Round 1: Boogie Smallz vs. Jack Eastwood

[Chad]

Roleplay period starts on Monday, April 23 and ends Sunday, April 29. 2 roleplay max in this round.

 

[Mad Dog]

(FADEIN to Boogie Smallz lifting weights on the bench press. His cell phone rings during a set. A voicemail indicator beeps on his phone. He finishes the set, wipes the sweat off his brow, and walks over to his phone. It’s a message from his agent, Saul Weinstein. He calls up the voicemail on his speakerphone and listens.)

SAUL WEINSTEIN: Hey Boogie, just wanted to let you know a couple things. First, I got that research packet you requested. And second, I got a job offer for you. Dragon’s Wrestling is having a tournament bigger than the one for the Ultratitle. This is for the Ultimate Title. They say in the offer that you can’t do any, quote “CM Punk (BLEEP)”.

(Boogie shakes his head in disapproval.)

No mention on the use of vampires, zombies, or killing anyone off in a promo. I think you qualify. (Lets out a nervous laugh.) Let me know if you want to give it a shot and I will move forward with the contract negotiations. Otherwise, stay committed to your training and good luck with the Ultratitle. My secretary said she FedEx’ed the packet to you yesterday…so you should have it by now. Take care.

(Smallz looks over on a nearby table and confirms the FedEx package has arrived. He puts the phone down and gets back to lifting weights. FADEOUT)
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(FADEIN an hour later. Boogie is cooling down after an intense training session. He is guzzling water from a gallon jug and has moved to a chair in a separate area in his gym. He puts a DVD in the player and watches a highlight reel of Jack Eastwood. The room is dimly lit and most of the lighting is illuminated by his television.)

BOOGIE SMALLZ: I sit alone in my four cornered room staring at candles. Oh the camera’s on? Let me drop some ish like this here. (Clears his throat and raps.) At night I can’t sleep, I toss and turn… (Stops rapping and smirks.) I’m not about to sit here and spit Geto Boyz lyrics on you from twenty years ago. I realize this ain’t Yo! MTV Raps or Rap City.

I ain’t gonna come out here and perform a song with a HOLOGRAM of Tupac like they did at Coachella. (Shakes his head.) The man is dead y’all…let him be. You know DAMN WELL if ‘Pac was around, he wouldn’t be down for that ish! But enough about that.

(Boogie turns to the television behind him; the DVD is paused on the image of Jack Eastwood victorious in the ring. Smallz nods his head and turns back to the camera.)

What I will do though, is come out here and talk about who I face in Round One of the Ultratitle tournament. That man right there. (Camera pans over slightly to get a shot of Eastwood and then back to Boogie.) Jack Eastwood.

Now in the past, I would have ripped ya apart in a promo. Call ya JACKOFF Eastwood. Wonder how ya got that name. Are ya the illegitimate child of the Clint? Go on to say that in a drunken stupor, did he bang your mom, she retrieve the condom from the trash, and you are some test-tube baby tryin’ to lay claim to the Eastwood Empire!?

But that was me in the past. I’m not sayin’ that I’m better than that now or that I am above takin’ cheap shots that probably are not true…but on this occasion, you get a pass.

(Boogie pulls out a manila envelope with “Jack Eastwood” written in black marker. He pulls out several sheets of paper that are bound by a binder clip. A picture of Jack Eastwood is attached to the documents.)

Before I came out here, I did a little homework. I got my agent to enlist the help of a detective and dig up a little dirt on ya. Why? Because quite frankly, I don’t know ish about ya. What? Am I gonna go into this match totally blind? HELL NO! I got too much on the line to come in and underestimate my opponent.

(Thumbs through a few pages in his hand. Stops on a page and reads a few things.)

Eastwood, I used to be like you. Livin’ the high life! Doin’ drugs in promos. Tryin’ to stir up some controversy. Sayin’ ish that were more for shock value than to get my point across. Again…not sayin’ I’ve moved on…but I’m just not in that mindset at the moment.

(Drinks more water and ponders his thoughts for a moment.)

What is it with you? Think that doin’ drugs make you some badass or somethin’? That people should fear you ‘cuz you’re snortin’ lines and prob’ly shootin’ up ish in your arms? Let’s keep it real, son. Keep thangs ONE HUND’ED! All that dope is a crutch! You’re leanin’ on that ish ‘cuz you lack a direction in life. Drugs are for dumb futhamuckas that don’t know no better.

I was just like you! Yeah…I said it. Not some goofy lookin’ douche bag with coke residue on my nose, but I smoked weed everyday…ALL DAY! I had beeyatchez and hoez draped around me…hoochie groupies. I had a gang of peeps doin’ tha exact same ish. But those fools never wised up. I, on the other hand, did! Some were just leechin’ off me…others ended up DEAD from that lifestyle!

Bottom line, I’m happy I get to face you. Because you’re just a younger SLASH dumber version of me!

(Smallz mean mugs the camera and looks intently off in the distance. He shifts his head back to the lens and speaks a little more sternly to Eastwood.)

So go ‘head…do your thang, dawg! Get f’d up, stay high as a kite, keep tryin’ to impress your hanger-ons, because you can best believe I’ll be doin’ what I have for the past year! That’s bustin’ my ass in the gym, trainin’ every damn day to get into the best shape in my life! Improvin’ my trainin’ regimen to come back into the squared circle BIGGER AND BETTER THAN BEFORE!

Keep ingestin’ that POISON…chewin’ on ‘shrooms. Tryin’ to live that rockstar lifestyle you THINK your dad did as a roadie! (Pauses.) So escape the reality of your life and the world around you. Go on…do it up! ‘Cuz after I hand you a loss and send you packin’ back to England…EMPTY-KCUFIN’-HANDED, there ain’t any amount of dope that will help you get over the shame of whole world seein’ ya get yo’ ass handed to ya!

(Boogie rolls his neck slowly, to the right and then the left.)

This is for the richest prize in the entire sport. Ya got guys comin’ from all walks of life, different circles in the game, all zonin’ in on ONE THING…to claim the distinction of bein’ the holder of the Ultratitle! That’s all the motivation I need to go out there and rip ish up! Say what ya say…do what ya do…but I’m goin’ on to Round Two. BELIEVE ‘DAT!

(Smallz looks wild-eyed into the camera.)

Fade me out!

(The scene FADES TO BLACK.)

 

[Eastwood]

Tuesday, 24[SUP]th[/SUP] April
0136 AST​

A dimly-lit Halifax backstreet. A young man, possibly of Eastern European descent, stands behind the fire escape staircase to a pounding nightclub. The cool early morning air whistles through the backstreet, sending trash spiralling into the ether for a moment before crashing down to earth again. Despite the chill, the young man's pulse races. Sweat gathers on the palms of his hands and in the recesses of his shirt.


He's here to meet someone whom he knows knows someone else who could get this young man in a lot of trouble; maybe a hell of a lot worse. The man looks around the backstreet, the bag on his hip swinging around. His client is twenty minutes late. Maybe this risk wasn't worth taking, he thinks to himself. I only got dragged into this by my cousin, he thinks. Maybe I should just-


Footsteps. Two sets, from the open end of the backstreet. The young man leans around from his hiding place, looking up the brickwork to see a pair of hooded individuals. They nod and walk forward together, shadowed eyes seemingly never leaving the young man. He swallows, his throat now gasping for oxygen he didn't realise he needed, trying in vain to gather any sort of courage.


The figures stop. The smaller, slender one of the two makes their way forward. The body movements give her away as female, but the formless all-black piece that she wears hides any possibility of her identification. She too has a bag, covered in black material. She raises a hand to the young man, fingers beckoning for its mate.


Woman: Is it all there?


Trembling, the young man nods. She motions for him to throw the bag over and he does, his aim towards her feet. Her accomplice strikes, moving their arm and body in one fluid motion, snatching the bag up before it has a chance to hit the floor. Glove-covered hands pore through the contents of the bag as the woman further speaks.


Woman: Well, it had better. Because if you don't... we'll find you and we'll kill you.


The man chokes back a fearful sob, terrified of this seemingly horrific woman. Her associate taps her on the shoulder delicately, the way a lover might. She looks up and catches their eyes, eyes that are so used to one another's that they can tell the other's thoughts without a single word. She nods and, as her friend departs with the young man's bag, she tosses her bag over to the young man, whom lunges for it, barely getting his arms around.


Woman: I take it that you have a plan for this?


The man nods, his lips quivering as he tries to speak. The woman raises her hand.


Woman: I never asked you what the plan was. It's better that I don't. I'm just making sure on behalf of my boss that none of this can be traced back to him.


He nods his head desperately, the mere mention of the woman's boss enough to elicit tear-stained fear out of him. Satisfied, the woman turns on her flat heel and exits the backstreet the same way that she came, following her partner out whilst sliding a mobile phone out of her pocket. The young man watches her as she leaves before practically tearing open the matte bag of hers, clutching onto its delightful-smelling contents like a newborn baby.


As the woman turns the corner out of the backstreet, she places the phone to her ear, waiting for the only person with this number to pick up. It doesn't take long.


Eastwood: Panther.


Panther: Sir.


Eastwood: Don't call me that. What?


Panther: Everything's fine.


Eastwood: Good. Come back to the Asylum and we'll go through the debrief.


She climbs into the passenger seat of the mini-van parked a little way around the corner.


Panther: Very good, Sir.


Eastwood: Panther, just - you know what, forget it.


The phone hangs dead. As the mini-van steers away, Panther's accomplice at the helm, it drives past the scene of the crime, where the young man leans against the wall, breathless. He cradles the package to his chest, eyes cast downward to the label, written on white masking tape in black marker. It reads WARHEAD.

Sunday, 23[SUP]rd[/SUP] April
0643 AST​

The sun shines on a new day in Nova Scotia. Jack Eastwood leans over his balcony, naked to the world, a breakfast of cigarette smoke and urine expulsion al fresco. He cranes his head over the side, giggling like a schoolboy as the yellow liquid splashes onto otherwise fresh, crisp snow. The ash flutters around his form, shoulders rolling in the morning air. Slowly, he brings himself round to his exercise regime, straining his muscles across his body to their physical limit. His back straightens with an audible pop, bringing him up to a lean six foot eight. He spits the butt of the cigarette off the side and heads back indoors, sitting down on the edge of his bed and cracking his knuckles.


Eastwood: Twenty-three...


He smiles to himself. Twenty-three years since he'd been born. Not a long time by any stretch of the imagination. Certainly not to him. But he looked older than he was and he felt even older than that. He rubs the ever-present stubble on his chin thoughtfully, wondering what time it is in England. He works it out in his head quickly, before deciding that he'll call his parents later.


Shrugging on an old dressing gown, he makes his way down the stairs of his tower, bare feet slapping against the concrete. Filthy hands wrap the gown around himself and open the door to the great hall. He smiles.


Eastwood: Oh, you lot...


In front of him sit several long-tables, where the members of his Pack sit, a lavish feast prepared. They cheer as he enters, Jack quickly pulling the gown taut to evade any displays of the flesh. He is guided by a wall of sound to an empty space at the head of the tables, his favoured associates closer to him. He stands, allowing for the noise to settle down before he speaks.


Eastwood: Thank you, thank you... please.


He motions for them to sit down and they do, silent, waiting.


Eastwood: ...my friends. For you are my friends, each and every one of you. I may not have time to speak to you all in the day, or indeed in the week, but you are all my friends. There are those of you whom work with me in my wrestling ventures, whom work with me on the streets, recruiting and selling. There are those of you on the streets now, even internationally, making deals with people of all ages and creeds and colours. There are those of you who work here, cleaning and creating and... well... cooking.


On this, other members of the Pack spill from the sides, bringing with them trays of food that they present to the seated, before joining them. Jack looks down at his own food, smiling.


Eastwood: A full English. Really?


He chuckles, the man two seats down from him nodding.


Snake: With extra fried bread, hash browns and black pudding.


Eastwood: Beast.


He looks over the rest of the tray, noting the pint of apple juice with a bourbon depth charge and the small white tube alongside it.


Eastwood: You rolled me a joint? Aww, bless.


Snake smiles as Jack starts to tuck into his breakfast.


Snake: That's not just any joint.


Eastwood: Oh?


Snake: The guys in the lab have been making something. It's been ready for a while now but we wanted to keep it from you.


Eastwood: ...you know I don't care for secrets.


Snake: Believe me, this was with the best of intentions-


Eastwood: Tell me.


Snake: Well... it's a hybrid plant. A combination of the cross-breed of Ice Bomb and Vanilla Kush and the breeding of Blue Cheese and K2. We kept it separate from the other batches in its own testing area.


Jack picks up the joint, sniffing it thoughtfully.


Eastwood: This is pretty ambitious. You've gone for the whole package, huh?


Snake: Yeah. Smooth and mellow, yet tasty and strong. We think it's appropriate.


Eastwood: You saying I'm tasty?


Snake: I'm saying you're the whole package.


Eastwood: ...still pretty gay.


He mops up the remaining juices of his food with a thick slice of buttery fried bread, before washing it down with the bourbon-laced apple juice. He smells the joint once more.


Eastwood: Well, if you don't mind me, I'm going to spark up.


Snake: Sure, you go ahead.


A ripple emanates down the tables as scores more joints are produced from the ether.


Eastwood: ...you all have one?


A murmured “yes” makes its way down the lines. Jack turns to Snake, curious.


Eastwood: How much of this stuff have you got?


Snake: About ten kilos.


Jack's eyes widen.


Eastwood: You kept this under your bloody hats, eh?


Snake just nods, playing with the blunt in his hand.


Eastwood: Well... let's crack on. Anybody got a lighter?


A silver Zippo is tossed his way, which he deftly catches. Jack places the joint between his lips.


Eastwood: Cheers.


He lights the joint, the unmistakable crackle of marijuana in the paper. He inhales and at once his eyes light up.


Eastwood: Holy s***.


Snake turns to him, grinning broadly.


Snake: Tell me about it.


Jack takes another drag, examining the slow burn.


Eastwood: What d'you call this stuff, anyway?


Snake: It's called Warhead.

Thursday, 26[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1826 AST​

Jack is lounging in the television area, a Warhead joint in his hands and an ashtray in front of his crossed legs, watching the tail-end of his opponent's promo intensely. He takes another hit of the weed, dragging it back and smiling.


Eastwood: You know, with this joint, watching this pile of crap is almost bearable.


Almost.


Boogie, who in the hell do you think you are? Saying that you “would rip me apart in the past”, huh? Seems to me like you're just clutching at straws for a reason as to why you no longer have “it”. Whatever “it” is; from the way that you talk about me I doubt you ever had “it” in the first place.


He pulls out a blank envelope from beside him, tossing it casually on the floor.


Unlike you, I didn't do any “homework”. I haven't done any homework since I left school at sixteen. What simple-minded t*** still calls their research “homework”? But it's ok. I understand why you had to school yourself on me before I give you a more hands-on lesson. For you this is pretty much your last shot, right? How old are you now, Boogie? Thirty-four, maybe thirty-six? And look at me; a trim, talented young man with all the potential in the world.


You say that you used to be like me and that may be true in certain aspects, but the difference between you and I is that I'm not going to end up ten years from now lamenting all of the things that I could have done. When I watch you, Boogie, I see a desperate man trying to crawl his way back into relevancy. That won't be me. That isn't me. That's the difference.


Plus, I'm not a n*****.


An audible gasp from behind the camera.


Eastwood: What? The d**** motherf***** wants me to be controversial so I'm being controversial. I'm just giving the people what they want. You can't ever accuse me of not being out there, in the spotlight. This is where I belong, regardless of my personal life. So what if I take drugs, huh? Yeah, I like a toke now and then and I've experimented with the harder stuff. Never touched heroin though, f*** that s***. I've seen what it does to people.


He takes a drag from his joint and smiles.


Eastwood: Hell, I've seen what it does to my people. And yeah, I sell it. Why wouldn't I? There's money to be had in heroin and methadrone. It's just unfortunate that some people don't understand the dangers of taking on something you can't handle. Isn't that right, Boogie? So come our match in the tournament, I want you to get these simple facts into your simple head.


You are just a man.


I am just a man.


I will beat you.


Three things. That's all I want you to remember. Can you do just that for me? And if you do...


He picks up the seemingly discarded envelope, opening it.


Eastwood: ...there's something in it for you.


He pushes a fresh joint into the envelope, sealing it.


Eastwood: A joint of the finest weed you'll ever have the pleasure of smoking, on the house. Because, believe me, you'll need it to ease the pain I'm going to put you through. Now add a fourth to the three things I asked you to remember. My name is Jack Eastwood.


And I am going to crush you.

 

[Mad Dog]

BOOGIE SMALLZ: I was so entertained by your last promo. The production value was off tha chain! First we see a drug deal, then Eastwood pissin’ off a balcony. Wow…how exciting. I am sure the fetish demographic you reach out to was all over that, pausing, rewinding, and slow-mo’ing the action. The only thing missing was a leather suited gimp shakin’ off your dick or rollin’ around in your urine. I tell you what…this is entertainment!

You gotta gay henchman workin’ on the down-low, tryin’ to cut his own deal behind your back with some cross-pollinated weed. Eatin’ black pudding and spotted dick, no doubt. Or was the spotted dick shown in your piss scene earlier? You sick freak! They have ish to cure that…it’s called PENECILLIN!

(Boogie sits back for a moment to soak in the entire promo before he speaks his thoughts on another viewed scene.)

And the scene that kicked thangs off, with the drug deal…Oscar worthy performances by all. (Slips into a fake British accent.) Bravo, ol’ chap. Bravo. (Does a mocking golf clap.) The junkie kid reminds me of my cousin, Pookie. He died a crack addict, but I’m sure no one gives a ish about his story. (Pauses for a moment to remember his fallen kin.) The dope game does have its victims. Most of the time, Hollywood focuses on the main dealer being taken down in the majority of the stories that are produced and rarely on the people those drugs affect or the family they leave behind.

But enough of that depressin’ ish, lets get back to your promo! (Smiles and returns to his normal upbeat tone.) I felt like I needed to grab some popcorn and rate that ish on IMDB! Thoroughly amusing! But truly lackin’ the key ingredients that make up a great flick…namely REALISM!

You wanna work on gettin’ yourself over with tha masses as a big drug kingpin. You forget one thing, I’m from the streets of New York. I’ve seen a lot of ish go down in my day. The Supreme Team, the Five Percenters, Frank Lucas, Lorenzo Nichols, Nicky Barnes. Tha list goes on and on. You wanna talk about rulin’ the streets, look at those cats. They had the block sewn up fo’ sho’. The only thing you got sewn up is the ring gear your momma made for you.

But you…all you are is a wannabe G. A fake-ass Tony Montana! Your lil’ operation is nothing more than a rip-off of the ma’phuckin BOTWINS on the television show WEEDS! They had the town of Agrestic all locked-up. Hardcore ish! (Shakes his head.) You’re pathetic, dawg!

You think that scares me? You and your clique musclin’ the citizens of NOVA KCUFIN’ SCOTIA!? (Laughs to himself.) Give it a rest! ‘Cuz I see through that ish and I’m sure the majority of the viewin’ public sees through it too! You’re a hack, Eastwood. A futhamuckin’ POSER!

(Boogie stands up out of his sees and looks wild-eyed into the camera.)

A gave you a pass, son. I came out here on national television and tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. And what did you do? You pissed all over it, just like that balcony scene in your promo. You took a big ish all over my words and, I guess, expected me to succumb to your bad ass attitude? YEAH RIGHT!

I started off in this biz with legit tough guys. People like Eli Flair, Steel Viper, Mike Randalls…doods that were true hardcore icons in this industry. Yeah, as a teenager new to the game…they intimidated me a little. But I got over it. I gained more confidence in my abilities, and within a year, despite my disco gimmick, I was respected in the locker room just like they were.

Sometimes you gotta pay your dues. Somethin’ it sounds like you aren’t willin’ to do. And somethin’ I’m gonna teach you in our match up in Round One of the ULTRATITLE tournament! You need to be humbled, dawg. You need to be knocked off your HIGH HORSE, no pun intended. And I’m THA ONE to do it!

(Boogie restarts the Eastwood promo and fast forwards through the lengthy skit to get to Eastwood’s actual comments about the match.)

You are truly a stupid kcuf! You come out on TV and of all things to call me, in your limited vocabulary, you drop the DREADED N-WORD! You racist piece of ish!

In all honesty, I’ve heard the word so much throughout my life…that it’s lost meaning to what it was originally used for. But you want to make headlines and show people how much of an outlaw you are. All it shows to people is that you’re an IGNORANT DOUCHEBAG!

Are you tryin’ to get me fired up? It’s too late for that! I’ve been FIRED UP since tha ULTRATITLE tournament was announced! I’ve been hittin’ the gym twice…sometimes three times a day. I’m in the mode to mow through whoever the execs put in front of me because I want to prove I am the best! That I am still a main event caliber athlete! You want to doubt me, that’s on you. But you best believe I ain’t one to be taken lightly! Ask people that know me…Dan Ryan, Kevin Powers, Eli Flair, Doc Silver, Cameron Cruise, and a ish-load of others that have worked with me in the past!

See, practically my whole career I was perceived as a joke. A midcard talent that was constantly tryin’ to break through the glass ceiling that kept me from headlinin’ shows. That kept me from makin’ big bucks. Gettin’ endorsement deals. Bein’ the face of a company! But the thing that elevated me to the next rung up the ladder wasn’t by WAITIN’ for my spot…but it was goin’ out and TAKIN’ what I knew I deserved!

The one thang the promoters couldn’t hold back was TALENT. And why I may have been inactive for a few years, I still have that certain intangible that you NEVER WILL! Regardless of how you try to carry yourself, your transparent persona just ain’t enough to get the job done. Nobody cares what happens to you now and certainly not after the ULTRATITLE tournament is over!

So don’t mistake my kindness for weakness in my first promo on you. I may not puff herb anymore, but that hasn’t taken away from my INTENSITY! If anything, it has AMPLIFIED IT!

So before you try to pawn off a sample of your product and give a bad imitation of Dolph Ludgren’s character Ivan Drago from Rocky 4…maybe you SHOULD sample some of MY PRODUCT! Do some homework…research…whatever the appropriate word is that your punkass wants to use! Because I guarantee that if you are caught slippin’ for one split-second…I WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR IT!

BELIEVE ‘DAT!

(FADE TO BLACK)

 

[Eastwood]

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1036 AST​

The scene opens not in the Asylum, but in an actor's trailer, with Jack now beginning the footage fully clothed, in a studio chair with a tall glass of fruit juice. He smiles broadly, the once-sullied face now free of line marks and dark circles. He nods at somebody behind the shot and takes a sip of his drink, his eyeline focused off-forward. An unseen interviewer begins to speak.


Interviewer: So tell me what it's like to play the character of “Jack Eastwood”.


Eastwood: Well, you know, you sort of settle into it really... I mean, once you understand the nuances of the persona, it simply becomes a matter of switching it on, as it were.


He takes another small sip and gestures down himself.


Eastwood: Obviously, physically I will always be Jack Eastwood. It's hard not to get recognised in the street when you're pushing seven foot, after all.


He laughs, a bold chuckle, crossing his legs over.


Eastwood: But the differences between Jack the character and Jack the man... naturally, I wouldn't dream of actually smoking any sort of illegal substance, let alone cultivating it for smoking purposes. It's an attitude, I suppose; the way that Jason – you know Jason, the director for all my shoots – the way that Jason described him was as “an angry, bitter and violent youth”. Once you tap into that sort of mindset it becomes quite easy, even believable to myself that this disaffected, sadistic young man could exist.

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1225 AST​

Our viewpoint is once again one of the fly-on-the-wall style, this time overlooking the snowy landscape of Nova Scotia. Jack's voice can be heard coming from behind the camera.


Eastwood: Well, here we are, viewers. This is where the magic happens.


He pans the handheld camera around, towards an impressive-looking, ruined building in the foreground.


Eastwood: This is Jack's Asylum. Obviously not my Asylum, but you get my point. This is where we shoot the majority of our scenes; all our filming is done on location. We were actually very lucky to find this, an old friend of mine in the business who lives in Calgary tipped me off about this place.


He starts to walk towards the Asylum, the looming, crumbling brickwork drawing ever closer, made to look as though it is shaking to pieces by the juddering of Eastwood's gait.


Eastwood: Most of the crew are inside so we'll see if we can talk to them. As it's a filming day we might not be able to catch everybody but we'll have a good check.


He reaches the mahogany of the expansive wooden doors and reaches down, turning the lock.

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1040 AST​

Interviewer: So, in regards to your wrestling, how does that work? Where do you draw the line then between the character work and the performance?


Eastwood: Well, if you watch any of my previous matches then you'll see for yourself that Jack, as a performer, does things between the ropes that the character of Jack would be physically unable to do. Let me tell you a little back story about the character. He has been smoking since he was twelve and taking illegal drugs since he was fourteen. There's a space of eleven years between when he starts to smoke and now.


You see, people who have smoked for more than a decade in such a quantity as the character of Jack has would certainly struggle to do what I am capable of in the ring. Outside of these performances I don't touch alcohol or nicotine and the cannabis on screen is a harmless substitute. If I did smoke and drink in the volume that the character does, then I would be astounded to even be alive, let alone wrestling in a full-time capacity.

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1236 AST​

The camera pans around the Great Hall of the Asylum where the tables from the day before are still laid out, covered in buffet food. Cast and crew members alike take their fill, chatting loudly. A shout from across the hall catches Jack's attention.


Eastwood: Oh, look, it's Martine!


A toned, bronze-skinned woman makes her way over to Jack, smiling broadly.


Martine: Hello... Jack.


Jack reaches out with one long arm, bringing her in for a cuddle, which she squeals at warmly.


Eastwood: Hello Martine. Now this, if you don't recognise her from that delicious voice, is the woman who plays one of my drug empire generals in the promos. Panther...


He drops to the dulcet “character Jack” tones.


Eastwood: How you doing?


She plays along, smiling.


Panther: No problems to report, Sir.


Eastwood: Good. Let me know if anything does arise.


They both laugh warmly, returning to their performer states.


Martine: Once you start doing it, you just can't stop, don't you find?


Eastwood: I couldn't agree with you more. Have you seen Alex anywhere?


Martine: Alex? I...


Eastwood: Is he... filming a scene, perhaps?


Martine: I- oh! Yes. That's right, he is. Down in the Pit.


Eastwood: Alright, thank you very much. I'll be sure to make my way there.

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1043 AST​

Interviewer: How problematic is working in such a large cast? Of course, you're the star character, but there are a hundred or so others that you share your working space with. How do you deal with that?


Eastwood: I will admit, it does get tough sometimes. There are these extras that come in for a scene or two, fans whom have won competitions to appear as a background character... more often than not, it's the inexperience of these people that forces us as a company to call “cut”. Somebody's in the wrong place, someone is blocking another person... you get these issues, of course you do. But you have to keep your head down and work your way through it.


You're right in saying that there are over a hundred here that I have to work with, but you also said something that has to be kept in mind; I'm the star character. I have to lead by example. And yes, sometimes that involves retake after retake and frustrating late nights where you have to burn the midnight oil. I just hope that the end result is all worth it.


Interviewer: And does your own inexperience not worry you?


Eastwood: Not really, no. Being twenty-three myself – the same age as the character – I tend to find that other people in the business do sometimes have a tendency to look down upon me because they have five, ten, even fifteen years' more at this than I have. I wouldn't want to be the person regretting not making the distinction between youth and inexperience, however.

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1253 AST​

The camera makes its way along a narrow corridor, the paint on the walls yellow and peeling. In the distance ahead, various shouting noises can be heard. Jack stops and points the camera upside-down towards his own face, the poor lighting making him look drained and blotchy.


Eastwood: If you can hear that, that's the sound of Alex thinking that he's capable of weight-lifting.


He walks forward, into the area known as the Pit. It's easy to see why; the corridor expands out into a roughly square room with a large, circular dip in the floor. Scattered around the room, and particularly in the Pit's centre, are various pieces of workout equipment. Jack moves towards a mat on the edge of the Pit and leans over the side, zooming in on a familiar-looking man trying, and failing, to lift more than he is capable of doing. Jack shouts down.


Eastwood: Hey! Alex!


The man looks up, raising an arm before dropping it, weary. He hangs his head and makes his way towards the circular staircase on the fringe of the Pit. Jack tracks his progress with the camera.


Eastwood: I should point out that the reason this building is known as the Asylum is because it, in fact, was an Asylum until nineteen seventy-three, when its founder, one J. Irving, had his research on mental condition discredited and he was sectioned himself. And here comes Alex! Are you feeling the burn?


Alex walks towards Jack, his breath ragged.


Alex: Oh, god yeah. Nothing like a good stretch before I have lunch, huh?


Eastwood: I wouldn't over-exert yourself. What about if you get injured and we need to find you a replacement?


Alex: Use an understudy?


Eastwood: The understudies are understudies for a reason. I hand-picked you for this, remember?


Alex brushes sweat out of his face and slicks his hair back slightly.


Alex: Yeah, true. Do you want me to introduce myself?


Eastwood: Go ahead.


Alex: Well I'm Snake, if you couldn't already tell. I work alongside Eastwood here to deliver drugs... and other things like that.


Eastwood: You don't get into a character easily, do you?


Alex: Not really. Especially when I've been thoroughly exercising my-


There is a loud clatter from the door to the Pit. Martine rushes in, flustered.


Martine: Uh... I should point out... there are problems.


Jack rises to his feet.


Eastwood: What problems?


Panther: Warhead problems.

Friday, 27[SUP]th[/SUP] April
2026 AST​

Jack and several of his Pack members are sat around a spacious seating area, watching the television and partaking of joints packed with the Warhead cross-breed. Jack starts to chuckle, slowly. A few people look at him, confused.


Eastwood: You know what would be funny?


Snake's head bobs up from where his body is lying.


Snake: What?


Eastwood: Well, you know that in this Ultratitle thing, they're pushing for realism, yeah?


Snake: Right...


Eastwood: How about we film a, like, a fake documentary? Then be all like “oh, hello, I'm the man who plays Jack” kind of bulls***. 'Cause, you know that s*** I just cut, well, that Boogie guy's gonna come back with some crap and I just wanna f*** with his head now.


Snake: ...yeah, that could work. But why can't you explain all our business normally?


Eastwood: And get arrested? Look, if we do the documentary, it's bait and switch, man. Then nobody will know which side of me is the real me.


Snake: You're high, dude.


Eastwood: I'm always f***ing high. This makes perfect sense.


Snake looks at his joint and grins.


Snake: Yeah, I guess it does.

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1312 AST​

Eastwood, Panther and Snake all rush down the corridor together, albeit single file. Panther stays in the middle, bringing the two men up to speed.


Panther: ...so the guy's “brilliant plan” was to try and cross the border to America and then get arrested.


Eastwood: ...f***ing brilliant. That's all I need now, that. More stressing out. I've got the tournament coming up and retarded f***ing Arabs thinking they can just waltz anywhere they please with a kilo of weed and a face that could have blown up the Twin Towers. F***'s sake!


He breaks out into a run, coming into the Great Hall, beginning to bark orders.


Eastwood: ...Elephant, get a car down there now! ...Lion, Fox, keep up to date with the news! ...Cheetah, I need you to take a look at getting our American contacts involved to get things under control! ...and for the love of gods will somebody roll me a f***ing joint!?

Sunday, 29[SUP]th[/SUP] April
1103 AST​

Back to the trailer setting once more. The supposedly prim, proper Jack is gone; though his clothes scream “actor” the hip-flask and joint in his ham-sized fist say something else entirely. His eyes flicker wildly, the make-up used to hide his scars now wiped away. Red-tinged eyes flicker about, trying to watch for the intangible, that certain something that Jack knows surrounds him.


Interviewer: So, really... what's it like being you?


Jack chuckles, leaning back.


Eastwood: Honestly? It's spectacular. There are a lot of problems, yeah, but solving problems is what makes us human. Take for instance, the problem that I've got at the minute... I'll solve that, and then boom!... in comes another problem. I'm always fighting, you know. I'm battling constantly; in the ring, in the wild, in myself. I've got conflicts up here that scare the s*** out of me, let me tell you. I've got f***ing demons.


He pulls his smart phone out of his pocket, flicking through YouTube idly.


Eastwood: So when some washed-up d**** with a s***ty pun of a name thinks that he has the stones to actually take me, I've gotta laugh. I got to, you know? Because he's a joke to me; that's all he is. A joke.


Boogie... first off, you're a c***, go f*** yourself...


Secondly, the fetish demographic? Really? You mean to tell me that urinating is something that's only done in fetish videos? You know that we human beings have this remarkable bodily function called defecation, right? Still, you probably don't realise, seeing as how you're so full of s***.


If you were actually paying attention to my last promo, you will have noticed that Snake was in fact growing the Warhead bud for my benefit and not sucking cock as you seem to want to allude to. You gay or something? Not judging, just asking.


If this all seems a little surreal to you, Boogie, then just relax. Smoke a bowl or something. Not everything in life is supposed to make sense. For instance, how do I survive on what is essentially a diet of drugs and fatty foods, whilst looking good and wrestling internationally? I'll let you in on a little secret; it's because I'm f***ing incredible.


Here's an example of why; I chose a remote location in a country that nobody particularly pays attention to, in order to start my international shipping business. That's right. Shipping. I don't run Halifax, really, or Nova Scotia. Why have your fingers in one pie when they could be in many pies? I run my s*** across the globe, not just in one city. You can have New York if you like, Boogie, because I'm taking over the world.


Somebody, there'll probably be somebody better than me at it and they'll take me down a peg or two. It's not like I'm not asking for it. But really, are you going to be the one to do it? Ask yourself that now. Go and look in the mirror and actually think about whether or not you can beat me.


That's what I thought.


But it's alright, Boogie. We can get back to just what this means; a white man beating on a black guy. If you want to take it back to its original meaning then I'm alright with that too; I'll take you out to a ranch and beat you with a stick all day long if that's what you want me to do. I really don't care how I beat you so long as I do. All you are to me is a problem waiting to be solved.


I don't think you aren't going to bring your A-game to this match, Boogie. I'd really hate it if you were whining after I beat you to a pulp that you “went easy on the kid”. And I'm not going to underestimate you either. I'm expecting a fight.


I'm expecting I'll win.