Post by Deleted on Apr 12, 2012 8:52:09 GMT -5
(The human foot is a profoundly versatile instrument that can be used to perform a great many tasks, including striking a human face. This is a lesson that one Robert Heathcliff Cairo has learned the hard way against long-time friend and current day sparring partner Chadwick Lenore Evans. Chad and Bobby are working together to train Chad for his upcoming bout against "Jam Willy Jesus" at XIII. To see them go at it one would think that they were the hated rivals locked in the midst of blood feud, preparing to end each others lives on the most violent of wrestling pay-per-views. At the moment though... it's hardly a competitive match-up inside of that ring. Chad looks positively dandy as he lights up his mentor with a plethora of kicks and punches. There's really no disputing that Chad is in charge of this contest.
Both men are decked to the nines in their prototypical wrestling gear, the only difference between this and a standard bout that you might see on Slam is the lack of a referee. There is a crowd, though. Hundreds of spectators have filled the spacious forum to witness Evans and Cairo throw down, and a brief survey of the audience indicates that the crowd of onlookers are bedazzled by the speed and precision of Chad's strikes. Bobby Cairo is not quite so enamored with Chad's performance at the moment. No, sir (or madam). Truth be told Bobby Cairo is being floored again and again, his cranium rocked by the impact of each blow from Chad, as if he were the victim of a cycle of repeated head-on automobile collisions. This is Hell for any world class grappler, the feeling of being picked apart by an elite striker whose speed and footwork are superior to his own.
Veteran instincts and a general ring savvy are what keeps Cairo alive in this full contact practice session. As Chad attempts yet another kick, Bobby grabs a foot, tucks it under his arm and rolls to the mat, forcefully flipping Chad's body to the mat with his. Bobby leans back on the mat, extending Chad's leg and then tweaking the ankle with a heel hook submission. Chad's face contorts -- he grimaces with pain and lets out a yell before tapping Cairo's glittery gold boom-boom (his ass, in other words). In the blink of an eye Cairo relinquishes the hold and Chad hops up on one foot, obviously frustrated by the sudden, disastrous turn of events. Chad lets out a curse and walks over to a corner of the ring with a slight limp in his step, letting out his frustration with a punch to the center of the top turnbuckle pad.
The defenseless turnbuckle pad is crimson in color, a trademark of Crimson House Dojo; this is the sprawling, state of the art, cross-training complex in Hartford, Connecticut, co-founded by Cairo and head trainer Bolts Quackenbush, where Chad has been training for the last few months to prepare for his return to WCF. The crowd that had been watching Chad and Bobby go at it is comprised of the many dozens of trainers, coaches and fighters that call Crimson House their home. As the action has drawn to a close, the members of the crowd begin to disperse, returning to their own work. Chad's trainer, the aforementioned Bolts Quackenbush, climbs onto the apron with a towel and water bottle in hand. Bolts, who appears for all the world to be the spitting image of the late George Carlin, consoles Chad while handing him the towel and the water.
Sweat droplets glisten from Chad's pores before he swipes them away with the towel. Then he takes a drink of water, replenishing his body's fluids that were lost in battle. Bobby approaches Chad, slapping him on the shoulder to draw his attention.)
Bobby Cairo: "You were doing great, but you got caught up listening to the crowd. You gave me that opening, Chad. If I can find it, then Jam Willy can find it."
(Chad scoffs, clearly holding little respect for the man that he is preparing to face in mere days.)
Chad Evans: "Pfft. You're a much better grappler than him, Bobby. The man is a barroom brawler, a street fighter, a mindless thug, nothing more. Sure, you caught me... kudos to you. Fucking kudos. Jam Willy will never do it, though. He's not on my level. He's not on your level. He's just a stepping stone, a warm-up before I get to the real competition."
(Bobby shakes his head. He's not liking what he's hearing from his protege. He's not buying into a word of it. He can't afford to and neither can Chad.)
BC: "On paper I'm superior to Jam Willy as a grappler... but matches aren't won and lost on fucking paper, Chad! Get your goddamned head in the game. Do you want to beat this man?"
(Chad nods his head in the affirmative.)
CE: "I want to kill the motherfucker."
BC: "Then do us both a favor and work with me here, Chad. Listen to what I'm telling you. Respect the technique. Don't sweat it. Don't let it drag you down, but peep this shit and respect it. Commit it to memory. While you're thinking about that, think about this: All I did was tweak your ankle. Jam Willy would love to do a hell of a lot more than that. He would love to put his boot through your skull with a goddamn curb stomp."
(Chad lets out a disconcerted sigh -- he realizes that what Bobby is saying is the truth, but the wear and tear of another ten hour training day is clearly getting to him. Chad opts against offering a verbal response, he just listens to what Bobby has to say.)
BC: "Did you see what Willy did to King Jimmy? Clubbed him over the head with a tire jack without warning, without rhyme or reason. Did you see what Willy did to Switches at One? Tossed him from the rafters of Wells Fargo Arena through a stack of tables. The only reason why Switches is still competing is because he CANNOT FEEL PAIN. It's from all that PCP he smokes, the rock cocaine... anyway, do you want to be next on Jam Willy's hitlist? Do you want to spend another two years on the sideline? Does that sound like a good time to you, Chadwick?"
(Chad shakes his head, a disgusted look permeating his grill.)
CE: "Fuck no, man, Bobby. If I lose to that motherfucker then I might as well have stayed retired."
BC: "This ain't about just wins and losses, Chad. This is about life and limb."
(Chad is nonplussed. He really doesn't need to hear all of this. However, Bobby is persistent. He rests a hand on Chad's shoulder and locks him eye-to-eye.)
BC: "I'm telling you this because we're friends, Chad. You saved my life back in New Mexico and maybe, just maybe I'm saving yours by getting you into the proper mindset to face this fucking maniac."
(Chad's look softens... he relents in his opposition to Bobby's line of dialog. Bobby's look also softens. It's as if they've achieved an unspoken mutual understanding.)
BC: "Alright, uh... why don't you hit the showers and then grab some food from the cafeteria? We'll meet back here in an hour."
CE: "Sounds like a plan, man."
(Chad and Bobby exchange a fist bump and then Chad climbs through the ropes and hops off the apron, a towel covering his head as he makes his way from the main training floor of the Crimson House Dojo to the locker room area.)
(Chad is now sitting at a table in the Crimson House cafeteria, having showered and changed into a black and white track suit. A half-eaten turkey and Swiss sandwich rests on a plate in front of him. Chad is seated alone at the table. He appears to be pondering some deep thoughts as he remains seated upright in his chair, staring down at the table. Suddenly Chad lifts his head, casting his baby blue eyes straight ahead into the camera lens that he had not previously acknowledged.)
CE: "And so it begins. I have been booked to compete against 'The Madman From The Badlands' Jam Willy Jesus in a straight professional wrestling match at XIII. I guess you've seen that I've been training my ass off for this match, taking my lumps, but that's part of the game. I'm not going to lie, I feel anxious going into this match. Wouldn't you? I've waited two years for this moment. I've put my mind and body through absolute hell every day for this moment, first during physical rehab while dealing with the effects of post-concussion syndrome, and then during my training here at Crimson House. I've spent no less than ten hours a day locked in a gym, engaged in unbridled, no-holds-barred combat with workhorses such as Bobby Cairo and Phillip Baines. That's the dedication that I have for my craft. That's the discipline that I have as a competitor. So yes, after all of this hard work, sacrifice and anticipation, I'm feeling some anxiety as my first wrestling match in nearly two years draws nearer. I'll tell you one thing that I'm not feeling though -- fear."
(Chad shakes his head as the word parts his lips -- a flat out denial that such an emotion could ever seep into his mind. His unflinching eyes and focused expression seem to confirm this claim.)
CE: "I don't fear my opponent at XIII. I don't fear some asshole redneck with a violence fetish. I don't fear you, Jam Willy Jesus. I've taken on MS-13 all by myself, so if you think that desolate, Fargo-slash-Coen brothers inspired bullshit image that you've concocted for yourself can get inside of my head then you better keep on walking, motherfucker. Do not pass Go, do not collect two-hundred dollars and do not, I repeat DO NOT show up in Tokyo, Japan on Friday night."
(Chad's nostrils flare and his eyes grow live with rage. He quickly calms himself, but it's obvious that he's feeling very emotional right now.)
CE: "The simple truth is that no matter what you did before our match I was never going to respect you, Willy. You're human vermin. You're white trash. You're jobber fodder to fill out the bottom of the card on any given Slam. You're the only man on the WCF roster who's failed to get into Shannan Lerch's pants. Like I said, I was never going to respect you, but there was once a time when I was at least going to show you the professional courtesy of simply treating this like a wrestling match. There was once a time when I was going to allow you to walk away with your health and career mostly intact after I defeated you. Now that cannot be -- not after the stunt that you pulled on Sunday Night Slam. In case you don't realize it, shit for brains, that man that you attacked is one of my closest friends in this world. That man that you cheap-shotted from behind like a coward with your tire jack is my former tag team partner."
(Chad shakes his head in disgust. He can no longer hide his emotions. A hateful scowl has now spread across Chad's face.)
CE: "That man is sitting in a hospital right now with a grade III concussion because of you, Willy. I get real defensive when somebody attacks one of my friends. I also get real defensive about the issue of concussions. I'm sure that you can imagine what I'm feeling right now. To say that I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of you and leave your paralyzed body in a desert to be picked apart by vultures as you scream for help is an understatement. Maybe none of that matters to you though. Maybe you're too stupid to understand the seriousness of the position that you find yourself in. You were certainly too stupid to understand that I did you a favor by agreeing to wrestle you at XIII in the first place. You were too stupid to realize that I was offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You were too stupid to realize that by facing me, even in a losing effort, you were going to get a career boost. Now I'll end your career, you miserable son of a bitch. And if, IF you're fortunate enough to retain the use of your extremities when I'm done with you, you can crawl back into whatever festering goat anus that you crawled out of there in Bumfuck, North Dakota."
(Chad clears his throat and takes a deep breath, calming himself one last time before delivering his parting words. Chad abruptly rises from his seat and steps away from his table. He cracks his knuckles and toes, and then his neck and spine, the voluminous series of popping sounds creating an almost danceable rhythm.)
CE: "Remember this, Willy: The human foot is a profoundly versatile instrument. It can be used to perform a great many tasks... including dancing on a dead man's grave."
(With a snap of his fingers Chad is transported to a graveyard, and with a flick of his wrist Chad is now holding a top hat. Chad places the top hat upon his head, rounding out his ensemble, which now includes a tuxedo and a cane. Chad is standing in front of a gravestone with the name Jam Willy Jesus engraved upon it and an epitaph that reads Fucked with BDS... died like a bitch. Without warning, old-timey Scott Joplin-esque ragtime music plays and Chad shifts into gear as he dances a jig, a psychotic look on his face -- his furious feet pounding out a rhythm in those two-tone shoes as they dance upon the grave of Jesus.)
Both men are decked to the nines in their prototypical wrestling gear, the only difference between this and a standard bout that you might see on Slam is the lack of a referee. There is a crowd, though. Hundreds of spectators have filled the spacious forum to witness Evans and Cairo throw down, and a brief survey of the audience indicates that the crowd of onlookers are bedazzled by the speed and precision of Chad's strikes. Bobby Cairo is not quite so enamored with Chad's performance at the moment. No, sir (or madam). Truth be told Bobby Cairo is being floored again and again, his cranium rocked by the impact of each blow from Chad, as if he were the victim of a cycle of repeated head-on automobile collisions. This is Hell for any world class grappler, the feeling of being picked apart by an elite striker whose speed and footwork are superior to his own.
Veteran instincts and a general ring savvy are what keeps Cairo alive in this full contact practice session. As Chad attempts yet another kick, Bobby grabs a foot, tucks it under his arm and rolls to the mat, forcefully flipping Chad's body to the mat with his. Bobby leans back on the mat, extending Chad's leg and then tweaking the ankle with a heel hook submission. Chad's face contorts -- he grimaces with pain and lets out a yell before tapping Cairo's glittery gold boom-boom (his ass, in other words). In the blink of an eye Cairo relinquishes the hold and Chad hops up on one foot, obviously frustrated by the sudden, disastrous turn of events. Chad lets out a curse and walks over to a corner of the ring with a slight limp in his step, letting out his frustration with a punch to the center of the top turnbuckle pad.
The defenseless turnbuckle pad is crimson in color, a trademark of Crimson House Dojo; this is the sprawling, state of the art, cross-training complex in Hartford, Connecticut, co-founded by Cairo and head trainer Bolts Quackenbush, where Chad has been training for the last few months to prepare for his return to WCF. The crowd that had been watching Chad and Bobby go at it is comprised of the many dozens of trainers, coaches and fighters that call Crimson House their home. As the action has drawn to a close, the members of the crowd begin to disperse, returning to their own work. Chad's trainer, the aforementioned Bolts Quackenbush, climbs onto the apron with a towel and water bottle in hand. Bolts, who appears for all the world to be the spitting image of the late George Carlin, consoles Chad while handing him the towel and the water.
Sweat droplets glisten from Chad's pores before he swipes them away with the towel. Then he takes a drink of water, replenishing his body's fluids that were lost in battle. Bobby approaches Chad, slapping him on the shoulder to draw his attention.)
Bobby Cairo: "You were doing great, but you got caught up listening to the crowd. You gave me that opening, Chad. If I can find it, then Jam Willy can find it."
(Chad scoffs, clearly holding little respect for the man that he is preparing to face in mere days.)
Chad Evans: "Pfft. You're a much better grappler than him, Bobby. The man is a barroom brawler, a street fighter, a mindless thug, nothing more. Sure, you caught me... kudos to you. Fucking kudos. Jam Willy will never do it, though. He's not on my level. He's not on your level. He's just a stepping stone, a warm-up before I get to the real competition."
(Bobby shakes his head. He's not liking what he's hearing from his protege. He's not buying into a word of it. He can't afford to and neither can Chad.)
BC: "On paper I'm superior to Jam Willy as a grappler... but matches aren't won and lost on fucking paper, Chad! Get your goddamned head in the game. Do you want to beat this man?"
(Chad nods his head in the affirmative.)
CE: "I want to kill the motherfucker."
BC: "Then do us both a favor and work with me here, Chad. Listen to what I'm telling you. Respect the technique. Don't sweat it. Don't let it drag you down, but peep this shit and respect it. Commit it to memory. While you're thinking about that, think about this: All I did was tweak your ankle. Jam Willy would love to do a hell of a lot more than that. He would love to put his boot through your skull with a goddamn curb stomp."
(Chad lets out a disconcerted sigh -- he realizes that what Bobby is saying is the truth, but the wear and tear of another ten hour training day is clearly getting to him. Chad opts against offering a verbal response, he just listens to what Bobby has to say.)
BC: "Did you see what Willy did to King Jimmy? Clubbed him over the head with a tire jack without warning, without rhyme or reason. Did you see what Willy did to Switches at One? Tossed him from the rafters of Wells Fargo Arena through a stack of tables. The only reason why Switches is still competing is because he CANNOT FEEL PAIN. It's from all that PCP he smokes, the rock cocaine... anyway, do you want to be next on Jam Willy's hitlist? Do you want to spend another two years on the sideline? Does that sound like a good time to you, Chadwick?"
(Chad shakes his head, a disgusted look permeating his grill.)
CE: "Fuck no, man, Bobby. If I lose to that motherfucker then I might as well have stayed retired."
BC: "This ain't about just wins and losses, Chad. This is about life and limb."
(Chad is nonplussed. He really doesn't need to hear all of this. However, Bobby is persistent. He rests a hand on Chad's shoulder and locks him eye-to-eye.)
BC: "I'm telling you this because we're friends, Chad. You saved my life back in New Mexico and maybe, just maybe I'm saving yours by getting you into the proper mindset to face this fucking maniac."
(Chad's look softens... he relents in his opposition to Bobby's line of dialog. Bobby's look also softens. It's as if they've achieved an unspoken mutual understanding.)
BC: "Alright, uh... why don't you hit the showers and then grab some food from the cafeteria? We'll meet back here in an hour."
CE: "Sounds like a plan, man."
(Chad and Bobby exchange a fist bump and then Chad climbs through the ropes and hops off the apron, a towel covering his head as he makes his way from the main training floor of the Crimson House Dojo to the locker room area.)
(Chad is now sitting at a table in the Crimson House cafeteria, having showered and changed into a black and white track suit. A half-eaten turkey and Swiss sandwich rests on a plate in front of him. Chad is seated alone at the table. He appears to be pondering some deep thoughts as he remains seated upright in his chair, staring down at the table. Suddenly Chad lifts his head, casting his baby blue eyes straight ahead into the camera lens that he had not previously acknowledged.)
CE: "And so it begins. I have been booked to compete against 'The Madman From The Badlands' Jam Willy Jesus in a straight professional wrestling match at XIII. I guess you've seen that I've been training my ass off for this match, taking my lumps, but that's part of the game. I'm not going to lie, I feel anxious going into this match. Wouldn't you? I've waited two years for this moment. I've put my mind and body through absolute hell every day for this moment, first during physical rehab while dealing with the effects of post-concussion syndrome, and then during my training here at Crimson House. I've spent no less than ten hours a day locked in a gym, engaged in unbridled, no-holds-barred combat with workhorses such as Bobby Cairo and Phillip Baines. That's the dedication that I have for my craft. That's the discipline that I have as a competitor. So yes, after all of this hard work, sacrifice and anticipation, I'm feeling some anxiety as my first wrestling match in nearly two years draws nearer. I'll tell you one thing that I'm not feeling though -- fear."
(Chad shakes his head as the word parts his lips -- a flat out denial that such an emotion could ever seep into his mind. His unflinching eyes and focused expression seem to confirm this claim.)
CE: "I don't fear my opponent at XIII. I don't fear some asshole redneck with a violence fetish. I don't fear you, Jam Willy Jesus. I've taken on MS-13 all by myself, so if you think that desolate, Fargo-slash-Coen brothers inspired bullshit image that you've concocted for yourself can get inside of my head then you better keep on walking, motherfucker. Do not pass Go, do not collect two-hundred dollars and do not, I repeat DO NOT show up in Tokyo, Japan on Friday night."
(Chad's nostrils flare and his eyes grow live with rage. He quickly calms himself, but it's obvious that he's feeling very emotional right now.)
CE: "The simple truth is that no matter what you did before our match I was never going to respect you, Willy. You're human vermin. You're white trash. You're jobber fodder to fill out the bottom of the card on any given Slam. You're the only man on the WCF roster who's failed to get into Shannan Lerch's pants. Like I said, I was never going to respect you, but there was once a time when I was at least going to show you the professional courtesy of simply treating this like a wrestling match. There was once a time when I was going to allow you to walk away with your health and career mostly intact after I defeated you. Now that cannot be -- not after the stunt that you pulled on Sunday Night Slam. In case you don't realize it, shit for brains, that man that you attacked is one of my closest friends in this world. That man that you cheap-shotted from behind like a coward with your tire jack is my former tag team partner."
(Chad shakes his head in disgust. He can no longer hide his emotions. A hateful scowl has now spread across Chad's face.)
CE: "That man is sitting in a hospital right now with a grade III concussion because of you, Willy. I get real defensive when somebody attacks one of my friends. I also get real defensive about the issue of concussions. I'm sure that you can imagine what I'm feeling right now. To say that I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of you and leave your paralyzed body in a desert to be picked apart by vultures as you scream for help is an understatement. Maybe none of that matters to you though. Maybe you're too stupid to understand the seriousness of the position that you find yourself in. You were certainly too stupid to understand that I did you a favor by agreeing to wrestle you at XIII in the first place. You were too stupid to realize that I was offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You were too stupid to realize that by facing me, even in a losing effort, you were going to get a career boost. Now I'll end your career, you miserable son of a bitch. And if, IF you're fortunate enough to retain the use of your extremities when I'm done with you, you can crawl back into whatever festering goat anus that you crawled out of there in Bumfuck, North Dakota."
(Chad clears his throat and takes a deep breath, calming himself one last time before delivering his parting words. Chad abruptly rises from his seat and steps away from his table. He cracks his knuckles and toes, and then his neck and spine, the voluminous series of popping sounds creating an almost danceable rhythm.)
CE: "Remember this, Willy: The human foot is a profoundly versatile instrument. It can be used to perform a great many tasks... including dancing on a dead man's grave."
(With a snap of his fingers Chad is transported to a graveyard, and with a flick of his wrist Chad is now holding a top hat. Chad places the top hat upon his head, rounding out his ensemble, which now includes a tuxedo and a cane. Chad is standing in front of a gravestone with the name Jam Willy Jesus engraved upon it and an epitaph that reads Fucked with BDS... died like a bitch. Without warning, old-timey Scott Joplin-esque ragtime music plays and Chad shifts into gear as he dances a jig, a psychotic look on his face -- his furious feet pounding out a rhythm in those two-tone shoes as they dance upon the grave of Jesus.)
