Post by Deleted on Mar 10, 2013 12:32:18 GMT -5
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The Scene: 1900hrs, a cattle ranch on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado (03/05/13)
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The heat was unbearable. March had hardly started and the rural fields of Denver, Colorado were already burning up. Global warming fucked up the weather around the world more than the local meteorologists could have expected, and this befuddled farmers and weather forecasters more than ever. Crops accustomed to the delightful breeze of spring found themselves wilting under the 100 degree heat. Wildlife hid from the sun's unforgiving rays, and came out only in cooler times of the day to hunt, throwing their body clock out of whack. The air is dull; arid, rancid even, from the lack of moisture in the ground. It wasn't a pretty sight.
Even in this ranch in Denver, where everything was supposed to be more industrialized and protected from nature's wrath could not escape from the semi-drought that seems to be occurring every few weeks or so in the most unlikely times. Though there may not be dried up bodies of road kill on the streets like there might be in some of the more Southern states, the weather was horrible nonetheless. From the front yard, there wasn't a sign of life, animal or otherwise - truly a rare sight in this part of town.
"What a hot day..."
Morientes walked up to the front door, dressed appropriately for the weather. Instead of donning his usual polo tee shirt, jeans, and loafers, he wisely swapped them in for a plaid shirt, cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat. After all, he was here for a purpose, and any clothes that may restrict his movements could result in a very grisly time indeed. Oh, and because it made him look freaking cool as all hell. A Spaniard dressed up like a redneck cowboy? My oh my. He'll be damned if he didn't look like one of those sheriffs from the old Wild West movies.
He rang the doorbell. The bell's melody echoed around the entire estate, as he waited for someone to greet him.
And waited.
And waited.
And... waited.
And just as he was about to head off and find another place for his experiment, the door swung open, and a gnarly old man stepped out. He was dressed in the same fashion as Morientes, except about fifty years out-of-date, and wore a perpetual scowl on his face. He didn't have pretty features, but hey, he wasn't here to ask this man out for a date. Upon seeing the young Spaniard, the cowboy's withered face broke into a small smile, and extended his hand out to Morientes.
"Ahh... there yer are. James Armstrong here young man, and welcome to Armstrong Cattle Ranch, the finest cow and bull farm in all of Denver. I believe yer were the one who called earlier? So, what can I do for yer young man?"
Morientes took off his hat, and bowed, before grasping the old cowboy's hand in a firm handshake. Looking him dead in the eye, Mr. M spoke.
"Dear sir, I am a Spaniard in town for a couple of days. I've heard a lot of about the fighting bulls your ranch plays home to. I was wondering if it was possible for me to rent one of your bulls for a little practice session? I'll pay well, ¡lo juro."
Armstrong grunted, and led the Spanish wrestler through the house. They walked for a long time, before exiting through the back door. As they headed out and their eyes adjusted once again to the glaring sunrays, Morientes let out a gasp of amazement.
Before his very eyes, stood a herd of the finest cattle he had ever seen in his life. Armstrong was truly a master at his work - everything, from the milk bearers to the water buffaloes, to even those bred for slaughter was huge, fat, and brimming with health. His eyes wide in amazement, the 20-year-old exclaimed loudly.
"Bravo señor Armstrong! Never had I seen so beautiful a bounty. How did you manage to breed such fine cattle in this ungodly weather? I myself am something of a farming enthusiast, and in my hometown, I have never managed to see such prideful beasts."
Armstrong chuckled, no doubt used to the countless number of visitors praising his herd every time their eyes fell upon them.
"Ah lad, these things come with experience. The food, the love, the temperature, all that plays a part in raising a good herd. So, before I bore yer with the science behind farming, tell me son. What cow would yer like to rent? If it's for milking purposes, I recommend old Patty by the barn with her two calfs; she's quite the docile lamb. Or if yer want a little petting session, I got a few calfs who were just born last month. They would love a little human companionship. What do yer think?"
Morientes looked around the pastures. Cattle of all variants were around, and they were magnificent creatures. But he was here to regain that old touch once again, and there was only one way he knew how. His eyes scanned the hundreds of livestock grazing, before he finally spotted his desire. Pointing to an elegant bull grazing on some grass some way off from the rest of the other cattle, Morientes turned to the old stableman.
"I want that one."
The old-timer raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Morientes. Did this brash upstart not know the difference between a cow and a bull?
"Son, that's a bull. Yer don't get milk from him. Well... maybe yer do, but you can't drink that shizznit. And he'll probably kick your head in if you so much as tried to squeeze his balls."
Morientes snorted in amusement.
"No señor, I am aware that that's a bull. A Spanish fighting bull to be exact. But I want to pit my skills against him. I'm testing myself in an... athletic competition this Sunday, and I want to see if I still got it in me. My opponent, like this very beast, calls himself a superior specimen. I want to take both of them down."
Armstrong clucked his tongue in distaste, apparently unimpressed with his choice.
"Yessir, if you so choose her. I'ma warn yer first though. This here is Black Stud, a nine-year old beauty from Texas. I bought him a few years back from some punk in Spain. Apparently, he was too much of a beast for the Spanish bullfighters to contain. He killed close to five people in Barcelona, left one near half dead. I honestly don't think yer up to handle him. I personally haven't managed to tame him. He's far too violent."
The edges of the young man's mouth curled up in a slight smile.
"Yes sir, that sounds just about perfect. I want him. And him only."
Intrigued at his words, old Armstrong tried to dissuade Morientes once again.
"Seriously? That my friend, is a Spanish fighting bull. They ain't yer ordinary cattle bred for meat. This bad boy weighs over one thousand five hundred pounds, and is as aggressive as all hell. He will not rest until he gores yer, how are yer going to stop him? From what I see, yer reasonably well muscled and fit, but this ain't no little pony. This is a machine of pain. A superior specimen. And if yer really want him, I have to tell yer that in the event of any injuries or death, Armstrong Cattle Range cannot and will not be held responsible."
Morientes burst out in laughter. So this is why the old geezer refused to let him get near the bull? Ah well, might as well put him to peace if it meant so much to him. Even in the case of injury, it would be the height of dishonor to sue him - whose fault is it that he got injured from the bull's horns or hooves? He moved towards Armstrong, and grasped his hands together.
"Brother, trust me. You have my word that if anything happens to me, I will not come looking at you for revenge or compensation. If I fall, it's my own incompetence at balancing. If I get my hand impaled, it's my fault for being too slow. I do it, I suffer the consequences. Not you. I just need to know how I fare against the alpha one."
The grumpy old cowboy grunted again. He moved towards the fence that separated the Black Stud from the rest of the bulls, before speaking over his shoulder.
"Alright. How do yer want to tame him then?"
Morientes pointed a finger at himself, and spoke somberly.
"I don't need no guns or anything señor. I want to test my mettle against this fine specimen of yours. No weapons, nothing but man against beast. Give me ten minutes señor Armstrong, that's all I ask. In fact, if I can m--"
"I'll one-up yer youngling," Armstrong interrupted the Spaniard. "It's been a very long time since I've seen someone take on a fully-grown bull, and it'll be an even longer time till I see someone do it again, that's for sure. If yer can last ten minutes with Black Stud here without any weapons, I'll waive the fee yer owe me for renting him. And if yer can bring him down within that amount of time, I'll give yer $100, just for a feat of strength. If he injures yer, and I highly think he will, yer give me everything yer have in yer wallet. Sounds good?"
Unbeknownst to him, Morientes's features transmuted into a grin. A wide smile that spread from ear to ear.
"You're on."
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(15 minutes later)
All the cattle in the field have already been moved to another location save for one Spanish fighting bull. One alpha male. One ultra-violent specimen. One superior monster. The one also known as Black Stud. One thousand six hundred pounds of pure fighting muscle. He grazed on his grass nonchalantly, until something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Black Stud raised his horned head up, and saw red. Literally.
Morientes stepped into the enclosed pasture, eyes totally focused on his opponent. He had changed his attire once again. Now, he's dressed in a bright red t-shirt. Some may call him idiotic, but it's nothing more than strategy to distract the fierce animal snorting in front of him. It may not have the same effect as the scarlet cloth he used back in Madrid, but hey - it'll do. Red is the color that antagonizes bulls, and any little thing he could use to avoid getting gored is welcome indeed. When Morientes looked at Black Stud, he didn't just see a beast. He saw Benjamin Atreyu, and everyone else in the world that claims that they are the best in the world.
It seemed like it worked. Where ten seconds ago it was a docile beast minding it's own business, the color red transformed it into a killing machine. Perhaps the color tapped into some primal instinct deep in the blood of Black Stud, or perhaps all bulls shared an intense dislike for that particular shade of the rainbow. But whatever it is, it agitated him, and without a second's hesitation, Black Stud charged towards Morientes, determined to rip a hole in that hideous piece of garment, and it's owner. 1,600 pounds of heavy muscle trembled through the air as the bull roared it's anger. Was there any escape for any mortal men from it's wrath?
Mere men may have peed in their pants in fear or had their feet stuck to the ground after suffering a panic attack. But not Morientes. Like a snake, he kept his body low, and moved around the arena cunningly. Black Stud wasn't letting up, and he certainly isn't an easy one to shake. But through simple misdirection and clever maneuvering, Morientes managed to move to it's rear, forcing the animal to turn about in an attempt to charge him again.
This cycle continued for several minutes, before Morientes finally made his move. When Black Stud turned about again after getting out-maneuvered by the Spaniard for the fifth time, Morientes sprung into action. He grabbed the bull's head by the horns, and held on tight. Suddenly, it was no longer Black Stud locked in his grasp. In his eyes, he was trapping Benjamin Atreyu in the Bull's Choke, and by golly he's not going to let go. Using the horns as handles, Morientes wrenched Black Stud's head to one side, and straining every muscle, cast the bull to the ground. As soon as the animal's chest touched the dirt, Morientes placed a knee on top of his left shoulder, pinning him in place. Black Stud snorted and bucked, trying to break Morientes's grip, but the Spaniard refused to let go. He braced his feet against a rock and twisted the bull's head as far around as it would go, pulling so hard he would have broken the neck of any human. Sensing victory was near, Morientes tugged once more, until...
"STOP! YER'RE KILLING HIM!"
Armstrong's shrill shout echoed around the field. Both man and bull perked their heads at the noise, and ceased struggling. Taking advantage of the opportunity and waking to his sense, Morientes dashed as fast as he could to the fence, and over it to safety. He panted heavily and collapsed on to the floor, before stripping off the cursed t-shirt and dropping it. Looking up at Armstrong, Morientes smiled cheekily, before speaking once more.
"I believe you owe me $100 for not killing your 'superior' bull, señor?"
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Morientes smiled. Truly a trip where he killed two birds with one stone. He got some needed training, and earned some cash while doing it. The old cowboy wasn't pleased that his prized bull was so humiliated, but a bet's a bet, and he made $100 just for doing what he did on a daily basis in Madrid.
Morientes headed off from the ranch. Gathering his things, he walked slowly back to his newly rented car. Although far from the toughest thing he had experienced in his life, bull fighting barehanded wasn't easy. A warm shower and a quick nap back at his hotel was something that he could already see in his head. He enters the driver's seat and started the engine, sighing in relief as he enjoys the cool blast of the air-conditioning. He was about a twenty-minute drive away from his hotel, so it wasn't too far a journey. He might as well start on his weekly promo video on WCF.com. This week's topic, a certain Benjamin Atreyu.
He found his trusty camcorder, and placed it on the dashboard of his car. God, he must look like such a mess. But hey, better now than never. Morientes stared into the camera and he hits the record button.
"¡hola people, how are you doing? Good or bad, it's almost time for another Slam this Sunday. First, a brief recap on last week. Ana Valentine and Buzzsaw Bundy fell to John Gable and myself. I feel no vengeance towards them, nor do I take pleasure in their defeat. I can't say the same about my... stable mate, but I personally enjoyed facing both of them in the ring. Let bygones be bygones. I bear neither of you any grudges, but just watch your mouth a little more closely in the future, shall we? Till then, good luck in both of your matches tonight."
Morientes started stretching his arms. He continued speaking as he worked those sore muscles out. The bull took a little more out of him than he thought.
"Most of you also saw my actions on the autor Aloysius Mason. I will not comment too much on that, other than to say he deserved it. Hitting me with a steel chair when I had my back turned and expect me not to retaliate? Please. I said it in my debut match: don't make this personal. Evidently he did, and I showed him the furia of a Blanco."
"But let's focus on what we got this week. While my teammates are out battling the returned FPV and the Homegrown Players, I'm pitted against a señor Atreyu. I would have loved to be in that three-on-three match. Personally, I respect Genesis as combatants a lot, so it might be fun to see where it went. But alas, it's not meant to be. So on my opponent..."
Morientes coughed a little, as he reached for a bottle of mineral water to the left of him. He took a swig out of it, and put it aside, before resuming.
"Agua. The essence of life. Delicious isn't it? Anyways, Benjamin Atreyu, you are a talented wrestler; there's just no denying that. Your credentials speak for themselves, don't they? A former United States champion who never got pinned to lose the belt. A former tag team champion who alongside former partner Odin Balfore dethroned the dominant Homegrown Players. A finalist in the WCF Classic last November. And now... you're one of five fighters clamoring for a world title opportunity in the Trilogy Cup. Impressive."
"You may have pinned a legend in Skyler Striker last week, but that doesn't make you invincible soñador. You were in the right place at the right time, capitalizing on señora Twilight's mistake and getting your hand raised in victory. This week, you will have no one else to do your dirty work for you. It's you and me in the ring, un hombre contra otro. One warrior against another, no distractions from outsiders, and no reason not to go full-out against one another."
Morientes rustled his fingers through his hair as he tried to style it as best as he could.
"I'm not going to brag about how I'm going to destroy you like how you beat up Odin. I'm not that kind of man, so I am going to save you the time. I also don't really mind what you think about me Mr. Atreyu. I've fought prejudice my entire life, and the opinion of one man will not affect me. There's a reason why I can fight the urge to Bullwhip Gable's head off every time I see him. I'll save you the time and effort of trying to play the psychological card on me. It has never, and will never work. Play your little insults on how my little Rebellion ego will ultimately end in failure, and how you are going to kick my Spanish ass. I've heard it from more people than you think, and it's going to take more than that to agitate me."
"What I am going about today, however, is how you think you are the superior wrestler in this business. The best in the world. Número uno. God's Given Greatness."
"I have been in America for just over three months now, and I have to say that you are nowhere near the top of my list even in this company. I'm not saying you are untalented, cause you are. What I am saying is this: mucho ruido y pocas nueces. You over-exaggerate to the point where there's too much shit coming out of your mouth, and no one knows whether you can back it up anymore."
Morientes took the camcorder off the dashboard and held it up, his finger at the stop button.
"I will be in that ring tonight. Be there, and show me what you got Atreyu. If you are any less than what you claim you are, you know that I will skin you, and break you like the superior specimen you claim you are. No questions asked."
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The Scene: 1500hrs, the Pepsi Centre's locker room in Denver, Colorado (03/10/13)
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Morientes walked into the empty locker room. He always liked to arrive early for an appointment, when no one would be around. It gave him peace of mind, knowing that there would be no way he'll be late getting to his very own match. Sure, some may scoff and ridicule his timeliness, especially in a society where latecomers seem to be glorified, and punctuality looked down upon. But to Morientes, being on time is a gentlemanly trait; one which is bred into each and every Catalan, and he will not sacrifice his values in order to 'fit in'. People like John Gable could learn some manners like that - it'll make them less intolerable in his opinion.
Heaving his daypack onto a nearby bench, Morientes started to change into his ring gear. It may just be three in the afternoon, but he was already aching to get in some final preparations for his big match tonight against Benjamin Atreyu. The man was two hundred and thirty one pounds of pure muscle, and judging by what he saw last week, had quite the mean streak. There's no way he was going to underestimate the self-proclaimed God-given Greatness in a one-on-one match.
The Bull started to wrap his trusty old hand wraps around his knuckles, when suddenly; he saw his phone light up. He smiled a little, presuming that it was Atreyu posting one of his little promo videos up on WCF.com, and reached down to get it. But when he took a closer look, he realized it wasn't an email from the WCF management. It was a call from an unknown number, and one from outside the country.
Morientes picked it up and took a good, long look at the caller's ID. It wasn't a number that he recognized. But then, he saw the country code, and startled. +34. It's someone from Spain.
He picked it up.
"Hello? Who is this?"
There was silence for a moment, before a low voice rang through the line.
"Si? It's Iker hermano. I need to tell you something."
Iker! Morientes's supportive younger brother whose still stuck in Spain. He was supposed to come down to watch Slam live last week, but cancelled at the very last moment. Morientes tried contacting him, but he was damn near unreachable. He hasn’t heard from him since... until now. Very strange.
"What's happening brother? I thought you were supposed to come down to watch Slam last week hermano. What happened? All I got was a WhatsApp mesage from you that you'll reschedule it and come another time instead. And what's the matter with your old phone? I didn't recognize this one."
There was silence on the other end of the line, save some heavy breathing for about a minute. Morientes was getting a little unnerved. Iker wasn't normally like this.
"Iker? Iker! Answer damn it, you're scaring me."
He heard a soft sniffle, before Iker spoke again. This time, Iker was barely perceptible, forcing Morientes to have to strain in order to hear. What he heard sunk his heart.
"I don't know how to say this Popo. But... Papá's gone. He passed last night in his sleep. You'll have to come home soon."
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