The Five Ways of the Gimmick, Lesson #3: Character

Julius: “Admit it, motherfucker! Admit you’re a goddamn fraud!”


It’s a story as old as time itself; two men enter a swimming pool, tempers flare, and the bad motherfucker ends up trying to drown the elderly Chinese man.


Fine. The scene that unfolded within the confines of Julius’ indoor pool room may not be a story as old as time, but it did make for an interesting visual for those present. Fortunately for Rass al Lin, one of those bystanders was Momma Franklin, perhaps the only person in existence capable of keeping her son in line.


SMACK!


She reached down from the edge of the pool and brought her hand across the back of Julius’ head, forcing him to release his grip on his spiritual guide’s neck. At that moment, Rass shot out from under the water’s surface, gasping for air. As he desperately waded away from Julius toward the safe arms of the Swallows twins at poolside, Julius looked up at the disappointed expression on his mother’s face.


Momma F: “Whatchu think you’re doin’, boy? I didn’t raise no son of mine to be drowning no elderly Asian folks! Especially ones that have been tryin’ to set your ass straight!”


Julius: “But momma, he’s making me jump through motherfucking hoops and I still lost to Drago and those other fools at Wired Consequences! I even lost at that motherfucking game of Uno against that motherfucking motherfucker James Edgebrook!”


SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!


His mother’s slaps landed at various points upon Julius’ head, stinging his skin and reminding him why he tried to avoid using such colorful language in her presence.


Momma F: “That’s one slap for every curse I heard comin’ outta your mouth! Wanna try for a few more?”


Julius: “No, momma.”


Momma F: “Damn right, you don’t. Now get your black ass outta that pool and put on some clothes! You started learning that old fool’s five ancient secrets and I ain’t about to let you stop now!”


Julius took a second to glare over at the old Chinese man, who was now sitting on the edge of the pool with Bambi and Candy consoling him. He had the nerve to suggest that Julius needed to learn about character? Then the full Julius Fairweather character experience was exactly what Rass al’ Lin was gonna get.




Black suit and tie? Check. Styled afro? Check. Loaded .45 tucked in the back of his pants? Check. Julius was confident that he would be prepared for anything the old Chinese man would throw at him. With his mother planted in front of the television for a Tyler Perry marathon, Julius knew there would be nothing to stop him from pistol-whipping his spiritual advisor if his bullshit training got out of line. When Rass joined Julius in the garage, it was as if the incident in the pool had never happened. He acknowledged Julius with a glance and a nod, then without explanation, he entered the passenger side of Julius’ Cadillac. With a frustrated shake of his head, Julius opened up the driver’s side door, grabbed his .45, and slammed it onto the dash, making Rass fully aware of its presence. He then climbed behind the seat and started his custom-painted pride and joy before turning his upper body to focus on the old man expectantly.


Julius: “So where the fuck are we going, Miss Daisy?”


Rass: “Hmph. You have learned about discipline and shown your capacity for it. You understand instincts and how to access them. As I was beginning to explain in the pool before your attempt at throttling me, your next step is to find your character.”


Julius: “Motherfucker, if you haven’t heard by now, I’m “Furious” Julius Fairweather, and the one thing I have in spades is character!”


Rass: “You misunderstand. You have “a” character, but you have put so much focus upon it that your true nature remains elusive. Today we must learn if you are truly who you claim to be, or if Julius Fairweather is merely a façade meant to entertain the masses.”


Julius continued to stare at the old man in the passenger seat with confused agitation. The silence hung over them for several moments, until Julius verbally snapped at him like an angry dog.


Julius: “Answer the goddamn question! Where the fuck are we going?”


Rass reached into the folds of his robe to produce a cell phone and looked at the screen with squinting eyes.


Rass: “Okay, Google. Directions to Crowne Plaza in Downtown Detroit.”


Google: “Crowne Plaza is 10.7 miles away. I have provided the most direct route.”


Rass: “Thank you, Google.”


Google: “You’re welcome, Rass.”


The old man then set his phone on the dash next to Julius’ .45 and gave his pupil a satisfied look.


Rass: “Follow Google. She knows the way.”


With a frustrated shake of his head, Julius decided not to argue as he began to back his Caddy out of the driveway.




Following an uncomfortably long and silent drive downtown, the purchase of two adult tickets, and a great deal of time in a line, Julius was still no closer to understanding what Rass was attempting to teach him. It was clear from the crowd that surrounded them that Google had led them to some kind of fan convention, which only made Julius suspicious that he had been fooled into treating Rass to an afternoon of mindless entertainment.


Julius: “What the fuck is this? Shouldn’t we be training or some shit?”


Rass: “This is Detroit’s annual Easter Comic Con. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.”


Julius: “Motherfucker, I’ve got to face Alice motherfucking Knight this week! She may be new around here, but I can’t afford to take anyone in the company lightly! Hell, I don’t even know what to make of half the shit that little psycho says!”


Rass: “Ah, yes. The mustard woman. If you want to understand her, you must first understand yourself. For one does not sample the mustard of others until their own recipe is perfected.”


At that time, just as Julius was about to protest, one of the convention workers approached the pair with some papers on a clipboard. Without explaining anything to Julius, Rass took the board and scribbled down a few lines of information. Several minutes later, the line began to move, and despite his attempts at protesting, Julius found himself ushered through a door and onto a makeshift stage. He stood alongside an odd collection of fans dressed in various costumes, and before him was a sea of Comic-Con attendees staring at him with judgmental eyes.


Emcee: “Finally, our last contestant in this year’s cosplay contest is Luther Franklin portraying Samuel L. Jackson as Jules from Pulp Fiction! Let’s give a big round of applause for Luther, everyone!”


Despite his normally brash attitude and outspoken nature, Julius found himself at a loss for words. He stared blankly at the crowd as they cheered and clapped for him, with some of the attendees even taking his picture.


Emcee: “Now we ask our contestants to remain on stage while the judges take a few moments to determine this year’s winners.”


Julius felt like a deer caught in the headlights as he stood on the stage in front of the crowd of people. It was nothing new for him to be in front of a crowd like this, but to be identified by his real name while fully decked out as Julius felt uncomfortable to say the least. Finally, he spotted Rass at the edge of the stage, and he nervously stepped away from his fellow contestants to question his spiritual advisor.


Julius: “What the fuck is going on, motherfucker? You told them my real name? I don’t go by Luther anymore!”


Rass: “And yet, that is who you are, isn’t it, Luther? Aren’t you just a man portraying a man who idolizes the character made famous by another man?”


Rass’ words hit Julius like a ton of bricks. The confusing statement was nearly too much to process on its own, but standing in front of a crowd of people while being forced to reconcile his multiple identities was making his head spin.


Emcee: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have the results! First, coming in at third place, for his portrayal of “Constable Reggie”...give it up for Troy!”


Luther Franklin was a small-time hood. A failure at collegiate wrestling, amateur boxing, and MMA. He was an ex-con that grew up on the streets of Detroit, never knowing his father and using a Hollywood actor as a surrogate role model. He was nothing. A nobody. A loser.


Emcee: “And our first runner-up, portraying “Sexy Lola Bunny”...let’s hear it for Carl! Way to step out of your comfort zone, big guy!”


Julius Fairweather was a star. He was the host of his own variety show, a main event talent for Project: Honor, and Twitter’s most suave motherfucker. He didn’t acknowledge failure even when it smacked him over the head. He was everything that young Luther hoped he could someday become.


Emcee: “Finally, the winner of this year’s cosplay contest, for his uncanny portrayal of Samuel L. Jackson as Jules in Pulp Fiction...let’s give a big round of applause for Luther!”


Samuel L. Jackson was an award-winning actor. Jules was a hitman who believed in miracles. Luther was a scumbag con-artist. Julius was wrestling’s Bad Motherfucker and Shepherd of Lost Souls. So who was the man standing on the stage? Was he all of them? Was he none of them? The man in question felt the room spinning around him as he stared blankly at the cheering crowd before him.


Emcee: “Uh...Luther? Are you okay, buddy?”


All of a sudden, he was the adolescent boy who was stabbed outside of his Detroit apartment for being different. He was the criminal who let his girlfriend talk him into adopting the name of Julius Fairweather to weasel his way into the wrestling business. He was the Hollywood celebrity that was pissed off when Martin Landau won the award for Best Supporting Actor in 1995. He was the hitman who was ready to tell his boss that he was giving it all up to walk the Earth. He was all of them and none of them at the same time. In that moment of total uncertainty, he was nothing but a blank slate, a mimic without a muse.


Emcee: “Looks like someone has a little stage fright! I guess we’re not all cut out for success, are we?”


The laughter of the crowd pierced his soul like a dagger as darkness began to set in over his eyes. That’s when he spotted Rass at the edge of the stage, who offered a simple nod of his head, as if he were suggesting that his pupil already knew what had to be done.


Emcee: “Well, in the event that our winner has a complete and total meltdown, I guess we have no choice but to give this year’s award to our runner-up…”


Julius: “Motherfucker, I will rain down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger if you even think about giving my motherfucking trophy to that sexualized cartoon rabbit!”


It was like a switch had been turned on in his head. Of course he wasn’t Samuel L. Jackson, even if he wasn’t giving up on the hope that he could be the actor’s illegitimate son. He sure as hell wasn’t some movie character, even if he did admire Jules’ sense of style. Luther Franklin? Fuck that guy. He stopped being that loser the moment he walked into Project: Honor. He was “Furious” Julius Fairweather, the best parts of the other three combined, and he was this year’s Detroit Comic-Con Cosplay Winner. It was this reality that Julius fully accepted as he pulled the loaded .45 from the waistline of his suit pants.


Julius: “The name is Fairweather! Julius Fairweather! Any of you motherfuckers even think of calling me Luther and I’ll pop a cap in your ass faster than you can say “Rey is a Mary Jane”! Now give me my goddamn trophy, motherfucker!”


As the fans in the crowd began to panic at the sight of Julius’ firearm, the emcee slowly inched toward him with his arms outstretched. The golden trophy that portrayed a sexy Klingon entered Julius’ free hand, and for a brief moment, he felt the kind of pride and fulfillment that he had only imagined he would feel by winning the Prime Championship. Then, with the crowd of fans screaming and trampling over each other in a desperate attempt to escape, Julius proudly held the voluptuous Klingon statue over his head.


Julius: “Yo momma! I did it! I’m the motherfucking champion!”


Before Julius could celebrate any further, he felt a strong tugging on his suit jacket. He looked to his side to see a nervous Rass desperately trying to pull him off stage.


Rass: “Very good, grasshopper! Now let’s get the fuck out of here before the cops show up!”


It was as if Julius finally noticed that his actions had caused a near riot as he glanced from his trophy to the firearm in his other hand. With a quick nod of his head, he allowed Rass to lead him from the stage, satisfied that he had resolved any issues with his character that had concerned the old man.




“Wired Consequences damn near had more bullshit than even a bad motherfucker like me could handle. Was it a good show? Hell yes, you can bet my black and blue ass it was a memorable show! It just wasn’t so great for everyone’s favorite motherfucker!”


“Uno against James Edgebrook? Who in the motherfucking fuck thought that would be a good goddamn idea? Fuck you and your card game, Mattel! Do I look like one of the motherfucking Parker Brothers to you? Edgebrook may have time to play games, but my ass is way past that now. The games are over, Edgebrook, so get up from the kid’s table and belly up to the motherfucking bar. We’re about to have ourselves a beer drinking contest, and all it takes is one quick look at your scrawny ass to know the only alcohol you’ve ever touched came on the end of a motherfucking cotton swab! It’s time for us to have a manly competition, motherfucker, and you ain’t gonna be able to Milton Bradley your way out of this one!”


“As for Drago and Pyro, I ain’t done with your asses by a damn sight! Contessa may have been taken out of motherfucking action, but this Bad Motherfucker still has some fight left in him! Me and the Prime Title still have our motherfucking date with destiny, but until that day arrives, I’ll settle for kicking your freaky asses every motherfucking chance I get! Pyro, it’s only a matter of time until we settle shit between us once and for all, and Drago, you know that this bad motherfucker still has your number. So keep your eyes open and your heads on a swivel, cause if you two thought Julius was Furious before, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”


“That shit’s gonna have to wait for another day though, because this week I have to do something even more challenging than facing you two motherfuckers. That’s because I’m facing someone I actually like, a new girl on the scene named Alice motherfucking Knight. There’s just something about a mentally deficient woman with a heart of gold that gets me right in the motherfucking feels. She almost reminds me of a cute picture of a kitten on the internet, cause even a cold-blooded motherfucker like me can’t help but go “awwww”. The thing is, I’m coming off a loss on Pay Per View and my ass can’t afford to take another one. So somehow, someway, I’ve got to kick that girl’s ass until she taps, snaps, or takes a nap.”


“I may not have any personal motivation to do those things to Alice, but I’ve got plenty of professional reasons to get my hand raised on Thursday Night. I guess you could say that it’s time for Julius to show the quality of his character. No, I ain’t talking about how we turn the dial up to 11 in front of an audience, our snappy catch-phrases, or the flashy entrances and ring gear. I’m talking about all those little traits that make us who we are. It’s time for me to show that I have the kind of character a motherfucker needs to climb back into that ring after taking a loss. I’m willing to put on the trunks and lace up the boots for a fight, even if I kinda like the motherfucker standing across the ring from me. I’ve got the kind of character it takes to put someone like Alice Knight down for the motherfucking count in order to elevate my spot in the pecking order around this place.”


“Those are just a few of the motherfucking character traits I’m willing to show off, but what kind of qualities does someone like Alice Knight have? Beats the hell out of me. She looked pretty good in her debut match, and she says the damnedest things with that pretty little mouth of hers. Other than that? Well I guess we’re just gonna have to find out firsthand. Does she have the tenacity to get back up when I drop her on top of her head? Can she take a beating from a motherfucker like me and give back as good as she gets? I sincerely hope that she can, cause it would be nice to see someone like her succeed on a cutthroat brand like Fallout, I just can’t let that motherfucking success come at my own expense.”


“Speaking of Fallout, it’s taken its fair share of hits this week, from that angry little troll, Dickie Watson, to Twitter’s second most suave motherfucker, James Raven. Well I don’t give a fuck who you are, cause Fallout is my motherfucking brand and I wear its colors with motherfucking pride! Maybe some of you don’t like DeMarco’s motherfucking mind games or all the blood and gore that comes with them, but a long time ago I promised to be the Shepherd that would lead the weak through Fallout’s valley of death, and that’s a promise I intend on keeping. Whether I’m the champion or not, I’m still the most qualified motherfucker to take up that mantle. Not a peppy little psycho like Alice Knight, a demented delinquent like Drago, and definitely not a whiney bitch like Dickie.”


“Julius motherfucking Fairweather may not be the father-figure that Fallout wants, but he’s sure as fuck the one you all need. Don’t like it? I don’t give a goddamn. Can’t handle it? Get out of my motherfucking way. Alice Knight, I’ll be seeing you on Thursday, and rest assured the rest of you are gonna be seeing more of me than you fucking deserve!”


“Until next time, motherfuckers, be cool or be gone.”