A Champion Requiem, Part 1: The Scenario
Follow me, true believer and/or reader, as I take you on a little journey. We’re going to play one of my favorite games: comprehend the mind of the DiZ. I’m going to present you with a brief, and detailed, scenario and you try and gauge where I’m going with things by the time it’s done. If you do, you win the grand prize. If you lose, you get to read what comes later, which in and of itself IS the grand prize. So yes, you’re screwed either way. Scenario begins now.
The crowd is at a fever pitch, still hyped off of the aftermath of the latest pay-per-view. Every match on the card had been a wonder to behold, from the customary tag match showcasing everyone who wasn’t important to the traditional woman’s match that nearly stole the show. Championships changed hands from the bottom of the totem pole to the highest, but no one could have prepared for the upset that was the main event. The fan favorite champion, the heel with a cause, came to the ring with his belt firmly wrapped around his waist, middle fingers pointed to the crowd that loved him as he approached the ring. And who was already in the ring but his opponent? Kind of short, slightly less athletic than the champ, hair looking as if the man’s barber had become a social pariah, the challenger stood in the ring. He was known, but people still questioned exactly why he was in the match at all. Sure, he’d won a few matches. He’d even claimed a non-title win over the champion. But what was he known for other than his promos featuring the consumption of chicken?
The voice of reason was in the crowd, holding a sign that said it plainly: CHICKEN BREAST-ES-SS! Poor spelling aside, the challenger looked at the sign in the crowd, curiously near the front and pointed to him, mouthing the words “I’m trying to fight the good fight”.
The champion stepped in and held up the belt. The crowd cheered. He called for a microphone. The challenger snatched it. Taking it to his lips he said with conviction, “I’m trying to fight the good fight!” He pointed to the crowd. “NC!”
“MAKE YA MONEY!” the crowd screamed back in reply.
He pointed to the opposite side of the crowd. “VA?!”
“MAKE YA MONEY!” they screamed even louder.
“Now when you woke up this morning,” he began, conversational in his tone, completely ignoring the legitimately upset champion and even more disturbed referee (and this is saying nothing about the commentators who were as confused as a beaver in a teacup), “did you go to the mirror like I said? Did you say screw you? Screw your hopes? Screw your dreams? Screw all the good you thought this life was gonna bring you? If you didn’t, do it now. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get this match on and try to make you bitches happy.”
Crude, rude, vulgar without crossing into true PG-13 territory, that was the only reason people figured this chicken eating promo junkie was in this high profile match. They compared it to Santino Marella being in the Elimination Chamber from the start: sure, the kid had talent, but he wasn’t supposed to have the top title. That would be weird. Instead they saw it as such: standard back and forth, champion gets upper hand, challenger has brief comeback, champion gets upper hand, challenger has motivated and lengthy comeback and finally the champion hits his snooze worthy finisher and delivers a big F.U. to the fans that expected something outside of the routine. That was the fate of Mr. Chicken Promo. That was that fate of Chicken Breast-es-ss.
The match went as many figured. The two had a back and forth, then the champion gained the upper hand, then the challenger had a brief comeback; the champion got the upper hand, the challenger had a bigger comeback and then, in a move that surprised the most hardcore of wrestling purists… the challenger pulled a dirty move that no one but him, the champion and the unholy eye of the devil himself saw. The crowd, stunned by the actions of the poultry promo man, grew silent as the challenger executed his tried, true and – to date – undefeated finishing maneuver. He laughed amidst a new round of boos and hisses, and climbed to the top rope. He made an obscene gesture to the crowd and flipped backwards in a sloppy but effective moonsault that flowed right into a pinfall.
1! The crowd begged for the champion to rise. The first finishing maneuver had actually knocked him out, however. He was far from faking.
2! Two! He has to get up! The referee has his eyes on the challenger; he broke the script…
Ding-ding-ding! The theme music of the challenger hit, the fanfare of the 9th Wonder track One Night, such a song being so foreign to the annals of professional wrestling. The challenger did his victory lap around the ring, dancing to the beat (he was always something of a showman) as the reluctant referee handed him the belt. The one-time challenger took the belt with a look of reverence. He suddenly understood why Paul Wright shed tears when he was handed the Intercontinental Title for the first time. The new champion didn’t cry, but he climbed the turnbuckle and held the belt as high as his short frame could, screaming to the crowd, “NAH, HOMEBOY, LISTEN, I’MA MAKE IT BIG!”
It never left their minds. They’re still mad from the occasion, and at the start of the flagship show a lone woman stands in the ring, a spicy redhead that causes even more confusion than the aforementioned beaver. She is dressed to kill, just enough to inspire a hint of lust but not enough to invoke the more misogynistic chants and catcalls the sport has become known for in some circles. This is fine, but she works for another company entirely. The rumor is that someone has pulled some strings, or grown so temperamental, so he managed to get her contract with that company destroyed (“It wasn’t hard; the company ain’t shit so why would their contracts be?” he famously says in a controversial interview) and get her to his company (always “his” company, not the company he worked for) all on the basis of his love for her. No one really questions it; the champion has those perks… evidentially.
Microphone in hand, the woman smiles and says in her booming voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, the NEW “New Tigallo” Champion!”
She doesn’t even get the name out before the crowd descends into the most hate-filled, family unfriendly chant known to mainstream professional wrestling. Loud, despite the more mellow feel of the song, A Star U R from the same producer as above begins to play loudly. The video graphics on the possibly stolen Titantron above the ramp show the challenger from the night before dancing and… preaching? Yes, possibly preaching to the masses of the world, as he stands on the world with a gun on his back and a beautiful woman on either side of him in clothing that extenuates their ample cleavage. It’s a terrible sight. And it only gets worse.
From the ramp, from backstage, walks out the new champion, belt around his waist, suit on his body, fedora tilted slightly on his head. On his left arm a British beauty. On his right a Virginia beauty, one who claims to be from the more country aspects of the commonwealth. They’re both dressed in the same vein as the announcer, but their tops are showing that very cleavage as in the video. All he’s missing is a pimp cane.
“Ladies and gentlemen, approaching the ring, from P-Town, VA, Da Infamous DiZ!”
The boos increase. Da Infamous DiZ never rids himself of his stupid grin and winks at the beauty in the ring. She waves back, attracted to the new champion as her slight blush displays but not starstruck like the women on his arms. As they reach the ring the ladies get off of his arms and he enters the ring. He steps in and kisses the announcer on the cheek. She whispers something in his ear and walks out, next to the women Da Infamous DiZ came out with. They exchange grins that disguise hateful feelings of jealousy. Maybe this is in the DiZ’s mind. He doesn’t worry about it. He takes off his belt and holds it up as a lackey from the outside hands him a mic.
“Well, well, well,” he begins, invoking crowd hatred. “Look who’s on top of the heap now. And I’m not just talking about your fat mommas!”
It’s not funny, but he laughs. He’s the champion, he thinks he’s funny. Even if he doesn’t really think it, he’s the champion. Being champion means he can do anything; there’s a reason he didn’t do this with the harem outside his ring before he stole the belt. Now he can do anything though, because he’s the champion. The belt around his waist is his throne. No one can occupy his throne without permission (he will turn this metaphor into a number of crude, sexual jokes) or earning it from him, which he won’t let anyone do. He understands now why people hate to lose the belt because it is pledging loyalty to a false idol, and he loves to do it.
“Your ugly, fat mothers aside,” he continues, winking at the commentators, “I must say, being the ‘New Tigallo’ champion means the world to me. It means that I best exemplify the elements of the mantra! It means I bested the man who once best exemplified the elements of the mantra! And yes, I’ve been preparing for this for years. It may surprise some of you that ‘New Tigallo’ is INDEED a mantra. So when I come out here and say, ‘New Tigallo, New Tigallo, New Tigallo’ I am invoking greatness that you, the witless morons that are my stupid fans, can never reach. You still don’t understand that I’m greatness and you all still aspire to mediocrity.”
He looks sincere, and possibly is. The crowd knows this. They hate him. Drinks fly into the ring, as do rolls of toilet paper and the occasional t-shirt that shows Da Infamous DiZ in his pure face mode. There are curious chocolate-colored stains on the shirts.
They’re not chocolate. Just chocolate-colored.
“Please, ignorant peons, listen to your new king,” he pleads, ducking drinks and a pair of panties he is sure he wants to avoid. “I’m here to save you! Here’s how we start. Everyone hold hands, close your eyes and begin a light hum.”
BOO, YOU STINK!
“I said do it!” DiZ belts. No one does. He shrugs. “Fine. Be that way. I’ll bask in the glory of ‘New Tigallo’ as I am the new ‘New Tigallo’ champion. And as the new, and how do I say, official face of this company of mine, I plan to bring back the essence of the mantra that Phonte blessed us with before his… well, the city ain’t the same without him. But if I follow the mantra, then dammit, you all, being pathetic and lost, must too, so says your new and everlasting king.
“Repeating ‘New Tigallo’ is a mantra for three things. Fried chicken is the first.”
The Titantron shows DiZ eating chicken and dancing lazily, all to the theme of Guile of Street Fighter fame. “I like chicken. It’s delicious. Any vegetarians are now banned. The second part of the mantra is big breast-es-ss.”
The only cheers from the crowd come up now, as the Titantron shows a camera that is zoomed up on the well endowed ladies that showed Da Infamous DiZ love when he walked out or came to the ring. He gives the ladies a thumb up. The English born beauty blows him a kiss.
“And finally, world peace. And the world will be at peace the sooner you accept me as your ruler. Now, who is ready to pledge loyalty and/or their youngest legal daughter to me?”
The boos return. Da Infamous DiZ frowns and drops the mic. He holds the belt up again, and the boos… lower. The fans quiet down a bit. As much as they want to hate him – and they do – they have to acknowledge something: that IS what the belt represents. The “New Tigallo” champion, the top champion of the company, represents “New Tigallo” and “New Tigallo” is a mantra for “fried chicken, big titties and world peace”.
And then a new realization crosses the faces of the purist fans: he’s a champion that represents his belt. He represents what he says he’s supposed to represent. His belt has a purpose because it is supposed to; it’s not just a fancy paper weight that distinguishes one talented kicker with another. Da Infamous DiZ, new “New Tigallo” champion IS the mantra. He has a purpose.
And no one would ever admit it, but Adrian did not…