Roleplay goes here. 2 RP limit for this round.
Round 1: Zero vs. Blaine Hollywood
- Thread starter Chad
- Start date
EastPrez
Pressure Chief
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 392
- Points
- 0
OPULENCE - WE OWN EVERYTHING
(FADEIN: To a cloudless blue sky, which slowly pans down to the stern of "MOTHER'S MILK", one of the ridiculously large yachts in the private fleet of the CARLTON FAMILY. The yacht has about 6 decks and looks more like a miniature version of a cruise ship than a weekend warrior special. The camera pans left to put us face-to-face with CALVIN CARLTON, CEO and Portfolio Manager of CARLTON ENTERPRISES, and more importantly: The CARLTON WRESTLING DYNASTY. CARLTON is wearing Nautical whites with a striped polo sweater over his shoulders, and an ill-fitting Captains Hat on his head, white framed Ray Ban sunglasses, waving his trusty tennis racket "Ol' Bessie" maniacally at the camera, cackling. Standing next to him, hands on the rear railing and staring out into the ocean, is BLAINE HOLLYWOOD, wearing a Brooks' Brothers Nautical windbreaker, over a popped-collared pink shirt and white linen pants, big PRADA Euro shades on his face.)
CARLTON: (Cackling, and jabbing the tennis racket in the air like he's fencing with it) "Welcome to one of the many, many decks of the SS Mother's Milk--one of the LARGEST yachts in the world! This yacht was once owned by a sheik with a lot of consonants in his name, but after some run-ins with some nice old country-club associates employed by a little startup group named Blackwater, and a briefcase I didn't need back, it's MINE NOW. (Cackles and tips his Captains cap)
"SO IT BEGINS, the Ultratitle! (Smells the air) AHHHH, we meet again. My dalliance with the eagles began in New Frontier Wrestling, during the season format when I - CALVIN JAY CHALMERS CARLTON THE THIRD, Commissioner of the NFW South, managed some of the biggest names in the sport up to that coveted, golden trophy. Dan Ryan, HORNET, Eddy Love, Shane Southern! (H'WOOD grits his teeth, not breaking contact with the moving waters) even the great Joey Melton, my boyhood hero fell into line as I came THIS CLOSE to grasping that cherub, that golden idol, but something funny happened - (cuts the air with a violent downstroke!) NONE OF YOU BIGSHOTS GOT IT DONE. When I think of all of my managerial genius WASTED with a cast of greats that made the 1992 Summer Olympic USA Dream Team look like the Washington Generals, I had to go back to my momma - my sweet, beautiful momma who's brown eyes burn like 1,000 lamplights--I had to go back to her and say on bended knee (Gets down on one knee) 'Momma - Momma, I couldn't bring it home, Momma. THEY FAILED ME. THEY ALL FAILED ME.' (Pauses, then stands back up, dusting off his pant leg) I'm going to have to throw these away now... So what you're seeing is that the beginning of a great future in my past was ABORTED by wrestlers NOT GOOD ENOUGH to get it done when it mattered. Some of these people are in this 128-man field, and (Cackles loudly and pointing at the camera with his racket) I HAVE ANALYTICS ON ALL OF YOU. My mind is like the Hadron Collider - the world is afraid for me to put it to use! (Taps his head with the side of his racket) but what's contained inside my brilliant managerial brain, like the comic book Sentinels-or the Terminator T-series - I LEARN BY MY MISTAKES AND GROW DEADLIER--I never make the same error twice.
"That's why the Carlton DYNASTY - The greatest living family in the Sport of Kings - Professional Wrestling, has entered the Ultratitle Tournament with the perfect wrestler, the SMARTEST wrestler. The RICHEST wrestler. He is what he says he is--the FUTURE PERFECT. Blaine Hollywood WILL WIN this tournament, and there's nothing you can do about it! (Cackles!) Tell them yourself, Blaine!"
H'WOOD: (Speaking slowly) "My name is Blaine. Hollywood. I am the HEIR APPARENT of wrestling, born of royalty, BATHED IN SUCCESS, SHOWERED IN EDUCATION AND RICHES. You HAVE seen me, and I know that your worst nightmare is Blaine Hollywood's star rising and him ACCEPTING HIS PLACE AS THE FUTURE. The FUTURE ... (Rips away his sunglasses, revealing cold, piercing green eyes!) PERFECT.
"What CHURLS like the people in this tournament, like my opponent that I won't even garner the respect by addressing him by name call... a 'wristwatch', when priced at HUNDREDS of thousands of dollars, you crumbs--this can ONLY be called a TIMEPIECE... (holds up a sparkling black/silver Hublot watch on his wrist, and stares at it, squinting) this timepiece ... costs more than your families COMBINED income for 5 years. Money is my plaything. (Takes off the watch, stares at it for a beat, THEN PITCHES IT INTO THE OCEAN! CARLTON cackles in delight!) NO MATTER!
"It is already UNDERSTOOD that Blaine Hollywood radiates with the aura of someone ABOVE YOUR STATUS, and the air I breathe you shouldn't be allowed to come near. In my first round match, Bracket One (Shakes his head and scowls) One of the Dynasty assistants told me that the 'early numbers' are in, and they are underestimating Blaine Hollywood to move forward against my opponent? That the favorite is NOT BLAINE HOLLYWOOD. (Grits teeth) Probably the work of filthy shoegazer fans of my first VICTIM... (CARLTON holds up a big goose-egg hand gesture and mouths 'ZERO', looking through his fingers) and that is fine. As you know, I have NEVER worn a white hat, figuratively, OR literally. WE (motions to himself and CARLTON) are the ONE PERCENT YOU HEAR ABOUT, AND IT'S TRUE - WE DO NOT LIVE IN YOUR WORLD. If you thought that stuffing an online ballot box is going to get my shoulders pinned to the mat for three seconds it would... (inhales) BEHOOOOOVE YOU to slap yourself, because you may have been dreaming. I am one-half of the Hollywood Wrecking Crew, New Frontier Wrestling's PREMIERE tag team, and World Tagteam Champion for YEARS and YEARS on end at the time. I am one of the most VIOLENT and VINDICTIVE MEN in this business. I won't think TWICE (Snaps his fingers loudly) of breaking the back of a 300-pound man, or a 130-pound woman who's mouth got in the way of good common sense. What do you think I'd do to win the Ultratitle Tournament? I am saying it now. YOU ARE ON NOTICE. This man they have put me up against WILL NOT PROGRESS. It is nothing personal, and I will wholeheartedly avoid witty repartee' over your name, because I'm not like any other wrestler alive - I AM YOUR BETTER, not even for the myriad reasons I could easily list, but one stand out above all else--I AM AN OXONIAN. Fall into line and accept your fate as my first VICTIM on the road to the Ultratitle Trophy."
CARLTON: "Blaine Hollywood: ONE, And Zero? -- Well, you get where this is going."
H'WOOD: "When I speak - it is BIRDSONG. It is GOSPEL. And the word of an OXONIAN... IS AS GOOD-- (CARLTON steps in front of BLAINE, takes a knee and points up, nodding triumphantly) AS GOLD."
(The camera pans back up to the sky, as we hear CARLTON cackle and we FADE TO BLACK.)
(FADEIN: To a cloudless blue sky, which slowly pans down to the stern of "MOTHER'S MILK", one of the ridiculously large yachts in the private fleet of the CARLTON FAMILY. The yacht has about 6 decks and looks more like a miniature version of a cruise ship than a weekend warrior special. The camera pans left to put us face-to-face with CALVIN CARLTON, CEO and Portfolio Manager of CARLTON ENTERPRISES, and more importantly: The CARLTON WRESTLING DYNASTY. CARLTON is wearing Nautical whites with a striped polo sweater over his shoulders, and an ill-fitting Captains Hat on his head, white framed Ray Ban sunglasses, waving his trusty tennis racket "Ol' Bessie" maniacally at the camera, cackling. Standing next to him, hands on the rear railing and staring out into the ocean, is BLAINE HOLLYWOOD, wearing a Brooks' Brothers Nautical windbreaker, over a popped-collared pink shirt and white linen pants, big PRADA Euro shades on his face.)
CARLTON: (Cackling, and jabbing the tennis racket in the air like he's fencing with it) "Welcome to one of the many, many decks of the SS Mother's Milk--one of the LARGEST yachts in the world! This yacht was once owned by a sheik with a lot of consonants in his name, but after some run-ins with some nice old country-club associates employed by a little startup group named Blackwater, and a briefcase I didn't need back, it's MINE NOW. (Cackles and tips his Captains cap)
"SO IT BEGINS, the Ultratitle! (Smells the air) AHHHH, we meet again. My dalliance with the eagles began in New Frontier Wrestling, during the season format when I - CALVIN JAY CHALMERS CARLTON THE THIRD, Commissioner of the NFW South, managed some of the biggest names in the sport up to that coveted, golden trophy. Dan Ryan, HORNET, Eddy Love, Shane Southern! (H'WOOD grits his teeth, not breaking contact with the moving waters) even the great Joey Melton, my boyhood hero fell into line as I came THIS CLOSE to grasping that cherub, that golden idol, but something funny happened - (cuts the air with a violent downstroke!) NONE OF YOU BIGSHOTS GOT IT DONE. When I think of all of my managerial genius WASTED with a cast of greats that made the 1992 Summer Olympic USA Dream Team look like the Washington Generals, I had to go back to my momma - my sweet, beautiful momma who's brown eyes burn like 1,000 lamplights--I had to go back to her and say on bended knee (Gets down on one knee) 'Momma - Momma, I couldn't bring it home, Momma. THEY FAILED ME. THEY ALL FAILED ME.' (Pauses, then stands back up, dusting off his pant leg) I'm going to have to throw these away now... So what you're seeing is that the beginning of a great future in my past was ABORTED by wrestlers NOT GOOD ENOUGH to get it done when it mattered. Some of these people are in this 128-man field, and (Cackles loudly and pointing at the camera with his racket) I HAVE ANALYTICS ON ALL OF YOU. My mind is like the Hadron Collider - the world is afraid for me to put it to use! (Taps his head with the side of his racket) but what's contained inside my brilliant managerial brain, like the comic book Sentinels-or the Terminator T-series - I LEARN BY MY MISTAKES AND GROW DEADLIER--I never make the same error twice.
"That's why the Carlton DYNASTY - The greatest living family in the Sport of Kings - Professional Wrestling, has entered the Ultratitle Tournament with the perfect wrestler, the SMARTEST wrestler. The RICHEST wrestler. He is what he says he is--the FUTURE PERFECT. Blaine Hollywood WILL WIN this tournament, and there's nothing you can do about it! (Cackles!) Tell them yourself, Blaine!"
H'WOOD: (Speaking slowly) "My name is Blaine. Hollywood. I am the HEIR APPARENT of wrestling, born of royalty, BATHED IN SUCCESS, SHOWERED IN EDUCATION AND RICHES. You HAVE seen me, and I know that your worst nightmare is Blaine Hollywood's star rising and him ACCEPTING HIS PLACE AS THE FUTURE. The FUTURE ... (Rips away his sunglasses, revealing cold, piercing green eyes!) PERFECT.
"What CHURLS like the people in this tournament, like my opponent that I won't even garner the respect by addressing him by name call... a 'wristwatch', when priced at HUNDREDS of thousands of dollars, you crumbs--this can ONLY be called a TIMEPIECE... (holds up a sparkling black/silver Hublot watch on his wrist, and stares at it, squinting) this timepiece ... costs more than your families COMBINED income for 5 years. Money is my plaything. (Takes off the watch, stares at it for a beat, THEN PITCHES IT INTO THE OCEAN! CARLTON cackles in delight!) NO MATTER!
"It is already UNDERSTOOD that Blaine Hollywood radiates with the aura of someone ABOVE YOUR STATUS, and the air I breathe you shouldn't be allowed to come near. In my first round match, Bracket One (Shakes his head and scowls) One of the Dynasty assistants told me that the 'early numbers' are in, and they are underestimating Blaine Hollywood to move forward against my opponent? That the favorite is NOT BLAINE HOLLYWOOD. (Grits teeth) Probably the work of filthy shoegazer fans of my first VICTIM... (CARLTON holds up a big goose-egg hand gesture and mouths 'ZERO', looking through his fingers) and that is fine. As you know, I have NEVER worn a white hat, figuratively, OR literally. WE (motions to himself and CARLTON) are the ONE PERCENT YOU HEAR ABOUT, AND IT'S TRUE - WE DO NOT LIVE IN YOUR WORLD. If you thought that stuffing an online ballot box is going to get my shoulders pinned to the mat for three seconds it would... (inhales) BEHOOOOOVE YOU to slap yourself, because you may have been dreaming. I am one-half of the Hollywood Wrecking Crew, New Frontier Wrestling's PREMIERE tag team, and World Tagteam Champion for YEARS and YEARS on end at the time. I am one of the most VIOLENT and VINDICTIVE MEN in this business. I won't think TWICE (Snaps his fingers loudly) of breaking the back of a 300-pound man, or a 130-pound woman who's mouth got in the way of good common sense. What do you think I'd do to win the Ultratitle Tournament? I am saying it now. YOU ARE ON NOTICE. This man they have put me up against WILL NOT PROGRESS. It is nothing personal, and I will wholeheartedly avoid witty repartee' over your name, because I'm not like any other wrestler alive - I AM YOUR BETTER, not even for the myriad reasons I could easily list, but one stand out above all else--I AM AN OXONIAN. Fall into line and accept your fate as my first VICTIM on the road to the Ultratitle Trophy."
CARLTON: "Blaine Hollywood: ONE, And Zero? -- Well, you get where this is going."
H'WOOD: "When I speak - it is BIRDSONG. It is GOSPEL. And the word of an OXONIAN... IS AS GOOD-- (CARLTON steps in front of BLAINE, takes a knee and points up, nodding triumphantly) AS GOLD."
(The camera pans back up to the sky, as we hear CARLTON cackle and we FADE TO BLACK.)
bloxham
League Member
The snow fell into its rhythmic pattern against his window. The houseboat rocked in the shaky water next to the harbor's dock. Life was as typical in Portland, Maine. Life as it should be, or so the saying went. As he was concerned, he had been there so long, it's life as it had always been.
Or almost.
He looked into the mirror to see a face. He couldn't remember how he looked before. His beard was thick and long. His eyes peered from beneath thick, shaggy hair atop his head. This was who he was. Who he always was. Right? He pulled his hair away from his forehead to see the hairline. The sight was a ghostly memory of years past.
Lint Douglas propped himself against the sink and stared at the faucet. A decade had passed. The public said he vanished, but he saw his reflection in the mirror each and every day. He knew the truth. His first career path with a stint as a correctional officer at the Oakland Juvenile Center didn't fit. He was guarding those who he once was. There was no room for sympathy in that career after wrestling. After. In the audience's eye, anything he pursued as a working man was irrelevant to his existence. To the existence of Zero. That man died the day he walked out of fWo. His heart wasn't in it. At some point in his career, who he was became a character of who he was supposed to be.
He realized, who he was needed to be had ran its course, and who he was meant to be needed to leave. Leave wrestling. And leave the East Bay. He traveled north to Oregon but there was no work for him in Portland. Looking at a map, he needed a fresh outlook. A clean slate. So he made the Portland to Portland drive to see what opportunity might bestow upon him. He had nothing in Maine, but he had lost everything on the West coast. Lost, in a hurried shuffle to relieve himself of everything extra.
Lint looked back at himself in the mirror. Ten years in Maine. Who was he looking at? The man before him was older. A scar peaked out from his beard on his left cheek. Was the beard a way to cover even the literal scars? His right arm, once a pattern of tattoos, was covered over in a wash of solid black ink. Self-censorship. His attire now consisted of an assortment of general beige overalls and mud boots. It was a life of practicality. He had found solace, peace, and an escape from the world outside while on the Atlantic. It was objective, there was a goal, but he could sleep at night. He knew what the next day would bring. Natural disasters happened, but they were out of his control. He couldn't prevent them, and he knew it. This brought relief. A convenient coping mechanism, but as he scanned the history adorning each wrinkle across his visible face, he would accept it.
He looked over his shoulder to his bed. A plane ticket sat next to his packed suitcase. This upcoming trip brought back old terms.
The phrase, "hardcore icon."
A "reluctant hero."
What did they even mean? In the grand scheme, was there a point? Mere titles inside a circus of acrobats performing for a faceless, ever changing crowd each week. And for what? Fame and glory? A metal belt too large to function? At what point was he a character of himself?
What does that get someone?
Why was he doing this? There was nothing in the wrestling world he had to prove. Every fan had long since forgotten his name. He was making an embarrassment of himself by stepping back into this spotlight. His legacy and period of activity was long forgotten. There was no protégé he could be brought in to put over and cement their status. People cared about other things. He was a relic.
He had nothing to offer.
The past decade morphed a man once known as Zero into someone comfortable to let go of that life. Embracing the world as Lint Douglas, he formed only a shadow of the image once adorning coliseums. In the right light, the two were divergent paths of a single life. One could not exist without the other, but the latter had achieved something the former could only wish for.
Peace.
He looked back into the mirror, and down at the small photograph taped to the glass. It brought a smile to Lint’s face. With the spotlight warming up to shine once again, Zero was all that could protect this new life worth fighting for. He was the protector. He was the shield needed to maintain normalcy. Lint Douglas was sending Zero in his place.
He reached across the sink and grabbed a razor. He didn’t know what face he would see when the beard came off. He remembered an idea from dreams, but as dreams typically seem, the image was distant and blurry. But under the beard, he hoped he would find the mask belonging to Zero.
Or almost.
He looked into the mirror to see a face. He couldn't remember how he looked before. His beard was thick and long. His eyes peered from beneath thick, shaggy hair atop his head. This was who he was. Who he always was. Right? He pulled his hair away from his forehead to see the hairline. The sight was a ghostly memory of years past.
Lint Douglas propped himself against the sink and stared at the faucet. A decade had passed. The public said he vanished, but he saw his reflection in the mirror each and every day. He knew the truth. His first career path with a stint as a correctional officer at the Oakland Juvenile Center didn't fit. He was guarding those who he once was. There was no room for sympathy in that career after wrestling. After. In the audience's eye, anything he pursued as a working man was irrelevant to his existence. To the existence of Zero. That man died the day he walked out of fWo. His heart wasn't in it. At some point in his career, who he was became a character of who he was supposed to be.
He realized, who he was needed to be had ran its course, and who he was meant to be needed to leave. Leave wrestling. And leave the East Bay. He traveled north to Oregon but there was no work for him in Portland. Looking at a map, he needed a fresh outlook. A clean slate. So he made the Portland to Portland drive to see what opportunity might bestow upon him. He had nothing in Maine, but he had lost everything on the West coast. Lost, in a hurried shuffle to relieve himself of everything extra.
Lint looked back at himself in the mirror. Ten years in Maine. Who was he looking at? The man before him was older. A scar peaked out from his beard on his left cheek. Was the beard a way to cover even the literal scars? His right arm, once a pattern of tattoos, was covered over in a wash of solid black ink. Self-censorship. His attire now consisted of an assortment of general beige overalls and mud boots. It was a life of practicality. He had found solace, peace, and an escape from the world outside while on the Atlantic. It was objective, there was a goal, but he could sleep at night. He knew what the next day would bring. Natural disasters happened, but they were out of his control. He couldn't prevent them, and he knew it. This brought relief. A convenient coping mechanism, but as he scanned the history adorning each wrinkle across his visible face, he would accept it.
He looked over his shoulder to his bed. A plane ticket sat next to his packed suitcase. This upcoming trip brought back old terms.
The phrase, "hardcore icon."
A "reluctant hero."
What did they even mean? In the grand scheme, was there a point? Mere titles inside a circus of acrobats performing for a faceless, ever changing crowd each week. And for what? Fame and glory? A metal belt too large to function? At what point was he a character of himself?
What does that get someone?
Why was he doing this? There was nothing in the wrestling world he had to prove. Every fan had long since forgotten his name. He was making an embarrassment of himself by stepping back into this spotlight. His legacy and period of activity was long forgotten. There was no protégé he could be brought in to put over and cement their status. People cared about other things. He was a relic.
He had nothing to offer.
The past decade morphed a man once known as Zero into someone comfortable to let go of that life. Embracing the world as Lint Douglas, he formed only a shadow of the image once adorning coliseums. In the right light, the two were divergent paths of a single life. One could not exist without the other, but the latter had achieved something the former could only wish for.
Peace.
He looked back into the mirror, and down at the small photograph taped to the glass. It brought a smile to Lint’s face. With the spotlight warming up to shine once again, Zero was all that could protect this new life worth fighting for. He was the protector. He was the shield needed to maintain normalcy. Lint Douglas was sending Zero in his place.
He reached across the sink and grabbed a razor. He didn’t know what face he would see when the beard came off. He remembered an idea from dreams, but as dreams typically seem, the image was distant and blurry. But under the beard, he hoped he would find the mask belonging to Zero.
EastPrez
Pressure Chief
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 392
- Points
- 0
(FADEIN: To a motorcade stationed in the west wing of 'VALHALLA', the appropriately-named expanse that is home to the CARLTON FAMILY, and as we can see by the panning camera, several Bentley Mulsanne's, in five flavors, lined up outside on a slant, parked on smooth cobblestone and getting wiped down by a tall groundskeeper with a lambs' cloth. Suddenly, we hear n electric whirring noise, and from stage left, a multi-seat golf cart pulls up being driven by another groundskeeper in a CARLTON FAMILY polo and wraparound shades. In the next row sits CALVIN CARLTON with a blinking bluetooth in one ear, wearing Ray Bans, another gaudy Lakers-themed yellow and purple suit and holding "Ol' Bessie" with both hands between his legs like a walking cane. In the caboose, is BLAINE HOLLYWOOD, his back to the camera, wearing a white tuxedo and big european shades. CARLTON gets out of the cart, waving his racket like a lunatic. H'WOOD stays put, his back still towards us.)
CARLTON: (Cackles evilly and 'boops off' his bluetooth) "HOW DO YOU THINK I GOT SO RICH? (Laughs) Hello world, and welcome once again to Valhalla, where I, CALVIN JAY CHALMERS CARLTON THE THIRD, held a 5K marathon IN THE DRIVEWAY. I live in a place of wealth where I have brought young women home and LOST THEM HERE. Sometimes they'll resurface months later from the finely manicured topiary shaped like animals, looking like a contestant from "Survivor" in need of delousing. It's not my fault that a man of my stature, intelligence, class and OPULENCE (smooths down his tie with one hand) gets to live a life of extravagance, prestige and luxury that you couldn't dream of living! Even if you WON Mega Powerballs lotto - it won't matter because MONEY CAN'T BUY YOU CLASS, and you STILL wouldn't know which fork to use with the 5th course of a meal. I have BLUE BLOOD running through my flawless caramel-brown skin, but guess what, poor people? MONEY IS GREEN, and the most important color in my world. You hate me for being better than you! You may also hate me for being a staunch Republican and having Google+ Hangout chats with Mitt Romney and Herman Cain, where all Herman wants to talk about is his level-50 Orc Warlock in World of Warcraft. YOU WISH YOU HAD THE CLIENTELE I POSSESS. I have never been held down in life, either in school, or in business - the boardroom or (cackles) even the BEDROOM! (Purses his lips and thrusts his racket at the camera) UNGH! UNGH! I can get ANYTHING that I desire because of what I have in my pants. And that thing is my WALLET."
(H'WOOD turns his head and scoffs)
CARLTON: "That's right. MONEY TALKS, friend, and as far as my charge, Blaine Hollywood is concerned? The Carlton Family DYNASTY has nothing to worry about in that department, but apparently, our opponent... (cackles) would rather spend airtime shaving(!) than addressing the man that in a very short period of time is going to BREAK YOUR BACK and send you accelerating your scooter by blowing into a tube back to your floating mobile home shanty you call a house. I hope you can get that boat up to ADA code, because they're going to have to install a wheelchair ramp-slash-plank to get your crippled patootie inside! (laughs!) Zero, here is some unwarranted advice: watching your little promo tape, I've noticed, that beyond not knowing how to address YOUR BETTERS IN LIFE, you're also not getting the best possible, close correct shave. As the young kids say, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG. What you need to do... (CARLTON grabs his face, pulling it down, and using the edge of his tennis racket, runs it down his cheek) You first, work WITH the grain, not against it, ZERO... and then, as you get to the neck area... (CAL violently rakes the racket across his throat) KILL YOURSELF. That's right, you should have CUT YOUR THROAT, thinking that you could make a successful comeback to WRESTLING... at ULTRATITLE... AGAINST BLAINE HOLLYWOOD? THAT... is a fools' errand.
"And from what I've seen of you, Zero - you're one of those (Air quotes) HARDCORE wrestlers. A guy that wants to make beautiful rich people like ourselves UGLY like YOURSELF by smashing us in the face with household appliances. That's not going to happen here, no! (Shakes head and waggles the racket) You think I'm going to let you come at Blaine Hollywood with said fork that you would use out-of-order in our match? If you stab Blaine Hollywood with a fork, THAT IS ASSAULT! You don't want to go to JAIL, do you? That may be a step up from that shack you showed on camera that looks like a B-reel from a Hoarders: Buried Alive episode. (Grabs his neck) I should bring up papers against you just for being poor, Zero - but trust - I WILL litigate if you come into my Round One match with an intention to strike, pierce, puncture or slice Blaine with a edged weapon."
"And the Carltons know a few things about dealing with idiots and court cases. I'm no stranger to litigation. Slip and Falls in front of my 20-foot marble fountain of a cherub pissing on the head of homeless children? That's a Tuesday. You think I've never pissed on the head of a filthy ward of the state? That's Tuesday AFTERNOONS. I know how to fight a case and I know how to present one, Zero - don't make yourself an example. When my group of lawyers go into court, the judges affectionately refer to it as SHARK WEEK. Let's not make this difficult, Zero, just barricade yourself inside your tugboat shack with your old soiled diapers, newspapers and cat skeletons, and turn on the oven and let the gas work it's magic. It's probably in those moments before death, when you're walking to the light, you'll smile to yourself, knowing that you made the RIGHT CHOICE rather than face Blaine Hollywood in the ring."
H'WOOD: (Still staring ahead, his back still to the camera) "YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO SEE MY COUNTENANCE. My 3/4 profile is MORE than enough, as the radiance of my visage could strike you blind. (CARLTON cackles) The moments leading up to this contest have been ANTICLIMACTIC to say the least. I would have thought, with all of the bluster and brio those churls out there have made about this contest, let me consider this one fine point: MY OPPONENT'S NAME IS ... (breathes) LINT. (CARLTON dusts off his shoulder, cackling) That should be the end of my promo right here. You see, it would BEHOOOOOOVE you to understand what you're getting yourself into, "LINT". (Shudders) You seem to have the people fooled, whomever the people who would PAY ACTUAL MONEY to see someone like you wrestle and hold their promotions' war banner. I AM BLAINE HOLLYWOOD. I ... am an OXONIAN. If you can't process what that means, or can't afford the means to access 15-minutes of a wifi hotspot to look it up, it means I am a graduate of OXFORD UNIVERSITY. THAT, is in ENGLAND. And being an Oxonian carries carte blanche - one of those things being that I do not collude with COMMONERS. You, "LINT", are BENEATH MY PURVIEW and as such, are not worthy of my full attention. What WILL happen, at Ultratitle, is that if you don't kill yourself first, is that I will soundly THRASH you, then just as quickly DESTROY YOUR SPINE after my finisher. You won't see it coming - but I'm sure that's nothing new to you. I am declaring it HERE AND NOW, and listen to the sound of my voice - BLAINE HOLLYWOOD WILL ADVANCE. What an Oxonian says is TRUTH. It is GOSPEL. It is CANON. AND WHAT BLAINE HOLLYWOOD SAYS--"
CARLTON: "IS AS GOOD AS GOLD!"
(CARLTON cackles and gets back in the golf cart, and motions with his racket to "engage", as the cart takes off with a lurch! FADEOUT)
CARLTON: (Cackles evilly and 'boops off' his bluetooth) "HOW DO YOU THINK I GOT SO RICH? (Laughs) Hello world, and welcome once again to Valhalla, where I, CALVIN JAY CHALMERS CARLTON THE THIRD, held a 5K marathon IN THE DRIVEWAY. I live in a place of wealth where I have brought young women home and LOST THEM HERE. Sometimes they'll resurface months later from the finely manicured topiary shaped like animals, looking like a contestant from "Survivor" in need of delousing. It's not my fault that a man of my stature, intelligence, class and OPULENCE (smooths down his tie with one hand) gets to live a life of extravagance, prestige and luxury that you couldn't dream of living! Even if you WON Mega Powerballs lotto - it won't matter because MONEY CAN'T BUY YOU CLASS, and you STILL wouldn't know which fork to use with the 5th course of a meal. I have BLUE BLOOD running through my flawless caramel-brown skin, but guess what, poor people? MONEY IS GREEN, and the most important color in my world. You hate me for being better than you! You may also hate me for being a staunch Republican and having Google+ Hangout chats with Mitt Romney and Herman Cain, where all Herman wants to talk about is his level-50 Orc Warlock in World of Warcraft. YOU WISH YOU HAD THE CLIENTELE I POSSESS. I have never been held down in life, either in school, or in business - the boardroom or (cackles) even the BEDROOM! (Purses his lips and thrusts his racket at the camera) UNGH! UNGH! I can get ANYTHING that I desire because of what I have in my pants. And that thing is my WALLET."
(H'WOOD turns his head and scoffs)
CARLTON: "That's right. MONEY TALKS, friend, and as far as my charge, Blaine Hollywood is concerned? The Carlton Family DYNASTY has nothing to worry about in that department, but apparently, our opponent... (cackles) would rather spend airtime shaving(!) than addressing the man that in a very short period of time is going to BREAK YOUR BACK and send you accelerating your scooter by blowing into a tube back to your floating mobile home shanty you call a house. I hope you can get that boat up to ADA code, because they're going to have to install a wheelchair ramp-slash-plank to get your crippled patootie inside! (laughs!) Zero, here is some unwarranted advice: watching your little promo tape, I've noticed, that beyond not knowing how to address YOUR BETTERS IN LIFE, you're also not getting the best possible, close correct shave. As the young kids say, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG. What you need to do... (CARLTON grabs his face, pulling it down, and using the edge of his tennis racket, runs it down his cheek) You first, work WITH the grain, not against it, ZERO... and then, as you get to the neck area... (CAL violently rakes the racket across his throat) KILL YOURSELF. That's right, you should have CUT YOUR THROAT, thinking that you could make a successful comeback to WRESTLING... at ULTRATITLE... AGAINST BLAINE HOLLYWOOD? THAT... is a fools' errand.
"And from what I've seen of you, Zero - you're one of those (Air quotes) HARDCORE wrestlers. A guy that wants to make beautiful rich people like ourselves UGLY like YOURSELF by smashing us in the face with household appliances. That's not going to happen here, no! (Shakes head and waggles the racket) You think I'm going to let you come at Blaine Hollywood with said fork that you would use out-of-order in our match? If you stab Blaine Hollywood with a fork, THAT IS ASSAULT! You don't want to go to JAIL, do you? That may be a step up from that shack you showed on camera that looks like a B-reel from a Hoarders: Buried Alive episode. (Grabs his neck) I should bring up papers against you just for being poor, Zero - but trust - I WILL litigate if you come into my Round One match with an intention to strike, pierce, puncture or slice Blaine with a edged weapon."
"And the Carltons know a few things about dealing with idiots and court cases. I'm no stranger to litigation. Slip and Falls in front of my 20-foot marble fountain of a cherub pissing on the head of homeless children? That's a Tuesday. You think I've never pissed on the head of a filthy ward of the state? That's Tuesday AFTERNOONS. I know how to fight a case and I know how to present one, Zero - don't make yourself an example. When my group of lawyers go into court, the judges affectionately refer to it as SHARK WEEK. Let's not make this difficult, Zero, just barricade yourself inside your tugboat shack with your old soiled diapers, newspapers and cat skeletons, and turn on the oven and let the gas work it's magic. It's probably in those moments before death, when you're walking to the light, you'll smile to yourself, knowing that you made the RIGHT CHOICE rather than face Blaine Hollywood in the ring."
H'WOOD: (Still staring ahead, his back still to the camera) "YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO SEE MY COUNTENANCE. My 3/4 profile is MORE than enough, as the radiance of my visage could strike you blind. (CARLTON cackles) The moments leading up to this contest have been ANTICLIMACTIC to say the least. I would have thought, with all of the bluster and brio those churls out there have made about this contest, let me consider this one fine point: MY OPPONENT'S NAME IS ... (breathes) LINT. (CARLTON dusts off his shoulder, cackling) That should be the end of my promo right here. You see, it would BEHOOOOOOVE you to understand what you're getting yourself into, "LINT". (Shudders) You seem to have the people fooled, whomever the people who would PAY ACTUAL MONEY to see someone like you wrestle and hold their promotions' war banner. I AM BLAINE HOLLYWOOD. I ... am an OXONIAN. If you can't process what that means, or can't afford the means to access 15-minutes of a wifi hotspot to look it up, it means I am a graduate of OXFORD UNIVERSITY. THAT, is in ENGLAND. And being an Oxonian carries carte blanche - one of those things being that I do not collude with COMMONERS. You, "LINT", are BENEATH MY PURVIEW and as such, are not worthy of my full attention. What WILL happen, at Ultratitle, is that if you don't kill yourself first, is that I will soundly THRASH you, then just as quickly DESTROY YOUR SPINE after my finisher. You won't see it coming - but I'm sure that's nothing new to you. I am declaring it HERE AND NOW, and listen to the sound of my voice - BLAINE HOLLYWOOD WILL ADVANCE. What an Oxonian says is TRUTH. It is GOSPEL. It is CANON. AND WHAT BLAINE HOLLYWOOD SAYS--"
CARLTON: "IS AS GOOD AS GOLD!"
(CARLTON cackles and gets back in the golf cart, and motions with his racket to "engage", as the cart takes off with a lurch! FADEOUT)
bloxham
League Member
At the Detroit International Airport, the rumble from the concourse train overhead pulled his eyes upward. There was a two-hour layover from Portland to the site of the first round of the Ultratitle Tournament. Overlays mean different things to different people. For some, they were a chance to rest between flights. For others, a brief one provided an opportunity to catch up on jogging abilities. For Lint Douglas, there was no rest. The mere presence of an airport terminal was as foreign now as the fast paced shuffle of business suits with their carry-ons. He had not been on a plane since his last wrestling appearance in 2002.
He stirred in his seat. His heart rate was accelerated as he shuffled in his position. He couldn’t rest. Nerves had set their sights on him. It had been so long, the uncertainty of what this upcoming world now meant kept him on edge. He second-guessed himself. Doubt was setting in. He couldn’t let it control him.
He grabbed his duffle and started walking. Between concourses B and C, and concourse A, an underground tunnel connected the two. It was lit only by changing ambient light peering through acrylic wall designs, and contained a background sound of organic noises. Even the most frantic of paces would be positively affected by the soothing nature of this area. He had passed through it a half hour earlier. Perhaps it would bring peace to his racing mind of worries.
He wasn’t ready for this. The call had been unexpected. It was a long shot proposal from an insider with connections to the wrestling world. It was a miracle he had even been able to track Lint down. People did not move to Maine to increase their public exposure. With a dropped call or no service ratio unsurpassed in the nation, people move there to disappear and create a new life. The new frontier of America was the originating soil from the founding. He didn’t even own wrestling gear. His duffle was crammed with equipment rented out from NWA On Fire. They didn’t even recognize him when he signed his name on the receipt.
Coming upon the escalator down, Lint looked to his right and saw his reflection in the window. It startled him. The previous night was the shedding of years worth of growth and unkempt stubble. The hair that washed down the sink was the fragments of who he knew himself to be. The person in the reflection was an imposter. His reshaping of memories, forgotten and forced to assimilate.
He looked down to his duffle, as though it were the security blanket of reassurance that he was doing the right thing. He had been quick to accept and make the phone calls needed to throw his name into the competition. It was compulsive and contrary to everything he was. But the call had arrived during a pursuit for an answer. This opportunity felt like the solution to a problem.
Stepping into the tunnel, he walked a few yards into the middle walkway. The cascading lights flashed over and enveloped him in a wash of red and yellow tones while the chorus of music slowly infiltrated his senses. He could feel the apprehension begin to slide away. He closed his eyes. He could do this. Years ago, this worry was not possible for him. But in the present, this lifestyle did not exist. He would be rusty. More than rusty. He would be a novelty case, and would probably blow up within the five-minute mark of his scheduled match. He was still in shape. His line of work now required it. But his conditioning was for a whole separate regime. And there were the people. A spotlight of eyes looking at him. What was that experience like? Was the rushing blood flow adrenaline or butterflies? Or both?
Enough.
He opened his eyes to this self-doubt and took a deep breath. He held it and waited. And waited. He was within an hour of boarding a plane. There was no turning back. As he exhaled, he reached into his pocket and looked at a photograph he had packed on his person. This was his reassurance of a correct decision. If he could achieve this, it could be a whole new type of success.
In his other pocket, he felt the vibration of his phone alert him of a text message. He put the photograph back into his pocket and reached into the other to retrieve the message.
“u don’t have 2 do this” it said.
And as quickly as it was received, the phone began to ring from the same person. Lint let it ring twice, and then accepted the call. On the other line, a voice quietly greeted him. He pressed his ear to the phone and listened for a moment. The voice mixed together with the aura of sounds all around him.
The red glow emanating from the acrylic flashed white and was replaced by a pulsating green cast. As the light fell upon his seated body, his face received the hue deep into his eye sockets. From a particular perspective, he resembled the image of the wizard from Oz, a powerfully perceived man whom a group of flawed yet determined people took a pilgrimage to see. Their hope was that he could rescue them from each of their specific predicaments. It turned out he was just a simple man playing a character, a persona needed to run his kingdom. One was needed with the other, he was one and both, at the same time.
If Lint was going to save his own people, he had to embrace the reflection from earlier. The one that startled him. The image that travelers passed by as he sat there on the walkway floor. He could be both. But sometimes, only Zero was truly the answer.
He took a deep breath and interrupted her on the phone. “I’m doing this,” he said. “Not for myself. I have what I need. But, not everyone does.” He paused, and she paused. He took the photograph back out of his pocket. The smile of optimistic hope from the prior night returned to his face. “That will change.”
She began to speak again. Unseen to her, he raised a hand in the air to protest.
“Please,” he said. “This is the only way. I am glad to do it.”
He looked ahead to the arm rail of the moving walkway. In the lower glass of its supporting walls, staring back at him was the man others assumed him to be. As he stared into this reflection, his anxiety and lack of recognition slowly gave way to assurance and acceptance.
“Let me,” he told her, while gazing at this reflection, “…be Zero.”
Live. Breathe. Die.
He stirred in his seat. His heart rate was accelerated as he shuffled in his position. He couldn’t rest. Nerves had set their sights on him. It had been so long, the uncertainty of what this upcoming world now meant kept him on edge. He second-guessed himself. Doubt was setting in. He couldn’t let it control him.
He grabbed his duffle and started walking. Between concourses B and C, and concourse A, an underground tunnel connected the two. It was lit only by changing ambient light peering through acrylic wall designs, and contained a background sound of organic noises. Even the most frantic of paces would be positively affected by the soothing nature of this area. He had passed through it a half hour earlier. Perhaps it would bring peace to his racing mind of worries.
He wasn’t ready for this. The call had been unexpected. It was a long shot proposal from an insider with connections to the wrestling world. It was a miracle he had even been able to track Lint down. People did not move to Maine to increase their public exposure. With a dropped call or no service ratio unsurpassed in the nation, people move there to disappear and create a new life. The new frontier of America was the originating soil from the founding. He didn’t even own wrestling gear. His duffle was crammed with equipment rented out from NWA On Fire. They didn’t even recognize him when he signed his name on the receipt.
Coming upon the escalator down, Lint looked to his right and saw his reflection in the window. It startled him. The previous night was the shedding of years worth of growth and unkempt stubble. The hair that washed down the sink was the fragments of who he knew himself to be. The person in the reflection was an imposter. His reshaping of memories, forgotten and forced to assimilate.
He looked down to his duffle, as though it were the security blanket of reassurance that he was doing the right thing. He had been quick to accept and make the phone calls needed to throw his name into the competition. It was compulsive and contrary to everything he was. But the call had arrived during a pursuit for an answer. This opportunity felt like the solution to a problem.
Stepping into the tunnel, he walked a few yards into the middle walkway. The cascading lights flashed over and enveloped him in a wash of red and yellow tones while the chorus of music slowly infiltrated his senses. He could feel the apprehension begin to slide away. He closed his eyes. He could do this. Years ago, this worry was not possible for him. But in the present, this lifestyle did not exist. He would be rusty. More than rusty. He would be a novelty case, and would probably blow up within the five-minute mark of his scheduled match. He was still in shape. His line of work now required it. But his conditioning was for a whole separate regime. And there were the people. A spotlight of eyes looking at him. What was that experience like? Was the rushing blood flow adrenaline or butterflies? Or both?
Enough.
He opened his eyes to this self-doubt and took a deep breath. He held it and waited. And waited. He was within an hour of boarding a plane. There was no turning back. As he exhaled, he reached into his pocket and looked at a photograph he had packed on his person. This was his reassurance of a correct decision. If he could achieve this, it could be a whole new type of success.
In his other pocket, he felt the vibration of his phone alert him of a text message. He put the photograph back into his pocket and reached into the other to retrieve the message.
“u don’t have 2 do this” it said.
And as quickly as it was received, the phone began to ring from the same person. Lint let it ring twice, and then accepted the call. On the other line, a voice quietly greeted him. He pressed his ear to the phone and listened for a moment. The voice mixed together with the aura of sounds all around him.
The red glow emanating from the acrylic flashed white and was replaced by a pulsating green cast. As the light fell upon his seated body, his face received the hue deep into his eye sockets. From a particular perspective, he resembled the image of the wizard from Oz, a powerfully perceived man whom a group of flawed yet determined people took a pilgrimage to see. Their hope was that he could rescue them from each of their specific predicaments. It turned out he was just a simple man playing a character, a persona needed to run his kingdom. One was needed with the other, he was one and both, at the same time.
If Lint was going to save his own people, he had to embrace the reflection from earlier. The one that startled him. The image that travelers passed by as he sat there on the walkway floor. He could be both. But sometimes, only Zero was truly the answer.
He took a deep breath and interrupted her on the phone. “I’m doing this,” he said. “Not for myself. I have what I need. But, not everyone does.” He paused, and she paused. He took the photograph back out of his pocket. The smile of optimistic hope from the prior night returned to his face. “That will change.”
She began to speak again. Unseen to her, he raised a hand in the air to protest.
“Please,” he said. “This is the only way. I am glad to do it.”
He looked ahead to the arm rail of the moving walkway. In the lower glass of its supporting walls, staring back at him was the man others assumed him to be. As he stared into this reflection, his anxiety and lack of recognition slowly gave way to assurance and acceptance.
“Let me,” he told her, while gazing at this reflection, “…be Zero.”
Live. Breathe. Die.
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