North board, roleplay 23

It's a really boring time to be in the City of Angels. The Dodgers just left for a three-game set in Denver. The Lake Show is in Jersey prepping for Game One of the NBA Finals against the Nets. The Kings were eliminated by the Avalanche long ago. At least the Angels are home, but it's a bit of a drive to Anaheim.

So what is left for a man to do? Specifically, what is left for a sports-crazy wrestler with a hell of a lot of time on his hands to do? Dean Wallace opted to spend the morning on an excersice bike in the weight room at the Hilton LAX, where the tournament's other Evo superstars were pent up for the duration of their stay in the tourney.

We pick up Dean as he walks to the elevator from his room. He holds the latest Sports Illustrated and Baseball Weekly, along with a box of donuts and the complimentary towel he had used to dry himself after his workout.

Dean walks into the elevator from the 4th floor and encounters a mother and her small child. The child wears a pair of those Mickey Mouse novelty ears, available at this little theme park over in Anaheim. Dean's done Disneyland several times, so it's lost its luster to him.

"Goin' to see Mickey?"

The child chuckles. The mother looks up at the strange, large man and smiles warily.

"Hey, better than anything going on in this city..."

The mother forces a chuckle.

"Here in this hopeless f*cking hole we call LA..."

The mother immediately starts punching the emergency stop button while attempting to shield her child's virgin ears.

"The only way to fix it is to flush it all away..."

The mother is really starting to get nervous. Dean's tapping his feet to the imagined beat and practically singing.

"Any f*cking time, any f*cking day..."

The elevator stops. The mother and child dash out of the elevator, leaving Dean behind to chuckle.

"Not big Tool fans, I suppose!"

He gets no response. Dean chortles to himself as he exits the elevator and walks toward a general sitting area. There's a fireplace, which isn't on; a television, which is tuned to KTLA; and a couch, which Dean immediately occupies.

Dean removes a glazed donut from his box and takes a sizeable hunk out of it. Dean finishes his food, then begins to speak.

"I'd like to get some of the... unpleasantness... out of the way first."

Dean smiles a tight smile. He speaks the next sentence in a voice generally reserved for telling kindergartners that they have done something wrong.

"Maggie, if you ever touch my f*ckin car again, I'll murder you."

Dean smiles a reassuring smile, one you might give to a child caught stealing from the cookie jar.

"Now that that's over with, I'm going to be the bearer of bad news."

"Maggie, you aren't going to win. Period. I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"I know this because you are obviously grasping at straws, looking desperately for the silver lining in the cloud that currently blankets you. All the things you mentioned in regard to me were fabricated, created to help you feel better about your chances against me."

Dean finishes his donut.

"Let's take a look at the most glaring example. You stated something to the effect of my having no idea what the pressure that I am under is like. In fact, Maggie, nothing could be further from the truth."

Dean smiles smugly. It's an 'I'm right, you're not' look.

"Maggie, you're an Arizonan, as I am. I'm going to go ahead and assume you have heard of the Arizona Diamondbacks baseball team. And I'm going to go ahead and assume you know some of the players on the team."

"Ever heard of Byung-hung Kim, Maggie? Kim comes in when the D-Backs have a lead in the late innings. He does his job, and the D-Backs win. I know what that's like, because for four years at Arizona State, that was my job.

"Eighty-seven times, I took the mound when my team had a tiny lead to protect in the ninth. Eighty-six times, I walked off the mound with the lead intact. This shows that, not only do I know pressure a little better than you might think, but that I know my way around a pressure situation."

Dean withdraws another donut from the box and devours this one in one gulp.

"But enough about why you're wrong. Here's why I'm right."

"I am the best athlete in this tournament. This claim is indisputable. And I'm not a great athlete in the vein of Kevin Greene or Karl Malone; unlike them, I know how to use my superior athleticism in the ring."

"I'd like to refer you to an Impulse we aired a while back. The main event featured Duel and David Chambers competing for the most prized possession in our sport: the LCW Evo World Title. Duel had David Chambers locked in a katihajime, and looked about ready to retain, when I decided to make my presence felt."

"From 15 feet away, I stood on a chair and tossed a baseball into Chambers' ribs."

"Most men, given the same opportunity, pick up that white ball and huck it as hard as they can. Whether they hit their target is a crapshoot, as are the consequences. Had I done the same, perhaps my 96 mile per hour fastball hits Chambers in the heart and kills him instantly. Maybe it hits him in the face and turns him into another Kris Draper. But I knew exactly what I was doing."

Dean vaporizes another pastry.

"My body is a tool. My body is finely-tuned. I am fully aware of my body's capabilities. This puts me at a huge advantage over the rest of the 64 man field. My past athletic endeavors have allowed me to tune my body to the point where I feel confident enough in its abilities to call it a weapon."

"I dug that ball all the way into the back of my hand. That's a changeup. From 15 feet away, I threw a pitch that always moves in an unpredictable fashion, but still had the control over it to place it square in a spot that would only do what damage was needed to get the job done."

"It's about control. It's about mental capability. But above all else, it's all about athleticism. In this game, the best athlete will reign supreme."

Dean rises. He leaves the box of donuts in its place, and starts to walk towards the elevator.

"Let me restate: when it comes to pure athleticism, I am the best in this tournament. And that's why I am a Cut Above the rest."

Dean punches a few buttons and takes the elevator back to his room. Thankfully, there are no women or children to frighten this time. Dean gets off, thumbing through Baseball Weekly as he walks towards his room.

Dean fumbles for his key, withdraws it, and enters his room. He immmediately heads for a Yellow Pages, because he's starving. He flips it open, stopping on D, and his jaw drops.

"HARTNETT DOJO

LEARN:
Karate!
Ju Jitusu!
Kung Fu!
Mixed Martial Arts!
Wrestling!

OPEN MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY TILL 8, SAT AND SUN TILL 5"

The rest of the ad is inconsequential. Dean hasn't seen this ad in 5 years, since he first entered Hartnett Dojo in Tempe, AZ.

But what was Jackson Hartnett, a Arizonan through and through, doing in LA?

Dean picks up the phone and frantically dials the number printed. It rings twice, and then, a voice.

"This is Junior."

Junior?

"Um... who is this?"

"Junior Hartnett. Hartnett Dojo."

Damn.

"Oh, sorry. I was looking for your father."

"He's out in Tempe, running his own place. We're the McDonalds of dojos."

The man chuckles. Dean's eyes grow wide.

"I trained under your father."

"Really! You were one of Jacko's boys? I'm his son, Jack Junior."

"You're shittin' me."

"Nope."

Dean sits, stunned.

"Hey, why don't we get lunch? I'm sure you know the area better than I."

"Sounds good to me... what was your name?"

"Dean."

"Alright, Dean. Tell you what. Find Yang's Vietnamese in downtown LA, and I'll meet you there in about 30 minutes. Sound good?"

"Sounds great. See you there."

Dean hangs up. He's still shocked.

Dean Wallace owes Jackson Hartnett, Senior everything in the world. Without the crotchety old man's guidence and criticism, Dean not only isn't in the WG3 tourney, but he's not even in the business.

It wouldn't be thanking him, but thanking his son was close enough.

Fade to black.