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RUSH HOUR: Russ Spackler v. Ivan Dalkichev

brusch

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RUSH HOUR match thread

Red Crown Championship Match
Russ Spackler v. Ivan Dalkichev

- no word limit
- no stacking
- RP deadline: Sunday, December 21 at 11:59pm Red Line Time

 

RStrawsma

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Big Shoulders

CUE UP: "Mars, the Bringer of War" from The Planets suite, by Gustav Holst.

(The shot opens on a panoramic view of the CHICAGO SKYLINE, shaded and speckled with lit windows before an evening sky. From here, the hustle and bustle of the city is a soft din in the background... but the voice of NATHAN FEAR cuts through as deep and velvety as the voice of the Devil.)

Nathan Fear
...a beautiful city, wouldn't you say? Although I suppose it depends on your perspective...

(On the left side of the shot, the ghostly reflection of Fear materializes, smiling ambitiously as he gazes downward.)

Nathan Fear
But from my perspective -- which is the only one that truly matters, as far as I'm concerned -- what I see is a cornucopia of opportunity. I see a stepping stone... one big, colossal stepping stone... paving the way to a colossal level of greatness!

(Appearing now opposite of Fear emerges "THE LAST TITAN" IVAN DALKICHEV, his phantom image hovering over the Windy City like an elder god risen out of Lake Michigan. His stone-like gaze broods over the city with a giant's sense of indifference.)

Nathan Fear
Ironic... that Carl Sandburg once called it the City of the Big Shoulders. And here you are now, Ivan... the biggest set of shoulders within a hundred miles... on the cusp of becoming the KING of all of Chicago!

(The camera tracks back, as the backsides of Fear and Dalkichev come into view, mirroring the stances of their reflections in the large window overlooking the city.)

Nathan Fear
And all that you need to claim that throne is to take the crown. The Red Crown Championship, to be precise... funny how they name a belt after a royal headpiece. But then, there are more funny things with this Red Line Wrestling than I can count at this point...

(Fear turns from the window to face the camera, his face melting into a disgusted grimace.)

Nathan Fear
Anarchists in Australian mammal costumes? Fat, blundering German berzerkers? ...GO-GO SPECTACULAR? There's no end to the madness... and then of course, there's your opponent... "SCI-FI" RUSS SPACKLER.

(The name pique's Dalkichev's attention, as his head slowly turns and a cold blue eye peeks back over his massive shoulder. Nathan Fear shakes his head pitifully.)

Nathan Fear
It truly says something about just how low the indie leagues have gotten these days, when a genuinely ELITE-level talent like you ends up carrying the championship main event at this goofy "EYE"-Pay-Per-View against a man who came to the ring at Slamtrack 5 dressed as a literal SNOT MONSTER. But that's what you get when you dip your feet in the regional circuit... a lot of carny costume riff-raff, hiding behind their props and their gimmicks for an insignificant smattering of low-brow and ill-humored local draw.

(Fear looks almost nauseated, eye twitching as he does everything to hold back his revulsion.)

Nathan Fear
This sort of... FILTH... would normally be below us, Ivan. But I can assure you... once you wipe this Russ Spackler into the canvas like wiping a human booger off of your finger, and proclaim yourself the RED CROWN CHAMPION of Red Line Wrestling... it won't be long before we set our sights beyond the confines of this miserable city... and span them across the entire GLOBE!

(Ivan remains silent... letting these words sink in as his head turns back toward the window. Only now he doesn't seem to be looking at the skyscrapers... but instead looking toward the darkening skies beyond them. Fear's sharp gaze finds the camera. There is no love in his face for the Red Line viewership... now only a reserved sense of indignation.)

Nathan Fear
Red Line Wrestling... you've made every effort to devalue my claims and make a mockery of my esteemed client's talent. But NO LONGER... will you be able to protect your banal and embarrassingly stupid D-listers through your pointless wildcard tag-team matches and triple-threat contests. At RUSH HOUR, this wretched company will FINALLY bear witness to "The Last Titan" Ivan Dalkichev in a good, honest one-on-one contest!

There's no more room for excuses... no more dubious pinfall rulings. For once and for all, this world will watch the Crimson Colossus that I have wreaked upon the wrestling world DOMINATE the ring as he was always meant to! Mark my words, he WILL be crowned the champion of this federation, and he will set a NEW standard of elite-level wrestling!

It's time to show you, Chicago... what REAL big shoulders look like!

(Dalkichev slowly turns away from the window... Fear, as though sensing the sudden shift in gravity, steps to the side... and "The Last Titan's" cold blue eyes find the camera as his lips curl into a sneer.)

Ivan Dalkichev
You will listen... Spackler.

It matters not how you come to the ring this time... Sharknado? Boogerman? Vampire velociraptor? It matters not... because these are all fake monsters from terrible movies... just like you are fake wrestler. But me?

(His rage begins to rise as he advances on the camera, practically LOOMING over anybody who's watching... hands raising up and clenching the air in front of his face.)

Ivan Dalkichev
I am a real monster, Spackler.

And I WILL BREAK YOU... in VERY REAL WAYS!

I will TAKE the RED CROWN CHAMPIONSHIP over your broken body... but I have no interest in crowns.

I am MORE than a king... MORE than a GOD...

(His snarling face FILLS the entire frame, voice roaring with such a magnitude it could void bowels across all of Chicago.)

Ivan Dalkichev
I AM... A TITAN!!

(...and in an instant, he's GONE, with heavy footfalls receding off in the distance. Fear appears once again, still standing a few paces back from the camera as he watches Ivan depart. His sinister smile of sick satisfaction appears once again as he looks to the camera. A moment later, we fade to black as he walks after him.)
 

fartknocker

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Re: Big Shoulders

”RUSS SMASH!”

We open in front of the trusty Red Line Wrestling backdrop, where a green-with-envy-and-paint Russ Spackler is filled with energy and still covered in Cookie’s nose goo. Said provider of boogs in question is a few giant steps to the back and left as Spackler PUNCHES an apple babka into smithereens. Not satisfied, a pair of valenki boots sits idly by. “Sci-Fi” angrily lifts them up, delivering a DOUBLE SUPLEX to the boots, showing them who is boss. Obviously, this destruction of Russian culture is intended to send a message. Just to make sure the message is clear, however, Russ begins to settle his tea kettle and turn his attention toward the camera.

”Whew, I feel better. Sorry folks, sinus problems.”

A grinnish-grimace comes over the face of the eccentric competitor, as he continues.

”Red Linery, your support for me shall not be wiped over like a Kleenex on a runny nose, and while the circumstances behind my VICTORY OVER KID KOALA TO GET IVAN DALKICHEV IN THIS MATCH IN THE FIRST PLACE might have not necessarily been of my own efforts, I promise not to disappoint you.

“Yes, unlike a post-nasal drip...I will NOT just take credit to the fact that IF IT WEREN’T FOR ME, IVAN DALKICHEV WOULD NOT ALSO BE IN THE MAIN EVENT AT RUSH HOUR, but instead be satisfied that the cards have seemed to blow themselves my way.”

A slow dollop of gak begins to slide down from Russ’s hair onto his cheek, which he slowly wipes away and onto the back of his denim cutoff shorts, continuing.

”In Russia, it is cold. Well, Ivan and Nathan, in case you haven’t noticed, I AM the living embodiment of a cold. So yeah, big deal Russia is cold.

“In Ivan’s shoulders, it is big. Well, Ivan and Nathan, in case you haven’t noticed, shoulders don’t really do anything but shrug. So yeah, big deal, shoulders are big.

“And at Rush Hour, I will finish what I STARTED AT SLAMTRACK BY WINNING THE MATCH, counting on the fact that the same set of circumstances will happen where I am able to cover you while you are knocked out. Because it’s BOOGER TIME.”


Fade.
 

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