Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 15, 2015 23:08:58 GMT -5
Bumping this because I owe you feedback.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 15, 2015 23:08:21 GMT -5
I haven't been asking for feedback lately because I haven't been around to give much, and feedback should always be a two-way street. So now that I've (finally) given Riley some feedback and owe Benny and Tony some tomorrow, I can finally start begging for my own: Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, And Despair
This is one I real proud of, but please don't let that stop any of you from mercilessly ripping on it. - V
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Jan 15, 2015 23:04:28 GMT -5
I.O.U. one back full of feed. I will get to it tomorrow when I'm slacking off at work.
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Jan 15, 2015 21:19:51 GMT -5
You're progressing nicely, don't you dare grow discouraged from feedback. This, a thousand times this. I'm a sociopath so my feedback tends to be pretty blunt; please don't assume that because I focus on the negative that it wasn't good.
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 15, 2015 15:29:08 GMT -5
Okay. So I'm going to have to do a lot of this from memory. I'm sorry you're not getting the full review I put all that fucking time into, but I can't go back and re-analyze everything again. I just can't. The good news for you is that it stripped out a lot of my pedantic nonsense.
- Typos. Man, they are everywhere. I know Benny busted your balls on this on a previous feedback post, but seriously. I hate proof-reading (which is obvious in my RPs) but you really need to do it.
- Zoey's Journal entry is solid. It does a good job of establishing the relationship between Zoey and Riley, as well as Riley's state of mind. I absolutely loathe this type of character development, but that's personal preference and for what it is, it's good.
- You're killing me with making a journal entry a lead-in to a flashback. Absolutely killing me.
- Chekhov's Gun: Chekhov's gun is a dramatic principle that requires every element in a narrative to be necessary and irreplaceable, and that everything else be removed. E.G. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there. Riley's dark side, his ability to just go-off on someone when provoked never gets "fired." You hung it on the wall but never pulled the trigger. I get that you're trying to establish backstory/character development, but I find this kind of stuff clumsy. It feels wedged in. If you're going to do a flashback as a lead-in to a promo, it absolutely needs to be directly relevant to the promo.
- Chekhov's gun #2: the shrieking cat. I hate cats. Make like Schrödinger and stick that cat in a box where I never see/hear from it again.
- Description: I'm sure you've heard "show, don't tell" a million times, but I want to hammer these points home. "Medium sized" pillar... medium sized compared to what? Is it wider than Riley? Medium sized is a useless descriptor because it lacks context. Similarly saying it is "6 pm" serves you absolutely zero benefit. What I gathered from the following sentences is that you're describing the sunset. Then describe the sunset, let my brain do the heavy-lifting and figure out "oh shit, it's sunset." Unless the specific time serves a purpose, don't use it.
- Camera Work: I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate this stuff. Again, personal preference but I will bring it up every time until I have cleansed it from e-wrestling. Are you a writer or a director? Are you trying to tell me a story or how to block a scene? Back to my previous point, let my imagination do the heavy lifting for you. Let my imagination decided when to zoom in and out or switch perspectives. Your job, as a writer, is to lead me there. Don't move a camera around, move my imagination around. Forcing yourself out of using "scene" and "camera" will improve your writing so much because it forces your brain to think in new ways.
- "He pauses, almost as if he expected someone to answer. When no answer is presented, however, he begins again." -- Back to show, don't tell. This description comes off as absurdist. You set it up that it's ridiculous for Riley to expect a response, and then you make it seem like he legitimately waiting for one anyway. What I think you're driving at is the specific look that he's giving. A mixture of confusion and defeatism; there is no easy answer to "Who am I?" Are his shoulders slumped? Are his eyes begging for an answer he knows isn't coming?
- Blocking and typos. So this is where those typos and the way you space your paragraphs becomes an issue. When Riley reveals what the piece of fabric is - or rather what it is meant to represent - I thought it was a typo: "No, this is the proverbial “cape” that Chandler Scott shouts about like a kid with Tourette [sic] syndrome." I thought it wasn't the proverbial cape. Part of that is because I'm now conditioned to typos in your writing and part is because you break every 1-2 sentences into its own paragraph. This destroys any continuity or uniformity of thought in Riley's speech. It makes him seem scatter-brained. I hate to use myself as an example because it's self-serving and arrogant, but it's one thing I do really well: look at the pacing and spacing in the Malcolm Drake RPs. Look at how the paragraphs are linked, where and why they break, and make special note of the one sentence ones. Those carry extra weight because of their isolation. You lose that here because almost every sentence you have is isolated.
- Man Divided: This is some of my favorite psychological territory to play in with characters. This failed hero stuff, this Owens "The Man" v. Owens "The Wrestler" all dovetails nicely. All superheroes have their alter-egos and that's where so much of comic books spend their time exploring the dichotomy within a person who can be both Peter Parker and Spiderman (for example).
- Unfortunately, you almost immediately undercut this by having Owens "The Wrestler" spring onto the scene without any transition. Suddenly Owens goes from a mopey bastard looking at a sunset alone on a roof, to a confident guy cutting down his opponent's promo skills. It's abrupt and jarring, not in a good way. I recommend taking a look at what Aidan Collins did in his RP this week and notice how he transitions in and out of character.
- The first 2/3rds of your promo are fluff. Sorry if that's too blunt, but you spend the first third talking about how you're not going to talk up the match (which is ironic, and again not in a good way), and then you spend the next third pontificating on how Chandler and Tony are going to cut their promos. Instead of doing this, which does nothing to put you over... beat them to the punch. Again to use me as an example, I knew Aidan was going to talk about Infinite Empire and put his group over. I knew it without reading his RP and I spent the majority of my time tearing them down. It's referred to as "poisoning the well," if I say all this before he gets a chance to put them over it undercuts anything he has to say about it. Effectively poisoning the well before he can drink from it.
- The last third is okay. It really seems like you ran out of steam. It seems like you dumped a lot of effort into the journal and the flashback and when the promo came, Riley just kind of goes through the motions. "Fuck you, fuck you, I don't know you, you're cool, you're cool."
- I hate ragging on this promo so much, because it's not bad. But you're going to get nothing out of me blowing you (except, you know, the blowjob itself). And, honestly, I'm probably not telling you anything you didn't already know. Even the ending suggests you knew you were losing steam.
Closing Thoughts and Advice Find a writer you like - can be e-wrestling or someone who actually know what they're doing, like a real author - and really analyze what they've written. Don't even bother too much with the content, but look at how they structure their paragraphs, how they describe their scene, what they think is important and what isn't. Looks for themes and try playing with those; they can really make your whole RP seem like one cohesive piece. Benny is really good at that (and really good at using flashbacks, too, if you're going to continue with those).
Get rid of the camera, at least for one RP, and give yourself some extra time to work on that RP. Because it is going to be a LOT harder to write, but it will make you a better writer and storyteller. Cameras are a crutch.
Another trick that goes along with the themes I mentioned above is setting. Why is Riley on a roof? Why is he in Miami? Why... for a promo that talk about a man divided against himself... isn't he in front of a mirror? Or the reflection pool in front of the Washington Monument? Or on a Civil War battlefield? See where I'm going with this?
I usually close with "memento mori" so I don't really have a good ending, but keep on keeping on.
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 15, 2015 14:38:03 GMT -5
Fucking fuck everything, man. I was about 2000 words into feedback for your RP and hit the backspace button outside of the textbox and blew it all to hell. Fuck this fucking day right in its fucking face.
Sigh. I will try to give you an abridged version once I collect myself. Fuck.
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 15, 2015 13:12:46 GMT -5
Dorchester, MA.
A snow falls, small and delicate. It's not much to behold; generally only visible in the glaring white of headlights or soft yellow of the streetlamps. It is a cold snow, the kind of snowfall that feels as if the air itself is freezing into tiny crystallized pieces and falling to the Earth to lay a white shroud.
The snow coats the mint-green double-decker on Deer Street. It covers the dark green awning over the front door and traces water-lines across the newly applied plywood boards over the first and second floor windows. It does not stick to the duct tape covering the cracks in the vinyl siding, but nestles in the delicate nooks where the paint is peeling. It covers the cement steps, and the tiny fenced-in lawn that has been liberated from the refuse that it used to harbor.
When we were last here the house looked as if it was erect under the force of its own will to remain standing; now it looks as if there is at least one other entity that wants to keep it from crumbling.
The front doorway - no longer blockaded - houses a paint-stripped, weather-beaten door with a slab of plywood covering a hole in the middle, and another covering the shattered glass at the top. Ugly but functional. The first floor is empty save for the ghosts and memories that linger in its shadows, and each stair still creaks on the way to the second floor. It is from the second floor that an abnormal warmth emanates. The first room to the right at the top of the stairs - once painted a pale blue - has been repainted. Its holes plastered over and its shattered, solitary window replaced. On the floor is a small rotating space heater; a shade-less lamp with only bulb and shaft; a twin-sized mattress covered in jeans, T-shirts, hoodies, and jackets that serve as a blanket for the sleeping puppy underneath them; an orange dog dish empty of food and half-full of water; a stacked pile of various books and notebooks; and beside them, the splayed figure of Malcolm Drake.
Drake – his usual combat boots resting off to the side, exposing his dirt-covered white socks with his big toe poking through the left one – sits with his back against the wall, legs splayed, and dirty-blonde hair pulled back off his scruff-covered face. In his lap he cradles a black-and-white notebook. The kind they sold at school bookstores for a dollar. On the front cover, in red Sharpie, the words “Selected Poems” are written.
Drake thumbs through the pages, grinning to himself as his eyes glance over different handwritten entries; the copied works of masters, cribbed from textbooks and overdue library collections.
“The question, O me,” Drake recites, “so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer.” he looks up from the page, recalling from memory, “That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
Drake smirks.
“Walt Whitman. A fitting passage for the new year; 2015 is full of questions. What will I do? Who will I be? What can I accomplish? Questions that people spend their years trying to... resolve. Resolve to do good, to be better, to accomplish... more. Noble, I suppose. And as the clock struck midnight I asked myself those same questions, and one more pointed one: what's next for Malcolm Drake?”
“What's left? As the years and seasons pass, I endure. I move like the wind through the passing of days, and all that wishes me to cease or to halt me gives way inevitably. Forgive the pun, but it is... poetic. So what is left? I suppose I could join the chase for Jimmy Page's World Championship; there was a time when I coveted it more than any other trinket. I could rekindle my... love affair... with Ms. Laurel. Anne. Hardy,” Drake's lip curls in a hybrid smirk-cum-scowl. Then his face drops slightly, “I could retire. Walk off into the sunset as a conquering hero. Wouldn't that be the undeservedly saccharine-sweet Hollywood ending? No. Men like me don't die as heroes. Men like me... don't die.”
Drake's words trail off on that odd sentiment, as he thumbs through a few more pages of his notebook.
“And then there it is,” he says, lifting his eyes from the page, “the answer. The powers that be here in Frontier Grappling Arts have a way of... making use of me in this manner. Like a smoke-jumper. A fixer. An... exterminator. An agent of chaos. I was a lot better at it before I... “lost my edge,” but I reckon there's enough of that darkness still buried in this vessel.”
“Aidan Collins... Infinite. Empire. It's a cute name. I'm sure your infinity-sign merch is selling well. Now, it'd be easy for me to sit here and call your little group “The Murder Jr.,” “Murder Lite,” “The Poor Man's Murder,” or “I Can't Believe It's Not The Murder.” That'd be easy, but it would also be disingenuous. It would be disingenuous because – frankly – you haven't EARNED that. You're a copy of a copy, and I've been moving through these Xerox's like the office paper shredder since what seems like time immemorial. And the further you get from the source the more diluted the product becomes.”
Drake smirks, his head tilting back and his eyes moving to the ceiling in recollection.
“I remember those good ol' bad times. We went after champions. The biggest dogs in the yard. We went after power and prestige. We had a plan. We executed it flawless. We toppled giants and killed gods. You... Infinite Empire... you went after announcers and inanimate objects. Excuse me while I PISS myself in fear. Ahh but you're the newcomer here, aren't you, Mr. Collins? With a laundry list of accomplishments I'm sure are impressive to the type of people who care about those things. I am not one of those people. And as far as I'm concerned none of that is particularly relevant now that you and your... Empire... are here.”
Drake thumbs over one page in his notebook and grins.
“If you'll indulge me,” he says before reciting, “I met a traveler from an antique land, who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, tell that its sculptor well those passions read which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, the hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.” Percy Shelley's Ozymandias. A favorite of mine. But... I'm sure you're wondering why exactly this bedraggled beast – best known for pummeling people's faces beyond recognition with his bare hands and scarred knuckles – is taking the time to read you sonnets...”
Drake shrugs.
“I'm fond of saying “memento mori” as a means of signing off. It's a Latin idiom whose meaning roughly translates to “remember your mortality” or “remember that you will die.” Death, the inevitable conqueror. It's why we seek to build legacies, to build families, to build... empires. You, Mr. Collins, you and your cohorts are the great and powerful Ozymandias. King of kings! We are meant to look upon your works here in FGA and despair. That is your... Infinite... Empire. To join the ranks of the Mongols, the Byzantines, the Romans, the Holy Romans, the British, and on and on... If you'll indulge me just once more...”
Drake flips back a few pages, then forward one, his eyes searching the page before resting on another passage.
“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” A famous quote from J. Robert Oppenheimer, whom you may know better as the 'father of the atomic bomb.' The quote followed the successful Trinity Test which would lead to eventual bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the only use of atomic weaponry against humanity in our9 long and sordid history. Also, not coincidentally, the fall of the Greater Japanese Empire. And THAT is my point in all this poetry and history; a truth that I've known since my macabre phase in high school,” Drake taps the cover of the notebook, closing it, “that I guess I never really grew out of. That truth is this...”
“Empires, by their nature, are finite... regardless of their adorable names,” Drake smirks, his eyes narrowing.
“And now I am become Death, the destroyer of YOUR world. Of YOUR empire. I am the grains of sand, innumerable, that scrape the detail from your temples and monuments, leaving them unrecognizable and buried. I am the wind that cuts through men and topples mighty works. I am the water that erodes both stone and earth, leaving nothing. This is who I am and it is who I have always been. An agent of chaos. A vessel for entropy. A means of destruction. It's what I do. I break men. I slay gods. I topple empires. Yours will not be my first, and most likely, it will not be my last. There are, I'm sure, plenty who will tell you that Malcolm Drake has lost his edge. I am NOT the monster I once was... but a dull blade still cuts. The bleeding just takes longer.”
“So enjoy the sonnets and saying now while I am in the mood for them, because Saturday night in Poughkeepsie, Mr. Collins, the mood... will change. You may be a well-traveled veteran of this sport, but rest assured that I am unlike anything you've seen before or will again. My empire-building days are behind me. My questions about what's next are resolved. All things are finite... and Death comes for us all.”
“I'd say “memento mori,” but I think I've made my point.”
With that, Drake tosses the notebook onto the pile of books, closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall behind him.
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Dec 22, 2014 18:21:50 GMT -5
I want Drake vs. Page for Christmas. Please and thank you. THIS. Give me a title shot the people what they want!
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 21, 2014 12:03:03 GMT -5
Backstage in the trainer's area, doctors have just finished tending to the wounds of Malcolm Drake, who sits shirtless on one of the cots set up in the room. The room is empty, save for Drake, whose hands massage the black and purple bruising around his throat where the dog collar had strangled him for much of the night. He also has a blood-stained wrap of gauze around his forehead and the corners around his nose, eyes, and mouth still hold small deposits of crushed blood.
"Okay," Drake says, still somewhat short of breath, but offering a bit of a smirk, "That was a little more than a tickle."
Drake hacks and coughs for a little bit, before sliding off the cot. He limps gingerly over toward a mirror where he catches the first glimpse of himself, post-match. He surveys the damage with a mix of bemusement and pain.
He sighs heavily, "Now what?"
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Dec 18, 2014 15:44:15 GMT -5
Location: Unknown.
A room. It is dark. Cold. Sterile, in the non-medical sense. The floor and walls are concrete; hard but cracked. Old, showing the wear of many years. In the center of the room is a steel chair, unfolded, facing forward. The lone light source is a single Edison bulb suspended on a string about four feet directly above the chair. It hums gently and casts an orange halo around the chair, barely licking the two walls on the side and leaving the far wall, the back one, unlit. A staunchly black shadow. Darkness.
And from out of the blackness, chains. The sound of metal chains slowly dragging across the cement floor. Slowly, faintly at first but gradually louder, sharper, more clear. Then from the darkness, Malcolm Drake.
His dirty-blond hair hangs loosely over the top-half of his face, covering his forehead. His eyes are downcast. He's unshaven, a throwback to a previous iteration of the Murder's Head Crow. His attire is black; leather jacket, hooded sweatshirt, jeans, combat boots. He is changed and unchanged. The same old Malcolm Drake and the new. But, most striking of all, is the heavy leather strap around his neck, connected to a thick, shining, steel chain that runs from the latch at his jugular down his right arm, through is hand and into a pool at his feet.
The grating of the chains on the concrete floor resumes as Drake circles around the chair. It would be more accurate to say that he flops into it than he sits into it. The dog collar chain sits between his feet like a patient animal. Drake takes a short length of the chain in both hands and let's it rest across his lap.
“It's funny,” Drake begins, his voice barely above a whisper, “I knew I'd be shopping for dog collars... I just didn't think I'd be fitting one for myself.” The off-hand comment is uncharacteristic, a reference to his new recent companion, a rescue dog from New Jersey. Drake shakes his head as if noting his line of thinking is off-track and trying to correct it with a violent head motion.
“Dear Dominic,” he starts again as if reading from a letter, “I know that I have hurt you. I know the pain I've caused both physically and mentally has been immeasurable. Scarring and damaging. When I returned, I talked at length about the destruction I'd caused, but I neglected one victim: you. Perhaps it was because you were my co-conspirator and I named you guilty by association. But more likely I just couldn't make myself face what I had done to a man who looked up to me, who counted me as a friend... as a brother.”
Gone is Drake's trademark sing-song inflection, replaced with a melancholic monotone; his snarling aggression a weakened whimper. Like a barking dog when his chain is yanked tightly.
“I'm not a good person. The cheers and chants and adoration of the crowds and of the fans isn't a whitewash over years of spilled blood. There's no amount of karmic good that can bleach the stains off my soul. Maybe I was born this way, maybe I became this way. What matters is that it is who I am. Right down to the bone. When I came back seeking redemption, I knew I could never be a hero. I just wanted to be something besides the name whispered in hushed tones of the darkest parts of the locker room. Wanting more had led me down that path. I wanted to be something less. I just wanted to find my peace amidst the violence. But there you were, Dominic – my brother – to remind me that there is no peace.”
Drake shifts his weight slightly before continuing.
“But you were wrong about one thing, brother. I can change. I proved that at Capital Combat. I may never be the great hero of FGA, but at least I don't have to be its villain anymore. And I'm there now. It's not perfect, but then again I've never deserved anything close to perfection. But you're a child of chaos. You live and breathe entropy. Everything must be broken down. I can't be broken any more, Dom. This body in front of you is just the shattered fragments of my humanity. You can't break a broken man.”
“You can't fix him either.”
Drake's voice trembles, but refuses to break. His shoulders are slung low, but he isn't stooped over. His posture is defeated but defiant.
“The words... I've said a lot of them in my time. Most were threats, some empty, most not. But there were some of them that mattered. Mors Vincit; Death conquers all. Mors Omnibus; All things must die. And, of course, Memento Mori; Remember that you will die. Death is more than a gimmick to me. It's more than a sinister Latin catchphrase to close out a promo. It's what I need now, Dominic. I need this - between you and me – I need it to die.”
“I know that you loved me and that you would've followed me into the grave. I've got enough blood on my hands. I didn't want to add yours. I know when I left, it broke your heart. And I'm sorry. I know there's a part of you that wants to do this forever – you and me – if we can't be together as friends, we'll stay... chained... as adversaries.”
Drake holds up the chain between his hands, before shaking his head and lowering it back down to his lap.
“No. All things must die. This – between us – it needs to die. It needs to end on Saturday night at Final Frontier. A fitting end, don't you think, old friend? Death is the final frontier... and death conquers all...”
“Goodbye.”
With that final word, Drake pushes himself to his feet, turns and recedes back into the shadows. The long chain of the dog collar slinks into the darkness after him. Slowly the sounds fades away, and the reminder of our collective mortality lingers – unsaid – in the air.
---------------------------- OOC Note: My apologies to Ben and Terr for posting this after deadline. I lost track of my days and thought today was Wednesday. But instead of phoning it in, I really wanted to make sure that this piece of the story was told. Ben, as always it has been a humbling privilege to work with you. I hope this piece serves an appropriate denouement to our story.
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Dec 8, 2014 17:49:50 GMT -5
Let me start by saying that Dom/Malcolm seg made hype as fuck for that dog collar match. The took it allllll the back in the beginning I knew some from listening to Ben's podcast but reading it all was gold. Ben has a podcast?
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Dec 6, 2014 15:49:47 GMT -5
Essentially, yes.
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Dec 6, 2014 10:53:04 GMT -5
I haven't been reading them with the nit-picking critiquing eye I usually use when providing feedback, and I know it can be frustrating to just have people "Nope, you're good, bro!" and that's it. But honestly I can't think of any substantive criticisms. Sometimes they're a little long and often there's a lot of moving pieces/story-threads to keep track of, but that's about it.
I often get lost trying to figure out who Dom's sleeping with this week, but other than that you already know what I think of your writing abilities and of Harter as a character. So yeah, "you're good, bro!"
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Nov 20, 2014 11:59:07 GMT -5
Secausus, New Jersey.
Two nights previous, the Meadowlands Expo Center played host to a DVD taping of Frontier Grappling Arts. The dust has long since settled, and the combatants have moved on. Either back to their homes across the country and world, or onward to Jersey City; host for the Three Year Anniversary Show. That's the way the life works, you arrive, you perform, and you leave. Take nothing and leave nothing behind, except fading memories and the smell of sweat and blood slowly dissipating into the atmosphere. Done, done, and on to the next one.
Some try to set down roots, start families, be normal. Inevitably, they fail. The rest are nomads, wandering from city to city, coupling however briefly with the other futile wanderers like themselves. Some mad hope at tasting that bit of freedom that comes with surrender. It's why they crave that spotlight; white and hot. A substitute, a surrogate for what they can never touch. Touch it for a moment, and then on to the next one.
Secausus Animal Shelter is small, almost too small to even notice. A squat, square building on nondescript bricks painted a nondescript beige on a nondescript street. The sign is simple, black text on a white background. No pictures of animals, just the name. The railing up the three steps to the door has rusted off it's mooring, and lists slightly to the left from pressure exerted on long after it ceased to serve any function. The glass front door is covered with the hand-prints of passers-through, neglected.
Another print joins them with the tingling of a small bell above the door; the hand meaty and pale, knuckles gnarred, scarred, and bent. As the door slides open, a black leash wraps around the frame. It is thin and black, and twisted with effort. The business end is attached to a dog, no more than twenty pounds, whose lineage is that of two mutts finding solace in a dirty New Jersey alleyway. His body is stout and muscular, with short hair of black and tan and splotches of white. His ears flop up and down as he bounds around, his tail – and its abnormal crook – wagging frantically. His tongue, too big for his mouth, dangles out as he doubles back to face the other end of the leash... held by Malcolm Drake.
Drake's own lineage doesn't hold much higher pedigree; a mix of Anglo-Irish mutts himself. His hand, the one not pushing open the door, is white-knuckled around the loop at the end of the leash. His dirty-blond hair is pushed back, and his pale eyes dart between the bounding dog and any potential dangers ahead. His face is contorted – a most unnatural and unusual configuration for Drake – into a smile.
Jersey City, New Jersey.
Candlewood Suites is more than a step-up from the motels and Motor Inns that Malcolm Drake is used to frequenting; it's a quantum leap. The room boasts a queen-sized bed with linens that were purchased in this century, a flat-screen television, a small kitchen, and a private bathroom where the drains don't have to stay plugged to keep cockroaches out. It's primary perk is that it is one of the few pet-friendly hotels in Jersey City. A fact punctuated by the small ball of fur curled up at the edge of the bed, lightly snoring. It is night, and the only light in the room comes from a small lamp on the desk, next to the arm chair that seats Malcolm Drake. Drake is slouched in the chair, his head resting between the index finger and fist of his left hand with his blond hair cascading over his forehead to the tops of his eyes.
“Left for dead,” he says, muffled by the bulk of his hand, “That's what they said about him.” Drake nods towards the sleeping dog at the edge of the bed. “He was left to die with his brothers and his sisters. No food, no shelter... nothing. He's the only one they found. And they brought him in... and put him in a cage. He went from left for dead to a prisoner... a prisoner on death row.”
Drake shifts in the chair, straightening himself slightly, and as his hand slides down off his face, the lamp light catches the streams of tears running down his cheeks.
“I can relate,” he continues, “Being left for dead. Having nothing. You think it's the hunger that'll get you, but it's not. It's the cold. The cold gets inside you. Under your skin and into your bones. You don't feel cold on the outside, on the surface. You feel it inside you, from the inside out. Like... icy fingers... gripping your organs... and TWISTING them around inside you. That cold... it kills things inside you. Things like hope. And you start searching inside yourself for anything to fight it off. I... I found hate.”
Drake pushes himself up from the chair and delicately walks across the room, lowering himself gently onto the bed and grazing his fingers over the sleeping pup's head and back.
“He doesn't have a name yet,” Drake confesses, “At the prison where they held him and were ready to kill him, they called him 'Lucky.' Lucky. When she said that – the fat, old woman – I felt that hatred inside myself again. I felt it red-hot. Burning. I wanted to grab her by her flabby jowls and stomp on her body until she fit into one of those cages. Lucky?!”
The pup stirs slightly as Drake raises his voice. He catches himself, and does his best attempt at a soothing “Shhhh.” His meaty hand moves clumsily along the dog's back; like Lenny and the rabbits.
“When I first came to FGA, I was angry but I was focused. I was a mastermind. I was winning the game while everyone else was still trying to figure out the rules. I was making checkmates, the rest of them had trouble keeping the pieces out of their drooling mouths. So... I understand why there are people who don't believe me when I say I've changed. Everything I did played into a larger plan, a scope too large for anyone else to pick up on until it was too late. I picked up wins, by hook or crook, I garnered titles, I changed the rules of the Tag Team division to suit my plans, and I left wanton destruction in my wake. So... I get it... when you don't TRUST me.”
“But I want you to look at what I've done since I've returned. I've won every match – save one – and not by cheating or interference or bending the rules. I won them fair. Hell, you can even say I beat Dom Harter since I was the first one to draw blood,” he smirks and absentmindedly runs his fingers over the scar on his forehead, still healing. “How? How am I doing it? The same way I did it last time: purpose. When I first came to FGA I didn't care how I climbed to the top, in fact, I went out of my way to bring the top down to my level by cutting legs out from underneath anyone standing higher than me. When you have a bunch of crabs in a bucket, they'll claw at each other to make sure none escape. That was me. Now my purpose has shifted. It's not about destruction any more, it's about redemption. It MATTERS now how I fight. It MATTERS how I win...”
“Cindy,” Drake says barely above a whisper, “the old me would look at you and see a laundry-list of vulnerabilities. Injuries. Concussions. And most importantly: doubt. Targets. Weaknesses. We all have them, and you're fairly adept at hiding yours behind shrugs and eye-rolls and high-pitched bravado, but you know that I can see through that. And the old me, he'd start by picking at your doubts and your fears. He'd talk about your kid and your past and he'd tried to get under your skin. He'd try to wind you up, all the while planting seeds of doubt about your abilities. He'd wait for you to over-commit in the ring and then pick your ankle, or slap your temple to ring your bell. And he'd prey on your insecurities, as a wrestler, as a woman, as a mother.”
“But,” Drake leans back slightly, “That's the old me. I still see the pretty face now. And I still see all the weaknesses and insecurities. But I'm getting better at seeing them as part of the whole. As part of a person, and person – in your case – that has taken some serious beatings and come back like the little orphan Oliver begging for more. If there's one thing I can relate to, it's taking a beating... and orphans, too, I guess. And the more I talk like this... the more I let slip about the inner workings of the once-twisted mind of Dr. Malcolm Drake... the less people view me as a threat. A threat to their spot, a threat to their titles, a threat to their health...”
Drake smirks.
“That threat was my power. Fear... was my currency. And I cashed in on it, because whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, everyone in FGA FEARED... me. How did I rise so quickly? Fear. How did I conquer so thoroughly? Fear. How did I carve up FGA so easily. Fear. Fear. FEAR. The thing is... I don't NEED you to be afraid of me anymore. I don't NEED to wind you up. I don't NEED to tear you down. I don't NEED to pick at injuries and weaknesses. The thing that got lost in all the fear and violence is the simple fact that is still true today... I'm better than you. Pound for pound, I'm the strongest man in this company. Blow for blow, I'm the toughest sonuvabitch that has ever stepped between those ropes. And thought for thought, well... in FGA I'm Einstein while the rest of you are listening to Baby Einstein cassettes.”
“Here's the thing, Cyn; you may not believe me. Dominic may not believe me. Laurel Anne Hardy may not believe me. The fans may not believe. Pope Francis may not believe me... but none of that changes the facts. And the fact is that Malcolm Drake – crazy or sane, naughty or nice, friend or foe – is the most dangerous man in Frontier Grappling Arts. And that's a fact I intended to add an exclamation point to on Saturday night.”
Drake gives a soft scratch behind the ears of his sleeping pup.
“Because the kinder, gentler Malcolm Drake... is still very much a threat.”
“Memento mori.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Nov 6, 2014 11:25:40 GMT -5
West New York, NJ
The unseasonable warmth is yielding and a dreary gray has seeped in to replace it. The sun hangs high, somewhere, above the blanket of clouds that provides a uniformity of slate to the sky. The streets are slick from the light rain that began overnight and still falls in fits and spurts. It shakes loose the leaves on their last legs, and pries off some not ready to fall. It is Autumn, writ small, in West New York outside of Alex’s Pet Shop.
Tucked between Cecelia Bakery and Frank Shoe Repair, Alex’s sits on the first floor of a red-brick multiplex of storefronts on the sleepy stretch of Park Avenue. This is small-town America in the shadow of its largest city, literally and figuratively. Lower-middle class suburbia with all its charms and warts.
Inside, scents of dog food, pet dander and an overly-strong mint air freshener hang in the stagnant air, like a collection tree-shaped relics from a rear-view mirror. On the right-hand wall are shelves of aquarium and glass tanks, filled with various aquatic and reptilian life. A snake sleeps coiled in on itself; a chameleon rests on a plastic tree branch; fish swim passively. By the front window, an old orange tabby cat licks its fur and tries to absorb whatever light and warmth passes through the cloudscape. And behind the register a pink-haired teenage girl stares at her nails and tries not to die of boredom.
Clang.
The shopkeeper’s bell over the front entrance cuts through the hum of the heating system, breaking the near-silence and tranquility as a man in a black leather jacket, jeans and black combat boots walks in. His flicker briefly to the cashier, who is caught slightly slack-jawed, before passing over towards the tanks. He offers a slight nod before brushing the long strands of dirty-blond hair off his forehead and proceeding towards the fish and reptiles.
Malcolm Drake taps a small metal sign that reads “Do Not Tap” before peering in on the set of small lizards.
“My people,” he says in a voice just above a whisper, lightly biting his tongue between his molars as if resisting an urge to flick it at the reptiles. Drake’s eyes move toward the snake tank, and his body slivers behind. The snake is a yellow-and-white Burmese python, still young enough to fit in a relatively small case. The python uncoils slightly to bring its narrow eyes to gaze upon Drake. A black forked tongue flicks out casually in his direction.
“The similarities here,” Drake begins as if addressing the serpent, “would be... too easy. While subtlety isn’t my strong suit, this is heavy-handed even for me. Oh, but aren’t you a vision, darling. Such bright colors. In nature, these markings mean danger. Poison, usually. But always PAIN… for whoever comes across them,” Drake smirks, “Where I come from they also use glitter and stickers.”
Drake straightens giving a longing look back at the snake before continuing down the the row. He almost walks past the next tank, before stopping and doubling back. He leans in close, almost pressing his nose to the glass. When he speaks, his breath laces brief fog on the exterior of the chameleon’s tank.
“Oh, well hello, Christopher,” Drake says to the chameleon, “Fancy seeing you here, old friend. I almost didn’t see you in there… but I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? To blend in. To adapt. To… survive. That’s what you’ve always been best at, Bond… isn’t it? You’ve had a long, storied career. How does a man maintain that sort of longevity? How does he stick it out for so long? And how does he do it wearing such a squeaky clean suit of white armor?”
Drake smirks and pushes back from the tank.
“But that’s just it, Christopher. You’re hands aren’t clean. In fact, you’ve been around so long there are people who might even say they’re dirtier than mine. You just do a better job of scrubbing them clean, of hiding the evidence of past indiscretions. That white armor you parade around in is metal, pitted from frequently caustic bleaching to keep the stains off. You and I both know that the twilight of your career is nigh, and that you want nothing more than for the sun to glint and gleam off you as you ride away into the sunset. A final image of greatness to mask over years of highs and lows. You’re hoping they never discover your portrait in the attic… the skeletons in the closet.”
“But I’m not here to… tease… you, Bond. I’m only seeking to illustrate a simple point: I know you. So when you come reading into Secaucus on Saturday night on your white horse, now that I will see that the emperor wears no clothes. I see the chameleons that walk among us. I see you, Christopher. I see you and I don’t care. I don’t care that you’ve played the hero, I don’t care that you’ve played the villain and I don’t care that you’ve played every part in-between just to stay on the stage in the warm glow of the spotlight. I don’t care who you’ve hurt and I don’t care who you’ve saved. I don’t care who you’ve beaten and I don’t care who has beaten you for one… simple… reason…”
“None of them were me.”
Drake smirks.
“I don’t care about the encyclopedia volumes of your past, but I’m glad they’re there. I’m glad of all the playbills and rosters your name has graced. I’m glad that the name “Chris Bond” carries the sort of… GRAVITAS… in this business that it does. I’m glad of all the proverbial stock you have, Christopher, because I have a very special favor to ask of you…”
“... I want you to cash it in. I want it all from you, Bond. I want the master of the stage and craft to give me his greatest performance. I want the hero, and the villain and the whole cast that constitutes Chris Bond. I don’t know what you have left in that seemingly bottomless tank of your’s, but I want you to EMPTY IT. I want everything you’ve got, Bond, because if this is the only shot I ever get at you, I want to make… it… FUCKING… count. I want the chameleon to choose. I want you stand for something, Christopher. I don’t care what it is, but choose. Draw your line in the stand. Plant your feet. Make your final stand. Face. Me. Down.”
Drake’s shoulders are heaving, his body slightly trembling and his fists clenched.
“I need this,” he whispers, “I can spit in Dom Harter’s eye. I can manipulate any man, woman or child in any room anywhere in the room. I can make anyone believe anything I want them to. Anyone except… me. I need this. I need you, Bond. I need you so that I can prove to myself that everything I say is in me, and everything I can convince the world is in me… is really there. And I need every fucking atom and fiber and piece of Chris Bond to do it.”
“So don’t hold anything out on me. Because on Saturday night, I’m coming at you. I’m bringing EVERYTHING and leaving NOTHING behind. And you better, too. Because… if you don’t… there won’t be enough of Chris Bond left to take that ride into the sunset.”
As Drake turns to leave he passes by a bulletin board at the end of the aisle. His eyes glance over it briefly before landing on the picture of a dog with the words “Secaucus Animal Shelter” underneath. He pictures the spectre of death that looms large behind every rescue animal and he whispers...
“Memento mori.”
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