Beachwood Drive
Jan 24, 2017 20:58:40 GMT -5
Post by The Mason on Jan 24, 2017 20:58:40 GMT -5
”It’s so cliché.”
Jenny sat, legs extended, palms flat at her sides, kicking at a mound of dirt with the heel of her right shoe, butt planted firmly in the grass on the tall hills behind the storied Hollywood sign. She balanced her camera gently on her knee, bouncing it steadily up-and-down, remaining unmoved as she had for the past forty minutes, just looking ahead at the sign, trying to think of something-- anything. She’d slipped through the tourist rails when she saw that the hill was empty, sitting just feet from the nine letters. Jenny sighed loudly, picking the camera up, looking at the back of the Hollywood sign through the tiny LED screen.
”Maybe I saw it so many times growing up that I got a little, like, desensitized to it? But it doesn’t seem as big now as it did when I was a kid. It doesn’t have the same mystique. It doesn’t… have the same promise…”
Jenny pulled her knees up to her chest, zooming in on the scratches, scrapes, and faded or painted-over drawings on the back of the Hollywood sign, all left by the millions of visitors that had walked up Beachwood Drive.
”A lot of people came to 3GW because they wanted to learn how to be famous. Not because they wanted to become better wrestlers, or blaze a trail that would be talked about by generations across the world for years and years, but because they wanted to figure out how they could become the next definitive-household name like Level One or Jack Benevolence or Brandon Banks. And some of those people came here with good intentions and some of those people were just like Becker Gaines.”
She shrugged a little, finally turning the camera on herself.
”Becker Gaines doesn’t claim to be the best wrestler in the world but he claims to be the best actor to ever grace our screens. Your screens. He says he’s playing the part that the world always wanted him to play and I have no issue with that. If Becker’s been busting his ass to be an actor his entire life, fine. If he wants to transition from the stage to the ring, fine. I respect what he wants to do and I respect what he’s been able to accomplish, but I can’t afford to let it happen again on Thursday at my expense. No pun intended, but he already wasted his fifteen minutes of fame. Just like this sign, just like this hill past Sunset Ranch, all of the mystique is gone now for Becker. It’s been gone since the Red Carpet Rumble. It’s not a secret. Tillman exposed that two weeks ago.”
She looked into the camera for a few moments before finally turning the lens on the sky, toward the sunset beyond the Hollywood sign.
”I’ll say the same thing to you I said to Keegan:
I hope this means something.
I want to prove myself against the greatest actor that’s ever looked at this sign. I want to prove myself against a former 3GW Fifteen Champion that the history books might, one day, look back upon as fondly as people look at this stupid sign.
I hope people like Avaset watch what happens on Thursday and they think about me a little differently. I hope, Becker.
I’ll see you.”
Fade.
Jenny sat, legs extended, palms flat at her sides, kicking at a mound of dirt with the heel of her right shoe, butt planted firmly in the grass on the tall hills behind the storied Hollywood sign. She balanced her camera gently on her knee, bouncing it steadily up-and-down, remaining unmoved as she had for the past forty minutes, just looking ahead at the sign, trying to think of something-- anything. She’d slipped through the tourist rails when she saw that the hill was empty, sitting just feet from the nine letters. Jenny sighed loudly, picking the camera up, looking at the back of the Hollywood sign through the tiny LED screen.
”Maybe I saw it so many times growing up that I got a little, like, desensitized to it? But it doesn’t seem as big now as it did when I was a kid. It doesn’t have the same mystique. It doesn’t… have the same promise…”
Jenny pulled her knees up to her chest, zooming in on the scratches, scrapes, and faded or painted-over drawings on the back of the Hollywood sign, all left by the millions of visitors that had walked up Beachwood Drive.
”A lot of people came to 3GW because they wanted to learn how to be famous. Not because they wanted to become better wrestlers, or blaze a trail that would be talked about by generations across the world for years and years, but because they wanted to figure out how they could become the next definitive-household name like Level One or Jack Benevolence or Brandon Banks. And some of those people came here with good intentions and some of those people were just like Becker Gaines.”
She shrugged a little, finally turning the camera on herself.
”Becker Gaines doesn’t claim to be the best wrestler in the world but he claims to be the best actor to ever grace our screens. Your screens. He says he’s playing the part that the world always wanted him to play and I have no issue with that. If Becker’s been busting his ass to be an actor his entire life, fine. If he wants to transition from the stage to the ring, fine. I respect what he wants to do and I respect what he’s been able to accomplish, but I can’t afford to let it happen again on Thursday at my expense. No pun intended, but he already wasted his fifteen minutes of fame. Just like this sign, just like this hill past Sunset Ranch, all of the mystique is gone now for Becker. It’s been gone since the Red Carpet Rumble. It’s not a secret. Tillman exposed that two weeks ago.”
She looked into the camera for a few moments before finally turning the lens on the sky, toward the sunset beyond the Hollywood sign.
”I’ll say the same thing to you I said to Keegan:
I hope this means something.
I want to prove myself against the greatest actor that’s ever looked at this sign. I want to prove myself against a former 3GW Fifteen Champion that the history books might, one day, look back upon as fondly as people look at this stupid sign.
I hope people like Avaset watch what happens on Thursday and they think about me a little differently. I hope, Becker.
I’ll see you.”
Fade.