The UK Dragons Say Hello. Hello!
Jul 4, 2013 18:20:05 GMT -5
Post by styg on Jul 4, 2013 18:20:05 GMT -5
A park.
The skies are leaden grey, the clouds too lethargic to come straight out and rain, but the air is still hazy with dampness. Most of the people wandering past the shot, on the grass stretching out beyond the focal point, are wrapped in coats and scarves. A few are even wearing hats.
In the foreground to all that, a bench.
Of the two young Asian women sat on that bench, the one on the left - our left - is also wearing a thick coat and a scarf, the former in dark grey, the latter in bands of elegant turquoise and navy. Her arms are folded tight and she's hunched up in defence against the cold. It doesn't really seem to be working.
The other woman doesn't seem to care about the weather. She's just leaning back nonchalantly with her hands behind her head. She's wearing a red SSION T-shirt over a longsleeved white top, black cutoff jean shorts over white and red rose-print tights, and mid-calf black Doc Martens with pink laces. She's got red, white and pink flowers braided into her long black hair.
They're not really Asian, by the way; they're European. The one in the coat was born in Fazakerly Hospital in Merseyside, England, while the one in the white tights was born in a caravan just outside Rhyl in north Wales. But they look Asian, which is what people mean when they say that, even though there are a whole lot of very different racial groups native to Asia, including white, so that term doesn't really make much sense.
If you're good at this kind of thing, the one in the coat is mostly Philippine, albeit with a seam of white British. Her inappropriately-dressed friend is... er... well, there's definitely some white in there, definitely some east Asian, and maybe something else as well. It's kind of hard to tell even if you are good at this kind of thing.
The first of the women to speak is the one of indeterminate racial heritage.
"There are no superstars in wrestlin'," she announces, in a Welsh accent, then slowly leans forward.
"There's no Beyoncé or Adele. There's no Usain Bolt or David Beckham. There's no Putin or Obama."
She rests her palms on her thighs. "There are no household names in wrestlin', not really. There are no wrestlers so famous that you could stop any random person on the street an' they'd know who they are. Even within wrestlin' it's hard for... hell, it's hard for the wrestlers to keep up with each other, never mind the fans. A legend in one company or territory might be completely unknown everywhere else. Even your John Pariah, your Brad Jackson, your Steve Pinex... there's wrestlin' companies out there somewhere in the world where those names don't mean a thing. First time we faced Alexander StarrZoe, he said in a pre-match promo that he'd never even heard of us. An' I was left thinkin'... 'So what? I've never 'eard of you either, mate.'"
She shrugs, and admits, "So we don't mind, if people haven't heard of us before. Even though we're the current GFC World Tag Team Champions. Not everyone watches FRONTIER. We get that. Even though we're former-"
"An' rightful," adds the other woman with a severe nod, "Since we got screwed outta them."
"Former an' rightful WARPED Tag Team Champions," corrects the slightly larger woman, "But not everybody watches WARPED. We were in Global Extreme Wrestling, one of the biggest companies of the last decade. Yours truly won one of the most prestigious tournaments they ever held. But even then, not everyone watched GEW."
The shorter woman frowns. "Fuck do these people watch, Ell?"
"I dunno, probably somethin' rubbish like UWF or somethin'. But it's okay!" she says, flipping her hands up quickly, amelioratively, in the same tone of voice as she might use to talk someone down from a sixteenth-storey window ledge, "Hey now, don't worry! Don't cry your little eyes dry! It's okay if you're lookin' at us right now, scratchin' your heads, an' wonderin' "who the fuck are these two'?"
"You'll know soon enough," says her compatriot, with very little in the way of the first woman's warmth or humour. She points to herself and continues, "I'm Leanne Evangelista, an'... yeah, to be honest? I'm nobody special... yet. But I'm makin' my name. I'm turning heads. I will be a World Champion one day, an' not just that. One day the name Evangelista will be... well, even if not a household name, still thought of in the same breath as names like Pinex an' Jackson an' Pariah. I promise."
And with that, Evangelista just refolds her arms, staring a hole through us.
The other young lady takes over again, with a deep smile. "Now me, personally, I like it. The fact there's no household names, I mean. To be honest, I love it. Means every time I step out there under a new company's banner, someone is seein' me in action for the first time, yeh? And there is nothin', nothin' better in the world, than droppin' someone's jaw with the art I create in the ring. We've all got our own little quests... we all wanna be the best, but what I wanna be the best at is redefinin' the laws of physics. I leap the highest. I duck the lowest. My submissions are the most twisted. My art is the most boundary-pushin', paradigm-shatterin', envelope-tearin' new wave-slash-particle conceivable by man, woman, animal or deity. I make the cuttin' edge look like a brick wall. Postmodern? That's passé, bitch. You're lookin' at the postfuturist endgame. The big crunch of wrestlin'. When I die, not only will there be a carnival lighting up the sky for forty days an' nights in a riot of every colour known to humanity, plus a few more discovered just then, in mourning for me... professional wrestling will be effectively over because there'll never be anybody who can throw the shapes I throw or start the riots of light an' pure concept that I ignite every time I don the greasepaint an' tread the boards."
She pauses for just a moment, then concludes with, "I am Laurel Anne Hardy, an' I am the livin', breathin'. most-must see five-dimensional installation event of the century in this or any other medium." She caps off the speech with a theatrical pose, then tosses her hands up in another big shrug.
"But hey! Everyone hypes themselves up in front of a new audience, right? Tellin' is easy. Showing, well, that's the trick. So here's a little, like, sampler I guess. A little somethin' to show you who we are, not just what we can do," she adds, wagging a finger sternly, "But a little bit of the real meat that lets you, the audience, engage with us, the characters, like you knew us personally an' thus, y'know, form an emotional attachment to us."
She leans back and nods to where the cameraperson might be.
"Roll film."
Leanne looks around in confusion and spreads her hands, gesturing to their surroundings. "We're in the middle of the bloody park, Ell. I dunno if you noticed, but we don't 'ave an editin' suite to hand here."
Laurel rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well... I'll bloody add it in post, won't I? That's the magic of cinema, Ell, an' you're ruinin' it for all the good people."
Evangelista starts to reply, but she's cut off by the image jumping to black, and thence to a title card:
"S'yeah," says Laurel chirpily, with a vague shrug, "That's who we are. I mean, it's not the whole lot, obviously. First rule of storytellin'... don't reveal everythin' at once, yeh? But it's a fair introduction. Part two in this series to come when we meet Koolstorm at the next FGA tapin'. That one'll be more actiony than wordy, via... well, bein' a wrestling match, obviously. Koolstorm by the way, now these guys can fuckin' move. Very excited to be facin' a team as slick an' showy as them. An' openin' the show, no less - searin' the fans' eyes from moment one in the night! Sorry, everyone else on the roster, if nobody can really make out your matches because everyone's still too dazzled from the magic The UK Dragons create with Koolstorm."
"Another team who've been close for years," adds Evangelista, "An' multi-time tag team champions, like us. You know this is gonna be a classic."
"Yeah, but fuck that, I'm talkin' about Viktor's flying prowess, aren't I, Ell? Now, I like to think I've got a reasonable grounding in all the arts of the stage, but I know people see me as a high flier first an' foremost, an'... well... I can't deny that the thrill of hangin' in midair, feelin' the wind rush past your ears, is pretty much unbeatable. Goin' springboard to springboard with another aerial artist like that, well, that always sends a little shiver up me spine."
"Yeah, well, winnin' matches an' advancing in tournaments is what does it for mine, so, don't get too wrapped up in playing aeroplanes with Viktor."
With a smile - albeit a rather grudging one - Laurel says, "I'll try. Vik, Fire, we'll see you boys soon, an' FGA, you're in for a serious treat in just a few days. Stay fabuluos everyone, an' don't do anythin' we wouldn't do. Peace out."
She flicks up a hippy V; Leanne just nods a reserved goodbye. The image sinks into blackness.
Then it blinks into life again.
"By the way," adds Laurel, "See you guys sayin' we prob'ly don't even breathe fire? You might wanna check out WARPED 79, lads." And she shoots us a wink.
Back to black.
Hmm. is it too soon to say I never really liked Amy Winehouse?
...I guess I just did.
Oh well.
The skies are leaden grey, the clouds too lethargic to come straight out and rain, but the air is still hazy with dampness. Most of the people wandering past the shot, on the grass stretching out beyond the focal point, are wrapped in coats and scarves. A few are even wearing hats.
In the foreground to all that, a bench.
Of the two young Asian women sat on that bench, the one on the left - our left - is also wearing a thick coat and a scarf, the former in dark grey, the latter in bands of elegant turquoise and navy. Her arms are folded tight and she's hunched up in defence against the cold. It doesn't really seem to be working.
The other woman doesn't seem to care about the weather. She's just leaning back nonchalantly with her hands behind her head. She's wearing a red SSION T-shirt over a longsleeved white top, black cutoff jean shorts over white and red rose-print tights, and mid-calf black Doc Martens with pink laces. She's got red, white and pink flowers braided into her long black hair.
They're not really Asian, by the way; they're European. The one in the coat was born in Fazakerly Hospital in Merseyside, England, while the one in the white tights was born in a caravan just outside Rhyl in north Wales. But they look Asian, which is what people mean when they say that, even though there are a whole lot of very different racial groups native to Asia, including white, so that term doesn't really make much sense.
If you're good at this kind of thing, the one in the coat is mostly Philippine, albeit with a seam of white British. Her inappropriately-dressed friend is... er... well, there's definitely some white in there, definitely some east Asian, and maybe something else as well. It's kind of hard to tell even if you are good at this kind of thing.
The first of the women to speak is the one of indeterminate racial heritage.
"There are no superstars in wrestlin'," she announces, in a Welsh accent, then slowly leans forward.
"There's no Beyoncé or Adele. There's no Usain Bolt or David Beckham. There's no Putin or Obama."
She rests her palms on her thighs. "There are no household names in wrestlin', not really. There are no wrestlers so famous that you could stop any random person on the street an' they'd know who they are. Even within wrestlin' it's hard for... hell, it's hard for the wrestlers to keep up with each other, never mind the fans. A legend in one company or territory might be completely unknown everywhere else. Even your John Pariah, your Brad Jackson, your Steve Pinex... there's wrestlin' companies out there somewhere in the world where those names don't mean a thing. First time we faced Alexander StarrZoe, he said in a pre-match promo that he'd never even heard of us. An' I was left thinkin'... 'So what? I've never 'eard of you either, mate.'"
She shrugs, and admits, "So we don't mind, if people haven't heard of us before. Even though we're the current GFC World Tag Team Champions. Not everyone watches FRONTIER. We get that. Even though we're former-"
"An' rightful," adds the other woman with a severe nod, "Since we got screwed outta them."
"Former an' rightful WARPED Tag Team Champions," corrects the slightly larger woman, "But not everybody watches WARPED. We were in Global Extreme Wrestling, one of the biggest companies of the last decade. Yours truly won one of the most prestigious tournaments they ever held. But even then, not everyone watched GEW."
The shorter woman frowns. "Fuck do these people watch, Ell?"
"I dunno, probably somethin' rubbish like UWF or somethin'. But it's okay!" she says, flipping her hands up quickly, amelioratively, in the same tone of voice as she might use to talk someone down from a sixteenth-storey window ledge, "Hey now, don't worry! Don't cry your little eyes dry! It's okay if you're lookin' at us right now, scratchin' your heads, an' wonderin' "who the fuck are these two'?"
"You'll know soon enough," says her compatriot, with very little in the way of the first woman's warmth or humour. She points to herself and continues, "I'm Leanne Evangelista, an'... yeah, to be honest? I'm nobody special... yet. But I'm makin' my name. I'm turning heads. I will be a World Champion one day, an' not just that. One day the name Evangelista will be... well, even if not a household name, still thought of in the same breath as names like Pinex an' Jackson an' Pariah. I promise."
And with that, Evangelista just refolds her arms, staring a hole through us.
The other young lady takes over again, with a deep smile. "Now me, personally, I like it. The fact there's no household names, I mean. To be honest, I love it. Means every time I step out there under a new company's banner, someone is seein' me in action for the first time, yeh? And there is nothin', nothin' better in the world, than droppin' someone's jaw with the art I create in the ring. We've all got our own little quests... we all wanna be the best, but what I wanna be the best at is redefinin' the laws of physics. I leap the highest. I duck the lowest. My submissions are the most twisted. My art is the most boundary-pushin', paradigm-shatterin', envelope-tearin' new wave-slash-particle conceivable by man, woman, animal or deity. I make the cuttin' edge look like a brick wall. Postmodern? That's passé, bitch. You're lookin' at the postfuturist endgame. The big crunch of wrestlin'. When I die, not only will there be a carnival lighting up the sky for forty days an' nights in a riot of every colour known to humanity, plus a few more discovered just then, in mourning for me... professional wrestling will be effectively over because there'll never be anybody who can throw the shapes I throw or start the riots of light an' pure concept that I ignite every time I don the greasepaint an' tread the boards."
She pauses for just a moment, then concludes with, "I am Laurel Anne Hardy, an' I am the livin', breathin'. most-must see five-dimensional installation event of the century in this or any other medium." She caps off the speech with a theatrical pose, then tosses her hands up in another big shrug.
"But hey! Everyone hypes themselves up in front of a new audience, right? Tellin' is easy. Showing, well, that's the trick. So here's a little, like, sampler I guess. A little somethin' to show you who we are, not just what we can do," she adds, wagging a finger sternly, "But a little bit of the real meat that lets you, the audience, engage with us, the characters, like you knew us personally an' thus, y'know, form an emotional attachment to us."
She leans back and nods to where the cameraperson might be.
"Roll film."
Leanne looks around in confusion and spreads her hands, gesturing to their surroundings. "We're in the middle of the bloody park, Ell. I dunno if you noticed, but we don't 'ave an editin' suite to hand here."
Laurel rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well... I'll bloody add it in post, won't I? That's the magic of cinema, Ell, an' you're ruinin' it for all the good people."
Evangelista starts to reply, but she's cut off by the image jumping to black, and thence to a title card:
THE UK DRAGONS
Being a True and Accurate Accounte of the Both Prefent and Historickal Exploits of
Mifs L. A. Hardy and Mifs L. M. Fontanilla Evangelista
-----------------------------
We fade in on Laurel looking down at us into a handheld camera, Blair Witch style (although without the snot), as she stalks through the corridors of Southampton Guildhall. "This is our home," she announces, as striplights and ceiling panels flash past above her head. "Kind of our safe haven, if you will. The refuge we always return to no matter what happens in this topsy turvy world of ours." She comes to a halt and swings the camera until it settles on a banner, which swims into focus as the light adjusts. It reads:
Pro-Wrestling FRONTIER
...and is decorated with a crown. A stylised lion roars on each side of the banner.
"Yes, yes. The other Frontier, I know," she says, now from offscreen, "But we're here to make love, not war. Well. I mean, we're here to fight, obviously. But as respectful guests, not bitter rivals. We're not here to rape an' pillage an' stick our arses in your face, even though our arses are divinely beautiful so if we did you should be grateful. Nah, we share like half our rosters anyway, for god sake. This is just a pleasant sporting contest between friends, an' we'd like to keep it that way.
I mean... we'd also like very much to win, but you kinda knew that already, right?
Yes? Cool."
-----------------------------
We cut to Evangelista standing before a Tesco superstore, wearing the trademark blue shirt of the company's uniform. She jabs a thumb towards the building and says, "So... this is where I work when I'm not wrestling." And then we cut away again.
-----------------------------
A quick flash of Evangelista with someone frantically tapping out as they find themselves caught in her signature submission hold, the Lime Street Loop. That's followed by an equally rapid snatch of Laurel vaulting from the top of the turnbuckle in the corkscrew shooting star elbow drop she calls Stronger Than Dirt.
-----------------------------
Laurel's standing outside a rotating door to a very prestigious-looking lobby; above it, just visible, is a sign reading "Royal Embassy Hotel." In stark contrast to her usual chaotic clothing style, she's wearing a smart shirt, skirt and apron, all in plain black. Shirt tucked in, collar fully buttoned... even her shoes are polished to an incredible shine. The only flash of colour comes from a sky blue tie, and her hair is pulled back into a neat bun. "An' this is where I work," she tells us, nodding at the door. "S'not bad," she adds, "I've worked worse places. Croydon, f'rexample. HAAYOOO!"
-----------------------------
Now, Laurel's perched on the middle rope, back to the audience; Evangelista dives through her legs in a tope to a hapless opponent, then Laurel sails off onto him in an asai moonsault. Then we cut to Laurel leaping from the balcony of a concert hall all the way down, thirty feet at least, into a crowd of wrestlers below.
-----------------------------
In a run-down but busy gym. The machines are old, and the wrestling ring - the apron of which our heroines are sitting on - is worn. They're both flushed and sweaty, Laurel with a towel around her neck. She spreads her arms and says, "This is where we train," while Leanne downs some water from a sports bottle.
-----------------------------
Standing on the steps outside a pretty generic street corner pub. People are stood around and several of them - including Laurel - are smoking cigarettes. Evangelista has her hands in her pockets and is wrapped in the same coat, with a different scarf. "Here's where we drink," she says, through chattering teeth.
-----------------------------
Laurel, her face dripping with blood, dropping an opponent with a wheelbarrow facebuster while she's holding a light tube under his chest. A white plume of dust flies up, obscuring everything but his screaming face.
-----------------------------
Now inside the pub, crowded around a large table with a number of other people. You will hopefully recognise Jay Pride - former GFC World Heavyweight Champion, and one of Chandler Scott's many, many rivals (man, doesn't that guy just have such a knack for making enemies wherever he goes?). You might also recognise FRONTIER rookie Mia Scott (no relation to Chandler, or at least if they are, neither of them has ever said anything about it), and the team of Anson Orlandelli and Russ Lehman, The Natural Ones - presently number one contenders to the CWF Tag Team Championship. And MMA fans may recognise Jackie Boy Warner, brother of retired pro wrestling star Baby Dogg and now Jay's business partner.
If you've been following the Dragons' career closely, you might recognise Laurel's half-brother Matty, a young man with thick black dreadlocks and several piercings. He's shown up a few times here and there. If you've been following the Dragons' career really closely, you might even recognise the young lady who bears more than a passing resemblance to Leanne Evangelista; she's even shorter and much slighter of build, and her face is a different shape, and her hair is darker, but those big, warm brown eyes are exactly the same. She's passingly appeared in a couple of promos before, her name is Lily, and she's Leanne's sister. The other people at the table - a tall, thin guy with long hair and a thick beard coming out from under a beanie hat, a ruddy-faced blonde woman with glasses, a girl with short black hair and even more extensive tattoos than Evangelista - you most likely wouldn't recognise. Not unless you entirely coincidentally happen to know them from other contexts, and/or are a massive creeper.
Laurel puts her arms round the two people either side of her - Lily and Jay - and announces, "Here's some of our mates."
-----------------------------
A street corner in a busy town centre. Laurel nods to a towering guy doing a living statue routine, skin and clothes both coloured completely white, with a hat on the ground in front of the stool he's standing on. She herself has her face and neck painted in a dark teal, and she's wearing a cloak the same colour.
"This is where I mostly do my mime stuff an' street performance an' that."
-----------------------------
Now she's watching a performance on the stage of a simple community theatre - the lighting's dark and costumes are on, but only a couple of chairs are filled and techies are buzzing around doing arcane things, so it's fair to guess that this is a dress rehearsal. Laurel is sat in the back row holding a script full of scribbled notes and highlighted passages. She turns round and stage-whispers, "An' this is the fringe theatre group I'm part of."
-----------------------------
Evangelista with an unfortunate opponent in a side hold, then leaping and dragging them down to strike the back of their head with her knee - her vicious Headbreaker. Only person's ever kicked out after that, and his name is Kevin Hardaway.
-----------------------------
A thumping beat shaking a dancefloor full of people, under swirling coloured lights... if you really try hard to make out the treble, you might be able to deduce that the song is Duke Dumont's "Need U (100%)." Laurel and Leanne are grooving away, along with a few of the people we saw around the table in the pub earlier. Evangelista, still swaying her hips and shoulders, flips up an A3 white cardboard sign with black marker on it informing us that: This is the club we usually seem to end up at.
-----------------------------
A kitchen table featuring Jay, Lily, Jackie Boy, the longhaired guy in the beanie and Laurel. Leanne has her back to us. The table is covered in pennies and beer cans, and they're all holding cards and cigars. Evangelista shows us her hand - four sevens and a nine. "This is our poker night," she says carefully, flatly, making sure not to give anything away.
-----------------------------
Laurel vaulting off the ropes into a split dropkick to two opponents. Evangelista tornadoing around an opponent and legsweeping him off his feet, without her own ever touching the ground.
-----------------------------
Evangelista's pushing a shopping trolley down the frozen goods aisle of a supermarket. Laurel walks into frame and dumps a couple of frozen pizzas in the cart, then turns to us. "This is where we do our big shops," she says, with a shrug.
With a little smirk - semi-apologetic, semi-confrontational - Evangelista adds, "What? Life can't all be fun."
-----------------------------
The crossarm snap neckbreaker of Laurel's, dubbed Flower Plower Mk.II. Evangelista with a wrist-clutch exploder suplex on a man with a clear fifty or sixty pounds on her.
-----------------------------
Sat in a skeezy, dimly lit bar with an assortment of people familiar to many wrestling fans: The seven-foot tall masked monster and multi-time World Cerberus. The Jokers Wild, two outgoing guys with an almost medical inability to take anything seriously. Matt Kail of Pro wrestling FRONTIER, who's turned heads with victories over the likes of CJ Osborne and Alex Jones. And with Laurel's arm around her shoulders, Serena Raine, one of FGA's newest talents.
Counting Leanne and Laurel, we're looking at seven-eighths of The Asylum, the faction which destroyed the mighty Global Extreme Wrestling and which is now waging war on AbominationZ over in WARPED.
"These are some more of our mates," shouts Laurel, over the thumping industrial-punk beat making the glasses on the table rattle.
-----------------------------
Laurel rolling up former GDW World Champion Brittany Lohan. The pair of them holding six-time World Champion Kameron Chase's shoulders to the mat. Evangelista pinning XHF, EPW and NCW legend Alex Jones. Laurel pinning the brutal veteran "V", a.k.a. The Nameless. Laurel pinning the one and only Kaji Fireson.
-----------------------------
Laurel, grey eyes burning with fury, as she drives a searing dragon-shaped brand into the bare ribcage of Alexander StarrZoe. Evangelista looks on, arms folded, emotionless.
-----------------------------
Delivering their Warped Frontier finisher, a combined diving moonsault and double knees to the back of the head, to the late, great Sir Douglas Fresh of The CarnEvil Connection.
-----------------------------
On dark, blurry shakicam, their faces looking down at us. The room beyond is one which seasoned travellers may recognise as a departure lounge at Manchester Airport. "This is-" begins Evangelista, and then they both wince as an unintelligible tannoy announcement pierces over her words. When the static scramble finally jerks back into silence, she starts again: "This is the airport we spend far too much of our lives at, waiting for flights to Japan or The States or Canada, so we can do what we love: wrestlin."
"We both work full time jobs, because we're not famous enough to make a livin' wrestling," explains Laurel, "But it's worth it. The insomnia. The schedulin' conflicts. The jet lag. The painkillers. Wrestlin's our life, an' yeah, we have different motivations, but we've been tag partners an' best friends for years now, an' there's nobody I trust more in the world than Leanne Mirasol Fontanilla Evangelista." And she points at her friend for emphasis.
Leanne returns the point. "An' there's only, like, five or six people in the world I trust more than Laurel Saiko Yunokawa. Seven or eight, max."
"Ixnay on the ealray amenay," hisses Laurel.
"What, because you've always made such a big secret of it?"
"It's not about that. It's about presentation."
Leanne shakes her head and says, "Whatever," in an acceptance born of disinterest.
"Lost me fuckin' place, now," moans Laurel.
-----------------------------
Rapid flashes of Evangelista personally eliminating six people from a ten-person battle royale, en route to the CWF Countdown Championship.
-----------------------------
The two young women with arms around each other's shoulders, and Noumenon a couple of feet behind them. They're barely managing to stand. Leanne's face, hair and front are all slick with blood; Laurel's arms and collarbone are lacerated, and a gash on the side of her head is oozing a thick red stream. But her expression is one of pure elation as she raises the GEW Torneo Extremo 2011 trophy high above her head.
-----------------------------
Evangelista shrugging and inspecting her nails, in the FRONTIER ring before a show. "It's what we do," she says casually.
-----------------------------
We fade to the orange dragon outline on black - the same outline as is now burned into the torso of Alexander StarrZoe. After holding on that symbol for a moment, we fade back to the park bench.
Being a True and Accurate Accounte of the Both Prefent and Historickal Exploits of
Mifs L. A. Hardy and Mifs L. M. Fontanilla Evangelista
-----------------------------
We fade in on Laurel looking down at us into a handheld camera, Blair Witch style (although without the snot), as she stalks through the corridors of Southampton Guildhall. "This is our home," she announces, as striplights and ceiling panels flash past above her head. "Kind of our safe haven, if you will. The refuge we always return to no matter what happens in this topsy turvy world of ours." She comes to a halt and swings the camera until it settles on a banner, which swims into focus as the light adjusts. It reads:
Pro-Wrestling FRONTIER
...and is decorated with a crown. A stylised lion roars on each side of the banner.
"Yes, yes. The other Frontier, I know," she says, now from offscreen, "But we're here to make love, not war. Well. I mean, we're here to fight, obviously. But as respectful guests, not bitter rivals. We're not here to rape an' pillage an' stick our arses in your face, even though our arses are divinely beautiful so if we did you should be grateful. Nah, we share like half our rosters anyway, for god sake. This is just a pleasant sporting contest between friends, an' we'd like to keep it that way.
I mean... we'd also like very much to win, but you kinda knew that already, right?
Yes? Cool."
-----------------------------
We cut to Evangelista standing before a Tesco superstore, wearing the trademark blue shirt of the company's uniform. She jabs a thumb towards the building and says, "So... this is where I work when I'm not wrestling." And then we cut away again.
-----------------------------
A quick flash of Evangelista with someone frantically tapping out as they find themselves caught in her signature submission hold, the Lime Street Loop. That's followed by an equally rapid snatch of Laurel vaulting from the top of the turnbuckle in the corkscrew shooting star elbow drop she calls Stronger Than Dirt.
-----------------------------
Laurel's standing outside a rotating door to a very prestigious-looking lobby; above it, just visible, is a sign reading "Royal Embassy Hotel." In stark contrast to her usual chaotic clothing style, she's wearing a smart shirt, skirt and apron, all in plain black. Shirt tucked in, collar fully buttoned... even her shoes are polished to an incredible shine. The only flash of colour comes from a sky blue tie, and her hair is pulled back into a neat bun. "An' this is where I work," she tells us, nodding at the door. "S'not bad," she adds, "I've worked worse places. Croydon, f'rexample. HAAYOOO!"
-----------------------------
Now, Laurel's perched on the middle rope, back to the audience; Evangelista dives through her legs in a tope to a hapless opponent, then Laurel sails off onto him in an asai moonsault. Then we cut to Laurel leaping from the balcony of a concert hall all the way down, thirty feet at least, into a crowd of wrestlers below.
-----------------------------
In a run-down but busy gym. The machines are old, and the wrestling ring - the apron of which our heroines are sitting on - is worn. They're both flushed and sweaty, Laurel with a towel around her neck. She spreads her arms and says, "This is where we train," while Leanne downs some water from a sports bottle.
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Standing on the steps outside a pretty generic street corner pub. People are stood around and several of them - including Laurel - are smoking cigarettes. Evangelista has her hands in her pockets and is wrapped in the same coat, with a different scarf. "Here's where we drink," she says, through chattering teeth.
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Laurel, her face dripping with blood, dropping an opponent with a wheelbarrow facebuster while she's holding a light tube under his chest. A white plume of dust flies up, obscuring everything but his screaming face.
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Now inside the pub, crowded around a large table with a number of other people. You will hopefully recognise Jay Pride - former GFC World Heavyweight Champion, and one of Chandler Scott's many, many rivals (man, doesn't that guy just have such a knack for making enemies wherever he goes?). You might also recognise FRONTIER rookie Mia Scott (no relation to Chandler, or at least if they are, neither of them has ever said anything about it), and the team of Anson Orlandelli and Russ Lehman, The Natural Ones - presently number one contenders to the CWF Tag Team Championship. And MMA fans may recognise Jackie Boy Warner, brother of retired pro wrestling star Baby Dogg and now Jay's business partner.
If you've been following the Dragons' career closely, you might recognise Laurel's half-brother Matty, a young man with thick black dreadlocks and several piercings. He's shown up a few times here and there. If you've been following the Dragons' career really closely, you might even recognise the young lady who bears more than a passing resemblance to Leanne Evangelista; she's even shorter and much slighter of build, and her face is a different shape, and her hair is darker, but those big, warm brown eyes are exactly the same. She's passingly appeared in a couple of promos before, her name is Lily, and she's Leanne's sister. The other people at the table - a tall, thin guy with long hair and a thick beard coming out from under a beanie hat, a ruddy-faced blonde woman with glasses, a girl with short black hair and even more extensive tattoos than Evangelista - you most likely wouldn't recognise. Not unless you entirely coincidentally happen to know them from other contexts, and/or are a massive creeper.
Laurel puts her arms round the two people either side of her - Lily and Jay - and announces, "Here's some of our mates."
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A street corner in a busy town centre. Laurel nods to a towering guy doing a living statue routine, skin and clothes both coloured completely white, with a hat on the ground in front of the stool he's standing on. She herself has her face and neck painted in a dark teal, and she's wearing a cloak the same colour.
"This is where I mostly do my mime stuff an' street performance an' that."
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Now she's watching a performance on the stage of a simple community theatre - the lighting's dark and costumes are on, but only a couple of chairs are filled and techies are buzzing around doing arcane things, so it's fair to guess that this is a dress rehearsal. Laurel is sat in the back row holding a script full of scribbled notes and highlighted passages. She turns round and stage-whispers, "An' this is the fringe theatre group I'm part of."
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Evangelista with an unfortunate opponent in a side hold, then leaping and dragging them down to strike the back of their head with her knee - her vicious Headbreaker. Only person's ever kicked out after that, and his name is Kevin Hardaway.
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A thumping beat shaking a dancefloor full of people, under swirling coloured lights... if you really try hard to make out the treble, you might be able to deduce that the song is Duke Dumont's "Need U (100%)." Laurel and Leanne are grooving away, along with a few of the people we saw around the table in the pub earlier. Evangelista, still swaying her hips and shoulders, flips up an A3 white cardboard sign with black marker on it informing us that: This is the club we usually seem to end up at.
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A kitchen table featuring Jay, Lily, Jackie Boy, the longhaired guy in the beanie and Laurel. Leanne has her back to us. The table is covered in pennies and beer cans, and they're all holding cards and cigars. Evangelista shows us her hand - four sevens and a nine. "This is our poker night," she says carefully, flatly, making sure not to give anything away.
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Laurel vaulting off the ropes into a split dropkick to two opponents. Evangelista tornadoing around an opponent and legsweeping him off his feet, without her own ever touching the ground.
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Evangelista's pushing a shopping trolley down the frozen goods aisle of a supermarket. Laurel walks into frame and dumps a couple of frozen pizzas in the cart, then turns to us. "This is where we do our big shops," she says, with a shrug.
With a little smirk - semi-apologetic, semi-confrontational - Evangelista adds, "What? Life can't all be fun."
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The crossarm snap neckbreaker of Laurel's, dubbed Flower Plower Mk.II. Evangelista with a wrist-clutch exploder suplex on a man with a clear fifty or sixty pounds on her.
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Sat in a skeezy, dimly lit bar with an assortment of people familiar to many wrestling fans: The seven-foot tall masked monster and multi-time World Cerberus. The Jokers Wild, two outgoing guys with an almost medical inability to take anything seriously. Matt Kail of Pro wrestling FRONTIER, who's turned heads with victories over the likes of CJ Osborne and Alex Jones. And with Laurel's arm around her shoulders, Serena Raine, one of FGA's newest talents.
Counting Leanne and Laurel, we're looking at seven-eighths of The Asylum, the faction which destroyed the mighty Global Extreme Wrestling and which is now waging war on AbominationZ over in WARPED.
"These are some more of our mates," shouts Laurel, over the thumping industrial-punk beat making the glasses on the table rattle.
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Laurel rolling up former GDW World Champion Brittany Lohan. The pair of them holding six-time World Champion Kameron Chase's shoulders to the mat. Evangelista pinning XHF, EPW and NCW legend Alex Jones. Laurel pinning the brutal veteran "V", a.k.a. The Nameless. Laurel pinning the one and only Kaji Fireson.
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Laurel, grey eyes burning with fury, as she drives a searing dragon-shaped brand into the bare ribcage of Alexander StarrZoe. Evangelista looks on, arms folded, emotionless.
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Delivering their Warped Frontier finisher, a combined diving moonsault and double knees to the back of the head, to the late, great Sir Douglas Fresh of The CarnEvil Connection.
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On dark, blurry shakicam, their faces looking down at us. The room beyond is one which seasoned travellers may recognise as a departure lounge at Manchester Airport. "This is-" begins Evangelista, and then they both wince as an unintelligible tannoy announcement pierces over her words. When the static scramble finally jerks back into silence, she starts again: "This is the airport we spend far too much of our lives at, waiting for flights to Japan or The States or Canada, so we can do what we love: wrestlin."
"We both work full time jobs, because we're not famous enough to make a livin' wrestling," explains Laurel, "But it's worth it. The insomnia. The schedulin' conflicts. The jet lag. The painkillers. Wrestlin's our life, an' yeah, we have different motivations, but we've been tag partners an' best friends for years now, an' there's nobody I trust more in the world than Leanne Mirasol Fontanilla Evangelista." And she points at her friend for emphasis.
Leanne returns the point. "An' there's only, like, five or six people in the world I trust more than Laurel Saiko Yunokawa. Seven or eight, max."
"Ixnay on the ealray amenay," hisses Laurel.
"What, because you've always made such a big secret of it?"
"It's not about that. It's about presentation."
Leanne shakes her head and says, "Whatever," in an acceptance born of disinterest.
"Lost me fuckin' place, now," moans Laurel.
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Rapid flashes of Evangelista personally eliminating six people from a ten-person battle royale, en route to the CWF Countdown Championship.
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The two young women with arms around each other's shoulders, and Noumenon a couple of feet behind them. They're barely managing to stand. Leanne's face, hair and front are all slick with blood; Laurel's arms and collarbone are lacerated, and a gash on the side of her head is oozing a thick red stream. But her expression is one of pure elation as she raises the GEW Torneo Extremo 2011 trophy high above her head.
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Evangelista shrugging and inspecting her nails, in the FRONTIER ring before a show. "It's what we do," she says casually.
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We fade to the orange dragon outline on black - the same outline as is now burned into the torso of Alexander StarrZoe. After holding on that symbol for a moment, we fade back to the park bench.
"S'yeah," says Laurel chirpily, with a vague shrug, "That's who we are. I mean, it's not the whole lot, obviously. First rule of storytellin'... don't reveal everythin' at once, yeh? But it's a fair introduction. Part two in this series to come when we meet Koolstorm at the next FGA tapin'. That one'll be more actiony than wordy, via... well, bein' a wrestling match, obviously. Koolstorm by the way, now these guys can fuckin' move. Very excited to be facin' a team as slick an' showy as them. An' openin' the show, no less - searin' the fans' eyes from moment one in the night! Sorry, everyone else on the roster, if nobody can really make out your matches because everyone's still too dazzled from the magic The UK Dragons create with Koolstorm."
"Another team who've been close for years," adds Evangelista, "An' multi-time tag team champions, like us. You know this is gonna be a classic."
"Yeah, but fuck that, I'm talkin' about Viktor's flying prowess, aren't I, Ell? Now, I like to think I've got a reasonable grounding in all the arts of the stage, but I know people see me as a high flier first an' foremost, an'... well... I can't deny that the thrill of hangin' in midair, feelin' the wind rush past your ears, is pretty much unbeatable. Goin' springboard to springboard with another aerial artist like that, well, that always sends a little shiver up me spine."
"Yeah, well, winnin' matches an' advancing in tournaments is what does it for mine, so, don't get too wrapped up in playing aeroplanes with Viktor."
With a smile - albeit a rather grudging one - Laurel says, "I'll try. Vik, Fire, we'll see you boys soon, an' FGA, you're in for a serious treat in just a few days. Stay fabuluos everyone, an' don't do anythin' we wouldn't do. Peace out."
She flicks up a hippy V; Leanne just nods a reserved goodbye. The image sinks into blackness.
Then it blinks into life again.
"By the way," adds Laurel, "See you guys sayin' we prob'ly don't even breathe fire? You might wanna check out WARPED 79, lads." And she shoots us a wink.
Back to black.
Hmm. is it too soon to say I never really liked Amy Winehouse?
...I guess I just did.
Oh well.