I.i.: Non Omne Quod Nitet Aurum Est

Non Omne Quod Nitet Aurum Est

A Dave Demento Roleplay.

I.i.

March 14th, 2016

Barclays Center … New York City

The room is dimly lit, the only source of light being the screens of the cellphones of the other members of the locker room and the television broadcasting the remainder of the Nowhere to Run card. The usual locker room stench fills the air and infiltrates the airways of the wrestlers sitting down. This is the life of a professional wrestler that hasn’t quite made it yet. Quite mundane, isn’t it?

In the corner is where he sits. Long hair up in a pony, bruises forming on his face, and a laceration over the right eye that has been stitched together just a few minutes ago by the backstage doctor. His eyes quickly glance over to the TV screen. The colours are vibrant, the action continues, but his mood is the same. He watches Cam Nitta and Brandon Bison duke it out in the ring. They perform moves left and right, but they aren’t resonating with him.

The interest in the screen fades immediately. His eyes remain fixated on the screen, the images of two gladiators are nothing more than a blur, as his mind races elsewhere. His thoughts cycle from the left and right side of the brain, one that’s been concussed five times in his relatively short career, and he keeps getting the same conclusion no matter what he thinks: this isn’t fun anymore.

With that revelation, he finds himself in a whirlwind of negativity storming his thoughts. “You’re a fraud.” he thought to himself. Sitting here in this locker room are kids filled with passion and excitement, ready to go out and prove to anybody that they deserve a shot at the big times. They would kill to have what he had in his career.

Having two International Championship reigns to your name? Check. He had done it.

Having been a Tag Team Champion in what can be called one of the most popular stables in WFWF history? Check.

Stealing the show in Madison Square Garden? Check.

Accomplishments that every wrestler wishes they could one day achieve. It took years of blood, sweat, and tears to make it to this point of his career. Pardon the cliché… but for what? “This isn’t fun anymore.”

The thoughts continued as the bright lights flashed in a blur as the rest of the boys in the locker room cheered and rooted. Brandon Bison put Nitta away with an impressive manoeuvre, but he didn’t care. In fact, he was the only one in the room that had that feeling.

That feeling of disdain of where he currently sits. He slowly takes off his wrist tape, unravelling it strand by strand. The natural residue of the tape is tearing away at his flesh as if this attire is nothing but a bed of nails for his body.

The feeling continues to tingle around his body, reaching every nerve as he now turns his attention to his phone. It was now 8:56 at night and he couldn’t leave until the last match was over. Standard rules of the business, a time-honored tradition that every respectable member of the locker room followed from their rookie year to the end of their career. He swipes his phone, unlocking it and opening the messaging app. He had an unread message, par of the course after one of his matches. He knew Randel would give him advice on the outing. It was his job as a producer, but more importantly, it was a courtesy as a friend.

Randel

Good match out there. Keep it up!

The usual words of encouragement. Randel always made sure he was part of his career in some capacity. Randel, once a pro wrestler himself, was always coming up with new ideas to try and get his protégé over with the audience.

Play up a concussion for sympathy? Check.

Create a fake daughter who was taken away for sympathy? Check.

Fake DUI and car crash to heal injuries and create a return to glory story? Check.

Randel thought of it all. Some of it was good. Most of it bad. This was Randel’s way of telling you that he cared about your story and your career.

But he didn’t want Randel’s help anymore. Nobody took him seriously now. Every fan wondered what the next crazy situation Demento would find himself in. While he didn’t like Randel’s ways of getting him over, he appreciated having somebody there for him in the business. You don’t find many friends in this industry. Everybody is fake.

“but you’re a fraud. a fraud.”

The thoughts continued, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He loved the business. He knew deep down that this would always be his first love. Since a child, being in this position is where he wanted to be. He wanted to wrestle in MSG. He wanted to become champion, more than once even.

It was time to move on, divorce the road and settle down. Enjoy time on his own, without the stench of a locker room, or rooms full of people that act nice to your face but would backstab you in a heartbeat if it meant taking your spot on the card.

He started to type, knowing that he was ready to file the papers and leave. Hop on the open road. Where would it take him? Nobody knew. Even he didn’t know. The only thing he knew about that road would be that it would be far, far away from a wrestling ring.

Dave

I’m done.

The reply was instantaneous.

Randel

What do u mean ur done?

Dave

I’m done with this. I’ll send my resignation to Lila when I get back to the hotel.

Randel

U cant be done… u cant get out of ur contract like that.

Dave

I can. I’m done.

The text successfully sent as he turned his phone off, inserted it into his pocket, and grabbed his jacket. He didn’t say goodbye to any of the boys in the back. He didn’t say goodbye to any member of the production crew. He didn’t say a word as he disappeared into the darkness known as New York City. He was gone.

This is the life of a burnt out professional wrestler. Quite mundane, isn’t it?

---

October 16th, 2017

Headquarters… Los Angeles

It’s been quite a while since he’s been here. Not much has changed, the walls were still painted a dark shade of red, the fake smiles were still painted on the interns’ faces. The pictures on the walls did change though. No longer was the face of Trace Demon plastered everywhere; there was a nice mix now. From new signees like Jon Gotch and Sean Casey to the established veterans like Demon and David Brennan, who interestingly had championships present in this photo. Phillip Schneider’s ugly mug is missing, but who would want to put that up on their wall… but I digress.

Back to the situation at hand, Dave Demento finds himself sitting in a chair in the lobby of the building, waiting for an answer from the receptionist on the availability of his former boss. A surprise visit to the HQ, a bold strategy but he knew that if he requested time before arriving he would be shut down immediately.

“Sir, I’m just trying to get through on the line. It should be just a few more minutes.”

The young receptionist couldn’t have been older than 21, a young unweathered looking to earn some cash while paying off college. Hardly any life experience at all, working for the biggest circus in the world. Either he’s crazy, or he needs the cash. Anyway, the receptionist seems to get in contact with somebody on the other line and turns his body away from Dave. While thumbing through the latest edition of GQ from the coffee table in front of him, Dave’s mind continued to race. “I’m ready to have fun again.” he thought to himself as the young man disconnected the phone call and slowly, nervously, turned himself towards Dave.

“I am sorry, sir. But Miss Sleater isn’t in her office right now… could I leave a message for you?”

“Yeah, tell Lila she’s not good at lying.”

Dave steps past the desk and goes to the locked door, needing clearance to get past the secured door.

“You going to let me in, son?”

“Sir… I cannot do that.”

“Sure you can, just let me through.”

“Sir, if you do not leave this area, I am authorized to call the police. We both don’t want that.”

With that, Dave stares down the kid from head to toe. The poor kid is at least five inches shorter than the former International champion and probably weighs 110 pounds soaking wet. A complete mismatch when it comes to a tale of the tape. The kid suddenly gets a phone call and picks it up immediately, as if his life depended on it.

Dave watches his every movement as the call is over as soon as it started. The door buzzes as the lock mechanic releases, as he opens the door leading to the true offices of the HQ.

“Lila’s office is on the top floor…”

“I know, kid.”

Dave finishes the conversation then and there with a toss of twenties to the receptionist. Have you ever tipped a receptionist? No. Well then, I guess this must be an apology for making the kid near piss himself.

Dave was in. He made his way to the elevator and punched the button with a certain energy that his body hasn’t felt since that night in the Garden. It felt good to be back… at least back in somewhat of a WFWF capacity. He still had to face the judge, jury, and executioner of the company… Lila Sleater.

---

The following is a recording from the tape records of David James found under the bed near the scene of his suicide. Please make sure Det. Smith gets a transcript of the tape to add to the investigation.

All that glitters is not gold.

Back in the days of the Saviors of Salvation and the days of holding that International Championship, that saying would mean jack sh*t to me. I was doing what I loved, making good money while doing it, and enjoying life. That was pretty grand.

That was gold.

And as long as you have gold in this wacky world of pro wrestling, you’re doing something right… right?

I thought so.

I thought so when I was a kid training in a warehouse on the outskirts of Toronto, where my old buddy Randel Benjamin (Rest his soul) would make us do squats after squats followed by push-ups and top that off with cardio for hours. It was his way of weeding out the pretenders from the people who breathed this business. It wasn’t fun. It was gruelling, but it worked.

Only two kids made it out of that training program. Myself and another guy you may know… Solomon Crow. But this isn’t about him. He’s been retired for years at this point.

A quick anecdote about Crow, he was too preoccupied with his black magic sh*t than his wrestling career and is now doing shows in Vegas under the alias Jeremiah Callihan. Good for him.

But back to business, gold was everything I ever wanted in this world. I wanted to rule the world, work my way to the World Championship and cement my name as one of the greats of the sport… I still want it.

I still want to reach the pinnacle of the WFWF and etch my name in the history books. If Dex can do it, I can do it.

… 

I lost focus of that goal when I left two years ago.

I let my career drive itself into a wall. I did this; I did that to have any publicity.

Randel always told me that any publicity was good publicity. As long as your name is being circulated by the fans… you were golden.

He was wrong, and I was wrong for listening to him.

I became a joke. I was a running gag. Instead of becoming the next Drakz, or the next Michael Kyzer, I became the next Randel Benjamin.

And even though I put a smile on my face and went out and entertained all of you, my glitter was not gold.

My glitter was pure grade A dog sh*t.

I went out and wrestled, sure.

Sure, I went out and won my matches.

But I was going through the motions

I fell out of love with the only thing in the world that I loved.

That’s a scary thing to wrap your mind around, but it was nothing but the truth.

…

So I left.

Was it selfish? Yes.

This is a selfish business.

The only person you look out for in pro wrestling is yourself.

And I did just that.

Fittingly enough, the only Salvation that I saved was my own.

---

October 16th, 2017

Headquarters… Los Angeles

He sits down in the chair across behind the desk of the lady in charge, who by the way is not entirely too pleased with this sudden visit. Pissed off, would be the best way I could describe it. Her fiery red hair matches the pigmentation of her face, fitting for the person who some people call the devil incarnate.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing here? Huh?”

“I…”

“No, I’m talking right now, David. Two years ago, you left this company high and dry. You vanished in thin air. Gone. No notice… you didn’t even text me. You text Randel and just left.”

“I was…”

“What you were doing was thinking about yourself and not about the company.”

“Oh, will you shut up for a second.”

That seemed to shut her up. Actually, it seemed to calm her down. At least, I think so. She still is pissed beyond belief; do you blame her though? Dave ghosted her and now pops up as if his name were Hamlet... anyway… wait, she’s still mad; she’s just not yelling now.

“Dave, you’re walking on very thin ice right now… you speak to me like that again, and I will have you thrown out of here and permanently banned from the WFWF, any arena we perform in, and give you the Edmonton effect on your career.”

Side note, just to explain to you what the Edmonton effect is. The Edmonton effect is when you f*ck up so bad against management that they wipe you out completely of their history. You will never get mentioned again, nor will your name pop up in the search results of the WFWF Network… you’re still there, technically, but you are completely blackballed from the company. It’s a double-murder-suicide, you’re killing your past, your present, and hanging your future.

“Look, hear me out. I didn’t come all the way to L.A. to get in a pissing match with you.”

She looks down at a few papers on her desk and clears them out of the way. She sits down and the only thing standing between Lila Sleater and Dave Demento is this dark oak desk and a sense of tension. I think its some sexual tension… oh no, no it isn’t.

“I came here because I want another shot at this whole wrestling thing. I lost my love for this business, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know what to do. So I took my ball and went home. I did some soul searching, y’know the whole thing about distance making the heart grow fonder?”

“Shut the f*ck up!”

I don’t know if that was sarcasm or a genuine pissed off reaction.

“So what you’re saying is that you want to come back and wrestle for my company?”

“Yes.”

Dave sits back, it’s obvious he has this one in the bag, and she’ll offer him a contract right here, right now. Push him to the moon like a big dog. But she hesitates and ponders the thought in her mind.

“No... I am not bringing you back into the company.”

What?

“What?”

What? You’re telling me Dave’s plea didn’t work. Color me surprised.

“After the stunt you pulled last time; I do not trust you, plain and simple. If you can walk out on this company before, you can do it again. I do not need that headache of trying to end a contract that was legally binding.”

Dave is now desperate, the itch inside of him grows and grows, and he needs to step inside that ring and wrestle to finally scratch.

“How ‘bout I do it pay-per-appearance. No formal contract needed.”

“No.”

“… I’ll wrestle for free!”

As I said earlier, what?!? But even though those words sound absolutely nuts to me, Lila seems to bite. I think Dave has her hook, line, and sinker.

“… Dave, do you really want this? Do you think you can handle this?”

“Yes.”

“Well then…”

She leaves it at that and turns her attention to her computer, turning it out and searches through a few folders. She clicks and clicks, eventually opening a document, types a few words, and hits print through the file tab. Why am I describing this to you? You know how it works. The document prints and she grabs it from the printer and sets it down in front of Dave.

“This is a rookie tryout contract. You are guaranteed one match in the WFWF ring, at no pay, and the producers backstage will judge your performance. And I am personally going to watch your participation in the match. If you do not impress, you’re one and done, and we will not reach out for any negotiations.”

“What happens when I do impress your judges?”

“IF you impress, we will contact you about a contract offer.”

“When’s the match?”

“It'll be at the International Assault pay-per-view event… you will compete in the Open Invitational for the International Championship.”

What a way to return, he thought. Not only is he main eventing his first show back, but he's also going to reclaim his championship.

“Great. You going to send me the travel details?”

“No. As a performer on a tryout contract, you will have to fly yourself to the show and book your own accommodations.”

“Understood.”

He signs the contract and hands it back to Lila, who shoves it into a folder on the part of the desk behind her. Her mood has calmed significantly, but the ire can still be found in her eyes. She’s not mad, she’s annoyed. But she’s ready to deliver the finishing move to this conversation.

“Good luck, David. Flights to Puerto Rico are hard to book right now… I’ll see you in San Juan.”

She shoos him away as he leaves the room as happy as can be. His gamble of flying to Los Angeles has paid off, and he wasn’t arrested. Poor Puerto Rico, there’s another storm coming, and this one comes in the form of a 6’2” 265-pound man.

---

Well, this is interesting, it’s been a long time since I’ve done one of these. How do these things work again? Call out your opponent, tell them to f*ck themselves, and then say you’re going to beat them in the ring. Is that how it goes? Well then…

Anna Ahriman, Lucas Crowe, and David Brennan, I am calling you all out. So why don’t you guys go f*ck yourselves. I’m going to beat the ever-living sh*t out of all three of you in the ring. And it doesn’t matter who steps into the ring in this Invitational, I’m going to beat the piss out of them too!

… yeah …

Why is this a trope again?

Forget this promo, let’s talk. Like normal human beings who share the same interest in pro wrestling. Deal? Deal.

I made my WFWF debut back in 2011, which is nearly seven years ago now. I started my career in this federation alongside my late partner Randel Benjamin, and we were somewhat responsible for the return of the WFWF Tag Team Championships. You see, back then, the titles were somewhat retired. They were still active, technically, but the champions at the time were never around to defend them. For those keeping track at home, the champions at the time were Alex Sean and DGX. Blast from the past, I know. Anyway, we wanted those titles, because well, when you’re young, and you want to make a name for yourself, you must always call out lost champions because you’ll win via forfeit and become champions. That’s how it goes, right?

Well, that didn’t happen, but the champions were stripped of the titles, and then WFWF CEO Xavier Pierce put myself and Randel in a tag team bout against Ripp Jackson and Thunder for the vacant gold. Needless to say, we tried our best, but we lost to the much more experienced team. We got our shine on the pay-per-view. Pushing them to their limit, but the better team won that night. I would later win the Tag titles with Josh Dean, so that’s a pretty note to add.

So time goes by, both Randel and I were floundering in the lower mid card. We were still with the company, but you’d never know because an appearance was rare. It didn’t help that we had a beef with the Pierce at the time. So we kept chugging along, and then I decided to part ways on screen with Randel. The tag team wasn’t helping my career, and he wanted to retire anyway. So on to better and bigger things for me as a singles competitor.

Well, I continued to fight my way up the card, and I found myself across the ring, once again, from Thunder. Instead of the WFWF Tag Team titles at stake, it was the vacant International Championship. On that night, I made history and defeated one of the greatest WFWF competitors of all time to win my first title here in the WFWF. Holding gold was great, it was everything I ever dreamt it would be. And then it was taken away from me immediately by my old friend Solomon Crow and his goons.

I came back stronger than ever, I worked my ass off to regain what I never lost in the first place. After scratching and clawing my way through the ranks of contention, I finally got my shot at the title I never lost. This time the target was Joe Bishop, one of my greatest opponents and a man I truly respect in this industry. Bishop and I went to war every single time we stepped into the ring, and I managed to reclaim the glory of being International champ. I would hold the championship for 134 days before losing it back to Bishop.

And that’s where that story ends about the International Championship… or so I thought.

When I took my ball and went home, which IS what happened regardless of what the dirt sheets say, I thought that would be the end of my journey with gold. I was content with that fact… but fate is weird, isn’t it?

Fate brought me back to the WFWF and brought me back at the right place, at the right time.

I get to make my return, and I get to reclaim my title as International Champion.

I don’t know who is going to enter this Open Invitational in San Juan… in fact, I don’t care who enters the chase for the belt.

That fact of the matter is simple. I am going to walk in as a rejuvenated man, a competitor who has had nearly two years to heal himself both physically and mentally and is prepared for war. I have spent the last two years with an itch inside of me that keeps clawing at my soul, and it is finally time to get rid of that itch by stepping inside of the squared circle and showing the world that I am still Dave Demento. No gimmicks, no crap, this is me.

I am fighting for my life.

This is my one shot to impress the officials of the WFWF and earn myself a full-time contract. This is my one opportunity to make a first impression… again. This golden opportunity doesn’t come to everybody. Fate just so happened to give it to me.

Chalk it up to fate.

Chalk it up to luck.

Hell, it might be the spirit of Randel giving me one last kick in the ass to achieve my goals in wrestling.

Whatever it is, it’s one final shot at proving my worth and going from the jobber who everybody laughed at (especially when Randel talked about his hot dogs) to the true main eventer that I am. I am here to prove everybody wrong. This opportunity is my way of showing the world that if you put your heart into something, you can earn your success.

To conclude, this is my time. Dave Demento makes his return and finally shows the world that his “potential as a future main eventer” is bullsh*t. Because the word future doesn’t belong in that sentence. Dave Demento is not just a main eventer, he is the Star of Tomorrow.

The world is yours.

The world is mine.