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| Day Five | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 3 2009, 12:19 AM (206 Views) | |
| brlysis | Jan 3 2009, 12:19 AM Post #1 |
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Milk-Chan
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DAY FIVE In this issue! CLYDE KENNEDY THE CYCLOPS HOTSTUFF STEVIE PORTER MARK ADAMS JR THE SCOURGE ALLISON DETORRE ANGEL DEMENTE MATT PAYNE CLYDE KENNEDY (Rockefeller Center. Everything is wonderful at this time of the year: children skating, people shopping, the famous Christmas tree lighting up the world. Christmas carols echo throughout the square, a light snow falls on the heads of the merry. Except for one. “The Policy” Clyde Kennedy stands in Rockefeller Center, darkness surrounded by light.) Kennedy: I told you that Roman Anderson wouldn’t defeat me. While I hate to admit it, because I am a man that prides himself on his self-control, when matches become personal, I up the ante. When Matt Payne decided to strike me with a loaded boot to cheat for the win on the second day of the tournament, it resonated deep within me. Roman Anderson, brass knuckles and all, couldn’t defeat the rage that boiled up. He couldn’t top my anger. (Kennedy turns from the camera and walks towards the tree. New Yorkers and tourists who don’t move fast enough are moved by his enormous figure.) Kennedy: Some might think that my rage has subsided. That the only thing that will drive me to win against “Heartless” Jakob Volga is my pride in being champion of the Tri-State Wrestling Federation. My dedication to victory. My desire to be the greatest. Let me assure you, dear viewer, that is not the case. (Kennedy stops in front of the Christmas tree, towering into the sky. He looks up and his eyes glaze over, lost in memory.) Kennedy: For those of you not familiar with my biography, I started my career in Europe as a bodyguard for the world-renown tag team the “Old School Heroes.” When I returned to the United States, I was offered a position in Killzone, the training league for Shootfire Pro Wrestling. Along with the “Old School Heroes,” we competed in Killzone for little pay and lots of travel, paying our dues, trying to make it to the “show.” One day, I received a message from Shootfire Pro’s President A.J. Black. In the memo, addressed to the entire organization, he announced Killzone’s closure. The memo included a list of wrestlers that would be promoted to Shootfire. My name wasn’t to be found. That day, my dream of wrestling professionally died. The whole company knew that I wasn’t going to the show. Black’s arbitrary position killed my career. I attempted to pick up the pieces and go elsewhere, but everywhere I ended up, there was the memo. It might as well have been written in stone. I went home and started working in the family business, reminded every day that I was a failure and a fool to follow my dreams. (Kennedy snaps out of his trance and turns to the camera, eyes reflecting the holiday lights, glowing in the night.) Kennedy: Everything has come full circle. I am set to face “Heartless” Jakob Volga, member of A.J. Black’s “The Black Mass” faction in Shootfire Pro. It took me ten years to get here, but I have proven A.J. Black wrong. I am the future of professional wrestling. I will win this tournament, I will elevate Tri-State Wrestling to top of the industry, and the history books will never forget my name. The name of Clyde Kennedy. (Kennedy rolls his head, causing his neck to crack.) Kennedy: Volga, for our match, you will be A.J. Black. When I see your face, I will see the man who tried to destroy my dream. When the bell rings, I will finally have a chance to avenge the 10 years I spent working in the family business, getting chided everyday for following my foolish dream. The bell will ring, and I will have a chance to remind A.J. Black of his mistake and send home his representative back to the federation who wouldn’t have me. And when I pull you, Jakob Volga, over my shoulder, across my back, and put you in Kennedy’s Contraption, my heart will soar. You will beg me to stop, but I won’t hear you. I’ll hear A.J. Black. He’ll plead me to stop, he’ll say he made a mistake, he’ll say that everyone makes mistakes. And I’ll make him pay for his mistakes. You will tap, and I won’t care. I won’t stop. I’ll never stop. (Kennedy tightens his jacket and walks away from the camera, a modern Scrooge.) . . . . . THE CYCLOPS [Close up of the one eye, then a slow pull back] Uggh. [Pull back farther, we see the top half of the big man] UGGGH!!! [Finally we see the whole thing, all seven feet of one angry man, or is it monster?] ME ANGRY! Porter cheat. Me no like cheaters. Cyclops will have revenge. Simple differential analysis show me that. But this no time to talk high level math a mat ics. [The camera moves back in, to a close up on the one eye] Look into eye Scourge DeTorre. Look into future. Look into self. Luck find Porter. Lightning will no strike twice in tournament, which mean you have no chance. Again, probability slim. I make you example for Porter. Porter, you hurt Cyclops private parts. You will pay! [fade] . . . . . HOTSTUFF STEVIE PORTER "Oh what a night ... The hit's keep coming as 2008 ends with a bang!" [We open as the ever so confident "Hotstuff" Stevie Porter stands in a nice silk shirt and dress pants. His blonde hair is tightly back in a pony tail and the 12 Days of Christmas star appears to be responding to somebody on his blackberry.] "Even seven footers can't keep the Champion of Christmas down. That's right all the hype and buzz was surrounding the masked freak, The Cyclops. The wrestling newsletters were counting me out. They figured it was the end of ol' Stevie in this little tournament." [Stevie has himself a snicker at the thought.] "While the predictions poured in and my demised was expected what did I do? You know damn well what I did! I walked down that aisle ... I stepped in the ring. The Icon of Indies ... The Stud of San Diego ... The Prince of Phoenix ... The Messiah of Memphis ... _YOUR_ Champion of Christmas fought valiantly. He fought against the world. And as the seven foot monster continued to bring the world of hurt down on your warrior he was able to over come the odds. In the end he was able to stand tall ... proudly ... with his head held high as the winner and with a sparkling two and "oh" record." [Stevie nods proudly.] "It was an epic battle one they will be talking about years to come. They will be talking about how Stevie was able to use this match to _propel_ himself to the winner of the 12 days of Christmas tournament. They will be talking about how Stevie was able to single handedly carry that seven foot hunk of crap on his shoulders to the high light of his career." [Are you all getting a load of this?] "That's right not only did I make the wrestling insiders look silly, but I proved that The Cyclops was nothing more then a catch phrase. A one hit wonder. I wrestled circles around that goof. I did exactly what I said I was going to do. I entered that ring your Champion of Christmas and I walked out a walking wrestling god. I entered mount Olympus and sleighed the Cyclops. No other man in this tournament has done the same. I am with out a shadow of a doubt the shining diamond of the 2008 - 12 days of Christmas tournament." [Yes folks he really does believes this!] "But enough of yesterdays news. It appears the two time champion has a chance to resurrect his tournament with the opportunity in beating me." [Stevie pauses.] "No really ..." [Stevie pauses again.] "This is not a joke." [Stevie busts open laughing for a sold thirty seconds.] "Cobra you might have won in the years past but it's quite obvious you never had to over come the likes of Stevie Porter in doing so. In 2008 while you are yesterdays Champion. A forgotten whisper in the books of this tournament. I am the one carrying the torch. I am the one making this tournament relevant. So while you sit there claiming that you will put your tournament on the rebound with an upset over the Hot one himself ... Let me go on the record in saying you were _never_ the athlete ol' Stevie here is. Your victories are nothing but second rate victories in the years past without the Icon of Indies involved. However I will tell you what ..." [Stevie stares into the camera.] "Since I am a respectful man and can appreciate those who won this tournament before I have I will give you a Christmas gift myself." [Stevie can't be this nice can he?] "I am going to go out there and like Mark Adams Jr and The Cyclops I am going to give you - THE HIGHLIGHT OF YOUR CAREER ...." [And with that a smirk forms across Stevie Porters face and we face.] . . . . . MARK ADAMS JR (The scene opens backstage at Day Five of the 12 Days of Christmas Tournament as “The Legacy” Mark Adams Jr. watches taped footage of his win last night over former VXW Television Champion and two-time 12 Days Gold Medalist Cobra.) ADAMS: You know, I thought I’d feel good about defeating Cobra last night, that it would somehow vindicate me in my loss at Day Two against Stevie Porter, but all I feel is as if someone gave me the beating of a lifetime…which is pretty much what happened. Yes, I won, but Cobra proved himself to be every bit the champion I always knew him to be and I walked away with that win by the skin of my teeth. But Stevie Porter? He managed to steal yet another victory in this tournament, not with his feet in the ropes likes he did with me, but by hitting a much bigger man who was obviously getting the best of him with a low blow that *once again* went undetected by the referee. So let me ask you something, Stevie. Let me ask you how it feels to be the front-runner in a tournament where you have yet to do *anything* to deserve that distinction. Let me ask you how good it will feel to have that gold medal placed around your neck *knowing* that you had to cheat your way to the winner’s circle in order to get it. And let me warn you, Stevie Porter, because, while you and I have already had our little go-round in the ring, I’ll be watching you extra closely from now on in, and I’m making it my personal mission to make sure that you don’t dishonor this tournament any more than you already have by cheating even one more time. So, tomorrow night, when it’s you versus Cobra, the man I had to work to beat *fair and square*, I’ll be right there at ringside whether you like it or not… And if you even *try* to steal another victory in this tournament, you’ll find the road to your next tainted victory *won’t* be an easy one to travel…and that, my friend, as my father used to say, is a goddamned guaran-f<BLEE>king-tee. (And, with that, WE FADE.) . . . . . ‘THE SCOURGE’ ALLISON DETORRE Allison: "Later, hon. I've got a packed schedule, so I can't." Such a promising sentence to open a scene on… and, for the duration of the scene, the camera's lens is focused squarely upon the floor. Why it's doing that is initially anyone's guess, since the shadow of the Scourge appears as normal; once the other person enters the scene, however, it becomes clear why. There's not a lick of clothing on this other body - that much is obvious simply by the absence of any fabric-esque wrinkles. The person's gender is also clear in silhouette; there's no way curves like that could be found on a male. ???: "Pleeeaaaaase? I've been so patient in waiting for you to actually have a free mome--" The pleading voice is low, raspy about the edges and thick with a French accent via Quebec. It's not enough to sway the Scourge, however. Allison: "I told you - I can't. I've got work to d--" Before she can finish uttering her protest, something happens that cuts the Scourge off mid-sentence; judging by the visible shadows upon the wall, whomever it was that wanted some of her time wouldn't take 'no' for an answer as the two figures responsible for blocking out the light collide. A familiar-looking pale hands slams onto the carpeting near the center of the frame; one can only guess at the cause as Allison's fingers flex, the last sound before the scene fades a breathless moan... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Allison: "I warned you..." Those three words echo from nothing but darkness as our scene opens; it isn't long at all, however, before the visual cuts in… and when it does, it truly is a sight to behold. The party responsible for taking the Scourge down for some, ah, recreational activity is sprawled out upon Allison's chest; those that watch VXW would recognize the blond as Nymira D'Aubergine, her best friend and, apparently, sometime lover. Whatever happened has been enough to knock the crazed Quebecois out cold; unfortunately, it isn't enough to dull the acidic edge to the Scourge's voice as she looks up into the camera's lens. Allison: "You underestimated me, Cobra, and you paid the price. Will you learn from your mistake? Only time will tell, although I imagine that losing a second time helped drive that particular lesson home. How about actually being a challenge next time? My victory would mean something then." A fleeting smile… and then her expression gets serious as she turns her attention to her opponent for her second bout in the tournament. Allison: "I have taken down opponents that were far larger than me, Cyclops - and I will do so once again. Despite what some people think, luck has nothing to do with the fact that you will fall much as Cobra did before you; it all has to do with skill. You've proven to be nothing more than an overdone wrestling cliché; once I've chopped you down to size, you have no hope in Hell of being able to stop me. That isn't arrogance talking, either; that is plain and simple FACT. Don't believe me? You will soon enough… assuming you're capable of holding onto a thought for longer than a couple of seconds, that is." A snort escapes the VXW TV (and PSW Heritage) champion's lips as she shakes her head. This tournament was supposed to be for the best of the best, she had been told - did they really need to find the best of the worst in order to make everyone else look better? Sigh. Allison: "The world I come from, Cyclops, is not one of bunnies ejaculating rainbows in a field full of wildflowers. It is one defined by harsh reality, by the dark secrets that people do their damndest to sweep beneath the rug or chain up in their closets… by ugliness. Surely even someone as dense as you can notice the scars that I wear that attest to that fact. There is nothing dainty nor pretty about me, and nothing that you say will change that. If I am a rose, then I am one that was molded from titanium." Nymira shifts a little, mumbling something in her sleep. Not a glance is offered towards the Quebecois - instead, the Scourge takes that as her cue to bring things to a close. Allison: "You can scrape your brain for the thirty seconds worth of empty threats - it won't help. There's no one that will stop me in winning this tournament without taking a loss. I don't give a fuck what you say or what you do; this broad is not going ANYWHERE." Everything fades to black. . . . . . ANGEL DEMENTE [A line of teeth ensconce themselves behind an ajar mouth. Yellowed with disrepair, cracked with disuse and crooked with disdain, they line themselves in a fashion nearly as diabolic as the expression on the lips before them. A slight tilt of the head succors, bringing a deeper expression to the simple view.] "Mirror... mirror..." [A tongue flecks out to moisten the cracked lips.] "...on the wall..." [The mouth tweaks into a smirk, the upper lip left extremity curling. Darkened gums, ripe with wounds fresh and old are bared.] "...who's the fairest of them all?" [In such a position it remains.] [Cackling.] [Mouth wide open.] [Tongue flickering in amusement.] [Spittle flung forth, collecting on the mouth, dripping down the hairless chin.] [A smile.] [A chuckle from behind, contained.] [Silence.] [A smile of dryed lips. Of teeth that have seen better days. Of malice.] "Mirror... mirror... on the wall..." [A cut to a wall. No mirror. Bare concrete, dirty, and faded around a strange rectangle. Within it's expanse the color seems brighter. Less dirty.] "Mirror... mirror... on the wall..." [Expressed with more force.] "Mirror... mirror... on the wall..." [Each syllable is drawn force in demand.] "Mirror..." [A long breath.] "...mirror..." [A hiss of impatience.] "...on..." [A grunt.] "...the wall..." [A long breath, exhaled through an oft broken nose.] [A bare wall remains thusly. Same strangely discolored rectangle before.] [Down. Look way down.] [A rusted sink.] [Old, forgotten plumbing.] [A floor.] [Doles of sparkling light.] [Motes reflecting from... glass.] "Mirror, mirror..." [The voice seems much more angry as it progresses, possessed by a vehemence and unflinching venom.] "...on the..." [Silence.] [No movement.] [No breaths, no grunts, no sighs, no hisses. Silence.] [Cackling.] [A shattered mirror lays scattered. Within each piece is a reflection. Cracked, dry lips. Serpentine tongue darting forth. Slatternly teeth in disordered rows. Spittle dripping forth in a maniac fashion.] [A smile.] "...who's the fairest of them all?" [Angel Demente.] [He smiles.] [He looks down upon his own myriad of reflections, mulling over each one on it's own.] "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Certainly not Matt Payne when I am done with him.] [He looks closer.] [Closer.] [Closer.] [Closer.] [That... smile...] [Cackling.] [Cackling.] [Crunch.] [Fade.] . . . . . MATT PAYNE [We open to a fine 12-Days promotional backdrop, in all its clichéd glory. Before it, pacing somewhat impatiently, is the baddest man in the whole damn tournament. The man with a finisher SO LETHAL it’s just gotta be, like, loaded man. Seriously. Matt Payne, for it is he, wears a black muscle shirt and faded grey denim, his long black hair tied back from his always pleasant demeanor. The big near seven-footer casts a scowl off camera, then down at the watch on his wrist. Muttering something undecipherable, but no doubt truly profound, he fixes a stare on the camera man hanging around nearby.] Payne: Alright, screw it. I ain’t waiting. Roll this thing. Camera man: But, it’s not even... Payne: I said ROLL this thing... what’s the hell’s the matter with you? Camera man: Okay, uh... you’re on. [Payne looks as if to check the magic light is present. Indeed it is. Let’s roll.] Payne: Who needs a damn interviewer anyway? It ain’t that freakin’ hard. “So, Matt... tell us how it feels to be the baddest man in Twelve Days. So, Matt... tell us what it’s like to stick your boot straight down the throat o’ one of the biggest overhyped wastes of space to ever set foot in a Vegas ring.” An’ that’s saying a [bleep]in’ lot. [He smirks at that.] Payne: So look, I’m in a good freakin’ mood. There, I said it. A jovial [bleep]in’ mood, if ya really wanna know. “And why, Matt? Why you in a jovial [bleep]in’ mood? ‘Specially when that loser Kennedy been dissin’ the magic boot.” [He smirks again. God, he even looks amused.] Payne: Heh. Whatever helps ya sleep at night, hotshot. Matt Payne Translation – you got KNOCKED THE [BLEEP] OUT. You ain’t near the first, so deal with it, bitch. But hell, this ain’t even about Clyde Kennedy. This is about the whole Twelve Days extrava-freakin’-ganza. Ya know, I came in this thing when I signed on the line, an’ I saw this bunch of big names and no-names marching out on day one, every one of ‘em running their mouth about how bad they was. How their name’s all over this whole damn deal, an’ that shiny gold medal just waiting at the end of it. Shit, even Roman Anderson’s flappin’ his yap in Matt Payne’s direction... must be goddamn contagious or something [shrugs]. Hell, I can’t knock it. I came in an’ did the same damn thing. Run my mouth like I always do. Difference between me and them, though? [He fixes a stare into the shot.] Payne: I’m knocking [bleep]ers out, straight out the gate. Clyde Kennedy? BAM! Lights Out, Bitch. One-two-three. Jacob Volga? Shit, he didn’t even make it that far before he got put on his ass. Punked out by the psycho midget of all freakin’ people, an’ suddenly the Shootfire bad boy ain’t looking so hot either. Then you got, what? Roman [bleep]in’ Anderson? Yeah, your time’s coming too, bitch. You gonna run your mouth at _ME_, like you DON’T KNOW NO BETTER!? [Another pointed glare into the camera at that. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Hey look, I think it worked.] Payne: But this ain’t your time, Roman. Not yet, it ain’t. Before that ass-kicking comes to pass, it’s me and the midget, center stage. Kinda pissed me off too, taking out Volga before I even got my shot. But hell, don’t sweat it, man – I ain’t holding it against ya. I’m in a good [bleep]in’ mood, so I’m gonna let it slide. See, you an’ me, Angel? We got something big in common right now, none o’ these other bitches can even touch. You said you was gonna go kill that punk? You went out, and you did the exact damn thing. That puts you a step ahead o’ most of the garbage in this thing, an’ something like that? Hey, even Matt Payne can give some props. But see... you think for a second you’re gonna come do that to _me_? You gonna flip your lucha shit my way? Heh. How about you gonna spike big, bad Matt Payne’s skull in the dirt? [He shakes his head, dismissively.] Payne: I don’t think so, lil’ man. ‘Cause I ain’t no overhyped big league trash, slumming it in this town. I’m Matt freakin’ Payne, an’ I’m a goddamn force o’ nature. And if ya think some kinda half-grown _freak_, playing dress-up an’ boogeyman all wrapped in one, is gonna be enough to put _me_ down? [He smirks, then lets out a derisive snicker.] Payne: Hell, you’re crazier than I [bleep]in’ thought. Take a good look, man, at what you’re dealing with here. ‘Cause I’ll tell ya right now – there ain’t enough crazy in the world to stop Matt Payne in his tracks. Stop _me_ running roughshod through this whole damn thing. Sooner this tournament... hell, this freakin’ _business_ wakes up to that? Better it’ll be for everybody... [And with a confident sneer and an unpleasant, snorted laugh, Payne brushes past the camera and walks out of the shot. Just as intrepid young backstage interviewer Danny Dunn hurries into view, microphone in hand. He looks quizzically at the camera man, the departing Payne, and his own watch. In that order.] Dunn: Where’d he – am I late? I thought we... Camera man [off camera]: No, you’re not. Don’t even ask. [And on that rather pointless wrap up note, we fade out on a shrug from Dunn. And... to black we go.] |
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7:17 PM Jul 10