Payne v McMillan

[TheOriginalSE]

All RP for the match between JASON PAYNE and CHRIS McMILLAN at New ERA Destrucity II should be posted in this thread.

* For storyline purposes, this match is happening on the same day as EPW Aggression 50 and Sin City Showdown.

The RP Deadline is JANUARY 31 @ 11:59pm PST.

All angles should be sent to neweraofwrestling@gmail.com

... enjoy!

 

[Mister Dread]

::FADE IN on a snow-encrusted RV park somewhere in the Midwest. The wind and blowing snow sweeping in from the distant tree line makes it difficult to tell whether it is day or night. During the spring and summer months, the park would be packed with motor homes and vibrant with the life and bustle of fishermen, water sports enthusiasts, and vacationing families . Through the unforgiving winter season the park sits empty and ostensibly closed. Still, a dark solitary shape can be seen amidst the blowing snow. Growing closer, we can make out a battered and rusted Econoline conversion van. It has the tired look of age and miles, wearing a palpable shroud of hard use and neglect. Were it not for the one dim light softly diffused by the van's curtains, it might easily have been taken for abandoned.

Suddenly, the sliding door on the van shoots open, spilling a pitiful cone of light across the deepening snow. A figure appeals in silhouette and stumbles trough the open door into the snow. The figure promptly slips, falling in spectacular fashion complete with much flailing and strained curses. We come closer as the man struggles to regain his footing. He places one hand on the side of the van and leans into it for support, turning his back to the camera. As we come still closer, the man is obviously taking a steaming leak on the side of the van. He shakes it dry as we come in close. Finally alerted by the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow, the man turns. Obviously startled, he gapes at the camera in bleary-eyed incomprehension. At this distance we can clearly make him out.

He's small, even wearing layers against the cold. His long hair, hair that was once luxuriant, hair that once begged for the caress of the spotlight now hangs limply across his shoulders. Deep lines in his face are only partially hidden by snarling mutton chops. As we regard this man, he in turn appraises us. Dull eyes peer out from sunken sockets, his gaze radiating a mix of hostility and despair which only magnifies his wasted and hollow appearance. Finally, after staring deep at the camera for an uncomfortable amount of time, his features harden a bit and a familiar voice rumbles out from him, the one thing that seems undamaged by time and poor living::

McMillan: Since you came all the way out here to find me, I suppose you might as well come in.

::He gestures to the interior of the van. Not waiting for an acknowledgement, he turns and enters as we follow. The inside of the van is just as bad as the exterior. The windows and even the countertop of the old conversion van are covered in a film of tar, the smell of stale cigarettes radiating from everywhere. The carpet is stained and dirty, covered with empty chip bags, cigarette butts, and beer bottles. It is also cold inside. The lights dim as an inadequate space heater kicks on::

McMillan: So ... how do you like it? ::He gestures around the tiny living space, his eyes cold and hard:: This is what wrestling has given me. This is why I have pins in both knees. This is why I spent 300 days a year on the road. This is why my family left me. All so I could support this extravagant lifestyle.

::He reaches beside him, bitterly flipping the top off a cheap styrofoam cooler and pulls out a Steel Reserve, cracking the top and taking a very long swallow before looking up at us again::

McMillan: So, why're you here? Pretty sure you didn't drag yourself all the way out here in a ****in' blizzard to drink a beer with me. Not that I'd give you one if you wanted it anyway, unless you're gonna kick in a couple of bucks. No? Didn't think so. ::He grins humorlessly before taking another long pull on the beer::

McMillan Naw, I know why you're here. Only one reason, right? You want to talk about what I did to Jason Payne. You want to know why, after all these years, I've returned to New ERA. ::He snorts derisively:: If you can honestly look around here and wonder ... if you can['t figure it out by seeing the way I'm reduced to living and still need to ask "Why now, why Jason Payne", then you're the biggest fool in a long line of idiot cameramen that have been following me around on-and-off for the last decade. Can't you see how ****ty this is? Let's be honest, okay? I was never the big draw, never the main event, Still, there was a time when you could not turn on wrestling in any territory, on any channel, and not see Chris McMillan. I had everything I could have wanted save for a major championship, and that used to hurt me. But now, NOW ... I would give just about anything to go back to a time where not having a world title was the worst thing in my life.

::McMillan pauses, clearing his throat as though it might quell the tremor that has crept into his voice. He looks down at the toes of his boots for a moment, not daring to stare directly into the camera. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he resumes::

McMillan: But that's all gone. No spotlight. No entrance music booming out to herald my arrival. No posters with my face on them. No big payday. No nothing. I sit here and drink my beers. If there's pills, I'll take them. If there's pot, I'll smoke it. Anything I can do to forget for a minute or two that I live in a van down by the river. The only reason they let me stay here in the off season is because I know the manager, and if I can't keep paying for the electricity I'm using, they won't even let me stay here. I'll be kicked out ... of this.

::He gestures wildly around, indicating the nasty interior of the old van again::

McMillan: So, why NEW? I don't know, I guess because I was here in the beginning. As to why Jason Payne ... can't you tell? Isn't it obvious? THIS IS ALL HIS FAULT! ::Spittle flies from his lips and cords stand out on his skinny, wasted neck as he shoots to his feet and begins to rage through the tiny space::

McMillan: HIS FAULT! HE COST ME EVERYTHING! ::McMillan kicks aside trash and empty bottles, pounding futilely against the sides of the van. After a moment he turns, placing his back to the wall and slowly sliding down until he is slumped amidst the effluvia covering the floor. When he begins to speak again, his voice is muffled, directed at his chest::

McMillan: I called him, you know. When I realized how bad things were getting. After my family left, when I was in danger of losing my house, I called Jason Payne. I called him and I begged him to get me a job. "C'mon," I said. "One more run for the Dogs of War. One more time, me and you. After all the fun we had, after we were so close to achieving the success we always strived for ... let's give it one more shot." You know what he told me? After a decade of friendship, of teamwork? "I don't know, Mac. I don't want to get buried again." And that was the end of it. I was on the verge of total collapse, my life falling down around me, and he couldn't help. But what does he care, right? He's still wrestling the big money matches. He had gold around his waist. And he didn't want to get buried. He didn't want to have to "carry" me. He had no use for me.

And THAT is why I'm here. I am going to take from Jason the things he took from me. I've already started by costing him his chance to wear the tag gold with the Crippler. Next, well ... Jason doesn't want to be buried ... but that's what happens when you're a ****ing corpse.

::FADE OUT::

 

[Jason Payne]

FADE IN on a cloudy sky somewhere a few miles down the roads from Parts Unknown. The camera pans down slowly, revealing the empty, broken down facade of the BASHAM-SCHULTZ Wrestling Academy. Throughout the years, this same facade has appeared in countless videos, promos, vignettes. Each time the building has been in a different state of repair, from damn near brand new, to condemned. However, looking at the scene before you, this old building looks about as lifeless as a dead skunk on the side of the road. Windows broken and the frames missing. The huge marquee bent and broken, hanging down to the point where it half blocks the door. As the camera continues to pan down, a lone figure stands in front of the building, looking at it as if staring into some great, and cataclysmic beyond. Clad in a full length black trench coat, his hair whipping around in the chilly January breeze, Jason Payne stands motionless. His hands clasped in front of him, carrying something, but exactly what remains unseen due to the camera being positioned behind him. FADE TO a close up of Payne's face, staring stoically ahead, not looking at the camera. His face is weather beaten and worn. The man looks about ten years older than his true age. He inhales a deep breath, and lets out a long and deep sigh. His eyes flutter downward for a moment, then back up towards the dilapidated building. Taking a breath, he speaks, but instead of the usual gruff, and grumbling voice of the 'Dog of War', the voice that comes out is subdued, almost hushed. As he speaks, he never looks at the camera.

Payne - "It has been said that the past has a way of repeating itself, and that things in life will eventually catch up to you, and come full circle. And at the risk of offending the suits in Boston by even mentioning something outside the confines of New ERA, I believe a little history lesson is in order. Years ago, a couple of guys with nothing but the money in their pockets and a dream walked through the doors of this building for the first time. Though they had never met before then, you just knew it was going to be something special. And for awhile, it was exactly that. But then life got in the way, and some hard choices had to be made. One of them decided to enlist in the Navy in order to provide a better life for his family. The other kept chasing the dream, and eventually found success."

FADE TO a shot of Payne's face from the other side, looking now from his left to right. His eyes are still trained on the building, and his voice is still subdued.

Payne - "In 2001, not long after I was discharged from the Navy, I called my friend, the one who had realized his dream. I had nothing. I had no home, no job, no future. Out of the business for two years, not in shape, not a damned thing to my name. I asked for a favor, and he obliged. And even though no one had ever heard of the Dogs of War, somehow we talked the promoters into booking a feud between us. And you know what the result of that feud was? The result was McMillan, and myself, blowing the ****ing roof off of New Frontier Wrestling. In fact, that feud was so hot, they had to book another match for us, and we took things up another notch for that one. I dare anyone to come say to my face that any other feud in recent memory was as intense, personal, and violent."

As Payne describes the history between him and McMillan, still photos of the clashes they had are softly faded into the picture of Payne's face. One picture shows Payne on his knees, a dog collar around his neck, with McMillan yanking on the chain attached to Payne's collar. Another picture shows them in the same match, both of them laying on their backs, exhausted, their faces both covered in blood. Payne continues as we fade back to another shot of the front of the old wrestling school, slowly panning down the front of the building. The terrible condition of the building so evident from the bricks that have fallen out of the front, rusted electrical tubing running up the side.

Payne - "Now flash forward almost ten years. Now we have come full circle Chris. Now here I sit, realizing my dream. There you are, with nothing. Quite the twist of fate wouldn't you agree? Now, I'm sorry for what's happened to you. I truly am. And it pains me to the core to see someone who was like a brother to me in such a state. But you my friend, brought this on yourself. You forget, that it was I, years ago, that got you a match on a New Frontier card. I tried to get you back into the business after you were off trying to fix your problems. But what did you do Chris? You showed up drunk, and high on cocaine. There was a reason they put you under a mask that night Chris. It was so people would remember you for the way you used to be in the ring. High flying, dramatic, high impact. Not some washed up, drunk, coke snorting has been who didn't give two ****s about the match he was in. So imagine when you call me up, begging me for a shot in New ERA. Remembering what happened the last time I did you a favor, you're right, I turned you down. Now I don't recall saying anything about not wanting to not be buried, or that I would have to carry you. That my friend, you came up with on your own. Another run as the Dogs of War would have been great Chris, but which Chris was going to show up? The sharp witted, technically sound, balls to the wall Chris I knew? Or was it going to be the Chris who only cares about scoring enough scratch to pay for beer, hookers and drugs?"

The camera FADES TO a shot of Payne from the front, staring past the camera, his eyes having not moved off that building.

Payne - "I truly am at a loss here. A loss for words, a loss for reason, a loss for why you would choose to do this to me, at this point in time. But in the scheme of things, it doesn't matter. You have done what you have done, and you and you alone will live with the consequences of your actions. And I? Well, I will have to live with the consequences of my actions..."

Payne rears back and hurls something at the building. The camera quickly cuts to a shot of Payne slowly turning around, a loud, metallic clang heard. Over Payne's right shoulder, what looks like a gas can rests in the door. Payne pulls out a gold Zippo lighter, and flicks the flame alive. As the fire dances within the confines of the lighter, Payne looks directly into the camera, his voice an earth trembling, growling screen.

Payne - "I will live with the consequences of my actions Chris! Even if it means putting an end to the Dogs of War...ONCE AND FOR ALL!"

Payne opens his hand and the lighter falls to the ground. Payne slowly walking away as the flame of the lighter ignites a trail of gasoline that goes streaking backwards towards the door, and the gas can. Payne walks out of the camera shot as the fire trail reaches the gasoline can. CUT TO a wide shot of the Basham-Schultz Wrestling Academy as the trail of fire reaches the gas can. The can explodes into a ball of flame at the door, when a split second later a secondary explosion tears through the old building, blowing out what's left of the windows and sending concrete, brick, and all manner of debris in a million directions. At the bottom of the shot, Payne can be seen slowly walking towards a beat up Dodge Challenger. As the debris and dust rain down around him, FADE to a close up shot of Payne staring at what remains of the old Basham-Schultz Wrestling Academy. As the fire roars in the background, Payne looks on intently, his face showing a mixture of sadness, but also of determination as we FADE TO BLACK.

 

[Mister Dread]

::FADE IN on a mildly unpleasant looking motel room. It has the look of a cheap roadside motorlodge, the sort of mom-and-pop furnished entirely with castoffs bought from a nearby chain motel following a remodeling. That alone was fine, the seedy appearance of the room owed largely to the dim lighting, bizarre layout, and decades-old television, coffee pot, and rotary phone. Seated in the room’s lone chair is Chris McMillan. Wreathed in cigarette smoke and partially obscured by the inadequate lights, this could almost be the same man who once seemed so close to a huge breakthrough as one of the premier talents in the sport. However, he almost bleeds a sense of despair, as though even the camera can read the stench of the failing machine that is his body.

When we last saw him McMillan was languid with malt goodness, rising from his torpor only once to rage helplessly against the aged walls of a disgusting van / apartment. Today, though … his frame does not reflect it, but as he leans forward a little we catch a glimpse of a strange, manic energy dancing through bloodshot eyes. An errant shaft of sickly yellow light falls across his forehead, casting unflattering shadows across a nose that seems to go too many directions. It also serves to nicely highlight a generous amount of scalp shining through McMillan’s hairline – he pretends it isn’t noticeable::

McMillan: I’ve got to applaud you, Jason. ::clapclapclap:: You were never one to think things through all that thoroughly. You’ve got a lot of things right. But the important things … I’m afraid you’ve missed the point. So if we’re going to talk history, let’s get it straight.

::McMillan heaves a sigh for dramatic effect, which quickly devolves into a coughing spasm. McMillan reaches a hand out to the table beside him for support, and our view shakes a little. We realize then that there’s no camera man or sound guy – this is made and sent in from the road. As the coughing eases, McMillan looks back into the camera, leaning forward as though to draw us into confidence. As we get a good look he does appear to be in high spirits – whether it’s actual excitement or brought on chemically is unclear::

McMillan: On what you obviously consider to be the heart of the matter … you’re right. You did help me get another shot, and I did let you down. I was sorry that it happened, but it just wasn’t the right time for me to come back. It’s not like it hasn’t happened to you before. You can’t honestly tell me you’ve met all your commitments. Yeah, it might have had a little more sting on it because it’s more personal. It’s not as though I needed you to get me work at that point, it was just that if I was going to come back, I wanted to work with Jason Payne. And you were established then – it’s not like you needed me. At that point you were over more than I had ever been. I thought it was just going to be a fun little ride between your title bids.
When I came back – not just when I came back to NFW, but when I came back here the last time, it was because of nostalgia. I missed the life. And I thought I owed something to a few people. I felt I owed something to Miles, and to Cameron Cruise, and yeah … I owed it to you. Because of your neck.

I knew I wasn’t ready to come back. I wasn’t settled, I wasn’t stable … I wasn’t sure of what might happen when I got back into the ring with one of my friends. Because what if I were wrestling Shane Southern, or the Crippler, or Jason Payne … and after the bell, they couldn’t get up and walk to the back? You were lucky Jason Payne, that your neck healed like it did. Damn lucky. And I didn’t want it to be my fault that one of you assholes couldn’t walk.
So, yeah, I was drinking too much. And maybe I did smoke something, or snort something, or whatever. And yeah, they put a mask on me. And it turned out to be too much. I was messed up, I was pissed off. I was afraid of things that might happen – and I didn’t want to do it anymore. So yeah, once again I let a bunch of people down. It isn’t a good feeling, knowing that once again I was the douchebag. But it seemed to me that everyone was probably better off without me. Riding the pity train, so what? Man, that **** happens. It happens.

::He takes a moment to gather his degenerating train of thought, taking a harsh drag off the stinking home-rolled cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside him. The ribbon of smoke curling from the end of the lit cigarette jitters in response to his unsteady hand::

McMillan: So what, you set fire to a building? A well-reasoned response, I’m sure. You wanted to hurt me, right? Personally? Well, let me tell you – you’d have struck a far more poignant blow if you’d set my sack of dope on fire or scratched all my Girls Gone Wild DVDs, because at this point those tiny pleasures mean far, far more to me than some old hulk of a building. So I’ve got to find a new place to do 75% of my mic work. I think I can manage. And I’m sure Dave still had the place insured, or at the very least he doesn’t have to pay the property tax anymore. But if you think that place had any real meaning anymore … well, you wouldn’t have burned it yourself. You’re right, all that is long gone, and perhaps the memory did deserve a proper pyre. But setting fire to a condemned building that I have not even stood in front of for five years or so … not the calculated strike you were probably expecting.

I know how to deal with loss. I know how to deal with pain. I know how to deal with change. Because even as bad as things have gotten, I am still here. My heart still beats. And sometimes, sometimes … my spirit still burns. Like an old wrestling gym. Like flyers from a defunct promotion showcasing men who actually meant something a decade ago. But just like that building, we’re not the same anymore. We’re rotting, me on the inside. But the stink of corruption rolling off of you is different. What’s rotting inside you is just your loyalty.

McMillan: I did make some bad decisions, selfish decisions. I made promises that I didn’t keep. Yeah, I even blew the shot that you helped me get. But here’s the thing … the shot that I got for you is the one that helped make your career. Don’t you think that’s enough for a second chance … or even a third?

You know the real difference between that time and this one? That time was a goof. That time, it was for fun. All I wanted was another taste of the life, one more chance to hang out with in the back with some familiar faces. This time, however, it was for real. It was so I could survive. But you wanted to deny me that opportunity, the chance to pick up some of the pieces. And not only that, but you failed to deliver the one thing I thought I could count on, the thing that I needed the most. More than another shot in the ring, more than another chance to mean something. What I needed from you, Jason, was the same thing we’ve gotten from each other in a thousand locker rooms across the world – I needed you to smack me in the ****ing mouth. I needed you to knock me down, then pick me up and dust me off and tell me to get my **** together. I needed my partner. What I got was a steaming turd in my mouth.

Now you need to see what’s right in front of you. I’m not healthy. I’m not in shape. I’ve been gone a long time, and I have very little left of what makes me me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I am responsible for some of the most brutal matches in the HISTORY of wrestling. It doesn’t change the fact that I’ve caused some horrific injuries, or hit a woman in the face with a shovel … it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve set myself on fire in order to use myself as a weapon.
And that’s what I am, Jason. A walking, breathing weapon. Only now, things have degenerated. All the failsafes have malfunctioned or been disabled. There’s no longer any safety on this weapon. ::McMillan pauses, a sickly grin stealing across his face for a fleeting second:: Five years ago, this is where the line about “going off in your face” would go. But there are no more semen jokes. No more smarky comments. No more obscure 80’s references out of New York. I’m coming for you at Destrucity. Not for the payday. You know what my currency is. And I am ready to collect.

::FADE OUT::