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Steven Kessler · **10-21-2014, 08:19 AM**

The scene fades in on Steven Kessler standing in his hotel room, framed by the windows thrown open wide to the expanse of Detroit, illuminated by a thousand flashing nights in the night-time sky. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, and half a dozen stubbed butts sit on the windowsill. In the dim light the tip glows a deep red, illuminating the face of the XWF newcomer. He takes a long, final draw on his smoke and exhales, stubbing it out methodically and tossing it to join the others in the cigarette graveyard.

Kessler: “There’s something transpiring here in the XWF that I have a problem with.”

He pauses long enough to pour himself a drink from a bottle of scotch whiskey sitting on the cheap pine desk in the quarter of the room. He swirls it around in the glass and takes a sip before patting down his jacket, drawing out a silver cigarette case and sliding yet another into his mouth. He flicks at his lighter and the flame curls over the tip, catching on the excess paper as the tobacco begins to burn. It dangles from the corner of his mouth as he speaks, his voice only slightly muffled.

Kessler: “I have been told before that I am a man without a conscience. I’ve been called a cheater, a dick, a prick, an asshole and, on the very rare occasion, told that I have no soul whatsoever. It’s not just when I’m out there competing in the ring, either. I’m not talking about the pimple-faced greasy haired idiots who toss back a few paper cups of beer and decide to impress their skanky, overweight girlfriends by calling me such creative, articulate names as “

”. I’m talking about on the street, when I’m walking my dog, when I’m trying to eat dinner at a restaurant. I’ve heard boos, insults and threats on my life. I’ve endured being pelted by garbage, half-full cups of beer and once, what I can only assume was a concoction of saliva, tobacco spit and some kind of animal urine. Overall, for a thirty-two year old, I can safely say that I’ve endured my fair share of disrespect in this business.

A lot of you may wonder how I can do this. How is it possible to overcome the odds like that, to come out night after night after night even in the face of adversity, to continue to perform at a top-level rate despite an almost overwhelming lack of support? I always laugh when I’m asked that question, because the answer is so simple that is defies reality that anybody would even both to ask it in the first place. The key to it is a secret that the so-called “good guys” in this profession don’t want you to know. It scares them to think you might find out, and yet here today I’m going to let you all in on that little tidbit of knowledge. You all come to our shows in droves, carrying your signs and booing and cheering and chanting and at the end of the day it’s all just part of the job. You scream and you yell and you all go apeshit like a bunch of morons and like a bunch of roid-raging short order cooks we serve you up exactly what’s been ordered and we try to hide what’s inside is undercooked and fucking ROTTEN. Do any of you really believe that your hopes and prayers and words of encouragement actually give your favourite wrestlers some kind of superpowers? Because I’ll tell you right now, if I get locked into a killer sleeper hold no amount of drunken, out of rhythmic clapping is going to keep me from falling unconscious. Maybe my sheer willpower. Maybe my superior athletic prowess. By clapping and chanting? Heh, I don’t think so kids.”

Kessler chuckles and downs the remaining whiskey in his glass. He takes another long, succulent draw on his cigarette and flicks the ashes out of the open window.

Kessler: “I can at least understand cheering. Whooping and yelling and screaming your brains out, hoping that the home team can pull off the big one… I get that. I’ve been to football games, I’ve cheered for my favourite teams. I can understand that. But booing? What kind of idiot came up with that concept? “Gee folks, how can we publicly and collectively show our dislike for this thing before us? I know, I’ve got it! Let’s all, and just stick with me here, at the same time get out of our chairs and start screaming! But not just any noise in particular, no, let’s make the same easy to remember noise. Should we cluck like chickens? Nah… Should we blow air horns? Wait! No! I’ve got it! Let’s make a noise like a ghost! Ghosts are scary, right? We rule.””

Kessler scoffs. A vicious sneer comes over his face although he remains completely in control of himself. This message is important to him and he understands the casualties of remaining anything but calm. Still, a biting tone exists as he speaks his next words, a tone of bitterness and contempt.

Kessler: “It’s absolutely ridiculous. The level of disrespect is un-fucking-believable. I mean, okay, you may not like me or the way I do things. Some of you, hell, most of you probably even despise me and see me as arrogant, shooting off my mouth when I’ve only been here in the XWF for a handshake and a cup of coffee. But I want to ask you this; did I stand over the pair of drunken siblings that conceived your inbred ass as they bumped uglies backstage at the Lynyrd Skynyrd concert and fucking BOO at them? Do I stand outside your trailer park homes each and every morning to mock and jeer the stained sweatpants you’re wearing as you prepare to comb your mullet for another uneventful day serving up burgers at Wendys? No. And you know why? Because it’s common fucking courtesy, and if watching me emasculate and lay waste to the entirety of Team Eli at War Games isn’t your cup of tea I suggest you change the goddamned channel. Go take a piss, get a frosty beverage from the cooler. I’m not here to entertain you, I’m here because it’s my job to be the very best wrestler I can be. You wouldn’t boo at a stockbroker or a mailman, so shut the fuck up and have some a little bit of respect for the guy who put your ass in the seat.

And make no mistake, I did put your ass in the seat. Think about it… isn’t that what you paid to see? Love me or hate me, you paid to see me step between those ropes and either emerge victorious with the rest of Team Erebus or get my ass kicked by the oh-so-eloquent members of Team Eli. You spent eight hours of your precious time painstakingly crafting a shitty sign out of cheap cardboard, glitter and black sharpie, sticking bits of macaroni to it like it’s some kind of masterwork, proudly proclaiming your allegiance to whoever happens to be the flavour of the week. Which is a real shame, because if you’re hoping to see Justin Sane or Ghost Tank beat me all over the ring at War Games, because once Team Erebus – spoilers- wins the match, then you’re left out front waiting for a cab, a disastrous mess of shame, disappointment, depression and hunger burdened with the knowledge that you used your last box of macaroni on a piece of cardboard and false hope.”

He stubs the butt of his cigarette out on the windowsill and tosses it to the ground below. He’s smiling now as he drains off his glass of whiskey. He knows he’s driving the point home, that he’s close to something.

Kessler: “Face it kids, we’re in the real world now away from the morals and rules of our childhoods. A world with many shades of grey. You might call me a bad guy but if that’s true, then where are the good guys? Cause I sure as hell can’t see them. We’re a bunch of savage men committing acts of violence on each other for sport and profit. What’s noble or definitely good about that? You people certainly aren’t the good ones, paying top dollar to see it happen like filthy voyeurs, right before your eyes. And the more the better, right? Two rings, a double sized steel cage… why not more blood? Why not more violence? More risks? Your bloodlust sickens me almost as much as your fucking hypocrisy. We are a roster of savages and warriors. There is no good and there is no bad. There is only honesty and dishonesty. I might do things you abhor, yet I’m honest about it. You kill your unborn children and laugh in the face of God, you lie to your friends and you lie to your families and you lie to yourselves about your true character. I know I’m not the only one here with evil intent.”

He begins to laugh, the sort of empty, hollow laugh where a man isn’t sure why he’s laughing, but something is still pretty damn funny. He pours another scotch and pounds it down, slamming the empty glass back onto the desk. There is a distinct echo around the room as the glass meets the pine surface.

Kessler: “Justin Sane, Evertrust and Ghost Tank are the only members of their team to even attempt to take this match even semi-seriously. Up until now their captain has abandoned them, and I do not doubt that they will attempt to steer their ship even through the most vicious of storms. Because that is what you’re going to have to withstand when you step into the ring with us, a nigh-on-unstoppable force of nature. I don’t really take you for praying men which is a shame, since a God can be kind, or merciful, or forgiving. I can’t be any of those things. All I know how to do is my job, and how to win by any means necessary. Nothing any of you say can rattle me or shake me from my goal, nor will any of your words change the fact that come War Games, Team Erebus will be the superior men standing in the ring and the superior force in the contest. We’re all monsters.”

Kessler grins. It’s an eerie sight in the dim half-darkness of the hotel room.

Kessler: “At War Games, we’re going to act like it.”

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