Post by Tom Frost on Jan 8, 2017 2:11:05 GMT -5
Swollen snowflakes fall from a night sky encased by clouds. They’re illuminated by the streetlights of Kentucky Avenue, the main drag in the small town of Darling, WA, and they’re blown by the wind and the lazy, melancholy notes of a lone trumpet. The cold, hard sound of forced air through brass matches the weather tonight. It’s January just south of the Canadian border, and with snow falling amidst bitter temperatures, it’s business as usual.
Speaking of which, the once still downtown scene comes to life, if only with the side door of a small brick building across the street being swung open. The dim light from within pours out into the dark alley alongside it, though it’s soon blotted out by a whale of man - Lou, the owner of the establishment - who shoves another man into the alley. His booming voice echoes atop the sound of the lonely trumpet.
Lou: Right on time, ain’t you, Tom? Every Sunday night!
The massive man moves out of the doorway for the briefest of moments, and we catch a glimpse of the man he’s just thrown out. He wears a dingy suit and an old trilby hat. A stream of smoke rises from his cigarette as his gruff, scratchy voice fills the alley.
Tom Frost: They had it coming to ‘em.
The fat man’s reply is filled with anger and sarcasm.
Lou: Just like they always do.
Tom Frost: Don’t worry, Lou - I won’t be around to cause a fuss in here on Sundays no more.
Lou scoffs.
Lou: Yeah, like you got somewhere better to be than hunched over my bar.
Tom Frost: Yeah, I -
The door slams shut, and the alley is dark once more. The ember of the man’s cigarette glows for a few seconds as he takes a deep drag. A cloud of smoke rises up as he exhales, and he finishes his sentence to no one in particular.
Tom Frost: I do.
He exits the dark alley across the street, and as we get our first real glimpse of old Tom Frost, the lonely trumpet gets some accompaniment. A bass line booms into existence, descending only to ascend once more, and the light, rhythmic “tsk-tsk-ing” of a drum gives the music new life. The horn perks up, and the camera catches up to Tom, positioning itself a few feet in front of him as he stumbles down Kentucky Ave. His tie is loose, his suit is worn and frayed, and his hat collects the falling snow in its upturned brim and indented crown.
He takes another deep drag from his cigarette as his low, gruff voice narrates from the nether.
“Another Sunday ‘round midnight in Darling. God damn. I’ve spent every weekend for the last 20-some years walking these streets alone. Go ahead and add this one to the tally.”
He pulls out a pint of Wild Turkey from his inside coat pocket and takes a long swig before tucking it back in.
“But that’s all about to change.”
Distant sirens draw near as Tom approaches the end of the sidewalk. He reaches the corner and steps out into the road, only to jump back just in time to avoid being run over by an ambulance that turns down the street. It makes its way toward the small building from which Tom has just come, and he chuckles to himself as he looks down at the raw knuckles on each of his hands. He proceeds forward, and narrator Tom does the same.
“Them boys will be fine. Ain’t gonna have to pull the white sheet over them just yet. Their noses and jaws will heal up given time, though I don’t imagine their big boy teeth are gonna grow back in any time soon. But hey, they should’ve known not to fuck with old Tom Frost by now. I’ve got a reputation in this town for two things: singing a tune, and dishing out a licking. Tonight I did both, and I didn’t make a dime doing either. Well, consider this the last time I provide my services for free.”
The ember from his cigarette fades as it reaches the butt, and Tom pulls out another from a metal case before lighting it up and inhaling deeply.
“Hicks, man. Country folk. That’s what this place is made of primarily. Folks here wouldn’t know a good tune to save their life, and my gruff old voice doesn’t come with that clean twang they find on the radio. I must’ve chosen the worst town in America to be born and raised in considering my desire to make music. But I love it here all the same. That’s why I never left. Sure, I had the chance to get outta dodge years back. Could’ve hit it big on the east coast, they said. And wouldn’t you know it, I fucked it up.
But my music and all, that’s a story for another day. Tonight, it ain’t my singing career on the forefront of my mind...
It’s my wrestling career.”
Tom laughs aloud as the voice inside his head relays it to us. He pulls out his Wild Turkey, downs another few gulps, and tucks it away once more.
“My wrestling career - that’s right. Because it’s like I said: I’ve got a reputation for two things. One got me here, which by all means is as close to nowhere as you could possibly be. The other though - fighting; beating a son of bitch to a pulp - well I never thought to put my skill for doing that to good use.
WCF, it’s called. You know the one. Everyone does. It’s the top wrestling promotion the world over, chock-full of some of the baddest dudes on the planet. And you’re looking at one right now. You’re looking at a man who’s never lost a fight. Sure, I’ve taken my share of beatings, but I’ve always managed to deal out more punishment than I’ve been dealt.
That’s not to say I imagine myself going undefeated in the world of professional wrestling. I imagine I’ll get my ass handed to me on occasion, but I’ll tell you this: I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I was capable. I know damn well I am. I’m not made of glass like other newcomers who think they’ve got what it takes to make it in the WCF. I’m tough as nails; my chin’s a god damn block of steel. I can take a beating just as well as I can dish one out, and anyone who steps into the ring with me’s gonna know just how fucked they are the moment they either land a blow or take one to the skull. I’ve been in countless fights, and they’ve all lead up to the one I’m taking part in next Sunday.
First off, there’s - ”
Tom’s voice cuts off, as do the horn, bass, and drums as a screen door slams shut out of sight. Tom looks over at the house to his right, and we pan over to see an old, gray woman in a fancy blue dress.
Tom: Evening, Miss Susan. What are you doing up so late?
Miss Susan: Evening, Tom Frost. My you look handsome.
She bats her eyes at him, doing her best to look bashful despite the thick layer of makeup that covers her face.
Tom nods drunkenly and takes another drag from his cigarette.
Tom: Cold out here, you oughta go in and lay down by the fire.
He begins to saunter off as Miss Susan calls out.
Miss Susan: Saw you at the lounge Thursday. Wonderful performance by you and the boys. You were particularly lovely.
Tom turns and begins to walk backward as he shouts a response.
Tom: My thanks as always, Miss Susan. Go on to bed now.
Miss Susan: Alright then, see you next Thursday!
Tom tips his hat and turns back around, continuing forward toward his home at the end of the block. A couple of stray dogs run past him, and Tom watches them disappear into the forest across the street. As they do, the same groove-laden tune slowly builds up in volume until it reaches its previous level, and Tom’s voice begins to narrate once more.
“My biggest admirer - the old bag. Ain’t I lucky? She’s had her eyes on me since I was a boy. Real creep, Miss Susan. She’s managed to tone it down the past few years. At least she doesn’t come around the old home place anymore. Time was, I’d have to chase her off with a broom every other night. Now she just sits by the window and watches the world go by...poor thing. Though I must admit, I don’t feel sorry for her.
Nor do I hold any sympathy for those making up the ship of fools I’m squaring off against next Sunday, if we can get back on track.
The bossman’s seen fit to pit me against six others in my debut match. The odds don’t concern me in the slightest. Rumpke, Devil, Rise, Menaki, Axel Blackwood, and Fuego Del Eternio Infierno Silencioso...jesus, what a fucking tragedy of a name that is. And what a fucking tragedy it’s going to be for all of them when the bell rings and our match gets underway, because I’m gonna lay waste to each and every one of them before I pin one or the other for three. And when the final bell rings, it’s gonna be old Tom Frost standing tall amidst a sea of broken men.”
He turns up a narrow driveway toward a tiny, run-down home. A rusty 1971 Oldsmobile ‘88 sits in the driveway, and Tom kicks it with his boot as he passes by. He reaches the front door and enters his humble abode. The door slams shut, and the music ceases as the camera cuts to within.
A low fire blazes in a stone fireplace in the living room, and Tom plops down on the couch nearby. He kicks off his boots and slides out of his jacket, careful to remove his Wild Turkey and cigarette case before draping it over the back of the couch. He places his hat on the cushion next to him, revealing his bushy, graying hair, and he takes a final swig of Wild Turkey before tossing the empty bottle on the floor.
He takes out a cigarette, lights it up, and stares ahead in contemplation. His eyes reflect the flames as he speaks.
Tom: Fuego Del Etern - no, no. Fuego. That’s what I’m going to call you, because I refuse to repeat your ridiculous name in full more than once. You’re the only true WCF veteran - relatively speaking - amongst myself and our mutual opponents this Sunday.
That should be taken with a grain of salt, of course, seeing how you’ve done next to nothing since you came onto the scene last fall. You haven’t spoken a single word, and you certainly haven’t proven yourself in the ring. All you’ve done is, you know...rage internally with eternal hellfire as you make a mockery of yourself and others who you’re supposed to take from; others who can actually hold their own in a fight. But you can’t, Fuego - not with me or damn near anyone who’s capable of lasting more than a few weeks in the WCF. It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long, but after I’m through with you on Sunday, my guess is the only thing you’ll be raging with internally is whether or not you should just hang up your boots and make the lonely trek home for good.
Your silence outside the ring is supposed to be counter-balanced by how much noise you make inside it. This Sunday though, the millions of fans watching all over the world will be able to hear a pin drop when it comes to how much noise you’ll make between the ropes. Your impact will be a silent one as usual, but the impact of your spine crashing down to the mat - should you be so unfortunate as to fall victim to being the closest living thing to me when I’m finally ready to put an end to the bout - will be heard loud and clear around the world...and especially in the WCF locker room.
Tom rises to his feet and exhales another cloud of smoke as he continues.
Tom: Then there’s you, Rise - the self proclaimed “next big thing in the WCF.” Do you know how many others have been in your stead, new to the wrestling world and quick to declare themselves the next big thing? Their numbers are countless, and the moment you declared yourself as such you became just another statistic. If you were truly going to be the next top star of the WCF - the next Corey Black, the next Jonny Fly, the next Bobby Cairo, the next Joey Flash - you wouldn’t have to declare it in some disastrous promo. You’d be able to do so in the ring without speaking a word.
But that’s not something you’re capable of, is it, Rise? Because though you may have a certain level of dedication and desire, it’s readily apparent that you’re not the next big thing. I know it. The WCF faithful know it. And this Sunday in Philadelphia, when you’ve been decimated by old Tom Frost in his debut match, the cold, hard truth of the matter’s gonna hit you like a ton of bricks...if it hasn’t already.
Your riches and your lavish lifestyle have lead you to believe that you’re hot shit, but all you truly are is a steaming pile of it. You’re nothing but a soft little rich kid in a grown man’s body who spends his days lounging around on the beach drinking Coronas as if you were the star of one of their shit commercials. Surf’s up dude! Ready to catch some waves? Well here they come, Rise - here come the waves to batter you mercilessly and bury you beneath them where you belong.
I’ve heard you talk about how there’s no rift between you and anyone else in the WCF, but the one that separates you from me is massive. Don’t catch my meaning? I’ll show you soon enough. In the meantime, enjoy the final days of a life having not encountered the meanest motherfucker you’ll ever go toe-to-toe with. After Sunday, you’ll never be the same.
Tom flicks his cigarette into the flames and turns around, making his way toward an open door nearby. He enters and turns on the light. It’s his bathroom, and he chuckles to see his old basset hound lying in the tub. Her tail wags to see Tom as he greets her warmly.
Tom: I wondered where you were. What’s the matter, girl? Them Ridley boys shooting off their guns again?
He bends down and gives the dog some loving before helping her out of the tub. Her face sags and her belly near touches the floor as she stands there watching Tom wash the dog hair down the drain, her tail wagging the whole time. When the tub is clear, Tom plugs the drain and draws a bath. Steam rises from the hot water, and Tom’s eyes find the screen as he continues.
Tom: Few things in this world irritate me more than a chump who talks himself up as a legitimate badass. Which brings me to Axel Blackwood, whose nickname is “Hardcore.” Clever girl, Axel. Even worse, you call yourself a “hardcore genius,” too blinded by your own self-infatuation to realize the term is contradictory by nature. So you say you’re hardcore - just like every other amateur who wrestled in his mom’s backyard - which means that you rely on getting your ass handed to you week in and week out and that you like to use weapons, whether they help you win or not. What kind of genius would prefer to endure pain and rely on weapons to maybe possibly lead him to victory? None. No genius in this world has ever been a “hardcore” wrestler” because none are so foolish as to subject themselves to the kinds of punishment you claim to be proud of taking.
And after your debut match last week, how could anyone believe you when you say you’re “hardcore?” You embarrassed yourself; ate the pin after receiving nothing even close to a vicious beatdown. Nothing quite screams hardcore like allowing your opponent to wipe the floor with you and putting up next to no fight whatsoever. Well I hoped you enjoyed the taste of that pin last week, kid, because you’re an odds-on favorite to make it two straight weeks of hearing the ref count the one-two-three while you lie there helpless on the mat.
Tom dips his hand in the steaming water that continues to pour from the faucet into the tub. He yanks it away quickly, then turns the knob to cool the flowing water off a bit. His basset hound licks at his wet hand eagerly, sopping up the droplets that fall to the floor. He reaches into the cabinet nearby and pulls out a half empty bottle of Wild Turkey. After a big gulp, his eyes turn toward the screen.
Tom: Now we’re entering virgin territory. One such WCF virgin goes by, simply, Devil.
Fucking hell. “Devil?”
Tom sighs and shakes his head before reaching over and lighting up another cigarette. He exhales before continuing.
Tom: Here’s another one of those so-called “hardcore” wrestlers that are a dime a dozen. But if Alex Blackwood’s claim of being hardcore is any indication, I won’t take your word for it, Devil. You’re going to have to prove it to me and all those people watching our match this Sunday. You’ve never stepped foot inside a WCF ring, and while the same can be said of me, I know for a fact I’m going to bring the heat when that bell rings. I know for a fact that I want it more than you. I know for a fact that I’m better than you. And you can bet your ass I’m going to prove it.
You might as well call me God or Jesus Christ, because I’m gonna bury you so deep that you’ll never find your way back to the surface. You know what they say about the Devil, don’t you...Devil? That you got to keep him way down in the hole. It’s that dark, lonely place you’ve been hiding in for years on end, and this Sunday you’ll finally be allowed a fleeting glimpse of the light. It’ll be when you’re walking down that aisle; when you see the thousands of eyes focused on your every move; when you’re under the bright lights and inside a WCF ring. But once I get these hands on you, all that light’s gonna fade, and I’m gonna fling you back down that bottomless pit.
I’ve never feared the thought of the real devil. I’ve got him on a leash. Always have. So tell me, Devil: why would I fear the confrontation with a fake one?
He reaches over and shuts off the faucet. The tub is full now, and he strips down and dips his feet in. Thanks to some clever camera work, we’re spared the sight of seeing old Tom Frost in the nude, and he lowers himself into the water. He takes a drag, exhales, and lets out a groan of extreme comfort before he continues.
Tom: Don’t mind me, Menaki - though I doubt you’d mind the sight of me butt-naked in a tub anyway. Not because you’re gay or anything. I’ve just heard tales about how you don’t like to see anyone get bullied, meaning you’re a pretty tolerant man aside from allowing others to take shit from others. Well I’m a tolerant man myself...for the most part. I don’t mind that you prefer the company of men. Hell, I admire your bravery in admitting it in a sport that pats itself on the ass for being so goddamn machismo despite the fact that man on man contact is the name of the game. What I don’t tolerate, however, is being bested in a fight, be it one-on-one or a brawl like ours this Sunday is sure to be.
You’re a big old boy, huh, Menaki? You’re what like 10 ft tall and 500 lbs or some shit right? Am I supposed to make some kind of David and Goliath reference at this point, talk about how I’m not concerned with our size differential and how good will always win out in the end. Well, I mean...I’m not concerned about your size, but when it comes down to it, you seem like a pretty good dude, so that’s not a comparison I’m going to make.
That doesn’t mean I’m gonna hold back though. Hell, if anything, it means I’m gonna go harder on you than all these other schlubs. Honestly, I see you as my only true threat this Sunday, so when I go to work on you early and often, don’t take offense. I’m not trying to bully you...I’m just trying to beat the ever living piss out of you and, best case scenario, pin your big ass for three. Because while pinning anyone for the win would be a-ok with me, pinning the top talent in the match and perhaps the only guy with a future in this company would make me one satisfied motherfucker when I’m walking back up that ramp on my way to get shitfaced at the nearest hole in the wall.
Or am I wrong about you; are you just like the others? It’s too early to tell. Like me, you’re a WCF virgin. Well allow me to pop that cherry for you, you big fuck. You’re gonna bleed and bleed, and come Monday morning you’re gonna be sore as you were the day after you first took it in the ass - oops, did I cross the line? I mean, it can’t have felt good...and neither will dropping your debut bout to old Tom Frost.
But when I’m an established player in this company, that pain will subside, and you’ll look back on our first match with new eyes. Patience though, my friend, that day’s still a ways off. Until then, grin and bear it. At this point, that’s all you can do.
Tom takes one final drag of his cigarette before he flicks it toward his submerged feet. The ember sizzles out, and the drenched cigarette bobs with the small waves that dance to and fro in the tub as his gruff voice sounds once more.
Tom: Well, that about does it. Goodnight folks.
He slides down and dunks his head in the water as his feet slide up out of the tub. A few seconds pass before he sits up slowly, and he blows the dripping water away from his mouth and slicks back his hair as his cold eyes find the screen again.
Tom: God damn, I missed one. Rumpke - how could I forget?
Pretty easily, actually. Nothing about you stands out from the rest of the herd. You’re a drug addict, so good on you for that. But hey, who am I to talk? I smoke like a chimney and drink like a fish. It’ll catch up to me someday, but it hasn’t slowed me down yet. You’re a brawler - like myself, really - and, oh, wouldn’t you know it. Another “hardcore” piece of shit. Another dumbass amateur who thinks he knows what pain is and thinks he’s got a high tolerance for it. Well I don’t mean to sound like Buffalo Bill when I say that you don’t know what pain is...but you don’t. Wait a few more days and you’ll be able to say it; wait a few more days and I’ll show you how to fight like you’ve always aspired to.
I’ve done my homework on you, kid. You remind me of the buffoons I lay to waste damn near every time I walk into Lou’s and sit down for a drink or twenty. In fact, I thought of you when I was pummeling those two earlier tonight before I got kicked to the curb by big Lou himself. And what I did to them is exactly what I’m gonna do to you.
Only thing you got going for you is that you’re not afraid to fight dirty. When you’re up against me in the ring this Sunday though, you’re gonna have to take that cheating shit to new heights. If I were you, I might try to smuggle or knife in, or better yet a gun. You won’t put me down easy, and some kind of lethal weapon is your only hope.
My advice? Keep your distance from old Tom Frost. In a match with seven guys running around trying to kill each other, you might just get lucky and end up being able to hide for long enough to evade the fiercest ass-kicking you’ll ever receive.
Just then a few gunshots go off outside along with some hootin and hollerin. It’s the shots that startle Tom’s basset hound though, and she scampers to her feet and leaps into the tub frantically.
Tom: Ah goddamnit girl, come on!
The hound is beside herself, and Tom’s initial shock turns to laughter as he tries to lift her out of the tub and set her on the ground. He finally manages to do so, climbing out and drying off as she shivers and wines at his feet. He dries her off too, then throws on a robe and slippers and makes his way out of the bathroom and toward the back door. He turns the knob and swings the door open before he steps outside just as another gunshot goes off in the night.
Tom: Hey! The hell you boys doing?
A couple teenagers - the Ridley twins who live next door - flee back inside when they hear him, slamming the door behind them.
Tom stands there for a moment. The snow has stopped and the sky has cleared, revealing the moon shining brightly overhead. He walks over toward an old piano that sits beneath his covered patio and sits down at the bench.
Tom: Come on out here girl, it’s alright. They’re gone now. Come on out and sing with me.
He hits a chord on the piano, and the basset hound makes her way out, still uneasy. When she realizes it’s just her and her master though, she makes his way to his side.
He plays a string of notes on the old piano. It’s out of tune, though he works the keys as he has a million times. It’s hauntingly beautiful, and his deep, gruff voice breaks out in song. Soon, his basset hound joins in, and together they howl at the moon as the scene fades to black.
Speaking of which, the once still downtown scene comes to life, if only with the side door of a small brick building across the street being swung open. The dim light from within pours out into the dark alley alongside it, though it’s soon blotted out by a whale of man - Lou, the owner of the establishment - who shoves another man into the alley. His booming voice echoes atop the sound of the lonely trumpet.
Lou: Right on time, ain’t you, Tom? Every Sunday night!
The massive man moves out of the doorway for the briefest of moments, and we catch a glimpse of the man he’s just thrown out. He wears a dingy suit and an old trilby hat. A stream of smoke rises from his cigarette as his gruff, scratchy voice fills the alley.
Tom Frost: They had it coming to ‘em.
The fat man’s reply is filled with anger and sarcasm.
Lou: Just like they always do.
Tom Frost: Don’t worry, Lou - I won’t be around to cause a fuss in here on Sundays no more.
Lou scoffs.
Lou: Yeah, like you got somewhere better to be than hunched over my bar.
Tom Frost: Yeah, I -
The door slams shut, and the alley is dark once more. The ember of the man’s cigarette glows for a few seconds as he takes a deep drag. A cloud of smoke rises up as he exhales, and he finishes his sentence to no one in particular.
Tom Frost: I do.
He exits the dark alley across the street, and as we get our first real glimpse of old Tom Frost, the lonely trumpet gets some accompaniment. A bass line booms into existence, descending only to ascend once more, and the light, rhythmic “tsk-tsk-ing” of a drum gives the music new life. The horn perks up, and the camera catches up to Tom, positioning itself a few feet in front of him as he stumbles down Kentucky Ave. His tie is loose, his suit is worn and frayed, and his hat collects the falling snow in its upturned brim and indented crown.
He takes another deep drag from his cigarette as his low, gruff voice narrates from the nether.
“Another Sunday ‘round midnight in Darling. God damn. I’ve spent every weekend for the last 20-some years walking these streets alone. Go ahead and add this one to the tally.”
He pulls out a pint of Wild Turkey from his inside coat pocket and takes a long swig before tucking it back in.
“But that’s all about to change.”
Distant sirens draw near as Tom approaches the end of the sidewalk. He reaches the corner and steps out into the road, only to jump back just in time to avoid being run over by an ambulance that turns down the street. It makes its way toward the small building from which Tom has just come, and he chuckles to himself as he looks down at the raw knuckles on each of his hands. He proceeds forward, and narrator Tom does the same.
“Them boys will be fine. Ain’t gonna have to pull the white sheet over them just yet. Their noses and jaws will heal up given time, though I don’t imagine their big boy teeth are gonna grow back in any time soon. But hey, they should’ve known not to fuck with old Tom Frost by now. I’ve got a reputation in this town for two things: singing a tune, and dishing out a licking. Tonight I did both, and I didn’t make a dime doing either. Well, consider this the last time I provide my services for free.”
The ember from his cigarette fades as it reaches the butt, and Tom pulls out another from a metal case before lighting it up and inhaling deeply.
“Hicks, man. Country folk. That’s what this place is made of primarily. Folks here wouldn’t know a good tune to save their life, and my gruff old voice doesn’t come with that clean twang they find on the radio. I must’ve chosen the worst town in America to be born and raised in considering my desire to make music. But I love it here all the same. That’s why I never left. Sure, I had the chance to get outta dodge years back. Could’ve hit it big on the east coast, they said. And wouldn’t you know it, I fucked it up.
But my music and all, that’s a story for another day. Tonight, it ain’t my singing career on the forefront of my mind...
It’s my wrestling career.”
Tom laughs aloud as the voice inside his head relays it to us. He pulls out his Wild Turkey, downs another few gulps, and tucks it away once more.
“My wrestling career - that’s right. Because it’s like I said: I’ve got a reputation for two things. One got me here, which by all means is as close to nowhere as you could possibly be. The other though - fighting; beating a son of bitch to a pulp - well I never thought to put my skill for doing that to good use.
WCF, it’s called. You know the one. Everyone does. It’s the top wrestling promotion the world over, chock-full of some of the baddest dudes on the planet. And you’re looking at one right now. You’re looking at a man who’s never lost a fight. Sure, I’ve taken my share of beatings, but I’ve always managed to deal out more punishment than I’ve been dealt.
That’s not to say I imagine myself going undefeated in the world of professional wrestling. I imagine I’ll get my ass handed to me on occasion, but I’ll tell you this: I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I was capable. I know damn well I am. I’m not made of glass like other newcomers who think they’ve got what it takes to make it in the WCF. I’m tough as nails; my chin’s a god damn block of steel. I can take a beating just as well as I can dish one out, and anyone who steps into the ring with me’s gonna know just how fucked they are the moment they either land a blow or take one to the skull. I’ve been in countless fights, and they’ve all lead up to the one I’m taking part in next Sunday.
First off, there’s - ”
Tom’s voice cuts off, as do the horn, bass, and drums as a screen door slams shut out of sight. Tom looks over at the house to his right, and we pan over to see an old, gray woman in a fancy blue dress.
Tom: Evening, Miss Susan. What are you doing up so late?
Miss Susan: Evening, Tom Frost. My you look handsome.
She bats her eyes at him, doing her best to look bashful despite the thick layer of makeup that covers her face.
Tom nods drunkenly and takes another drag from his cigarette.
Tom: Cold out here, you oughta go in and lay down by the fire.
He begins to saunter off as Miss Susan calls out.
Miss Susan: Saw you at the lounge Thursday. Wonderful performance by you and the boys. You were particularly lovely.
Tom turns and begins to walk backward as he shouts a response.
Tom: My thanks as always, Miss Susan. Go on to bed now.
Miss Susan: Alright then, see you next Thursday!
Tom tips his hat and turns back around, continuing forward toward his home at the end of the block. A couple of stray dogs run past him, and Tom watches them disappear into the forest across the street. As they do, the same groove-laden tune slowly builds up in volume until it reaches its previous level, and Tom’s voice begins to narrate once more.
“My biggest admirer - the old bag. Ain’t I lucky? She’s had her eyes on me since I was a boy. Real creep, Miss Susan. She’s managed to tone it down the past few years. At least she doesn’t come around the old home place anymore. Time was, I’d have to chase her off with a broom every other night. Now she just sits by the window and watches the world go by...poor thing. Though I must admit, I don’t feel sorry for her.
Nor do I hold any sympathy for those making up the ship of fools I’m squaring off against next Sunday, if we can get back on track.
The bossman’s seen fit to pit me against six others in my debut match. The odds don’t concern me in the slightest. Rumpke, Devil, Rise, Menaki, Axel Blackwood, and Fuego Del Eternio Infierno Silencioso...jesus, what a fucking tragedy of a name that is. And what a fucking tragedy it’s going to be for all of them when the bell rings and our match gets underway, because I’m gonna lay waste to each and every one of them before I pin one or the other for three. And when the final bell rings, it’s gonna be old Tom Frost standing tall amidst a sea of broken men.”
He turns up a narrow driveway toward a tiny, run-down home. A rusty 1971 Oldsmobile ‘88 sits in the driveway, and Tom kicks it with his boot as he passes by. He reaches the front door and enters his humble abode. The door slams shut, and the music ceases as the camera cuts to within.
A low fire blazes in a stone fireplace in the living room, and Tom plops down on the couch nearby. He kicks off his boots and slides out of his jacket, careful to remove his Wild Turkey and cigarette case before draping it over the back of the couch. He places his hat on the cushion next to him, revealing his bushy, graying hair, and he takes a final swig of Wild Turkey before tossing the empty bottle on the floor.
He takes out a cigarette, lights it up, and stares ahead in contemplation. His eyes reflect the flames as he speaks.
Tom: Fuego Del Etern - no, no. Fuego. That’s what I’m going to call you, because I refuse to repeat your ridiculous name in full more than once. You’re the only true WCF veteran - relatively speaking - amongst myself and our mutual opponents this Sunday.
That should be taken with a grain of salt, of course, seeing how you’ve done next to nothing since you came onto the scene last fall. You haven’t spoken a single word, and you certainly haven’t proven yourself in the ring. All you’ve done is, you know...rage internally with eternal hellfire as you make a mockery of yourself and others who you’re supposed to take from; others who can actually hold their own in a fight. But you can’t, Fuego - not with me or damn near anyone who’s capable of lasting more than a few weeks in the WCF. It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long, but after I’m through with you on Sunday, my guess is the only thing you’ll be raging with internally is whether or not you should just hang up your boots and make the lonely trek home for good.
Your silence outside the ring is supposed to be counter-balanced by how much noise you make inside it. This Sunday though, the millions of fans watching all over the world will be able to hear a pin drop when it comes to how much noise you’ll make between the ropes. Your impact will be a silent one as usual, but the impact of your spine crashing down to the mat - should you be so unfortunate as to fall victim to being the closest living thing to me when I’m finally ready to put an end to the bout - will be heard loud and clear around the world...and especially in the WCF locker room.
Tom rises to his feet and exhales another cloud of smoke as he continues.
Tom: Then there’s you, Rise - the self proclaimed “next big thing in the WCF.” Do you know how many others have been in your stead, new to the wrestling world and quick to declare themselves the next big thing? Their numbers are countless, and the moment you declared yourself as such you became just another statistic. If you were truly going to be the next top star of the WCF - the next Corey Black, the next Jonny Fly, the next Bobby Cairo, the next Joey Flash - you wouldn’t have to declare it in some disastrous promo. You’d be able to do so in the ring without speaking a word.
But that’s not something you’re capable of, is it, Rise? Because though you may have a certain level of dedication and desire, it’s readily apparent that you’re not the next big thing. I know it. The WCF faithful know it. And this Sunday in Philadelphia, when you’ve been decimated by old Tom Frost in his debut match, the cold, hard truth of the matter’s gonna hit you like a ton of bricks...if it hasn’t already.
Your riches and your lavish lifestyle have lead you to believe that you’re hot shit, but all you truly are is a steaming pile of it. You’re nothing but a soft little rich kid in a grown man’s body who spends his days lounging around on the beach drinking Coronas as if you were the star of one of their shit commercials. Surf’s up dude! Ready to catch some waves? Well here they come, Rise - here come the waves to batter you mercilessly and bury you beneath them where you belong.
I’ve heard you talk about how there’s no rift between you and anyone else in the WCF, but the one that separates you from me is massive. Don’t catch my meaning? I’ll show you soon enough. In the meantime, enjoy the final days of a life having not encountered the meanest motherfucker you’ll ever go toe-to-toe with. After Sunday, you’ll never be the same.
Tom flicks his cigarette into the flames and turns around, making his way toward an open door nearby. He enters and turns on the light. It’s his bathroom, and he chuckles to see his old basset hound lying in the tub. Her tail wags to see Tom as he greets her warmly.
Tom: I wondered where you were. What’s the matter, girl? Them Ridley boys shooting off their guns again?
He bends down and gives the dog some loving before helping her out of the tub. Her face sags and her belly near touches the floor as she stands there watching Tom wash the dog hair down the drain, her tail wagging the whole time. When the tub is clear, Tom plugs the drain and draws a bath. Steam rises from the hot water, and Tom’s eyes find the screen as he continues.
Tom: Few things in this world irritate me more than a chump who talks himself up as a legitimate badass. Which brings me to Axel Blackwood, whose nickname is “Hardcore.” Clever girl, Axel. Even worse, you call yourself a “hardcore genius,” too blinded by your own self-infatuation to realize the term is contradictory by nature. So you say you’re hardcore - just like every other amateur who wrestled in his mom’s backyard - which means that you rely on getting your ass handed to you week in and week out and that you like to use weapons, whether they help you win or not. What kind of genius would prefer to endure pain and rely on weapons to maybe possibly lead him to victory? None. No genius in this world has ever been a “hardcore” wrestler” because none are so foolish as to subject themselves to the kinds of punishment you claim to be proud of taking.
And after your debut match last week, how could anyone believe you when you say you’re “hardcore?” You embarrassed yourself; ate the pin after receiving nothing even close to a vicious beatdown. Nothing quite screams hardcore like allowing your opponent to wipe the floor with you and putting up next to no fight whatsoever. Well I hoped you enjoyed the taste of that pin last week, kid, because you’re an odds-on favorite to make it two straight weeks of hearing the ref count the one-two-three while you lie there helpless on the mat.
Tom dips his hand in the steaming water that continues to pour from the faucet into the tub. He yanks it away quickly, then turns the knob to cool the flowing water off a bit. His basset hound licks at his wet hand eagerly, sopping up the droplets that fall to the floor. He reaches into the cabinet nearby and pulls out a half empty bottle of Wild Turkey. After a big gulp, his eyes turn toward the screen.
Tom: Now we’re entering virgin territory. One such WCF virgin goes by, simply, Devil.
Fucking hell. “Devil?”
Tom sighs and shakes his head before reaching over and lighting up another cigarette. He exhales before continuing.
Tom: Here’s another one of those so-called “hardcore” wrestlers that are a dime a dozen. But if Alex Blackwood’s claim of being hardcore is any indication, I won’t take your word for it, Devil. You’re going to have to prove it to me and all those people watching our match this Sunday. You’ve never stepped foot inside a WCF ring, and while the same can be said of me, I know for a fact I’m going to bring the heat when that bell rings. I know for a fact that I want it more than you. I know for a fact that I’m better than you. And you can bet your ass I’m going to prove it.
You might as well call me God or Jesus Christ, because I’m gonna bury you so deep that you’ll never find your way back to the surface. You know what they say about the Devil, don’t you...Devil? That you got to keep him way down in the hole. It’s that dark, lonely place you’ve been hiding in for years on end, and this Sunday you’ll finally be allowed a fleeting glimpse of the light. It’ll be when you’re walking down that aisle; when you see the thousands of eyes focused on your every move; when you’re under the bright lights and inside a WCF ring. But once I get these hands on you, all that light’s gonna fade, and I’m gonna fling you back down that bottomless pit.
I’ve never feared the thought of the real devil. I’ve got him on a leash. Always have. So tell me, Devil: why would I fear the confrontation with a fake one?
He reaches over and shuts off the faucet. The tub is full now, and he strips down and dips his feet in. Thanks to some clever camera work, we’re spared the sight of seeing old Tom Frost in the nude, and he lowers himself into the water. He takes a drag, exhales, and lets out a groan of extreme comfort before he continues.
Tom: Don’t mind me, Menaki - though I doubt you’d mind the sight of me butt-naked in a tub anyway. Not because you’re gay or anything. I’ve just heard tales about how you don’t like to see anyone get bullied, meaning you’re a pretty tolerant man aside from allowing others to take shit from others. Well I’m a tolerant man myself...for the most part. I don’t mind that you prefer the company of men. Hell, I admire your bravery in admitting it in a sport that pats itself on the ass for being so goddamn machismo despite the fact that man on man contact is the name of the game. What I don’t tolerate, however, is being bested in a fight, be it one-on-one or a brawl like ours this Sunday is sure to be.
You’re a big old boy, huh, Menaki? You’re what like 10 ft tall and 500 lbs or some shit right? Am I supposed to make some kind of David and Goliath reference at this point, talk about how I’m not concerned with our size differential and how good will always win out in the end. Well, I mean...I’m not concerned about your size, but when it comes down to it, you seem like a pretty good dude, so that’s not a comparison I’m going to make.
That doesn’t mean I’m gonna hold back though. Hell, if anything, it means I’m gonna go harder on you than all these other schlubs. Honestly, I see you as my only true threat this Sunday, so when I go to work on you early and often, don’t take offense. I’m not trying to bully you...I’m just trying to beat the ever living piss out of you and, best case scenario, pin your big ass for three. Because while pinning anyone for the win would be a-ok with me, pinning the top talent in the match and perhaps the only guy with a future in this company would make me one satisfied motherfucker when I’m walking back up that ramp on my way to get shitfaced at the nearest hole in the wall.
Or am I wrong about you; are you just like the others? It’s too early to tell. Like me, you’re a WCF virgin. Well allow me to pop that cherry for you, you big fuck. You’re gonna bleed and bleed, and come Monday morning you’re gonna be sore as you were the day after you first took it in the ass - oops, did I cross the line? I mean, it can’t have felt good...and neither will dropping your debut bout to old Tom Frost.
But when I’m an established player in this company, that pain will subside, and you’ll look back on our first match with new eyes. Patience though, my friend, that day’s still a ways off. Until then, grin and bear it. At this point, that’s all you can do.
Tom takes one final drag of his cigarette before he flicks it toward his submerged feet. The ember sizzles out, and the drenched cigarette bobs with the small waves that dance to and fro in the tub as his gruff voice sounds once more.
Tom: Well, that about does it. Goodnight folks.
He slides down and dunks his head in the water as his feet slide up out of the tub. A few seconds pass before he sits up slowly, and he blows the dripping water away from his mouth and slicks back his hair as his cold eyes find the screen again.
Tom: God damn, I missed one. Rumpke - how could I forget?
Pretty easily, actually. Nothing about you stands out from the rest of the herd. You’re a drug addict, so good on you for that. But hey, who am I to talk? I smoke like a chimney and drink like a fish. It’ll catch up to me someday, but it hasn’t slowed me down yet. You’re a brawler - like myself, really - and, oh, wouldn’t you know it. Another “hardcore” piece of shit. Another dumbass amateur who thinks he knows what pain is and thinks he’s got a high tolerance for it. Well I don’t mean to sound like Buffalo Bill when I say that you don’t know what pain is...but you don’t. Wait a few more days and you’ll be able to say it; wait a few more days and I’ll show you how to fight like you’ve always aspired to.
I’ve done my homework on you, kid. You remind me of the buffoons I lay to waste damn near every time I walk into Lou’s and sit down for a drink or twenty. In fact, I thought of you when I was pummeling those two earlier tonight before I got kicked to the curb by big Lou himself. And what I did to them is exactly what I’m gonna do to you.
Only thing you got going for you is that you’re not afraid to fight dirty. When you’re up against me in the ring this Sunday though, you’re gonna have to take that cheating shit to new heights. If I were you, I might try to smuggle or knife in, or better yet a gun. You won’t put me down easy, and some kind of lethal weapon is your only hope.
My advice? Keep your distance from old Tom Frost. In a match with seven guys running around trying to kill each other, you might just get lucky and end up being able to hide for long enough to evade the fiercest ass-kicking you’ll ever receive.
Just then a few gunshots go off outside along with some hootin and hollerin. It’s the shots that startle Tom’s basset hound though, and she scampers to her feet and leaps into the tub frantically.
Tom: Ah goddamnit girl, come on!
The hound is beside herself, and Tom’s initial shock turns to laughter as he tries to lift her out of the tub and set her on the ground. He finally manages to do so, climbing out and drying off as she shivers and wines at his feet. He dries her off too, then throws on a robe and slippers and makes his way out of the bathroom and toward the back door. He turns the knob and swings the door open before he steps outside just as another gunshot goes off in the night.
Tom: Hey! The hell you boys doing?
A couple teenagers - the Ridley twins who live next door - flee back inside when they hear him, slamming the door behind them.
Tom stands there for a moment. The snow has stopped and the sky has cleared, revealing the moon shining brightly overhead. He walks over toward an old piano that sits beneath his covered patio and sits down at the bench.
Tom: Come on out here girl, it’s alright. They’re gone now. Come on out and sing with me.
He hits a chord on the piano, and the basset hound makes her way out, still uneasy. When she realizes it’s just her and her master though, she makes his way to his side.
He plays a string of notes on the old piano. It’s out of tune, though he works the keys as he has a million times. It’s hauntingly beautiful, and his deep, gruff voice breaks out in song. Soon, his basset hound joins in, and together they howl at the moon as the scene fades to black.