Focused
Mar 28, 2012 22:28:55 GMT -5
Post by Chandler Scott on Mar 28, 2012 22:28:55 GMT -5
[It's roughly nine o'clock on Wednesday Night, roughly 48 hours and some change before the biggest match of his professional career. Despite being a man on the top of his game, there is still more work to be done. There is still more tape to study and dissect. And there's still more time to train. Hence his unannounced arrival at the Chandler Scott family estate. Preston strolls into the gym located in the east wing. While some of the other wrestlers are busy flexing their muscles in the local Planet Fitness, Preston has decided to take a more private approach and forgo being surrounded by the literalfilthy commoners. After flicking on the lights, the room illuminates. The overheads lights turn on section by section, staring from the front and running all the way to the back of the room like a domino effect. He then drops his bag and plops himself down on a crimson weight bench. After turning his neck from side to side and warming up his arms with various stretches, he gets up, reaches over onto the weight bar, and grabs a hold of two 50 lbs dumbbells. After exhaling, he then slowly raises the weights up in down, completing the reps of alternating hammer curls in a smooth, controlled motion. As Preston continues with the exercise, he begins to lose his train of thought. He eventually loses count as his mind drifts off to the target of Blaine Harrison. The fact that Blaine lucked, yes, LUCKED into getting the Frontier Heavyweight Championship eats away at him. Preston is by far the better wrestler. He's by far the better overall athlete. And when it comes to intellect, there is no comparison. Yet that bastard is the one holding the biggest prize in all of FGA. It makes Preston physically ill. Preston then throws the weights down in disgust, causing a loud clang as the dumbbells crash to the floor. If anyone was resting in the east wing, they're certainly awake now.
As the scene shifts from one shot to another, Preston is now seen standing in front of a red Everlast punching bag. Preston begins to rattle off crisp jabs, only to counter with a hard right cross that shakes the bag. He continues letting off combinations of rights and lefts that are well timed and calculated. But his precision soon becomes sloppy. And his thought out combinations soon turn to wild haymakers as his mind once again drifts off. His mind wanders off and becomes fixated on Blaine Harrison again. He hears the cheers from the crowd. He sees the signs showing their support for “Metal Heart”. The chants of “BLAINE! BLAINE! BLAINE!” become almost deafening. And once again, Preston sees Blaine. He sees his smirk. He sees his cocky attitude. He sees him holding that Frontier Heavyweight Championship directly in front of him. Blaine swings the belt from side to side with one hand, seemingly taunting Preston with it. He imagines Blaine taunting him, egging him on over the fact that a less talented man won that belt before him. Preston punches harder and harder until he eventually punches himself tired. Preston slowly bends over and rests his hands on the bag as he gasps for air.
The scene transitions to Preston running on a treadmill. He maintains a nice, steady pace. He isn't running too fast. He isn't running too slow. Just a nice, smooth pace. But his pace soon quickens. He begins to exert himself as he begins to run faster and faster and faster. His mind wanders off once again to Blaine Harrison. He sees Blaine slinking off with the Frontier Heavyweight Championship; a championship he doesn't deserve, a championship he shouldn't have in the first place. Preston begins to run harder and harder, as if he's chasing down Blaine. Suddenly, a voice can be heard in the distance. As the person's voice grows louder and louder, Preston begins to make out what is being said. “PRESTON! PRESTON! PRESTON!” the person shouts. But Preston is dead set on chasing Blaine down. The mat beneath Preston's feet begins to slow down as someone repeatedly presses a button, lowering the speed of the treadmill. The person then places their hand on Preston's wrist. Preston turns to his right and sees a concerned Chandler Scott calling out to him. Preston soon slows down and slowly rolls backwards off the treadmill. His feet hit the floor.]
Chandler:
“Hey man, are you alright?” asks Chandler in a concerned tone. He's never seen Preston like this before.
Preston:
“No,” says Preston coldly. “And I won't be fine until I win that damn title....” Preston then takes the white cloth towel, puts it around his neck and walks off. Chandler just stands in place and looks on with a worried expression on his face.
[Some hours later, Preston can be seen overlooking the scenery on the balcony in the west wing of the Chandler Scott family estate. In his hand is a glass with an amber liquid inside. Preston swirls around the glass. He goes to take a sip, but quickly reconsiders and places the glass down on the ledge. He then turns as he leans back, staring directly at the camera.]
Preston:
“Do you know why I dislike you, Blaine? Do you know why I don't respect you? I know you don't care why, but I'm going to tell you, anyway.” says Preston. He then delivers a smartass smirk. “I don't like you or respect you because you're not nearly as good as you think you are. And you're certainly not half as good as your dimwitted fans think you are. You throw out wins over the likes of Elliot Black, Evan Bodom and Jack Flener in my face, as if that's supposed to mean anything to me.” Preston looks around with his hands at his sides, wondering if he's actually supposed to be impressed or something. “Who are those people? Exactly. What have they done here? Nothing. And what do those people matter to me? They don't matter at all. Yet you brag about wins over them, as if they're something special when even the blindest of Blaine Harrison apologists could tell you that they were nothing to write home about. But you don't stop there, do you? No, of course not. You then play the Michael Tomkins card. He was undefeated. He was on the big winning streak. He was the first Frontier Heavyweight Champion. And out of all the names that have come through those doors, it was you who defeated him. You were the man that was able to stop the man who was once thought of as unstoppable. And I suppose to the naked eye that seems like a big deal. But I'm much smarter than that.” says Preston as he points to his temple. “Anyone who has paid close attention knows that half of those victories were attributed to interference on his manager's behalf. Whether that outside interference was wanted or not, it's besides the point. The interference happened and he picked up wins solely on that interference. And as we've all seen since Timmy Brown's untimely disappearance, Tomkins isn't the same wrestler. He isn't able to close like he used to in those big matches. He's like a deer caught in headlights out there. Though I suppose having to actually win your matches on your own will do that to you. I'm sure it must be so tough for him not to not have gift wrapped victories handed over to him anymore.” Preston pats his hand over his heart, feigning sorrow for Tomkins. “Tomkins was nothing but overrated from the start. He was the most overrated man in this company. That is, until you came along and were gracious enough to take that mantle from him. How nice of you...” Preston reaches over and indulges, taking in that drink that is so smooth going down.
“The reason I don't respect you is because I know you're not half the man that you say you are. You put on this good guy front who is in it for the fans and loves everyone. But who are you kidding? Who are you lying to? Apparently yourself, since you've already convinced yourself that you're actually a half decent wrestler. See, I make no apologies about who and what I am. I am an arrogant jerk. I can be a snob. I am a trustfund baby that came from money. Anything I wanted, I got. That new toy for my birthday? I got it. That new car for Christmas? I got it. That cute looking cheerleader? I got her, and I got her in more ways than one. But while I've caught plenty of breaks and was born into privilege, I still struggled. I still fought for what I wanted. I sat in those classes and aced those tests myself. I went onto the athletic field and excelled. And in this ring, I was the one who pinned shoulders to the mat. The truth is, Blaine, I have no problem admitting to who and what I am. You tell me that deep down inside, I know the truth. I do know the truth. And the truth is that deep down inside, I know you're not half the man that you claim to be. I know that deep down inside, you're more of a scumbag than I've ever been portrayed as. I know that deep down inside, it is you who is truly the bad guy and I'm the one who really isn't all that bad. I know that may startle your fragile little ego. But we both know the truth. The difference is, one of us is a habitual liar, someone who has to hide behind a mask and put on a facade to hide the ugliness that is truly inside of them. And the other person.... is Preston Blake.” Preston snickers after delivering that dig at Blaine.
“You say you're going to give the people what they want? Oh really? And what is that, exactly? More whining and crying on your behalf? No, I think I get it now. You're going to give me my long overdue beating, is that right? Is Spring Breakage the place where you give me my comeuppance? Please, don't flatter yourself.” Preston scoffs at the notion of Blaine dominating him. “You will do no such thing. I am far too cunning and far too adroit for you. You insinuate that my victory over you means nothing because during our last encounter, it was Chandler Scott who got the pinfall on Jared James. As if that matters. Facts are facts, Blaine. And the facts are staring you dead in the face. I was the man that was on the winning side of the match. Those circumstances will not change on Friday, so I suggest you get used to being on the losing end when it comes to entering an athletic contest with me. I bested you and your good pal Jared James back in Newark. I then took your good friend Jared and beat him down so ruthlessly that I sent him on the first bus out of town. If I could do that to Jared, a man who you and everyone else was anointing as the Second Coming not too long ago, then what do you think I'm going to do to you? What do you think lies in your future? I'll give you a hint. It involves you losing that championship belt this Friday.” Preston gives an over-exaggerated eye wink to the camera.
“Though I must say, I am pleased as punch that you said the fans are on your side, as if that means anything. Oh yes, Blaine, you're so happy because the fans will be on your side. They'll be cheering your name. They'll like you. They'll respect you. And according to you, that's all that matters, no? Oh Blaine, for someone who has been in this wrestling business for as long as you have, you still have a lot to learn. Exactly what are those fans going to do for you on Friday? When I am busy dislocated your shoulder, are they going to help you? When I am forcing you to submit to my Crossface Chickenwing, are they going to break it up for you? No, they're just going to sit on their hands and do absolutely nothing as they watch their idol get systematically dismantled by the far superior athlete.
When I first came here people though myself and Chandler couldn't do it on our own. They said we needed each other. They said we were strictly tag team specialists and nothing more. But the fact that we've both made it this far says otherwise. The fact that we're both in championship contention, with yours truly as the number one contender, should say everything that needs to be said about our talents and abilities. Blaine, I am going to defeat you on Friday in Salem. That isn't wishful thinking. That isn't a pipe dream. That's a guarantee. Strength, speed, agility, power, ring presence, I have them all over you because I have them in spades. All you have is a bunch of screaming fans who will do nothing but stand by and watch as you get broken down and picked apart limb from limb. And the only thing you have over me is the ability to flirt with random girls on Twitter like some hormonal teenager. So I'll leave you to doing what you do best: trying to hook up and get into some woman's pants via the internet, as well as teaming up with a literal clown down in Peach State. Me? I'll keep studying. I'll keep game planning and pushing myself to my physical limits. While I don't take you seriously, I take that Frontier Heavyweight Championship seriously. Blaine, this Friday, I will break you down, tap you out, and claim that Frontier Heavyweight Championship from you. And once I claim that championship as my own, I will give these infidels something they've been deprived of. That, of course, is seeing two Haaaaaaaaaaaaarvard men challenging over that Heavyweight Championship, something these people were robbed off back at A New Odyssey.
Until then, keep shining up that belt, Blaine. I want it to be spotless when I force you to hand it over to me.
Now why don't you go and hashtag that, you little pissant.”
[The scene fades to black, followed by the Harvard “H”.]
As the scene shifts from one shot to another, Preston is now seen standing in front of a red Everlast punching bag. Preston begins to rattle off crisp jabs, only to counter with a hard right cross that shakes the bag. He continues letting off combinations of rights and lefts that are well timed and calculated. But his precision soon becomes sloppy. And his thought out combinations soon turn to wild haymakers as his mind once again drifts off. His mind wanders off and becomes fixated on Blaine Harrison again. He hears the cheers from the crowd. He sees the signs showing their support for “Metal Heart”. The chants of “BLAINE! BLAINE! BLAINE!” become almost deafening. And once again, Preston sees Blaine. He sees his smirk. He sees his cocky attitude. He sees him holding that Frontier Heavyweight Championship directly in front of him. Blaine swings the belt from side to side with one hand, seemingly taunting Preston with it. He imagines Blaine taunting him, egging him on over the fact that a less talented man won that belt before him. Preston punches harder and harder until he eventually punches himself tired. Preston slowly bends over and rests his hands on the bag as he gasps for air.
The scene transitions to Preston running on a treadmill. He maintains a nice, steady pace. He isn't running too fast. He isn't running too slow. Just a nice, smooth pace. But his pace soon quickens. He begins to exert himself as he begins to run faster and faster and faster. His mind wanders off once again to Blaine Harrison. He sees Blaine slinking off with the Frontier Heavyweight Championship; a championship he doesn't deserve, a championship he shouldn't have in the first place. Preston begins to run harder and harder, as if he's chasing down Blaine. Suddenly, a voice can be heard in the distance. As the person's voice grows louder and louder, Preston begins to make out what is being said. “PRESTON! PRESTON! PRESTON!” the person shouts. But Preston is dead set on chasing Blaine down. The mat beneath Preston's feet begins to slow down as someone repeatedly presses a button, lowering the speed of the treadmill. The person then places their hand on Preston's wrist. Preston turns to his right and sees a concerned Chandler Scott calling out to him. Preston soon slows down and slowly rolls backwards off the treadmill. His feet hit the floor.]
Chandler:
“Hey man, are you alright?” asks Chandler in a concerned tone. He's never seen Preston like this before.
Preston:
“No,” says Preston coldly. “And I won't be fine until I win that damn title....” Preston then takes the white cloth towel, puts it around his neck and walks off. Chandler just stands in place and looks on with a worried expression on his face.
[Some hours later, Preston can be seen overlooking the scenery on the balcony in the west wing of the Chandler Scott family estate. In his hand is a glass with an amber liquid inside. Preston swirls around the glass. He goes to take a sip, but quickly reconsiders and places the glass down on the ledge. He then turns as he leans back, staring directly at the camera.]
Preston:
“Do you know why I dislike you, Blaine? Do you know why I don't respect you? I know you don't care why, but I'm going to tell you, anyway.” says Preston. He then delivers a smartass smirk. “I don't like you or respect you because you're not nearly as good as you think you are. And you're certainly not half as good as your dimwitted fans think you are. You throw out wins over the likes of Elliot Black, Evan Bodom and Jack Flener in my face, as if that's supposed to mean anything to me.” Preston looks around with his hands at his sides, wondering if he's actually supposed to be impressed or something. “Who are those people? Exactly. What have they done here? Nothing. And what do those people matter to me? They don't matter at all. Yet you brag about wins over them, as if they're something special when even the blindest of Blaine Harrison apologists could tell you that they were nothing to write home about. But you don't stop there, do you? No, of course not. You then play the Michael Tomkins card. He was undefeated. He was on the big winning streak. He was the first Frontier Heavyweight Champion. And out of all the names that have come through those doors, it was you who defeated him. You were the man that was able to stop the man who was once thought of as unstoppable. And I suppose to the naked eye that seems like a big deal. But I'm much smarter than that.” says Preston as he points to his temple. “Anyone who has paid close attention knows that half of those victories were attributed to interference on his manager's behalf. Whether that outside interference was wanted or not, it's besides the point. The interference happened and he picked up wins solely on that interference. And as we've all seen since Timmy Brown's untimely disappearance, Tomkins isn't the same wrestler. He isn't able to close like he used to in those big matches. He's like a deer caught in headlights out there. Though I suppose having to actually win your matches on your own will do that to you. I'm sure it must be so tough for him not to not have gift wrapped victories handed over to him anymore.” Preston pats his hand over his heart, feigning sorrow for Tomkins. “Tomkins was nothing but overrated from the start. He was the most overrated man in this company. That is, until you came along and were gracious enough to take that mantle from him. How nice of you...” Preston reaches over and indulges, taking in that drink that is so smooth going down.
“The reason I don't respect you is because I know you're not half the man that you say you are. You put on this good guy front who is in it for the fans and loves everyone. But who are you kidding? Who are you lying to? Apparently yourself, since you've already convinced yourself that you're actually a half decent wrestler. See, I make no apologies about who and what I am. I am an arrogant jerk. I can be a snob. I am a trustfund baby that came from money. Anything I wanted, I got. That new toy for my birthday? I got it. That new car for Christmas? I got it. That cute looking cheerleader? I got her, and I got her in more ways than one. But while I've caught plenty of breaks and was born into privilege, I still struggled. I still fought for what I wanted. I sat in those classes and aced those tests myself. I went onto the athletic field and excelled. And in this ring, I was the one who pinned shoulders to the mat. The truth is, Blaine, I have no problem admitting to who and what I am. You tell me that deep down inside, I know the truth. I do know the truth. And the truth is that deep down inside, I know you're not half the man that you claim to be. I know that deep down inside, you're more of a scumbag than I've ever been portrayed as. I know that deep down inside, it is you who is truly the bad guy and I'm the one who really isn't all that bad. I know that may startle your fragile little ego. But we both know the truth. The difference is, one of us is a habitual liar, someone who has to hide behind a mask and put on a facade to hide the ugliness that is truly inside of them. And the other person.... is Preston Blake.” Preston snickers after delivering that dig at Blaine.
“You say you're going to give the people what they want? Oh really? And what is that, exactly? More whining and crying on your behalf? No, I think I get it now. You're going to give me my long overdue beating, is that right? Is Spring Breakage the place where you give me my comeuppance? Please, don't flatter yourself.” Preston scoffs at the notion of Blaine dominating him. “You will do no such thing. I am far too cunning and far too adroit for you. You insinuate that my victory over you means nothing because during our last encounter, it was Chandler Scott who got the pinfall on Jared James. As if that matters. Facts are facts, Blaine. And the facts are staring you dead in the face. I was the man that was on the winning side of the match. Those circumstances will not change on Friday, so I suggest you get used to being on the losing end when it comes to entering an athletic contest with me. I bested you and your good pal Jared James back in Newark. I then took your good friend Jared and beat him down so ruthlessly that I sent him on the first bus out of town. If I could do that to Jared, a man who you and everyone else was anointing as the Second Coming not too long ago, then what do you think I'm going to do to you? What do you think lies in your future? I'll give you a hint. It involves you losing that championship belt this Friday.” Preston gives an over-exaggerated eye wink to the camera.
“Though I must say, I am pleased as punch that you said the fans are on your side, as if that means anything. Oh yes, Blaine, you're so happy because the fans will be on your side. They'll be cheering your name. They'll like you. They'll respect you. And according to you, that's all that matters, no? Oh Blaine, for someone who has been in this wrestling business for as long as you have, you still have a lot to learn. Exactly what are those fans going to do for you on Friday? When I am busy dislocated your shoulder, are they going to help you? When I am forcing you to submit to my Crossface Chickenwing, are they going to break it up for you? No, they're just going to sit on their hands and do absolutely nothing as they watch their idol get systematically dismantled by the far superior athlete.
When I first came here people though myself and Chandler couldn't do it on our own. They said we needed each other. They said we were strictly tag team specialists and nothing more. But the fact that we've both made it this far says otherwise. The fact that we're both in championship contention, with yours truly as the number one contender, should say everything that needs to be said about our talents and abilities. Blaine, I am going to defeat you on Friday in Salem. That isn't wishful thinking. That isn't a pipe dream. That's a guarantee. Strength, speed, agility, power, ring presence, I have them all over you because I have them in spades. All you have is a bunch of screaming fans who will do nothing but stand by and watch as you get broken down and picked apart limb from limb. And the only thing you have over me is the ability to flirt with random girls on Twitter like some hormonal teenager. So I'll leave you to doing what you do best: trying to hook up and get into some woman's pants via the internet, as well as teaming up with a literal clown down in Peach State. Me? I'll keep studying. I'll keep game planning and pushing myself to my physical limits. While I don't take you seriously, I take that Frontier Heavyweight Championship seriously. Blaine, this Friday, I will break you down, tap you out, and claim that Frontier Heavyweight Championship from you. And once I claim that championship as my own, I will give these infidels something they've been deprived of. That, of course, is seeing two Haaaaaaaaaaaaarvard men challenging over that Heavyweight Championship, something these people were robbed off back at A New Odyssey.
Until then, keep shining up that belt, Blaine. I want it to be spotless when I force you to hand it over to me.
Now why don't you go and hashtag that, you little pissant.”
[The scene fades to black, followed by the Harvard “H”.]