Post by Zack Fantana on Sept 6, 2019 4:09:16 GMT -5
A blue spotlight highlighted the man in white at the center of the modest community theater stage. It would mark Brad Stokes third costume change of the evening.
Zack Fantana squirmed in his front row seat, awaiting what might happen next. Zack was flattered by the one man show, to be sure, but it was hard to tell what might happen next, given that in Zack’s absence from Valor Pro, Brad Stokes had taken entirely upon himself to become Fantanasy’s resident historian.
“And it was then that his spirit emerged from the forest, having abandoned its corporeal form and all the physical limitations that go along with it.”
However, in typical Brad Stokes fashion, he tended to be an unreliable narrator.
“For death was only the beginning.”
Unfortunately, a large part of Zack Fantana’s lore was centered around his repeated death and resurrection. It was an aspect which Fantana had understandably begun to downplay over time, lest it come to be expected of him. He certainly wouldn't be able to maintain that kind of workrate as a legacy act on the indie circuit in twenty years. For the first time in his career, he was considering his health like a responsible adult.
And then the Zombies killed him again.
This time, it was purely ceremonial - the final act of Tokyo Zombie’s storied career - but try telling that to Brad Stokes, who’d put so much more into this Fantanasy theology than Zack had ever imagined. Brad spent his days quoting scripture that Zack didn’t even know existed. Surprisingly, there was a lot more to it than some listless wordplay (although that certainly accounted for a healthy chunk of it). If Zack had ever truly had an apostle, his name wasn’t Benny Stevens; it was Brad Stokes. He was the Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John of Fantanasy.
“For instance, Zack died and came back with a clean record. Isn’t that right, bud?” Stokes pointed to Zack in the front row.
Zack smiled nervously. He could tell his death meant a great deal to Brad, but it wasn’t exactly something Zack ever wanted to become his niche in professional wrestling.
“Is this part of the show?”
“Just normal crowd work.”
“Brad, a word,” Zack stood up and gestured toward the curtain, circling around the stage to the backstage area himself. Brad nodded in acknowledgement.
“And now, if you’ll bow your heads and join me in silent prayer.”
Some of the attendees reluctantly bowed their heads, while others were hesitant. They shared glances with one another, unsure whether to honor the request, before ultimately following suit. Brad removed his headset and ducked behind the curtain to greet Fantana.
“Zack?” Brad checked his watch. “We’ve still got forty minutes ‘til intermission.”
It seemed that ever since Francis Ford Cuppola had reinstated Brad to his station as an on air talent for Valor Pro Wrestling, Brad couldn’t have had a more positive outlook on the future. Gone were the days that Zack felt he had to helicopter parent Brad all week.
Perhaps that had been an oversight, though...
“Where is this headed?”
Zack warily approached the merch table he’d just spotted out of the corner of his eye, slightly discomforted by the fact that the cash register seemed to be an open collection plate. It wasn’t until now that Zack had realized that Brad was wearing the very clothes that Kowloon and Siberia had placed on him during the culmination of his fight at Zombies Great Outdoors, an unsettling thought given that Brad had assisted him in cleaning out his closet.
“Clearing out some inventory,” Brad whispered, gesturing through the curtain.
Zack took a look for himself, and it did, in fact, appear that Brad had been moving units. By the looks of it, Zack’s trademark LED lit glasses were a hit amongst the scene kids seated in the theater. All that remained on the table were some of Zack’s outdated T-shirts, including some truly amateur Daydream Nation designs.
It seemed peculiar that these kids would entertain Brad Stokes by sitting in on his lecture, but then again, Brad did have a certain intrinsic, affable charm to him. Afterall, he’d talked himself back into a job at VPW on more than one occasion.
“Friends of yours?”
Brad laughed again.
“Zack, buddy, why don’t you just relax and have a Kool Aid?”
Brad motioned towards a tray of cups in the green room, but Fantana shrugged him off. He wasn’t thirsty.
“Trust, child, death is not the end,” Brad suggested to one of the scene kids, mistaking an “As I Lay Dying” patch on his military jacket for a cry for help, as they wandered backstage during the overlong prayer.
He returned his attention to a skeptical Zack.
“Believe me. It’s all for the greater good,” Brad assured him, picking up the collection plate and rattling it around in his hand, a gesture indicative of nothing. “You see, people come for the summer sale... but they stay for the Word of Fantana.”
“I didn’t expect a hero’s welcome. In fact, I didn’t even want one.”
The camera panned back to focus on Zack Fantana leaning against the back row of chairs in the theater. Brad’s encore performance provided a distracting backdrop to the shot.
“When I took my leave from this company back in April, questions understandably arose in short order.
The official story was that I’d been suspended by Vanessa Byrne, or fallen on my own sword for my best friend, as Brad would tell it, and of course that led to speculation as to whether that was the full story. Brad himself likes to treat that moment as an act of spontaneity, but in truth, things had to come to a head to ever reach the point where I’d actually let anything come between me and those ropes.”
Fantana folded his arms as he reminisced.
“It was the chase in which I slowly became disillusioned, for the UnYielding Championship. I told myself it was a means to an end, but in those moments, I lost myself. I forgot what Fantanasy was supposed to represent in the pursuit of championship gold. How could I inspire anyone when I couldn’t even inspire myself anymore?”
Zack paused, overhearing Brad asking the question, “So when did you guys accept Fantanasy into your hearts?” to the scene kids still watching. The question only seemed to garner confusion, despite the fact that many of them were wearing officially licensed Fantanasy merchandise atop their heads. Zack had to laugh.
“So where do you go when you’ve lost the faith?” Zack asked unabashedly, even as Brad touted him as some sort of deity no more than twenty feet away. He wondered if Jesus had ever stopped believing in Himself.
“You go to church. And since professional wrestling is my religion, I visited the trophy room of my mentor, one Bobby Franchise, when I hoped to rekindle the flame. As fate would have it, I showed up just in time to watch the movers trot decades of history out the door. As the room got emptier, an existential dread filled the gaps, and I began to wonder if Bobby’s career would be forgotten without all of those receipts. The answer came in the form of three letters.”
Zack played the audio he’d recorded on his phone.
“Call from… V.C.O.”
“You ask me why I came back, why I’m teaming with Benny Stevens, and that’ll be your answer, because I know Bobby’s legacy will never die in the hands of the VCO. Benny Stevens is much too clingy to drop that torch.”
“And just like that,” Zack snapped his fingers. “Professional wrestling had me by the balls again.”
Fantana began to walk the room.
“Fantanarama lives. But lo and behold, after I’d humbled and re-humbled myself,” Zack said as Brad regaled his captive audience with the story of Tokyo Zombie’s quietus for the third time that evening, “I’m informed I’ve not been humbled enough, as I have not achieved the approval of NSFW, and as such, will not be granted permission to enter their kingdom.”
Zack pouted his lips.
“What a damn shame. Fortunately, Ben and I had the ear of noted diplomat Francis Ford Cuppola, and he iced out his very own Mimes by skipping us right on ahead of them in the imaginary line awaiting the reigning, defensive Chimera Champions… or whatever nefarious crime we’ve been accused of doing. I don’t really care anymore, but whatever it is, it’s clear that NSFW are bigger slaves to formality than the spirit of competition. They’d sooner wrap us in red tape than just do the job expected of them as champions.”
Fantana shrugged.
“So, Church, Mike, let me get this straight. Instead of sitting out at the O2 because every available tag team in Valor Pro was unworthy, you fought in a match that people are actually talking about. You showcased the Chimera Championships in one of the biggest venues in the UK.
Wasn’t that the point? We gave you exactly what you wanted. We wrote your mission statement down and read it back to you, and you wiped your mouth with it.
I’ll keep that in mind on Sunday, Church. You just remember to keep an eye on that gate. We won’t knock twice.”
Zack took notice of Brad as he took more creative license about the events at Zombies Great Outdoors.
“Speaking of uninvited guests, Siberia, as I recall, the last time we had a match in Valor Pro, I called you meek. You used to tiptoe around everyone, including your own Clan.
That was a long time ago, but some things never change. Sure, you might’ve found the balls of your feet," Zack spat, adjusting his brand new Invisalign with his tongue, "but you’re still walking in their footsteps.”
Brad pantomimed Tokyo Zombie’s “death rattle” with graphic detail in the background.
“Siberia, your mentor was a longtime rival of mine, but as you’re aware, he respected me enough to request me as his last opponent. That respect was mutual. Why? Because Tokyo Zombie had integrity. Alas, the more I look at what remains of the Zombie Clan, the clearer it has become that his torch has been extinguished.
How tepid your faith must've been in Tokyo's ideology that you’d abandon everything he taught you as soon as he hung up his boots for good. Did you ever really believe a word he said?
Did you ever believe a word of your own? You have expressed frustration with your path being chosen for you in the past, but here you are, being led astray by a deranged lunatic.
Aokigahara was the black sheep of the Zombie Clan for a reason and he chose that path long ago. Don’t let him delude you into thinking your path has already been chosen for you.”
Zack watched as Brad discarded the white smock and squeezed into a pair of Fantanasy tights, citing the phrase, “Fantana created us in his own image.” Zack stared at Brad’s love handles, nonchalantly improving his own posture.
“You’re better than that.”
It remained unclear whether he was speaking to Brad or Siberia. He did, however, return his attention to the camera shortly thereafter.
“And Siberia, if your Clan comes at me like that again.”
Zack collected the discarded “death” smock off the floor and held it up for the camera.
“You better hope they make these in your size.”
"I'll drink to that.”
Brad leapt off the stage.
“Come on, everyone, join me for a toast out by those large trenches.”
Brad grabbed a cup of Kool Aid and beckoned the others to follow with his free hand as he marched out the door. Zack’s eyes darted around the room as the scene kids followed him.
"Brad?"
As the last of the folks in the room grabbed a cup and filed out the door, Zack stood up and gave chase.
"Brad!"
Static.
Zack Fantana squirmed in his front row seat, awaiting what might happen next. Zack was flattered by the one man show, to be sure, but it was hard to tell what might happen next, given that in Zack’s absence from Valor Pro, Brad Stokes had taken entirely upon himself to become Fantanasy’s resident historian.
“And it was then that his spirit emerged from the forest, having abandoned its corporeal form and all the physical limitations that go along with it.”
However, in typical Brad Stokes fashion, he tended to be an unreliable narrator.
“For death was only the beginning.”
Unfortunately, a large part of Zack Fantana’s lore was centered around his repeated death and resurrection. It was an aspect which Fantana had understandably begun to downplay over time, lest it come to be expected of him. He certainly wouldn't be able to maintain that kind of workrate as a legacy act on the indie circuit in twenty years. For the first time in his career, he was considering his health like a responsible adult.
And then the Zombies killed him again.
This time, it was purely ceremonial - the final act of Tokyo Zombie’s storied career - but try telling that to Brad Stokes, who’d put so much more into this Fantanasy theology than Zack had ever imagined. Brad spent his days quoting scripture that Zack didn’t even know existed. Surprisingly, there was a lot more to it than some listless wordplay (although that certainly accounted for a healthy chunk of it). If Zack had ever truly had an apostle, his name wasn’t Benny Stevens; it was Brad Stokes. He was the Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John of Fantanasy.
“For instance, Zack died and came back with a clean record. Isn’t that right, bud?” Stokes pointed to Zack in the front row.
Zack smiled nervously. He could tell his death meant a great deal to Brad, but it wasn’t exactly something Zack ever wanted to become his niche in professional wrestling.
“Is this part of the show?”
“Just normal crowd work.”
“Brad, a word,” Zack stood up and gestured toward the curtain, circling around the stage to the backstage area himself. Brad nodded in acknowledgement.
“And now, if you’ll bow your heads and join me in silent prayer.”
Some of the attendees reluctantly bowed their heads, while others were hesitant. They shared glances with one another, unsure whether to honor the request, before ultimately following suit. Brad removed his headset and ducked behind the curtain to greet Fantana.
“Zack?” Brad checked his watch. “We’ve still got forty minutes ‘til intermission.”
It seemed that ever since Francis Ford Cuppola had reinstated Brad to his station as an on air talent for Valor Pro Wrestling, Brad couldn’t have had a more positive outlook on the future. Gone were the days that Zack felt he had to helicopter parent Brad all week.
Perhaps that had been an oversight, though...
“Where is this headed?”
Zack warily approached the merch table he’d just spotted out of the corner of his eye, slightly discomforted by the fact that the cash register seemed to be an open collection plate. It wasn’t until now that Zack had realized that Brad was wearing the very clothes that Kowloon and Siberia had placed on him during the culmination of his fight at Zombies Great Outdoors, an unsettling thought given that Brad had assisted him in cleaning out his closet.
“Clearing out some inventory,” Brad whispered, gesturing through the curtain.
Zack took a look for himself, and it did, in fact, appear that Brad had been moving units. By the looks of it, Zack’s trademark LED lit glasses were a hit amongst the scene kids seated in the theater. All that remained on the table were some of Zack’s outdated T-shirts, including some truly amateur Daydream Nation designs.
It seemed peculiar that these kids would entertain Brad Stokes by sitting in on his lecture, but then again, Brad did have a certain intrinsic, affable charm to him. Afterall, he’d talked himself back into a job at VPW on more than one occasion.
“Friends of yours?”
Brad laughed again.
“Zack, buddy, why don’t you just relax and have a Kool Aid?”
Brad motioned towards a tray of cups in the green room, but Fantana shrugged him off. He wasn’t thirsty.
“Trust, child, death is not the end,” Brad suggested to one of the scene kids, mistaking an “As I Lay Dying” patch on his military jacket for a cry for help, as they wandered backstage during the overlong prayer.
He returned his attention to a skeptical Zack.
“Believe me. It’s all for the greater good,” Brad assured him, picking up the collection plate and rattling it around in his hand, a gesture indicative of nothing. “You see, people come for the summer sale... but they stay for the Word of Fantana.”
“I didn’t expect a hero’s welcome. In fact, I didn’t even want one.”
The camera panned back to focus on Zack Fantana leaning against the back row of chairs in the theater. Brad’s encore performance provided a distracting backdrop to the shot.
“When I took my leave from this company back in April, questions understandably arose in short order.
The official story was that I’d been suspended by Vanessa Byrne, or fallen on my own sword for my best friend, as Brad would tell it, and of course that led to speculation as to whether that was the full story. Brad himself likes to treat that moment as an act of spontaneity, but in truth, things had to come to a head to ever reach the point where I’d actually let anything come between me and those ropes.”
Fantana folded his arms as he reminisced.
“It was the chase in which I slowly became disillusioned, for the UnYielding Championship. I told myself it was a means to an end, but in those moments, I lost myself. I forgot what Fantanasy was supposed to represent in the pursuit of championship gold. How could I inspire anyone when I couldn’t even inspire myself anymore?”
Zack paused, overhearing Brad asking the question, “So when did you guys accept Fantanasy into your hearts?” to the scene kids still watching. The question only seemed to garner confusion, despite the fact that many of them were wearing officially licensed Fantanasy merchandise atop their heads. Zack had to laugh.
“So where do you go when you’ve lost the faith?” Zack asked unabashedly, even as Brad touted him as some sort of deity no more than twenty feet away. He wondered if Jesus had ever stopped believing in Himself.
“You go to church. And since professional wrestling is my religion, I visited the trophy room of my mentor, one Bobby Franchise, when I hoped to rekindle the flame. As fate would have it, I showed up just in time to watch the movers trot decades of history out the door. As the room got emptier, an existential dread filled the gaps, and I began to wonder if Bobby’s career would be forgotten without all of those receipts. The answer came in the form of three letters.”
Zack played the audio he’d recorded on his phone.
“Call from… V.C.O.”
“You ask me why I came back, why I’m teaming with Benny Stevens, and that’ll be your answer, because I know Bobby’s legacy will never die in the hands of the VCO. Benny Stevens is much too clingy to drop that torch.”
“And just like that,” Zack snapped his fingers. “Professional wrestling had me by the balls again.”
Fantana began to walk the room.
“Fantanarama lives. But lo and behold, after I’d humbled and re-humbled myself,” Zack said as Brad regaled his captive audience with the story of Tokyo Zombie’s quietus for the third time that evening, “I’m informed I’ve not been humbled enough, as I have not achieved the approval of NSFW, and as such, will not be granted permission to enter their kingdom.”
Zack pouted his lips.
“What a damn shame. Fortunately, Ben and I had the ear of noted diplomat Francis Ford Cuppola, and he iced out his very own Mimes by skipping us right on ahead of them in the imaginary line awaiting the reigning, defensive Chimera Champions… or whatever nefarious crime we’ve been accused of doing. I don’t really care anymore, but whatever it is, it’s clear that NSFW are bigger slaves to formality than the spirit of competition. They’d sooner wrap us in red tape than just do the job expected of them as champions.”
Fantana shrugged.
“So, Church, Mike, let me get this straight. Instead of sitting out at the O2 because every available tag team in Valor Pro was unworthy, you fought in a match that people are actually talking about. You showcased the Chimera Championships in one of the biggest venues in the UK.
Wasn’t that the point? We gave you exactly what you wanted. We wrote your mission statement down and read it back to you, and you wiped your mouth with it.
I’ll keep that in mind on Sunday, Church. You just remember to keep an eye on that gate. We won’t knock twice.”
Zack took notice of Brad as he took more creative license about the events at Zombies Great Outdoors.
“Speaking of uninvited guests, Siberia, as I recall, the last time we had a match in Valor Pro, I called you meek. You used to tiptoe around everyone, including your own Clan.
That was a long time ago, but some things never change. Sure, you might’ve found the balls of your feet," Zack spat, adjusting his brand new Invisalign with his tongue, "but you’re still walking in their footsteps.”
Brad pantomimed Tokyo Zombie’s “death rattle” with graphic detail in the background.
“Siberia, your mentor was a longtime rival of mine, but as you’re aware, he respected me enough to request me as his last opponent. That respect was mutual. Why? Because Tokyo Zombie had integrity. Alas, the more I look at what remains of the Zombie Clan, the clearer it has become that his torch has been extinguished.
How tepid your faith must've been in Tokyo's ideology that you’d abandon everything he taught you as soon as he hung up his boots for good. Did you ever really believe a word he said?
Did you ever believe a word of your own? You have expressed frustration with your path being chosen for you in the past, but here you are, being led astray by a deranged lunatic.
Aokigahara was the black sheep of the Zombie Clan for a reason and he chose that path long ago. Don’t let him delude you into thinking your path has already been chosen for you.”
Zack watched as Brad discarded the white smock and squeezed into a pair of Fantanasy tights, citing the phrase, “Fantana created us in his own image.” Zack stared at Brad’s love handles, nonchalantly improving his own posture.
“You’re better than that.”
It remained unclear whether he was speaking to Brad or Siberia. He did, however, return his attention to the camera shortly thereafter.
“And Siberia, if your Clan comes at me like that again.”
Zack collected the discarded “death” smock off the floor and held it up for the camera.
“You better hope they make these in your size.”
"I'll drink to that.”
Brad leapt off the stage.
“Come on, everyone, join me for a toast out by those large trenches.”
Brad grabbed a cup of Kool Aid and beckoned the others to follow with his free hand as he marched out the door. Zack’s eyes darted around the room as the scene kids followed him.
"Brad?"
As the last of the folks in the room grabbed a cup and filed out the door, Zack stood up and gave chase.
"Brad!"
Static.