Mark Zout
A dull light, tarnished yellow from years of neglect flickers ominously at an intermittent rate through a shattered globe that is caked in dust, grime, and the gruesome remains of of the insects that had dared to near it over the years. As the bulb, nearing the end of its life, flickers, it produces a low-pitched, grating, hum and scatters shattered and uneven glimpses of the dilapidated room. The walls are marred, window treatments torn wherever they still remain. There are heavy stains from only God knows what throughout the wallpaper that clings just barely to the wall. In some places it is torn and missing entirely. There are some items in the room stationed atop the rotting and warped floorboards, but what items prove impossible to decipher under the canvases almost as ancient as the rest of the setting. We take in these details through a monochrome lens and in the same scattered glimpses as the pulsating bulb that provides the only source of light in the empty room. In what would otherwise be another inauspicious flash of the bulb, a robed and hooded figure appears holding a a candle that seemed to spontaneously light and extinguish in sync with the flicker of the bulb in one hand and a skull with gold fillings for a few of the teeth and a large crater where a portion of the top should have been, occupied by the business end of a cleaver, in the other. The room is filled with ominous satanic chanting not performed by this hooded figure. The flickering stops suddenly with the chanting as it reaches its crescendo and we are left for what seems an uncomfortably long moment in both silence and a black void.
Figure.
"Pain. Suffering beyond your wildest imagination. Every muscle in your body will tear. Every ligament will strain until eviscerated from your every broken bone. Your skin will be peeled to expose your tender flesh, being stung by its exposure to the air. I will join the maggots that feast upon your rotting gizzards and consume your blood and dance upon the grave of Jack Tyde in a gown sewn of your flesh, wearing a crown made of your sinew and bone. Yadda Yadda Yadda."
The lights, full set lights - bright as day and white as the robed figure's teeth, illuminate the set. The robed figure drops their props and removes their garment. We face Mark Zout in tan khaki shorts and a baby blue polo, looking very 'dad at the park' in today's attire. He clears his throat, as the gravelly imitation had upset it just slightly.
Zout.
"I would apologize, Mr. Scott, for the lengths of which I went to establish my point here today. I would, if I were sorry. But I'm not. I'm not sorry. This whole gloom and doom thing you have going on... It was really cool in nineteen ninty-eight. Man, when I was a kid, the kind of promos you constantly produce - the creepy face paint, the dark clothes, shadowy sets... Promises to eviscerate your opposition... I would have eaten that up. I'd have begged my parents for monochrome face paint, a black leather duster coat, a Louisville Slugger, and a can of metalic black spray paint.
"The problem is I am now a grown man. I am a professional wrestler who has climbed to the top of the ladder - literally on occasion. Your theatrics do not intimidate me. Your dark past and what you intend to be an imposing presense hold no power over me. Threats to tear my flesh from my skeletal frame, self-sacrificial blood-letting for the sake of proving some kind of mobid point about the lengths in which you are willing to go in order to win a match and move you closer to the FNC Global Title - the loss of which still obvious haunts you, your obsessive hallucinations of Jack Tyde and those that aided in the orchestrated 'theft' of your title...
"Now that I'm a grown man with an understanding of how this business works, these things hold no power over me. In fact, if I'm being truly honest, they strike me as something that would be produced by a broken, emasculated edge lord."
Mark moves along the stage toward a red exit sign. As he does so several men and women wearing all black with white bold lettering reading 'CREW' on their backs can be seen behind him clearing the set of the props and false walls we had seen earlier in the video to the shouts of a stage coordinator. Mark pushes the door under the red exit sign open and walks out of the set building, through a contemporarily decorated lobby with high ceilings, an open floor plan, and large floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall windows. He pauses here to continue addressing his opponent for the next installment of Friday Night Combat.
Zout.
"Did you know, and I bet you did, that in Saint Cloud, Minnesota you have a one in twenty-six chance of becoming a victim of violent crime? Your chances of becoming a victim of violent crime in Seattle, by comparison, is one in forty-three. That means you are almost twice as likely to be violently offended in your home city than in mine. In fact, the Granite City is one of the most dangerous cities in America. That's astounding.
"Understandable, however, when you consider the fact that people from the Emerald City are twice as likely to have graduated college with a four year degree or better than those of your own home town, are likely to earn nearly twice the annual income on average, and boasts both recent and projected economical growth that dwarfs that of your own... The numbers seem to make sense. After all, if you're going to be dumb you have to be tough. If you're poor, you do what you must to get by.
"I make it no secret that my family was fairly well off, even before I became a professional wrestler and had money flowing in from contracts, endorsements, merchandising, appearances, and every other avenue of passive income we can tap into as celebrity personalities. But my entitled childhood, raised in a relatively safe city - even more safe than the average resident in my neighborhood - does not mean I am sawft. I did my primary training for our sport in Tijuana, Mexico. For over a year I stayed in that city, honing my craft and walking amongst the locals. Your chances of being a victim of violent crime there, by the way, if you happened to be curious, is one in five. In fact, it is the second most dangerous city to reside in world-wide. But I was never a victim. Attempts were made, sure, but I was never a victim to Tijuana and I will not be a victim to you, Caleb Scott."
Through a set of double glass doors, and out onto the street. We are downtown in Seattle. This is made clear by the myriad of one-way signs forcing vehicles to run some sort of sadistically engineered maze, putting them eighteen miles out of their way to travel three blocks south, green-painted bike lanes, and pedestrians that ranged from the likes you would find behind a Hot Topic counter, beatnik hippies, and skateboarders still wearing Jeanco Jeans to busy business people with brisk walks clutching their briefcases with white knuckles, and people who had obviously not been homed for some time staring at sidewalks and screaming incoherent arguments at imaginary beings. Home sweet home.
Zout.
"Our match this coming edition of Combat will not be for a title, merely for pride. Pride is a prize worth fighting for all on it's own. I plan to give you my all, just as I give each and every opponent throughout the course of my entire career, my all. You will claim to push me to my very limits in your own upcoming promo. Good. I love that. I need that. Win or lose, I find my prize of pride in providing the fans of our sport with the greatest show they could hope to see each and every episode. Whether they be one of the thousands in attendance or millions watching at home, the greatest tragedy they could hope to endure would be a lackluster bout between the two of us.
"We will collide this upcoming Combat. We will bend and break our bodies in ways mere mortal men could never hope to survive. That is what drives individuals such as you and myself. But make no mistakes, Caleb Scott. This is not a hardcore booking. There are certainly disqualifications in place. You will do no slicing of my meat. There will be no evisceration of my flesh from bone. Your cute little baseball bat, your rusty knives that you showcase in your promos... those will be of no utility to you. You will have to face me mano e mano in the center of that IIW branded squared circle, and it is under those circumstances that I truly excel.
"You are a former Global Champion, having held the title for just under two months. That means you are, or at least you at one time were, considered one of the very best talents IIW has to offer. Good. Bring your 'A' game, Scott. Show the world that even at your pinnacle you come up just short. Ironic, with how much taller you are."
Mark winks at the camera and begins walking away, but as he walks, a child with his mother in tow grasps Mark by the arm, tugging at him.
Kid.
"Hey, Mister. Are you Mark Zout?"
Mark is surprised at the pull and offers a warm chuckle at the inquiry.
Zout.
"I am. What's your name, kid?"
Kid.
"I'm Tommy. My mommy says you're a douche bag and an unlawful miscreant."
Mark's face assumes a quizzical look before glancing at the woman who stares him down with an unerving glare. His lips break into an amused smirk.
Zout.
"Do you know what those words mean, Tommy?"
Tommy.
"No, but I want to grow up to be a professional wrestler just like you are. I think its pretty cool you're from Seattle, like us. Can I take a picture with you?"
Zout.
"It is pretty cool, Tommy. If it's okay with your mom, you can."
The kid looks back to his mom, eyes brimming with so much excitement she cannot find it within herself to deny his request. With a defeated sigh she manipulates her phone, holding it so that Mark and Tommy are in view. Mark coaches Tommy to make a fist and position it under his chin while he tilts his head back so the photo seems like he's delivered an uppercut to the wrestler. They take another with Mark holding Tommy's head as if he's cinched a headlock in on the boy, and they take a third, more candid portrait before the boy thanks him politely and runs back to his mother's side. Mark calls back after him.
Zout."Say, Tommy... Who's your favorite wrestler?"
Without a moment of hessitation the boy answers candidly.
Tommy.
"PG-13! He's really strong, and he beat up Trent Darby and Xavier Lux this week!"
Mark is somewhat perplexed at the child's revelation and can't help but offer a meek counter-argument.
Zout.
"But he's a bad guy..."
Unphased, the boy answers nonchalantly.
Tommy.
"So? Bad guys are cool."
Mark mutters to himself as he scratches the back of his head and continues down the Seattle sidewalk.
Zout.
"Bad guys are cool? Maybe ten years was a long time to be gone from the business."
The camera remains at the spot where Mark and the PG-13 fan had taken their photos together, watching Mark become smaller and smaller as he walks away, the frame fading to black as he becomes too far away to recognize anymore.
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Every Cool Kid...
MARK ZOUT!