Knock-knock

"Tell me if you've heard this one before"

[12:09 A.M. Monday, January 1st on the top level of a parking garage just moments after a new year's fireworks display ends.]

"A young man steps out of the gutter of civilization and into the world of professional wrestling with stars in his eyes and hype ringing in his ears as loud and consistent as chronic tinnitus. He proves to be what the German call wunderkind and takes to learning the ropes quickly."


[A final anticlimactic firework bursts into the sky and fizzles out in a shower of sparks, revealing the silhouette of the Professional against the midnight skyline. He speaks with his finger on his ear, as if accessing a blue tooth under his mask. His free hand hangs limp with a glowing cigarette pursed between two fingers, threatening to burn out if he doesn't ash soon.]

"He makes great strides in progress. He does things that no one expected him to be capable of doing. He goes from being discounted as some charity case destined to burn out quick, to being viewed the face of a movement. He's a superhero; a White Knight tnat stands against injustices. He represents the common man and what it can become if it applies itself. His voice becomes vox populi.
His victories are viewed as being the people's triumphs. His message is all inclusive. It doesn't matter your age, race, sex, or income tax bracket; this guy represents us."

[A mild wind hits the air, dissipating the ash into nothing and revealing a fresh and bright burning ember beneath it. The Professional takes a drag.]

"A duo of goons become jealous of this savior's acclaim. They set out to ruin every single moment of greatness that this folk hero attains with nothing but elbow grease and blood, but it only tightens the bond that this man made allegory has with his people. The two saboteurs dangle carrots and pull them away just as quickly as our home brew hero sets sight on them. Soon enough the followers turn into disciples and a united front forms around our hero. Men and women who call our savior 'brother' sit at his table and break bread before going off to fight in his war. If he were self-righteous or even remotely understood that these people sought clout by associating themselves with his name, then it would only undercut his persona of humility and naivety. This alliance becomes a liability to our poster boy's appeal. If he turns them away, he'll seem selfish and thankless. He'll look pigheaded and spotlight hungry, never mind he grew the spotlight all by himself. So what does he do? He sticks with them and lets each and every one fall away as his star comes crashing down to earth. Their bodies pile sky high dying in his name. The problem solves itself, but just as soon as he can catch momentum long enough to pull himself out of this kamikaze tailspin, another assassin hops out of the bushes in the most victorious and vulnerable of moments. The joy plane makes an abrupt touchdown, a hero crashes back down to earth, and he dies in the gutter of civilization from whence he came. Here's the punchline."

[The Professional takes one last drag off of his diminishing cigarette before flicking it off of the top of the parking garage to the cue of one dud firework soaring into the sky, and then silently falling back to earth without making so much as a crackle.]


"It's less of a punchline in the long run, and more like the answer to a riddle: When they bury this fallen idol, this avatar, this true testament to where the American Dream gets you: what name do they put on the tombstone?"

[After a moment of silence, the Professional lets out a droll chuckle and clicks off his blue tooth. He then turns to his car, types in the code to his keyless lock, and hops into his car.]

"You got it."