“Have you ever felt like you wanted to be degraded by a poorly constructed sentence that almost completely missed the X on your head that you could see from space?”
A voice – cockney accent, deeply male, cuts across the dull hues of an X that looks suspiciously like one visible on social media. The frame zooms out at an astonishingly sickening speed to view a really badly portrayed clay earth.
“How about needing to feel like you were in control of something so strongly, but the people around you didn’t agree, so you needed to figure out how to erroneously double down?”
This time, the voice-over provides commentary over a ridiculously Karen-fied female, pointing their finger into someone’s face, screaming the sky is red while its shiny blue, the crowd around her appearing very confused.
“Hey everyone, Dickie Watson here.”
A shift in the frame, panning inwards towards an open studio designed to be a home with large glass windows, reveals the former Universal Champion himself. He steps forward, practiced and sure, into the frame, his oversized t-shirt hanging loosely off his frame over his skinny jeans, his tattoos extremely visible. He gives a small wave, and then points a finger conversationally towards the viewers, standing next to a desk with a computer keyboard and very large screen television.
“You might know me from wrestling companies such as FIGHT! NYC and the XWF, where I spend the majority of my time getting told I’m worthless and then end up slammin’ faces back into canvas and wood for a thrilling sense of self-worth and validation.”
Dickie pauses at the center of the screen, a remarkably fake advertising grin on his face.
“Today, I’d like to introduce you to a decidedly, but uneventfully, thrilling product that really could take the XWF by storm if it runs unchecked. But first, I ask…are you tired of thinking? Exhausted by the pressure of having one original thought?”
He nods, as if he’s empathetic and understanding.
“Or maybe you might be asking yourself how you can also become the number one contender for the Anarchy Championship without really saying anything that sounds like it came from an actual human soul?”
That smile of his is almost unnaturally plastered on.
He must be getting paid a lot to do this.
“Introducing cin’ JennyGPT!©!!”
An advertisement falls across the screen.
“JennyGPT!© is the most revolutionary promo-generation system designed for wrestlers who want all the confidence of a legend with none of the burden of their own crippling self-awareness. It screams about its achievements – two-time this, five-time that, three-time no one gives a shit…but…ya know. Here, simply type in a name…”
He leans over the computer, where a program is already loaded onto the screen in pink, black, and glitter with an overbearing amount of graphic content.
“Presentation, you know? That’s what really matters…anyway…I’ve typed in my name…” he finishes his last name, “and now you can watch as the software generates a stunningly hollow observation such as:
Wow, unstable.
Much angry.
Super not good.
Doesn’t deserve where he is.
Oh…and my personal favorite, and definitely provided by the machine in all its self-aggrandized grandeur…”
He leans forward.
“He should be worried about Jenny Myst.”
Dickie stares at the screen, looks at the viewers with a nonplussed, shifty eyebrow, and then stands up straight.
“JennyGPT!©, developed from the best and brightest of every Jenny Myst promotional video since March…my favorite being the one where she called Samael a glitch, a 404 error, a commercial break with a beige god-complex…and still somehow came back to us sounding like malfunctioning search result with lip gloss. She also lost, but don’t worry, the GPT comes complete with Loss Reframing Tech. It can help you develop how it was a secretly strategic event and definitely everyone else’s fault.”
He pauses.
“Was it though? Because the last thing I remember about Jenny, besides the strays she tried to throw in my direction last week…is the sound of her screaming into the consequences of her pretentiousness. And it makes sense, you know? XWF Queen, joined the Brotherhood of Bastards like the rest of the rejects in the costume department, shifted from one brand to the other when success couldn’t be found, did the most thinkin’ she’d use a mystery case to face me with because Watson, and still ended up in a pit with me climbin’ up over the edge because…”
Dickie’s voice trails off softly as he raises his hands to insinuate a what?
“Last I remember, it was me movin’ on to face Scoops. And we kicked the shit out of each other to succeed and maybe he did it instead of me, but ya know what?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“At least I don’t go for shock value because I don’t have anythin’ else under my belt to be recognized for in an era where wrestling comes before the edgelord tactics.”
A beat, small and minimal, but filled with enough snark as he leans back.
“But that’s the thing, user beware – when it comes to a bonafide wrestling match, there is a big ol’ vulnerability in the system. JennyGPT!© struggles in the process of the room. It looks around, sure. Just like a Roomba. Automated. Built to help. But also just like a Roomba, it doesn’t pay attention well enough to know when there’s shit in the middle of the floor.
You can run whatever program you want on this software, mate.
It can calculate the best jaded zingers to jab, or tell you the psychological profile and how to dismantle a bitch from the back.
But just like Jenny Myst, it can generate the promo and confidence, big match energy and the I’m the contender!
It can’t generate success without everyone seeing it for what it fuckin’ is.
A farce.”
He grins.
“JennyGPT!© – Available for pennies on the dollar at the latest gothic street corner near you.”
End.
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