Ace Stevens
Born In The USA(ce)
In his favourite leather jacket,
Ace Stevens is half-walking, half-strutting down Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn. The sun is shining, he’s just won the Mayhem Championship, even his personal assistant
Lewis Middleton isn’t completely annoying him. All seems right with the world.
“So this man is letting you use his bar just for this interview?”
“Yeah. He’s my bro and I haven’t seen him for a while. Plus, he doesn’t open till six.”
“And why am I here?”
“’Cause you’re good company.”
“Really?”
“Nope.”
As they reach their destination, McLaren’s bar, Middleton is quick to point something out.
“Hey, it’s like in that TV show. Erm... How I Met-“
“This was here first!” exclaims Ace, as if he’s heard that comment before.
Upon entering the bar, the duo are immediately greeted by the bartender, an excited
Marty McLaren.
“Ace, my boy! We all saw it. Man, it was rough, but you did it!”
Stevens bumps fists with Marty, and thanks him for his kind words.
“So can I get you guys a drink?”
“Not for me, Marty. Gotta be sharp for this interview thing.”
“How about short-stop here?” Marty says, as his gestures towards Lewis.
“Does he even drink?”
“Water, please. When one is working, one must refrain from alcohol.”
“OK, but just a bit of advice. When one is in Brooklyn, one might want to stop calling themselves “one”. Unless of course one wants to get one’s ass kicked.”
“Consider that advice taken, sir.”
“Does he always talk like a assclown, Ace?”
“Unfortunately.”
A small yet comfortable silence befalls the situation as Marty gets Middleton his drink.
“Hey, so you didn’t bring the belt? Shame.”
“Who said that, Marty?”
Ace opens his leather jacket to reveal the Mayhem Championship belt fastened around his waist.
“What? So you just been wearing it around?”
“You would too if you knew how many chicks it’s gotten me.”
“How many?”
“Two. So far.”
“Wow, so that’s basically doubled your tally.”
“Nice. Good gag there.”
“Can you blame me? You set it up, I had to knock it out of the park, Jeter-style.”
The two Americans laugh, as the British Middleton looks slightly confused.
“It’s baseball, Lulu. Baseball.”
“So who’s coming today? Let me see, you’ve got the old guy, the nerd, hot chick #1 and hot chick #2. Who’s it gonna be?”
“Hot chick #2, I think. Don’t quote me on that, though.”
Just then, almost instantly, as if it had been planned for comedic effect,
Leon Kensworth walks through the doors of the bar, catching the attention of Ace immediately.
“Great. May as well get this over with then. Lulu, you stay here with Marty. He might be able to teach how to be less of a douchebag.”
As Ace walks over to the table Kensworth is sitting at, the interviewer rises to his feet to greet the champion, extending his hand in the process.
“Sit down Leo, I haven’t got all day for this.”
“OK, well first of all, congratulations are in order. How does it feel to be Mayhem champion? Are you at all worried about having to defend your title?”
“Look, whenever some asshole wins a title, you know what happens, Leo?”
“Um, they sa-”
“Whenever someone wins a title, they talk about how every is now out to get them. They talk about how they have a target on their back, and everyone has arrows. Not me, Leo. Ya’ see, I know that no one has the guts to come after me. West, Howard, Bull – they all saw what I did to Cooper. Tell me, Leo, would you want to be stuck in a ring with the baddest son of a bitch on planet earth, and a ‘barrow full of weapons?”
“I gue-”
“No. No you wouldn’t. And neither would Marquel, Scumm or any other coward who likes to put on a pair of boots and pretend they’re a wrestler. I mean, I’d be surprised if they ever grow a pair of balls and try and face me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“What? You didn’t catch that? I’m tellin’ you now, no one is going to try me.”
“So you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” says Stevens, slightly intoned with annoyance.
“About your next match. You’re going up against Johnny Scumm and Stevenson Marquel on Aftershock. Defending your title in the process.”
“Really?”
“Fresh from the WZCW headquarters this morning. Look.”
Kensworth takes his phone out of his jacket pocket, fiddles with it for five seconds and hands it to Ace.
“See? It’s on the front page of the website.”
The demeanour of the Mayhem Champion chages almost instantly. His jovial mood turns into full blown anger, as his open hand turns into a fist. Rage - a swelling sense of injustice - comes over him. Suddenly, Ace launches Kensworth’s phone at the nearest wall, taking the interviewer aback.
Seconds pass in silence, although they feel more like minutes.
“Just go.”
“B-But I can’t. I came all the way to Brooklyn to interview you.”
“And now you can go all the way back to whichever part of the country you like to call home, ‘cause I don’t feel like being interviewed today.”
“It doesn’t work like that...”
Ace goes to the bar and grabs his Mayhem Championship belt.
“Ya’ see this? It means I’m the Mayhem champion. And it means that you do what I say. Which is go away!”
“OK.”
The briefly strong-willed Kensworth grabs his briefcase and leaves in silence while Ace adjusts his hair.
Ace returns to the bar and his cohorts, Marty and Lewis.
“Things OK, buddy?” asks Marty as he mindlessly wipes a glass.
“Scotch and soda, please.”
“Gotcha.”
---
“And just over there is where Stevenson Marquel once sold drugs to a crack-addicted single mother.”
“Really?”
“I’m guessing.”
Days after his ‘interview’ with Leon Kensworth, Ace Stevens is once again walking through his hometown of Brooklyn, New York with his personal assistant, Lewis Middleton.
“I must say, it was awfully nice of WZCW to arrange another interview, and to fly out Mr. Kensworth once again at great expense. I don’t understand why they couldn’t conduct an interview over the phone, however.”
“Me too, Lulu. Me too.”
“I believe this it, sir” says Middleton, gesturing to the cafe in front of them.
As the odd couple enter the fairly busy cafe, they see no sign of Leon Kensworth. Instead, the familiar sight of
Becky Serra beckons them over to a table.
“Where’s Kensworth?”
“Hello to you to.”
“Yeah, hi... whatever. I repeat, where’s Kensworth?”
“He was more than hesitant to do this interview after what happened a few days ago.”
“What happened a few days ago?”
“Well, according to Leon, you threw his Blackberry across the room in a fit of anger after learning about having to defend your Mayhem Championship on Aftershock.”
“Whoa there, let’s clear some things up. I didn’t throw the phone, it slipped out of my hand. My hands suffer from a lack of grip. It’s a medical condition. Go on Wikipedia or something. Secondly, I don’t care about who I face for my title, and I don’t care when. They could set up a ring in this cafe, get Marquel and Scumm down here and I’d beat them down as soon as possible.”
“That’s some good trash talk there. But I’m afraid I haven’t turned on the Dictaphone yet. Please, take a seat so we can actually do this interview.”
“Excuse me, sir, but is there anything I can do? Don’t get me wrong, standing by your side while you deliver some of your signature trash talk is a rewarding experience. But I can’t help but feel that I could be doing something a bit more useful.”
“Hmm, something useful...”
Ace reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twenty dollar note.
“You can go up to the counter and get me my usual. As well as whatever the lady wants.”
“An iced tea would be great. Thanks.”
“And after that, sir?”
“Well you can go stare at that wall if you like. Or you can come back here and see me do what I do best: be awesome.”
“I’ll take my chances with the wall, sir.”
As Ace’s assistant walks away, Serra quietly giggles to herself at that last remark.
“Something funny?”
“Your assistant. He’s cute, too.”
“What? You’re sitting across the table from one of the greatest comedians that ever lived, as well as the Mayhem champion. I’m funnier than him. Hell, you’re probably funnier than him.”
“No, he’s got that Hugh Grant vibe going on. I'm digging it” says Becky, who has not taken her eyes of Middleton.
“Yeah, this is getting weird. Can you stop looking at Robin and do your job, which is to interview Batman.”
“Of course. So I thought we’d start with Scumm, and then move onto Marquel. Of course, we’ll move onto other things, but I want to keep these names central to the interview. Ready?”
“I’m always ready” says Ace as he reclines in his seat.
“That... was weird, but let’s go!” replies Becky in her typically jubilant manner as she turns on her Dictaphone.
“Johnny Scumm has undergone a bit of a character change recently, embracing the fans a bit more. Will this change your approach to him?”
“Approach? I’ll treat him the same as anyone who gets in my way, by beating the crap out of him. “Good guy”, “bad guy” – I don’t care. The bottom line is he sucks, and I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like him?”
“You do?”
“He’s growing on me.”
“Oh yeah, we’ve already established that you have a thing for Limeys.”
“It’s not that. He isn’t fake. I like that. He means what he says.”
“Yeah, but he sucks. And I really mean that. Did you see him at the Lethal Lottery?”
“I saw you betray him in the battle royale.”
“I was referring to him getting hit in the face with a steel chair by some big hairy dude. But let’s talk about your thing. Ya’ see, I was teaching him a lesson. He was riding my coattails, so I threw him over the top rope. He’s been here for months, which by WZCW standards pretty much makes you a veteran. He needs to start performing like it.”
“Ah yes, the experience factor. So Johnny Scumm’s experience doesn’t bother you at all?”
Ace bursts in to fits of laughter.
“Sorry... um, what’s so funny?”
“That you just said Scumm has experience. It was funny.” Still mildly laughing Stevens continues
“Experience implies positivity, you know? But it seems that the only experience he has is that of losing. The guy loses all the time.”
“But what about the 'mayhem' factor? The man seems to have a thirst for violence and brutality. Your good self, on the other hand, seems to hate it?”
“Hate it? Becky, I’m the champion of it.”
“Some say that your constant desire to stay away from the weapons in your Lethal Lottery match against Justin Cooper amounted to little more than cowardice. Not my words, of course.”
“Some I'm a coward now, because I prefer to use my fists? The only cowards in this company are whoever I face on any given day. You know why? Because they’re the only people who walk to the ring with real fear in their hearts, and fear is what makes a coward.”
“And there’s nothing you fear?”
“You catch on quick. I don’t fear anyone or anything. And why should I? I’m the greatest professional wrestler of all-time, the toughest son-of-a-bitch working the Earth today and... what do you want?”
Middleton has returned to the table, drinks in hand.
“I come bearing gifts. There’s an iced tea for Becky, and this is your tall, low-fat caramel macchiato without cream.”
“Ah, ah, ah. What did I tell you to call me?”
“Sir, is this completely necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
“General Ace, Champion of Awesome.”
“In context, please.”
“This is your tall, low-fat caramel macchiato without cream, General Ace, Champion of Awesome.”
“Hmm, I’d like you to work on that, Lulu. Really inject some emotion into it.”
“Of course you would. Now, about that wall...”
Becky once again giggles at Middleton’s caustic wit, as he walks away from the table.
“Just ask me about Marquel” says a slightly irritated Ace.
“Certainly” replies Becky, as she checks her notes on the table.
“It would be fair to say you and Marquel have some history.”
“Not really. Yeah, we both grew up in Brooklyn, but I never spoke to him. I mean, I knew of him, sure. But I was never really into that whole selling crack and shooting people thing that he was so fond of.”
“I was actually referring to the fact that he beat you a couple of weeks ago.”
“H-He beat me? Why was I not informed?”
“Are you really going to play dumb on this?”
“Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It was a triple threat match. Involving you, Marquel and Hiro Kota Koji.”
“Oh, I remember him beating that little ‘Japanese’ dude. But me? Nah, I don’t remember him ever having my shoulders to the mat.”
Realising that pursuing the idea of an Ace Stevens loss would be like getting blood from the proverbial stone, Serra continues with her questioning.
“I have to say, if there’s one thing I’ve picked up from your tweets and comments in interviews, it’s that you really don’t like him. Where as a Mikey Stormrage gets a mention in your interviews, Marquel gets comment. On Twitter, too, it seems as if Marquel is always in your crosshairs. Why?”
“Honestly, it’s because I don’t like the guy. I really don’t like him.”
“Do you want to go into any further detail?”
“Sure. I don't like him 'cause he’s self-righteous, a coward, a bully, a rapper and he has no business being in my presence, let alone my ring.”
“Look, Ace. It’s my job to get you to speak and tell the world what’s on your mind. So I have to ask, is this really you?”
“What?”
“This arrogant exterior. Sure, I interview guys who are full of it all the time. But even Joe West didn’t call himself the “best wrestler who ever lived” in his second week here. Darren Bull didn’t ask for a World Heavyweight Championship match as soon as he got here. Is this a mask? Because if it isn’t, I’m worried about just how delusional you are.”
“If there's one thing you need to take away from this interview, it's that I never exaggerate, and I never say things I don’t mean. So when I say that I’m the best damn wrestler in the world, you best believe that I’m the best damn wrestler in the world. I’m as good as a guy like Showtime Cougar thinks he is. I mean, it’s frightening just how good I am.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You can take my word if you want. Or you can wait till Aftershock and watch me dismantle Scumquel in a matter of minutes.”
“Scumquel?”
“The name of the temporary team they’re inevitably going to form in our match. Like it?”
“It needs some work.”
“Whatever” replies Ace, in a tone not resembling annoyance, but rather an out-of-character playfulness, matching Serra’s comment.
“What’s your motivation going to into the match on Aftershock? Obviously, there’s the title, but I sense there’s something else at work here.”
“My motivations are three-fold. I’m going to beat Scumquel on Aftershock because I refuse to live in a world where either of them are a) a champion, b) a winner of a wrestling match or c) considered to be higher in status than me. I consider it a public service to beat them for the Mayhem title. No one wants them anywhere near a title. Don’t believe me? Watch this.”
Ace grabs the attention of a fellow patron, sat at a table close-by.
“Hey, you. Do you want Johnny Scumm to be the Mayhem champion?”
“Who?”
Ace returns to Becky.
“Exactly.”
“I’m not sure that proves anyth-”
“It proves everything. It proves that the people don’t want Scumm. They don’t want Marquel. They want Ace.”
Stevens rises from his seat and from out of nowhere, begins to chant “USA.”. After repeating it a few times, a table of four at the back of the cafe join in. Another table begins. And then a couple more tables join the chant. Suddenly, it seems as if the whole cafe (with the exception of Serra) is chanting patriotically. The jingoism is palpable.
Almost inaudibly, Ace returns to Serra.
“You hear them? They’re all chanting my name.”
Stevens returns to a standing position and re-joins chant, this time adding his own small twist.
“USAce! USAce! USAce!”
