Post by Teo Blaze on Jul 3, 2016 15:23:40 GMT -5
The scene opens on a barely lit locker room. Fluorescent lights cast a flickering, shadowy glow over the benches and dirty sinks. Chipped metal faucets over grey basins with small brown rings around empty drains.
The scene lingers for a few moments, the only sound a tinny hum as the filaments in the hanging lights cling desperately to luminescence.
Suddenly, however, the relative peace is broken as the groan of the wooden door echoes, the doorway now adding the cacophonous uproar synonymous with the WCF arena.
Next, through the open doorway, with a blood splattered belt draped proudly over his shoulder, stumbles the people's champion.
With his hands against the wall, leaning heavily with each step, he pushes himself forward. Every inch a cannonball landing on the cold concrete floor.
Though blood drips on the floor behind him in a narrow stream, though his hair is dyed red with the aftermath of the hellacious battle, the direct result of an Adam Young cheap shot with the same prize he now carried, he stands tall.
Victorious.
A survivor.
With considerable effort, he lifts himself towards one of the sinks. He turns the left knob, which creaks like a sunken ship as the clear water begins to pour forth.
The camera lingers on the stream, which after a few moments begins to show curls of steam. Blaze passes his hand through it slowly, a barely perceptible flinch registering as the scalding liquid coats the athletic tape.
Slowly, he unwraps the hand, removing the gauzy athletic tape with one hand as the sink continues to pour. With a deliberate motion, he stuffs the tape into the open drain, blocking it.
Before long, the sink has been filled with scalding hot water. The steam has now formed into one singular, blobby mass which hangs over the basin, a spirit to warn away clumsy souls.
Blaze hangs his head down, hands on either side of the basin, staring down into the pool, steeling himself for only a moment.
Finally, without hesitation, he plunges his head down into the basin, the scalding water enveloping him immediately. Despite his best effort, his body convulses in pain, his knees momentarily buckling. Despite himself, though, he remains submerged. The spasms grow more and more violent, he begins striking the sink, cracks appearing in the pristine white tile.
But still he stays under.
Finally, a sound echoes forth amidst the chaos, a deep guttural groan. Though muted by the boiling torrent, the sound can be heard through the champion's bare back, a cry of agonizing pain.
Finally, with a lurch, he yanks his head free, the boiling and bloody water spilling onto the concrete below.
The champion gasps for air, soggy, waterlogged breaths but gasps of life nonetheless. Slowly, the reddened tincture fades as the color returns to his face.
He turns his head upward, purposefully. Slowly, the dampened curls of hair fall from his face to reveal the twisted visage beneath.
Beneath the reddened eyes, beneath seared flesh, the faintest traces of steam still visible...
The champions face has been twisted into a genuine smile.
As Blaze stares deeply into the mirror, one of the fluorescent lights suddenly burns out with a pop.
---
The scene has changed somewhat dramatically, while before there was a dim light, the room is now blanketed in darkness. The viewer can make out scant details.
Blobby shapes intermingle with the shadow, creating an otherworldly mix of surreal imagery, though only within the viewers mind.
At last though, a clear image springs to life. An orange flame erupts forth from the center of the room, revealing the People's Champion standing over a silver trash can, staring solemnly into the yellow flame with a smile.
Teddy Blaze: Gentlemen, I will keep this short.
This isn't a match, it's a pissing contest.
Each of us trying to stake out our claim in ultimate showdown.
To say that we're the greatest champion like it means something.
Let me give you a little clue, and old Zombie, you might as well be encyclopedia brown cause this won't surprise you.
In regards to showdown? This match means nothing.
I have beaten Zombie so many times I could make my own Romero movie.
I've made the honey badger an endangered species.
Zombie, they have had to find people to challenge you, dig up contenders who have had no interest in the Internet belt to throw at your feet.
'I get to face Zmac for the Internet belt? I dunno...What's in it for me?'
Now I know that we are going to say that this somehow demonstrates dominance.
Like Zmac has run every contender out of town.
But the honest truth is, Zmac is the only reason we still have an Internet belt.
And the reason for that?
He's the only one who cares about it.
How appropriate that a Zombie is holding dat Internet strap, considering that it's on life support.
Zombie, do you know why I've never gone after that Internet belt despite pinning you on multiple occasions?
It's because I have had contenders beating down my door. Torture, Andre Holmes, Johnny Rabid, you know the list.
Even Adam Young, one of the most common faces on the Internet decided he'd rather go after my belt than yours.
Because it doesn't matter Zmac.
The Internet title is so unimportant that you spent 2 months going after the hardcore belt.
Who has been the biggest name in your legendary reign? Your greatest challenge?
Dag Riddik? The guy who was afraid of Occulo?
Let me explain something Zmac.
I like you, you make me laugh. I would even hang out with you on Saturday night.
But just like every friend, sometimes there comes a time when you need an intervention.
Someone to step in and read you a letter.
'Dear Zmac, since becoming addicted to Twitter, it's like I don't even know you anymore. I'm tired of you coming home with strange men and beating them'
Where's the passion?
Where's the drive??
You're going to come into Ultimate Showdown armed with nothing but memes and you're going to change the world?
No.
You're going to walk out of Ultimate Showdown still the same old Internet champion.
Because let's face it Zombie, that's exactly what you deserve.
Which brings me to my next opponent, Kevin Bishop.
Or should I call you rerun?
We've got a creepy cult leader who calls himself the plague, and he's won the U.S. Championship.
Where have I heard this before?
Oh right, everywhere.
I don't know what it is that every wrestler with a gift card to hot topic suddenly thinks they're a cult of personality.
That they can hear the voices and that they're going to expose the truth to the world.
Second verse, same as the first.
People are rotten, weak, pathetic, immoral. The government is corrupt and McDonald's puts too much salt on the fries. Waaaaah....
Go read catcher in the rye and beat off, because I have had it up to here with that nonsense yesterday!
Bishop, I am not angry, I'm frustrated.
Disappointed.
You are the United States Champion.
The crown jewel.
The second most important man in the company.
And what do you do with that privelege?
You squander it. You rely on others.
You ask for help, you cheat.
It. Is. Pathetic.
There is a genuinely talented performer under the layers of Bullshit, aching to get out.
To come clean.
To start fresh.
I beg of you, this is your chance.
This is your baptism.
When I knock you loose from your cocoon.
From your generic shell of mediocrity that you have sealed yourself into.
Rebuild.
Reform.
Do not slide back.
And remember.
It's nothing personal....
On the last word the flame disappears, bathing the room once more in darkness.
The scene lingers for a few moments, the only sound a tinny hum as the filaments in the hanging lights cling desperately to luminescence.
Suddenly, however, the relative peace is broken as the groan of the wooden door echoes, the doorway now adding the cacophonous uproar synonymous with the WCF arena.
Next, through the open doorway, with a blood splattered belt draped proudly over his shoulder, stumbles the people's champion.
With his hands against the wall, leaning heavily with each step, he pushes himself forward. Every inch a cannonball landing on the cold concrete floor.
Though blood drips on the floor behind him in a narrow stream, though his hair is dyed red with the aftermath of the hellacious battle, the direct result of an Adam Young cheap shot with the same prize he now carried, he stands tall.
Victorious.
A survivor.
With considerable effort, he lifts himself towards one of the sinks. He turns the left knob, which creaks like a sunken ship as the clear water begins to pour forth.
The camera lingers on the stream, which after a few moments begins to show curls of steam. Blaze passes his hand through it slowly, a barely perceptible flinch registering as the scalding liquid coats the athletic tape.
Slowly, he unwraps the hand, removing the gauzy athletic tape with one hand as the sink continues to pour. With a deliberate motion, he stuffs the tape into the open drain, blocking it.
Before long, the sink has been filled with scalding hot water. The steam has now formed into one singular, blobby mass which hangs over the basin, a spirit to warn away clumsy souls.
Blaze hangs his head down, hands on either side of the basin, staring down into the pool, steeling himself for only a moment.
Finally, without hesitation, he plunges his head down into the basin, the scalding water enveloping him immediately. Despite his best effort, his body convulses in pain, his knees momentarily buckling. Despite himself, though, he remains submerged. The spasms grow more and more violent, he begins striking the sink, cracks appearing in the pristine white tile.
But still he stays under.
Finally, a sound echoes forth amidst the chaos, a deep guttural groan. Though muted by the boiling torrent, the sound can be heard through the champion's bare back, a cry of agonizing pain.
Finally, with a lurch, he yanks his head free, the boiling and bloody water spilling onto the concrete below.
The champion gasps for air, soggy, waterlogged breaths but gasps of life nonetheless. Slowly, the reddened tincture fades as the color returns to his face.
He turns his head upward, purposefully. Slowly, the dampened curls of hair fall from his face to reveal the twisted visage beneath.
Beneath the reddened eyes, beneath seared flesh, the faintest traces of steam still visible...
The champions face has been twisted into a genuine smile.
As Blaze stares deeply into the mirror, one of the fluorescent lights suddenly burns out with a pop.
---
The scene has changed somewhat dramatically, while before there was a dim light, the room is now blanketed in darkness. The viewer can make out scant details.
Blobby shapes intermingle with the shadow, creating an otherworldly mix of surreal imagery, though only within the viewers mind.
At last though, a clear image springs to life. An orange flame erupts forth from the center of the room, revealing the People's Champion standing over a silver trash can, staring solemnly into the yellow flame with a smile.
Teddy Blaze: Gentlemen, I will keep this short.
This isn't a match, it's a pissing contest.
Each of us trying to stake out our claim in ultimate showdown.
To say that we're the greatest champion like it means something.
Let me give you a little clue, and old Zombie, you might as well be encyclopedia brown cause this won't surprise you.
In regards to showdown? This match means nothing.
I have beaten Zombie so many times I could make my own Romero movie.
I've made the honey badger an endangered species.
Zombie, they have had to find people to challenge you, dig up contenders who have had no interest in the Internet belt to throw at your feet.
'I get to face Zmac for the Internet belt? I dunno...What's in it for me?'
Now I know that we are going to say that this somehow demonstrates dominance.
Like Zmac has run every contender out of town.
But the honest truth is, Zmac is the only reason we still have an Internet belt.
And the reason for that?
He's the only one who cares about it.
How appropriate that a Zombie is holding dat Internet strap, considering that it's on life support.
Zombie, do you know why I've never gone after that Internet belt despite pinning you on multiple occasions?
It's because I have had contenders beating down my door. Torture, Andre Holmes, Johnny Rabid, you know the list.
Even Adam Young, one of the most common faces on the Internet decided he'd rather go after my belt than yours.
Because it doesn't matter Zmac.
The Internet title is so unimportant that you spent 2 months going after the hardcore belt.
Who has been the biggest name in your legendary reign? Your greatest challenge?
Dag Riddik? The guy who was afraid of Occulo?
Let me explain something Zmac.
I like you, you make me laugh. I would even hang out with you on Saturday night.
But just like every friend, sometimes there comes a time when you need an intervention.
Someone to step in and read you a letter.
'Dear Zmac, since becoming addicted to Twitter, it's like I don't even know you anymore. I'm tired of you coming home with strange men and beating them'
Where's the passion?
Where's the drive??
You're going to come into Ultimate Showdown armed with nothing but memes and you're going to change the world?
No.
You're going to walk out of Ultimate Showdown still the same old Internet champion.
Because let's face it Zombie, that's exactly what you deserve.
Which brings me to my next opponent, Kevin Bishop.
Or should I call you rerun?
We've got a creepy cult leader who calls himself the plague, and he's won the U.S. Championship.
Where have I heard this before?
Oh right, everywhere.
I don't know what it is that every wrestler with a gift card to hot topic suddenly thinks they're a cult of personality.
That they can hear the voices and that they're going to expose the truth to the world.
Second verse, same as the first.
People are rotten, weak, pathetic, immoral. The government is corrupt and McDonald's puts too much salt on the fries. Waaaaah....
Go read catcher in the rye and beat off, because I have had it up to here with that nonsense yesterday!
Bishop, I am not angry, I'm frustrated.
Disappointed.
You are the United States Champion.
The crown jewel.
The second most important man in the company.
And what do you do with that privelege?
You squander it. You rely on others.
You ask for help, you cheat.
It. Is. Pathetic.
There is a genuinely talented performer under the layers of Bullshit, aching to get out.
To come clean.
To start fresh.
I beg of you, this is your chance.
This is your baptism.
When I knock you loose from your cocoon.
From your generic shell of mediocrity that you have sealed yourself into.
Rebuild.
Reform.
Do not slide back.
And remember.
It's nothing personal....
On the last word the flame disappears, bathing the room once more in darkness.