New Jam Fades.

[INFINITE PRO.]

Who Are The Jamrockers?

Three

Two

One

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A locker room lies quiet. This would not be unusual were it not for the name on the front door.

‘The Jamrockers’

The Boys sit in silence, still in their gear. The sparkles and sequins of their elaborate patterns seem to only mock them as they stare down at the carpet in quiet contemplation. For once, a loss for words.

Swinging open, the creak of the door interrupts their solace. Jason Long, smile engraved on his face. Unaware or ambivalent at the current mood.

“Gents, great showing. Really, I mean, incredible stuff! That right there is what IPW is all about.”

His introduction complete, he seems to take in the room. Looking side to side quizzically.

“Why so glum?”

He chuckles and shakes his head, taking a seat next to Cooldown on the bench and giving him a shake of consolidarity.

“So you guys didn’t win, it happens! The Icons didn’t make it in CTA despite being the most dominant force on the XHF Network. You gotta roll with the punches and use it.”

Despite his irreverence, there is a slight undercurrent to Long’s words. A bitterness that betrays his feelings on the subject. He pushes them down.

“In fact, I remember back in AWF when I-”

“Yeah well it ain’t about you is it?”

Sharply turning his head, all affability drained from his face. Long stares a hole through Alastor Touchdown, his anger turning again as Jimi Cooldown bats Long’s hand away from him.

“Ya wanna come in here and give us the pep talk and the big speech. But really, all you want is to hear yourself talk and make sure we keep bustin’ our ass to line your POCKETS.”

“They told us the plans for next show. Ya couldn’t give the slightest shred of shit if we won or lost tonight same as if I win or lose ‘gainst Spike Kane. What you’re really after, is to have us keep dancin’ and jumpin’ around cause, on a roster with Recobas and Chaos Theory’s and now Jack Fuckin’ Diamonds, we’re your biggest earners.”

If it were possible, the vein on Long’s neck grows. The last part striking a particular nerve as he rises from the bench. The charming owner of IPW is gone, replaced with the man who won the X*Crown and earned every moniker that came in his career.

“Listen to me you little shits. You don’t talk that way to me. You ESPECIALLY don’t compare yourselves to a Jack Diamond. Before me, you two were no-names selling T-shirts in gymnasiums and injuring yourselves for hot dogs and handshakes. So you’d better show me the RESPECT THA-”

“THAT’S THE FUCKIN’ PROBLEM AIN’T IT!?”

Up rises Cooldown to meet him, his partner accompanying him at the same time.

“We’ve done nothin’ BUT give respect! Sure, there’s the jokes and the razzing but we ain’t ever looked down or stuck our noses up at the competition. Despite everything! Motherfuckers who sound like they’re gargling balls in their mouth when they speak having the gall to look down on us. Call us fuckin’ clowns, have nothing else to say ‘cept calling us gay.”

“The worst of it is, ’Unc’ The person we’ve given respect to most of all: is you.”

Already angered at being cut off, Long begins to fire back, but Touchdown talks right over him without care.

“We’ve been nothing but grateful for the opportunity and you damn well better admit we’ve been makin’ the most of it. But, no matter how high we could climb, you won’t give a shit. Y’only give a damn about your bottom dollar. No matter what fuckin’ group you were in or how rousing a speech you give to the IPW fans, you’re no different than any other greedy little promoter!”

“You’ve done nothin’ but spit in our face since we got here!”

“GUYS LIKE YOU’VE BEEN SPITTIN’ IN OUR FACES FOR YEARS!”

Silence. Then, rearing back, Touchdown lets loose a glob of spit into the eye of Jason Long. Marching out of the room as the Owner of IPW recoils in disgust. Cooldown follows suit, turning his head before leaving to deliver a goodbye laden with spite.

“So there’s a fuckin’ spit in yours.”

The Jamrockers exit, a new lease on their place in IPW.

Jason Long, in tranquil fury, tries in vain to wipe the spit from his eye.

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A change of speed, a change of style.

A change of scene, with no regrets.