Post by Deleted on Jan 11, 2013 23:59:46 GMT -6
The scene is set: a sterile white room not just unfinished but, in reality, hardly started. Three giant suitcases form a sort of multicolored Suitcase Mountain in its center. The bed has no sheets; the desk in front of the window has nothing on it. The only decoration of any kind whatsoever is a giant Argentinian flag: blue over white over blue with a yellow sun in the center, proudly affixed to one of the four dreary walls.
A lithe figure skulks into view, instantly noticable by his ornately styled hair. Everything about him looks rumply and hurried with the exception of the hair, a proud beacon boldly pointing northwards. The exceptionally astute would recognize him as new EXODUS signing Carlos Cobelli. A certain number of Mexican wrestling fans from the Veracruz area would recognize him as one of their most hated villains ever, as a champion who had driven them to the point of a full-on wrestling riot not once, not twice, but three times. He'd be recognized and remembered in some parts of the winding pathway that is the Americas through a few different prisms: maybe that of a wrestler, maybe a friend, maybe an enemy, a lover, maybe just a handsome stranger. The pathway would then stop at the Province of Buenos Aires, where he was certainly many things to many people. He smiles. There's a certain lively glint in his eyes, but he's clearly a tired man. For what it's worth, he also hasn't shaved in weeks.
"Bienvenidos," he proclaims. "¡A los Estados Unidos! ¡De Argentina!"
He gestures around the empty room, a smile on his face.
"I'll fix the place up soon, don't worry. Looks like somewhere people get kidnapped, but I'll fix it up. You ever fly here from Veracruz, Mexico? Not a fun trip, pibe, not a fun trip."
Cobelli has a heavy accent, but he speaks English very well, having picked up on it very quickly in his education.
"Lots of time on the ground and lots of time in the air. Especially when American Customs takes every worldly possession you own," as he gestures toward Suitcase Mountain, "and searches them individually for cocaine in front of you because you're from South America. When you have to tell them ten different times in two different languages that having brown skin does not mean you are trying to enter the country illegally. When no one at the desk can believe you got a work visa to be a professional wrestler because, why, you're too small to be a wrestler. "
"It's been a long, shitty day. I've been too small to be a wrestler my whole career. People even thought I was too small to play soccer! But I had no expectations that I, a champion in five countries, a superstar, an absolute gem of a signing for EXODUS Wrestling, would see the ugly face of American racism as soon as I did."
"I'm not coming here to steal someone's job! No wrestler in all fifty of these United States can do my job! When those customs agents de mierda hear about my first match in EXODUS, they're going to regret treating me that way. Maybe they'll even call me up and let me do the American Immigration Experience all over again. Call me 'Mr. Cobelli' instead of Carlos. Shake my hand. Congratulate me. Lay out the fucking red carpet. Because what I went through was an injustice."
His eyes are bloodshot. He hasn't shaved in weeks, and he hasn't slept in days. He looks positively feral.
"I don't want to call Daniel Prophet an opponent. I thought about the word victim, but I don't like that word either. Daniel Prophet, if that is his real name, is just as delusional as those customs agents. Daniel Prophet is just as delusional as the American voter, mindlessly checking the ballot box for more racism year after year after year. I think Daniel Prophet is a showcase. I think Daniel Prophet is a canvas. A showcase and a canvas for Argentina's favorite son to craft his first piece of beautiful, beautiful art. Señor Prophet thinks he can see the future. Well, he'll be lucky if he can see me in the ring."
Fade to black.
A lithe figure skulks into view, instantly noticable by his ornately styled hair. Everything about him looks rumply and hurried with the exception of the hair, a proud beacon boldly pointing northwards. The exceptionally astute would recognize him as new EXODUS signing Carlos Cobelli. A certain number of Mexican wrestling fans from the Veracruz area would recognize him as one of their most hated villains ever, as a champion who had driven them to the point of a full-on wrestling riot not once, not twice, but three times. He'd be recognized and remembered in some parts of the winding pathway that is the Americas through a few different prisms: maybe that of a wrestler, maybe a friend, maybe an enemy, a lover, maybe just a handsome stranger. The pathway would then stop at the Province of Buenos Aires, where he was certainly many things to many people. He smiles. There's a certain lively glint in his eyes, but he's clearly a tired man. For what it's worth, he also hasn't shaved in weeks.
"Bienvenidos," he proclaims. "¡A los Estados Unidos! ¡De Argentina!"
He gestures around the empty room, a smile on his face.
"I'll fix the place up soon, don't worry. Looks like somewhere people get kidnapped, but I'll fix it up. You ever fly here from Veracruz, Mexico? Not a fun trip, pibe, not a fun trip."
Cobelli has a heavy accent, but he speaks English very well, having picked up on it very quickly in his education.
"Lots of time on the ground and lots of time in the air. Especially when American Customs takes every worldly possession you own," as he gestures toward Suitcase Mountain, "and searches them individually for cocaine in front of you because you're from South America. When you have to tell them ten different times in two different languages that having brown skin does not mean you are trying to enter the country illegally. When no one at the desk can believe you got a work visa to be a professional wrestler because, why, you're too small to be a wrestler. "
"It's been a long, shitty day. I've been too small to be a wrestler my whole career. People even thought I was too small to play soccer! But I had no expectations that I, a champion in five countries, a superstar, an absolute gem of a signing for EXODUS Wrestling, would see the ugly face of American racism as soon as I did."
"I'm not coming here to steal someone's job! No wrestler in all fifty of these United States can do my job! When those customs agents de mierda hear about my first match in EXODUS, they're going to regret treating me that way. Maybe they'll even call me up and let me do the American Immigration Experience all over again. Call me 'Mr. Cobelli' instead of Carlos. Shake my hand. Congratulate me. Lay out the fucking red carpet. Because what I went through was an injustice."
His eyes are bloodshot. He hasn't shaved in weeks, and he hasn't slept in days. He looks positively feral.
"I don't want to call Daniel Prophet an opponent. I thought about the word victim, but I don't like that word either. Daniel Prophet, if that is his real name, is just as delusional as those customs agents. Daniel Prophet is just as delusional as the American voter, mindlessly checking the ballot box for more racism year after year after year. I think Daniel Prophet is a showcase. I think Daniel Prophet is a canvas. A showcase and a canvas for Argentina's favorite son to craft his first piece of beautiful, beautiful art. Señor Prophet thinks he can see the future. Well, he'll be lucky if he can see me in the ring."
Fade to black.