CONTENT

Title: Tap This
Featuring: Abdul Ahad
Date: September 15, 2015
Location: San Juan, Puerto Rico
Show: Wrestleshow #45

The scene opens to darkness and silence, save for the rhythmic sound of knuckles slamming against the thick wood of a door.

Knock, Knock, Knock . . .

A video clip begins to play in the top right quadrant of the screen, not taking up the full shot; to those well versed in their UTA lore would recognize a particular match from Wrestleshow #18

Yoshii climbs to the second rope and looks out to the crowd as he yells BONZAI before leaping off and landing on the chest of Dan Benson where he just sits. The referee moves into action and begins the count.

Blackfront: This one may be over.

Ace: or not! look at Ahad!

Abdul Ahad pushes himself up. As he heads toward Yoshii, CBR reaches out, grabbing his feet and yanking him down.

Blackfront: CBR STOPS ABDUL AHAD! He may not be aware that a pin is in motion!

The referee hits the mat for the third time.

Blackfront: This one is over! What was that about you guaranteeing Yoshii would not win?

Ace: I never said that.

Blackfront: You most certainly did.

Ace: Nope. I don't recall.

Announcer: The winner of this match and Ring King finalist.... YOSHIIIIII!!!!!!

The knocking takes on a different tempo, variances in the time between each sounding of presence in the darkness.

Knock, tap, knock . . .

The video feed plays anew, with footage from two weeks and one Wrestleshow later.

Abdul Ahad ups the pace, throwing two left jabs and gaining the upper hand. Ahad grabs Dan Benson by the arm and Irish whips him into the ropes.

Blackfront: Dan Benson into the ropes now. Ahad off of the opposite ropes… Benson stops early.. kick to the gut.. he turns and leaps... THE SHOCKER! THE SHOCKER!

Abdul Ahad flops up and back hitting the mat. Dan Benson quickly leaps into pinning position. The referee drops into place and begins to count.

Blackfront: DAN BENSON HAS DONE IT! DAN BENSON HAS DONE IT! He has not only ended Abdul Ahad's undefeated streak but he has officially become the number one contender for the Internet Championship!

Ace: Well look at that, Mr. High School Gym Wrestler has a shot to be somebody in the big leagues.

The bell begins to sound.

Announcer: The winner of the match and NEWWWW.... Number One contender for the Internet Championship.... DAN.... BEEEENNNNSSSSOOOOONNN!!!!

Again the shift of the melody of defeat.

Knock, tap, tap, knock, tap, tap, tap . . .

And again the footage of a man’s fall into obscurity, into death even, this time from a mere two weeks ago at Wrestleshow #44

Not letting go, CBR rolls back over and pushes up. He lifts Abdul's arm out while holding his neck. The fans continue to boo before CBR brings Abdul down in a DDT like manuever where he throws his legs up, catching Ahad in the gut.

Blackfront: The Crab Drop!

Ace: This one is over!

The referee slides into place as CBR covers Abdul.

Blackfront: It just might be... two.. three.

The bell starts to sound.

Announcer: The winner of this match... C... B... RRRR!!!

The knocks had subsided completely, replaced completely by the mere pressing of the palm against the door, a soft sound, yet one that meant the world in this business.

Tap, tap, tap, tap . . .

The scene finally opens following this sequence, to—surprise—the shot of a closed door with a UTA official knocking on the door. From the other side of the door, we hear the sound of water running, though it was difficult to discern whether it was a shower or a sink from the man’s impatient pounding. He looks at the watch on his arm for a moment before resuming, finally speaking up to whoever was on the other side.

“Please, Mister Ahad, the production crew have to be in downtown in an hour to set up for a press conference. The Dynasty will be there and trust me when I tell you they like to have everything perfect before they arrive.”

From the other side of the door, we hear the water shut off. And then, a mere moment later, Abdul Ahad himself graces the camera with his presence, fully-clothed, with the only skin showing being that of his forearms where he had rolled up his suit sleeves. Abdul Ahad looks from the UTA official to the camera, an embarrassed look on his face.

“I apologize, Mister Beech; I was simply entertaining guests in there in ways unsuitable for the camera to bear witness to.”

Mister Beech looked past Ahad into the empty bathroom, a look of confusion on his face. “Sir, there’s no one in there,”

Abdul Ahad glanced back, just as surprised at the lack of people standing amongst the porcelain and marble. “It seems you are correct, Mister Birch,” he replied simply, moving past the camera off-screen. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Willow, that there is a certain privacy to be found in that room there, one not to be violated by perversion or prying eyes?”

The camera, and the UTA official whose name viewers are still uncertain of, turn to reveal the new shot in the video, that of an elegantly decorated bedroom, brown and white in color, with a massive King-sized bed and exquisite, antique writing desk that was circa 1830s, Spanish in origin. The Hotel El Convento was nothing if not trying to connect the Puerto Rican experience to its historical roots. The official spoke up in response to Ahad’s question as the wrestler took a gentle seat on the edge of the bed, watching the camera. “I suppose so, Mister Ahad. I also want to point out that my name is—“

Abdul Ahad raised his hand up, genuine apology on his face. “Yes, I’m well aware that I’ve been saying your name incorrectly this whole time, Mister Jefferson Oak. I was simply doing so to prove a point that, how do you Americans say it,” Ahad smiled, “more types of wood then the kind Lucius Jones tries so desperately to point into others for his pleasure and his relevance.”

Ahad crosses his right leg over his left, placing both arms on his ankle as his foot dangled in the air.

“It wasn’t too long ago that I would’ve welcomed with open arms an opponent like mine this week, a man who had idols in his life. Maybe they were idols that defined the man he was, the core and root of his psyche; these men were the ones I so desperately wanted to defeat in the name of my Father above. And then there were men like Lucius Jones who, save for the idol that had taken hold of his life, was otherwise a generally good man.” Ahad shifts on the bed, finding a more comfortable position while still maintain his straight-back composure. “Log Habben was one such man, one who I approached not as a stepping stone in my career, but as a lost soul who through competition with me, he may very well see the light and the err of his ways.”

Ahad sighed, patting his leg softly. “Alas, too often I found myself approaching my opponents like they were the former rather than the latter. With each success, each rise up the ladder, it became less about the people I stood opposite in the moment, but the people who through my successes, I can help down the road. Win those matches and then think about others. Put that title around my waist and then people will begin to take notice of my message. Be the best first,” A long pause, “and then you can be the help people needed.”

Ahad looked away from the camera. “But at the end of the day, Yoshii was the Ring King Finalist, Dan Benson was the Internet Championship Contender, and CBR was the winner. And who was I helping, then, with such immodesty?”

Ahad looks back at the camera, a stony seriousness about him. “That word there, that concept of modesty, probably raises red flags in your head, Lucius. It’s a trigger word, one that shuts down your thinking, turns you away from your sensibility. Because to be modest would be to walk away from the life you’re living, to walk away from the man who you’ve become.” Ahad shrugs, “and to stay is to lose, both this week at Wrestleshow #45, and beyond.”

Ahad rises from the bed, walking over to the window he had been looking out earlier. From this vantage point, Ahad has a clear sight into the pool area of the hotel, where scantily clad women sunbathed under the Puerto Rican sun. Ahad gazes at the scene below him before breaking contact, turning back to the camera.

“For you see, Lucius, modesty is about more than the cut of your clothing or the sting of your words; it’s your own estimation of your abilities in life. And it is through your perversion that you overestimate the man who you are,” the disgust on Ahad’s face is evident as he continues, but it all needed to be said, not only for Jones’ sake, but for Ahad’s own break from his past normality. “So when you walk away from a night with women whose names you don’t even bother to learn, taking their moans and groans as signs of success, not momentary pleasures of the flesh that go flaccid and limp in due time, you walk away thinking you’re the best. It is not reality, Lucius, just a fabrication of a lustful mind who takes away predisposed performances that never seem to translate over into your other endeavors.”

Ahad waves his hand around, searching for his words. “In other words, oh how do you Americans say it,” Ahad snaps, the idiom coming to him, “you didn’t get lucky with Quinlan at Wrestleshow #44. You came in hoping you could throw your opponent around like another of your harlots, only to find out that this one’s heels had spikes to them. Blinded by your desires and your lusts, you envisioned yourself as a much, much bigger man than you truly were.”

Another sigh, “It seems we both needed a lesson in modesty from our opponents in our return to the company.”

Ahad nods, stepping closer to the camera. “The difference between you and I, Lucius, is I’ve recognized the lesson to be learned and taken my steps towards growing from it. My career began its downward slide when I started to think I was bigger than the man gracing me with my successes. I wasn’t winning any longer for the Father above, I wasn’t fighting for the benefit of those in my way. I was myself, and myself was not good enough. Two weeks, we both were ourselves and were not good enough. Thus we find ourselves here, now, the true test of growth.” Ahad taps his inner thigh with his open palm. “And I’m sad to say that’ll probably be the only growth you’ll witness up until our match. And that is why you will lose to me.”

Ahad backs up, moving around the corner of the bed, past the window, until he was standing by the antique writing desk.

“Because all Lucius Jones is these days is a big man with a bigger head, hoping that is all it takes to compete in this company. Quinlan was the first to show you just how small you are, how a single kick can be the end of your loving ways, and I kick so much harder than your last opponent. But I intend on doing more than that.” Ahad holds up both hands, balling them up into fists for emphasis. “I’m going to grab the log, your leg, and wrench it over my head in a way that’s never been seen before in this company. Du’a, I call it, the crying out one does to the father in one’s life, of supplication and pleading for an intervention. And you will cry, Lucius, though I doubt you’ll say any name.”

Ahad unclenches his fists.

“Because you don’t know the name of your father any more than you knew the name of those women.”

Ahad points to the camera. “But I tell you this, Lucius; you have a Father, above, one who can look past your immodesty and strength you to grow past it. I know this because he is my father as well and he is the one whom I’ll be fighting for this week at Wrestleshow #45. This father will never forsake me, as long as I show him the respect and love he deserves. And this father, Allah above, can be yours as well. You only have to become bigger than the big man Lucius Jones.”

Ahad seats himself in front of the antique desk, in a rather ornate, cushioned chair.

“It’s safe to assume that you won’t before our match, though. No, Lucius Jones will spend the next few days touring the nether regions of San Juan before arriving at the arena thinking, once more, that it’ll change the outcome of his evening. It is disappointing, really; even Log Habben gave up his vice in preparation for his match against me. I can say this, though.”

Ahad holds his open palm over the desk.

“Come September Twenty-First, this will be the only tapping you’ll ever do again.”

Ahad drops the hand onto the wood, a familiar sound resonating in the air.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Ahad holds the hand there. “Because sooner or later, people will begin to see you for the man you’ve become: a man defined by his vice who isn’t even the best at the things he does.” Ahad’s eyebrow raises, as the scene begins to fade out.

“And who would want to damn themselves over someone like that?”

Complete fade ensues.



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