S01E09 - UWL Tag Title Defense
Feb 23, 2013 22:07:18 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 23, 2013 22:07:18 GMT -5
Carried on from S01E08
Off camera
“‘Scuse me, ma’am” the drawling voice from behind surprises her; she swivels on her stool to find the red-haired man in a trench coat has left his seat in the corner and is now standing before her. She looks him up and down with a perplexed expression on her face as he speaks again. “Ah didn’t mean to startle you. Mah name is Gerard McDonough and ah’d like to talk to you about your…friend” he says with a smug, satisfied grin on his face.
The raven haired woman glares at the man standing before her; her eyes narrowing as she recovers from the surprise a second ago. “I‘ve really gotta be going,” she says, grabbing her black pea jacket from off the stool, hurriedly putting it on as she bolts for the door. Gerard’s appearance just screams cop to her and if there’s one thing she doesn’t need, it’s to get busted. “Sorry…” she adds as she steps away, her voice ripe with insincerity.
“Ma’am,” Gerard says as he grabs her by the arm. “It might just be in your interest to hear me ou–”.”
“Take your hands off me,” she interrupts forcibly in a hushed tone; she has no intention of drawing Rachel out of the kitchen to witness this. Gerard obliges, offering his palms up in a sincere gesture of apology. “Whatever you think he did, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout it. And I don’t have nothin’ to say to a cop like you.”
“Ah’m not a police officer,” Gerard replies light heartedly. “It’s not mah business what you do, ah just have some questions ah’d like to ask you about the man you were talking to just a moment ago.”
The raven-haired woman goes to turn away, but stops, half-facing away as she looks over her shoulder. “You swear you’re not a cop?” she asks for clarity; Gerard shakes his head to confirm that no, he is not a member of law enforcement, as he reaches into his inside chest pocket. From within, he pulls out a photograph of Elsie Webster, taken shortly before she disappeared last Summer. The raven haired woman glances briefly down at the photo before doing a double take, her gaze lingering on the image presented before her. Gerard maintains an impassive expression on his face, however he is smiling on the inside. The woman obviously sees the same striking resemblance that Gerard noted when he first observed her leaving Dom Harter’s apartment. Both she and Elsie share many of the same facial features; the shoulder length black hair is a minor similarity, their almond-shaped, chestnut coloured eyes, however, border on identical. Elsie even shared the flat, thin nose that the raven-haired woman has always hated on herself.
“Ma’am, can ah ask,” Gerard pauses, waiting for her to look up at him. “Do you know this woman?” She doesn’t speak, merely shaking her head in shocked silence. “Her name was Elsie Webster…” he begins to explain his interest in Elsie; how she mysteriously disappeared without a trace last Summer, how Dom Harter was the lead suspect in the case before it seemingly went cold. He tells the story right up until Elsie’s father, Arthur Webster, hired Gerard to find out exactly what happened to his daughter. For good effect, Gerard makes a point to repeat that Elsie is believed to be dead. That Dom, the man who sat beside you tonight are the words he uses, was suspected of the crime. Gerard hopes that the fear will motivate the young woman to divulge some important information, anything that might help him solve this case … or to nail the son-of-a-bitch.
The raven haired woman listens to every word that Gerard says, trying to absorb the information being given to her. But, try as she might to focus, her thoughts drift and meander; the nights she’s spent with Dom are at the forefront of her mind. She’s known Dom for almost four months now and he’s made no mention of any of this. Then again, why would he? It’s hardly a topic of conversation in which most people would voluntarily partake. Then she thinks of all the nights they’ve spent together, talking, drinking and, of course, f###ing. That’s why she was there, wasn’t it? And, suddenly, the comments he’s made in the past about her being as pretty as he remembers or wearing her hair the way you used to all make sense to her. And she now finds them even creepier than she did at the time. But the Dom she knows – or thinks she knows – he could never kill anyone, could he?
“I’ve gotta go…” she whispers, slipping her coat over her shoulders as she rushes out of the diner. The little bell rings as she leaves; Gerard doesn’t follow, at his age he knows he’s unlikely to catch up with someone as young as that. Instead, he takes a seat at the diner counter as Rachel, the rotund waitress pops her head out from the kitchen.
“Everything ok out here?” Rachel asks quizzically, wondering where her other two customers went.
“Everything is fine…” Gerard replies in his Southern drawl, a frustrated look on his face as he curses his bad luck. For a moment there he was sure the woman would crack.
Meanwhile, outside, the raven haired woman has stopped running away; she’s slowed to an amble, looking back over her shoulder to make sure she’s not being followed as she grabs the cell phone from her coat pocket. She dials the number she wants and holds the phone to her ear, waiting for the person on the other end to answer. “Dom!” she exclaims, “I needa talk to you…”
And this won’t be an easy conversation to have…
“Being noticed can be a burden,” I state boldly as I stand in front of the UWL backdrop, which the crew got out of storage especially for me. Tonight is the night of FGA’s ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’ supershow here in New York, but i’s not scheduled to start for another few hours. Five to be precise, even then my match isn’t until near the end of the show, so I have time to get my head in the game. “I think it was Bob Dylan who said that ‘being noticed got Jesus crucified’ so that’s why Dylan ‘disappears a lot’. And I find that saying to be quite apt at this moment in time…”
I run a hand through my hair; it’s one of the habits I’ve developed over the years, a sure sign that I’m frustrated. “Lets be clear, I’m not comparing you to Jesus. Nothing like that,” I say as I shake my head. “It’s just there was a period of time last when I was mildly aware of Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Wrestling. I knew they existed but, to my shame, I failed to follow the promotion. I mean, I was aware of their existence, I knew the names of some of the roster but I didn’t notice them. They weren’t my problem, if you can understand that.”
Resisting the urge to pace back and forth, I plant my feet firmly on the ground. For this promo I have requested that the camera only shoot me from the waist up; the reasons as to why escape me at this precise moment in time though. Regardless, I stand still, hunched slightly, wearing a black Gaslight Anthem tee - one of their newer ones with ‘Every Word Handwritten’ emblazoned on it – and my UWL World Tag Team Championship belt is slung over my left shoulder.
“Fast forward a few months,” I say as a scowl appears on my face. “And North Atlantic Wrestling pops up on my radar, their roster coming out of the woodwork and they’re wanting to be noticed.”
“The Black Circle Boys were out there on the front line,” I say casually, “it would have been difficult not to notice them. Then again, it’s always difficult not to notice a seven foot beanpole dressed like that. But they, to their credit, achieved a level of greatness that they won’t experience again, they were the UWL World Tag Team Champions.” A chuckle breaks my flow before the scowl reappears. “Until I noticed them, until Castellanos noticed them. Don’t get me wrong, they tried to fight the inevitable; they fought a damn tough fight, worked as a team, isolated and worked one of us over. It took two finishers but we put them away! Castellanos and I, we beat them and we achieved that level of greatness.”
“You see, The Black Circle Boys couldn’t handle the burden of being noticed. They weren’t used to being in the spotlight, to performing in front of a real audience…” it might not have been my intention to s##t on NAW last time I wrestled against one of their roster, but this time I’ll go one step further “…I presume that’s why they compete for the NAW. Why they’re willing to compete regularly against the likes of The Dillinger Gang, the Latin Kings or the Vice Squad. Why they’re willing to compete against the likes of … The V-List.”
My scowl harshens, the anger blending with frustration at the mention of their name. “I have to ask, when you two challenged us, what were you expecting to happen? Exactly what miracle are you hoping for at Meltdown?”
In spite of myself, I begin pacing back and forth, one hand running through my hair as the other pats the title belt on my shoulder. “This burden of being noticed that I’ve mentioned – or rambled on about, you might say – this applies to you two. I’ve noted your existence, I’ve tried to research you and … seriously?” I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Just tell me that Li’l Dante over there has recovered from his injury, tell me he’ll be fighting fit! And if you can tell me that his being there gives Fraggle a fighting chance, I’ll be hella relieved.”
“Because between your failure to win the tag match on the first edition of Meltdown and that less than impressive showing you put in against Gunner Hughes at St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, I’m not sure your decision to enter the ring was the wisest thing you’ve ever done, Fraggle…” a brief pause as I exhale heavily. “You should have just found another monster and stuck with what you did moderately well. But no … What was it, Fraggle, the lure of a new challenge too great for you? Or were you just not getting the recognition that you so desperately craved? Was standing there watching Judas Fraggle wreck havoc through the WBSW not enough for you, huh? You too wanted a slither of that precious fame, the attention…”
“Well mission accomplished!” I shout. “You have our attention. Now I hope we have yours. You see, tonight, partially for your benefit, I’m going to make a statement here in New York City…” I stop pacing, standing shoulder on to the camera as I continue to speak. “You two aren’t the only ones who have been after my attention, you’re not the only ones who want to be noticed. But tonight I will make a statement and I will make it loud and clear for you both.”
“Even the UWL World Heavyweight Champion has the same urge you had, Fraggle. Even the great Pat Gordon Jr. feels the urge to be noticed every now and then,” I say derisively. “And he resorted to the same idiotic tactics you did. He interjected himself him in business, he put himself in my line of sights. And he challenged me to this match here tonight … just like you laid out that challenge for Meltdown.”
I pat the title belt on my shoulder and chuckle to myself, “Tonight, I will show people the burden of being noticed. For when I have steamrolled my way through the UWL World Heavyweight Champion. When I have left him lying in a pool of his own blood, laid out in the center of that ring. I hope–I pray–you two see the error of your ways. If you have a modicum of sense, you will learn to sit down, to be content with your mediocrity and you will never again seek the attention of the masses. To never try to punch above your weight. You will learn to live with and appreciate what few talents and gifts you have been given…and you will realise the burden you have chosen to bear!”
This topic is cutting a little close to home for my liking; the recent revelation that someone has rekindled their interest in my own private life has me on edge right now. Something I fear is showing through with this promo. I never intended to be this mean or to put my opponents down so much; I was just going to crack wise about their height, reel off a few dwarf jokes. Maybe make fun of them for their fashion sense; I honestly laughed hysterically when I saw them both in bras and tutus. If those are their type of mind games, this shouldn’t be too hard … But no, I let my personal feelings shine through. I let my emotions get the better of me and the bitterness has shown so far, I just know it. I don’t enjoy people prying into my life, less so when they’re re-opening old wounds. When someone is taking the box in which I’ve locked away my thoughts and feelings and they’re prying it open with a crowbar, figuratively speaking, that puts a dampener on my day. On my week. On my whole entire damn life.
“There is a silver lining to all of this, however,” I say as I turn to face the camera. “I mean, this time I’m not stepping into the ring with a man I’ve never teamed with before. This time we know what each other can do inside that squared circle, we’ll be a bit more in touch with one another. Which is, unfortunately, bad news for the V-List...”
“One final thing though,” I say, trying to force that scowl off my face. And failing to do so. “Don’t think I’m overlooking you–” ah, there’s the short joke “–don’t think I’m looking past you two. I am, as I’m sure you can guess, well aware that upsets can happen. That the underdogs sometimes get the glory. There are people out there who think that the V-List might walk away from this episode of Meltdown as the new UWL World Tag Team Champions … but that ain’t gonna happen. I won’t let that happen! Believe me, it will take better men than you two to take these belts from us. But you wanted this shot, you wanted this match … you wanted to be noticed, didn’t you … so when all is said and done, when Castellanos & Harter leave Philadelphia as we entered – as the UWL World Tag Team Champions – you can realise the burden of being noticed.”
“And, if you want, I can make you disappear…” I crack a wry smirk as the scene comes to an end with a fade to black.
Off camera
“‘Scuse me, ma’am” the drawling voice from behind surprises her; she swivels on her stool to find the red-haired man in a trench coat has left his seat in the corner and is now standing before her. She looks him up and down with a perplexed expression on her face as he speaks again. “Ah didn’t mean to startle you. Mah name is Gerard McDonough and ah’d like to talk to you about your…friend” he says with a smug, satisfied grin on his face.
The raven haired woman glares at the man standing before her; her eyes narrowing as she recovers from the surprise a second ago. “I‘ve really gotta be going,” she says, grabbing her black pea jacket from off the stool, hurriedly putting it on as she bolts for the door. Gerard’s appearance just screams cop to her and if there’s one thing she doesn’t need, it’s to get busted. “Sorry…” she adds as she steps away, her voice ripe with insincerity.
“Ma’am,” Gerard says as he grabs her by the arm. “It might just be in your interest to hear me ou–”.”
“Take your hands off me,” she interrupts forcibly in a hushed tone; she has no intention of drawing Rachel out of the kitchen to witness this. Gerard obliges, offering his palms up in a sincere gesture of apology. “Whatever you think he did, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout it. And I don’t have nothin’ to say to a cop like you.”
“Ah’m not a police officer,” Gerard replies light heartedly. “It’s not mah business what you do, ah just have some questions ah’d like to ask you about the man you were talking to just a moment ago.”
The raven-haired woman goes to turn away, but stops, half-facing away as she looks over her shoulder. “You swear you’re not a cop?” she asks for clarity; Gerard shakes his head to confirm that no, he is not a member of law enforcement, as he reaches into his inside chest pocket. From within, he pulls out a photograph of Elsie Webster, taken shortly before she disappeared last Summer. The raven haired woman glances briefly down at the photo before doing a double take, her gaze lingering on the image presented before her. Gerard maintains an impassive expression on his face, however he is smiling on the inside. The woman obviously sees the same striking resemblance that Gerard noted when he first observed her leaving Dom Harter’s apartment. Both she and Elsie share many of the same facial features; the shoulder length black hair is a minor similarity, their almond-shaped, chestnut coloured eyes, however, border on identical. Elsie even shared the flat, thin nose that the raven-haired woman has always hated on herself.
“Ma’am, can ah ask,” Gerard pauses, waiting for her to look up at him. “Do you know this woman?” She doesn’t speak, merely shaking her head in shocked silence. “Her name was Elsie Webster…” he begins to explain his interest in Elsie; how she mysteriously disappeared without a trace last Summer, how Dom Harter was the lead suspect in the case before it seemingly went cold. He tells the story right up until Elsie’s father, Arthur Webster, hired Gerard to find out exactly what happened to his daughter. For good effect, Gerard makes a point to repeat that Elsie is believed to be dead. That Dom, the man who sat beside you tonight are the words he uses, was suspected of the crime. Gerard hopes that the fear will motivate the young woman to divulge some important information, anything that might help him solve this case … or to nail the son-of-a-bitch.
The raven haired woman listens to every word that Gerard says, trying to absorb the information being given to her. But, try as she might to focus, her thoughts drift and meander; the nights she’s spent with Dom are at the forefront of her mind. She’s known Dom for almost four months now and he’s made no mention of any of this. Then again, why would he? It’s hardly a topic of conversation in which most people would voluntarily partake. Then she thinks of all the nights they’ve spent together, talking, drinking and, of course, f###ing. That’s why she was there, wasn’t it? And, suddenly, the comments he’s made in the past about her being as pretty as he remembers or wearing her hair the way you used to all make sense to her. And she now finds them even creepier than she did at the time. But the Dom she knows – or thinks she knows – he could never kill anyone, could he?
“I’ve gotta go…” she whispers, slipping her coat over her shoulders as she rushes out of the diner. The little bell rings as she leaves; Gerard doesn’t follow, at his age he knows he’s unlikely to catch up with someone as young as that. Instead, he takes a seat at the diner counter as Rachel, the rotund waitress pops her head out from the kitchen.
“Everything ok out here?” Rachel asks quizzically, wondering where her other two customers went.
“Everything is fine…” Gerard replies in his Southern drawl, a frustrated look on his face as he curses his bad luck. For a moment there he was sure the woman would crack.
Meanwhile, outside, the raven haired woman has stopped running away; she’s slowed to an amble, looking back over her shoulder to make sure she’s not being followed as she grabs the cell phone from her coat pocket. She dials the number she wants and holds the phone to her ear, waiting for the person on the other end to answer. “Dom!” she exclaims, “I needa talk to you…”
And this won’t be an easy conversation to have…
“Being noticed can be a burden,” I state boldly as I stand in front of the UWL backdrop, which the crew got out of storage especially for me. Tonight is the night of FGA’s ‘Pride, Honor & Excellence’ supershow here in New York, but i’s not scheduled to start for another few hours. Five to be precise, even then my match isn’t until near the end of the show, so I have time to get my head in the game. “I think it was Bob Dylan who said that ‘being noticed got Jesus crucified’ so that’s why Dylan ‘disappears a lot’. And I find that saying to be quite apt at this moment in time…”
I run a hand through my hair; it’s one of the habits I’ve developed over the years, a sure sign that I’m frustrated. “Lets be clear, I’m not comparing you to Jesus. Nothing like that,” I say as I shake my head. “It’s just there was a period of time last when I was mildly aware of Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Wrestling. I knew they existed but, to my shame, I failed to follow the promotion. I mean, I was aware of their existence, I knew the names of some of the roster but I didn’t notice them. They weren’t my problem, if you can understand that.”
Resisting the urge to pace back and forth, I plant my feet firmly on the ground. For this promo I have requested that the camera only shoot me from the waist up; the reasons as to why escape me at this precise moment in time though. Regardless, I stand still, hunched slightly, wearing a black Gaslight Anthem tee - one of their newer ones with ‘Every Word Handwritten’ emblazoned on it – and my UWL World Tag Team Championship belt is slung over my left shoulder.
“Fast forward a few months,” I say as a scowl appears on my face. “And North Atlantic Wrestling pops up on my radar, their roster coming out of the woodwork and they’re wanting to be noticed.”
“The Black Circle Boys were out there on the front line,” I say casually, “it would have been difficult not to notice them. Then again, it’s always difficult not to notice a seven foot beanpole dressed like that. But they, to their credit, achieved a level of greatness that they won’t experience again, they were the UWL World Tag Team Champions.” A chuckle breaks my flow before the scowl reappears. “Until I noticed them, until Castellanos noticed them. Don’t get me wrong, they tried to fight the inevitable; they fought a damn tough fight, worked as a team, isolated and worked one of us over. It took two finishers but we put them away! Castellanos and I, we beat them and we achieved that level of greatness.”
“You see, The Black Circle Boys couldn’t handle the burden of being noticed. They weren’t used to being in the spotlight, to performing in front of a real audience…” it might not have been my intention to s##t on NAW last time I wrestled against one of their roster, but this time I’ll go one step further “…I presume that’s why they compete for the NAW. Why they’re willing to compete regularly against the likes of The Dillinger Gang, the Latin Kings or the Vice Squad. Why they’re willing to compete against the likes of … The V-List.”
My scowl harshens, the anger blending with frustration at the mention of their name. “I have to ask, when you two challenged us, what were you expecting to happen? Exactly what miracle are you hoping for at Meltdown?”
In spite of myself, I begin pacing back and forth, one hand running through my hair as the other pats the title belt on my shoulder. “This burden of being noticed that I’ve mentioned – or rambled on about, you might say – this applies to you two. I’ve noted your existence, I’ve tried to research you and … seriously?” I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Just tell me that Li’l Dante over there has recovered from his injury, tell me he’ll be fighting fit! And if you can tell me that his being there gives Fraggle a fighting chance, I’ll be hella relieved.”
“Because between your failure to win the tag match on the first edition of Meltdown and that less than impressive showing you put in against Gunner Hughes at St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, I’m not sure your decision to enter the ring was the wisest thing you’ve ever done, Fraggle…” a brief pause as I exhale heavily. “You should have just found another monster and stuck with what you did moderately well. But no … What was it, Fraggle, the lure of a new challenge too great for you? Or were you just not getting the recognition that you so desperately craved? Was standing there watching Judas Fraggle wreck havoc through the WBSW not enough for you, huh? You too wanted a slither of that precious fame, the attention…”
“Well mission accomplished!” I shout. “You have our attention. Now I hope we have yours. You see, tonight, partially for your benefit, I’m going to make a statement here in New York City…” I stop pacing, standing shoulder on to the camera as I continue to speak. “You two aren’t the only ones who have been after my attention, you’re not the only ones who want to be noticed. But tonight I will make a statement and I will make it loud and clear for you both.”
“Even the UWL World Heavyweight Champion has the same urge you had, Fraggle. Even the great Pat Gordon Jr. feels the urge to be noticed every now and then,” I say derisively. “And he resorted to the same idiotic tactics you did. He interjected himself him in business, he put himself in my line of sights. And he challenged me to this match here tonight … just like you laid out that challenge for Meltdown.”
I pat the title belt on my shoulder and chuckle to myself, “Tonight, I will show people the burden of being noticed. For when I have steamrolled my way through the UWL World Heavyweight Champion. When I have left him lying in a pool of his own blood, laid out in the center of that ring. I hope–I pray–you two see the error of your ways. If you have a modicum of sense, you will learn to sit down, to be content with your mediocrity and you will never again seek the attention of the masses. To never try to punch above your weight. You will learn to live with and appreciate what few talents and gifts you have been given…and you will realise the burden you have chosen to bear!”
This topic is cutting a little close to home for my liking; the recent revelation that someone has rekindled their interest in my own private life has me on edge right now. Something I fear is showing through with this promo. I never intended to be this mean or to put my opponents down so much; I was just going to crack wise about their height, reel off a few dwarf jokes. Maybe make fun of them for their fashion sense; I honestly laughed hysterically when I saw them both in bras and tutus. If those are their type of mind games, this shouldn’t be too hard … But no, I let my personal feelings shine through. I let my emotions get the better of me and the bitterness has shown so far, I just know it. I don’t enjoy people prying into my life, less so when they’re re-opening old wounds. When someone is taking the box in which I’ve locked away my thoughts and feelings and they’re prying it open with a crowbar, figuratively speaking, that puts a dampener on my day. On my week. On my whole entire damn life.
“There is a silver lining to all of this, however,” I say as I turn to face the camera. “I mean, this time I’m not stepping into the ring with a man I’ve never teamed with before. This time we know what each other can do inside that squared circle, we’ll be a bit more in touch with one another. Which is, unfortunately, bad news for the V-List...”
“One final thing though,” I say, trying to force that scowl off my face. And failing to do so. “Don’t think I’m overlooking you–” ah, there’s the short joke “–don’t think I’m looking past you two. I am, as I’m sure you can guess, well aware that upsets can happen. That the underdogs sometimes get the glory. There are people out there who think that the V-List might walk away from this episode of Meltdown as the new UWL World Tag Team Champions … but that ain’t gonna happen. I won’t let that happen! Believe me, it will take better men than you two to take these belts from us. But you wanted this shot, you wanted this match … you wanted to be noticed, didn’t you … so when all is said and done, when Castellanos & Harter leave Philadelphia as we entered – as the UWL World Tag Team Champions – you can realise the burden of being noticed.”
“And, if you want, I can make you disappear…” I crack a wry smirk as the scene comes to an end with a fade to black.