The Perfect Combination
Jul 18, 2013 6:06:20 GMT -5
Post by Mandrew on Jul 18, 2013 6:06:20 GMT -5
The Perfect Combination (Main RP)
Once more we find ourselves visiting the quaint community of Honesdale, PA; more specifically the Crow’s Nest – the old Lackawaxen River Fishing Supply Store that Crowe now calls home.
Inside nothing much has changed since we last saw it and similarly we find ourselves looking at a static image inside the Crow’s Nest. The walls still look as drab as the day Crowe acquired the place. What’s left of the heavily faded wallpaper is struggling to cling to the wall and the bare floor boards are still exposed albeit for the odd scattering of cigarette nubs. There is little noise, but the silence is broken somewhat by a fizzing hum. Is it television static, or is it that of an old, un-tuned transistor radio? There is also appears a new addition to the Crow’s Nest. A worn out old armchair is sat only a few feet away facing the camera. Its high back and arms lined with a cracked mahogany coloured leather, it’s needless to say this old chair has seen better days.
Then, the gentle background humming dies with a clicking sound. It’s clear we’re not alone then – and sure enough, into the shot walks a figure. It must be Crowe, the figure’s head appears out of shot due to their close proximity but those black and grey shaded flames tattooed up the forearms are a dead giveaway. Sporting what appears to be the same black three-quarter length shorts and this time a fitted black t-shirt emblazoned with the words “Another F*cking Logo T-Shirt” across the chest, the figure takes to the seat, sure enough revealing his face to be that of Crowe’s. His black hair looking as wild as ever, sprouting outwards from his scalp like wild black vines.
Crowe settles into the armchair and slouches back slightly. With both of his legs outstretched they disappear down out of shot while his arms rest limply on the armchair’s arms. His left hand clutches at a small glass tumbler half filled – or more fittingly, emptied – with several ice cubes and a golden-brown liquor.
Crowe remains silent, looking into the camera lens with narrowed, intent eyes as though attempting to pick your brain. He lifts the tumbler; the ice cubes lightly bump together as he puts the glass to his nose and inhales the aroma.
“Ahh...”
Crowe savours the aromas, like a bouquet of freshly picked flowers being presented to a loved one.
“There are so many things you can tell from a fragrance. Strength, texture, flavour, the ingredients used; an entire smorgasbord of information all there in one sniff. You just need to know how to recognise them, that’s all. Right now I’m getting strong oaky aromas, honey, vanilla…”
Crowe closes his eyes, losing himself in the spirit’s allure.
“The perfect combination for a fine bourbon whiskey.”
Crowe takes a sip, the ice cubes rattle against one another as the golden liquid disappears down into Crowe’s mouth.
“This Saturday in Providence I will be taking in a whole new combination of fragrances and aromas. The ingredients have been set out. Four of Frontier Grappling Arts’ finest upstarts, tossed together. Such a blend can only be set on one outcome: the sweet smell of success. My success.”
Crowe hints at a smirk as he takes another sip.
“I’m sorry. Really I am. It almost feels pitiful to make such a clichéd pitch like that – like I’m playing into the hands of this pantomime villain. A brush I’m sure you have already painted me with. Truth be told I don’t really care what you think; whether you think I’m some Captain Hook cartoon bad guy or merely a well spoken Brit that’s a little too sure in his own convictions…” Crowe bats his free hand dismissively.
“It doesn’t change the fact that whether you’ve heard of me before or not, your opinion – to me – is completely irrelevant. Oh I’ve heard it all before, trust me...” Again Crowe narrows his eyes. His hand raises slightly as he extends a finger towards the camera.
“I’m no rookie, rest assured my four opponents this weekend will learn that first hand. I’ve been through many wars and fought against far tougher odds. Let me tell you about the time I……”
Crowe pauses.
“There I go again talking about myself. Such egotism, such charisma, what must you think? You’d think with Chris Jenkins’ motivational ‘self satisfaction is the first step to confidence’ malarkey that I’d have spent my entire life living with the kind of satisfaction only a man like Thaddeus Grey could be used to.” Looking down at his glass as he scoffs to himself.
“Truth be told I HAVE been through wars, and I HAVE fought against far tougher odds. Sure, I don’t expect this Saturday to be a leisurely stroll in the park, but that doesn’t mean I expect anything less than absolute victory over my four opponents. Now, how is that for confidence, Chris?”
“You know, maybe I shot from the hip a little too soon with you. It seems rather than comparing you to the womanizing Thaddeus, I should have looked a little closer to home…”
Crowe tips his glass to the camera.
“Nothing like a nice drink is there, Chris? Maybe it is you and I then, Chris who are closer cut from the same cloth? Only, while you sit there a recovering alcoholic, I sit here – in the Crow’s Nest a uncrowned king amongst peasants. Or maybe I too need saving from the demon’s of drink…?” Crowe scoffs.
“How about after I’ve finished embarrassing myself on Saturday night I’ll let you invite me along to one of those cute little AA sessions and we can stand at the podium ‘Hello, my name’s Crowe and I’m an alcoholic’…”
“Pish.” Crowe scowls at the very thought.
“The real weakness lies in admitting something has taken control of you. That you’re too weak to even tackle your own demons let alone the man standing opposite you? How do you expect to defend yourself in the ring, Chris, when you can’t even defend yourself from… yourself? A recovering man leaves himself far too open for attack.” Crowe’s leans forward in the chair. His head tilts slightly to an angle, like that of an inquisitive dog.
“I think you need to look inside yourself, Chris and ask whether it really is the person facing you, you’re so concerned with beating of whether or not you’ve got the balls to beat some sense into yourself. You’re lying to yourself, Chris. You’re seeing things from the wrong perspective. This ‘misconception’ you think we all have of you is in fact the very thing you think about yourself and the sooner you realise that it really is YOU who is the lost cause the better. Until then… Chris… I would get used to sitting at the bottom of the pond, feeding on scum and scraps; where the light barely penetrates enough for you to get a glimpse of what could be.”
Reclining back into the chair, Crowe shrugs his shoulders. He swirls the ice cups in the glass once more while he thoughtfully chooses his next words.
"I, on the other hand, refuse to be left floundering at the bottom of the great FGA pond any longer than absolutely necessary. I may not be telling you this in the form of a cute little rap like Daniel Christopher did, but then I’ve always thought the term ‘a picture tells a thousand words’ was a pretty accurate philosophy. So, Angel, how about rather than spitting rhymes as they call it, you just picture the image of your battered self, a referee smacking the mat – ‘one, two, three’ – and ask yourself ‘where are my raps now?’”
“This Saturday in Providence I earn my stripes here in Frontier Grappling Arts and set the bar for things to come but while many of you squander over gold, not unlike Mr Jenkins; I too fight only for myself and the pleasure taken from proving who is simply better will be ALL mine. Does that mean I would look the other way should FGA management decide to give me a shot at a title in the future?” Another, more obvious smirk this time adorns Crowe’s face.
“Of course not. I would be happy to relieve J.T. Cash or Chris Q of the weight they bear, but right now… Right now they can sleep soundly in the knowledge that I have yet to set my sights on them. You may consider my claim bold, audacious at best; especially given I have yet to even set foot in an FGA ring. I suppose we will just have to wait until this Saturday to see whether this volatile mix of ingredients makes for a perfect treat…”
Stopping mid sentence, Crowe lifts the tumbler to his lips once more and finishes what’s left of the whiskey.
“Or a recipe for disaster…”
On that, Crowe pushes himself up out of the chair and onto his feet. He thumps the tumbler down onto the arm of the chair, somehow managing to prevent it toppling over the side before pacing off, out of shot. The camera focuses on nothing more than the melting ice cubes left in the tumbler as a clicking sound is heard and the gentle humming returns; only this time rapidly growing louder with each passing second as we found out.
Once more we find ourselves visiting the quaint community of Honesdale, PA; more specifically the Crow’s Nest – the old Lackawaxen River Fishing Supply Store that Crowe now calls home.
Inside nothing much has changed since we last saw it and similarly we find ourselves looking at a static image inside the Crow’s Nest. The walls still look as drab as the day Crowe acquired the place. What’s left of the heavily faded wallpaper is struggling to cling to the wall and the bare floor boards are still exposed albeit for the odd scattering of cigarette nubs. There is little noise, but the silence is broken somewhat by a fizzing hum. Is it television static, or is it that of an old, un-tuned transistor radio? There is also appears a new addition to the Crow’s Nest. A worn out old armchair is sat only a few feet away facing the camera. Its high back and arms lined with a cracked mahogany coloured leather, it’s needless to say this old chair has seen better days.
Then, the gentle background humming dies with a clicking sound. It’s clear we’re not alone then – and sure enough, into the shot walks a figure. It must be Crowe, the figure’s head appears out of shot due to their close proximity but those black and grey shaded flames tattooed up the forearms are a dead giveaway. Sporting what appears to be the same black three-quarter length shorts and this time a fitted black t-shirt emblazoned with the words “Another F*cking Logo T-Shirt” across the chest, the figure takes to the seat, sure enough revealing his face to be that of Crowe’s. His black hair looking as wild as ever, sprouting outwards from his scalp like wild black vines.
Crowe settles into the armchair and slouches back slightly. With both of his legs outstretched they disappear down out of shot while his arms rest limply on the armchair’s arms. His left hand clutches at a small glass tumbler half filled – or more fittingly, emptied – with several ice cubes and a golden-brown liquor.
Crowe remains silent, looking into the camera lens with narrowed, intent eyes as though attempting to pick your brain. He lifts the tumbler; the ice cubes lightly bump together as he puts the glass to his nose and inhales the aroma.
“Ahh...”
Crowe savours the aromas, like a bouquet of freshly picked flowers being presented to a loved one.
“There are so many things you can tell from a fragrance. Strength, texture, flavour, the ingredients used; an entire smorgasbord of information all there in one sniff. You just need to know how to recognise them, that’s all. Right now I’m getting strong oaky aromas, honey, vanilla…”
Crowe closes his eyes, losing himself in the spirit’s allure.
“The perfect combination for a fine bourbon whiskey.”
Crowe takes a sip, the ice cubes rattle against one another as the golden liquid disappears down into Crowe’s mouth.
“This Saturday in Providence I will be taking in a whole new combination of fragrances and aromas. The ingredients have been set out. Four of Frontier Grappling Arts’ finest upstarts, tossed together. Such a blend can only be set on one outcome: the sweet smell of success. My success.”
Crowe hints at a smirk as he takes another sip.
“I’m sorry. Really I am. It almost feels pitiful to make such a clichéd pitch like that – like I’m playing into the hands of this pantomime villain. A brush I’m sure you have already painted me with. Truth be told I don’t really care what you think; whether you think I’m some Captain Hook cartoon bad guy or merely a well spoken Brit that’s a little too sure in his own convictions…” Crowe bats his free hand dismissively.
“It doesn’t change the fact that whether you’ve heard of me before or not, your opinion – to me – is completely irrelevant. Oh I’ve heard it all before, trust me...” Again Crowe narrows his eyes. His hand raises slightly as he extends a finger towards the camera.
“I’m no rookie, rest assured my four opponents this weekend will learn that first hand. I’ve been through many wars and fought against far tougher odds. Let me tell you about the time I……”
Crowe pauses.
“There I go again talking about myself. Such egotism, such charisma, what must you think? You’d think with Chris Jenkins’ motivational ‘self satisfaction is the first step to confidence’ malarkey that I’d have spent my entire life living with the kind of satisfaction only a man like Thaddeus Grey could be used to.” Looking down at his glass as he scoffs to himself.
“Truth be told I HAVE been through wars, and I HAVE fought against far tougher odds. Sure, I don’t expect this Saturday to be a leisurely stroll in the park, but that doesn’t mean I expect anything less than absolute victory over my four opponents. Now, how is that for confidence, Chris?”
“You know, maybe I shot from the hip a little too soon with you. It seems rather than comparing you to the womanizing Thaddeus, I should have looked a little closer to home…”
Crowe tips his glass to the camera.
“Nothing like a nice drink is there, Chris? Maybe it is you and I then, Chris who are closer cut from the same cloth? Only, while you sit there a recovering alcoholic, I sit here – in the Crow’s Nest a uncrowned king amongst peasants. Or maybe I too need saving from the demon’s of drink…?” Crowe scoffs.
“How about after I’ve finished embarrassing myself on Saturday night I’ll let you invite me along to one of those cute little AA sessions and we can stand at the podium ‘Hello, my name’s Crowe and I’m an alcoholic’…”
“Pish.” Crowe scowls at the very thought.
“The real weakness lies in admitting something has taken control of you. That you’re too weak to even tackle your own demons let alone the man standing opposite you? How do you expect to defend yourself in the ring, Chris, when you can’t even defend yourself from… yourself? A recovering man leaves himself far too open for attack.” Crowe’s leans forward in the chair. His head tilts slightly to an angle, like that of an inquisitive dog.
“I think you need to look inside yourself, Chris and ask whether it really is the person facing you, you’re so concerned with beating of whether or not you’ve got the balls to beat some sense into yourself. You’re lying to yourself, Chris. You’re seeing things from the wrong perspective. This ‘misconception’ you think we all have of you is in fact the very thing you think about yourself and the sooner you realise that it really is YOU who is the lost cause the better. Until then… Chris… I would get used to sitting at the bottom of the pond, feeding on scum and scraps; where the light barely penetrates enough for you to get a glimpse of what could be.”
Reclining back into the chair, Crowe shrugs his shoulders. He swirls the ice cups in the glass once more while he thoughtfully chooses his next words.
"I, on the other hand, refuse to be left floundering at the bottom of the great FGA pond any longer than absolutely necessary. I may not be telling you this in the form of a cute little rap like Daniel Christopher did, but then I’ve always thought the term ‘a picture tells a thousand words’ was a pretty accurate philosophy. So, Angel, how about rather than spitting rhymes as they call it, you just picture the image of your battered self, a referee smacking the mat – ‘one, two, three’ – and ask yourself ‘where are my raps now?’”
“This Saturday in Providence I earn my stripes here in Frontier Grappling Arts and set the bar for things to come but while many of you squander over gold, not unlike Mr Jenkins; I too fight only for myself and the pleasure taken from proving who is simply better will be ALL mine. Does that mean I would look the other way should FGA management decide to give me a shot at a title in the future?” Another, more obvious smirk this time adorns Crowe’s face.
“Of course not. I would be happy to relieve J.T. Cash or Chris Q of the weight they bear, but right now… Right now they can sleep soundly in the knowledge that I have yet to set my sights on them. You may consider my claim bold, audacious at best; especially given I have yet to even set foot in an FGA ring. I suppose we will just have to wait until this Saturday to see whether this volatile mix of ingredients makes for a perfect treat…”
Stopping mid sentence, Crowe lifts the tumbler to his lips once more and finishes what’s left of the whiskey.
“Or a recipe for disaster…”
On that, Crowe pushes himself up out of the chair and onto his feet. He thumps the tumbler down onto the arm of the chair, somehow managing to prevent it toppling over the side before pacing off, out of shot. The camera focuses on nothing more than the melting ice cubes left in the tumbler as a clicking sound is heard and the gentle humming returns; only this time rapidly growing louder with each passing second as we found out.