(The story so far...part one)

A door bell rings. 

Just before noon, in this quiet Wisconsin subdivision, a FedEx delivery man—no more than a kid, really--waited on the doorstep of a modest family home.  Normally, this delivery man wouldn't have bothered to ring the door bell or wait around for someone to pick up the package—he’d just drop it and go.  This particular package, an overnight envelope, required a signature indicating receipt.  So, in the heat and humidity, he waited...using the overnight envelope as a rather ineffective makeshift fan.

Eventually, the front door opened and a thick-chested, no-necked man peered through the screen door at the FedEx delivery man on his doorstep.

"Yah," the delivery man said, without much concern or awareness.  “Gotta sign for a package.  Are you…”

The delivery man paused as he read the name on the delivery receipt. 

“Yes,” said the large man now opening his screen door to sign for the package.  “I’m Erik Stalin.”

The FedEx delivery man blinked twice, like a cartoon character shocked into not believing what he’s confronted with. 

“Stalin?  Really?” he asked.  “You mean, like…”

Erik grabbed the pen from the delivery man’s hand and began signing the receipt.

“Yes, Stalin,” Erik admitted, “…just like the bad guy from the classic John Cusack movie ‘Better Off Dead’?  Yes.  Just like that.”

The pop cultural reference so confused the FedEx delivery man that he simple stood there staring at Erik long enough for Erik to simply grab the overnight envelope out of his hand, rip the receipt off it, stuff the pen and the receipt back into the delivery man’s hands and shut the both the screen and front doors.

And then there was a pause.

“NO!” The FedEx delivery man shouted at the now closed front door.  “I MEANT THE RUSS--”

“I KNOW WHO YOU MEANT!”, shouted Erik Stalin, through his closed front door, as he walked into his kitchen to open and read whatever was in the overnight envelope.

The FedEx delivery man slowly turned and walked back to his truck to drive away.  Perhaps he added a film to his Netflix queue when he got home from work later in the day.  It doesn’t really matter because this isn’t his story.

The overnight envelope contained a packet of information put together by the WWA Creative Team.  Evidently, they had some suggestions for how Erik Stalin, newly signed to the organization, might make his televised debut…and, it seemed, they had some tweaks they wanted to suggest for his on-screen character.

So, Erik found himself a big black Magic Marker—not a Sharpie, but one of those old school wide-tipped Magic Marker that school teachers used.  He began using that to cross out the suggestions that he wouldn’t be willing to go along with.

“Since Stalin means ‘Steel’ in Russian, why not just change your name to Erik Steel?”

Erik crossed that suggestion out with the thick black marker.

“Grow out your body hair and call yourself the Russian Bear.  Instant feud with the newly signed American Freebear.”

Erik crossed that suggestion out with the thick black marker.

Erik spent the better part of an hour, crossing off suggestion after suggestion.  So much so, that the pages looked more like they were solid black with specks of white here and there. 

This didn’t seem to bother Erik very much, as much as it took up his time.  He was well aware of what the wrestling industry was like.  After all, he did dress up as a giant robot when he began wrestling in Japan—before he realized that he could simply say “No” to doing things he didn’t want to do…and that realization is what’s changed everything for Erik Stalin.

Although, as Erik crosses out silly creative idea after silly creative idea on page after page of ideas sent from his new employer’s creative staff, Erik had to wonder what he’d really managed to change.

When he came to the last page in the packet, a page that Erik made as blacked-out as all of the other pages he was sent, he sighed.  He grabbed the overnight envelope to see if that’s all there was—just bad ideas.  Turned out, there was something else in the envelope.  Not more documents but something else. 

Erik dumped the remaining contents of the overnight envelope on the table.  Out poured a lanyard, a laminated pass attached to the lanyard and a Post-It note stuck on the laminate.

The note read “You might find the WWA Twitter Feed interesting.  RE: Andrew Everett”.

The laminate itself was an all access, backstage-pass to the upcoming WWA Underground live event taping in Boston that very night. 

Erik stood up.  He grabbed the laminate and walked over to his computer.  He surfed his way over to the WWA Twitter Feed and began reading the recent TeWeets of the man who called himself “Mr. Personality.”  His TeWeets were all about how he didn’t need the WWA and that he was already under contract with two other wrestling organizations. 

A quick Google search showed Erik that Mr. Personality had just recently joined the WWA.  He immediately complained about how he had been booked in his debut match.  He complained about how he assumed he would be booked in his next match.  Basically, he’d criticized the company from the minute he joined and that he was bragging about how he was going to walk away from the company with a sizeable paycheck as soon as he slept his way through one final match against Drew Rosen at the upcoming Underground show in Boston.

A quick Kayak search showed Erik that he could buy himself a ticket, pack a quick bag that included his wrestling gear, and be in Boston in time for the show. 

That is exactly what he did.

-----

(The story so far...part two)

The Event Staff at the TD Banknorth Garden in Boston should have guessed that the nearly six and a half foot tall, nearly 300 pound man wearing bright red neoprene pants and bright red wrestling boots coming to the loading entrance of the facility was probably one of the wrestlers performing that night on WWA’s Underground event.  They’d have been wrong, of course, but, it would have been a reasonable guess.  To their credit, they did ask Erik Stalin to show his all-access, backstage pass.

That is exactly what he did…and, upon reviewing the pass to make certain it was legit, the Event Staff let him enter.  Just like that, Erik Stalin was back in the world of professional wrestling—this time, after almost a decade in Japan, he was here in North America.

Familiar sights and sounds greeted him everywhere that he looked.  The hallways were strewn with cables.  There were staffers and crew running everywhere, trying to make certain that everything was set and ready for the show that was about to start.

Indeed, just moments after Erik entered the building, he could hear “IT’S SHOWTIME!” over the PA speakers and the muffled reaction of the crowd as this episode of WWA Underground began.

With the show having just started, Erik grabbed a production crew staffer who was running by and asked to see the night’s call sheet.  He wanted to see who was going to be wrestling on tonight’s show, who would be expected to appear in interview segments and who was in the building in case unforeseen circumstances would require them to perform.

He wasn’t surprised to see that his own name was not on the call sheet—after all, he hadn’t told anyone in the company that he was going to be there and he knew that the backstage pass that had been FedExed to him had probably been just a courtesy to a new employee or a mix-up in the company offices. 

Probably.

What DID surprise him was seeing Andrew Everett’s name listed as wrestling against Drew Rosen in the first match of the night. 

“First match of the night?” Erik surprised himself by saying out loud.  The staffer shrugged and ran off to do whatever he was supposed to be doing.

Erik couldn’t believe they’d take such a risk as putting Andrew Everett in the first match of the night.  What was Mr. Personality going to do?  No one knew.  At best, it would be a meaningless squash of a wrestler whose heart wasn’t in it.  At worst, it would give Maffew plenty of material for his next Botchamania.

He recognized some surprisingly familiar music rumbling through the backstage hallways:  Rick Derringer’s “Real American.”  Since there was little to no chance that Terry Bollea was actually in Boston working for WWA on this night—made even more obvious by the lack of any crowd reaction whatsoever—Erik knew that whatever was going on out there was likely to be some foolishness.

But, according to the call sheet, it also meant that the Rosen/Everett match was only an interview segment away from starting.  And, judging by the bright lights pouring from out of the edges of the locker room door, which was just down the hallway from where Erik was standing, that interview was underway and the match was about to stop.   

Erik made his way closer to the staging area, dodging production staffers and a few nervous wrestlers, most of whom Erik did not recognize, pacing in the hallways while waiting their turn to go on.  No one seemed to give him much mind or even notice that he was there.  He walked, unimpeded, all the way to the staging area, directly behind the curtains and stage set of the entrance area. 

That’s where he saw one more wrestler—one who Erik DID recognize, thanks to the beauty of Google image search and a Post-It note that suggested he read the WWA’s Twitter Feed.

“All right, here goes nothing!” that wrestler said to no one in particular.  “Go out there, take a quick dive, collect my paycheck and Mr. Personality is HISTORY!” 

That wrestler pulled the curtain back—which allowed light to spill over into the corner where Erik was standing.  The wrestler saw Erik.  The wrestler bugged out his eyes at Erik and wagged his tongue.  

“Looks like you’ve got a job to do,” Erik said to him. 

The wrestler smiled at Erik and gave him the quick double guns. 

“Pow Pow!” he said.  And he laughed.  None of this meant anything to him. 

If Erik Stalin was a cartoon, there would be smoke coming out of his ears, steam shooting out of his head and fire bursting out of his eyes.  Since Erik Stalin is not a cartoon, however, all he could do was watch as Mr. Personality walked into a dead arena, prepared to give them nothing.

Everett walked out with no entrance package.  No music, no lights, no pyro…not even an introduction.  Now, after Mr. Personality had ambled his way to the ring, the PA speakers came to life with a repetitive guitar pattern.  Erik couldn’t identify the song but there was a man as large as he was, if not bigger, waiting right where the curtain split, who was getting into it.

It was at least a minute before the song really kicked in and that’s when the other man walked through the curtain on his own way to the ring.     

The curtain closed behind that man and the staging area was dark again, except for the monitor at the Gorilla Position.  Erik went over to talk to whoever was manning the Gorilla Position.

“That guy…he’s going to murder Everett, right?”

There was no answer.

No one answered Erik because there was no one to answer him.  As his eyes adjusted, Erik could see that no one was manning the Gorilla Position.  Erik saw the empty chair, the open production binder with the call sheet and shot sheets up, the headset mic and a fresh cup of coffee…but no one was actually there. 

And, seeing no one around, Erik helped himself to a seat in the chair.  He took a sip of the coffee.  He slipped the headphones on and heard the chatter of the production crew.  He heard directors guiding camera operators as they decided the best angles to capture Drew Rosen’s walk to the stage. 

Listening to their chatter made him miss the ring introduction and the ringing of the bell to start the match…but on the monitor he could see Mr. Personality still making a mockery of the very idea of his being a worthy opponent in the ring on this night.

“All right, this is going to go quick,” he heard someone on the headphones say, “So, let’s get this out of the way…”

And that's what Erik Stalin was most afraid would happen.

Erik took a deep breath.  On the monitor, he saw that Andrew Everett had no intention of actually wrestling tonight.  The cameras caught just a hint of a grin flash across Drew Rosen’s face as he saw the condition and mindset of his would-be opponent—and that grin was something that not every person watching would have caught, but something that told Erik that Rosen wasn’t planning on carrying Everett through even the merest pretense of a match.

Erik Stalin looked around and there was no one around who was paying attention to any of this.  That's when he realized that he now had to make a choice.  He knew that he could sit here and watch this debacle unfold before his eyes...or, he could do something about it.

Of course, that decision was made when he booked his flight to Boston and changed into his wrestling gear before making his way to the stadium.  In fact, that decision already made when he chose to return from working in Japan.

Erik pulled the headset microphone down over his mouth.  Into the chatter, by pressing the key on his mic switch, he made his presence known.

“Stage lights…prepare for a red wash…” he said into the microphone.  The chatter stopped for a second. 

“Uhhhh...this is lights.  I don’t have anything on my sheets about a red wash.”

Erik watched the monitor as Rosen reached out to grab Everett’s hand.

“Change of plans.  Last minute, sorry…but I need a full wash of red.”

“I can get you a lot of red fill.  Do you need it just on the entrance area?”

“Yes.  And smoke!” Erik said, improvising as he watched Rosen whip Everett, without any resistance, into the corner.  “I want billowing smoke all over the entrance area when we take the red lights…”

“This is mobile camera.  Should I go up to cover the entrance area or stay with the match?”

As Rosen landed a full body avalanche on Everett in the ring, Erik felt a sense of urgency.  Whatever he was planning, whatever he was doing on the Gorilla Position’s headset, he needed it done fast.  He needed it done now.

“Stay with the match.  We’re sending one man out, post-match.  Cover him when he gets to the ring area,” Erik demanded.  “And then stay with him.”

“Got it.”

Rosen nailed a T-Bone suplex on Everett and Erik could see that Everett was not making the slightest effort to get up—whether he could or not.  Erik got up and prepared to ditch the headset once he put his plan into action.  Except that he’d forgotten something.

“Oh, and I need a mic,” Erik said out loud.  Then he cringed.  For a second, Erik worried that he might have blown it.

“Where do you need a mic?” came the reply from whoever was in charge of producing microphones wherever they were needed during the show, who was on own headset somewhere in the TD Banknorth Garden.  “Entrance area?  Ring side?”

Erik let out a deep breath.  “I want the mic ready at ring side."

"All right."

On the monitor, Erik saw Rosen laying his palm on Everett’s chest for the rather anti-climactic pin and that meant it was time to put his plan into action.  He started barking his final instructions into the headset mic.

"All right.  Here we go.  As soon as the winner is announced, I want the red light fill and I want that smoke thick on the entrance area.”

“Wait!  This is graphics.  We’ve got nothing here.”

But, as Gary Trudeau was announcing Drew Rosen as the winner of the match, Erik Stalin—dressed as he was—had taken off the headset and moved to the curtain split.   

“What do you want on the WWATron?  What do you want for Chyron?”

These questions from the graphics manager went unanswered as the red lights filled the stage and Erik Stalin went through the curtains, the smoke and Andrew Everett to make his WWA debut.

-----

(The story so far...part three)

One thing that Erik Stalin has never experienced before—other than hijacking a professional wrestling show for his own purposes…which he had, in fact, experienced just moments ago when he decided to both purge and expunge Mr. Personality right in front of the fans and television cameras here in Boston—was being applauded by the production staffers upon setting foot in the back hallway behind the staging area.

It had all gone well.  The lights, the smoke, the microphone...all came together just fine.  Mr. Personality was driven face first into the mat and the crowd responded.  Mr. Pesonality was curb stomped into a bloody puddle...and the crowd responded.  He had made his way to the entrance area and introduced himself and his mission to the fans...and they responded.

It had all gone so well that now, rather than getting in trouble, Erik imagined that there were any number of people taking credit for this unexpected segment of the show—and, if it meant not getting into trouble, Erik was prepared to let them all take credit, if they wanted.

This impromptu trip to Boston had given Erik Stalin the chance to do everything he wanted to do.  He’d made an immediate impact on his new company.  He’d begun his efforts to make his industry better.  He felt the rush of looking entirely bad-ass in front of an arena full of fans.

It was an amazing moment.

And, after the unexpected backstage recognition from some of the production staffers…there was nothing.

The moment was over.

The production staffers got back to work.  The show went on.

No one from management came down to discuss this incident with him.  None of the other wrestlers came out from the locker room to meet him, much less congratulate or castigate him. 

“A pebble in the ocean,” Erik said to himself as he stood alone in the corridor behind the staging area. 

This was all going to take some time.

It couldn’t all happen tonight.

So, he left.

Erik made his way back through the snaking corridors back to the event door that he’d been allowed to enter no more than a half hour ago.  As he pushed his way out into the Boston night, he saw that an ambulance was being loaded with a stretcher.  On that stretcher, and acting rather belligerently to the EMTs trying to tend to his wounds, was none other than Mr. Personality.

And, since it was on the way to his rental car, Erik thought he’d amble over and pay his respects.

Erik walked over to the ambulance and peered in to the open back doors.  The EMTs were still trying to staunch the flow of blood that continued to pour out of Andrew Everett’s nose.  They were applying blue plastic CryoPacks to his forehead and neck.  They were fighting the urge to stuff bandages into his mouth as Everett was issuing a stream of fuzzy-consciousness objections to everyone and everything around him. 

Whether any of it made sense to anyone is a matter of debate.

“The owner of this company is a twelve year old boy who thinks he’s a marine,” Everett shouted.  “You can’t hold it against somebody who quits and gets banned.  I’m under contract to two other companies.”

Mr. Personality was showing more drive and determination in this ambulance than he had in the ring just a few minutes ago.

“I’m so out of here.  This place is dying and everybody knows it,” he continued.  “And if they use my image on their website, I’ll prove how pathetic they are.  I’ll find some hacker kids and shut that website down, I swear.”

“Sir, you need to lie back and relax,” one of the EMTs cautioned him.  “You’re losing a lot of blood and we can get it stopped if you’d just rel--” 

“I’ll make sure this company gets a bad reputation,” Everett said, ignoring the advice of the EMT.  Not just from me, but from other communities and wrestlers and moms and dads and little kids and dogs.  I will tell dogs what to think.”

Mr. Personality’s voice began to fade and the focus in his eyes began to loosen.  This seemed like a perfect time for Erik Stalin to pay his respects.

“Well, you certainly did your job out there tonight,” Erik said.

It took a second or two for Everett, in his fuzzy-minded state, to make the mental connections to realize who was now speaking to him.

“YOU!” he said, once he realized that the man standing outside of the ambulance was the man who had just added an exclamation point to the final chapter of his WWA career.

Everett, even in his weakened condition, wanted to get his hands around Erik’s neck.  He pushed aside the EMT working on his nose.

“Whoa…” Erik said at the bloody mush that was Andrew Everett’s face.  “I turned you into Randall ‘Tex’ Cobb.” 

“I don’t know who that is..." Everett admitted.  "And I don't know who YOU are…or what you thought you were doing--”

“I thought I was clearing the trash out of the ring,” Erik explained.  “And by trash, I mean…Mr. Personality.”

Erik gave Everett the “double guns” that Everett had given Erik in the staging area.

“Either you are bored and have no life,” Everett shouted at Erik Stalin, with bloody spittle flying from his swollen lips, “Or you are just really angry with yourself and taking your frustrations out on people you don’t even know.” 

“Oh, I know you, Andrew Everett,” Erik said, with calm but firm conviction.  “You think professional wrestling is all about you.”

“Damn right!”

“No, it’s not.  It’s about the people in the stands.  It’s about whether or not they believe in what you do.  It’s about whether or not they care about you doing it.” 

Erik leaned into the back of the ambulance close enough to frustrate Everett’s desire to throttle him and said, “You gave them nothing, tonight, Andrew. 

If Everett couldn’t get his hands on Erik Stalin, he could try to spit at him.  Erik managed to duck out of the way. 

Erik shook his head and continued.  “You ruined it for everyone who had paid to see you tonight.”    

“Good,” Everett said with woozy boastfulness while one of the EMTs managed to get some fresh bandages applied to his flattened and bloody nose.  “Like I care about what a bunch of idiots think.”   

Erik Stalin nodded, sadly. 

“And that’s why there’s only one thing left that needs to be said to you, Andrew Everett.”

“Yeah?  What’s that?”

Erik grabbed the handle of the ambulance’s back door and closed both the ambulance doors and the final chapter of Mr. Personality’s run in the WWA with a single word.

“Goodbye.”

-----

RED ZONE #1: 

(PROMOTIONAL FOOTAGE SENT TO WWA FOR BROADCAST)

MUSIC/SFX:  Synthesizer Space Sound sliding down an octave to a tension pad. 

VOICE OVER:  NOW, YOU’RE IN THE RED ZONE…

(The screen is filled with a bright red background.  The name “STALIN”, big and bold in black text and all capital letters curves from the left screen edge to the right.)

(Walking into the center of the frame in a head and shoulders shot is Erik Stalin.  Stalin stares intensely and directly into the camera.)

STALIN:  My name is Erik Stalin.  On August Fourth, Two Thousand and Eleven in the city of Boston, Massachusetts…I began my Five Year Plan to rescue professional wrestling from what it had become.

(Stalin, in mockery, shoots a couple of double guns at the camera while making a funny look with his face.  That funny look disappears very quickly and he again looks very intensely at the camera.)

STALIN:  And in the case of Mr. Personality, it wasn’t enough that he was beaten in the ring…he HAD to be BEATEN.

(Stalin balls up his fist near his face on the word BEATEN.)

STALIN:  And he WAS beaten.  He was made an example of...and he’s now been purged from the WWA.

(Stalin’s fist turns into an open hand and he slowly removes it from the frame.) 

STALIN:  This is a good thing.  He had nothing to offer.  He was a cancer that needed to be cut out so the rest of the WWA could live.  And I was all too happy to hold the scalpel that cut him out.

(Stalin points directly at the camera.)

STALIN:  Let this be a message to everyone who enters a WWA ring.  Do NOT take this opportunity you’ve been given for granted.  You’re here to fight.  So fight.

(Stalin points his thumb directly at his own face.)

STALIN:  That’s why I’M here.  I’M here to fight.  I’m here to fight for every fan that paid money to see us fight to our best ability.  I’m here to fight for my chance to fight again.  I’m here to fight for a roster filled with men willing to fight…wrestlers the fans want to see fight.  And I’m here to fight for a wrestling industry that isn’t plagued and festering with those who will not fight.

(Stalin takes a deep breath, lowers his hand out of frame and maintains his intense expression directly into the camera.)

STALIN:  I will be watching.  I will be ready.  And I will take them down one by one, if I have to…

(The camera zooms out to a waist-up shot which shows that Stalin is wearing a black t-shirt with white lettering on it.  The lettering on the shirt reads “BELIEVE THIS!”)

MUSIC/SFX:  End tension pad.

MUSIC/SFX:  Loud, reverb-heavy metal door closing sound fx.

(Black Out.)