Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 24, 2013 19:04:20 GMT -5
Thanks, guys. I actually meant to ask for feedback on Party's Over (http://fgawrestling.proboards.com/thread/2206/partys-over) but got too drunk last night.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 23, 2013 19:40:23 GMT -5
White Plains, NY.
The Central Motel on Central Ave. in White Plains, NY is an low, ugly brick building across the street from a pair of run-down strip malls. Dingy off-white curtains flutter behind the panes of open windows. Inside a corner room of the second floor, the curtains are drawn tightly shut. Clothes are strewn about the room; a pair of jeans hangs over the back of green-and-yellow upholstered chair, socks sit beside the ottoman, two pairs of shoes sit near the large-back television set. One of the lamps, that should be on the end table, sits on the floor below the shattered fragments of a tacky oil painting that still hangs, crooked, on the wall. The sounds of running water stream out of the cracked-open door of the bathroom in the back of the room.
And sitting amidst the strewn bed sheets and comforters is Malcolm Drake. Drake sits on the edge of the bed with bare legs hanging over the edge, wearing nothing but a worn pair of black boxer-briefs with bits of their elastic waistband exposed. Drake's grimy blond hair hangs in matted strands as he stares down at his hands, which he presently opens and closes in slow rhythm. Fresh bruises and cuts decorate the knuckles of Drake's hands, but his eyes seem focused on the tattoo along his left forearm. From a distance the tattoo appears to be a tangle of patternless numbers, but close they appear as a running list of dates that stops at “8-15-02.”
Drake takes the index finger from his right hand and runs the tip along the date.
“My sixteenth birthday,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper before glancing up through his mess of hair, “Some people try to bury their bad memories. To forget them. They're the lucky ones. Some of us... can't forget. Some of us need that... reminder... that no matter HOW HIGH we climb, we're never, ever, ever out of reach.”
“And THAT was the lesson that YOU needed to learn, Chris Q. Did you think you were above reproach? Did you think you were untouchable? Did you think you were out of our reach? No matter how high you can climb, the Murder can spread our wings and catch you in our talons. Your PRIDE and your HUBRIS let you believe your own hype. You believed that no one wanted to FUCK... with the Big Bad.”
Drake smirks.
“Well, I want to fuck with you, Chris. To steal some of your colorful language: I want to fuck your shit up, and I have since day one when you and I walked into FGA around the same time. But unlike you, I am a patient man. I bided my time and waited. You might say that I avoid conflict with you. You'd be correct. I won't deny it. I never questioned your ability. I never questioned that you... were... dangerous. So I waited. I consolidated my power. I strengthened the Murder. I improved our position. And then... I struck.”
Drake pounds a closed fist into an open hand creating a loud “smack!” Drake looks down at his hands and grins.
“And what impact. What's left of the Big Bad now? Your STREAK is over. Your MYSTIQUE is gone. All you are now is another dangerous drunkard with a mean streak and penchant for violence. You're just like me, except... you're not as smart. All your anger and bravado... that's what's left. And what does that get you when you face someone who isn't intimidated by you? When you come up against someone who isn't afraid of you? When you look me dead in the eyes on Saturday night at Westchester County Center, in the center of the ring, in the Main Event, under the brightest lights... and see that for as violent and vicious as you think you are, you know... deep down... that I'm worse.”
“You'll come in with all your ANGER, that anger will make you reckless, and you'll make a mistake. That's when I'll strike again. And when I do it'll make you angrier, and you'll get more reckless and you'll make more mistakes. You're a simple man, Chris. An “animal,” as you like to say. Animals are stupid, instinctive beasts. Dangerous... yes... but STUPID. You can say “fuck” a lot and thump your chest and talk about how vicious you are. You can run your clap-trap and try to belittle me. You can call me a failure, a disappointment, a nothing... but it's only words in the wind. Compared to me... you're the one who is nothing. Think about this: Does the FGA roster want to fight Chris Q? No... but they FEAR facing Malcolm Drake. You TALK about how vicious you are, but I'm the one who leaves the bodies in his wake.”
Drake runs his hands through his hair, giving it a tug as he clears it from his unshaven face.
“You think you're some god-like figure around FGA, but really... you're like the rest of THEM. You're playing checkers while I'm playing chess. You assume I have the same goals as the rest of the lemmings in FGA. I may not hold the title, but I hold all the POWER. Oh... but you think that's a foolish thing to say, don't you? You think that's a played-out cliché? Clichés don't become clichés without being true. Why else do YOU want the championship so badly, Chris? To prove that you're the best? I thought you already believed that about yourself. I thought you were the "Big Bad." I thought you could tear every crow of the Murder apart with your bare hands.”
Drake's face twists from a smirk into a scowl.
“THEN DO IT. Stop beating your chest. Stop swearing like a child. Stop throwing your little temper tantrums like a BITCH... and do it. Come at me with all you've got and we'll see which one of us is all talk. Unless... you're afraid of another loss on your precious record. Unless you're afraid of dropping another rung on the ladder away from your precious title. Unless you're afraid that MALCOLM FUCKING DRAKE... is going to show everyone that last week wasn't a fluke, and that Chris Q is just a man... or just an animal... either way, I'll prove that you can BLEED.”
“Memento – ”
As Drake is half-way through his usual close, the door to the bathroom at the back of the room suddenly opens. Standing in the doorway, dripping wet and covered in only a thin towel is a pale, young man. The man doesn't appear more than eighteen years old, with pointy shoulders, sunken eyes and slim ribs that show through his abdomen. Bruises litter the boy's slender body; a swelling under the right eye, a discoloration on the left arm, and a pairs of long, fingernail-wide scrapes across his torso.
Drake sits motionless on the bed as the boy closely, carefully approaches. He gets halfway toward the bed before Drake rips the second lamp off the nightstand and turns and hurtles the lamp at the young man. The man ducks the majority of the lamp, catching only the cord which strikes him across the shoulder.
“GET OUT,” Drake screams, “GET THE FUCK OUT, YOU DISGUSTING FREAK!”
Drake continues to scream “get out” over and over and the boy gathers up as much of his clothes as he can, keeping the chair between himself and Drake as he maneuvers to the door and finally out of the room with Drake chasing at his heels. The young man slips out and slams the door behind him, leaving Drake alone in the room. Through his frantic movements, Drake finds himself face-to-face with his reflection in the room's mirror.
Drake, leaning with his hands on either side of the mirror, gazes up at his reflection. Examining it as if he hadn't seen himself in a long time. He smiles... before driving the point of his forehead into the center of the mirror. A loud “crash” envelopes Drake as the shards of broken glass fall to the floor. Drake, still smiling, flicks his hair back, revealing a small gash in the center of his forehead.
“Party's over. Memento... mori.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 23, 2013 17:55:46 GMT -5
You have, as usual, gifted us with a touch of class, Vinny. I am enjoying the depth you are adding to the Drake character. As you're well aware I'm a bit of a mark for character development and the way you're doing it subtly through human interactions is working well, in my opinion. The scene with the girl in the bar in 'Mercy's Limit' was well-written, although I do have one criticism. When Drake has her by the wrist wouldn't someone have interjected? Or was that a dig at the nature of man and of modern society; that chivalry is well and truly dead or that loose women in bars are asking for trouble. Am I reading too much into that? Thanks, Ben. Not quite what I was going for since that perception that women in bars are "asking for it" is exactly the opposite of what I believe. It was more that Malcolm's invasiveness was meant to be subtle and relatively quick. The fact that someone probably would've intervened or at least said something if they noticed is why I tried to keep the scene quick and have Drake make for the door immediately after. Thanks again.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 12, 2013 0:24:20 GMT -5
Solid show through-and-through. Some great moments, like Sands mentioned, with the fireball and the Ryan Kidd return. I think this is a show that typifies FGA now: a well-oiled machine just pumping out great content.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 12, 2013 0:22:37 GMT -5
Ditto. I thought overall the quality was there, but it's really hard for a rich guy to get the face pop especially when things are still pretty shitty for a lot of people economically. If you can find a way to distance your character from that past both as a bad guy and as a silver-spooner I think you'll find writing as a face to be very easy, fun and rewarding.
My advice is to find the one thing that you hated that your babyface opponents could do when you were a heel and do exactly that with Cash. For me when I was writing Patrick McCarthy, I hated that bad guys had no repercussions. They could lie, they could cheat, they could take every shortcut and they always had some twisted justification for it. That's what I'm doing now with Drake. I lost like 4 straight matches because I no-showed a bunch, but Drake is all like "Oh that? I didn't lose. It was part of the plan, and you're too stupid to realize it." So find that annoying thing that faces do and DO THAT.
Really solid work this week, Cash-man.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 9, 2013 19:36:11 GMT -5
Hey all,
I'd really like to get some feedback on my recent stuff. I'm trying to work in more of Drake's backstory and more of his unhinged personality (along with some more people-related dynamics). I've obviously been hit or miss lately and have gotten rusty due to my lack of practice. I'd like to hear what you guys think. All feedback and critique is welcome, as always.
Thanks, - Vinny
PS. Sorry for not posting a link. Writing this from the plane = ouchie.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 9, 2013 19:33:52 GMT -5
OOC: Broadcasting to you live from the tarmac at Chicago's O'Hare Airport, where the local time is 'GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING PLANE.' Apologies for not formatting better. I'm like dislocating my arm right now to type this. The mouth-breather next to me is sleeping on top of me and the poor girl in the aisle seat. Anyways, dood luck, Cash.
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Erie, PA.
Molly Brannigan's is an Irish pub in Erie, PA; a few blocks from the Bayfront Convention Center and the eponymous Lake Erie. The crowd is light for a Thursday with a smattering of college-aged patrons taking advantage of the discounted domestic beers and half-price shots. A particular loud group of four young women occupies a booth in the far right corner of the bar area. Other patrons are scattered throughout, some eating a standard pub-fare dinner and others cozied up to the bar with a pint close by.
Malcolm Drake sits among those individuals at the bar, his torso slouched over the bar top and his right hand holding firm to a half-empty pint of some dark brew. A black leather jacket hangs slumped over the back of his high-back barstool. Drake wears only a ratty black T-shirt, worn dark jeans and black combat boots. His blond hair overhangs his face as he appears to be staring down at the countertop. Drake tilts his head up to sip from the pint glass before letting out a loud “ahhh” and smacking his lips together. He swings himself sideways, resting an elbow on the bar-top and smirking nonchalantly.
“Well,” he says matter-of-factly, “do you BELIEVE me yet? Have enough of my prophetic musings come true that you FINALLY take me seriously? HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR ENOUGH?!”
Drake slams a fist on the countertop with a thud, drawing careful glances from other patrons in the bar. One person sitting relatively close to Drake picks up his drink and moves a few seats further away. In the far corner, the girls turn and begin to point, giggling among themselves.
“You all laughed and laughed and laughed… but now you see that The Murder is not a joke. I AM NOT a joke. And soon… soon any remaining doubts will be as DEAD and BURIED as Allister Manigold and Akrista O’Hare. Soon they will be as forgotten as Micky O’Reilly. Soon they will be as shattered and broken as Patrick. Gordon. Junior.”
Drake sneers and his faces puckers as if he’s tasted something awful. He takes a long swig from his pint glass and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Over his shoulder the young women in the corner are whispering. One of them rises to her feet with her friends giggling behind her. The young woman is blonde, in her early twenties, and has shown little restraint in her make-up. She wears a flight top tight around herself with a red bra visible underneath; a bright red, Lycra-esque mini skirt and a pair of white and red pumps. By the way she moves slowly it is apparently that she is either inexperienced in the steep heels, intoxicated or a combination of the two.
Drake, for his part, does not notice her approach having his back turned away. He continues.
“This weekend in Erie, the power shifts. They say that the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to make the world believe He doesn’t exist. The greatest trick that I have pulled – at least SO FAR – is to make you think The Murder was self-contained. But two horrible crows does hardly a Murder make. Mr. Pooler, forgive the pun, was waiting in the wings. I said it before and no one believed me. Do you REALLY think I would allow myself to weaken the cause? Everything win and every loss was a strategic plan. An initiative. A crucial part of the long con. That’s why YOU didn’t know. That’s why YOU couldn’t figure it out. That is why I am playing chess while the rest of FGA is gnawing on the pieces like a pack of mouth-breathing troglodytes. And that is why Mr. Pooler, under my guidance, will become the Pride Champion this weekend.”
Drake finishes the reminder of his beer and delicately places the glass down on the bar. Behind him the young blonde approaches, her eyes fixated on the camera that Drake is addressing. Drake remains oblivious, caught up in his diatribe.
“And while I would have preferred to obtain the number one contendership myself, it was MY sacrifices that allowed Mr. Harter to emerge victorious from the Gold Rush Rumble. It was MY teaching that brought him to that skill level. In essence, I won the Gold Rush Rumble… Mr. Harter is simply the vessel that holds the Murder’s triumph. He is the sword that will strike the head off the beast that is Frontier Grappling Arts when he ANNIHILATES Christopher Q. And he will be the spark that starts the funeral pyre that will BURN FGA into… ashes. I-“
“Hi!”
Drake nearly falls from his barstool as the young blonde woman has snuck behind him. Her gaze darts quickly between Drake and the camera, decidedly showing more interest in the latter. Drake wipes the hair out of his face, looking the woman up and down and says nothing. He stares in disbelief that he was interrupted.
“I’m Crystal,” the young man says sliding onto the barstool next to Drake while remaining in the sight of the camera, “what’s your name?”
Crystal extends her hand. Drake eyes it warily before responding without shaking it.
“Drake.”
“Drake? That’s… uh… a cool name,” she presently lowers her hand onto the bar-top and eyes the camera again, “What are ya filming for?”
Drake looks back over his shoulder at the camera. His face is a mask of bewilderment and annoyance.
“FGA.”
“FGA? What’s that, like, a TV station?” Crystal’s attention peaks with the prospect.
“A wrestling promotion.”
“Oh,” she says in a quiet tone that betrays disappointment, “but like, will it be on TV?”
“No,” Drake responds sharply and following a brief pause, “It is a DVD taping.”
“Oh! So like a movie?!” Crystal’s voice is in a pitch that can’t be much lower than a dog whistle, “I’d loooove to be in the movies.”
Crystal leans forward and reaches out her hand that was sitting on the bar to caress Drake’s closest arm. To his credit, Drake avoids his inclination to recoil. He stares at the hand, back up to the girl and back to the hand while the girl stares from him to the camera and finally back to Drake. As their eyes meet, something strange happens.
Drake… smiles. Crystal smiles with a mouth full of pearly white teeth, thinking she has found her opening. But Drake quickly clamps down his other hand across Crystal’s wrist and squeezes it as he removes her hand from his arm, holding it up in the air.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!” Crystal squeals in pain, and with a sharp jerk Drake pulls her closer by the wrist. The legs of her barstool skitter across the ground until her face is inches from Drake’s still smiling one. She tries to pull back, but his grip is too strong.
“You can scream,” Drake says in a hushed tone barely above a whisper with the smile still on his face, “but it really won’t help you. I know you’re scared. I can FEEL your heart racing through your pulse. You should be scared. You should be terrified. You can scream but before anyone else could hear, before anyone could get her to help you… it’d be too late. Look in my eyes… Crystal… how many HORRIBLE things do you think are in there, hmmm? How many ways can I think to hurt you that will only take a split… second. Let it sink in. You are at my mercy. Do I look like a man with a lot of mercy? DO I?!”
Crystal shakes her head from side to side, silently. Tears are streaming through her eye shadow and mascara leaving long black streaks down her cheeks. Drake snarls and bares his teeth before… releasing her wrist and turning his back to her. Crystal hesitates only for a moment before attempting to run away. She slips in her heels and starts crawling and scrambling to get away. Drake ignores her plight, removes a crumbled bill from his jeans and tosses it onto the bar.
“I suppose I’ve over-stayed my welcome.”
Drake flicks his jacket off the barstool, letting the chair fall to the floor with a loud clang as he saunters out the front door. Throwing the jacket on, Drake continues walking down the street.
“There are those of us that pick the scraps,” he says in the direction of his feet, “who have to scratch and claw and peck for every morsel of food. We aren’t given chances. We don’t have opportunities. We MAKE them and then we TAKE them. We are not clean. We are not soft. We are not weak. We are forged through misfortune and trial. We are tempered in pain and misery. We bear the scars and the disfigurements.”
Drake flicks his head up, scattering his hair from his face.
“You and I, J.T. Cash, are not even the same species. I am a man and you… are an insect. A parasite. You latch your pretty little mouth onto the mass of the misfortunate and you suck the life from them. You brag of cars and houses and trinkets while the “people,” the people you claim to LOVE go STARVING like DOGS. Like… street bitches as you so eloquently put it, you opulent, smug little puke. Your wealth makes you weak and soft. Your hubris makes you vulnerable. Your arrogance has sealed your fate. You think I envy you, Cash?”
Drake stops walking.
“No… But I do despise you. You look at me and say “there’s the villain, there’s the bad guy, there’s the mad man,” while you and your ilk rob the people you claim to LOVE while their heads our turned. But I’m the evil one, is that right? How Maccahiavellian. But that’s the way you are isn’t it? No one knows who their killer is when you stab them in the back. When you betray them. The Murder is violent, we spill our share of blood, but at least we stab in the front and don’t hide in the back like COWARDS.”
Drake spits.
“You say that I am everything you will never be? If I believed in God, I’d thank Him for that. I don’t want to be WEAK. I don’t want to be SOFT. I don’t want to be a COWARD. I don’t want to be some LEMMING, some INSECT, some RAT… dancing to the tune of a thousand pied pipers. I don’t want to be and WILL NEVER BE as PATHETIC… as you. You brag about your moves but where will those get you. I’ve taken out men twice your size with nothing more than punch, kick and choke. So bring your shiniest Shining Wizards and your most flammable Burning Hammers because much like your wealth, your mansions, your cars… they won’t save you. NOTHING can save you from me. If you’re a careful listener you heard me say I’m not a man with an abundance of mercy and back there…”
Drake stops and points a jagged arm in the direction of Molly Brannigan’s.
“… it just ran out. But I’m sure in your hubris and bravado you’d say you don’t want mercy. You want violence. You want me to PROVE that I am what everyone says I am. Well, I am… not… what everyone says I am. I’m so much better and so much worse. You want proof? The entire damn history of Frontier Grappling Arts is written in the BLOOD that I have spilled in that ring…”
Drake’s face twists into a cockeyed smirk.
“… but I’d be willing to write another chapter with yours. And as a spoiler: the hero in his golden armor, he DIES at the end.”
Drake’s smirk vanishes from his face and his features slip back into the shadows beneath his ragged blond locks.
“Momento… mori.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 29, 2013 17:05:13 GMT -5
Really well put together. The hype packages were excellent.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 26, 2013 18:18:50 GMT -5
Boston, Massachusetts.
The Avenue is a narrow bar in Allston, a college-heavy neighborhood in Boston, Massachusetts. Located at 1249 Commonwealth Ave, The Avenue is an unassuming spot, frequented predominantly by early-to-mid twenty-somethings that either still attend one of the neighboring universities, or are recent graduates. That crowd, however, tends to only come out at night. Around two in the afternoon on a clear but chilly Spring day, even college students have better places to be.
As such, The Avenue is mostly unoccupied except for a few middle aged patrons at the bar, a scrawny dark-haired busboy, an Amazonian pink-haired bartender with sleeve tattoos, and a lone man off by himself in the back room. Dirty blond hair drapes over the solitary man's face as he sits hunched over a table staring into a half-empty glass of dark beer. As he raises his head, the hair falls back off his face and Malcolm Drake takes a long, deliberate sip from the beer before setting it back down. He glances furtively at the Big Buck Hunter console to his immediate left and sneers.
“Not what you expected, hmmm?”
Drake shifts in his seat a bit, uncomfortable more with his surroundings than with the seat itself.
“How many TIMES do I have to say it: things... and people... aren't always what they appear to be. This... bar... holds a lot of precious memories for me. I used to come here when I was a younger, simpler man and before that my f-f-father used to take me here so that he could enjoy a few brews while junior watched the Red Sox with his little plastic baseball mitt and dreamed of playing left field at Fenway like Mike Greenwell.”
Drake's speaking pace quickens through the final sentence then abruptly halts as he slams a fist off the table and then immediately begins biting down on his knuckles. The other patrons turn at the commotion, staring at the disheveled Drake, gnawing on his hand. Drake stands, knocking his chair down in the process with a loud crash. He drops a ten dollar bill on the table and scurries out the front door, tugging at his hair. Once on Commonwealth Ave, Drake makes a hard turn down a side-street into the small alcove behind the bar where the dumpster sits open and spent cigarette butts litter the ground.
As the cameraman approach, Drake palms the lenses and roughly snatches the camera away, holding it close to his face.
“I was TRYING to celebrate before YOU came along,” he snarls into the lens, “I was celebrating the FACT that after this weekend I will be rid of the nagging,” Drake starts tugging hard at his hair, “annoyance that is Patrick Gordon, Jr. See he doesn't know it yet, but old Paddy won't be walking out of Only the Strong Survive. For too long Patrick. Gordon. Junior. has stood in the way of progress like the blind, stubborn FOOL that he is. But what YOU fail to realize, Junior, is that progress is an unstoppable force... and you are NOT an immovable object. Even with all your little friends at your side to help you, you can't stop the inevitable. You can't stop fate and you can't stop US.”
Drake lifts the camera into the air so the shot looks down his arm and into his face through the tangle of matted hair.
“And that goes... just as well... for all the rest of YOU. This Gold Rush match... it isn't a “rumble.” It's a slaughter. All the pretty lambs are going to march into the ring with their big dream and their big hopes and they're all going to DIE. Every dream with be SHATTERED, every hope will be DASHED and every putrid little soul will be TORTURED. Until all that is left is The Murder. You see... we are already shattered. We are already broken men and tortured souls. We've already survived. Our strength isn't in bluster and false bravado. You won't find us thumping our chests and praising our past accomplishments because all that is, IS A LIE. LAIRS! COWARDS!”
Drake turns and kicks the dumpster, causing a metallic echo throughout the small alley. He brushes some hair off his face.
“That's you, Patrick. I know you. I know you're going to saunter out and talk about how PROUD you are. How STRONG you are. You're going to talk about how this is your homecoming. About how happy you are to be back in Boston. You'll talk about how you're “Boston Strong,” and how Boston is a city of survivors. You'll blather ON AND ON AND ON about perseverance and determination and every other buzz word you can pull from your motivational poster thesaurus. You'll talk about how the city – THIS CITY – made you the man you are today. It made you tough. It made you strong. It made you a survivor. It made you GODDAMN HERO...”
Drake slams his back against the dumpster and slowly slides down until he is sitting on the pavement with his back against the trash.
“But you'll forget one... crucial... detail. This city, it made ME, too... I am every dark corner and every lurking shadow of this place. I am every place where the streetlights flicker and the college kids don't venture. I am as much of this city as any other man or woman alive. Every ounce of strength you THINK you derive from your “homefield advantage” is a MYTH. It is a fabrication in your pathetic little brain. Just like all your hopes and dreams of defeating The Murder are the pathetic little fabrications of a mental midget.”
“You might have FAITH in Bob Pooler, but what good will faith do you? Tag teams always fail because they are an abomination. A temporary construct to get two egomaniacs to work together towards some perceived mutual gain. And you, too, will fail. You will fail because The Murder is not a team united by mutual benefit or gain. We are united by a singularity of HORRIBLE purpose. There are no winners or losers, and no care over who scores a pinfall or who snaps Gordon's neck and who breaks Pooler's legs. There is only the purpose. There is only... The Murder.”
Drake begins to chuckle as he switches the camera from one hand to the other.
“I've said it before, but this Saturday at Boston University it will never be more clear. You either fly... or you die. You're either one of the horrible crows, or your part of our feast. At Only the Strong Survive our dark wings will block out the bright lights and descend with blood and horror upon anyone foolish enough to stand in our way. We will defeat Bob Pooler. We will CRIPPLE Patrick Gordon, Jr. We will fly into the Gold Rush match with the blood fresh on our hands and seize the number one contendership to all power in FGA. We will hurt, we will maim, we will destroy. If you are in our way, you are no longer a person, you are just another victim... You are either The Murder... or you are the victim.”
Drake slowly draws the camera in closer to his face, letting his hair create a thin barrier between him and the lens.
“The darkness descends. Soon our enemies will fall, our brothers will take up wings, and all the power in Frontier Grappling Arts will rest firmly in the grasp of our bloodied talons. Like I said... PROGRESS... is inevitable.
Memento mori.”
The camera drops, bouncing off the pavement with a crack before going to static.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 17, 2013 22:34:49 GMT -5
Shady's back. Tell a friend. Or leave some feedback. Whatever rubs your Buddha. But cereally, you guys, this is my first actual RP in a long-ass time and I'm dying to know how badly I've lost the touch. fgawrestling.proboards.com/thread/2050/dreamAny and all feedback - as always - is welcome. Smooches, - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 17, 2013 22:32:40 GMT -5
Thompson Park. Monroe Township, New Jersey.
The cold doldrums of winter have finally receded and seem more and more a distant memory as the sun shines brightly over Thompson Park in Monroe, New Jersey. The clouds in the sky are sparse and non-threatening. For the first time in a long time, birds are chirping and the weather is calm and warm. A light wind ruffles the budding bushes and flowers at the edge of the trees in a dark grove of the park.
Tucked away in this grove is a small brick building. The building is nondescript save for the vegetation growing up the sides and the faded wooden sign above the front that reads “Funhouse.” Inside the Funhouse, leaves and dirt from the outside have blown in through the open front door. The fluorescent overhead lights shine and hum, illuminating a long corridor of mirrors that bend and twist, convex and concave. The mirrors appear normal at first until the distorted shape of a man emerges from the side and takes the center of all of them at once. The corridor is filled with the twisting and misshapen reflection of his man in a black hooded sweatshirt and ripped, baggy jeans. The man's long blond hair sags over his lowered head, obscuring his face.
“Nothing,” the man says in a croak, “...is ever quite what it seems to be. All that we SEE or SEEM is but a dream... within a dream. Perception is a distortion of reality. Everything is a reflection of a reflection of a reflection of the truth. A copy of a copy. Turtles all the way down. Hmmm.”
The man flicks his hair back off his face, revealing the scowling visage of Malcolm Drake. Drake chews on the inside of his cheek before continuing.
“FORGET what you THINK you KNOW,” Drake says emphatically gesticulating at his own multiplicative reflections in the mirrors, “because what you think you know is bullshit. You sit there and you think you know ME? You think you UNDERSTAND me? Your miniscule brains don't contain enough cells or synapses to even BEGIN to comprehend... all... that is Malcolm Drake. You sit there and you think you see me. You see but a mere reflection. A distortion of the truth. And in your ignorance and naivety you take it as reality. You lose the forest for the trees. You lose the Murder... for the Crow.”
Drake's reflection reaches out and rests it's hands on the mirror, creating a London Bridge-like effect along the corridor with the mirrors repeating the same image in copy.
“You see a man whose total wins match his total loses and you see someone who you don't perceive as a threat. You see mediocrity,” Drake chuckles low and soft, “I am ALWAYS a threat. I am always THE threat. I am the dark-winged devil that haunts the nightmares of Frontier Grappling Arts. I am the man that strikes fear in the hearts of men that claim to have neither fear nor hearts. I am FGA's destruction and its resurrection, personified as one.”
“You see a man on a downward spiral, but let me ask you this... if everything is slipping away from Malcolm Drake and the Murder how is it that everything... is falling right into place? You don't see it yet, do you? Hmmm. Who is in the spotlight in this week's Main Event? The Murder. Who has systematically destroyed anyone who has come in our path and erected the perfect altar on which to sacrifice and feast on Patrick. Gordon. Junior? The Murder. Who is double-booked at Only The Strong Survive? Who has a chance to completely annihilate their foes AND secure a number one contendership for the FGA Championship?”
Drake smirks.
“The Murder.”
Without warning, Drake hauls back and slams his left fist square into the center of the Funhouse mirror, shattering the pane of glass. Reflections of glass shards cascade the ground. In the distance the sound of them hitting the floor echoes. Nothing but an empty reflection of a shattered pane of glass remains. Then the lights flicker and go out. The only remaining light is from a distant EXIT sign around the corner, that bathes the corridor in dim, red light. Gingerly and slowly, the cameraman enters the Funhouse. As he rounds the first corner to his left, Malcolm Drake now sits with his face buried between his knees. His right hand hugs them close to his face, while his left sits in a slowly gathering pool of blood draining from his knuckles onto the hard floor.
“I don't want to go in, Daddy. Daddy, I'm SCARED!”
Drake pulls his head out of his knees with a violent toss of his hair. He sniffs hard, drawing mucous back into his nostrils and a slim stream of tears cuts across his face.
“But daddy never listened... YOU never listen to me. And that's why you don't understand. Do you think I WANTED Kevin Hardaway's Pride championship? You do? Then pray tell, genius, why did I spend my entire time in that pathetic tournament belittling the trinket? Why did I go out of my way focusing on hurting and maiming my opponents instead of trying to stick to the pedantic rules? Simple. Because I don't care about baubles or trinkets titles. I care... about POWER. I have sacrificed my meaningless record in FGA to align the chess board in my favor. You think the Murder has lost ground? You've fallen into the trap, and it is too late now to extricate yourself from our talons.”
Drake reaches out with an open hand and slowly closes it before letting it fall back to his side.
“And the first piece of our puzzle... hmmm... is precious little Cami Magna. Precious little Cami with the pretty face and pretty hair and the pretty eyes and the pretty teeth. Precious little Cami who doesn't notice the horrible crows circling overhead. Precious Cami... whose pretty little FACE I plan to mutilate. Precious Cami whose pretty hair I plan to RIP from her SCALP, handful by handful. Precious Cami whose pretty eyes I will GOUGE from their sockets. Precious Cami whose pretty teeth I will SHATTER and shove down her pretty little throat before I wrap my hands around it and STRANGLE the life out of PRECIOUS... LITTLE... CAMI!”
Drake starts pantomiming the strangulation, his arms violently trembling as his fingers close around the imaginary throat in front of him. He finally stops, heaving in breaths from the intense full-body tremor. Drake's voice drops from shouting to barely above a whisper.
“I want to feel my fist on your soft white flesh, Cami. Dearest... I want to smell the blood oozing from your open wounds. I want to lick it off my fingers and taste the life leaking out of you. I want to see the pain in your eyes as I blow the auburn clumps that were once attached to your head out of my balled fist. I want to see... the look of sheer, unfiltered TERROR in your eyes as I'm on top of you. Controlling you. Torturing... you. I want to feel you squirm beneath me and I want to feel you struggle with every ounce of your strength and every fiber of your being. And I want to look you in those pretty little eyes when the realization washes over you...”
“...there's nothing you can do. You can't escape. You're trapped. You. Are. Mine.”
Drake pauses for a long moment.
“I want to see the horror in your eyes and I want to hear you beg and plead and scream for mercy that deep down in your barely-still-beating heart you know will never come. You see, Precious Cami, I don't want to defeat you. I want to destroy every last bit of you from the inside out. You... are everything I am not. Beautiful. Wealthy. Cultured. Beloved. And I fucking HATE YOU... for that. For every good fortune you've had in your life, I will torture your soul. For every silver spoon you've licked, I will break your bones. For every time you've turned up your pretty little nose and looked down on SCUM LIKE ME... I will DEFILE you to your very core.”
Drake lets his words trail off before delicately raising his bloodied hand and indicating the shattered mirror in front of him.
“Mirrors show us our reflections, but they never show us the truth. You can comfort yourself that knowing in time your bruises may fade. In time your bones might heal. And in time you might look in the mirror and see the same old pretty face that you saw before you stepped into the ring with Malcolm Drake. But that won't be the truth. Every time your brush your hair and feel the tug of a snarl you'll panic, thinking it's my fingers pulling. Behind every smile will be the remembrance of the agony I put you through. Behind the eyes will be... me. Smirking. And you'll never... ever... be able to look at yourself the same again. Because make no mistake about it, Precious; this isn't a match...”
“...it's a sacrifice... Memento mori.”
Drake runs the bloodied hand through his hair, leaving a crimson streak through the blond mess. The cameraman backs slowly away, shattered glass crunching under foot. Drake's head sinks back between his knees, and he begins rocking back and forth. As the cameraman turns to exit the faintest sounds of “Rockaby Baby” can be heard in Drake's ragged voice as the scene fades to black.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 1, 2013 21:07:36 GMT -5
“Pride goeth before destruction,” a voice reverberates in black emptiness. In a faraway deep echo, a crow caws.
“And an arrogant spirit cometh before a fall,” the voice continues as the sound crows becomes louder. Closer. The blackness reveals itself to be that of a feather.
“A worthless man digs up evil,” the caws grow louder and the feather becomes a series of feathers.
“While his words are scorching fire,” the feathers become a black wing.
“A man of VIOLENCE,” the word echoes against a muted backdrop of caws, “entices his neighbor,”
“And leads him in a way that is... hmm... not good,” the wing becomes the flank of a crowd, with dark eyes staring ahead and dark talons resting on a black perch.
“An EVIL MAN listens to wicked lips;” the black perch becomes the shoulder of a man in a black denim jacket. The shoulder moves slightly with each word.
“A rebellious man man seeks only evil,” the crow pecks at a strand of dirty blond hair hanging over the shoulder of the speaking man. Dark shadows and strands of hair obscure the man's face, but his appearance and attire are that of Malcolm Drake.
“So a cruel messenger will be sent against him.” A low chuckling shakes the shoulder, causing the crow to reposition itself.
“The TERROR of a KING is like the growling of a lion; He who provokes him to anger... FORFEITS his own life,” the crow caws and flies off with an echoing flapping of its wings. Drake laughs and runs a hand up his face, pulling back the long, dirty strands of hair...
… to reveal not his face, but instead a skull where his face should be. The screen immediately snaps to black. And in the long silence of the blackness there is a flutter of wings. A caw. Then a second. Then a third.
“WE... are the Murder. You either fly with us, or you die without us.”
Drake's cackle reverberates and echoes until it fades away.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Mar 7, 2013 19:41:26 GMT -5
A light snow falls over the parking lot of the Mississauga International Centre in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. A thin cover of thick, wet whiteness coats the pavement save for the stray tire tracks and footprints that cut through the blank canvas. The few cars that remain in the lot of adopted a similar coating. Emerging from between two of the cars is a man in oversized black ski jacket, with a hood pulled up over his head and brow. Black combat boots slosh through the slushy snow underfoot. The man moves into the half-lit space behind a lamp post and leans his back against.
“Well, well, well,” the man says, as a slim sneer cuts across his face, “It looks like you've FINALLY gotten what you've been BEGGING for all these months, Patrick. Hmmm. How does that old, old saying go? Be careful... what you wish for...”
The man raises a pair of gloved hands and pulls back the hood from over his face. Through the limp hanging strands of matted hair, the features of Malcolm Drake's face are revealed.
“... you just might get it.”
Drake smirks, then sneers, then spits into the snow.
“There's always someone like you, isn't there? There's always someone impeding progress; someone afraid of change; someone... in the way. And that's all you, Mr. Gordon. You're no one's hero. Even though you may very well DIE, you'll be no one's martyr. You're an obstacle. No one will mourn you. No one will save you. No one will care when I remove you. For the blustering you've done over these past months while I've slowly but surely eliminated your entire support system, your entire infrastructure of cronies and friends, you've accomplished exactly nothing. You've regressed, while The Murder has advanced.”
As if on cue a crow caws loudly as it flies by overhead.
“You swore to stop us. You haven't. You swore you'd avenge your fallen friends. You couldn't. You'll swear up and down how you're doing to defeat ME and make ME pay... but you won't. You'll fail, Patrick. And you'll fail for the simple, inevitable and unavoidable TRUTH that progress is inevitable. The Murder is the unstoppable force, and you're just a very, very movable object.”
“And while you pounded your fist and cursed my name, what did I do? I destroyed your the girl who friend-zoned you, Akrista O'Hare. I ended the career of a god in Alistair Mangold. I drove the great Leon Corella into retirement. Oops. Did I just break the fourth wall? Well, just add that to the list of meaningless OBSTACLES I've left in my wake. Soon Pat Gordon Jr. will be added to list of once illustrious names that shouldn't have crossed the Head Crow of the Murder.”
Drake wipes the snot of a runny nose on the back of his sleeve.
“So what exactly do you plan to do on Saturday night, Patrick? Fight me? Step into the ring and try to go out with a hero's death? Hmmm. I don't think I'll let you. I think I'll make you scream. Make you beg. Make you pray for it all to end. Then, and only then, after I have broken physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally... only after I've destroyed Patrick Gordon Jr as a man and as a symbol, only then will I finish what I start all those months ago.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Gordon, you're about to finally get that Irish wake you've been chasing after. Memento... mori.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Mar 1, 2013 1:08:41 GMT -5
I'm drunk, so yeah... As long as its interesting. I skimmed most of this topic, because the only relevant thing is quoted here. "As long as its [sic] interesting." eWrestling is less important than the dump I took last weekend on my way to Vermont. Your character? He doesn't exist. His family? No one gives a shit, because they aren't real. His backstory, his accomplishments, his titles? Shit, shit and even more fake shit. You want to know why I play this game and why I enjoy it? Writing. I like writing. I invented a character and I like other people testing the limits of that character. I won't change Drake to get a win. I don't give a shit if I no show (sorry about that, BTW) and lose a title shot because all that is to me is new motivation for my next RP. The second you start thinking about your or your character's "legacy" is the second you become a loser. Sound harsh? Think of it this way. You pretend to be a guy who pretends to be a fighter in a game that pretends to be a replication of something that pretends to be a sport. You're like 5 levels removed from reality. If someone wrote an RP tomorrow where their character took a shit on Drake's chest, I'd find a way to work with it. Why? BECAUSE IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER. I sympathize and empathize with the thought that you put a lot of effort into a character and invested a lot of time into Leon Corella, but the cynic in me says, frankly, "who gives a shit?" Leon has never, and will never exist. You jumped from face to heel because 1. you couldn't write as a face and 2. you weren't winning as much as you liked. That is - excuse my frankness- fucking stupid and ridiculous. I'm sorry, but who honestly gives a flying fuck about their "push" or their "spot" in a fabrication of a fabrication? You think I care that I lost the Pride title? Fuck no. K-Hard think I'd have beaten him if I RPed. So? I didn't. He did. Even if everyone and their motherfucking mother thought I was a better writer, I STILL wouldn't deserve to win because he wrote a better RP than I did and won. If I have a flying fuck about that... I'd be an asshole. Facts are: you aren't going to win every time and there will ALWAYS be someone better than you. A lot of people verbally blow me for what I write here, but I'll tell you this. I'd be embarrassed to present what I write here to a non-RP forum. And furthermore, I don't even consider myself in the Top 5 here. Ben is, hands down without argument, THE fucking best eWrestler that has ever existed. Period. I will debate ANYONE on that until my dying breath. In the same vein, no character is a better heel than Aaron Blaize. I would actually take my emotion for this into real life and punch someone who argued otherwise. I HATE Barry's character, and that's amazing. Flipside, Chris Bond is the ultimate redemption story of heel turned face. Rob, if you want an archetype to follow on how to make Leon lovable as a face after all the shit he did as a heel, bend John's ear. Take as much advice as he'll give you. Because for as good of a writer as everyone says I am, John has it on times a billion. But ultimately, all those compliments don't amount to shit. It's like saying "You're really good at Star Fox 64." No one takes that to the bank and screams "who wants to touch me?!" And while this is mostly towards Rob, it's also a message to everyone: Don't give a shit about your "character." Give a shit about your WRITING. No one cares if your character has 100 years of history and a metric fuck-ton of double-fake belts. Just shut the fuck up and write something that doesn't suck or bore me to tears. That's NOT hard. I write most of my RPs 30 minutes before deadline with a decent amount of alcohol in my system. I'm a real life Chris Q. And this isn't because I think I'm better than anyone, it's because this is a fucking game meant for fucking fun and if I don't write shit at all.. well who gives a fuck? Did I fuck over Terr's plans by no showing PHE? Fuck no. He just put the belt on K-Hard. And on we go. He could no show the next 3 events and Terr and I are clever enough to fucking make it work but beyond that, both of us realize that wins and losses don't fucking matter. The STORY matters. If you tell a good story - and fuck if it is through your promo or through your stupid backstory that I honestly hate and don't give 2 shits about unless your name is Ben - then you will do fine. You won't win every time and you fucking shouldn't. Pobody's nerfect and all that shit. Long story short: reach down between your legs, find your balls, and everyone stop bitching about a game that faker than Tara Reid's tits. Fuck all, - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 10, 2013 14:28:12 GMT -5
I agree with a lot of Ben's comments, so no need to rehash them but I did want to add that you did a great job of involving your setting. I'm a big booster for using the setting as more than a backdrop for a promo. Working Plymouth Rock into Cami's story was well done.
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