leaving him looking nearly so good. Maybe you shouldn't show up Luke. Fighting me might cost you those magazine covers. Maybe you shouldn't even come to Purity at all next week. After all, I wouldn't want you to push yourself too hard. You could just watch the show from the audience. Or you could come to the Park and let me show you how to really make a scene. Until then...”

The Panty Wearing Panty Dropper blows a kiss to Luke off his middle finger as “Pure Morning” and the crystal close up usher us out of the Beautiful Nightmare's home and into the Raike in the Cash logo.