An Introduction of Sorts
Dec 12, 2011 20:49:52 GMT -5
Post by Chandler Scott on Dec 12, 2011 20:49:52 GMT -5
[ Nothingness. No light. No sound. No sense of where we are in this point in time. The only thing that can be seen is pitch black. But after rumbling around with what is presumably some production equipment, we can hear a man's voice. He then raises his voices as he initiates a countdown. ]
Unknown Man:
“And in FIVE...... FOUR...... THREE..... TWO..... ONE...... ACTION.....”
(What was once darkness has become light. As the scene slowly fades from black to white, sitting in front of us is a man with a muscular build. Surrounding him are various sports memorabilia, plaques, trophies, medals and even a couple of diplomas. His Harvard letterman jacket fits comfortably around his upper body. His jeans are not tattered, beat up and ripped. They look presentable. His New Balance sneakers are not coming apart at the soles. They've been kept in decent shape. His hair doesn't look a mess. It has been groomed by a professional barber. And his shirt has no signs of stains or spillage. He's a grown man after all. Unlike some people, he doesn't need to wear a bib to prevent food from falling down onto his clothes. He knows how to properly put food in his mouth. And despite the preconceived nothings, he is well-versed in the art of the fisticuffs. So he'll have no problems putting his fists in the mouths of his opponents. In particular, Evan Bodom this Wednesday evening. The man leans back in his metal folding chair, placing his hands behind his head. A smirk begins to creep out of the side of his mouth. It's a smirk that most of you should get familiar with. It'll be that same smirk that you'll see as you cautiously lift your head off the mat after you've been defeated by this man.)
Chandler Scott:
“Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls. Wrestling purists. You may not know it now. But I am the answer to all of your questions. I am the great hope that you've been longing for. I am the solution, the cure-all that you've been searching for. I am Chandler Scott and I am a cut above the rest of you losers.” His smirks grows into a full-on smile, running from ear to ear. “That's right, I said my name.... is Chandler Scott. Not for those of you not 'in the know', that name may mean absolutely nothing to you. And that comes as no surprise to me. See, for the past four or five months, my partner and I have been running roughshod over a federation tucked deep into the mountains. The Rocky Mountains, to be more specific. And in that time there, we dominated the competition. We took a so-called dragon and slayed him. We took a no-talented, hoodrat thug and gave him the beating that the local PD should've given him months ago. And then we proceeded to embarrass their champions. We were so impressive that we got a call from a 'prestigious organization' that wanted to give us a shot at their tag team titles. But as we looked back on our time there, we decided that staying there was not in our best interests. There was no competition for us there, be it in singles or in the tag ranks. I mean hell, when we got there, both of those organizations had a tag team division that was dead upon our arrival. But the moment we stepped foot through those doors, we injected new life into those divisions. And those divisions thrived. Teams were coming in from all over just to have the privilege of being in the same ring as us. But just like we pumped new life into it, as soon as we left, those divisions were dead, gone and have shown no chances of recovery. That's the power that we possess. That's just how damn good that we are!”
“But there will be no 'we' this Wednesday evening. Oh no, it'll be myself and my tag team partner, Preston Blake, venturing out into singles action. Now of course, most of you would assume that would mean impending doom for the both of us. We're tag team wrestlers, right? Surely we couldn't get the job done on our own, right? Because if we could, we would be singles wrestlers instead, right? Preston shakes his head. “You people are so ignorant. You're probably also the same type of people that would believe that because I wear clothing that actually fits me, because I talk like I have more than a ninth grade education, and because I wear a Harvard jacket..... I must be a sissy. I must be weak. But that's the type of thinking that will get you beat. Of course, you'll find all of that out first hand this Wednesday. Isn't that right, Evan? Chandler begins to snicker...
“Evan.... Poor Little Evan. You slay me with your sob stories. Regale me with another tale about your tormented childhood. Please, tell us about how you were picked on because you looked like the piece of trash that I'm sure you are. Please, tell us about how sad those big bullies made you? Aw, poor baby. Do you want a hug? How about a tissue? You know what I think? How about I just apologize on behalf of all of us jocks out there. Because I think once you finally get that apology that you've been waiting the last decade of your miserable life for, I think you'll actually be able to move on and drop the baggage.” Chandler cackles at his mean-spirited words. “I get it, Evan. No really, I do. I am a constant reminder of your tormented childhood. The mean bullies picked on you. All you wanted to do was play kickball during recess. But instead, the bullies kicked your ball, sending it soaring down the lot and down the street. All you wanted to do was not be late for your class. But instead, you got stuffed in a locker and locked inside for hours. All you wanted to do was eat your lunch in peace. Too bad, because the bullies decided to take the lunch that your deadbeat mom bought with her food stamps and threw it in the trash. Ha! All you wanted was to ask out that cute girl who sat in the front of the class. She was the object of your affection. And once or twice a week, she'd actually acknowledge your pathetic existence by giving you a smile and a wave. But too damn bad, because the bullies actually had the guts to ask her out on a date, leaving you alone... on a Friday Night.... with nothing but your hands and a bottle of lotion to keep you company. Wow, life must have sucked for you pretty bad, huh bro?” Chandler slaps his knee as he begins to cackle. After a few moments, he regains composure.
“I get it, Evan. I really do. I now understand why you hate me so much. Not only am I a reminder of your poor, traumatic and emotionally scarred childhood. But I'm also a reminder of everything that you'll never be. I come from wealth. I have no qualms admitting that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. A trust fund baby, if you will. I enjoyed every birthday and Christmas because I got everything that I wanted. That new car? I got it. That new outfit? I got it? That cute cheerleader who did those leg splits? Oh, I got that. And in more ways than one.” Chandler winks as he snickers. “I went to the finest of schools. I passed with flying colors. And then I went to the most prestigious of universities. The greatest school of higher learning, Harvard. And as you would expect, I graduated with flying colors from there, too. So you're right, Evan. I am spoiled rotten to the very core. But where you went wrong is.... well.... you went wrong when you decided to continue to run your mouth about everything else.....”
“See, I didn't turn on the television one day and go, 'wow, that looks neat. I'll get Father to pull a couple of strings and see what he can do for me.' I didn't think of wrestling as a way to get women. I'm not yourself or any of the other losers around here. I've been had my lady, thank you very much. See, in high school, and even at the collegiate level, I wrestled. And I was a fine, fine wrestler. I could grapple with the best of them. I knew my holds. I knew my counters. I wasn't some juiced up musclehead that won some talent contest. Wrestling is in me. It's in my heart. It's my passion. See, Evan, there are plenty of places with much bigger production values and much bigger stages that I could have gone to. Hell, Preston and I just left a placed that was once regarded as one of the oldest wrestling companies in the world. But instead of succumbing to the avalanche taking place out in the Rockies and crumbling down along with that place.... and instead of sticking with a failing inter-promotional federation that should've died years ago... we wanted to go to a place where the real action was. We want to go to a place where they're serious about professional wrestling. Not sports entertainment. Not soap opera dramas for men. No, the sport of professional wrestling. So when we got contacted about a placed called FRONTIER Grappling Arts, and they sold us on this place, we both turned to each other and we knew that we were all in. See Evan, this isn't about the money. If it was about the money, I'd be back up in Massachusetts, putting my Harvard degree to use at a major company. No, this is about wrestling. This is about proving that not only are me and Preston the best tag team in the world, but that we're both, even on our own, the best talented athletes in this company.”
“I get it, though. You see the face. You see Harvard. You think of me as a pretty boy. You think of me as a spoiled brat who never had to work for anything in his life. But guess what, smart guy? Someone's butt was in those seats taking those tests. Someone was out there in those gyms wrestling their opponents down to the mat. And for the record, not only can I take a punch, but I know how to throw one, too. See, not only am I going to shatter this image that you have of me, but I'm going to shatter your glass jaw when my fist meets your face! Evan, I am mentally superior than you. I am physically better than you. I am your unrealized potential. The sooner you realize it, the better your stay here at FGA will be. And that, my friend..... Chandler takes a moment to snicker. “Is the truth!”
[ The scene fades to crimson, followed by the Harvard “H”. ]
Unknown Man:
“And in FIVE...... FOUR...... THREE..... TWO..... ONE...... ACTION.....”
(What was once darkness has become light. As the scene slowly fades from black to white, sitting in front of us is a man with a muscular build. Surrounding him are various sports memorabilia, plaques, trophies, medals and even a couple of diplomas. His Harvard letterman jacket fits comfortably around his upper body. His jeans are not tattered, beat up and ripped. They look presentable. His New Balance sneakers are not coming apart at the soles. They've been kept in decent shape. His hair doesn't look a mess. It has been groomed by a professional barber. And his shirt has no signs of stains or spillage. He's a grown man after all. Unlike some people, he doesn't need to wear a bib to prevent food from falling down onto his clothes. He knows how to properly put food in his mouth. And despite the preconceived nothings, he is well-versed in the art of the fisticuffs. So he'll have no problems putting his fists in the mouths of his opponents. In particular, Evan Bodom this Wednesday evening. The man leans back in his metal folding chair, placing his hands behind his head. A smirk begins to creep out of the side of his mouth. It's a smirk that most of you should get familiar with. It'll be that same smirk that you'll see as you cautiously lift your head off the mat after you've been defeated by this man.)
Chandler Scott:
“Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls. Wrestling purists. You may not know it now. But I am the answer to all of your questions. I am the great hope that you've been longing for. I am the solution, the cure-all that you've been searching for. I am Chandler Scott and I am a cut above the rest of you losers.” His smirks grows into a full-on smile, running from ear to ear. “That's right, I said my name.... is Chandler Scott. Not for those of you not 'in the know', that name may mean absolutely nothing to you. And that comes as no surprise to me. See, for the past four or five months, my partner and I have been running roughshod over a federation tucked deep into the mountains. The Rocky Mountains, to be more specific. And in that time there, we dominated the competition. We took a so-called dragon and slayed him. We took a no-talented, hoodrat thug and gave him the beating that the local PD should've given him months ago. And then we proceeded to embarrass their champions. We were so impressive that we got a call from a 'prestigious organization' that wanted to give us a shot at their tag team titles. But as we looked back on our time there, we decided that staying there was not in our best interests. There was no competition for us there, be it in singles or in the tag ranks. I mean hell, when we got there, both of those organizations had a tag team division that was dead upon our arrival. But the moment we stepped foot through those doors, we injected new life into those divisions. And those divisions thrived. Teams were coming in from all over just to have the privilege of being in the same ring as us. But just like we pumped new life into it, as soon as we left, those divisions were dead, gone and have shown no chances of recovery. That's the power that we possess. That's just how damn good that we are!”
“But there will be no 'we' this Wednesday evening. Oh no, it'll be myself and my tag team partner, Preston Blake, venturing out into singles action. Now of course, most of you would assume that would mean impending doom for the both of us. We're tag team wrestlers, right? Surely we couldn't get the job done on our own, right? Because if we could, we would be singles wrestlers instead, right? Preston shakes his head. “You people are so ignorant. You're probably also the same type of people that would believe that because I wear clothing that actually fits me, because I talk like I have more than a ninth grade education, and because I wear a Harvard jacket..... I must be a sissy. I must be weak. But that's the type of thinking that will get you beat. Of course, you'll find all of that out first hand this Wednesday. Isn't that right, Evan? Chandler begins to snicker...
“Evan.... Poor Little Evan. You slay me with your sob stories. Regale me with another tale about your tormented childhood. Please, tell us about how you were picked on because you looked like the piece of trash that I'm sure you are. Please, tell us about how sad those big bullies made you? Aw, poor baby. Do you want a hug? How about a tissue? You know what I think? How about I just apologize on behalf of all of us jocks out there. Because I think once you finally get that apology that you've been waiting the last decade of your miserable life for, I think you'll actually be able to move on and drop the baggage.” Chandler cackles at his mean-spirited words. “I get it, Evan. No really, I do. I am a constant reminder of your tormented childhood. The mean bullies picked on you. All you wanted to do was play kickball during recess. But instead, the bullies kicked your ball, sending it soaring down the lot and down the street. All you wanted to do was not be late for your class. But instead, you got stuffed in a locker and locked inside for hours. All you wanted to do was eat your lunch in peace. Too bad, because the bullies decided to take the lunch that your deadbeat mom bought with her food stamps and threw it in the trash. Ha! All you wanted was to ask out that cute girl who sat in the front of the class. She was the object of your affection. And once or twice a week, she'd actually acknowledge your pathetic existence by giving you a smile and a wave. But too damn bad, because the bullies actually had the guts to ask her out on a date, leaving you alone... on a Friday Night.... with nothing but your hands and a bottle of lotion to keep you company. Wow, life must have sucked for you pretty bad, huh bro?” Chandler slaps his knee as he begins to cackle. After a few moments, he regains composure.
“I get it, Evan. I really do. I now understand why you hate me so much. Not only am I a reminder of your poor, traumatic and emotionally scarred childhood. But I'm also a reminder of everything that you'll never be. I come from wealth. I have no qualms admitting that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. A trust fund baby, if you will. I enjoyed every birthday and Christmas because I got everything that I wanted. That new car? I got it. That new outfit? I got it? That cute cheerleader who did those leg splits? Oh, I got that. And in more ways than one.” Chandler winks as he snickers. “I went to the finest of schools. I passed with flying colors. And then I went to the most prestigious of universities. The greatest school of higher learning, Harvard. And as you would expect, I graduated with flying colors from there, too. So you're right, Evan. I am spoiled rotten to the very core. But where you went wrong is.... well.... you went wrong when you decided to continue to run your mouth about everything else.....”
“See, I didn't turn on the television one day and go, 'wow, that looks neat. I'll get Father to pull a couple of strings and see what he can do for me.' I didn't think of wrestling as a way to get women. I'm not yourself or any of the other losers around here. I've been had my lady, thank you very much. See, in high school, and even at the collegiate level, I wrestled. And I was a fine, fine wrestler. I could grapple with the best of them. I knew my holds. I knew my counters. I wasn't some juiced up musclehead that won some talent contest. Wrestling is in me. It's in my heart. It's my passion. See, Evan, there are plenty of places with much bigger production values and much bigger stages that I could have gone to. Hell, Preston and I just left a placed that was once regarded as one of the oldest wrestling companies in the world. But instead of succumbing to the avalanche taking place out in the Rockies and crumbling down along with that place.... and instead of sticking with a failing inter-promotional federation that should've died years ago... we wanted to go to a place where the real action was. We want to go to a place where they're serious about professional wrestling. Not sports entertainment. Not soap opera dramas for men. No, the sport of professional wrestling. So when we got contacted about a placed called FRONTIER Grappling Arts, and they sold us on this place, we both turned to each other and we knew that we were all in. See Evan, this isn't about the money. If it was about the money, I'd be back up in Massachusetts, putting my Harvard degree to use at a major company. No, this is about wrestling. This is about proving that not only are me and Preston the best tag team in the world, but that we're both, even on our own, the best talented athletes in this company.”
“I get it, though. You see the face. You see Harvard. You think of me as a pretty boy. You think of me as a spoiled brat who never had to work for anything in his life. But guess what, smart guy? Someone's butt was in those seats taking those tests. Someone was out there in those gyms wrestling their opponents down to the mat. And for the record, not only can I take a punch, but I know how to throw one, too. See, not only am I going to shatter this image that you have of me, but I'm going to shatter your glass jaw when my fist meets your face! Evan, I am mentally superior than you. I am physically better than you. I am your unrealized potential. The sooner you realize it, the better your stay here at FGA will be. And that, my friend..... Chandler takes a moment to snicker. “Is the truth!”
[ The scene fades to crimson, followed by the Harvard “H”. ]