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:::Cue the generic public domain music….cue the graphics that look like they were done for a public access broadcast in 1984.   The scene opens on Simon Sparrow who has seemingly (or at least temporarily) hung up his cowboy boots and holster (paintball gun included) for a white leather jacket, white pants, black t-shirt, a hookah shell necklace, and a bad wig atop his head that somewhat sort of resembles the hairstyle of the person he is impersonating (not Elvis).    The HOW Hall of Famer, who is moving with more swagger than Mick Jagger, looks like a reject from a Backstreet Boys coverband complete with an earpiece microphone.  He stands along a desolate dirt street in the middle of town.  There is a hitching post just behind him in front of what may be a General Store.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  IT’S YOUR BOY, T.B,!   AND THE STREAM STARTS NOW!   BUT FIRST, O-M-G!  O-M-FUCKING-G!   WE NEED TO SHOUT TO OUR SPONSORS “SPLOOSH!”, DROPPIN’ PANTIES SINCE EIGHT MONTHS AGO, IN CONJACULATION WITH “THE WENIS PUMP”!  TURN THAT WENIS INTO A PENIS!  IT HAS WORKED FOR ME!   AND WE ARE SPONSORED BY “DYANETICS” BY L. RON HUBBARD, CHECK YOUR LOCAL E-BOOKSTORE AND GET YOURSELF A COPY!

 

Yeah!  Your boy, T.B., “Tuberculosis” Tyler Best is preppin’ and preppin’ hard for “Dead or Alive”!   I don’t need Ten-X to be a champion!  

 

:::Simon “T.B. Tyler” Sparrow reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white bottle.:::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:  Just “Vitapillamin”, the pill that’s also a vitamin.  

 

::::Simon Sparrow squints a little but and proceeds to read the bottle.::::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:  Warning!  May cause insomnia, drowsiness, anal leakage, hypothermia, dizziness, loss of appetite, incontinence, blisters around the mouth and anus, loss of smell, loss of taste, headaches, seizures, nightmares, forgetfulness, blue urine, green urine, stroke, upset stomach, unwanted erections, and unusual urges for sex and gambling.  

 

::::Simon Sparrow looks up towards the camera.::::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:   Those last two make it seem worth trying!  Am I right, playas?   

 

::::The HOW Hall of Famer begins waving his arms in the air as if he just didn’t care, although he probably should as he looks like he has taken a “Vitapillamin” and he is convulsing uncontrollably.  Mercifully, he stops,:::::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:  I’m here in Tombstone and as you all know, your boy has been getting in mad shape.  My right arm, in particular, is jacked!  It’s cuz I’ve been jacking off!   YEAH!

 

::::Simon Sparrow pouts his lips out as if he were a fish and nods with the self-confidence and self-assurance of an over the top fashion model.::::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:  See, I don’t vibe with chicks, bro.  I vibe with myself.  I’m one of them Narciphiliacs!   I only get off to myself because….AYYYYYYY!  Look at me!  If I were any hotter, they’d blame the T to the Y to the L-E-R for global warming!   But, there won’t be mirrors to distract me at “Dead or Alive”!   It’s just me, my ICON Championship, and Jatt Starr,  The Ruler of Jattlantis.  The Hero of Jattlanta.   The Sultan of SeaJattle.  The Duke of Jattmandu.   The Jatti Master.   The Starrabian Knight.   The Champion of Jattanooga.  The Sovereign of Starrgentina.   Had enough yet, Jatt?

 

::::Simon Sparrow shifts his upper body weight to the right and tilts his head.  He narrows his eyes in an exaggerated glare.::::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:  Yeah, bitch!  You gotta be scared now!   After I fuck you up, I’m going to drop my tights and jerk off all over you, because, like I said, I been training, all while raising the ICON Title above my head, motherfucker.  And then I’m gonna teabag you!   And you wanna know why?   It’s because I am a degenerate fuckstick who really needed a positive masculine figure in my life, which is why I started seeking approval from followers and then graduated to getting championships because now everyone loves me!   Especially gramps and dad.   I am the Son of Son of God, bitch!   You can’t kill god shit.  You accept that rain is angel piss, you can’t kill it.   You just accept it.  Which is why I piss on homeless people!  Godliness is next to cleanliness, motherfuckers!

 

::::”’Tuberculosis’ Best raises his hands in the air and proceeds bask in the applause that is not there.::::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:  And Jatt Stizzzz-arrrrrr, Simon Swallow-my-dick, or whatever.  You’re fucking old, bro.  You’re so old, you’re a JATTASAURUS….

 

::::The caricature of Simon Sparrow’s making cups his hand to his mouth and proceeds to sing the word starting in a deep bass voice and ending with a high pitched tenor tone.:::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:  REH-heh-heh-huh-HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEX!   Fuck you, Freddy Mercury.

 

::::”T.B. Tyler” rubs his nose before zipping up the leather jacket slightly.::::

 

“T.B. TYLER”:    I hear you’re seeing someone.  Good for you.  You’ll need someone to look after you when I kick your ass!   I’m younger and better.  You can only get one chick to fuck.  I can fuck any chick I want especially since I found gramps’s stack of NDA’s!   Before I forget, shout out to my boy Deshaun whose being canceled by a bunch of cum guzzling!  They should know being with greatness comes greatness and they remain on their knees thanking him for the greatness he—- 

 

::::”T.B. stops and lets out a groan.   The swagger dissipates like a morning fog and he pulls the ridiculous off of his head revealing Simon Sparrow’s golden blonde hair slicked back..::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Nope.  Can’t do it.  I am starting to experience the, what are they called?  The “icks”?  I feel like bathing in a vat of bleach, that’s how dirty I feel after saying all that.   I don’t know how you can say the things you say, Tyler, and not want to dive into a vat of sulfuric acid afterwards.  

 

::::The Rembrandt of Wrestling tosses the wig into the air behind him and it lands on the end of the hitching post.  It would take him a hundred tries and he would never duplicate that feat. He removes the leather jacket and rips the hookah shell necklace off of his neck and goes to throw it on the ground.  He thinks better of it and walks over to a nearby trashcan and places it in the trash receptacle along with the jacket.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  I’m a lot of things but I’m no litterbug.  Not anymore, anyway.

 

::::Simon Sparrow kicks a rock on the ground, dirt puffs up from the ground with each strike it makes against the dirt road.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  I figured since you are so against the whole Old Gunslinger thing, I thought maybe channeling my inner you would be fun.  Instead, it’s a repugnant cesspool of negativity and bile.   You aren’t even human trash.   Tyler, you are rot.

 

To think, I thought it might be fun mocking you for a little while, but after walking, what was it?  Not even five minutes in your shoes, I feel the need to donate money to hundreds of different charities, build a home for needy families, and go to confession, something I haven’t done in like eight years.

 

The thing that people forget is that I’m not a fucking idiot.  Your M.O. is coming out and saying highly vulgar and offensive things, wanting people to suck your dick or threaten to sexually assualt a comatose young woman in hopes you’ll get a rise out them.   Unless you go into a medical facility and actually do it, I’m not buying that you actually will.  It’s not that I think  that it’s not in nature to potentially do it.  It’s just that when faced with the decision, would you actually do it?  No.

 

You’re a blabbermouth.   You like spout off these shocking and obscene barbs and scenarios because you’re a parasite that feeds off of any attention you can get, whether it’s good or bad.   Your extreme disdain for Michael, while understandable, probably has something to do with it.  But, what do I know?  I’m no Doctor Phil.  I never studied psychiatry in school. 

 

Whatever your reasoning is, I want you to know something.   As the clearly disturbed, emotionally and psychologically  broken person you are, I would give you a big ol’ hug.  As the human rotbag that you are presenting to the world, I kick your fucking ass so hard, you’ll need to blow your nose to wipe your ass.

 

There might be some argument as to whether or not you deserve to be the ICON Champion, that’s for other people to debate.  But are you WORTHY to hold that championship?   

 

You’re no Darkwing.  You’re no Shane Reynolds.  You’re no Cecilworth Fathington.  Hell, you’re not even a Brian Hollywood.  And you are certainly not in the same league as Max Kael, Sektor, Ray McAvay, and, as it sickens me to say, Michael Best.

 

This isn’t just about the ICON Championship, chief.

 

This is about respect.

 

And I’m not talking about people respecting you as a champion because that will never fucking happen because you’re a demented, entitled little shit.  

 

It’s about respecting ME.  

 

I want you to consider something for a moment, if you will.

 

Lee Best has to love you because it’s his genepool.  He may also fucking hate you, but he has to love you, right?  

 

You know what he doesn’t do?  

 

Respect you.

 

Do you know who he fucking respects more than anyone alive in the HOW not named Michael?

 

ME.

 

He may not fucking like me but he fucking respects me.

 

Why else did he have to put me in a gauntlet of matches in preparation for you at “Dead or Alive”?

 

Stronk.

 

A bullshit three-on-one assault disguised as a tag team match.

 

Defending my LSD Championship against Jace Parker Davidson.

 

He was afraid.    He respects what I am capable of.  He respects what I have done for him and the HOW.   Again, respect does not equate to like.   If he didn’t respect me, he wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble.  He would have simply made this a Champion versus Champion Match the second I beat Stronk.   ICON Champion against LSD Champion.   But he knew the risk was too great that either I would have time to properly prepare for you, without the lingering pain in the neck, or  you’d trip over your own feet and somehow fuck it all up.  At least this way, he figures, maybe you have a fighting chance.

 

Respect.

 

And I think deep down, that respect is also why there is this desperate need of his that I return to the Jatt Starr name.

 

That’s not going to happen.

 

I get it.  You get it.  The fans love Jatt Starr.   Maybe it was the do-whatever-it-takes-to-win mentality.   Mainly, I think it’s the nicknames.  Whether it’s an iconic one like the Jattlantic City Idol to the not-so-great ones like the Earl of GlouStarr.  But to accept that, you need to also accept the toxic masculinity, the corruption, and that game theory mentality that Jatt Starr represents.

 

Sometimes, I’ve learned, the end does not always justify the means.

 

I’ve made peace with who I was and I know that part of me is deep inside of me, but I’m not necessarily chomping at the bit to resurrect that part of me.   The universe has a tendency to punish people like that.   You don’t believe me?   

 

Ask Grandpappy Lee after “Dead or Alive”.  

 

If he can still speak after Kostoff breaks his jaw…

 

….and legs….

 

…..and arms….

 

….and neck….

 

…..and….

 

….ah, you get the point.   

 

The other morning, I woke up and after I facetimed with my lady friend, who is still in New Zealand filming a show with Lucy Lawless, I looked at myself in the mirror and I thought to myself, wrestling under my birth name, it’s-it’s-it’s not healthy.

 

I want to be able to disassociate from when it’s time to perform and when I’m alone, in bed with Heidi, running lines, making love, watching “King of Queens” or whatever.  I don’t need fans calling me by my real name.  What if I get a freaky stalker type?

 

No, thank you.

 

Don’t worry Tyler, you don’t deserve to share the ring with Jatt Starr anyway.  You’re a psycho, pissant, little man-baby.  Not worth Jatt Starr’s time, if he were here today.  

 

But there is another side of me….

 

A side of me that doesn’t really give a rat’s rectum on whether or not I win or lose.  And, trust me, it goes against many of my instincts.

 

It’s a side of me that-that-that almost scares me.

 

It’s a side of me that….

 

….just…

 

….wants….

 

….to hurt you.

 

And I don’t mean I just want to hurt you, I want to make you suffer…. 

 

::::Simon Sparrow reaches into his back pocket and retrieves an antique fountain pen with a rusted tip.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:   See, I found this in a pocket of one of my eight red and black checkered suits.  I never got the opportunity at “War Games” to use it.  Maybe it was the chaos, maybe it was because I couldn’t find the right opportunity, or maybe it’s because I brought the wrong suit.    But there is something deep inside of that would take great satisfaction in plunging this into your eye.  

 

And I am not subscribing to the “eye for an eye” theory.  What happened in the past, has nothing to do with now.

 

But it doesn’t end there.  I imagine collapsing a steel chair around your neck, grabbing your legs, crossing them one over the other, and start leaning back as I drive my knee onto the steel chair, compressing it on your neck.  Maybe you will walk, maybe not a mile, but a short distance in my shoes as I will cause enough permanent damage that you have to live with it, but not quite enough to end your career. 

 

No, I want every shot to aggravate that injury.  I want it to linger just enough that you can’t sleep at night and you lie awake cursing me.  

 

The Rembrandt of Wrestling wants to spill your blood on the canvas that is the ring and drag your bleeding carcass from turnbuckle to turnbuckle until the mat is an ironic color of Ninety-Seven Red.  

 

Although, the end result might end up being closer to shitheel brown.

 

I don’t why I feel the way I do, Tyler.

 

Maybe it’s because you are a Best.

 

Maybe it’s just….I hate your stupid face.  Maybe, win or lose, I want to leave you so disfigured, every time you look at yourself in the mirror, you think of me.  I want you to start cringing and losing total control of your bowels when you think of me.  I want you to suffer PTSD….

 

Post Traumatic Sparrow Disorder.

 

::::Simon Sparrow waves the pen towards the camera before putting it back into one pocket and pulling out something else from the other.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  There is just one last thing I want to show you.

 

::::The Rembrandt of Wrestling flicks his wrist and reveals a Ziploc bag containing a batch of hair.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Remember this?  This is my little memento from our little skirmish a few weeks back.  

 

::::Simon opens the baggie, pulls out maybe three-quarters of it’s contents and holds the strands of hair between his fingers.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  As much as I do want to physically and mentally destroy you in that ring  I mostly want to remind you that in this business, one little injury can make a potential Hall of Fame career…..

 

::::Simon Sparrow brings the hair up to his lips and blows as he releases them into the air.  Almost serendipitously a gust of wind comes in and carries the strands of hair out of sight.

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Pouf!  Disappear.

 

::::The stream ends with a cut to black as if “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey is playing on the table jukebox at a diner and Tony Soprano looks up to see who is entering the establishment.::::