Post by styles on Aug 31, 2012 1:07:07 GMT -5
It’s the silence that stills your soul, this time around. No puppets, scantily clad women, or intimidating fires as props, or mindless secondary characters.
No, not this time around. A different approach is truly noticed as the camera lens, the slightly hazed technological eyes, seemingly revel in this silence. A silence draped by concrete and steel. More specifically, an empty dimly-lit stairwell. Trimmed with steel safety railings, painted in burgundy, the simple, cold concrete stairs travel another floor up, and possibly, more than that. A light inside it’s plastic, rectangular scabbard displays it’s short circuit as we begin to travel down the flight like a bold drunkard show-off. You know this place well, for it's the same place that performed an amazing act of resuscitation on Scotty Lauren's career. A living deprivation chamber, this particular, nondescript stairwell reveals itself to be. Something, almost, from a fable's script. Sanctuary, abnormally, wrapping her arms around anyone who would spare only a few seconds of their time.
A ragged breath falls on her bare, concrete, ears
"Where...Where have you been? Why did you leave??" The owner of the haggard breath says with a twinge of mockery and disdain. Of course, his voice is familiar. He's worked here. Then again, you knew that didn't you - damned internet marks. Save the twenty minute resume` introduction for somebody who gives a shit, or someone who actually deserves it. The short-circuiting light flashes irregularly, blazing the building's trepidation upon the sad fellow that sits before you. His head hangs low, almost to the surface of the step below him. His black-clad knees, drawn up to his face and punctuated by black and white rubber that provides a decent rendezvous point for air play. On his folded-over person lays the threads of an unwashed, nondescript black hooded sweatshirt.
"What happened...to you?"
A harsh cough, one not at all expected, rips throughout the quaint contingency of the staircase. Some kind of answer, huh?
He seemed like an eerie kind of child-like with the large hood of his black sweatshirt playing the role of security blanket. Exposing only what is needed of him, in essence, to get this moment of sorely-needed air time...only to simulate a small retreat when the uneven blinking of the stairwell light comes his way.
"This is what I'm greeted with. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Twenty-five questions from some jilted love...and this is what I come home to?"
A pause brings the calm back to cement dep. tank. A rather unfulfilling pause...something lacking and out of place. With the pulsating light blaring uncontrollably in the background, he sits in his troubled rendition of Rodan's Thinker with his head propped half-heartedly in his slender, scarred hands. Stunning, what time can do to a man. The same man who took great joy and delight in berating his supposed equals, night after night, on live television. The same character who disclosed to a capacity audience his views on the whole 'there is no "I" in team' shite by unceremoniously ridding himself of his makeshift buddy-film partner. He probably enjoyed that one, too. Scratch that, he enjoyed it...would've wrote home to mom about it, but there's that whole 'dead' thing.
Though, tonight, something is lacking.
"Where have you been? WHERE have you been? When are you coming back?? <sighs> Oh yeah, the words bounced off the crumbling walls of my frontal lobe like the high-pitched wails of an ego-centric child wanting his sweets after he's had his fill. You need to come back. PLEASE, come back. What THE FUCK happened to you??"
A scoff bounces off the concrete walls.
"Those were the sixty-four million dollar questions. Plural. raises his hands on either side of his drooped head How about my wife and unborn child? How about you? Of course...there was nothing. drops his hands No, "it was a shame what happened to you." No, "how are you feeling?" There was no sympathy. Only, when ya gonna come back and bodyslam somebody!? When ya gonna come back and cuss somemore on T.V? When ya gonna dance like a monkey and get a golden belt?"
pause....
"What else should I have expected? Nobody ever gave a damn, no matter how many wrapped baskets I get from the front office. No condolences and no empathy...then again, I don't know why I felt like I was going to get that. I don't know why I felt like I had actually earned that slim amount of respect from the company and, from the fans. I was fucking wrong, like always...but, of course, everybody wanted to know when I was coming back. WHEN THEIR fXs was coming BACK!"
His pain, however buried, was becoming evident by the patronizing tone reverberating off the close-quartered concrete walls. A heavy sigh falls from his, equally, heavy soul as he brings a hand slowly to his eye level. The camera takes in the anger-filled pulsing veins that branch and dance around his index and middle fingers, tensed and formed into a humanoid claw. His breaths change, from the norm. The eerie calm that trademarked his character, his entire career...was gone. Painful heaves cause his torso to flux, which brings his cloaked head, forcefully, to his pair of ragged talons.
Never let 'em see you sweat, Fred...
"They didn't care about you. his head starts shakes to and fro, slowly The loving signs. The birthday cards. The fuckin' company bonding outings. The bastards never cared. You were just another dollar sign to them."
It seems like he's choking back the words, fighting off a most despicable of emotion with his bare, dark brown claws clutching at his face. Then, a raw, mucus-filled snort fills the confined area.
"It's always about the money, baby. We knew that, don't be naive. It's not you can anymore, can you? sighs, then a quick out-of-place laugh Furthermore, here you were praising the MPW. "Affliction's way more gayer than the MPW", you said. At least, those bastards played like they gave some sort of a damn. Here, you didn't even get a couple of seconds. Here, the big fuckin' event was the turmoil of the MPW and the straying of the Golden Goose - an event so big, they even based a Pay per view off it. snorts The pigs. sniffles ...and of course, when's fXs gonna actually show up?"
A noticeable delay pauses this emotional scene on your television for a short moment while an MPW intern sits stewing in his own fluids due to the apparent nervous breakdown he's witnessing. The action continues with the footage catching up to the sight of him swaying his body to an invisible drum - his head still clamped inside his hands.
"The MPW powers that be...want to irk me. All apart trying to make a buck off my good name, they play their role very convincingly. Then again, in a world where hypocrites and all-around douchebags - such as professional wrestling...small laugh his impetuous role might seem pristine to the masses. And OH, how I wish to be one of the mindless..! Unfortunately, I'm not...and I just wonder how much your blood-drained heart and chair-beaten brain have been tortured with the departure of your formerly fearless leader."
You know he's smirking under that hood...or, at least, he wants to.
Another pause fills the stairwell for a short moment. Then, with both of his hands, he pushes back the large hood first exposing a full head of jet black hair resembling a compressed afro of sorts. His face is trimmed with thin, voluminous sideburns ending at the butt of his chin with a hanging goatee. His eyes are rapt with redness, and his jaw line is quite rugged with a five o' clock shadow and his face is filled something unfamiliar to MPW fans. Emotion. Utter, raw, emotion - something so encompassing to be trivialized into word. He's not simply angry, relieved or sad, to say that would cheapen the visual being beamed throughout the MPW territories. To say that, it would cheapen the feelings displayed of an emotionally-drained example of man, feeling everything that humans are capable of feeling...at the most inappropriate moment in time possible.
"...and to answer your question, even though you already know by now. You'll see me come MNME. sarcasm OH YES! MR. FXS WILL BE LIVE! end sarcasm For, I've got nothing to hide. No promotion-shaking, crowd-popping craziness that'll rock your socks off. Just me, as you fuckin' requested, in some way shape or form. Hear that, Laura? I'm gonna be standing front and center in the ring, to answer all the questions the world wants to ask. You want me Laura...you got me, but your blood will flow for the cameras whether it's good for TV, or not. Call it a bluff, or not - It makes no difference to me. Take it as a threat or a promise, whatever you classify it as...take it...as... LAW."
-end feed-
No, not this time around. A different approach is truly noticed as the camera lens, the slightly hazed technological eyes, seemingly revel in this silence. A silence draped by concrete and steel. More specifically, an empty dimly-lit stairwell. Trimmed with steel safety railings, painted in burgundy, the simple, cold concrete stairs travel another floor up, and possibly, more than that. A light inside it’s plastic, rectangular scabbard displays it’s short circuit as we begin to travel down the flight like a bold drunkard show-off. You know this place well, for it's the same place that performed an amazing act of resuscitation on Scotty Lauren's career. A living deprivation chamber, this particular, nondescript stairwell reveals itself to be. Something, almost, from a fable's script. Sanctuary, abnormally, wrapping her arms around anyone who would spare only a few seconds of their time.
A ragged breath falls on her bare, concrete, ears
"Where...Where have you been? Why did you leave??" The owner of the haggard breath says with a twinge of mockery and disdain. Of course, his voice is familiar. He's worked here. Then again, you knew that didn't you - damned internet marks. Save the twenty minute resume` introduction for somebody who gives a shit, or someone who actually deserves it. The short-circuiting light flashes irregularly, blazing the building's trepidation upon the sad fellow that sits before you. His head hangs low, almost to the surface of the step below him. His black-clad knees, drawn up to his face and punctuated by black and white rubber that provides a decent rendezvous point for air play. On his folded-over person lays the threads of an unwashed, nondescript black hooded sweatshirt.
"What happened...to you?"
A harsh cough, one not at all expected, rips throughout the quaint contingency of the staircase. Some kind of answer, huh?
He seemed like an eerie kind of child-like with the large hood of his black sweatshirt playing the role of security blanket. Exposing only what is needed of him, in essence, to get this moment of sorely-needed air time...only to simulate a small retreat when the uneven blinking of the stairwell light comes his way.
"This is what I'm greeted with. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Twenty-five questions from some jilted love...and this is what I come home to?"
A pause brings the calm back to cement dep. tank. A rather unfulfilling pause...something lacking and out of place. With the pulsating light blaring uncontrollably in the background, he sits in his troubled rendition of Rodan's Thinker with his head propped half-heartedly in his slender, scarred hands. Stunning, what time can do to a man. The same man who took great joy and delight in berating his supposed equals, night after night, on live television. The same character who disclosed to a capacity audience his views on the whole 'there is no "I" in team' shite by unceremoniously ridding himself of his makeshift buddy-film partner. He probably enjoyed that one, too. Scratch that, he enjoyed it...would've wrote home to mom about it, but there's that whole 'dead' thing.
Though, tonight, something is lacking.
"Where have you been? WHERE have you been? When are you coming back?? <sighs> Oh yeah, the words bounced off the crumbling walls of my frontal lobe like the high-pitched wails of an ego-centric child wanting his sweets after he's had his fill. You need to come back. PLEASE, come back. What THE FUCK happened to you??"
A scoff bounces off the concrete walls.
"Those were the sixty-four million dollar questions. Plural. raises his hands on either side of his drooped head How about my wife and unborn child? How about you? Of course...there was nothing. drops his hands No, "it was a shame what happened to you." No, "how are you feeling?" There was no sympathy. Only, when ya gonna come back and bodyslam somebody!? When ya gonna come back and cuss somemore on T.V? When ya gonna dance like a monkey and get a golden belt?"
pause....
"What else should I have expected? Nobody ever gave a damn, no matter how many wrapped baskets I get from the front office. No condolences and no empathy...then again, I don't know why I felt like I was going to get that. I don't know why I felt like I had actually earned that slim amount of respect from the company and, from the fans. I was fucking wrong, like always...but, of course, everybody wanted to know when I was coming back. WHEN THEIR fXs was coming BACK!"
His pain, however buried, was becoming evident by the patronizing tone reverberating off the close-quartered concrete walls. A heavy sigh falls from his, equally, heavy soul as he brings a hand slowly to his eye level. The camera takes in the anger-filled pulsing veins that branch and dance around his index and middle fingers, tensed and formed into a humanoid claw. His breaths change, from the norm. The eerie calm that trademarked his character, his entire career...was gone. Painful heaves cause his torso to flux, which brings his cloaked head, forcefully, to his pair of ragged talons.
Never let 'em see you sweat, Fred...
"They didn't care about you. his head starts shakes to and fro, slowly The loving signs. The birthday cards. The fuckin' company bonding outings. The bastards never cared. You were just another dollar sign to them."
It seems like he's choking back the words, fighting off a most despicable of emotion with his bare, dark brown claws clutching at his face. Then, a raw, mucus-filled snort fills the confined area.
"It's always about the money, baby. We knew that, don't be naive. It's not you can anymore, can you? sighs, then a quick out-of-place laugh Furthermore, here you were praising the MPW. "Affliction's way more gayer than the MPW", you said. At least, those bastards played like they gave some sort of a damn. Here, you didn't even get a couple of seconds. Here, the big fuckin' event was the turmoil of the MPW and the straying of the Golden Goose - an event so big, they even based a Pay per view off it. snorts The pigs. sniffles ...and of course, when's fXs gonna actually show up?"
A noticeable delay pauses this emotional scene on your television for a short moment while an MPW intern sits stewing in his own fluids due to the apparent nervous breakdown he's witnessing. The action continues with the footage catching up to the sight of him swaying his body to an invisible drum - his head still clamped inside his hands.
"The MPW powers that be...want to irk me. All apart trying to make a buck off my good name, they play their role very convincingly. Then again, in a world where hypocrites and all-around douchebags - such as professional wrestling...small laugh his impetuous role might seem pristine to the masses. And OH, how I wish to be one of the mindless..! Unfortunately, I'm not...and I just wonder how much your blood-drained heart and chair-beaten brain have been tortured with the departure of your formerly fearless leader."
You know he's smirking under that hood...or, at least, he wants to.
Another pause fills the stairwell for a short moment. Then, with both of his hands, he pushes back the large hood first exposing a full head of jet black hair resembling a compressed afro of sorts. His face is trimmed with thin, voluminous sideburns ending at the butt of his chin with a hanging goatee. His eyes are rapt with redness, and his jaw line is quite rugged with a five o' clock shadow and his face is filled something unfamiliar to MPW fans. Emotion. Utter, raw, emotion - something so encompassing to be trivialized into word. He's not simply angry, relieved or sad, to say that would cheapen the visual being beamed throughout the MPW territories. To say that, it would cheapen the feelings displayed of an emotionally-drained example of man, feeling everything that humans are capable of feeling...at the most inappropriate moment in time possible.
"...and to answer your question, even though you already know by now. You'll see me come MNME. sarcasm OH YES! MR. FXS WILL BE LIVE! end sarcasm For, I've got nothing to hide. No promotion-shaking, crowd-popping craziness that'll rock your socks off. Just me, as you fuckin' requested, in some way shape or form. Hear that, Laura? I'm gonna be standing front and center in the ring, to answer all the questions the world wants to ask. You want me Laura...you got me, but your blood will flow for the cameras whether it's good for TV, or not. Call it a bluff, or not - It makes no difference to me. Take it as a threat or a promise, whatever you classify it as...take it...as... LAW."
-end feed-