Post by Deleted on Jan 27, 2013 18:37:48 GMT -5
“Regrets,” I say glumly. “I’ve had a few. Got a few even now. Things that haven’t happened how I’d’ve liked them to, that haven’t gone my way. Maybe they might have worked out better if I did something different, if I worked harder. Just a small change, that’s all it could take and things could have been so different, so much better…”
The camera zooms out from the close up shot of my face, revealing me standing in an alley near the RIMAC Arena in San Diego, California. Compared to Worcester, MA and Woodbridge, CT, it’s unseasonably warm here, allowing me, for the first time in several weeks, to not have to wear four layers and a hat and scarf. Instead I’m wearing a charcoal grey hooded top and a Red Sox baseball cap, navy blue with the red ‘B’ on the front, along with a pair of dark denim jeans.
Dusk has passed and night time has descended upon the West coast; the sodium colored glow radiating from the nearby street lights illuminate the area around me; there’ll be no skulking in shadows for me here. Not today.
“For instance, I regret agreeing to appear at UWL WrestleFest II without Malcolm Drake by my side, without my tag partner, my friend, my fellow crow.” I say with feigned exasperation. And a melancholic head shake for added dramatic flair. “A fool, I was a fool to think I could possibly venture out from beneath his protective wing. Look at me, I’m obviously not ready to fly solo; this little crow should have stayed in the nest for a few more weeks, months even. They all told me ‘Dom, you’re useless without him’ and ‘you need him to hold your hand, you little baby’ and maybe - just maybe - they were right.”
I turn away from the camera and deliver an audible sniff, fake wiping away some tears as I say “big boys don’t cry”. The cameraman remains where he was, zooming out slightly more to reveal the grey concrete walls around me; I found an area without any spray paint of graffiti, which was a challenge. Finally, after a few moments, I turn back around to face the camera with my hands stretched out to my sides. “And they threw me under the bus, didn’t they!? They tossed me into a tag match! Against the champions! And to top it off, with a man I’ve never met!” Ah, the ‘woe is me’ routine, a petulant display of mock horror if there ever was one.
I roll my eyes as my demeanour changes; the feigned dismay dissipates instantly as I bury my hands into the front pocket of the hooded top; I pace from left to right and back again, ranting “I’ve heard the Leon Corella diatribe about how Kevin Hill and the UWL screwed him out his beloved Patriot title, but I took his tales with a pinch of salt. It was, after all, the disgruntled rant of a jaded man, supposedly stripped of a belt before being ‘screwed’ out of a match against Ryan Kidd.” I pause momentarily, stopping in my tracks as I look towards the camera. “But I never–never–thought that it would happen to me.”
“I never thought I’d be the fall guy so these champions–” there’s a hint of revulsion in my voice, “–could have an easy match. A quick victory. So they could retain their titles and bring some pride and glory back to the NAW. And they can hang out with the rest of the greats that NAW has attracted, such as…” there is, briefly, a perplexed look on my face. “It’s on the tip of my tongue–-Kandi Something? In fact, do ‘pride’ and NAW even go together? You wanna bring glory to a cesspit; throw some glitter on a pile of horse dung and, guess what, it’s still s###. But no, you two, Fenriz and Ryder, you continue to look down your nose at me. At Castellanos…” I trail off with an annoyed head shake.
“I’d make more jokes and throw a few more jibes at the promotion you two call home, but lets remain diplomatic here. My beef ain’t with the NAW, it’s just with you two.” I say as I poke my finger towards the camera lens. “Your belligerent, uninformed asses, casting your aspersions against us as if you know anything about me.”
“You think because I have a random tag team partner, because we’ve never met before now–and probably won’t before Wrestlefest–that we’re not going to click.” I snigger under my breath, a wry smirk edging the corners of my mouth upwards. “That’s the beauty of it, Fenriz. It’s what you and Ryder don’t seem to get, to understand … So pop quiz, hotshots: how many times have Malcolm Drake and I teamed together?” I ask the camera, remaining silent as I allow the viewers at home time to answer. “If you said zero, you’d be correct. But you ask any member of the FGA roster who they fear right now and our names would be at the top of that list. You find Mangold or O’Hare or Demore and you ask them what it’s like to go up against a member of The Murder! Go on, ask them…”
I resume pacing from side to side, my hands still buried in my front pocket as I shake my head in, not anger, but something close to it. It’s a deep seated resentment of being overlooked because of my name, my stature or my history. Ok, that’s anger. “I consider myself a bit of a tag team wrestler; the first belt I ever won in this sport was the SCCW Heritage Tag Team Championships before the promotion closed its doors. I was partnered with Constance Monroe…” I sneer at the mention of her name but continue waxing lyrical about my past regardless. “Not an easy feat, I can tell ya. But in only our second match together we captured those belts, we beat a team that had been teaming together for years. A team that had been running rampant throughout the SCCW, throughout the NWA, they on a massive undefeated streak! But we beat them. Admittedly, neither of them was voted one of the best five wrestlers in the world…seven years ago…” another snigger escapes my lips at that cheap shot. “But from what I know about Castellanos, he’s leagues above what Constance Monroe was.”
“I mean, am I pissed off that I’m thrown together with a stranger?” I ask before answering with a head nod. “Yeah. But I’ve got the fighter’s spirit in me. The lust for gold that means I’m going to take that Welsh bastard and I’m going to take him to lofty heights, places he’s never dreamed of. You may have the size advantage, you may have the experience edge over us. But we have that intangible quality, what makes me–makes us–better than you Black Circle Boys, and it will be demonstrated to you at Wrestlefest!”
My hands make their way out of my pocket as I make jabbing gestures to accentuate each point I’m going to make, “You will learn why they call me a tenacious little bastard. You will learn why my name strikes fear into the hearts of each and every FGA roster member, why it will soon be synonymous with destruction across the UWL. Across North America!” I exclaim excitedly, my hands spread out in front of me as if showing you, the viewer, how big North America is. Slightly bigger than the distance between my hands, mind you. “We will show you why that man randomly assigned as my partner, that stranger I have to co-exist with, why he was so highly decorated down in Galveston. Why he is the best thing going in PWX right now…” Pause. “I assume. That’s why he gets the pleasure of teaming with me.”
The cocky smirk reappears on my face as I, for a change, cross my arms in front of my chest. “This match will not be one sided, it will not be a case of lambs to the slaughter.” Again, the revulsion is evident in my tone of voice. “You underestimate me, Black Circle Boys. My hunger for victory, my lust for gold. The tenacity I fight with each and every time I step into the ring. But mark my words, come Wrestlefest those tag title belts that you cling to, that you covet, they’re changing hands. And come Wrestlefest, this crow will be taking one of those shiny prizes home to where it belongs…” I end by motioning around my waist, the sly smirk still plastered on my face as the camera fades to black.
The camera zooms out from the close up shot of my face, revealing me standing in an alley near the RIMAC Arena in San Diego, California. Compared to Worcester, MA and Woodbridge, CT, it’s unseasonably warm here, allowing me, for the first time in several weeks, to not have to wear four layers and a hat and scarf. Instead I’m wearing a charcoal grey hooded top and a Red Sox baseball cap, navy blue with the red ‘B’ on the front, along with a pair of dark denim jeans.
Dusk has passed and night time has descended upon the West coast; the sodium colored glow radiating from the nearby street lights illuminate the area around me; there’ll be no skulking in shadows for me here. Not today.
“For instance, I regret agreeing to appear at UWL WrestleFest II without Malcolm Drake by my side, without my tag partner, my friend, my fellow crow.” I say with feigned exasperation. And a melancholic head shake for added dramatic flair. “A fool, I was a fool to think I could possibly venture out from beneath his protective wing. Look at me, I’m obviously not ready to fly solo; this little crow should have stayed in the nest for a few more weeks, months even. They all told me ‘Dom, you’re useless without him’ and ‘you need him to hold your hand, you little baby’ and maybe - just maybe - they were right.”
I turn away from the camera and deliver an audible sniff, fake wiping away some tears as I say “big boys don’t cry”. The cameraman remains where he was, zooming out slightly more to reveal the grey concrete walls around me; I found an area without any spray paint of graffiti, which was a challenge. Finally, after a few moments, I turn back around to face the camera with my hands stretched out to my sides. “And they threw me under the bus, didn’t they!? They tossed me into a tag match! Against the champions! And to top it off, with a man I’ve never met!” Ah, the ‘woe is me’ routine, a petulant display of mock horror if there ever was one.
I roll my eyes as my demeanour changes; the feigned dismay dissipates instantly as I bury my hands into the front pocket of the hooded top; I pace from left to right and back again, ranting “I’ve heard the Leon Corella diatribe about how Kevin Hill and the UWL screwed him out his beloved Patriot title, but I took his tales with a pinch of salt. It was, after all, the disgruntled rant of a jaded man, supposedly stripped of a belt before being ‘screwed’ out of a match against Ryan Kidd.” I pause momentarily, stopping in my tracks as I look towards the camera. “But I never–never–thought that it would happen to me.”
“I never thought I’d be the fall guy so these champions–” there’s a hint of revulsion in my voice, “–could have an easy match. A quick victory. So they could retain their titles and bring some pride and glory back to the NAW. And they can hang out with the rest of the greats that NAW has attracted, such as…” there is, briefly, a perplexed look on my face. “It’s on the tip of my tongue–-Kandi Something? In fact, do ‘pride’ and NAW even go together? You wanna bring glory to a cesspit; throw some glitter on a pile of horse dung and, guess what, it’s still s###. But no, you two, Fenriz and Ryder, you continue to look down your nose at me. At Castellanos…” I trail off with an annoyed head shake.
“I’d make more jokes and throw a few more jibes at the promotion you two call home, but lets remain diplomatic here. My beef ain’t with the NAW, it’s just with you two.” I say as I poke my finger towards the camera lens. “Your belligerent, uninformed asses, casting your aspersions against us as if you know anything about me.”
“You think because I have a random tag team partner, because we’ve never met before now–and probably won’t before Wrestlefest–that we’re not going to click.” I snigger under my breath, a wry smirk edging the corners of my mouth upwards. “That’s the beauty of it, Fenriz. It’s what you and Ryder don’t seem to get, to understand … So pop quiz, hotshots: how many times have Malcolm Drake and I teamed together?” I ask the camera, remaining silent as I allow the viewers at home time to answer. “If you said zero, you’d be correct. But you ask any member of the FGA roster who they fear right now and our names would be at the top of that list. You find Mangold or O’Hare or Demore and you ask them what it’s like to go up against a member of The Murder! Go on, ask them…”
I resume pacing from side to side, my hands still buried in my front pocket as I shake my head in, not anger, but something close to it. It’s a deep seated resentment of being overlooked because of my name, my stature or my history. Ok, that’s anger. “I consider myself a bit of a tag team wrestler; the first belt I ever won in this sport was the SCCW Heritage Tag Team Championships before the promotion closed its doors. I was partnered with Constance Monroe…” I sneer at the mention of her name but continue waxing lyrical about my past regardless. “Not an easy feat, I can tell ya. But in only our second match together we captured those belts, we beat a team that had been teaming together for years. A team that had been running rampant throughout the SCCW, throughout the NWA, they on a massive undefeated streak! But we beat them. Admittedly, neither of them was voted one of the best five wrestlers in the world…seven years ago…” another snigger escapes my lips at that cheap shot. “But from what I know about Castellanos, he’s leagues above what Constance Monroe was.”
“I mean, am I pissed off that I’m thrown together with a stranger?” I ask before answering with a head nod. “Yeah. But I’ve got the fighter’s spirit in me. The lust for gold that means I’m going to take that Welsh bastard and I’m going to take him to lofty heights, places he’s never dreamed of. You may have the size advantage, you may have the experience edge over us. But we have that intangible quality, what makes me–makes us–better than you Black Circle Boys, and it will be demonstrated to you at Wrestlefest!”
My hands make their way out of my pocket as I make jabbing gestures to accentuate each point I’m going to make, “You will learn why they call me a tenacious little bastard. You will learn why my name strikes fear into the hearts of each and every FGA roster member, why it will soon be synonymous with destruction across the UWL. Across North America!” I exclaim excitedly, my hands spread out in front of me as if showing you, the viewer, how big North America is. Slightly bigger than the distance between my hands, mind you. “We will show you why that man randomly assigned as my partner, that stranger I have to co-exist with, why he was so highly decorated down in Galveston. Why he is the best thing going in PWX right now…” Pause. “I assume. That’s why he gets the pleasure of teaming with me.”
The cocky smirk reappears on my face as I, for a change, cross my arms in front of my chest. “This match will not be one sided, it will not be a case of lambs to the slaughter.” Again, the revulsion is evident in my tone of voice. “You underestimate me, Black Circle Boys. My hunger for victory, my lust for gold. The tenacity I fight with each and every time I step into the ring. But mark my words, come Wrestlefest those tag title belts that you cling to, that you covet, they’re changing hands. And come Wrestlefest, this crow will be taking one of those shiny prizes home to where it belongs…” I end by motioning around my waist, the sly smirk still plastered on my face as the camera fades to black.