Post by Jack Levy on Sept 11, 2016 6:02:02 GMT
It’s been a month or two since I sat down and watched Jack Levy. And, to be fair, I haven’t done a very good job as his creator of making sure he’s taken care of or looked after. Actually, the last time you, Constant Reader, saw Jack, was at a farmhouse with a cryptic vehicle that represented something like a Buick 8 cylinder from some alternate universe that served as a portal to another reality. By the way, there’s no such thing as a Buick 8 cylinder.
So when I sat down tonight, I decided to pause him. Yes, that’s what I said. Pause him. Look.
Jack Levy stands in the middle of a gymnasium. In front of him, a punching bag is still, but hanging at an angle, as if it really is paused. He has his black mouthpiece in, black MMA gloves, and black MMA shorts. His hair is black, receding, despite being twenty years old. He seems to be in motion, also, one hand on the defensive, the other pulled back as if preparing to throw another punch. His eyes were focused, intent on bringing damage to the red punching bag in front of him.
Just like The Sims, you see. Anyway, Constant Reader—may I call you that? I just think it’s so fitting. Oh, I guess as long as I’m giving you a name, I should introduce myself as well. My name is—unimportant really, because Jack is the main character here—but, I’ll introduce myself anyway. Am I getting annoying yet? My name is Greg Oliver Destry. You can know me as Ollie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now—On to business.
As I was saying, I feel bad that I haven’t sat down and put the proper time into Jack Levy that he deserves. He’s a great kid. He was discovered by a professional sports agent, and nymphomaniac (no one knows that yet, shhh) Cal Freese. He was discovered in a gymnasium, an amateur wrestler with aspirations of being a professional, but only making minimal money in doing what he was doing. The kid has, literally, GOD-given talent. He can do a fucking 630 senton splash for fuck’s sake! And he calls it (subtly after his last name) The Alleviator. Here’s a fun fact: He’s only done the move at one event, and it was in GOL, in that forsaken ladder match that held one of the most valuable prizes in professional wrestling (in my opinion). And that would be Pandora’s Box.
But he didn’t win it. In fact, Jack Levy has yet to win a single match in his professional career. And that’s my fault. I’ve failed him thus far. I’ve given him a bad life where his mother (much like my own) abuses him mentally and emotionally, and then casts him aside like a piece of dogshit. And I can’t even give him the tools to succeed as a reward. Perhaps I should change my name to Edvil, at this point.
But yet, here I am, attempting to redeem myself. Because, I love Jack. I hate his entrance theme—in fact, I’m going to change it, but I do love Jack. I love him because I can see something inside of him that no one else can yet. Not even himself. I see the potential to become something special, for a special wrestling company. Let me just tell you, since I was three years old, I’ve wanted to be a professional wrestler. And I never made it. But, as Jack’s creator, I can allow him to do what I was never able to do myself. And that’s what I’m going to do.
Oh—I don’t know if this is the best time, but my universe (let’s face it, I’m actually a god. Yes, a narrator. But, also a god) is just a teensy weensy bit fucked up. Oh, no one that Jack interacts with knows it, unless they willingly submit to it, but Jack does. I can’t really get into it a whole lot right now, because there is so much more to talk about, but just know that the universe that Jack is from, isn’t the universe that you’re from. Not to get all sci-fi on you fuckers. But, it’s a fact, Jack.
So let’s talk about what I programmed into Jack’s mind (yes, I’m a programmer. I’m a master of Jack’s PLC and CPU, and I regularly back up his systems and will be tweaking the programs themselves within him as I see fit. Humans, afterall, are just like computers). I first led him to England (he’s a Chicago native, don’t ask why, it just felt right) on a journey of failure with a company called BCW. When he failed there, and again it’s my fault because I didn’t give him the proper attention he deserved. Instead, I was creating Jenny Greenteeth and Hailey Maynard in some other story, two very disturbing ladies. That’s neither here nor there. I’m sorry, I go off the path at times. Focus, Ollie, focus. Let me finish the thought I began about two sentences ago—when he failed there, I led him to GOL where he would sign up for more than one event. Let’s fast forward to the Lucha World Cup.
Jack, though conditioning and training his heart out, is still a bit confused as to why he signed up for the events that he signed up for. Sure, he wants to be a professional wrestler—but in Mexico? He has little interest in it. That wasn’t my doing. That was his free will. Yeah, I have the ‘Free Will’ setting turned on in this game, because Jack deserves to have some. But, the fact that he represents America has helped in installing logic to his decision on joining the upcoming event. So that’s a plus. I’m not sure if I’m rambling right now or if I’m being precise. So I’ll just hit ‘Play.’
Jack throws another punch, and the bag retracts from the impact. He throws several more, then closes in on a few knees, steps back, roundhouse kicks, then punches a few more times before setting the bag and stepping back a final time. Beads of sweat slide down his face and tattoo-covered chest, arms, shoulders, and back. He takes out his mouthpiece and exhales deeply. His professional career thus far had been a joke, just as his mother had spat to him the last time he visited home. Since then, he was too ashamed to show his face, even to his buddies, who had playfully mocked him before, but probably wouldn’t now, out of sympathy.
He walks over to his gym bag, more out of routine than out of actual curiosity, and checks his phone. An email from GOL is the only one he cares about, and he clicks it, his thumbprint smudged on the screen of his phone. It’s a notification confirming that he will be involved in the Lucha World Cup. He smiles and nods, taking a look at the attachment in the email, which was the official card for the event. Not one, but two matches. Two matches to showcase his skills.
First, a steel cage match against Team Canada’s Declan Black. And then, teaming with Storm, a Stairway to Hell ladder match against Team Mexico’s King Fuego and Ursula Areno. There’s not really a whole lot Jack knows about any of the people he will be sharing a ring with—just that King Fuego also has a 630 senton splash as a finishing move—and that’s not right. Jack doesn’t plan on allowing the fans to see that subpar version of a move he’s been perfecting in gymnasiums across the northeastern part of Illinois. No sir. Not when they can see The Alleviator, the most perfect 630 splash on the planet. That—and the fact that Declan Black is a rich bitch who’s pretty much been handed a career in the industry. Yeah, Jack’s pieces kind of fell into place, but not because of money—because of his talent.
“My name is Jack Levy. I represent the United States.”
He looks down as the camera zooms in. Footage fades in of some of his amateur wrestling in gymnasiums flashing across the screen.
“For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a professional wrestler—I’ve wanted to get on the mic, I’ve wanted to play to the crowd, I’ve wanted to innovate the business.”
The word ‘Innovate’ centers on the screen, followed by images of Jack doing some rarely seen moves on opponents in an amateur wrestling ring, locally built and operated on the outskirts of Chicago.
“I guess by coming here, I hope to showcase my abilities and my potential to succeed. And being chosen to represent the United States in the Lucha World Cup, I couldn’t be more honored.”
The word ‘Honor’ centers on the screen. It fades into Jack staring into the camera—just some 20 year old who is as naïve as they come.
“But, in just a few weeks, I’ll be stepping into the ring on two consecutive nights, against some of the best in the world. This… This is like the Olympics, only some twisted and contorted version of it. And I intend to steal the show. I’m a bad boy, that’s wassup.”
He laughs good-naturedly, the camera zooming in as he chuckles at himself. Then fades to the skyline of Chicago.
“The more I step into that ring, the more comfortable I’ve gotten. Yeah—it’s a running joke between my friends and I here in Chicago that I haven’t won a match yet. But, that’s about to change. King Faygo—I would love to see your version of what you think a 630 splash looks like. Yeah, I’d like to see that. But, unfortunately for you, Storm and I will put an abrupt halt to that. And then, I’ll show you what the 630 splash is supposed to look like.”
The skyline fades to Levy grinning from ear to ear. His dark green MMA shirt pulls against his muscles.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself. On night one, Declan Black and I get to have a little more personal match when we get locked inside a cage together. We have every bit the ability to steal the show on Night One. And I expect to do so. So bring more than just your ass, Declan. Bring all your talent, and lets set this place on fucking fire. Because I’m in the mood to set the bar, not just for the night, not just for the Cup, but for the match of the year in GOL. What do you say, Declan? You wanna have a barnburner of a match?”
Suddenly images fade in of the Pandora’s Box ladder match, and, as if on cue, Jack addresses it.
“My last big match was in the Pandora’s Box Ladder match, and was the most grueling match I’ve been part of so far. Sawtooth Grin walked out of that event as the winner. But, you know what? I dig it. I dig ol’ Sawtooth. And I can’t wait until the bastard cashes that motherfucker in and shoves it up the champ’s ass before he takes the belt. And then—maybe I’m getting ahead of myself a bit, but here’s some food for thought—something to chew on, if you will. And then maybe I’ve climbed and scratched and clawed and proven that I, too, belong at the top of the card, and maybe, just maybe the world will see a Sawtooth Grin Vs. Jack Levy match for the Rey de Reyes Championship. That’s a match guaranteed to put asses in seats, folks.”
Footage shows Sawtooth Grin winning the Pandora’s Box match, with several competitors looking up in envy and pain. Jack was one of them.
Then it fades to Jack, elbows propped on his thighs, head down looking at the ground in front of him. He looks up and smiles, finally.
“At the Lucha World Cup, I will get my first victory, followed by my first tag team victory the following night, and the United States will bring home the trophy. That’s wassup.”
The scene fades to black.
So when I sat down tonight, I decided to pause him. Yes, that’s what I said. Pause him. Look.
Jack Levy stands in the middle of a gymnasium. In front of him, a punching bag is still, but hanging at an angle, as if it really is paused. He has his black mouthpiece in, black MMA gloves, and black MMA shorts. His hair is black, receding, despite being twenty years old. He seems to be in motion, also, one hand on the defensive, the other pulled back as if preparing to throw another punch. His eyes were focused, intent on bringing damage to the red punching bag in front of him.
Just like The Sims, you see. Anyway, Constant Reader—may I call you that? I just think it’s so fitting. Oh, I guess as long as I’m giving you a name, I should introduce myself as well. My name is—unimportant really, because Jack is the main character here—but, I’ll introduce myself anyway. Am I getting annoying yet? My name is Greg Oliver Destry. You can know me as Ollie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now—On to business.
As I was saying, I feel bad that I haven’t sat down and put the proper time into Jack Levy that he deserves. He’s a great kid. He was discovered by a professional sports agent, and nymphomaniac (no one knows that yet, shhh) Cal Freese. He was discovered in a gymnasium, an amateur wrestler with aspirations of being a professional, but only making minimal money in doing what he was doing. The kid has, literally, GOD-given talent. He can do a fucking 630 senton splash for fuck’s sake! And he calls it (subtly after his last name) The Alleviator. Here’s a fun fact: He’s only done the move at one event, and it was in GOL, in that forsaken ladder match that held one of the most valuable prizes in professional wrestling (in my opinion). And that would be Pandora’s Box.
But he didn’t win it. In fact, Jack Levy has yet to win a single match in his professional career. And that’s my fault. I’ve failed him thus far. I’ve given him a bad life where his mother (much like my own) abuses him mentally and emotionally, and then casts him aside like a piece of dogshit. And I can’t even give him the tools to succeed as a reward. Perhaps I should change my name to Edvil, at this point.
But yet, here I am, attempting to redeem myself. Because, I love Jack. I hate his entrance theme—in fact, I’m going to change it, but I do love Jack. I love him because I can see something inside of him that no one else can yet. Not even himself. I see the potential to become something special, for a special wrestling company. Let me just tell you, since I was three years old, I’ve wanted to be a professional wrestler. And I never made it. But, as Jack’s creator, I can allow him to do what I was never able to do myself. And that’s what I’m going to do.
Oh—I don’t know if this is the best time, but my universe (let’s face it, I’m actually a god. Yes, a narrator. But, also a god) is just a teensy weensy bit fucked up. Oh, no one that Jack interacts with knows it, unless they willingly submit to it, but Jack does. I can’t really get into it a whole lot right now, because there is so much more to talk about, but just know that the universe that Jack is from, isn’t the universe that you’re from. Not to get all sci-fi on you fuckers. But, it’s a fact, Jack.
So let’s talk about what I programmed into Jack’s mind (yes, I’m a programmer. I’m a master of Jack’s PLC and CPU, and I regularly back up his systems and will be tweaking the programs themselves within him as I see fit. Humans, afterall, are just like computers). I first led him to England (he’s a Chicago native, don’t ask why, it just felt right) on a journey of failure with a company called BCW. When he failed there, and again it’s my fault because I didn’t give him the proper attention he deserved. Instead, I was creating Jenny Greenteeth and Hailey Maynard in some other story, two very disturbing ladies. That’s neither here nor there. I’m sorry, I go off the path at times. Focus, Ollie, focus. Let me finish the thought I began about two sentences ago—when he failed there, I led him to GOL where he would sign up for more than one event. Let’s fast forward to the Lucha World Cup.
Jack, though conditioning and training his heart out, is still a bit confused as to why he signed up for the events that he signed up for. Sure, he wants to be a professional wrestler—but in Mexico? He has little interest in it. That wasn’t my doing. That was his free will. Yeah, I have the ‘Free Will’ setting turned on in this game, because Jack deserves to have some. But, the fact that he represents America has helped in installing logic to his decision on joining the upcoming event. So that’s a plus. I’m not sure if I’m rambling right now or if I’m being precise. So I’ll just hit ‘Play.’
Jack throws another punch, and the bag retracts from the impact. He throws several more, then closes in on a few knees, steps back, roundhouse kicks, then punches a few more times before setting the bag and stepping back a final time. Beads of sweat slide down his face and tattoo-covered chest, arms, shoulders, and back. He takes out his mouthpiece and exhales deeply. His professional career thus far had been a joke, just as his mother had spat to him the last time he visited home. Since then, he was too ashamed to show his face, even to his buddies, who had playfully mocked him before, but probably wouldn’t now, out of sympathy.
He walks over to his gym bag, more out of routine than out of actual curiosity, and checks his phone. An email from GOL is the only one he cares about, and he clicks it, his thumbprint smudged on the screen of his phone. It’s a notification confirming that he will be involved in the Lucha World Cup. He smiles and nods, taking a look at the attachment in the email, which was the official card for the event. Not one, but two matches. Two matches to showcase his skills.
First, a steel cage match against Team Canada’s Declan Black. And then, teaming with Storm, a Stairway to Hell ladder match against Team Mexico’s King Fuego and Ursula Areno. There’s not really a whole lot Jack knows about any of the people he will be sharing a ring with—just that King Fuego also has a 630 senton splash as a finishing move—and that’s not right. Jack doesn’t plan on allowing the fans to see that subpar version of a move he’s been perfecting in gymnasiums across the northeastern part of Illinois. No sir. Not when they can see The Alleviator, the most perfect 630 splash on the planet. That—and the fact that Declan Black is a rich bitch who’s pretty much been handed a career in the industry. Yeah, Jack’s pieces kind of fell into place, but not because of money—because of his talent.
“My name is Jack Levy. I represent the United States.”
He looks down as the camera zooms in. Footage fades in of some of his amateur wrestling in gymnasiums flashing across the screen.
“For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a professional wrestler—I’ve wanted to get on the mic, I’ve wanted to play to the crowd, I’ve wanted to innovate the business.”
The word ‘Innovate’ centers on the screen, followed by images of Jack doing some rarely seen moves on opponents in an amateur wrestling ring, locally built and operated on the outskirts of Chicago.
“I guess by coming here, I hope to showcase my abilities and my potential to succeed. And being chosen to represent the United States in the Lucha World Cup, I couldn’t be more honored.”
The word ‘Honor’ centers on the screen. It fades into Jack staring into the camera—just some 20 year old who is as naïve as they come.
“But, in just a few weeks, I’ll be stepping into the ring on two consecutive nights, against some of the best in the world. This… This is like the Olympics, only some twisted and contorted version of it. And I intend to steal the show. I’m a bad boy, that’s wassup.”
He laughs good-naturedly, the camera zooming in as he chuckles at himself. Then fades to the skyline of Chicago.
“The more I step into that ring, the more comfortable I’ve gotten. Yeah—it’s a running joke between my friends and I here in Chicago that I haven’t won a match yet. But, that’s about to change. King Faygo—I would love to see your version of what you think a 630 splash looks like. Yeah, I’d like to see that. But, unfortunately for you, Storm and I will put an abrupt halt to that. And then, I’ll show you what the 630 splash is supposed to look like.”
The skyline fades to Levy grinning from ear to ear. His dark green MMA shirt pulls against his muscles.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself. On night one, Declan Black and I get to have a little more personal match when we get locked inside a cage together. We have every bit the ability to steal the show on Night One. And I expect to do so. So bring more than just your ass, Declan. Bring all your talent, and lets set this place on fucking fire. Because I’m in the mood to set the bar, not just for the night, not just for the Cup, but for the match of the year in GOL. What do you say, Declan? You wanna have a barnburner of a match?”
Suddenly images fade in of the Pandora’s Box ladder match, and, as if on cue, Jack addresses it.
“My last big match was in the Pandora’s Box Ladder match, and was the most grueling match I’ve been part of so far. Sawtooth Grin walked out of that event as the winner. But, you know what? I dig it. I dig ol’ Sawtooth. And I can’t wait until the bastard cashes that motherfucker in and shoves it up the champ’s ass before he takes the belt. And then—maybe I’m getting ahead of myself a bit, but here’s some food for thought—something to chew on, if you will. And then maybe I’ve climbed and scratched and clawed and proven that I, too, belong at the top of the card, and maybe, just maybe the world will see a Sawtooth Grin Vs. Jack Levy match for the Rey de Reyes Championship. That’s a match guaranteed to put asses in seats, folks.”
Footage shows Sawtooth Grin winning the Pandora’s Box match, with several competitors looking up in envy and pain. Jack was one of them.
Then it fades to Jack, elbows propped on his thighs, head down looking at the ground in front of him. He looks up and smiles, finally.
“At the Lucha World Cup, I will get my first victory, followed by my first tag team victory the following night, and the United States will bring home the trophy. That’s wassup.”
The scene fades to black.