DC 4.2: Tell Me Something Good

[Derek]

The camera weaves its way into Dalton Castle's usual party central location to find Dalton uncharacteristically lounging on an actual piece of inanimate furniture, Boys surrounding him with ice packs at the ready. Dalton beckons the camera closer and struggles to move to a seated position.

“Salutations. Your Party Peacock, Dalton Castle, has come to a singular conclusion. Ladder matches are not fun. I fell from a great height several times, I was sandwiched between the ring and hard steel, I was kicked by Tommy End over and over again. It HURT. SHOULDER!”

An ice pack is quickly applied to Castle's left shoulder. He shakes his head. “What a Wrestlemania. We were THIS close. The belts at our fingertips. The WILL to WIN surging through our veins. But it all came crashing down, and it hurts inside. And on most of the outside, as well. KNEE!”

Another ice pack is placed on Castle's right knee. “It was a valiant effort, a fight for the ages. But I guess the only thing left to say, is fare thee well, Dalty Two-Belts. And HAY-LO, Dalty Double-Slammy! POW!”

He thrusts the two statues directly into the camera. He shakes the one on the left. “I call this one Algernon.” He shakes the one on the right. “And this one Lorenzo.” He pulls them back and sets them down. “As much any match at Wrestlemania figuratively stings, and as much as losing this match literally physically stung, walking away with these trophies was the validation that the wrestling world sees little old me as a a true force. EVERYBODY wants a piece of Dalton Castle now, which brings me to the three-way dance that WASN'T filled with horror and bloodshed, just with burning desire to take on me, take me on, I'll be gone in a day or two. I was practically blushing to see how hard those men fought for the honor of challenging for my Gateway Championship. And in the end, standing tall with a boot-shaped target on his ass, was Bobby Roode, and I pumped my first in the air.” He demonstrates, then gingerly pulls the arm down and rubs his bicep. A Boy instinctively places an ice pack on the affected area.

“I gotta tell ya, Bobby, I have a lot of respect for you. First of all, you look good in a suit, and that is its own skill. Second, I admire your determination and conviction, the sheer force of will have exerted to get to where you are. And finally, if I could wax philosophical for a moment, Bobby Roode, you may be the Platonic Ideal of a professional wrestler. From the Hackenshmidt to Thesz to Harley Race to today, if you distilled the essence of a professional wrestler across the ages and gave it form, it might just be Bobby Roode. When I see Bobby Roode, I see the baseline of being a professional wrestler.

But Bobby.....”

Dalton shoos the ice packs away. “That's all I can see.” He leans forward towards the camera. “Bobby, you're solid. Dependable. Consistent. Those are great qualities in a wrestler, but they are also great qualities in a sports utility vehicle. The important word there is UTILITY. You can put on your Ric Flair-Made-Easy cosplay kit and sparkly jocks and coast on the lucky break of a catchy theme song, but once that bell rings, it's all steak and no sizzle. And there is a PLACE for that in the ring, don't get me wrong. But that place is NOT within the SWEET EMBRACE of the Gateway Championship.”

Dalton starts to rise to his feet. “See, this belt has found its purpose, Bobby. This belt is rudderless no longer. This BELT has got is GROOVE BACK, Bobby. And this belt, this Gateway Championship, from now on, it's separating the haves from the have-nots, it is the line in the sand between those who are great wrestlers and those who are the BEST wrestlers. It's not enough to be a good hand in the ring, Bobby, you have to be able to go at that elite level. You have to fly higher, throw farther, move faster, think smarter or hit harder than ANYONE else. It's not enough to be able to cut a generic tough-guy in the ring promo with a cute catchphrase, it's about telling stories. It's about engaging people. It's about enterTAINING people, on the mic, in the ring, behind the curtain, in line at the DAMN TACO TRUCK, you can't handle that, then this belt says you shall. Not. Pass. And Bobby. It's not enough to look like a star and copy a star, you have to be a star. Even when your music isn't playing.”

Dalton starts to unzip his jumpsuit. “You have all the advantage on Monday, Bobby. Look at me. LOOK at me.” He points to nasty welts and bruises dotting his collar bone and sternum. “At Wrestlemania, I went through hell, while you just had a match. And I know I am not the only one who had to limp away from a very physical and injurious evening. But I am the only one who limped away and is limping right into the Verizon Arena. Tommy End, Michael Dante, Tyler Breeze, Noam Dar, Grado, my compatriots in testing gravity? None of them will be at Warfare. The participants in our bloody main event and even bloodier women's matches, at home recovering. Only one person is going from car crash on Sunday to wrestling match on Monday, and you're LOOKING at him. Because I'm bruised, I'm bloody, and I'm beaten down, but I am NOT BROKEN. And THAT is what you can't order from a seamstress or be given by production crews, THAT is what you can stay up all night watching old Crockett tapes scribbling notes and practicing your strut in the mirror and still not get, THAT is what separates us, Bobby Roode, THAT is WHAT you need to show to take MY BELT....”

He pauses, collects himself, zips his jumpsuit back up and brushes his hair back. “You can't just say 'glorious.' You have to BE 'glorious.' Show me what you got, Bobby.”

[Ashlee]

Derek this is genuinely an amazing piece. Strong from start to finish. It made me laugh. It made me believe in DC, and it told a really good story. There's so much to unpack here.

Thanks for being you! I loved it.