Born to Lose

[Kamden]

OOC: Any thoughts/comments/reactions are definitely wanted and appreciated. I hope you all enjoy this!

Take a moment to close your eyes. Picture yourself at its peak manifestation of greatness. You can bag that hot bartender. Everybody’s mom loves you. Babies want to kiss you. Now, whisk that image away from your mind, because no matter how good you think you can get, there’s someone better looking. Better at talking. Better at everything. Just… Better. Not even better, the BEST. Then, put a name to that “Better than best”: Dolph Ziggler.

It’s hard to outshine a guy like Ziggler. Most fanatics would agree. Born to win and striving for perfection, Dolph was all about the gold and glory. It didn’t need to be championship gold. You could hang a light bulb from a string on the ceiling and ask him to dance, and he’d dance the best fucking dance you’d ever seen in your goddamn life. As long as you could point your finger in his direction and say he’s the best. That’s all that mattered. What else is there to strive for in life?

Tuesday. August 1. 2017.

Nick Nemeth stood in front of a mirror, towel draped around his neck, hair saturated with water from the shower he’d just taken. Fully clothed again in a fresh pair post-workout clothes, he cranked the faucet open, letting water flow from the tap. He was at a gym a short drive away from his home in Phoenix, busy maintaining his form and keeping up with a rigorous routine to remain fitter than ever. As if he never left the ring. He splashed a handful of cold water into his face, rubbing a palm down to his chin. A nice shadow had come over his jawline. “Stubble does the soul good.” After a short shake of his head that threw droplets of water into the mirror, he stared into his now distorted reflection and let out a long sigh. Suddenly, a loud whirring caught his attention. It was his phone. He’d place the device on the edge of the sink, and now it was buzzing with a notification. A text from an “Unknown”. Unknowns were only one of two things in Nick Nemeth’s world: Good-- no, the BEST, or Bad-- the WORST. There are no in-betweens. He picked up the phone, unlocked it and read:

(“Hey Dolph. Can you call me when you’ve got a minute? Chris”)>

Chris... Jericho? It’d have to be. Usually people would call him, not the other way around. He’d long since deleted the number from his contacts. After what happened with the company involving his suspension and subsequent departure, Nick figured he’d burned all bridges with EBWF. This message seemed strictly business… After all, Chris mentioned “Dolph”. If there were ever a time in his life he prayed he was wrong, this was it.

Nick closed the tap, wiping at his face and head with the towel around his neck as he rushed out of the showers. A few “Sorry’s” and “Excuse me’s” slipped out of his mouth as he brushed past people to grab his duffel from the locker he rented out. He fumbled more than he should have trying to put in the combination and was audibly frustrated by the time he gathered his things. His duffel was slung over his shoulder, and with car keys in one hand and phone in the other, he half-walked, half-sprinted out of the establishment as he dialed back to the number that sent him the ambiguous text. The dial tone droned only a couple times before the call was answered. Once he heard the voice, Nick stopped in his tracks to listen.

Chris Jericho: Hey Dolph! Thanks for calling. How are you doing? It’s been a while.

A while? More like an eternity...

Nick Nemeth: Really? I felt like it was just yesterday. I’ve seen some good days this past year. I hope you have, too. It’s good to hear from you.

Or this could be really, REALLY bad.

Chris Jericho: Yeah, things are going well, thanks. Got some exciting things lined up in EBWF over the next few months, and I wondered if you’d like to be part of it again.

Nick had a knot in his throat. A scratch on the back of the head doesn’t get heard through a phone. Neither does radio silence. Or in this case, cellular silence.

Chris Jericho: Hello? Dolph?

Nick Nemeth: Oh hey, sorry! There’s a lot of dead zones in Phoenix. Can you just repeat what you said? I didn’t catch that.

Liar. But a good one.

Nick needed to hear those words one more time. Maximum stroke of the ego. He knew within weeks, he’d be back at it again. Back at doing what he loved more than anything else in the world.

Chris Jericho: I wanted to talk to you about coming back to EBWF… if you’re interested, that is.

Nick Nemeth: Interested is right. What do you need from me?

Again with the wording. To be able to hear that they want him back. They want him to work for them. They didn’t need him. But they wanted him.

Chris Jericho: Are you still living in Arizona? We’ve got Warfare there on the 14th if you’d like to meet face to face. Or you can come to St. Louis if you’d prefer… It’s up to you.

Nick Nemeth: If you’re in town next week, we can make this happen while you’re here.

Chris Jericho: Sounds good. Can you try and be discreet though? You know Wes hates it when the dirtsheets get wind of these things.

Nick Nemeth: He hates that? Good to know. I’ll be extra careful then. Wear a mask. Trench coat. None of those attention-grabbing things, right?

Nick thought he was pretty funny. Chris, not so much at the moment.

Chris Jericho: I think a mask would draw a lot of attention, especially in the Arizona heat. Wear a cap and some shades. Maybe avoid wearing anything pink.

Nick Nemeth: Yep, got it. No attention, no pink…

He had caught on to the message from Jericho. Crystal clear. Nick appropriately toned himself down in response.

Nick Nemeth: I’ve got a place we could meet up, actually. Isolated. No people. Not anyone who’d recognize us anyway. Can I send you the details?

As recollection of the remainder of the phone call faded out, Nick thought back to a more recent memory.

-----

Friday. September 9. 2017.

EBWF House Show. Backstage.

For someone as ambitious as Dolph Ziggler, it’s hard to stay out of the way and off the radar. That’s like asking a male peacock to put away its tail while it struts its stuff. It’s counterintuitive. It’s against the laws of nature. But you know what else is against the law of nature, or rather, should be? Being better than Dolph Ziggler.

A camcorder flipped on and black-taped hands fumbled with the device before turning its lens to the operator. Dolph Ziggler looked into the camera with bright eyes, smoothing back his hair that was in a sleek ponytail. He was in a bright pink “DZ” muscle shirt that was shredded all up the sides, and black trunks. Then he flashed a smile.

DZ: Hey, it’s me again. Just thought I’d leave a little message for you guys.

He took a deep breath before continuing.

DZ: Oh… You want me to introduce myself, right? Like I need an introduction. But I’ll do it anyway because it’s fun and you love it.

Dolph cleared his throat and got a serious look on his face. He put up a finger to speak, but apparently drew a blank.

DZ: I’ve changed my mind. I’m gonna introduce you to someone else. Someone you may not know. Or have the unfortunate pleasure of knowing. Baron Corbin.

Having a conversation with the camera was pretty enjoyable for Ziggler. He was the best person to talk to, anyway. And probably the one one who’d listen.

DZ: If this is the welcome back I get from management, okay… They could do better. Symbolically I only consider this is a middle finger in my face. There’s a lot of things I could do with that. I could break that finger in half, but I’m not strong enough. I can admit that. A good man knows his strength. I’m sorry… The BEST man.

Dolph held up two fingers.

DZ: Two. I could take that finger and shove it up the least pleasurable place possible, but there’s only so much room left in, on, or around Wes Ikeda’s ass. Too many people love to kiss it, and his head's so far up it.

Dolph shrugged. Now three fingers were up in the air.

DZ: Or three. I could make that middle finger the best damn middle finger you’ve ever seen in your life. I can make Baron Corbin look great. Amazing. Better than he ever will be. I’ll SELL it and you’ll BELIEVE IT! Because I’m the absolute best in this business. Baron, your receding hairline is a direct result of you speaking. It’s physically moving away from your mouth. Just shut it. Be quiet. Don’t say anything today, tomorrow, or ever again. Let me do the talking. I’ll say everything that ever needs to be said about you ever again.

You’re balding… You wear half an outfit to the ring. Fighting in pants, really? You can’t even get maximum stretch in pants, it’s crazy! It’s like you don’t even try. Last time I faced you, you didn’t even speak. You had Robbie Brookside do all the talking, because literally, an old fart is way more entertaining. Yeah, flatulence has more substance than Baron Corbin. I said what we were all thinking.

I talk a lot of crap… I know.

He chuckled and shook his head, looking off to the side as he continued to speak.

DZ: So tell me, why does a guy like you even get the chance to step in the ring with a guy like me? I’ll tell you why…

Dolph smoothed back a stray strand of hair to his head and turned to look into the camera.

DZ: You are born to lose. You are built for someone like me. Someone who outdoes you in every single aspect of your career. I’m a former world champion. An all-star collegiate amateur wrestler. I am better than you. I am the BEST! You? You are a waste of space in this industry. Someone who weasels their way in and does it for the money. Someone who has no passion. Someone with nothing to lose because like I said, you’re a straight-up loser. But you know what? In the end it doesn’t even matter who you are or what you’ve done or what you will do. You can be “Phenomenal”. You can be “Aweeeesome.” You can be a “G” or a “Darewolf” or amazing or incredible. But I’m better. I’m the best damn thing to step into that ring and tomorrow night on Warfare you’ll be the first reminder to everyone out there-- in that arena and in the back, that I accept nothing less. You don’t get to to come out here and steal my thunder because I AM the thunder, and the lightning, and hell, I’m the rainstorm! And I hate to rain on your parade bud, but newsflash: you’re nothing but washed out. If you’re content with watching your career get dragged away in my undertow of hard-work, then bring an extra pair of those high-water pants you like to wrestle in and take the fall. Plant yourself in the middle of the ring for the sole purpose of showing everyone just how mediocre you are. And then like I was meant to, I’ll do a good job and take care not to let you hurt yourself; Leave the hard work to the ones who do it best.

It was all said. Dolph took his hand and swiped at the side of his hair, before flicking it towards the camera. He tossed it to the ground, with the last remaining seconds showing him heading towards the guerilla for his match.

-----

Monday. September 11. 2017.

Warfare.

Back at it again. Dolph was in his comfort zone. The fast-paced people. The hurried driving. The loud banging and knocking and slamming of equipment. Dolph was empowered rather than intimidated by the scene surrounding him. Sure, every person has their worries, but you hold your head up high despite that. Confidence is key to success, even if you need to fake it here and there. If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, sounds like a duck… It’s gotta be a duck.

Ziggler was heading towards one of the entrances to Rogers Arena, rolling a suitcase behind him and carrying a bag over his shoulder. He’d just arrived to the site of the show, dressed in a pair of dark jeans, a plaid shirt, and a solid dark-blue zip up, hair pulled back into a ponytail. He stopped and looked strangely apprehensive. Matt Striker and an EBWF camera stood between him and the venue. No time was wasted as cameras were rolling.

Matt Striker: Welcome back, Dolph.

Dolph gave an obviously forced smile.

DZ: Thank you.

Matt Striker: Anything you’d like to say?

DZ: That’s a really broad question, Matt.

You could cut the tension with a knife, a dull one. Hell, you could karate chop it with the broadside of your hand and it’d slice right through. But knives almost always have a point, now where that point goes…

DZ: Do you want me to talk about my match tonight?

Matt Striker: That’s already been addressed, the EBWF Universe got to see your Twitter video this weekend. I think that’s a point we can skip.

DZ: Okay then…

Matt Striker: How about giving us a little insight about your unexpected return tonight.

DZ: Unexpected, wow. You guys really thought you got rid of me.

Dolph nodded his head and rubbed at his chin, which was now clean shaven. He was visibly annoyed.

DZ: Look, I’m back. Management has finally opened their eyes to what an asset I am. I went on tv, trashed my boss, and then was asked, no, BEGGED, to come back within a year! Wes Ikeda is a smart businessman, I’ll give him that. Really, if facing Baron Corbin is gonna be the extent of my punishment for previous actions, I’ll take it. It’s a slap on the wrist. I’ll drop to the floor and cry like a baby if I have to just to convince them I’ve learned my lesson.

Dolph let go of his rolling luggage and pointed to Striker.

DZ: Something else happened the last time I was here. I can’t put my finger on it though…

Matt looked indifferent, shrugging off his comment.

Matt Striker: I don’t kn--

Striker was cut off with a surprise superkick to the jaw from Dolph. Matt was floored and dropped to the ground next to the luggage Dolph had thrown in the process of the attack. Dolph reached down and picked up the microphone that flew out of Matt’s hand, and crouched down to speak to him.

DZ: I guess putting my foot on it did the trick.

The camera backed up slowly as Dolph stood up straight, turning to look into it. He took a step closer.

DZ: I have to deal with Baron Corbin AGAIN. It’s like you people didn’t learn anything. If I have to keep making examples like this just to get your attention then I will superkick every Matt, Corey, and Renee I have to just so you’ll hear me. I will continue to show up week in and week out and jump through rings of fire for my fans and for myself. Every night is a night to do it right. I AM GOING TO BE NOTHING LESS THAN PERFECTION. I DON’T CARE WHO I HAVE TO TAKE DOWN. DO. BETTER!

Dolph was yelling into the microphone with uncapped intensity.

DZ: You can throw me into the water and I’ll doggy paddle back to the edge. You can kick me down into the dirt and I’ll roll around in it, build a sandcastle, and eat a handful just to prove I’ve got more grit than any other guy backstage. Just leave me to do the absolute BEST! Because there’s NOTHING. BETTER.

Dolph threw the mic down to the ground and turned to look back at Striker. He stepped over him to pick up his luggage, including the rolling suitcase. When he noticed the camera still rolling, he slicked back the stray strands of hair from his fury and flicked his hand at the camera before walking off. The scene ended with a fade out, focusing on Matt Striker rubbing at his jaw while being checked out by officials.

[Ben M]

Cocky and funny. Your Dolph Ziggler is better than WWE's Dolph Ziggler! Lol