ALASTOR TOUCHDOWN ADDRESSES HIS ENEMIES | Discovery PressCo.

[TOUCHDOWN]

(EXCERPT FROM THE DISCOVERY POST-SHOW PRESS CONFERENCE)

On stage sits a long table, beset upon by camera clicks and an onslaught of questions by journalists after IPW: Discovery. Grace Coleman sits alone on stage, fielding said questions and responding with self-assured poise even if her job tonight is unexpected, with the owner of IPW Jason Long currently predisposed - dealing with the attack by Stefan McCain at the beginning of Discovery.

"Alright everyone, we'll now hear from the former National Openweight Champion: Alastor Touchdown, please act accordingly and respectfully when pursuing your questions."

A polite, if somewhat undeserving, applause. A welcome for no one, as Touchdown does not immediately materialise, instead marching onto the stage after the applause has already died down - still in his ring gear, with a seeming mixture of disgust and apathy. In Touchdown's hand is a blue plastic bag containing several bottles, a fact confirmed by the toppling of plastic as he drops the bag onto the table and takes his seat.

"First off, towel." The Locker Room Leader demands, between breaths. A woman in an "IPW" polo jogs over and leans up to the stage, handing Touchdown a soft white towel which he viciously scrubs against his sweat laden face before throwing it back at her without care.

"Second of all. Show of hands, who here is a journalist?"

The crowd of people seated appear unsure to answer.

"I'm not trying to trick you, who here is a journalist?" A number of hands raise - still with hesitance. Several more rise after the brave first few, until it would appear the vast majority of those in attendance fancy themselves journalists of some description.

"So," Touchdown begins, reaching into his bag, "If that's the case, then allow me to peel back the curtain a little bit. Give all of you world class media personalities some insight into the sport none of you would be capable of succeeding in." With each word, Touchdown retrieves and lays out another bottle on the desk. Gatorade, all of them the same near-florescent green as Touchdown's gear. "The scoop is that, in wrestling, on any given day, anybody can beat anybody. Now I'm not gonna be so trite as to say Nate Pierce's win tonight was a fluke, he had my number; and I should've accounted for the fact that Pierce's fat fucking head is so thick it's like a football helmet protecting his little brain."

Touchdown pauses to unscrew the cap off one of the gatorades and downs almost half the bottle before returning to speaking.

"My point is; thank you, Nate Pierce. Because losing to you tonight has brought a certain amount of clarity back into my life." Another swig from the bottle, even less green housed within as he slams the gatorade back down. "He didn't humble me, he didn't make me consider the person I’ve become, unfortunately contrary to some people's hopes, he didn't make me lose my cool and come in here threatening to take my ball and leave. What he did was make me realise that I'd unconsciously started living a lie."

One last swig and the bottle is emptied, Touchdown tosses it over his shoulder, much to Grace Coleman's obvious annoyance.

"My ego didn't get out of control, my sense of self did. Because after I won that title and decimated every single person who thought they could step over me and take it, I felt a responsibility to lead at the forefront for a new generation. To build up the men and women little by little to my level. Now, you can call that narcissistic, I really couldn’t give a fuck, the reality is that things don’t change unless someone makes it happen. But in trying to make myself that person, I buried deep inside myself a truth that I only now fully realise.”

Touchdown adjusts the microphone, voice dropping in a low growl.

“I.”

“Hate. This place.”

The words hang in the air as Touchdown quietly retrieves another bottle and begins once again unscrewing the lid.

“When I spat in the face of Jason Long, when I beat the likes of Spike and Cross and everybody else, it was spite that was fueling me more than anything else. I’ve tried to bury it down deep because that’s not how a Locker Room Leader should act, right? But the reality is I’ve had to deal with the delusions of grandeur from Nate Pierce on one end and the ramblings of an egomaniacal hick on the other. Now, Nate Pierce I can handle. He can enjoy all the prestige and notoriety that I gave that title, until little by little he erodes its status until it’s nothing more than the middling belt it was always intended to be. But,” Touchdown inhales sharply.

“What did I ever do in this world to deserve an empty-headed fucking dumb fuck like Jimi Coulson? To worm his way back into this company with some “aw shucks” working-class hero crap so he can try and rebuild his name off the back of mine?” A swig from the drink, giving himself a buffer to calm down. “I understand wanting to put fuckin’ food on the table, but to phone it in over a period of several months then take your ball and go home and then be given a contract back and a title shot on your first match back is fucking embarrasing. People wonder why I have such a chip on my shoulder about everything but’ll turn a blind eye to shit like this, lapping up the words of someone with a victim complex and unfulfilled potential. His entire career, I have smoothed things over when he’s pissed off the wrong people, I have bent over backwards to keep him from derailing his own career. When he stopped giving his all, I never once gave him shit and I will regret that everyday until I fucking drop. I offered to tag with him again, it was declined. I brought up securing him singles opportunities, it was denied.”

“I” Slam. “OFFERED” Slam. “HIM” Slam. “MONEY!”

“He said: it “was not important”. But now he’s spoken, I assume, to an image consultant who told him the best thing for his career was to come back here and get a shot at me, because the only thing he’s “cooled down” is the crowd response every time he shows his face. Now I needed to get that out of the way in the middle of my time, because that is the shit that I am forced to deal with by this promotion. That’s it. Fuck Jimi Coulson.”

Touchdown resumes gulping down the contents of the gatorade bottle, indifferent to the incredibly uncomfortable Grace Coleman sitting next to him. A voice from off-camera speaks.

“I wanted to ask about MYOJIN, you’ve mentioned off-handedly a few times your desire to go after the World Champion. Is that something you intend to do now that you’re no longer the Openweight Champion?”

“First off, I’m going after the World Championship, not MYOJIN. There’s a difference. I’m not discrediting MYOJIN’s capabilities as a wrestler but I’m not treating them as synonymous with the title or as if they’re just as big a deal as it because that’s what they want. It’s easy to fall into the trap that so many others have of getting it into their heads the desire to show MYOJIN up or deflate their ego. It’s easy to look at MYOJIN and draw parallels between me and them, as someone who emerged from the same circumstances and mythologise our potential encounter only to become another statistic. I want that World Championship because I don’t want anybody else to have it. Because I want to force Jason Long to tune in to his own show and see my fuckin’ face holding his fuckin’ belt and fuck him for ever thinking it wouldn’t happen. I want to take that title and run it over in a car, throw it at the wall and make it a visual representation of what this company really is. To show it the same respect I show this company.”

“The one and only thing I will say about MYOJIN - assuming they walk away from that dumb fuck still holding the title - it is no secret. It is no secret to anybody with a brain that I am and have been for a long time, the only threat to the main event scene. I don’t care how delusional you think I am or how much you don’t like me or any other childish crap that informs your opinion, the FACT is, I have been the challenger in waiting for almost a year now and it is a very deliberate conspiracy why I have not had a shot and it ain’t because I was a Champion. So, when they’re ready to stop wasting their time on bum fights, I will be there. If they’re not ready, I will still be there because I’ve learned early on you either make your own career or you get swept under the rug, crawl to some ramshackle town in bumfuck nowhere and put on a cowboy hat and try to tell yourself you’re content with your life.”

As if in summation of his point, Touchdown finishes off his second gatorade. He stands and snatches his bag back.

“I have to catch a ride back to my hotel room now because time does not stop for Alastor Touchdown, seemingly the only person in this company willing to put forth the slightest bit of effort. Have a good rest of your night, please be a little more discerning in your choice of entertainment in the future.”

As he begins to move off stage, Coleman points towards his bag. “Could I have one of those?” she asks, Touchdown barely even looks at her as he responds. “Uh, no, I might need them.”

“Alastor Touchdown, everyone.”