CHAPTER 17
Vicky Archuleta had only been a member of Revolution Wrestling’s creative team for three months, but in that time she had made herself indispensable. Trained in the jungles of Hollywood studios, Vicky knew well how the game was played, and by her second week on the job, had already booked herself on a two-day trip to Aruba with Max Zeffer on his private jet. From that point on, even though she was a woman in her early thirties with no experience in the wrestling world, even though former wrestlers and wrestling promoters made up the rest of the creative staff, even though she was loathed by the company and its fans, her voice was one of the most powerful on the team.
And this morning her voice was saying one thing: turn Lucifer heel.
The idea had come to her last night, as she sat on the plane, typing a screenplay on her laptop. The screenplay, a crime thriller set in Hollywood, had been her obsession for three years. She had begun it, certain that it would be her masterpiece, her ticket out of the annals of television and into the world of New York penthouse parties and personal profiles on cable TV. Three years and thirty rejection letters later (her agent had proclaimed he would drop her if she tried to push one more draft on him), she was certain that if she could just find the right motivation for her main character, Clint Shadow (she imagined Tom Cruise playing the lead) the screenplay would come together and the Oscars would follow.
As she thought about Clint Shadow, FBI-agent extraordinaire, chasing arch-fiend Dirk Hitler through the dark streets of Hollywood, and wondered what drove him to do what he did, she realized that Lucifer, the centerpiece of the television show she was supposed to be writing, was boring. Lucifer beat people up, he won championships, he apparently was very skilled at “submission holds” (why these wrestlers were so hung up on these human pretzel maneuvers was beyond her – it seemed to her that if they were to imitate real fighting there should be more punching and kicking), but no one knew why he did it. Why did he care about the World Title? Why did he put his body through such torture to win these silly matches?
And the answer was simple: he didn’t know why, he just did it. He was just a violent person. Hence, the “heel turn.” It was brilliant.
In her short time in the wrestling business, she had taken it upon herself to learn the lingo. Heels, Babyfaces, Heat, Pops, Get Over, Get Under (was Get Under a term?), Workrate, Shoot, she had it down. Of the established universe of the wrestling business, by far the most interesting concept was that of heels and babyfaces. She was shocked at how little the others on the creative team understood the storytelling power of heels and babyfaces. Good Guy / Bad Guy; Black / White; that dichotomy was perfect for storytelling to the masses, and the sole reason professional wrestling survived as a form of entertainment.
The problem with these wrestling promoters was that they wanted their biggest stars to play the good guy. Didn’t they understand that the villain was the most interesting role in entertainment? The fans understood it. They always cheered for the bad guys, well, sometimes they did.
The fans would love a heel turn for Lucifer right now. It would be a big surprise. It would add depth to his character. It would give him motivation.
“I don’t think so,” said Gene. Gene Harold was one of five men sitting at the round wooden table with her. To the left of Gene’s obscenely large belly was Patrick Childers, the production manager. Patrick was useless in these meetings. He just got in the way. On Patrick’s left was Max, who was next to Vicky. On Vicky’s right was Larry Jenkins, the Talent Manager, and next to him was Walt Thompson, an elderly former wrestler who now served as road agent and general lackey to Max.
“Why don’t you think so, Gene?” said Vicky.
“We know where we’re going with Lucifer, we don’t need to make any changes to his character. He’s the freshest thing in wrestling right now. It’s a terrible idea. Let’s move on to something else, please.”
God, Gene was an asshole. As Head Booker, he clashed with Vicky on every one of her ideas. She didn’t understand what his purpose was. She had been brought in as Head Writer, a position she had held for a daytime soap opera and a prime time drama, and she certainly didn’t need any other chefs in the kitchen. She wished Max would fire Gene. If this creative team were to be effective, step one would be to give full creative control to her, and Gene’s job would just be to figure out how the stories play out in the wrestling ring. All the storylines, dialogue, backstage sketches, and character development should be hers.
Alas, it didn’t work that way. The truth was, Gene had control over most of the storylines, and her job was to write the dialogue for the backstage sketches and contribute ideas to these meetings. And were it not for her rendezvous with Max and the promise of another one, she might not even have that much.
“I don’t think we’re ready to move on to something else yet,” she said. “Hear me out. This heel turn is a great idea. Lucifer’s character needs motivation.”
“He has a motivation. He wants to be the World Champion,” said Gene.
“But why? It’s just a piece of costume jewelry--”
“Just a piece of costume jewelry! Good God, can we please move on to something else?” said Gene.
“No. Now, what do the rest of you think?” said Vicky.
Gene looked to Max for help. Vicky was pleased that Max provided none.
“Well, we know where Gene stands,” said Max, calmly. “How about you Larry?”
This is what she loved about Max. He was fearless. Larry and Gene made it a point to always disagree with each other on everything. With Larry on her side, the discussion would get interesting.
“I’m afraid I have to agree with Gene on this one,” said Larry. “While Ms. Archuleta’s arguments sound smart and thought out, I don’t understand them. It doesn’t make any sense to me to just turn our number one hero at the height of his popularity.”
Bastard. They’re all jealous little bastards, and they’re scared to death of me.
“Okay,” said Max. “Walt?”
“I’m with the guys.”
Of course Walt was with the guys now. There was no point in even asking him, the spineless little slug.
“Patrick?”
“Max, I’m also with Gene.”
“Alright then. It’s decided. Lucifer will not turn heel, at least not now. But, frankly, I’m disappointed in this group. I brought Vicky in to give us a fresh perspective from a talented writer with a proven track record. Turning Lucifer heel when no one expects it is precisely the type of innovation that can turn Revolution from a great wrestling promotion into a great entertainment company. You gentlemen are all so immersed in the artificial rules of the wrestling world that you’re horrified to think of trying something different. But if we’re ever to increase our audience, we have to expand our vision. The market is saturated with fans who know how a heel and a babyface should behave. To bring in new fans, we need characters who behave outside the norms of the established wrestling universe.”
“So what are you saying Max?” said Gene with resignation. “Are we or aren’t we turning Lucifer? I’m ready to move on.”
“I’ve already told you. You guys said no, so the answer is no, for now. Besides, we need to finish the program between Lucifer and Scott Rollins that we have planned. After that’s done, we will revisit this issue, and when we do, I expect you all to come to this meeting with an open mind. I want this group to be leading the way not just for the wrestling business, but the entire entertainment industry. To do that, we need to think outside the confines of the wrestling world of the past fifty years.”
“Okay then, moving on,” said Gene, who then led the meeting in a new direction, discussing booking ideas for the ongoing feud between Flash Martin and Miguel Cervantes for the American Title, a feud about which Vicky had nothing to say. She’d write up the dialogue after these men had figured out whatever they had to figure out. No doubt whatever they came up with w
ould be crap, but she knew to choose her battles carefully. She’d lost today, but Max was in her pocket on the Lucifer turn, and with all these goons against her, when they did flip the switch on her idea and the ratings lit up and the company made a fortune and TV Guide wanted to interview the brilliant writers for Revolution Riot, she’d be alone on the podium, and Gene Harold, the fat fartknocker, would be that much closer to being out of her way, and she and Max could turn Revolution Riot into a real TV show.
But that would all have to wait. For now, it was more cheesy wrestling dialogue and another month of evenings with Clint Shadow and Dirk Hitler.