Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Oct 19, 2015 9:45:45 GMT -5
The small green expanse of Greensboro off West Market St. is quiet this morning; it is Sunday so there's few classes in session and college students tend to sleep in after Saturday nights. Across the lawn walks a lone figure in a black motorcycle jacket with the collar turned up against the cold. Jason Bronco wanders the spider-work for connected pathways around the different academic buildings of Greensboro College. The ones he finds open, he enters for a bit to roam the halls, peering into empty classrooms and offices.
After a while, Bronco finds himself seated at a small table outside a coffee shop in the Fowler Dining Hall area. A handful of students have begun making their way into the hall for breakfast as Bronco stores into the rising steam of his cup.
“I look so much older than them,” he mutters to himself, “I had almost forgotten that this could've been me, my path in life. I forget sometimes – a lot, actually – that I'm just a kid to most of the world. I'm just a teenager; I would've been a freshman this year...”
His voice trails off.
“I don't have the slightest idea what would've been like; to do something so... normal. All these kids, they just... look so much younger than me. They seem happy here.”
“It's an odd choice in venue, this college, but this week Frontier to the Future 2 takes place not far from where I'm sitting now. Sure it may not be like last time when I had top billing on the card, but I've got a chance to continue my winning streak and continue to prove that I belong here. I'm at two-in-a-row, and it's time to make that three. But that's a lot easier said than done against Shintaro Majima.”
Bronco slowly takes a sip from the Styrofoam cup between his hands before continuing.
“ShiMa is many things I am not: 6-foot-one, 242 pounds, a three year veteran and a certified ass-kicker. I can't pronounce 75% of his moves, but violence is a universal language and Majima is fluent in it. I have very little doubt that this will be one of – if not the – most physically demanding matches I've ever had. Basically, I'm expecting an ass-kicking.”
Bronco looks down at his coffee briefly, before raising his eyes with a slow smile.
“Hey, what happened to that confidence, right? Just because I'm expecting to get the hell beat out of me doesn't mean I'm expecting to lose. It doesn't mean this match the foregone conclusion people are saying – and some are hoping – it to be. And I'm sure there's plenty of people out there who want to see the Strong Style Saviour kick my face off my head. Well, I don't often like disappointing people, but those folks are going to go home in a sour mood when I beat ShiMa.”
“I'm not the biggest guy in LDFC, and I'm not the strongest either. I'm not the best talker, and I'm clearly a lousy politicker. I'm probably not the fastest or the most polished, but there is no one here who wants this more than I do. There is no one here that has trained harder than me to be here. And on Wednesday night at Frontier to the Future 2, after taking a savage beating, I walk out having defeated Shintaro Majima... I will prove to everyone that Jason Bronco is more than a last name. I will prove that Jason Bronco is THE name in Lion's Den. I will prove that Jason Bronco is the future.”
Word Count: 597
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Oct 5, 2015 9:58:53 GMT -5
“That's more like it.”
The YMCA in Whitsett, NC is quieter than a library this morning. The lights in the building aren't even turned on yet; the custodial staff is still making their early-morning pass through the building; and only one patron occupies the spartan weight room. Jason Bronco.
“It took a while. Honestly, longer than I'd hoped. But I'm back at .500. A two-and-two overall record, and I picked up my first ever singles victory in the Lion's Den.”
Bronco offers a wry smile, “I'm turning this franchise around.”
“But with all due respect to Ms. Quinn Cobain – those laurels aren't enough to rest on. So I won't and I'm not,” Bronco makes a sweep gesture to indicate the weight room around him as beads of sweat trickle down his face and arms, saturating a black cut-off shirt.
“Next up is Jensen Walczak, a big, tough sonuvabitch from Brooklyn.” Bronco chuckles briefly, “New York City? Shit, that's enough motivation right there for a Boston boy to step up his game. And on top of that, I watched you take Keegan Hightower to his limit. I watched him cheat to beat you. I'm not one to hop up on any high horses when it comes to scratching and clawing to the top of this sport, but that sort of chicanery... it ain't in my playbook. So rest assured, Mr. Walczak, that if you beat me, you'll have the knowledge that you were the better man.”
Bronco smirks and then gives a shrug.
“Of course, when I beat you this week in Gibsonville, you'll also have to live with the fact that I was the better man. No if, ands, buts or feet on ropes about it. See, I'm new to this whole 'winning' thing, but I kinda like it. Yeah, it feels pretty damn good and I think I'm going to keep doing it. And, Mr. Walczak, you're exactly the kind of challenge I'm looking for. You're a much bigger guy than me, and obviously talented in your own right. Beating someone like you, that's the next step in proving that I deserve to be here. That I belong here.”
“And THAT is my sole focus. I'm not worried about revenge, I'm not worried about what's next for me. I don't have anyone ahead of me for the next big show. There's just you, me, and Gibsonville on Wednesday night. That's where my head is at, that's where my focus is. And if you're still kicking yourself when you step into the ring with me, well then I guess there will two of us kicking your ass around North Carolina. Take it from a guy who didn't have the start I wanted when I came into Lion's Den; you can only go forward. You dwell on that loss to Hightower, and soon you'll be dwelling on a loss to Jason Bronco, too.”
Bronco takes a towel and wipes the sweat off his brow, before pushing himself up off his seat.
“Time to get back to work. See you on Wednesday night.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Sept 14, 2015 9:20:13 GMT -5
Whitsett, NC
About 5 miles south-west of Gibsonville is the small town of Whitsett, North Carolina; boasting a population of 590... and at least one visitor. The Whitsett YMCA is mostly empty at five in the morning, save for a half-asleep door attendant and a young man taking advantage of an empty weight room.
Jason Bronco – attired in black track pants, Chuck Taylors, and a sweat-soaked gray hoodie – is finishing up an early morning work out with a round of jump ropes. He closes with a set of double-unders before finally jumping to a finish. Bronco pops the earbuds from his ears and wipes down his face with a towel before heading towards the locker room.
“Opportunities,” he says as he removes his hoodie, “I got my first one with Chris Bond in the Dynamic Duos tournament. I worked my way into a second one against Ze Germans at 2nd Impact. I'm sure there's some that would say I've squandered these chances. That my 1-and-2 record has me more at two strikes with only one more to go. Now I have the opportunity to prove the doubters wrong; I have my first professional singles match at Pride.”
Bronco peels off the soaked white undershirt and tosses it into his locker before toweling off his torso.
“Quinn Cobain, a young lady who has already made her debut and already matched me in total wins... that's who I'm facing. A young lady who had more than a few things to say about art and athleticism and professional wrestling. I'd like to puff out my chest and say that I'm going to stretch this Scot into a pretzel that would make MC Escher blush... but I'm not an elder statesman for this sport. I'm not in any position to worry about the reputation and perception of the sport I love; I need to worry about getting my first singles win first.”
“I know a little something about reaching for the brass ring and finding out your arms are a little too short. I know a little something about chasing a dream and realizing your legs just can't go fast enough to catch it. We're not so different, Quinn, at least in that regard. We were we do differ is that I haven't rolled over and played dead. I haven't given up. I'm not someone who quits. I'm sure there's people out there who are laughing at me, calling me a dumb kid for giving up everything to chase my dream, and deriding my promos as a string of empty platitudes. I'm sure there's plenty of people picking you to go over on me this week, too. All that does is convince me I need to work harder, I need to push myself farther, and I need steel myself and ready for battle.”
“So, Ms. Cobain, you might be coming for an art exhibition... but I'm coming for war.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Aug 16, 2015 23:40:10 GMT -5
Boston, Massachusetts.
Midnight. The Applebee's parking lot is empty save for employee cars and the scattered halos of the parking lamps. Jason Bronco emerges from the rear exit, with his black button-down shirt tossed over his shoulder. He walk past the cars in the lot and out onto the main drag and off into the night. Traffic is scarce, and the air is muggy. His black T-shirt clings to his back and his sides like a second skin.
“So you wanna know,” Bronco says to the night, “why I was hanging around backstage at Pride, huh? So you wanna know why Chris Bond would pick me over any of his students in the Lion's Den? So you wanna know why I had Chris Bond's back?”
Bronco exhales through a dismissive smirk.
“Yeah, just some kid getting handed everything on a silver platter. The reason Bond chose me isn't because he didn't trust his students. It isn't because I'm better than anyone in the Lion's Den, as much as I'd like to think I am. It isn't even because of my last name. He did it as a favor for an old friend. An old friend that put him in a tough position, because I pushed him. Dynamic Duos... that was just serendipitous timing. I don't know if Bond had any intentions of entering until I showed up and flipped his world upside-down.”
“But you're right about one thing, I did want to cut the line. Not just past everyone in the Lion's Den, but past established names in FGA, too. I thought I was ready. I was kid Icarus with wax wings... but I flew to close to the sun.”
“And you know what they said to me after Dynamic Duos? 'Hey, kid, great job out there... but we don't have anything for you right now.' Hey, kid, thanks for killing yourself out there... but we don't have anything for you right now. Hey, kid, thanks for letting us make a buck off your famous name... but we don't have anything for you right now. Hey, kid, thanks for sacrificing your future and your family to take a shot... but we don't have anything for you right now!”
Bronco spits.
“So why was I backstage at Pride? Because I've spent the last two months on the phone every day trying to get another shot. 'Hey, you got anything for me? Hey, you got anything for me? Hey, I'm out here dying, couch-surfing, and waiting tables... you got anything for me?' I finally got an invite to come to Gibsonville. I spent what was left of my savings on a plane ticket to Charlotte. Hitchhiked up to Greensboro and then walked the 16 miles to Gibsonville so that I could try to talk my way onto a Pride card.”
“So that leaves one question left... why'd have Chris Bond's back? I could tell you all the things people want to here from guys who wanna play the hero. 'It was the right thing to do.' 'He's my friend.' 'I owed him one for taking me under his wing.' And sure, there's kernels of truth in all of that. But when I hit the ring, when I ran out there, legs pumping like mad... heroics weren't on my mind. I was thinking about one thing: this is my chance to get on the show. This is my chance to get on the card.”
“My dirty little secret, Hans and Liesl, is I don't give one damn about either of you. I barely knew who you were before, and I only know a little bit more about you now. You could've been goddamned werewolves and I'd have still come out, because – unlike Icarus – I got a second chance. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let it slip through my hands.”
“So if you want to try and beat that determination out of me,” Bronco smirks, “Well, I wish you the best of luck. Better men than you have been trying to stop me from wrestling for the past five years, and I'm still here. Hans, you may be 'the Hammer,' but I'm a goddamn anvil. So come at me, bro, and we'll see who breaks who first.”
Word count: 704
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Aug 11, 2015 18:07:17 GMT -5
Gibsonville, North Carolina.
Backstage at the New Mid-Atlantic Sportatorium, Jason Bronco paces the fluorescent-lit, beige hallways before bursting through a heavy metal exit door into the parking lot and the sticky-humid North Carolina evening. Amidst the yellow-orange glow of the parking lamps' light, Bronco starts to quell his frantic energy; running his hands through the black hair of his undercut and tossing the sweat off into the air. His exuberance is the only thing that can cut through heavy haze of the summer air.
He paces back and forth, his Chuck Taylors gliding across the asphalt, as sweat begins to accumulate along his brow and face.
“Two months,” the words burst from his lips in a half-roar, “Two months! That's how long it has been since I last had the chance to compete. Two months since my naïve dream of ascending to top of Frontier Grappling Arts was shattered by Whiskey Dex. Two months since I watched all my sacrifices and years of training and preparation go up in smoke. Two months I've spent dwelling on the three seconds that cost me so many years.”
Bronco's cadence matches his pacing; frenzied and just barely under his control.
“I came to FGA – to the Dynamic Duos tournament – thinking I was confident and prepared. I was an arrogant little shit. See, for my whole life I kept hearing about how my old man was a 'King' in this business; hearing about how he ruled the roost with an iron fist. I heard his friends talking about him like a god-king... and I heard them talk about how I could follow in his footsteps. I heard them say that I was 'Wrestling Royalty,' and that once the king, my father, abdicated his throne all that was left was for me to adopt his mantle and rule in his stead.”
“Naïve little fool that I am, I believed them. I believed those empty words and hollow metaphors. The 'King' abandoned his throne almost two decades ago. Whatever there was of a kingdom is long drowned under the waters of time. THE KING IS DEAD... figuratively speaking. So I showed up, ready to take my 'rightful place.' But here's the fucking thing... no one wanted my ascension. No one cared for my coronation. There was no place for me in FGA. That's what they told me. Two months ago that little fairy tale I'd been telling myself was real... it ended.”
A chuckle slips through his lips, half-pitiful and followed by a sneer.
“You know what that fairy tale cost me? It cost me my family, it cost me friends, it cost me my home. It cost my everything I had. The 'prince' turned to a pauper. For two months I've been living on couches and in parked cars. For two months I've been working at a fucking Applebee's so that could get a shift meal, just so I can fucking eat. Do you know how two months of eating one shitty meal a day has left me?”
A smirk breaks through Bronco's sneer.
“Hungry.”
“Somewhere along the years of training and fairy tales I lost this hunger and replaced it with a sense of entitlement for something that doesn't even exist. Well, it's back, and it's back in spades. I'm trading in my silver spoon for a broadsword and bloodlust. That kingdom I sought to rule? I'm trading that in... for nothing. And from nothing... that's where I'm going to build my OWN empire. Brick by brick, out of nothing but blood, sweat, and hunger. And if I have to tear through the Lion's Den like a twister through a trailer park then so be it. That's exactly what I'll do.”
Bronco's pacing slowly ceases, his shoulders moving up and down as he pants, his face covered in dripping beads of sweat. His eyes narrow and focus.
“For two months I waited for my opportunity and tonight, I took it. Not out of some nationalistic sentiment, not because Bond asked me to watch his back, and not even because I owe him. I took my chance, because two months is long enough to wait. And I don't care if I have to go through Ze Germans – I don't care if I have to go through a damned Panzer tank division – I will make my mark. I refuse to be a footnote in someone else's history. Reality may have set in, but the future remains unwritten. And my future... is just getting started.”
Word Count: 747
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Aug 11, 2015 17:09:06 GMT -5
I'd like to add the Jumping DDT Weekly Focus for 8/6/15-8/12/15.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jun 12, 2015 0:21:41 GMT -5
Start the Future Part II: Sins of the FatherLittle more meat to this one, so hopefully y'all are getting a better idea of the character/story/direction. Any feedback would be appreciated; especially the critical stuff. - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jun 11, 2015 10:58:21 GMT -5
Start the Future Part II: Sins of the Father ---------
His excuse had been a camping trip. His best friend, Dustin, had come to pick him up on Friday morning. But by 2pm, Jason Bronco was on a flight headed for Amarillo, Texas and Dustin was bellied up at bar far enough out of town that he wouldn't be recognized. The weekend had come and gone without a hitch. Despite the massive flooding in Texas, Jason's flights had come and gone without incident. When he returned on Sunday night, Dustin was waiting to pick him. Outside of Patrick McCarthy, Dustin Cruise Jr. was the only person who know the depths of his deception.
The weekend had come and gone without incident. The weekend, however, is a short period of time.
Monday. June 1, 2015. Saints Haven Wrestling Academy. Boston, MA. The old factory building is humming with human machinery, adding din and life to the lifeless concrete, beige walls. Two men, both in their early to mid-twenties, rush and tumble inside a frill-less wrestling ring in the center of the wide, open main expanse. The shorter of the two has a shock of wild, dirty-blond hair that follows him like a shadow as he evades the reckless, powerful swings of the burly, bearded larger man who looks comprised of equal parts hair and muscle.
Along the curtain-less apron of the ring, several other people stand watching. Two young women look on intently, occasionally glancing over at the group of three other men on the outside. Of the three man on the outside, Isaac Bronco's figure looms largest in physical stature and aura. With meaty arms crossed in front of a barreled chest, his icy blue eyes follow the blond boy's movements. Part of him hoping that the larger man will actually connect. Next to Isaac is Patrick McCarthy, younger and smaller than his counterpart but showing more wear-and-tear from a career and body that were over-extended. And finally, there is Jason Bronco, barely a man at all. Roughly as tall as McCarthy, but dwarfed in comparative demeanor. He hasn't eaten today. His eyes have bags that no eighteen-year-old should carry, and they dart furtively between the boys in the ring and the men to his left.
In the ring, the blond boy – Dustin Cruise Jr. - taunts the larger, bearded man as he ducks another furious lariat. He counts off the near-misses, "That's seven. Oh, and eight!" The bearded man's placid demeanor turns to frustration after missing a boot, and he charges after Cruise who is unprepared for the shoulder block that sends him tumbling out of the ring.
Isaac Bronco smirks. Patrick McCarthy shakes his head. Young Jason Bronco walks over to help his friend back to his feet, an act that is shrugged off by the wild-haired Cruise.
It is at this moment, a lull in the fervor and action, that they realize a phone is ringing. It's cry is distant and faint, but it's presence is clear. The elder Bronco turns towards his office to retrieve, as all eyes follow him there. A silence hangs in the air for a bit too long before McCarthy instructs the young ladies into the ring. The younger Bronco exchanges a quick glance with Cruise, and then a longer, more forlorn one with his mentor, McCarthy.
As the young women set off to start their drill, they are cut short by the sound of a slamming door. Isaac Bronco's surname has never seemed so apt as he storms like a war-horse directly over to McCarthy. With a sigh of resignation, McCarthy turns, offering no words or resistance as Bronco cold-cocks him right across the face.
One of the students lets out an audible cry of shock as McCarthy crumbles to floor in a heap. He coughs and spits. A stain of blood on the floor. Jason rushes over to help McCarthy, standing between his mentor and his father. But there is certain rage you can't dispel, you can only redirect. Betrayal is such a rage.
Isaac grips his son by the collar of his T-shirt, nearly lifting the boy off the ground before ripping downward with such violent force that Jason's shirt is split in half, nearly torn off. It is on his flesh that he bears the mark of his deception. Red and purple bruises, the shape of hands and fingers across his left pectoral. The marks of the knife-edge chops that Jason earned in his match with the Knights of Anarchy. Tell-tale signs over a tell-tale heart.
"Dad," is all the boy can muster, struggling to keep his father's gaze.
"Get out of my sight," his father responds before adding, "All of you!"
The other students snap into action, rushing to grab their gear and clothes and beat a hasty retreat. The elder Bronco casts a long look at his son. Years of shattered hopes and dreams, of anguish long and short, and emotions enumerable held in that instant... before turning his back on his boy. Isaac returns to his office, leaving only the co-conspirators behind.
McCarthy pushes himself back to his feet, holding his jaw and checking for signs of a break. He offers a half-hearted smirk to the younger Bronco.
"At least he held back," he quips. "The die is cast." And with that McCarthy pats Jason on the shoulder, grabs his bag from beside the ring and walks out of Saints Haven for the last time.
It takes a moment for Jason to even breath. And when he does, it comes with a torrent of vomit. All liquid. It splashes off the small pool of blood on the floor and splatters across his sneakers.
"Well, looks like your heel turn is complete," the voice is Dustin Cruise's, as he makes his way up beside his best friend. His inappropriately cheerful grin is met only with an exhausted sideways glance. Cruise shifts his tone to something more fraternal: "Come on, let's get out of here."
Cruise's 1986 Cutlass Supreme brings the two near-brothers to a McDonald's. Inside they eat their lunches in silence. They return to the car, and end up at Dustin's apartment duplex in Roxbury. The sky-blue vinyl siding is falling off in a few places where the white wooden trim is rotting. The pair sit on the back stoop, staring out at the unkempt urban jungle of weeds and plants that grows beyond the sea of spent cigarette butts littered on the ground.
Cruise burns through the last of a cigarette and adds a drop to the ocean, before offering a pat on Bronco's shoulder before returning to the house. Bronco remains on the stoop, still wearing his gym shorts, puke-stained sneakers, and a borrowed Misfits T-shirt. Several days worth of scruff adorn his chin in the form of what only a teenager might call a beard. Bronco runs his hands over his face and through is close-cropped black hair before returning them to his knees.
"The die is cast," he mumbles. Then repeats "the die is cast."
"Julius Caesar said that, when he crossed the Rubicon with an army that would invade Rome and set up one of the world's greatest empires," he pauses, "And Patrick McCarthy said it. To me. Those might be the last words I ever here from him."
The thought hangs in the air as a slight breeze sways the tallest weeds in the small fenced-in yard.
"It means that there's no going back. In Amarillo, Texas I cast my lot in with Chris Bond. I cast my die. I crossed my Rubicon. I've given up my home, my family, my friends, and any opportunity for a different kind of life for myself. College, career, ambition. When I cast those die, I cast them aside."
Bronco's eyes finally rise from the scattered cigarettes around his feet.
"On June 13th, we invade Rome."
"When I stepped into the ring in Amarillo against the Knights of Anarchy... I was scared. It's no brave thing to admit it, anyone who watched the match could see it. I was a scared kid stepping into the ring with living legends. And they beat the shit out of me. The 'phenomenon' that Jason Bronco was suppose to be? Man, clearly that was all just a load of hype and smoke. Look at this kid, getting his tits slapped off, getting tossed like a rag doll. Some legend-in-the-making, right?"
"When I stepped into that ring I should've seen an opportunity. I should've seen a moment to seize greatness. I should've seen a chance – MY chance – to live out the dream I've had since I was old enough to walk. But I didn't. All I saw was the seemingly endless list of people that I was letting down. I saw all the people I hurt by making the selfish decision to pursue my passion. I saw the look in my father's eyes that I've been fearing for months. The look I got today. In Amarillo, I wasn't fighting the Knights of Anarchy. I was fighting doubt. I was fighting myself. And it showed."
"In Amarillo, by the grace of Chris Bond I was spared. In Amarillo, I got lucky. Amarillo... was a fluke."
The word comes out of his mouth like a curse, spit with vitriol.
"The time for luck and fluke's is over now. No more boy-shit. The die is cast and I'm marching straight ahead because there's nowhere else for me to go now. I'm not much of a trash-talker; hell, I'm not even much of a talker if we're being honest, but I'll tell you what I do have: nothing. I've got absolutely nothing left in my life, which means I got nothing left to lose. I got a damned-good partner and I've got a match and that's all I need right now. That's all I WANT right now."
"That kid that got whooped around in Texas? Don't expect him in Prescott, Arizona. Hell, don't ever expect to see him again. That kid had every inch of his childhood beat out of him in that ring, and had every ounce of his innocence crushed this afternoon. The colt is gone, the Bronco is here now."
"And I'm not going to sit here and declare victory. I know what is standing across the ring from us this week. Caesar knew what was waiting for him in Rome. I know that Dexter Jacobs and Whiskey Ayano are just as big, brutal, tough and violent as the Knights of Anarchy, if not more so. I know Whiskey Dex is everyone's odds-on favorite to take this Dynamic Duos tournament. I know they're vicious. I know they see our team as a washed-up has-been and a green-as-gooseshit never-has-been. But what I KNOW and what IS aren't always the same. What everyone THINKS isn't always what HAPPENS. It is going to take everything – absolutely everything – that we have to win this match."
For the first time in as long as he can remember, Jason Bronco smiles.
"But I've got nothing left to lose. You want it all? You want everything I got? Well, you're going to get it. I gave up my future to be here. My own father's disowned me. You want to know if I'm all in, well, I'm all fucking in. The die is cast, the army's crossed, and Jason Bronco and Chris Bond are going to raze Rome and raise hell. It's time for me to burn the past to the ground..."
"...it's time for me to start the future."
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 28, 2015 12:14:22 GMT -5
Start the Future Part I: Born in a Long ShadowSo Jason Bronco is a brand new character for me and essentially the polar opposite of what I've been doing for the past 3 or so years with Malcolm Drake. I'm still trying to feel out the character, but I wanted to know what anyone/everyone thought. Good, bad, meh, etc. Thanks also to John for helping me with fleshing out the character backstory in his RP this week. And thanks in advance for the feedback. - Vinny
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 28, 2015 11:01:54 GMT -5
Previously...Bond - "So what can I do for you?"
McCarthy - "I need a favor. It's something I'd do myself if I could hold up, but..."
His voice trails off. He'd never been one to ask for help, even outmanned and outgunned.
Bond - "What is it?"
McCarthy - "There's this kid. His name's Jason. Jason Bronco."
McCarthy - "He could better than any of us, man. But he'll need help. He'll need your help..."--------- Boston, MA.At the end of a manicured lawn, along a sandstone pathway, lies the heavy wooden doors of a stout red-brick schoolhouse. The schoolhouse has stood in this place for over a hundred years now; growing with the generations to add wing after wing. One for the science department, another for arts, yet another for sports; it has not lost that distinctive New England character. Indeed, the high school looks like a miniature Harvard... had it not been standing long before Harvard's own hallowed halls. It is beyond those looming wooden doors where the Great Hall lies, a relic from a former era, meticulously maintained. Line after line of wooden seats are bolted together and have almost been molded into something resembling comfortable from the generations of students who have occupied them. The Hall is long and narrow, only enough room for three columns of twenty seats across. A small balcony hangs along the back. Along the dark oak walls, interspersed between oil portraits of by-gone alumni and headmasters, tall windows allow a soft yellow light to illuminate the room and the mass of dust mites that hover in the air, attendees of yet another graduation ceremony. The headmaster stands in heavy robes of black and crimson, ornate beyond function, as he gives closing remarks to the graduating class of 47 young men. They sit navy blazers over khakis with matching black and crimson ties. “They look younger every year,” the headmaster thinks to himself as he finishes his remarks to a polite round of applause. This will be his thirty-fifth and final graduation. The names are called, one by one, in alphabetical order by last name. All applause is saved until all 47 have received their diplomas. And then, finally, they leave these halls they entered as boys, as young men. Once the ceremonies have concluded, the graduates and their families gather in the refectory hall for light refreshments and to bathe in the afterglow. Among them, a man of about 40 stands out from the other fathers. He is ten to twenty years their junior, with shoulders twice as wide as the most robust of his peers. He stands a head taller than most of the other people in the room, and fits snugly into a well-tailored suit that shows his physique. Isaac Bronco, a legend in the professional wrestling industry, stands beaming with pride and with his beefy right hand on the shoulder of his son, Jason. Jason Bronco looks every inch his father's son. From the brown-black hair to the blue eyes to the hawkish nose to the impressive physique. He's shorter than his father, and more slender. His muscles down strain against the navy blazer like his father's against his suit, but he is more physically defined than most young boys on the precipice of manhood. He fidgets. And anyone who wants to look closely can see his smile is strained. He doesn't want to be there. To his peers this graduation marks the next step of their lives. The school has a 100% matriculation rate, and most of these boys will end up in Ivy League universities like Yale and Princeton. But for Jason it means the end. The end of a long con job and of rampant deception. As he stares at the portrait on the wall of the departing headmaster, a twinge of guilt cuts into his stomach from within. He'll be a blemish on that sterling matriculation rate. “Bowdoin,” his father's jovial and booming voice intones as he gives Jason a hearty slap on the shoulder. Isaac is talking to one of the other fathers, who turns to Jason with a smile and nod. “Good school,” the other father responds. “Great school,” Isaac replies more out of enthusiasm than correction, “especially for someone with my DNA. You must have gotten all your smarts from your mother, Jase. Especially after all those years of your old man getting walloped over the head.”Isaac and the other father share a laugh, as Jason forces the polite smile back onto his face. Another person he'll disappoint. Doubt creeps in from the cold shadows of his mind. It whispers in his ear, “Is it worth it?” Jason excuses himself to use the restroom. When he vomits, all that comes out is water. He hasn't kept down solid food for two days. ------------ In a much less affluent neighborhood, a large concrete block of a building dominates a block of one of the neighborhood's main thoroughfares. The building is largely unadorned, excepting a small sign over the main entrance. Red text on a black background: Saints Haven Professional Wrestling Academy A well-respected school in the business and sport of professional wrestling, Saints Haven has produced stand-out talents like Patrick “The Saint” McCarthy, “The Tenacious Little Bastard” Dom Harter, and the infamous Malcolm Drake. Under the tutelage of Isaac Bronco and the aforementioned Patrick McCarthy, students receive an unparalleled education in the science of wrestling. At least during business hours. But it is long after dark, and long after close. Yet inside, the lights are on... The sound of boots pounding the canvas echo through the vast interior, moving at such a pace that they overlap the echoes and create a rolling thunder, interspersed only the the groaning of ring ropes. In the center ring, a spartan construction of black ropes over gray canvas with no skirts or decals, a blur of motion that is barely a man launches itself back and forth. On the outside, a more stationary figure looks on. Wrinkles stretch out from the corners of his pale-blue eyes, and a slight grin adorns the weathered flesh of his face. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and crisscrossed with scars that match the large on the back of his surgically repaired neck. The weight of the world and the passage of time have not been kind to Patrick McCarthy, but as he stands on the outside watching the young Jason Bronco bounding and rebounding at (ironically) break-neck, he can't help but smile at what he helped create. “This,” he thinks to himself, “is my greatest achievement. More than championship or match or paycheck. This... this is the closest I will ever come to having a son.”“That should do it,” McCarthy says with only the slightest crack in his voice. The blur reforms itself into a recognizably human form, as Jason Bronco slows to a trot. His navy blazer and khakis replaced with sweat-laden T-shirt and track pants. He climbs out of the ring and perches on the apron in front of McCarthy. “Have you heard anything from Mr. Bond?” Jason asks, his voice distinctly lacking the gravel of age. Sweet and almost a sing-song. Patrick laughs briefly, “Don't call him that. He'll think you're making fun of him. Sincerity is not something we're used to after years of sycophants and sociopaths.”Jason nods, his eyes attentive as if absorbing a lecture. “Amarillo, Texas. I have your plane ticket in my office.” “Thanks again for helping with this, Patrick. You don't know how much it means to me.”Patrick scowls. “Well you had best try and show me, show everyone what it means to you. This isn't a game anymore, Jason. This is the real deal. You're not playing around in here with Dustin and Cherry and Dahlia and the rest of the misfits. And Chris Bond, he can only help you so much. He can only shelter you and teach you so much. It's on you now.”“I know...” Jason says, his voice trailing off and his eyes falling from his mentor's. “Do you? Do you know? Do you know that your father will eventually find out? Find out not only that you went and got this gig behind his back? Find out that I helped you? Find out that you're NOT going to college? That you turned down the opportunity to be the first in his family to go? And to find out I fucking helped you lie to him? Do you know all that?!”A long silence hangs in the air amidst the stale smell of sweat and salt. Jason can't bring himself to look his mentor in the eyes, his face is twisted and hardened, holding back the well of emotions that he's been hiding away for so long. It falls on McCarthy to break the silence. He squats down to draw Jason's eyes and places a hand on his shoulder. “Kid, you're not the only one putting something on the line here. I'm not going to be around once your dad finds out. This is going to change everything. For all of us. For you, for me, for Isaac, for your family, for your friends, for this school. And I'm helping you put all of that on the line because I believe in you. You turned out better than I ever could've hoped for. Not just in the ring, but as a man. I'm proud of you. And I know you'll do great. Just never lose sight of all that you've left behind.”There's a brief pause. Then the two embrace, tears now readily flowing from Jason's clenched eyes and welling in those of his mentor. “I'll do better than great,” Jason finally says without break the embrace. “You're right about one thing...” “... I'm going to change everything.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 16, 2015 11:42:59 GMT -5
Ahhh dammit. What's funny about that typo is I changed that one word like 4 or 5 times. I couldn't decide between saying "our history," "your history," or "its history." These are the kind of things I obsess over and then I go and do that, lol.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 16, 2015 11:41:13 GMT -5
Glad they're helpful. I've updated with my full thoughts.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 16, 2015 11:15:33 GMT -5
So I've definitely owed you feedback for some time (in addition to many, many other people). The Winter CarnivalThis is a nice "slice-of-life" piece. It does a good job of capturing aspects of Noelle's personality. I also got to learn a new ethnic slur, which is always fun. But I get what you mean with rough edges. It seems like you're trying to wedge as much as possible into this segment. The last paragraph felt like you trying to make sure that anyone reading had absolutely every pertinent detail about Noelle's life and I think it was just too much.I think where a lot of the roughness comes from is when you try to shoehorn in extra information. Here's an example:The hand warmers are a nice detail, but ultimately unnecessary when you already established that Noelle has gone out of her way to bundle up these kids. And within this one sentence we also learn they've traversed the carnival 3 times, these are her brother's kids, her brother's name is Baz (implying there are other brothers), that these are his youngest kids (implying there are more) and wow, this was only one sentence? What I'm driving at is look at what details are relevant for the immediate story and focus on those. Remove the word "currently" from your narrator's vocabulary. Here's why: if you're writing in the present tense everything is happening currently. It's redundant and it has the same effect as using "suddenly," which I always find jarring. Here you're using the past tense (or technically the past perfect, I think) so currently doesn't even make sense since call of this has already happened. This is the kind of comment where people call me a pedantic asshole, but small adjustments like this have major payoffs in your writing.I love the detail work here. And I love the way the warmth of scene is juxtaposed with the coldness of world around them (which becomes even better in a moment), but again there's way too much going on in these two sentences. That last dependent clause could and probably should be its own sentence.This is tightly written, and it's powerful territory to tread. The only ways I'd adjust it would be instead of comparing Noelle and her sisters experience to rest of their family (i.e. getting a bigger dose), I'd rephrase to make it clear they detail with the racial ignorance as well as sexism and misogyny. I think that's what you're going for here, but I'm a white male so what do I know? I don't think you need the quasi-apologetic "It's not that everyone that they encountered acted this way, but..." line in there. It's racism and it's shitty and if the purpose of this segment is to put that at foreground, don't undercut it. Ditto to the closing sentence. I'm not saying you should remove them, but definitely don't feel like you need to sugarcoat the fact that racist shitheads exist because someone on Fox News will say "not all white people!"I get what she's trying to do here and I really like the last line. The rest just seems kinda hokey. There's something about it that seems very "after-school special." Again, I'm not really in a place to criticize since the worst thing someone can call me is "hipster," but yeah.Glorious. Perfect little microcosm of Noelle's personality.This is what I was talking about earlier with trying to cram in too much. You've already established that Noelle has to deal with racism and misogyny, so I don't think it's necessary to revisit it here. I also think adding in the rich parents makes this seem like the narrator is protesting too much on Noelle's behalf. This entire paragraph feels like a defense against something that I - as the reader - have no problem with. I don't think any of this detail is necessarily bad or extraneous, but I think the way it is presented in such a straight-forward manner makes it seem that way. All of this information - especially after an emotionally charged encounter - becomes more powerful if it's internalized. For example,
Noelle smiled serenely as the security guard took the protesting little punk to the waiting area catching him way, "What a nice lady, you should be glad she helped you out." She smiled to herself, trying not think about the people who might criticize her for what she'd done; who would point fingers, call her a bad person, two-faced, a hypocrite. She tried not think about the times she was in her nephew's place. Cat-calls of "Hey, baby, I'm down with the swirl, too!" The racial slurs, the remarks on her body, "princess," "bitch," and others too countless to name. She focused on the hope. The hope that this boy's ruined afternoon might cause some introspection; hope that he'd change his ways - if not his mind - to avoid any more ruined days. She tried not to think about the likelihood that he'd just end up as just another bigot. Instead she focused her energy, and her smile, on her niece and nephew.I tried to keep all the relevant details still in there, but you see how it has a little more emotional "umph" when you internalize it? When you make it about Noelle and not the world around her? This is her story.
The Shoot Ah, the camera. Scourge of e-wrestling promos... So for anyone who read my Riley Owens feedback, this is going to seem like a 180. BUT I don't mind the use of the camera in this instance. The reason being is the camera is a prop here, not meant to be the perspective. Noelle is playing to the camera, and the fact that we see this from a different perspective, i.e. not through the viewpoint of the camera, is a subtle tip-off that Noelle is playing a part. It's very smart writing. It says - without saying - the person in front of the camera is not what they appear to be. This is punctuated by the line "If she had any nerves about talking to Johnny Karma it certainly didn't show as she smiled with her pink frosted lips and she had an air of confidence as she began to speak." Not how it doesn't say she isn't nervous or that she is confident. It was she's not showing nervousness and she has an air of confidence. Incredibly subtle detail.I lol'd. Rest of the shoot is just good, old-fashioned babyface shine. I can't knock it. The pacing is good, there's a distinct voice that's different from the narrator's. So yeah I have no major critiques.
Poughkeepsie This is good stuff, it does feel a bit forced (the argument that is), but I like the ending with the implied looming threat of IE. So all told, I'm positive on this segment.Closing ThoughtsMore of this. More internalizing of Noelle's story. Just because you're writing third person doesn't mean you can't dip into the character's thoughts and use them to draw emotion from your reader. This is an excellent juxtaposition to the appearance of confidence in Noelle's promo. She's clearly worried, clearly has doubts, but she refuses to show them. She keeps pushing them aside, trying to focus on the positive.
It's a good character trait, both a virtue and a flaw. I'd work with that dichotomy. There's pluses and minuses to being optimistic, so don't be afraid to have Noelle's optimism get her in trouble. I think she's too trusting of her jealous boyfriend, for instance.
Overall it's a solid RP with some really bright spots and a few spots that could use tightening. [Jim Duggan thumbs up]
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Vinny
Headliner
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Post by Vinny on Jan 16, 2015 10:16:46 GMT -5
Now Sam sees why my Aurora character wore a The Murder t-shirt in her promos I'm guessing See, I'm a prognosticator... look at Noelle's last promo (the one prior to this week's). You'll see what I mean. On to this current feedback: More of this please. I enjoyed the deft use of the poetry examples, and of course as mentioned one of them is a favorite poet so extra points there. I love the details, I'm a detail greedy-girl and there were plenty here without drifting off into the realm of purple prose. For example, how the room he was living in was described in the house made it seem like a gem, a kernal of life in the otherwise dead house. The clothing strewn about (from laziness or need for a dog bed) leant a very human touch to the whole thing. There was even only one typo I caught *sniffs, wipes away a tear* Really my only complaint here was that I wanted about half a page more. This character/writer combination is one of those that could do a much longer work and not lose the interest of the reader or meander off the point and that's so rare. You can take over for Riley as the president of my fan club.
You nailed exactly what I was going for with the house imagery. I made a lot of subtle description changes from the previous times I've used the Deer St. house. (What's ironic is the house that it's based on is currently being fixed as well: )
I also wanted to juxtapose the falling house being rebuild with the discussion of falling monuments and empires, the same way the one room (which is meant to have a womb-like quality, but I realize now I forgot to mention the orange glow) is juxtaposed to the rest of the house.
I'd love to give you more, but 2,000 words is about all I can get out of Drake these days. Which is a lot more than I usually write.
Thanks for the love...
And what was my typo?!?!?!
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 16, 2015 9:59:56 GMT -5
I wasn't around for the Murder...and the more I read your stuff, the more I wish I was. I've seen a lot of dark characters played, I've seen a lot of morbid and macabre gimmicks, and I'm always afraid they're eventually gonna become ... I don't necessarily wanna say faux-Undertakers, but that's what it usually boils down to. Which makes it all the more impressive that you manage to not only NOT become a faux-Undertaker, but actually, in doing so, kind of become scarier. Every RP of yours I read, I get more impressed. Even to the point of the titles making me go "huh, okay, I gotta read it just to see where that comes from." The RP about him rescuing the dog, all the while talking about what's gonna happen in the next match, was simultaneously a kinda "d'aww, lookit the puppy" moment, and "wait, he can be THIS sketchy while holding a rescued puppy o.O" This one, I loved the comparison of the Infinite Empire to empires of the past, and then the bit about "all empires are finite, by nature." Shaking up the last bit of the promo was a nice way of ending, too, especially after explaining Memento Mori and why he applied it to the IE. I really don't have a critique, in the sense of "what can you improve in this RP," cuz frankly, it was just...great. It didn't drag on, it captured everything it needed to, and frankly it kinda made Drake feel like the Punisher--coming to get back at people who deserve it. The irony of it being "the Murder Lite" makes it even better. 10/10, would definitely recommend. Thanks, Sam. You called out a lot of points that I was really shooting for; I was starting to worry that I was pushing Drake towards an Undertaker-esque gimmick with all the talk about being the wind and the sand, while waxing poetic about how all things eventually fall/die. And your Punisher comment definitely got me all excited to maybe push him a little in that direction.
Thanks again!
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