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| David Miller vs. Jamil McKnight | |
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| Topic Started: Apr 3 2012, 03:11 PM (282 Views) | |
| Kassie Khane | Apr 3 2012, 03:11 PM Post #1 |
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SCW PRESENTS: Breakdown April 11, 2012 David Miller vs. Jamil McKnight Deadline: Noon EST Tuesday, April 10, 2012 RP Limit: 1 RP per person; 2 RP per team per match ~~Good Luck Everyone! ~~ |
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| Miller | Apr 3 2012, 03:59 PM Post #2 |
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OOC: Shitty as this RP appears to be, (and is, honestly,) it serves a dual purpose. On the one hand, it's exactly what it looks like: pretty much an emotional dump of all the doubts I've been having about the character. On the other, it's an experiment on my part to try and set up another layer to Miller for future RPs. Also, I know the lack of coloring makes it difficult to follow at points, but it does reflect the places Miller is going to in his mind. Consider it a visual aid of sorts. If you get bored and even frustrated reading it, you can imagine how Miller feels having to live it. Feel free to rip it up and take the win, Jamil, honestly it might actually help me. ========================================= Milwaukee, Wisconsin “…are we done yet?” For the past half-hour now, the damn medics had been poking, prodding and taking him apart piece by piece, and it was starting to wear thin on Miller’s patience. He’d kept quiet for the most part, save an emphatic denial when one of the lab-coated ghoul’s had the gall to pull out a needle. Just the sight of the thing had been enough to send cold chills down his spine…a childhood phobia he’d never really grown out of. Now, he was sitting on the edge of an exam-table while one of the idiots tried to blind him with a damn penlight. Finally reaching the brink, he reached up and none-too-casually knocked the man’s hand aside. “I think we’re done. Not like I haven’t been through worse, Bert.” Albert Hurst was one of the SCW’s senior physicians, having been with the company since the very beginning. A silver-haired man of his late-fifties, he’d seen it all and heard it all from the roster, with no less than half the excuses coming from Miller, personally. Obviously, this made it all-too-easy for him to just shake his head and flash the light just once more…to be a pest. “You were a lot younger, David. Like it or not, things are starting to catch up with you. They always do in this business.” There was a smile in place, but the man’s tone suggested it wasn’t all in jest. “Just from memory I can think of a couple test scores that don’t match anymore. Besides, if I listened to any of you kids about this stuff, I’d have been out of a job years ago…so would most of you.” “Can’t argue that.” A wry smile of defeat crossed Miller’s jaw as he heaved a deep sigh and let Bert finish his test. The man kept them all in working condition as best he could, which wasn’t easy. Between the brutal Underground brawls and the violent egos in the roster, it still left him feeling somewhat shocked that Hurst had managed to hold onto not just his sanity, but his humor as well. “I’m not saying it didn’t hurt, Bert, but come on. The kid blind-sided me with some knucks or a screwdriver or something, took half a dozen shots and couldn’t even knock me down.” Reaching up, he dabbed at the sizable gash in his already bruised head. “Big difference from Speedy digging a damned coat hanger into my brain, so I think we can chill a little here, don‘t you?” “I’m sure you’re fine, David. Everyone on my staff’s pieced you back together at least once, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop and give-in to this ‘Undying’ thing you like to play.” Killing the penlight, Burt smiled as he stepped back and pocketed his hands. “Just because you don’t show it, doesn’t mean the damage isn’t there. This isn’t a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ I’m afraid. You’ve got a couple of serious contusions on the back-right-side. Whatever Cole had was pointed enough to puncture, but not too deep. It left some decent bruising either way…but you seem to be collecting those at the moment, anyway.” He made a small gesture to the thick, purple blemish covering Miller’s face on the right side. “That, to be honest, has me a little more worried. It opened up pretty good on that turnbuckle, so I’m concerned about infections.” Miller shrugged. “Like I said, I’ve been through worse. That’s half the reason this Cole kid annoys me so much. He spends months building up this so-called ‘payback’ of his…and here I am, pretty much fine except for some blood on my gear.” Wincing some when his fingers brush a tender spot, he drops both hands back to his lap and rolls the ache from his back and shoulders as best he can. “I think that hurts more than the attacks…knowing he doesn’t take me seriously.” Or anyone for that matter, really. Even Shilo had made a field day out of his extended absences. It was almost like he’d never existed before. His tear through Majestic, his run through the Underground, his wars against everyone from Mr. D to Greg Cherry…none of it mattered anymore. None of it carried the kind of weight it used to. He was literally crawling up a mountain that was determined to shake him loose, sending one boulder after another to dislodge him. To send him plummeting back down into the shadows once more. “I told you they wouldn’t.” A new, but familiar voice pull both men’s attention to the door, where Adam Sharper was just entering. “Told you that back before Retribution, even.” Offering a smile and nod to Bert, he took up a stand near the foot of the table. “SCW’s seen a lot of people come and go since you were here, David. Angel’s long-gone. Only people who remember him are the ‘Old School Alumni’ like you or I. Same goes for Savior or Zero. They’re still around, sure, but not like they used to be. The new generation’s come in and taken over.” Glancing aside, he nodded out towards the ring area. “Kids like Cole. You think they give a rat’s ass who you beat five years ago? …most of these guys were still in High School five years ago!” Even Bert had to turn away on that one, politely hiding a smile behind a hand as he rubbed his jaw. When he caught Miller staring at him, though, he just shrugged. “He’s right. You’re part of the ‘Old Guard,’ kid, and there aren’t too many of you left. You, Winters, Valentine…I guess we should include Speed in there, and certainly Cherry, you’re it.” He smiled but there was a nostalgic sadness to it. “…you’re the last ones.” “Christ, you make it sound like we’re dying out.” Shaking his head, Miller slid off the table and immediately wished he hadn’t. The floor tilted under his feet, swaying him one way, then the other as his legs struggled to find themselves. Eventually, it took both Bert and Sharper stepping in to keep him steady. “…that’s why you wait for me to say it’s ok.” Patting him on the shoulder, Bert stepped back with a self-satisfied smile. “But, like it or not, you’re not far from the truth. There is an age-limit to this business, after all.” He held his hand up before Miller could even turn to glare at him. “I’m not saying you’ve hit it yet, but you might be closing in. People used to say the same thing about CHBK back when you first started, and that was in his forties.” A single brow rose slowly. “You’re closing in on thirty this year, aren’t you?” Silent for a second, Miller finally had to nod. “Yeah…never thought I’d live to see it, tell you the truth.” And the only reason he would was Michael. It all circled back around to him, and everything he did for some punk kid off the streets. Unbidden, he felt the pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth, before both hands rose to cup and scrub at his face…gently, of course, to keep from irritating the cuts. Honestly, the idea of being ‘too old for this,’ as the saying went, had crossed his mind more than once during his last few stints with SCW. Most of the time he’d ignored it. Every sport had it’s ‘old man,’ so to speak. Whether it was Jordan in basketball or Couture in the UFC, there was always someone defying the odds. Even in the wrestling world, you heard names like Flair, Race, Taker and Piper. People who should have ‘hung it up’ years, even decades ago…and instead, they’re still going toe-to-toe with the younger, stronger lions. So he’d kept it up. He’d kept going and kept pushing, fully expecting to run through the ‘new generation’ as easily as he had the first…only it wasn’t that simple. It seemed like every match was a struggle now. Every match became a test of his skill. Of his resolve and fortitude…it was like he needed to prove himself all over again. It was a thought that, in truth, left him uncertain. Even somewhat afraid. All the old doubts he’d left behind in Majestic, in the early days of his career found their way back to the forefront. What if he couldn’t do it? What if he wasn’t good enough? …what if he fell flat on his face? …worries he’d grown out of with championship reigns and Main Event performances all flooded in from the darkness, trying to drag him back down with them, to drown him in the fear. So far he’d managed to keep himself afloat…but for how long? A soft, almost gentle chuckle from Sharper broke through his thoughts. “Guess I’d have to say the same.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what I said. I never expected to see you like this. Not the age thing, but just…all of this.” Pulling a hand from his pocket, he gestured. “You’re not screaming, not throwing people around the room, not tearing out of here to go hunt Cole down…” trailing off, he smiled a little wider. “You’ve finally grown up a little.” Instantly, Miller rolled his eyes. “Christ, don’t get that spread around. Only reason people bother getting out of my way is because of the reputation. They start hearing what a nice guy I am and I’m fucked.” Despite himself, though, he had to chuckle some. “…guess you got a point, though. If anything, I’m more frustrated with myself for letting his shit get to me in the first place. I’m better than him. I know it, he knows it…the whole fucking world knows it! …but it still irks the hell out of me every time he goes off flapping his lips.” “If it helps,” Sharper said through his smile, “the rest of us don’t do much better at ignoring him. But you knew kids like Cole even back when, David. Just off the top of my head I’m thinking Grenier and Greene and your old pal, Silkk. This business is full of talkers…it’s doers we’re starting to run low on these days.” Miller started to give his friend an odd look, but Bert beat him to it, giving a slight smirk as he asked, “I don’t suppose we could get that crocheted on a nice frilly pillow or something? …maybe one of those signs you can hang on the wall?” “Keep it up, Bert,” Sharper quipped, his storm-gray eyes sliding over to the old physician, “and we’ll see if there’s any truth to that whole, ‘Doctor, heal thyself’ theory.” Miller smiled watching the two, but his own thoughts again returned to just how much had changed over the last handful of years. Sharper wasn’t the first to point them out. Honestly, he hadn’t even needed to. He could still remember sitting down to film his shoot against Gable Winchester back in twenty-ten. He’d been fully prepared to skin the kid…but when it came time, he couldn’t do it. Not because he didn’t hate the man, either. If anything, Winchester had gotten deeper under his skin than Cole ever could, mainly because Gable had actually out-wrestled him in the ring…a spot that was still more than a little sore two years later. No, it was because something wasn’t there when he looked into the camera. As he sat in that darkened room, he could feel the difference, and it only took a moment to realize just what it was…the anger. All the black, roiling hatred that had carried him through his career. The vile, vicious rage that left bodies broken and bloodied wherever he went. The seething malice that spurred him into every fight, every match and every war he’d ever fought. It all seemed to have dissipated…disappeared even, when he wasn’t looking. It terrified him, honestly. The anger, the ‘dragon’ as he’d called it, had been such a vital part of him for so long, he felt weak without it…he still felt that way! …just having Sharper make that comment out loud was enough to leave him in the lurch, half-wondering if that was the reason why so many people seemed to have forgotten him…forgotten what he could do once that bell rang. Even thinking that, though, he knew it was ludicrous. People hadn’t forgotten him. They just couldn’t believe in him anymore…like Sharper had said… “David?” A hand fell soft but firm against his shoulder. Leaning down a bit, Sharper’s eyes found and locked with his own. “You alright? …can you hear me?” Concern laced both his words as well as his gaze. “Huh?” Snapped out of it, Miller blinked a few times before looking up at his friend. “Y-Yeah…yeah, I’m good, Sharpie. Just…kind of drifted off for a second.” “Something on your mind?” Only half a million things…want to pick one? … “It‘s nothing…I’ll be ok.” Reaching up to squeeze the older man’s arm, Miller stepped away from the table, offering Bert a fleeting smile. “Thanks for the patch-up, Doc. We’ll do it again sometime.” Noting the change in attitude, Bert’s eyes darkened with concern, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he made a show of checking his watch before looking up. “Next Breakdown good for you?” Trying to follow the humor, Miller forced a smile. “Nah. Keep that slot open for Cole.” Walking out of the infirmary, he turned down the long corridor leading to the locker rooms. As usual, the road crew was already packing up for the long drive back across country. Ammo was supposed to be shot out near his neck of the woods, Arizona, but he’d been given the next week off. He still had one more match to go before the pay-per-view, but right now, his mind was a million miles from the ring. Just walking down the hallway, he could feel the difference as much as he could see it. The way peopled watched him as he passed, with blank, almost vacant eyes. No flashes of recognition. No warm smiles or hold-outs for a high five. It was like he didn’t belong…didn’t even exist. He was just another body crowding the already packed bowels of the arena…and it killed him. It wounded him deeper than anything Cole could ever conceive of. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not by a long shot. Over the whole year he’d been away, he’d seen himself striding back through the doors, focused, honed to a peak, ready to stand against the whole world if he had to, just to prove he was still the most dangerous man in wrestling. That he was still the ‘Assassin’ of SCW, able to bring low anyone and everyone that dared to get in his way…but instead, he was struggling just to tread water. Fighting to keep his name out of the darkness, to keep it fresh in people’s minds…and part of him couldn’t help but wonder if the stress and strain of the battle would be worth the outcome. Even if he did return to his former glory…would it matter? …would anyone care? …doubts about his talent, or even his loyalty to the company, his commitment to the business, those were nothing new. He’d heard them all at one point or another. It was all part of the game…but the rest of it…not knowing if anyone would even remember him, or care that he’d left his mark on wrestling as a whole…was a horror beyond measure. Ducking out of the corridor, he stepped into the locker room and crossed to the back wall. Dropping the duffel to the ground, he sat on the bench furthest from the door, staring down at the cracked cement beneath his feet…thoughts still swirling through that chaotic storm of uncertainty. Lifting his hands to sweep and rub along his buzzed scalp, he uttered a few short breaths, then took a few deep ones to fill his lungs, doing all he could to bring that rising tension back down a few notches. Truthfully, he should have expected all this…it wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to start over, in wrestling, in life, even in general…but there was one glaring difference this time: He was on his own. He didn’t have Kayla to hold him up. He didn’t have Michael or Nick to talk any kind of sense or certainty back into him…he barely even had Sharper. For the first time in his life, he was truly alone…and that was a realization that chilled him down to the bone. A faint knock at the door stirred him back to the moment again, as Sharper appeared in the doorway. Their eyes met, but neither spoke for the first couple moments, until Sharper entered and crossed slowly to sit beside him. The old wooden bench groaned a bit beneath their combined weight. Keeping his eyes trained on the broken concrete, Miller cupped and squeezed his fists, one after the other, his leg bouncing with a nervous twitch, causing the heel of his boot to make quick, rhythmic claps that echoed through the room… “…haven’t seen you this quiet in a long time.” Folding his jacket over his knee, the old announcer leaned forward and watched the door with a distant gaze, his tone almost casual. “Must be something big in there.” Miller didn’t say anything. After a long stretch, Sharper nodded and leaned back a bit. “…I see…that bad, huh?” “…yeah,” came the answer, as Miller closed his eyes and bowed his head to his chest. “Any point in asking what’s wrong?” A shrug. “I don’t know…just…a lot of old ghosts coming back again.” “Ah,” a knowing smile flittered on Sharper’s lips. “…you letting that conversation back there get to you?” “Didn’t need to…shit’s been on my mind long before now.” Giving a deep exhale that flared his nostrils, Miller reached up to grab and rub at his jaw a moment before leaning back as well, his eyes turning up towards the long ceiling lights. “…something’s different, Sharps. Used to be I couldn’t tell what it was, I just knew it was there…or not there, anyway. I was missing something…literally, you know?” “And what was that?” “You said it yourself…I’m older.” Turning his head just enough he caught his friend’s eyes and then looked down at his hands, wringing them some through his gloves. “Seven years ago, I came through this place like a bat out of Hell. Best way to put it would be a ‘rampage,’ probably…I was out for blood, violence, broken bodies and as many casualties as I could inflict.” Unable to keep it hidden, a sudden, brief smile crossed his jaw. “…the way you and Kayl talk about Nichols…I can still remember hearing the same damn thing about me. I was ‘reckless.’ I was ‘chaotic.’ I was ‘uncontrollable’ …I didn’t care who I was facing, long as I had the chance to hurt someone. To beat them down, break them, bloody them, brutalize them…I wanted the whole fucking world a twisted heap at my feet!” Even though it was still quiet, his voice all but hummed with all the tension of a coiled spring…like a time bomb in it’s final seconds. “But ever since Mike was…” Trailing off, he closed his eyes and waited for the burn of the tears to ebb. One or two attempted an escape down his cheek, but he held them back, forcing a deep breath into his lungs to recompose himself. To his side, he could feel Sharper’s eyes, watching him in silence… Clearing his throat, he waited a moment or two more before finishing. “…ever since Dad was killed, I just…I haven’t felt the same. At first I was still angry…I guess I still am a little, but, not as much. I can feel myself psyching up before a match, but I don’t feel that burn in my veins anymore. I can’t feel that ripping and tearing in my gut…that urge to leave whoever’s out there a pulp, you know? …back then this shit with Cole would have sent me over the edge. I would have been gunning for him every second of every show, if it meant following him across three states, you know? …but…now, I almost don’t care.” Giving a sigh that almost sounded like frustration, he shook his head. “Well, I care, but…not enough to kill him. Just…teach him. Prove him wrong, that kind of thing. I want to get in that ring and make it crystal clear that he’s been pushing the wrong buttons on the wrong guy…but it’s the difference between now and…then, that I just…” For a few long seconds, Sharper studied him, letting him air his thoughts before that experienced smile once again appeared. Reaching out to clap a broad hand across Miller’s shoulder’s, rubbing them a little. “You think you’re losing it…” it was said more as a statement than anything else. “…that edge you used to have.” It seemed like forever before Miller could finally respond by nodding his head. “Yeah…I do.” His words came so low, even he had trouble hearing them…but he could still feel the weight of the shame behind them. Sharper’s fingers tightened some on his neck. “Don’t.” His tone as firm as his grip, he waited for Miller to turn and meet his stare. “Don’t go there. You make it sound like that was the only thing getting you anywhere, when really…it cost you more than anything else.” Seeing the slight disbelief in the younger man’s eyes, Sharper softened his own. “Think about it…how many chances did you get with Kayla? …how many times did I hear, even see you go at it with Michael? …how many times did you come apart on Nick, or on me…even some of the fans?” He felt Miller tense beneath the hold he had on his neck, but he didn’t let go. “…tell me something, David…did you ever stop to think that maybe all that hate was the reason you didn’t go any farther than you did?” He had…but knew it was bullshit. If it hadn’t been for his temper, the wars with Speed, Gold and Greaternity never would have happened. It was the temper that carried him through his battles with Wheeler and Winters. It was his anger that made him strong enough to come back from three broken necks and over two-dozen concussions! …shit, that anger was what kept him alive through the fucking hell that was his so-called ‘childhood’ …to even think it had ever held him back from anything was absolutely ridiculous! He tried to pull away, but Sharper’s hand simply tightened. “Damn it, David, I’m serious so listen to me!” “No!” Knocking the older man’s arm aside, Miller shot to his feet, ignoring the way the world spun in response. Wavering, he had to slap a hand to the wall in order to hold himself up, but still turned a hard glare back to the old announcer. “I know you’re trying to help, Sharpie…but this time you’re dead wrong.” “The hell I am…even Michael would have---” “Stop using him as a fucking excuse!” Startled by how loudly the words echoed in the small room, Miller took a second to suck a slow breath into his lungs, then pushed away from the wall, still staggering some, but able to at least balance himself. “Mike knew what it was. He understood it…shit, he’d been through it!” Seemingly unfazed by the outbursts, Sharper kept his seat on the bench, but his eyes followed Miller’s every move. “…which is exactly why he wanted you to be different.” Scoffing, Miller stooped to grab his duffel, a defeated smirk crossing his face as he looked up to the older man. “Guess I fucked that up too, then, didn’t I?” Shouldering the bag, he slowly turned to walk out… [align=center]==========REC==========[/align] No quips broke the silence as the scene faded in to reveal Miller in his usual place, straddling the steel chair beneath a lone light. The long shadows did little to hide the bandages wrapping his head, or the still-dark bruise that covered the right side of his face. His brawl with Alex Junior seemed to have worsened the injuries, adding both a split and swollen lip, along with some fresh cuts to the already brutal picture. A few seconds went by without movement from the man, before he finally turned his eyes to the lens. “Jamil McKnight…Commonwealth’s Internet Champion, and my last stop before Riding the Lightning, and the irritating little thorn in my side that is Collin Cole…” A deep, slow breath was taken, before the faint trace of a smirk crossed Miller’s face as he shook his head. “I don’t know you, McKnight, so I’m not going to sit here and run through my usual spiel about the beating I could give you, the clinic I could put on you, the risk you’ve just taken stepping into the ring with me…all the usual bullshit everyone seems to think I play on some broken record for every match I’m in. And maybe they’re right…I don’t know, and honestly, it’s getting to where I don’t even fucking care…I’ve got about a thousand things pulling be in a million different directions, and the last thing I’m worried about is pretty much anything that comes out of your mouth between now and the eleventh…” Bowing his head, the obviously-troubled Miller closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths before tilting his head back and staring up into the shadows that envelop the room beyond the single bulb’s weak glow. “I’ve been doing this shit for almost fifteen years, Jamil…that’s half my life spent in cages, rings and back alleys. And in all those years, not once have I ever stopped to ask myself why. Why did I fight? …why did I take this path instead of another? …why did I keep following it? …I’m turning thirty this year, Jamil, and you know something? …I still don’t know how to answer a single one of those fucking questions.” Slowly bringing his attention back to the lens, Miller gives a blank, almost distant look. “But…I’ve always said, this is what I do…so I’ll keep doing it. Because honestly, I’ve been doing this for so fucking long, I don’t know how to do anything else. Every second, of every day of my life has been dedicated to one thing, and one thing only…” Leaning back on the chair a bit, Miller spread his arms to encompass his battle-scarred body, before letting them fall back into a fold atop the chair with a depreciating chuckle. “It’s almost pathetic, when you think about it. I sit here, week in and week out, promising death and destruction to every living thing that gets in my way…when half the time I’d rather put a fucking gun to my head and just put an end to everything. I look into this camera, and I tear into people like Shilo Valiant, or you, or Natalie Nichols or that little shit, Cole…and it doesn’t mean a damned thing, because once I leave that ring…it’s over. Everything I stand for, everything I’ve trained and fought and dedicated myself to just doesn’t mean anything anymore. But a guy like Shilo? …asshole that he is, he’s still got Marina. He’s still got his kid, whatever her name is. Me? …I’ve got a body bag. I’ve got a tank full of dead fish and a stack of bills that comes up to my knees. For years I’ve told people time and time again that I lived, breathed, and would eventually die in that ring…you know why? …because outside that ring…I DON’T HAVE A LIFE!” A multitude of emotions seemed to play through Miller’s expression as he tightened the fold of his arms to keep from shooting up out of the chair. Seconds stretched through into minutes, before he finally glanced up, and allowed his eyes to fall upon the lens once more…a wry smile working itself into place. “Take a good look, kid…this is what this business leaves you with. Nothing. Not one fucking thing. I’ve given up family…I’ve sacrificed my health, my body…even bits of my soul and sanity, all for the sake of being the best there is at what I do…and the truth is, I’d turn my back on this shit in a fucking heart-beat for just one day…one…god-damned day…of a normal life. But, this is the choice I made. This is the road I decided to follow…so I’m going to follow it to the very end…no matter the pain…no matter the torture…” Smile fading, Miller’s face fell into a blank, emotionless mask, his chest swelling with a slow, deep breath before he simply brought his eyes back up to the lens with a vacant stare. “…” Mouth opened to continue…Miller remained silent…before he simply rose from the chair, and walked out of frame, leaving the camera focused on the battered and empty chair, it’s chipped paint and endless dents almost a visible comparison to the tormented warrior who’d vacated it… |
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| JayEmCee | Apr 5 2012, 05:35 PM Post #3 |
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[align=center]Ghetto Rockstar It Ain't Easy Being Blue ... (Click the italicized wording for RP)[/align] OOC: Hopefully this will cheer you up, bro! This should be an epic showcase, let's get it in! |
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7:54 PM Jul 10