We're Gonna Need A Montage
Mar 28, 2012 21:47:32 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Mar 28, 2012 21:47:32 GMT -5
We're Gonna Need A Montage
#001 – 3.30.2012
Roanoke, Virginia.
A fifteen minute drive from Salem, Virigina is the city of Roanoke; a city most famous for being named after the “Lost Colony” of British settlers. In the center of Roanoke sits the ostentatious purple and yellow façade of a Planet Fitness exercise center.
The inside of the gym consists three rows of treadmills, stationary bikes and Stair-Masters; various purple and yellow Nautilus and weight machines; weight towers and rowing machines; and free weights. In open lobby area, just beyond the reception counter, is a small round table with two chains in the shape of giant open hands (one in purple and one in gold).
Slouching in the giant purple hand is Sean Fallon. Fallon is dressed in a color-coordinated workout outfit of Adidas classics; black track pants with white stripes along the side; a black and white track jacket, half-unzipped over a black T-shirt; and white sweatbands around his wrists and forehead. A water bottle with an unnecessarily long drinking tube sits in the center of the small round table.
Fallon straightens at the sight of the camera before bounding to his feet, water bottle in hand.
Sean Fallon
Greetings, True Believers.[/color]
His face contorts into a self-satisfied smirk.
Sean Fallon
I assume by now you've all had the great fortune to watch or hear what the critics are calling the “Debut of the Century,” where the superior Sean Fallon made his presence known to the world... and to a lesser extent, to the dregs of FRONTIER Grappling Arts. Now while I possess an intellect, strength and wrestling prowess far surpassing anyone else in FGA, this promotion does hold its challenges for me as it does for the other... well, let's call them “wrestlers.” [/color]
Fallon's mouth twists into a look that is half disgust and half disdain. He shakes a shudder through his shoulders before continuing.
Sean Fallon
You see, I've never had the misfortune of wrestling in such squalid conditions and in front of such inbred, neanderthal fans. Nor have I had to wrestle against such a caliber of competition. And by “caliber of competition” I mean “shameful, barrel-bottom-scraping gutter trash.” But fortunately for me, the... uh... “wrestlers” here in FGA have all the experience in the world with these issues. So I said to myself: 'Self, how does one train for a vastly inferior, borderline handicapped cavalcade of graceless miscreants?' And then it hit me: you have to TRAIN just like said miscreants.[/color]
He beams with a shit-eating, toothy grin; filled with self-satisfaction.
Sean Fallon
So I spent my down-time since the “Debut of the Century” analyzing the... well, let's call the “promos” from the FGA-holes and I've noticed one recurring theme. Training! None of them seem to ever stop training. I'm sure they'd call it dedication. I'd call it hopelessly praying that those mosquito bites they call biceps finally reach the level of an under-muscled 12-year old girl. But whatever you want to call it, the fact remains that they are in the gym twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, or so it seems. Now in the case of Johnny Brave, I'm confident the reason behind that is because he's too stupid to find the exit, but regardless I, too, am going to give you a glimpse into my rigorous training regiment. So... hit the music![/color]
Fallon stretches briefly and does a set of 5 jumping jacks as Billy Conti's “Gonna Fly Now” - better known as the theme from Rocky – begins to play over the footage as a training montage begins.
The opening shot shows Fallon's face covered in sweat, straining from effort, as his arms pump and shoulders bounce. As the shot pans out we see he's running. He reaches just out side the shot and splashes a huge blast of water from a water bottle onto his face and chest. As the shot pans out further we see he is standing on a treadmill, that is barely moving above a brisk walking pace, despite the vigorous motion of Fallon's upper-body. On the treadmill next to Fallon, an older woman in her sixties, in an all-pink sweatsuit, is slowly jogging and occasionally glancing over with a bewildered look at Fallon. Fallon glares back at her before furiously pushing the “increase speed” button on his treadmill until it matches the older woman's pace. Fallon begins screaming and taunting the woman for about five seconds before he slams the “stop” button and slides off the treadmill, resting his hands on his knees and panting for breath.
The next shot shows Fallon from the waist up as he is ripping off a series of chin-ups. He counts along with his tally: “...98... 99... 100!” He switches to just his right arm and begins performing one-armed pull-ups. “1... 2... 3...” The camera slowly pans out to reveal that Fallon is standing on a bench, bending his knees up and down to mimic the pull-up motion.
The next shot shows Fallon from the chest up, slowly struggling through a set of free weight bench presses. The camera slowly pans out again, and in each of Fallon's hands is a five pound, pink running weight. As he pushes up his tenth press, Fallon lets out an exaggerated grunt, before dropping the weights onto the floor. This act causes Planet Fitness's “Lunk Alarm” to go off. A pimple-faced teenager in a black “Staff” polo shirt comes over and meekly asks Fallon not to slam his weights.
As “Gonna Fly Now” reaches its crescendo – the scene where Rocky scales the steps of Philadelphia Art Museum – Fallon trots up a much less daunting set of ten steps, rounds a corner at the top of the staircase off to his right and goes straight into the Men's restroom. The camera shows a bathroom stall door, with Fallon's shoes sticking out the bottom. He grunts loudly before hitting flush on the toilet and bursting out of the stall right in time to hit the freeze-frame closing celebratory shot.
Salem, VA
Just down the road from the Salem Civic Center is the meager Salem Days Inn. Sean Fallon sits on the edge of a queen-sized bed in one of the less-than-immaculately maintained rooms. The walls are covered in an off-white wallpaper that is frayed around the corners and near the electrical plugs; the television is no more than twenty inches with a thick back, perched atop a composite wood dresser with chipped paint; the carpet is blue with worn paths from the door to the bed and from the bed to the bathroom; and the curtains over the windows are too flimsy to fully block the mid-afternoon sun from streaming through in uneven bands that cast shadows along the room.
Fallon has changed into a pair of dark blue jeans that hang over all-white Adidas sneakers; a black T-shirt with “Samurai Pro” written across the chest in bright blue lettering with white Japanese kanji underneath; and a belt with a large buckle in the shape of a wrestling ring. Fallon's dirty-blond hair is slicked back with water. He runs a thumb and forefinger along the stubble that dots his chin and cheeks before speaking.
Sean Fallon
Greetings once again, True Believers. I hope you enjoyed that rigorous training regimen. I just hope I didn't overdo it. Don't want to push myself SO much harder than my opponents. No one likes a showboat. You know what else no one likes? FRONTIER Grappling Arts... At least, that was the case until the phenomenal Sean Fallon arrived on the scene and damn near burnt the place to ground with just one promo. Now the boys in the suits have done the only thing they can do: they've put my gorgeous mug onto the supershow – Spring Breakage, this Saturday, March 31st – at the Salem Civic Center, right here in Salem, Virgina.[/color]
Fallon winks at the camera after running through the necessary details of the event in an exaggeratedly over-enthused voice.
Sean Fallon
I guess they figured the Salem sewer system was too high class for FGA, but that's what they get for booking a venue without mentioning that God's gift to wrestling would be there. That doesn't matter, though. One thing you will all soon learn about Sean Fallon is that I seize every opportunity put in front of me. So whether I'm wrestling on a worldwide pay-per-view in front of a sold-out stadium, or in some rec center in a po-dunk state in front of three hill-billies and their girlfriends-slash-dogs, I will make the most of my shot. One step at a time, no matter how small, I'm going to take it until I reach the top. And I don't give a damn rat's ass who I step on to get there.[/color]
As if to illustrate his point, Fallon stomps his foot and grinds his heel into the carpeted floor.
Sean Fallon
Speaking of vermin and rodents, it's time for me to use this silver tongue to talk some double-wide asses into the seats. So let's sell some tickets and sky-rocket some buy-rates, shall we? Lord knows the only reason anyone with more than four functioning brain cells would come out is to see Sean Fallon. Who else is there? Xavier Johnson? I'd say that Xavier Johnson couldn't wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag... but he lost to Johnny Brave. Wrestling a wet paper bag is actually ten times more difficult than beating Johnny Brave. Kid, if you can't even take down a Special Olympiad like J.B. then it's time to hang up your wrestling boots. Or just hang yourself. [/color]
Fallon pantomimes wrapping a noose around his neck, and pulling it tight. He sticks his tongue, imitating a hanging. He smirks before continuing.
Sean Fallon
Or maybe they'll come out to see Benny Starr. With two R's... and zero personality. Starr, I might like the cut of your jib, if I thought you even had one. That aside, you might be the biggest credible threat I have in this match. I mean credible threat in the same way a zombie apocalypse is a creditable threat. You've got about as much chance of winning this match as you have hairs on your head. But hey, when I'm involved there's no shame in settling for second-best. A very, very distant second-best. Hell, you might even make some extra scratch selling “I Survived Sean Fallon” T-shirts. That is, of course, if I let you survive. Stay the hell out of my way and maybe I won't cripple you. Try to stop me and I'll hit the Fallon Driver on you and snap your precious little spine in half faster than you can say “Male Pattern Baldness.”[/color]
For effect, Fallon runs a hand through his hair and shakes it out with a grin. The expression on his face sours again as he remembers the final participant in the Four Way match.
Sean Fallon
And then there's Helen Keller's favorite wrestler... Johnny Brave. Johnny you're almost adorable when you get all fired up. I just want to pat you on your oversized, doofus head. But on a serious note to the FGA brass, am I going to get confirmation that this kid's not legally retarded before Spring Breakage? I mean if I rip out his giant tongue and slap the taste out of his mouth, am I going to get arrested for a hate-crime? [/color]
Fallon leans in close to the camera and says, almost in a whisper.
Sean Fallon
Johnny... does your Mommy know you're here? [/color]
He leans back before continuing.
Sean Fallon
Usually when English is someone's second language they try not to talk so damn much. But not you. Instead you just ramble on and on and on. Your promos sound like you just gathered a bunch of catchphrases and snippets from terrible promos, loaded them into a shotgun, fired the shotgun against a wall, gathered the pieces, had some drunk midgets rearrange all the words into a script and started reading that. Scratch that, because something that malformed would be infinitely more comprehensible than whatever the hell it is that you do.
And who is this jamoke that you're running around with all of a sudden? Why does everyone in this dump have some two-dollar trollop or washed-up trainer who never won a damn thing tagging along with them? I don't know who this Tony Jones guy is – who would? - but one thing I do know is that anyone who calls themselves a “People's Champ” is a loser. You know what People's Champions are? They're just has-been's and never-was's that weren't god-damned good enough to ACTUALLY win something, so they had to stroke their own delicate egos by giving themselves a meaningless nickname. People Champ? That's a less credible champion than Shine-boy Harrison.[/color]
Fallon spits right onto the carpet beside the bed.
Sean Fallon
But I'll get to him in a moment. Right now my focus is on this Four Way Scramble on Saturday. My focus is on cleaning up some of human garbage in this promotion. Trash like Johnny Brave who can't keep my pristine name out of his mouth. You think that roaring elbow was something, Johnny Boy? You ain't seen nothing yet, Sunshine. You're a green-as-gooseshit rookie who doesn't know the first thing about wrestling and doesn't have what it takes to make it in this sport. You think pandering to the idiots in the stands will get you anywhere? I'll tell you what it will get you? It will get you Fallonized. It's like getting posterized... but with permanent brain damage. So you can cut as many unintelligible promos as you like trying to tell the moronic marks out there how you're the up-and-comer and how I'm a coward and throw around your cute “LIGHTS OUT” catchphrase, but the only light that's going out is the light of your career when I extinguish it on Saturday. [/color]
Fallon pantomimes pressing out the wick of a candle.
Sean Fallon
As for the rest of you FGA-holes, consider yourselves on notice. I don't care whether you're a curtain-jerker like Benny Starr or Xavier Johnson. I don't care if you're a mental midget like Johnny Brave. I don't care if you're a pothead or a drunk. I don't care where you went to college. And I don't care if you've touched MY belt before I got here. None of you are safe. As long as I'm forced to slum it in this dump, my goal is assume my rightful place at the very top of the food-chain. So take note, Shine-boy, or whoever may take that belt off you before I get there: I'm coming. And I can't be stopped.
DEUCES.[/color]
Sean Fallon chucks up the two-finger “peace” salute as the scene fades to black.
#001 – 3.30.2012
Roanoke, Virginia.
A fifteen minute drive from Salem, Virigina is the city of Roanoke; a city most famous for being named after the “Lost Colony” of British settlers. In the center of Roanoke sits the ostentatious purple and yellow façade of a Planet Fitness exercise center.
The inside of the gym consists three rows of treadmills, stationary bikes and Stair-Masters; various purple and yellow Nautilus and weight machines; weight towers and rowing machines; and free weights. In open lobby area, just beyond the reception counter, is a small round table with two chains in the shape of giant open hands (one in purple and one in gold).
Slouching in the giant purple hand is Sean Fallon. Fallon is dressed in a color-coordinated workout outfit of Adidas classics; black track pants with white stripes along the side; a black and white track jacket, half-unzipped over a black T-shirt; and white sweatbands around his wrists and forehead. A water bottle with an unnecessarily long drinking tube sits in the center of the small round table.
Fallon straightens at the sight of the camera before bounding to his feet, water bottle in hand.
Sean Fallon
Greetings, True Believers.[/color]
His face contorts into a self-satisfied smirk.
Sean Fallon
I assume by now you've all had the great fortune to watch or hear what the critics are calling the “Debut of the Century,” where the superior Sean Fallon made his presence known to the world... and to a lesser extent, to the dregs of FRONTIER Grappling Arts. Now while I possess an intellect, strength and wrestling prowess far surpassing anyone else in FGA, this promotion does hold its challenges for me as it does for the other... well, let's call them “wrestlers.” [/color]
Fallon's mouth twists into a look that is half disgust and half disdain. He shakes a shudder through his shoulders before continuing.
Sean Fallon
You see, I've never had the misfortune of wrestling in such squalid conditions and in front of such inbred, neanderthal fans. Nor have I had to wrestle against such a caliber of competition. And by “caliber of competition” I mean “shameful, barrel-bottom-scraping gutter trash.” But fortunately for me, the... uh... “wrestlers” here in FGA have all the experience in the world with these issues. So I said to myself: 'Self, how does one train for a vastly inferior, borderline handicapped cavalcade of graceless miscreants?' And then it hit me: you have to TRAIN just like said miscreants.[/color]
He beams with a shit-eating, toothy grin; filled with self-satisfaction.
Sean Fallon
So I spent my down-time since the “Debut of the Century” analyzing the... well, let's call the “promos” from the FGA-holes and I've noticed one recurring theme. Training! None of them seem to ever stop training. I'm sure they'd call it dedication. I'd call it hopelessly praying that those mosquito bites they call biceps finally reach the level of an under-muscled 12-year old girl. But whatever you want to call it, the fact remains that they are in the gym twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, or so it seems. Now in the case of Johnny Brave, I'm confident the reason behind that is because he's too stupid to find the exit, but regardless I, too, am going to give you a glimpse into my rigorous training regiment. So... hit the music![/color]
Fallon stretches briefly and does a set of 5 jumping jacks as Billy Conti's “Gonna Fly Now” - better known as the theme from Rocky – begins to play over the footage as a training montage begins.
The opening shot shows Fallon's face covered in sweat, straining from effort, as his arms pump and shoulders bounce. As the shot pans out we see he's running. He reaches just out side the shot and splashes a huge blast of water from a water bottle onto his face and chest. As the shot pans out further we see he is standing on a treadmill, that is barely moving above a brisk walking pace, despite the vigorous motion of Fallon's upper-body. On the treadmill next to Fallon, an older woman in her sixties, in an all-pink sweatsuit, is slowly jogging and occasionally glancing over with a bewildered look at Fallon. Fallon glares back at her before furiously pushing the “increase speed” button on his treadmill until it matches the older woman's pace. Fallon begins screaming and taunting the woman for about five seconds before he slams the “stop” button and slides off the treadmill, resting his hands on his knees and panting for breath.
The next shot shows Fallon from the waist up as he is ripping off a series of chin-ups. He counts along with his tally: “...98... 99... 100!” He switches to just his right arm and begins performing one-armed pull-ups. “1... 2... 3...” The camera slowly pans out to reveal that Fallon is standing on a bench, bending his knees up and down to mimic the pull-up motion.
The next shot shows Fallon from the chest up, slowly struggling through a set of free weight bench presses. The camera slowly pans out again, and in each of Fallon's hands is a five pound, pink running weight. As he pushes up his tenth press, Fallon lets out an exaggerated grunt, before dropping the weights onto the floor. This act causes Planet Fitness's “Lunk Alarm” to go off. A pimple-faced teenager in a black “Staff” polo shirt comes over and meekly asks Fallon not to slam his weights.
As “Gonna Fly Now” reaches its crescendo – the scene where Rocky scales the steps of Philadelphia Art Museum – Fallon trots up a much less daunting set of ten steps, rounds a corner at the top of the staircase off to his right and goes straight into the Men's restroom. The camera shows a bathroom stall door, with Fallon's shoes sticking out the bottom. He grunts loudly before hitting flush on the toilet and bursting out of the stall right in time to hit the freeze-frame closing celebratory shot.
Salem, VA
Just down the road from the Salem Civic Center is the meager Salem Days Inn. Sean Fallon sits on the edge of a queen-sized bed in one of the less-than-immaculately maintained rooms. The walls are covered in an off-white wallpaper that is frayed around the corners and near the electrical plugs; the television is no more than twenty inches with a thick back, perched atop a composite wood dresser with chipped paint; the carpet is blue with worn paths from the door to the bed and from the bed to the bathroom; and the curtains over the windows are too flimsy to fully block the mid-afternoon sun from streaming through in uneven bands that cast shadows along the room.
Fallon has changed into a pair of dark blue jeans that hang over all-white Adidas sneakers; a black T-shirt with “Samurai Pro” written across the chest in bright blue lettering with white Japanese kanji underneath; and a belt with a large buckle in the shape of a wrestling ring. Fallon's dirty-blond hair is slicked back with water. He runs a thumb and forefinger along the stubble that dots his chin and cheeks before speaking.
Sean Fallon
Greetings once again, True Believers. I hope you enjoyed that rigorous training regimen. I just hope I didn't overdo it. Don't want to push myself SO much harder than my opponents. No one likes a showboat. You know what else no one likes? FRONTIER Grappling Arts... At least, that was the case until the phenomenal Sean Fallon arrived on the scene and damn near burnt the place to ground with just one promo. Now the boys in the suits have done the only thing they can do: they've put my gorgeous mug onto the supershow – Spring Breakage, this Saturday, March 31st – at the Salem Civic Center, right here in Salem, Virgina.[/color]
Fallon winks at the camera after running through the necessary details of the event in an exaggeratedly over-enthused voice.
Sean Fallon
I guess they figured the Salem sewer system was too high class for FGA, but that's what they get for booking a venue without mentioning that God's gift to wrestling would be there. That doesn't matter, though. One thing you will all soon learn about Sean Fallon is that I seize every opportunity put in front of me. So whether I'm wrestling on a worldwide pay-per-view in front of a sold-out stadium, or in some rec center in a po-dunk state in front of three hill-billies and their girlfriends-slash-dogs, I will make the most of my shot. One step at a time, no matter how small, I'm going to take it until I reach the top. And I don't give a damn rat's ass who I step on to get there.[/color]
As if to illustrate his point, Fallon stomps his foot and grinds his heel into the carpeted floor.
Sean Fallon
Speaking of vermin and rodents, it's time for me to use this silver tongue to talk some double-wide asses into the seats. So let's sell some tickets and sky-rocket some buy-rates, shall we? Lord knows the only reason anyone with more than four functioning brain cells would come out is to see Sean Fallon. Who else is there? Xavier Johnson? I'd say that Xavier Johnson couldn't wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag... but he lost to Johnny Brave. Wrestling a wet paper bag is actually ten times more difficult than beating Johnny Brave. Kid, if you can't even take down a Special Olympiad like J.B. then it's time to hang up your wrestling boots. Or just hang yourself. [/color]
Fallon pantomimes wrapping a noose around his neck, and pulling it tight. He sticks his tongue, imitating a hanging. He smirks before continuing.
Sean Fallon
Or maybe they'll come out to see Benny Starr. With two R's... and zero personality. Starr, I might like the cut of your jib, if I thought you even had one. That aside, you might be the biggest credible threat I have in this match. I mean credible threat in the same way a zombie apocalypse is a creditable threat. You've got about as much chance of winning this match as you have hairs on your head. But hey, when I'm involved there's no shame in settling for second-best. A very, very distant second-best. Hell, you might even make some extra scratch selling “I Survived Sean Fallon” T-shirts. That is, of course, if I let you survive. Stay the hell out of my way and maybe I won't cripple you. Try to stop me and I'll hit the Fallon Driver on you and snap your precious little spine in half faster than you can say “Male Pattern Baldness.”[/color]
For effect, Fallon runs a hand through his hair and shakes it out with a grin. The expression on his face sours again as he remembers the final participant in the Four Way match.
Sean Fallon
And then there's Helen Keller's favorite wrestler... Johnny Brave. Johnny you're almost adorable when you get all fired up. I just want to pat you on your oversized, doofus head. But on a serious note to the FGA brass, am I going to get confirmation that this kid's not legally retarded before Spring Breakage? I mean if I rip out his giant tongue and slap the taste out of his mouth, am I going to get arrested for a hate-crime? [/color]
Fallon leans in close to the camera and says, almost in a whisper.
Sean Fallon
Johnny... does your Mommy know you're here? [/color]
He leans back before continuing.
Sean Fallon
Usually when English is someone's second language they try not to talk so damn much. But not you. Instead you just ramble on and on and on. Your promos sound like you just gathered a bunch of catchphrases and snippets from terrible promos, loaded them into a shotgun, fired the shotgun against a wall, gathered the pieces, had some drunk midgets rearrange all the words into a script and started reading that. Scratch that, because something that malformed would be infinitely more comprehensible than whatever the hell it is that you do.
And who is this jamoke that you're running around with all of a sudden? Why does everyone in this dump have some two-dollar trollop or washed-up trainer who never won a damn thing tagging along with them? I don't know who this Tony Jones guy is – who would? - but one thing I do know is that anyone who calls themselves a “People's Champ” is a loser. You know what People's Champions are? They're just has-been's and never-was's that weren't god-damned good enough to ACTUALLY win something, so they had to stroke their own delicate egos by giving themselves a meaningless nickname. People Champ? That's a less credible champion than Shine-boy Harrison.[/color]
Fallon spits right onto the carpet beside the bed.
Sean Fallon
But I'll get to him in a moment. Right now my focus is on this Four Way Scramble on Saturday. My focus is on cleaning up some of human garbage in this promotion. Trash like Johnny Brave who can't keep my pristine name out of his mouth. You think that roaring elbow was something, Johnny Boy? You ain't seen nothing yet, Sunshine. You're a green-as-gooseshit rookie who doesn't know the first thing about wrestling and doesn't have what it takes to make it in this sport. You think pandering to the idiots in the stands will get you anywhere? I'll tell you what it will get you? It will get you Fallonized. It's like getting posterized... but with permanent brain damage. So you can cut as many unintelligible promos as you like trying to tell the moronic marks out there how you're the up-and-comer and how I'm a coward and throw around your cute “LIGHTS OUT” catchphrase, but the only light that's going out is the light of your career when I extinguish it on Saturday. [/color]
Fallon pantomimes pressing out the wick of a candle.
Sean Fallon
As for the rest of you FGA-holes, consider yourselves on notice. I don't care whether you're a curtain-jerker like Benny Starr or Xavier Johnson. I don't care if you're a mental midget like Johnny Brave. I don't care if you're a pothead or a drunk. I don't care where you went to college. And I don't care if you've touched MY belt before I got here. None of you are safe. As long as I'm forced to slum it in this dump, my goal is assume my rightful place at the very top of the food-chain. So take note, Shine-boy, or whoever may take that belt off you before I get there: I'm coming. And I can't be stopped.
DEUCES.[/color]
Sean Fallon chucks up the two-finger “peace” salute as the scene fades to black.