The Turning Point
Apr 28, 2016 18:48:06 GMT -5
Post by Lou on Apr 28, 2016 18:48:06 GMT -5
Lower Manhattan
June 19th, 2010
8:13 p.m.
The sun has already begun to set, decorating highrise buildings in perfect hues of purple and orange all across Lower Manhattan on this beautiful June evening. We fade in on the Valero family enjoying a walk in the city following a delectable dinner out at Delmonico’s. Ricky is accompanied by his then-wife Rochelle McCree. She’s pushing their one-year-old son, Little Richie, in a stroller as Ricky walks beside them with his hands tucked in his pockets.
“Beautiful night, isn’t?” he asks in the most cliched way imaginable, but the question brings a smile to her face.
“It really is.”
Ricky and Rochelle weren’t exactly “meant to be” but they were making the most of a situation they never planned on. Ricky wanted so desperately to be a better father than his ever was, and Rochelle was adamant about making their marriage work after seeing her own mother marry and divorce three times. On paper, the two seemed like a perfect match. She kept him balanced and forced him to be honest. He helped calm her anxiety and keep her focused. But when things got bad, mostly for Ricky with his addiction to painkillers and wanton ways, the fights were extraordinary.
They didn’t love each other. That much was evident in the way they spoke to one another when they fight. Name calling. Physical and verbal abuse knew no bounds for the couple, and it had taken their toll. Just four months into marriage, both had already signed the divorce papers. It was just a matter of sitting down with the appropriate people and getting it all sorted out once and for all.
But tonight, they were a family--for a little longer anyway. Tonight, Ricky was the good husband he wanted to be. Honorable, loving, gentle. It was a glimpse of what Ricky could be if he could ever overcome the demons that haunted his soul.
She reaches over and grabs his hand in hers and says, “No matter what happens, we have to be good for Little Richie. We have to be happy and loving. For him.”
He looks over at her and smiles as they continue walking. “Nothing will keep me from being a good father to my baby boy.”
Just then, their pleasant moment is interrupted by a young woman shrieking for help.
“HELP! PLEASE...HELP!”
Ricky’s eyes are immediately drawn to a crowd of people about 20 feet in front of them.
“Stay here with Richie,” he says.
“Ricky…”
Unlike the bystanders doing nothing with terrified looks on their faces, Ricky springs into action. He shoves past the people on the sidewalk to find a white male in his mid 40s accosting a teenage girl who looks to be not a day older than 16. She’s pinned up against a chainlink fence with his hands planted against her wrists to restrict her movement. Her legs flail, connecting with his shins to no avail.
“Hey!” Ricky shouts as he approaches, but the assailant either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. “Get off of her now!”
Suddenly, the man spins around on his heels and swings a stiff right hand at Ricky. Ricky ducks it, however, and connects with a solid right hand of his own to the man’s gut. The man throws an elbow that catches Ricky in the hip, but Ricky fires right back with another punch to the back of the man’s head that drops him to his knees. He delivers him with a swift kick to the ribs, then leaps into the air and comes down on the back of the man’s head, hitting him with a vicious curbstomp that plants his face into the pavement and leaves him unconscious.
The young girl shrieks once more, this time in response to the violent measures Ricky was forced to take to protect her. She crouches fearful in the corner between the fence and the shop adjacent to this alleyway.
In a perfectly timely manner, a few police officers come sprinting onto the scene to the motionless body of the man Ricky just lay to waste. Ricky’s eyes, suddenly draining of all rage turn toward the young girl. He moves toward her slowly and extends his hand.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
She peeks through her fingers, tears pouring down her arms. Her blue eyes meet his.
“My name’s Ricky.”
She removes her hands from her face to reveal a genuine, thankful smile encompassed by long, straight brown hair. She places her hand in his.
“Abigail,” she says. “Thank you.”
Ricky smiles as he helps her to her feet.
“Come on...let’s get you home.”
But that statement suddenly overwhelms her once again. It’s a face much too familiar to Ricky. He frowns.
“You have a home, don’t you?”
Finally getting a good look at her, he sees her ragged clothes are not a result of that horrible man’s attack on her, but rather, her present situation. Life on the streets. The realization crushes his soul.
“How old are you?” he asks.
Ashamed, her eyes travel to the pavement. “Fifteen…”
He places his arm gently around her shoulder.
“The police are probably going to want to do some questioning, get a statement from you and me, and get this sorted out. But after that...we’re going to figure out a home situation for you. And not something temporary either...you deserve better than that.”
She forces a smile as they’re greeted by the police officers and EMTs who have made it out onto the scene now as well.
.
.
.
Marquee
New York City
April 24, 2016
Present day. We fade in on Ricky’s 34th birthday at the luxurious Marquee bar on 10th Ave. Drinks are on tap and the music is pumping as Ricky and his guests enjoy the VIP treatment tonight. Many familiar faces are in the house, but one is particularly notable: Abigail.
Six years later, the young girl Ricky and his ex-wife Rochelle once took in as their own is now a grown, 21-year-old woman. Ricky has begun training her at his Valero Fight Club wrestling training facility after much persistence from Abigail. In the meantime, she’s a senior at Manhattan College working modeling gigs and small acting roles to make some cash.
She now lives with Ricky’s younger sister, Angelina, and helps her raise her three-year-old daughter when she’s not training or at work. She’s become a key part of the Valero family, if not the most stable, honest, good member.
“Having fun?” she asks as she plops down next to Ricky on one of the couches in the lounge. She has some kind of fruity concoction with a swirly straw in her hand.
Ricky, meanwhile, is sober tonight, despite tweets that may have indicated he was getting into something wild. His newfound sobriety has been a welcoming experience for him, and it’s helped him combat barbitual temptations that have haunted him for over two years now.
“I really am,” he responds with a smile. And how could he not be when he’s surrounded by a plethora of beautiful women and good friends.
Of course, the most important one is present, and she’s caught his eye as he looks across the lounge. Mayu Ito, the bubbly beauty who gained his affection nearly one year ago and remains the one he pines after following his foolish decision to end things a few months ago. She smiles back as she sips a drink of her own and talks to Annie Zellor about God knows what.
“You’ll get her back, you know?” Abigail interrupts Ricky’s daze. She pulls her legs up onto the couch and tucks them underneath her, with just her heels dangling off the front. “She loves you.”
He’s a bit more skeptical. “You think so?”
“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. Honestly I don’t know what you’re waiting for. You two are meant to be together, Ricky.”
He smiles again, taking a moment to appreciate how good life is in this moment. It’s rare. Of course, to this point that had been his fault. Self destruction was his specialty, but he’s trying to change. He’s trying to be more positive and optimistic these days. He has a lot of bridges to rebuild after all.
“Maybe you’re right,” he mutters.
“Of course I’m right, silly!”
Abigail takes another big sip from her drink, much to the chagrin of Ricky who has admittedly become something of a protective father figure or big brother to her, especially as both have gotten older. Ricky wasn’t exactly adjusting well to Abigail going out drinking, hanging out with friends and getting into trouble. Trouble wasn’t exactly what most would consider trouble, however. Abigail was a goodie two shoes, let’s not get it twisted.
She suddenly lays her head on his shoulder and giggles uncontrollably.
“I don’t think I have ever told you thank you enough.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Abigail.”
She scoffs. “Pish posh!”
Ricky chuckles. “Pish posh?”
“People say that, don’t they?”
“I don’t think anyone actually says that.”
“Oh,” she responds. “Well still!”
She sits back up again and does her best to be serious for a moment and look him straight in the face, but combating the oncoming inebriation is getting more and more difficult for her.
“You really are a good person, Ricky, and I don’t think you get enough credit for that. Yes, I realize I’ve been sheltered from a lot of the horrible things you’ve done, but inside you, not even really that deep, there’s a really good guy who can do and has done a lot of great for this world.”
“You’re not going to cry on me, are you?”
“Mmm….no! But would it be such an issue if I did?! I honestly would probably be dead for you, Ricky, but you gave me a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in and clothes to keep myself warm. No one else, not even my own parents cared to do that for me before you came along. You seriously changed my life more than you’ll ever know.
“So I know a lot of people think bad things about you. I know YOU think bad things about yourself. But at your heart. Right there,” she says poking him in the chest. “In your core, you’re a total mush. I’m proud of you for how far you’ve come, for overcoming your addictions, for finally kicking the alcohol habit. For narrowing your focus on family...and Mayu.” She smirks. “Nobody likes the dark, Ricky. So like, let’s just keep the lights on, mmkay?”
He laughs at her, shaking his head and gently pushing her shoulder.
“You’re an idiot,” he says.
But her message does hold some weight. That was what was great Abigail. She could see the good in anybody, and her positive influence always managed to rub off on Ricky. He couldn’t decide if it was just old age setting in, but there was something pleasant about spending this birthday in a manner which would not end with him face down in a mountain of cocaine surrounded by strippers. His eyes again meet Mayu’s and she smiles back.
Abigail lays her head back on his shoulder, so he just smiles and puts his arm around her while she downs the last bit of her drink...
.
.
.
(rec)
We fade in on Ricky Valero, one half of the FGA World Tag Team Champions, perhaps a bit overdressed for the occasion, apparently having just arrived at his Louisville 20 minutes prior. With outdated wallpaper as his backdrop and that confident grin stretched across his face, he begins...
“This one could be a game changer. On paper, there’s nothing more to this match than the potential for some great wrestling from two very talented individuals. Ricky Valero vs. Jimmy Page. Jimmy Page vs. Ricky Valero. There’s no love. There’s no hate. The two of us have yet to cross paths and, as a result, I suppose there’s no real animosity on either side.
I’m not going to lie, Page is a terrifying individual. He’s relentless, unpredictable and unapologetic for anything and everything he will do to an opponent. Jimmy Page is willing to do ANYTHING for the sake of winning. That’s a pretty good reason to carry a little concern with you when you step into that squared circle in the opposite corner from him.
But you can’t approach that match feeling fearful of what might be. You can’t step in there and handle him with caution. No one ever triumphed playing safely. Risks are necessary, even against someone as unpredictable as Jimmy Page. They just have to be calculated. You have to go in there with a gameplan, be smart, and when that game plan goes up in flames, prepare yourself for all-out war. Because that’s what wrestling with Jimmy Page is like. Trying to corral a rabid dog out for total annihilation. Seeking blood purely because he can. There’s only one way to survive in that instance: put the son of a bitch down for good.
Fight fire with fire and burn the whole damn forest down, because you have to push yourself to the limit and then surpass it, otherwise Page WILL eat you alive. To put it frankly, Jimmy Page is a psychopath and I know going into this match I’m not going to get far trying to approach this match the same way I would against say Tony Carmine, Johnny Cannon or Izzy Anders. We all saw what he did to Emily Carter. This is a dangerously unstable individual with no compassion for human life.”
Ricky pauses for a second, perhaps for a moment of silence for Emily, but mostly to take another examination of the man he’s set to square off against at the next episode of Vertigo.
“Yet I believe I’m up to the task. I’m not afraid to step up to the plate. I’m not afraid to go to war with Jimmy Page. Because Page, buddy, you and I we’re not really that different. We have our vices sure, but everything that drives us in life can be found between those ropes. We’re not comfortable just existing. Life means shit if there isn’t gold around our waists. We crave it, not because we WANT to be champions but because we NEED to be champions. Heading into the Gold Rush Rumble, you accused everyone on the FGA roster of not wanting it as badly as you do...not deserving it as much as you do. You call yourself the KING OF THE FUCKIN’ WORLD and pine about everything you earned being taken from you. Everyone’s afraid of what you’re going to do next. They all want to see how far off the handle you’re really going to go.
You seem to think this trip of madness gives you power. That those brain cells you lack somehow make you more dangerous than anyone else on the FGA roster. Me? I see it as the rapid decline of a man grasping at his last straws. You’re not just losing control, you’re losing it all together and I must say, the decimation of our LDFC talent aside, it’s rather humorous. Your obsession with Chandler Scott is utterly entertaining and has misdirected your focus and aggression away from where it really belongs: inside that ring. You are hardly a king, Page. You’ve become a sideshow, and I relish this opportunity to challenge you for that self-imposed crown atop your mangy skull at Vertigo.”
Remaining before us with a confident demeanor, he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.
“Page, I’m not afraid to go toe to toe with you, something you likely find humor in. I’m not afraid to stand in that ring with you and spill every ounce of blood that I have and every ounce of blood you have until a hand is raised in victory. Make no mistake about it, Page, I WILL do it. I WILL smack the shit out of that stupid fucking face of yours, and I WILL make sure you know that I’m not just “Pretty” Ricky Valero. I WILL make sure you know that I’m not just another second-rate tag team wrestler who has the tremendous misfortune of being the hemorrhoid on your ass this week. I’m not here just to antagonize you, Page, I am going to beat you. Plain and simple.
But I know you’re sitting back watching this, taking a swig of Jack and shaking your head in disgust. Because here goes another washout spewing at the mouth with some ra-ra inspirational nonsense that won’t mean shit once we’re in that ring and that bell sounds. And you’re not entirely wrong. All these words. Everything I say right now won’t matter that much when we stand toe to toe. We all know I can talk the talk. I love the sound of my own voice. But motherfucker you are going to learn real quick that this dog’s bite is just as big--if not bigger--than his bark. I’m not Emily Carter, and I’m not anyone you’ve had the pleasure of disposing of in the past. You and I, this is going to be a dogfight, and I go straight for the jugular, chief.
I’m not who you think I am. I don’t need to hear the words escape your lips to know what you think of me. I’m an overhyped, dime-a-dozen, egotistical loudmouth who does a good job fooling everyone I’m better than I really am and a history of accomplishments that mean absolutely nothing today. To you, I’m nothing more than another primadonna on a FGA roster stacked full of them. While you’re breaking faces, I’m more concerned with breaking a nail. Something to that effect, right?”
He smirks.
“Boy, are you in for a rude awakening. Make the mistake of coming into this match with low expectations of me. Downplay all I’ve done and skip the film. Just go in there and wing it. I find great joy playing the underdog, and it’s going to be that much sweeter knocking that dumb smile of your face and seeing your expression the minute you realize I’m not just another scrub.
All of this... this isn’t grandstanding on my part. I’m not posturing, trying to sell this fight. I don’t need to. The smart ones are going to tune in, because one way or another, blood’s gonna spill in Louisville, but at the end of it all, when the dust clears and they’re scrubbing the stains from the mat, it will be ME going home the winner. It will be ME leaving the people, and you, in awe as I head home with a main event victory in my pocket and your blood on my hands. Don’t let the nickname fool you, Page, I might be a pretty boy, but I have no problem getting my hands dirty when the time calls for it. I’m going to take pleasure in shattering that ugly fucking mug of yours and giving everyone in FGA the wakeup call they’re all overdue for...
“And this one might just be the game of my life...let’s make it count, Page.”
With a wink from Ricky, the scene fades to black.
June 19th, 2010
8:13 p.m.
The sun has already begun to set, decorating highrise buildings in perfect hues of purple and orange all across Lower Manhattan on this beautiful June evening. We fade in on the Valero family enjoying a walk in the city following a delectable dinner out at Delmonico’s. Ricky is accompanied by his then-wife Rochelle McCree. She’s pushing their one-year-old son, Little Richie, in a stroller as Ricky walks beside them with his hands tucked in his pockets.
“Beautiful night, isn’t?” he asks in the most cliched way imaginable, but the question brings a smile to her face.
“It really is.”
Ricky and Rochelle weren’t exactly “meant to be” but they were making the most of a situation they never planned on. Ricky wanted so desperately to be a better father than his ever was, and Rochelle was adamant about making their marriage work after seeing her own mother marry and divorce three times. On paper, the two seemed like a perfect match. She kept him balanced and forced him to be honest. He helped calm her anxiety and keep her focused. But when things got bad, mostly for Ricky with his addiction to painkillers and wanton ways, the fights were extraordinary.
They didn’t love each other. That much was evident in the way they spoke to one another when they fight. Name calling. Physical and verbal abuse knew no bounds for the couple, and it had taken their toll. Just four months into marriage, both had already signed the divorce papers. It was just a matter of sitting down with the appropriate people and getting it all sorted out once and for all.
But tonight, they were a family--for a little longer anyway. Tonight, Ricky was the good husband he wanted to be. Honorable, loving, gentle. It was a glimpse of what Ricky could be if he could ever overcome the demons that haunted his soul.
She reaches over and grabs his hand in hers and says, “No matter what happens, we have to be good for Little Richie. We have to be happy and loving. For him.”
He looks over at her and smiles as they continue walking. “Nothing will keep me from being a good father to my baby boy.”
Just then, their pleasant moment is interrupted by a young woman shrieking for help.
“HELP! PLEASE...HELP!”
Ricky’s eyes are immediately drawn to a crowd of people about 20 feet in front of them.
“Stay here with Richie,” he says.
“Ricky…”
Unlike the bystanders doing nothing with terrified looks on their faces, Ricky springs into action. He shoves past the people on the sidewalk to find a white male in his mid 40s accosting a teenage girl who looks to be not a day older than 16. She’s pinned up against a chainlink fence with his hands planted against her wrists to restrict her movement. Her legs flail, connecting with his shins to no avail.
“Hey!” Ricky shouts as he approaches, but the assailant either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. “Get off of her now!”
Suddenly, the man spins around on his heels and swings a stiff right hand at Ricky. Ricky ducks it, however, and connects with a solid right hand of his own to the man’s gut. The man throws an elbow that catches Ricky in the hip, but Ricky fires right back with another punch to the back of the man’s head that drops him to his knees. He delivers him with a swift kick to the ribs, then leaps into the air and comes down on the back of the man’s head, hitting him with a vicious curbstomp that plants his face into the pavement and leaves him unconscious.
The young girl shrieks once more, this time in response to the violent measures Ricky was forced to take to protect her. She crouches fearful in the corner between the fence and the shop adjacent to this alleyway.
In a perfectly timely manner, a few police officers come sprinting onto the scene to the motionless body of the man Ricky just lay to waste. Ricky’s eyes, suddenly draining of all rage turn toward the young girl. He moves toward her slowly and extends his hand.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
She peeks through her fingers, tears pouring down her arms. Her blue eyes meet his.
“My name’s Ricky.”
She removes her hands from her face to reveal a genuine, thankful smile encompassed by long, straight brown hair. She places her hand in his.
“Abigail,” she says. “Thank you.”
Ricky smiles as he helps her to her feet.
“Come on...let’s get you home.”
But that statement suddenly overwhelms her once again. It’s a face much too familiar to Ricky. He frowns.
“You have a home, don’t you?”
Finally getting a good look at her, he sees her ragged clothes are not a result of that horrible man’s attack on her, but rather, her present situation. Life on the streets. The realization crushes his soul.
“How old are you?” he asks.
Ashamed, her eyes travel to the pavement. “Fifteen…”
He places his arm gently around her shoulder.
“The police are probably going to want to do some questioning, get a statement from you and me, and get this sorted out. But after that...we’re going to figure out a home situation for you. And not something temporary either...you deserve better than that.”
She forces a smile as they’re greeted by the police officers and EMTs who have made it out onto the scene now as well.
.
.
.
Marquee
New York City
April 24, 2016
Present day. We fade in on Ricky’s 34th birthday at the luxurious Marquee bar on 10th Ave. Drinks are on tap and the music is pumping as Ricky and his guests enjoy the VIP treatment tonight. Many familiar faces are in the house, but one is particularly notable: Abigail.
Six years later, the young girl Ricky and his ex-wife Rochelle once took in as their own is now a grown, 21-year-old woman. Ricky has begun training her at his Valero Fight Club wrestling training facility after much persistence from Abigail. In the meantime, she’s a senior at Manhattan College working modeling gigs and small acting roles to make some cash.
She now lives with Ricky’s younger sister, Angelina, and helps her raise her three-year-old daughter when she’s not training or at work. She’s become a key part of the Valero family, if not the most stable, honest, good member.
“Having fun?” she asks as she plops down next to Ricky on one of the couches in the lounge. She has some kind of fruity concoction with a swirly straw in her hand.
Ricky, meanwhile, is sober tonight, despite tweets that may have indicated he was getting into something wild. His newfound sobriety has been a welcoming experience for him, and it’s helped him combat barbitual temptations that have haunted him for over two years now.
“I really am,” he responds with a smile. And how could he not be when he’s surrounded by a plethora of beautiful women and good friends.
Of course, the most important one is present, and she’s caught his eye as he looks across the lounge. Mayu Ito, the bubbly beauty who gained his affection nearly one year ago and remains the one he pines after following his foolish decision to end things a few months ago. She smiles back as she sips a drink of her own and talks to Annie Zellor about God knows what.
“You’ll get her back, you know?” Abigail interrupts Ricky’s daze. She pulls her legs up onto the couch and tucks them underneath her, with just her heels dangling off the front. “She loves you.”
He’s a bit more skeptical. “You think so?”
“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. Honestly I don’t know what you’re waiting for. You two are meant to be together, Ricky.”
He smiles again, taking a moment to appreciate how good life is in this moment. It’s rare. Of course, to this point that had been his fault. Self destruction was his specialty, but he’s trying to change. He’s trying to be more positive and optimistic these days. He has a lot of bridges to rebuild after all.
“Maybe you’re right,” he mutters.
“Of course I’m right, silly!”
Abigail takes another big sip from her drink, much to the chagrin of Ricky who has admittedly become something of a protective father figure or big brother to her, especially as both have gotten older. Ricky wasn’t exactly adjusting well to Abigail going out drinking, hanging out with friends and getting into trouble. Trouble wasn’t exactly what most would consider trouble, however. Abigail was a goodie two shoes, let’s not get it twisted.
She suddenly lays her head on his shoulder and giggles uncontrollably.
“I don’t think I have ever told you thank you enough.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Abigail.”
She scoffs. “Pish posh!”
Ricky chuckles. “Pish posh?”
“People say that, don’t they?”
“I don’t think anyone actually says that.”
“Oh,” she responds. “Well still!”
She sits back up again and does her best to be serious for a moment and look him straight in the face, but combating the oncoming inebriation is getting more and more difficult for her.
“You really are a good person, Ricky, and I don’t think you get enough credit for that. Yes, I realize I’ve been sheltered from a lot of the horrible things you’ve done, but inside you, not even really that deep, there’s a really good guy who can do and has done a lot of great for this world.”
“You’re not going to cry on me, are you?”
“Mmm….no! But would it be such an issue if I did?! I honestly would probably be dead for you, Ricky, but you gave me a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in and clothes to keep myself warm. No one else, not even my own parents cared to do that for me before you came along. You seriously changed my life more than you’ll ever know.
“So I know a lot of people think bad things about you. I know YOU think bad things about yourself. But at your heart. Right there,” she says poking him in the chest. “In your core, you’re a total mush. I’m proud of you for how far you’ve come, for overcoming your addictions, for finally kicking the alcohol habit. For narrowing your focus on family...and Mayu.” She smirks. “Nobody likes the dark, Ricky. So like, let’s just keep the lights on, mmkay?”
He laughs at her, shaking his head and gently pushing her shoulder.
“You’re an idiot,” he says.
But her message does hold some weight. That was what was great Abigail. She could see the good in anybody, and her positive influence always managed to rub off on Ricky. He couldn’t decide if it was just old age setting in, but there was something pleasant about spending this birthday in a manner which would not end with him face down in a mountain of cocaine surrounded by strippers. His eyes again meet Mayu’s and she smiles back.
Abigail lays her head back on his shoulder, so he just smiles and puts his arm around her while she downs the last bit of her drink...
.
.
.
"I'm not a monster, I'm just ahead of the curve."
- The Joker
- The Joker
(rec)
We fade in on Ricky Valero, one half of the FGA World Tag Team Champions, perhaps a bit overdressed for the occasion, apparently having just arrived at his Louisville 20 minutes prior. With outdated wallpaper as his backdrop and that confident grin stretched across his face, he begins...
“This one could be a game changer. On paper, there’s nothing more to this match than the potential for some great wrestling from two very talented individuals. Ricky Valero vs. Jimmy Page. Jimmy Page vs. Ricky Valero. There’s no love. There’s no hate. The two of us have yet to cross paths and, as a result, I suppose there’s no real animosity on either side.
I’m not going to lie, Page is a terrifying individual. He’s relentless, unpredictable and unapologetic for anything and everything he will do to an opponent. Jimmy Page is willing to do ANYTHING for the sake of winning. That’s a pretty good reason to carry a little concern with you when you step into that squared circle in the opposite corner from him.
But you can’t approach that match feeling fearful of what might be. You can’t step in there and handle him with caution. No one ever triumphed playing safely. Risks are necessary, even against someone as unpredictable as Jimmy Page. They just have to be calculated. You have to go in there with a gameplan, be smart, and when that game plan goes up in flames, prepare yourself for all-out war. Because that’s what wrestling with Jimmy Page is like. Trying to corral a rabid dog out for total annihilation. Seeking blood purely because he can. There’s only one way to survive in that instance: put the son of a bitch down for good.
Fight fire with fire and burn the whole damn forest down, because you have to push yourself to the limit and then surpass it, otherwise Page WILL eat you alive. To put it frankly, Jimmy Page is a psychopath and I know going into this match I’m not going to get far trying to approach this match the same way I would against say Tony Carmine, Johnny Cannon or Izzy Anders. We all saw what he did to Emily Carter. This is a dangerously unstable individual with no compassion for human life.”
Ricky pauses for a second, perhaps for a moment of silence for Emily, but mostly to take another examination of the man he’s set to square off against at the next episode of Vertigo.
“Yet I believe I’m up to the task. I’m not afraid to step up to the plate. I’m not afraid to go to war with Jimmy Page. Because Page, buddy, you and I we’re not really that different. We have our vices sure, but everything that drives us in life can be found between those ropes. We’re not comfortable just existing. Life means shit if there isn’t gold around our waists. We crave it, not because we WANT to be champions but because we NEED to be champions. Heading into the Gold Rush Rumble, you accused everyone on the FGA roster of not wanting it as badly as you do...not deserving it as much as you do. You call yourself the KING OF THE FUCKIN’ WORLD and pine about everything you earned being taken from you. Everyone’s afraid of what you’re going to do next. They all want to see how far off the handle you’re really going to go.
You seem to think this trip of madness gives you power. That those brain cells you lack somehow make you more dangerous than anyone else on the FGA roster. Me? I see it as the rapid decline of a man grasping at his last straws. You’re not just losing control, you’re losing it all together and I must say, the decimation of our LDFC talent aside, it’s rather humorous. Your obsession with Chandler Scott is utterly entertaining and has misdirected your focus and aggression away from where it really belongs: inside that ring. You are hardly a king, Page. You’ve become a sideshow, and I relish this opportunity to challenge you for that self-imposed crown atop your mangy skull at Vertigo.”
Remaining before us with a confident demeanor, he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.
“Page, I’m not afraid to go toe to toe with you, something you likely find humor in. I’m not afraid to stand in that ring with you and spill every ounce of blood that I have and every ounce of blood you have until a hand is raised in victory. Make no mistake about it, Page, I WILL do it. I WILL smack the shit out of that stupid fucking face of yours, and I WILL make sure you know that I’m not just “Pretty” Ricky Valero. I WILL make sure you know that I’m not just another second-rate tag team wrestler who has the tremendous misfortune of being the hemorrhoid on your ass this week. I’m not here just to antagonize you, Page, I am going to beat you. Plain and simple.
But I know you’re sitting back watching this, taking a swig of Jack and shaking your head in disgust. Because here goes another washout spewing at the mouth with some ra-ra inspirational nonsense that won’t mean shit once we’re in that ring and that bell sounds. And you’re not entirely wrong. All these words. Everything I say right now won’t matter that much when we stand toe to toe. We all know I can talk the talk. I love the sound of my own voice. But motherfucker you are going to learn real quick that this dog’s bite is just as big--if not bigger--than his bark. I’m not Emily Carter, and I’m not anyone you’ve had the pleasure of disposing of in the past. You and I, this is going to be a dogfight, and I go straight for the jugular, chief.
I’m not who you think I am. I don’t need to hear the words escape your lips to know what you think of me. I’m an overhyped, dime-a-dozen, egotistical loudmouth who does a good job fooling everyone I’m better than I really am and a history of accomplishments that mean absolutely nothing today. To you, I’m nothing more than another primadonna on a FGA roster stacked full of them. While you’re breaking faces, I’m more concerned with breaking a nail. Something to that effect, right?”
He smirks.
“Boy, are you in for a rude awakening. Make the mistake of coming into this match with low expectations of me. Downplay all I’ve done and skip the film. Just go in there and wing it. I find great joy playing the underdog, and it’s going to be that much sweeter knocking that dumb smile of your face and seeing your expression the minute you realize I’m not just another scrub.
All of this... this isn’t grandstanding on my part. I’m not posturing, trying to sell this fight. I don’t need to. The smart ones are going to tune in, because one way or another, blood’s gonna spill in Louisville, but at the end of it all, when the dust clears and they’re scrubbing the stains from the mat, it will be ME going home the winner. It will be ME leaving the people, and you, in awe as I head home with a main event victory in my pocket and your blood on my hands. Don’t let the nickname fool you, Page, I might be a pretty boy, but I have no problem getting my hands dirty when the time calls for it. I’m going to take pleasure in shattering that ugly fucking mug of yours and giving everyone in FGA the wakeup call they’re all overdue for...
IT’S GAME TIME BABY!
“And this one might just be the game of my life...let’s make it count, Page.”
With a wink from Ricky, the scene fades to black.