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Steven Kessler · **10-07-2014, 03:46 AM**

The scene fades in on Steven Kessler sitting in his darkened hotel room in Johannesburg, his face illuminated by a small television perched on the edge of a desk. The curtains are drawn over the windows, although enough light is seeping through the crack to indicate that it’s the middle of the day outside. A scream bursts from the television and Kessler greedily shovels popcorn into his mouth from a bowl on his lap.

The camera pans around to show the television screen from over Kessler’s shoulder. He’s watching a B-grade horror flick, the kind of movie produced on a shoestring budget, starring unknown actors and shown on late-night time slot on some obscure cable channel. As Kessler licks the salty residue from his fingers, he turns and appears to notice the camera for the first time.

Kessler: “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you back there. You shouldn’t sneak up on me, especially when I’m watching horror movies.”

He leans forward and places the bowl of popcorn on the desk. Next to the television set is the plastic DVD case for the movie, titled “Chainsaw Surgeon 2: Operating Theatre” and depicting a middle aged man in bloodstained scrubs waving a chainsaw over his head. Kessler picks up the DVD case and sighs.

Kessler: “There’s nothing quite like a scary movie, is there? I mean, people watch movies as a form of escapism. I watch Scarface, I know I’m gonna see Al Pacino shoot shit for an hour and a half and ingest massive quantities of cocaine. I watch The Shawshank Redemption, I know that I’m gonna sympathize with Tim Robbins when it comes to the subject of male-on-male sexual assault. I watch something cutesy, like Marley and Me, and I know that the dog is gonna die at the end and I’ll feel sad for the rest of the day. But horror movies, man… you always know what you’re gonna get with them. They’ve settled into a predictable trend that, to be frank, doesn’t quite impress me as much as I wish it did.

I think it’s kinda funny that I feel the same way about watching a Ghost Tank promo that I do about horror movies. I’ll watch it, I’ll get spooked for the duration, then afterwards I’ll pull open the curtains and realize the truth; it’s not real. Do I really think that Bruce Campbell fought an army of darkness, or that there’s a hockey-mask wearing lunatic that carves up horny teenagers? Nah, I don’t. No more than I believe that Ghost Tank is a credible threat to my chances of coming out on top of the Teambuilder Battle Royal.”

Kessler throws the DVD case back onto the desk and stretches his arms above his head.

Kessler: “That’s the difference between movies and pro wrestling. You have to learn to separate fact from fiction. They have all these different takes to get it right, and lighting, and catering, and stunt doubles. Do I get that luxury when I go out there? Hell no! But you can hand a wrestler a script and expect him to say a bunch of mean things and dammit, he’ll deliver. It was only this morning that I watched Ghost Tank assault a poor cameraman in order to try and get his point across. That’s the difference between fact and fiction; an attack like that won’t win you a wrestling match, but it WILL land you five-to-ten in a nice barred cell somewhere. I don’t feel intimidated by the fact that Ghost Tank is a six-eight three hundred twenty pound mountain of deranged meat. I don’t feel threatened by his attitude towards random acts of violence. I don’t feel annoyed that day after day after day I have to watch him reiterate the same boring points over and over; “I’m big, dumb and out for blood”. That’s fine, he can mumble a few threats, torment a few poor cameramen and say a lot of bullshit about how he’s going to come out on top come Wednesday, ‘cause you know what? I’ve been in this business long enough to know that I don’t need to act like a generic movie monster to get over. I don’t need to act like some kind of badass.”

Kessler folds his arms over his chest and feigns a yawn behind his hand.

Kessler: “That’s the problem with Ghost Tank. He seems to think that because he acts like some sort of freak, it makes him interesting and entertaining. Once again, that’s bullshit. Interesting is to ability like dick size is to a quadriplegic. Sure, it might look great and hey, you might be able to brag about it in conversation but really it doesn’t matter in the end. Ghost Tank thinks that because he cut a promo in a dimly lit room it makes him “edgy” and “cool”. He smashes a few beer cans against his head and suddenly he’s hot shit on the playground. I hate to shatter his misconceptions, but I’m the guy he should’ve been paying attention to all week long. I’m sure as hell not going to sit idly by on the sidelines and let him disregard the future of the XWF. I’m in my PRIME. So long as I stand on my own two feet I’m in the prime of my wrestler career and no one, not Ghost Tank, not Game Boy, not Cobra Kai, can stop me from making that true.

So, I'll say to this to you before I rid myself of your complete and utter nonsense. I don't regard you at all. After I've finished speaking, I'm probably not even going to think about you again until we step into the ring together on Warfare. You should consider yourself lucky that you get to step between the ropes with little old me, still clinging to the ridiculous notion that you'll ever carve out any sort of legacy for yourself. Don't kid yourself into thinking you'll succeed. You'll fail where I triumph. You'll fall flat on your face and you'll stay there. You need to shut your mouth, show up to Warfare and when you've been tossed over that top rope go on to your destiny of curtain-jerking with the likes of Cobra Kai. Ciao, freak."

Kessler picks up the television remote and points it at the screen. As he presses the power button, the screen flashes to darkness.

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