Practice Makes Perfect [RP #2]
Jan 1, 2012 10:48:14 GMT -5
Post by scottreave on Jan 1, 2012 10:48:14 GMT -5
The bag swings almost by itself, but the blur of tanned flesh that rocks it from the cradle give it away. The bag is heavily bruised with the markings of duct tape holding it in place. In faded lettering, one could almost see the Everlast logo. On the bag, there is a crunched piece of paper, a magazine cut out of a head. The head is hit several more times with hard jabs. My center knuckle seemed to have broken open, allowing a small trickle of blood to flow.
I didn’t even realize it until I stopped swinging, tired from the exercise. I lean forward and took in a big breath before holding the hand up to my face for examination. Raising my eyebrows, I popped the knuckle between my lips and started sucking, hoping to take away some of the newfound sting. I was tired from the training, but I kept pressing on. I only made it to the gym a few times a week, and I made a point of it to get in as much as I could.
After a moment’s rest, I’m back on the bag. Moving with my odd, graceful speed, my feet shuffle as I rotate around the bag. One would think I was a pro boxer with the grace in each step. I was thinking though, my eyes glazing over slightly as I do so. I let the monotony of the work out take a hold over my motor functions. I knew how to do this by heart now. My mind wandered elsewhere.
I was thinking of Combat. I was thinking of the butterflies in my stomach, and most of all, I was thinking about my arm being raised in victory. I was thinking that all the training I had done up to this point, all the stretching, the beatings, the matches, everything has led him here and to this point. I thought that my entire reputation could taken away in the span of three seconds. I know I can’t lose, and I know that my back is against the wall. I smiled at the thought of it all. How epic it was in scale, and how much it was being hyped by FGA. They didn’t realize that I was a big ticket, that I was the future World Heavyweight Champion, and that I was perhaps the best wrestler on the roster.
Sure FRONTIER Grappling Arts had shooters, brawlers, and submissionists. FRONTIER only had one Scott Reave.
It was that thought that put the exclamation point on it all. I broke out into a full-on grin as I danced around the bag, pounding away with hooks and jabs, only in combination. I was confident, and I was sure of myself. I knew that’d I’d win at Combat and then go on to win at Odyessy, and I knew that despite the protest of everyone else in FGA, I would walk over the broken back of whoever my opponent was and reach the next plateau. I salivated at the thought of the payday.
“Excuse me?”
A voice echoed from a distance. I was focused.
“Excuse me?”
The voice asked it again, this time a little louder.
“What?”
I planted my right fist into the magazine cut out, and sending the bag back hard, I turned around.
“What the hell do you want?”
She was a slender five-foot-four, with long, thick, red curls that reached down to her shoulder. Her eyes were not wide, but naturally big. Her nose was sharp and thin, but not off-setting. Her lips were pursed, the colour of her lipstick hidden. She looked flustered in her power suit with all the little touches. To me, she looked mighty pretty.
“I’m here with Weekly Pro, you know, the fighting magazine.”
It was my turn to be flustered. I found myself stumbling for words. I placed my taped fists on my hips and leaned back slightly, trying to take it all in.
“Yeah, sure, I guess my agent didn’t call about this.”
The woman looked slightly confused.
“Uh... no, mister...?”
I blinked, slightly confused.
“I’m Scott, Scott... Reave?”
The woman shook her head slightly.
“No, I’m looking for Blaine Harrison, I was told he uses this gym?”
The vein in my temple pulsed slightly. Trying to contain the embarrassment, I put on a flashy grin and replied.
“No, not this one. I’m sure it’s this brand, I mean, Gold’s has some of the best around... but no, I’m sure it’s another branch. So sorry.”
With this, I offered a sympathetic smile.
“Oh, well, thank you anyway. Goodbye Mr. Jeeves.”
“It’s Re—”
But I stopped, seeing she had already left. Shaking my head, I muttered something that even I couldn’t understand under my breath and went back to work.
With a nod of confidence, I took one last swing at the magazine cut out, hitting it with all of my force. Satisfied with the picture ripped almost in half, I turned and grabbed my towel. I let out a heavy sigh and left, leaving the picture of Blaine Harrison and Jenny Zellor hanging by the shards of tape I used to place it there.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Are you even paying attention Blaine? Tell me if you are, because I can’t seem to figure out how you can manage to recycle the same garbage that everyone else has spewed at me. I can’t seem to fathom how everyone in the world of professional wrestling got a copy of “how to cut down Scott Reave in three easy steps”, and have yet to figure out that it doesn’t work. You seem intent on joining the others in realizing that anything you say to me, anything at all, just doesn’t matter. You seem to think that you can tell me you’ll beat me, that you’ll be the first, that you’ll humiliate me and put me in my place… and yet I have this sneaking suspicion that just like the others…
You’re just not good enough, Blaine.
I’d hate to say it, but it seems like they forgot to tell you that you need to bring technique and skill to the ring when you fight Scott Reave. Did the boss actually tell you that if you said a few smart-aleck comments that Scott Reave would cower like a pathetic… well, like Blaine Harrison? Did they tell you that if you tried to act tough and pull that bullshit on Scott Reave, that he’d think you were superior and then immediately cower in fear?
Is there a school for bland promos? It seems like everyone in FRONTIER is an Alumni.
Honestly Blaine, you can say you’ll out wrestle me, but that won’t make a difference. You can question my methods on defeating opponents, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve said it before and I will say it again; it just doesn’t fucking matter what you say, what matters is what you do. And it would seem as though there has yet to be a man in the ranks of FGA who can actually touch me in terms of skill and intelligence.
So what makes you so confident anyway Blaine? What makes you think that your pathetic, sorry ass is going to be the one to stop the Mighty Reave from claiming what’s his? What makes you think you’re going to be the man to end Scott Reave’s bid for total dominance of FRONTIER Grappling Arts? I’d like to know, because I honestly don’t think you’ll come up with a logical answer to this question.
This alone proves you’re an idiot Blaine, and this alone proves that you’re not smart enough, and not SKILLED enough to beat Scott Reave.
You question my methods; you question my ethics. You question the way I dispatch of my opponents and yet I can’t seem to recall a match you’ve won besides Evan fucking Bodom. I can’t seem to recall a man you’ve beaten that is even worthy of the ring I wrestle in. I really can’t, Blaine. I can’t recall a single victory you had in other federations… and that scares me. It scares me because it means that I’m not only dealing with a good-boy asshole who’s living out a King Tut fantasy, but it also tells me that you’re not afraid of stretching the truth. It also tells me that you’re afraid of facing the reality of this situation.
Don’t get me wrong Blaine, I’m not afraid for my own well being. I’m afraid for yours.
To see such a fragile mind, such a fragile ego shattered into a million pieces does bring a tear to my eye. To see such a pathetic child-man-thing that can’t even bring himself to face the reality, that he’s not a loveable man, that he’s not hot shit, and that he’s never been good at anything in his life… to see a mind such as yours unable to bear it… well, it almost makes me wish I’d go easy on you when it comes time to fight.
Almost.
You see Blaine, you’re disgusting. You’re a disgrace. You’ve done nothing and have earned nothing in your entire life. You and I are nothing alike. We were both handed nothing, sure, but instead of bitching and moaning about my problems, and running off to play with the unicorns and fairies, I decided to bust my ass and work hard for what I had. What’d you do? You decided that reality just wasn’t “for you”, and ran to hide away from all that life throws at you by “focusing on your music”.
This is why I get angry with you Blaine, I get angry because you just won’t be a man and face the music. You just won’t be a man and realize that you are nothing more than an insignificant shit stain that the FRONTIER Office needs to bleach every so often to keep this place looking respectable. You’re nothing Blaine. You never were, and you never will be.
I’ll do you one favour though, Blaine. I’m going to be giving you some free time. I’m going to break your arm Blaine, give you a paid vacation. Don’t think of this as a threat Blaine, I don’t want you to think I hate you. I don’t want you to think that I’m going to break your arm to be malicious… Blaine… the truth of the matter is, I want you to think hard on your time off. I want you to take a deep breath, breathe the fresh air. I want you to stop, think, and finally admit that you’re nothing more than a failure.
So go ahead Blaine, have some fun. Go to that ex-wife of yours house and enjoy yourself. And remember, always, that I’m not breaking your arm for me…
… I’m breaking your arm for you.
I didn’t even realize it until I stopped swinging, tired from the exercise. I lean forward and took in a big breath before holding the hand up to my face for examination. Raising my eyebrows, I popped the knuckle between my lips and started sucking, hoping to take away some of the newfound sting. I was tired from the training, but I kept pressing on. I only made it to the gym a few times a week, and I made a point of it to get in as much as I could.
After a moment’s rest, I’m back on the bag. Moving with my odd, graceful speed, my feet shuffle as I rotate around the bag. One would think I was a pro boxer with the grace in each step. I was thinking though, my eyes glazing over slightly as I do so. I let the monotony of the work out take a hold over my motor functions. I knew how to do this by heart now. My mind wandered elsewhere.
I was thinking of Combat. I was thinking of the butterflies in my stomach, and most of all, I was thinking about my arm being raised in victory. I was thinking that all the training I had done up to this point, all the stretching, the beatings, the matches, everything has led him here and to this point. I thought that my entire reputation could taken away in the span of three seconds. I know I can’t lose, and I know that my back is against the wall. I smiled at the thought of it all. How epic it was in scale, and how much it was being hyped by FGA. They didn’t realize that I was a big ticket, that I was the future World Heavyweight Champion, and that I was perhaps the best wrestler on the roster.
Sure FRONTIER Grappling Arts had shooters, brawlers, and submissionists. FRONTIER only had one Scott Reave.
It was that thought that put the exclamation point on it all. I broke out into a full-on grin as I danced around the bag, pounding away with hooks and jabs, only in combination. I was confident, and I was sure of myself. I knew that’d I’d win at Combat and then go on to win at Odyessy, and I knew that despite the protest of everyone else in FGA, I would walk over the broken back of whoever my opponent was and reach the next plateau. I salivated at the thought of the payday.
“Excuse me?”
A voice echoed from a distance. I was focused.
“Excuse me?”
The voice asked it again, this time a little louder.
“What?”
I planted my right fist into the magazine cut out, and sending the bag back hard, I turned around.
“What the hell do you want?”
She was a slender five-foot-four, with long, thick, red curls that reached down to her shoulder. Her eyes were not wide, but naturally big. Her nose was sharp and thin, but not off-setting. Her lips were pursed, the colour of her lipstick hidden. She looked flustered in her power suit with all the little touches. To me, she looked mighty pretty.
“I’m here with Weekly Pro, you know, the fighting magazine.”
It was my turn to be flustered. I found myself stumbling for words. I placed my taped fists on my hips and leaned back slightly, trying to take it all in.
“Yeah, sure, I guess my agent didn’t call about this.”
The woman looked slightly confused.
“Uh... no, mister...?”
I blinked, slightly confused.
“I’m Scott, Scott... Reave?”
The woman shook her head slightly.
“No, I’m looking for Blaine Harrison, I was told he uses this gym?”
The vein in my temple pulsed slightly. Trying to contain the embarrassment, I put on a flashy grin and replied.
“No, not this one. I’m sure it’s this brand, I mean, Gold’s has some of the best around... but no, I’m sure it’s another branch. So sorry.”
With this, I offered a sympathetic smile.
“Oh, well, thank you anyway. Goodbye Mr. Jeeves.”
“It’s Re—”
But I stopped, seeing she had already left. Shaking my head, I muttered something that even I couldn’t understand under my breath and went back to work.
With a nod of confidence, I took one last swing at the magazine cut out, hitting it with all of my force. Satisfied with the picture ripped almost in half, I turned and grabbed my towel. I let out a heavy sigh and left, leaving the picture of Blaine Harrison and Jenny Zellor hanging by the shards of tape I used to place it there.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Are you even paying attention Blaine? Tell me if you are, because I can’t seem to figure out how you can manage to recycle the same garbage that everyone else has spewed at me. I can’t seem to fathom how everyone in the world of professional wrestling got a copy of “how to cut down Scott Reave in three easy steps”, and have yet to figure out that it doesn’t work. You seem intent on joining the others in realizing that anything you say to me, anything at all, just doesn’t matter. You seem to think that you can tell me you’ll beat me, that you’ll be the first, that you’ll humiliate me and put me in my place… and yet I have this sneaking suspicion that just like the others…
You’re just not good enough, Blaine.
I’d hate to say it, but it seems like they forgot to tell you that you need to bring technique and skill to the ring when you fight Scott Reave. Did the boss actually tell you that if you said a few smart-aleck comments that Scott Reave would cower like a pathetic… well, like Blaine Harrison? Did they tell you that if you tried to act tough and pull that bullshit on Scott Reave, that he’d think you were superior and then immediately cower in fear?
Is there a school for bland promos? It seems like everyone in FRONTIER is an Alumni.
Honestly Blaine, you can say you’ll out wrestle me, but that won’t make a difference. You can question my methods on defeating opponents, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve said it before and I will say it again; it just doesn’t fucking matter what you say, what matters is what you do. And it would seem as though there has yet to be a man in the ranks of FGA who can actually touch me in terms of skill and intelligence.
So what makes you so confident anyway Blaine? What makes you think that your pathetic, sorry ass is going to be the one to stop the Mighty Reave from claiming what’s his? What makes you think you’re going to be the man to end Scott Reave’s bid for total dominance of FRONTIER Grappling Arts? I’d like to know, because I honestly don’t think you’ll come up with a logical answer to this question.
This alone proves you’re an idiot Blaine, and this alone proves that you’re not smart enough, and not SKILLED enough to beat Scott Reave.
You question my methods; you question my ethics. You question the way I dispatch of my opponents and yet I can’t seem to recall a match you’ve won besides Evan fucking Bodom. I can’t seem to recall a man you’ve beaten that is even worthy of the ring I wrestle in. I really can’t, Blaine. I can’t recall a single victory you had in other federations… and that scares me. It scares me because it means that I’m not only dealing with a good-boy asshole who’s living out a King Tut fantasy, but it also tells me that you’re not afraid of stretching the truth. It also tells me that you’re afraid of facing the reality of this situation.
Don’t get me wrong Blaine, I’m not afraid for my own well being. I’m afraid for yours.
To see such a fragile mind, such a fragile ego shattered into a million pieces does bring a tear to my eye. To see such a pathetic child-man-thing that can’t even bring himself to face the reality, that he’s not a loveable man, that he’s not hot shit, and that he’s never been good at anything in his life… to see a mind such as yours unable to bear it… well, it almost makes me wish I’d go easy on you when it comes time to fight.
Almost.
You see Blaine, you’re disgusting. You’re a disgrace. You’ve done nothing and have earned nothing in your entire life. You and I are nothing alike. We were both handed nothing, sure, but instead of bitching and moaning about my problems, and running off to play with the unicorns and fairies, I decided to bust my ass and work hard for what I had. What’d you do? You decided that reality just wasn’t “for you”, and ran to hide away from all that life throws at you by “focusing on your music”.
This is why I get angry with you Blaine, I get angry because you just won’t be a man and face the music. You just won’t be a man and realize that you are nothing more than an insignificant shit stain that the FRONTIER Office needs to bleach every so often to keep this place looking respectable. You’re nothing Blaine. You never were, and you never will be.
I’ll do you one favour though, Blaine. I’m going to be giving you some free time. I’m going to break your arm Blaine, give you a paid vacation. Don’t think of this as a threat Blaine, I don’t want you to think I hate you. I don’t want you to think that I’m going to break your arm to be malicious… Blaine… the truth of the matter is, I want you to think hard on your time off. I want you to take a deep breath, breathe the fresh air. I want you to stop, think, and finally admit that you’re nothing more than a failure.
So go ahead Blaine, have some fun. Go to that ex-wife of yours house and enjoy yourself. And remember, always, that I’m not breaking your arm for me…
… I’m breaking your arm for you.