Post by Cormack MacNeill on Jan 26, 2014 15:58:07 GMT -5
Scene opens on a snowy parking lot.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014, 0530 hrs
The scene pans left to show that same building shown before, standing resiliently in the face of the driving wind. A battered pick-up stands alone in the lot, and from the covering of snow it appears to not have moved in several days. The door to the building opens a crack, letting strong yellow light leak out, cutting through the snow and outlining the silhouette of Isla Stannet-Smith, her pale, exquisite face poking through the gap, wrinkling in distaste at the scene.
'People live here all year around...why?'
Her face slides from view as the door closes with a dull thud, and the sound of a lock being thrown can be heard.
Scene fades out.
Scene fades in on a room, presumably inside the structure
Tuesday, January 21, 2014, 0545 hrs
Clothes are thrown about the room, hanging on the doorknob, the dresser, the floor...looking for all the world like a suitcase just vomited. A dull roaring sound can be heard that draws the listeners attention to it's source. Perhaps a jet is flying low overhead, maybe beginning approach to a nearby airport. Or maybe there's a convoy of eighteen-wheeled transport vehicles nearby, blasting through the early morning on their way to deliver their loads. Or maybe a nearby military base is performing an overnight tank training course.
As the camera pans left, a rumpled, unmade bed sits in the center of the room. It is currently occupied by the source of the rumbling sound, a man, naked save for a kilt, lays across the bed. A trickle of saliva trails from the corner of his open mouth as he snores on.
The door to the room creaks open, and Isla's face peers through. She smiles at the sight, a smile of restrained laughter and premonition, as if she knew what would happen next. Slowly she pushes the door open, and the fire hose in her hand comes into view. With a sigh, she reaches back and opens the valve.
A stream of ice cold water erupts from the tip of the nozzle and streaks across the space between the door and the bed, exploding on the man laying there. In a scene reminiscent of the Road Runner cartoons, the kilted man awakes with a start, leaping roughly three feet straight up in the air and diving for cover behind the dresser.
'Good Morning Mr. MacNeill. Breakfast in 15 minutes.'
With that, she leaves the room, closing the door behind her with a snicker. Cormack stayed huddled behind the dresser until he was sure the water had stopped. Slowly getting to his feet, he began to get dressed, discarding the soggy kilt for a fresh one from the floor. As the scene fades out, a last comment can be heard from MacNeill.
'Last time a I ask for a wake-up call from that lassie.'
Scene fades in on a large room.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014, 0600 hrs
A large table dominates the room, warm oak polished to a dull shine. The warm colour of the table is in stark contrast to the concrete walls, whitewashed and scrubbed clean so many times that it also shines dully.
Cormack enters the room, looking around at the empty chairs before taking one near the door. As he settled into his seat, the door opens to admit Isla. Even at 6 am, she is dressed in a pantsuit, black in colour and dedicated to holding every curve on her frame. That's a lot to ask of any pantsuit. As she takes a seat to Cormack's left, she smiles sweetly at him.
'How did you sleep Mr. MacNeill?'
Cormack looked at her with a expressionless face.
'Great lassie, but the wake-up was a little icy, don't you think?'
'It seemed the best way to wake you up. And it worked it seems.'
As he began to snap back and answer, the door opened once again. James Church walked into the room, and nodded to both Isla and Cormack before taking a seat at the head of the table. Dressed down today, he wore grey sweats and sneakers. His salt-and-pepper hair was soaked, and a white towel hung around his neck.
'Good Morning Mr. MacNeill. I trust you slept well?
'I slept great, but the wake-up was something else all together.'
'You slept great? No, no you slept well. Sleep is not great, Alexander was Great, Catherine was Great, steak can be great, expectations are great, but sleeping is something done well.'
Cormack just stared at Church. Without acknowledging him, James turned to Isla.
'And you my dear? How did you sleep?'
'Well James, I slept very well.'
A door on the opposite wall swung open, giving entry to a pair of men carrying trays of food. Both were in their mid-to-late 40's, dressed impeccably in chef's whites, and moved with practiced precision as they lay the trays down on the table.
'Good Morning Mr. Church. Shall we serve you breakfast?'
'No Marcus, we can serve ourselves. Thank you, and you Frederick, for this food. As always, it looks fabulous.'
'Our pleasure Mr. Church. Bon Appetit'
With that, they left the room. The trays were loaded with ham, bacon, chicken, eggs done ala Benedict, and fruit in many varieties.
'Help yourself Cormack, Isla.'
As they moved to grab what food they chose, James added.
'You've both got a long day ahead of you. Eat your fill.'
Scene fades out
Scene fades in on a wrestling ring.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014. 1000 hrs
Cormack is in the ring, facing off against an unknown opponent. A tall, rangy blond-haired wrestler faces off against him. Both are covered in sweat, and Cormack's face is set in determination.
'Once more, Cormack. Show me your 'Stone of Kings' move.'
With a nod, Cormack advances on his foe, blocking a well-thrown punch and countering with a one-armed whip to the ropes. Upon returning, MacNeill grabs him and spins 360 degrees before planting him with a spine-buster. The opponent rolls on the floor, trying to recover from having the wind knocked out of him.
'Nice, I like that one. I think however you should lose the Glasgow Express. It's been avoided/countered too often. It's become a liability for you, something they watch for. You need a new move, something to tale these 'Wild Gangsters' by surprise.'
Cormack leaned against the ropes, taking a moment to catch his breath.
'What do you suggest Church?'
'Call me James, Cormack.'
'Call me Mack, James.'
'Ok Mack, you need a submission finisher. Something no one else is doing. Something that works to your strengths.'
Cormack turned to James, and leaned over the ropes.
'And what are my strengths?'
Church smiled, and climbed up onto the apron.
'You're a fighter. You never say die. You don't give up. You have upper body strength, more than one would expect from you. That's what we need to exploit. We need to show them something they've never seen before. Something that will surprise your opponents '
He climbed into the ring. With a wave he dismissed the still recovering stand-in.
'Take five John, I'll call you if we need you again.'
With a nod, John slid out of the ring.
'Ok Mack, let me show you something I came up with.'
Church spun MacNeill around and hooked both arms in a chickenwing, twisting forward and up. Cormack let a bellow out and struggled to get out. Church locked his hands together, forcing his opponents shoulder blades to touch, adding to the stress on the shoulders and back.
'What do you think Mack. Effective?'
MacNeill just let out a grunt and continued to struggle. With a laugh, Church released the hold.
'If you can't break it, I can't see either of your opponents doing that this Sunday either.'
Church steps back and throws his arms out. With a sly grin, he nods to Cormack.
'Now, you try it.'
With a grim face, Cormack steps in to Church. He throws a left-right combination into his midsection, and as Church is sent reeling, he spins his around and slaps on the double chicken-wing. Clasping his hands together, and pulling him back towards his chest, MacNeill sets his feet and lifts Church up in the air, suspending him by his shoulders and chest.
Church lets out a shout of pain, and struggles. But each movement puts tremendous strain on the shoulders and chest, and within seconds he's frantically tapping out. Cormack releases the hold, sending Church crashing to the mat. He immediately rushes to him, checking to see that he's all right.
James crawls to the ropes, and pulls himself to his feet. With a look, mixed of pain and respect, he smiles at MacNeill.
'That is exactly what I'm talking about! Now, what are you going to call it?'
Cormack looks at Church for a second, then smiles broadly.
'Locked in with no escape, no chance, no hope....it's like being locked in the Citadel.'
'The Citadel...I like it. Now, let's get John back here and see if you can lock that on a fighting opponent.'
'John, come in here. I've got something to show you.'
fade out
Static fills the screen
An image fills the screen. It's Cormack MacNeill, standing in the center of the ring with his hands on his hips. He's dressed in his usual kilt, and a band shirt. This time is The Sons of Maxwell. John the stand-in is laying in a corner, cradling his arm.
'Wild Gangsters...sounds like something out of a Bill & Ted's movie. Bill & Ted's Excellent Beatdown. I like the ring of that. You boys have talent, I'll give you that. But what you don't have is heart, skill, and a man like James Church in your corner.'
He turns to John, and nods before turning back to the camera.
'John here was brave enough to Help me test out some new moves. I broke his shoulder. And I kinda like him. You two I don't like. At all.'
'Zack Wild. Let's set the record straight. I love cornbread. I love cake. And I do love pie. Know what I mean? Maybe you don't. Anyone that seems to favor groups of guys in empty warehouses and jail cells at the station probably hasn't seen much pie lately. You more of a strudel man? I woulda guessed that. Doesn't matter. Sunday night, you're going down. Just like your Friday nights, huh?'
'Original Gangster? No my friend, you are no gangster and there isn't a single original thought or word that comes out of your mouth. You're a punk kid trying to look like a 'thug'. You dress in expensive suits, and talk about running drugs and pimpin hoes. But deep down inside, you're still just a snot-nosed kid who needs everyone to think he's a cool dude, a bad dude. Just like your strudel lovin friend, you're going down on Sunday!'
With a smile Cormack looks to John, who is being helped out of the ring by James. As he turns back to the camera to finish his spiel, Isla glides into frame. Well, undulate is a better word for what she does when she walks, but men are often at a loss for words when she walks into a room. She passes Cormack a note, and looks at the camera with a smile before undulating back out of the frame. One glance at the note, and you can see it's not good news.
'The lovely Isla just passed me this note. It looks like you two actually have a chance on Sunday. My partner Jorge has been hurt in a training accident. So it will be just me against the two of you. It just went from a beat down to a fair fight. That just means I'm going to have to be on my game. Two-on-one is always dangerous, even when it's two like you.'
MacNeill turned to James, and motioned him over.
'We're going to need a couple more sparring partners. I need to practice beating up two losers at once.'
James Church looked at the camera with a slow spreading smile.
'This is going to be glorious. Mack will show you all what he's capable of. And maybe he will beat some sense into those Wild Gangsters. Or a sense of grammar and sentence structure. Every time i read a 'tweet' from those two, I need a drink.'
Cormack turned to the camera one last time.
'Zack, O.G....one of you will feel the pain, and one will be locked in...The Citadel!'
Fade to Black
Tuesday, January 21, 2014, 0530 hrs
The scene pans left to show that same building shown before, standing resiliently in the face of the driving wind. A battered pick-up stands alone in the lot, and from the covering of snow it appears to not have moved in several days. The door to the building opens a crack, letting strong yellow light leak out, cutting through the snow and outlining the silhouette of Isla Stannet-Smith, her pale, exquisite face poking through the gap, wrinkling in distaste at the scene.
'People live here all year around...why?'
Her face slides from view as the door closes with a dull thud, and the sound of a lock being thrown can be heard.
Scene fades out.
Scene fades in on a room, presumably inside the structure
Tuesday, January 21, 2014, 0545 hrs
Clothes are thrown about the room, hanging on the doorknob, the dresser, the floor...looking for all the world like a suitcase just vomited. A dull roaring sound can be heard that draws the listeners attention to it's source. Perhaps a jet is flying low overhead, maybe beginning approach to a nearby airport. Or maybe there's a convoy of eighteen-wheeled transport vehicles nearby, blasting through the early morning on their way to deliver their loads. Or maybe a nearby military base is performing an overnight tank training course.
As the camera pans left, a rumpled, unmade bed sits in the center of the room. It is currently occupied by the source of the rumbling sound, a man, naked save for a kilt, lays across the bed. A trickle of saliva trails from the corner of his open mouth as he snores on.
The door to the room creaks open, and Isla's face peers through. She smiles at the sight, a smile of restrained laughter and premonition, as if she knew what would happen next. Slowly she pushes the door open, and the fire hose in her hand comes into view. With a sigh, she reaches back and opens the valve.
A stream of ice cold water erupts from the tip of the nozzle and streaks across the space between the door and the bed, exploding on the man laying there. In a scene reminiscent of the Road Runner cartoons, the kilted man awakes with a start, leaping roughly three feet straight up in the air and diving for cover behind the dresser.
'Good Morning Mr. MacNeill. Breakfast in 15 minutes.'
With that, she leaves the room, closing the door behind her with a snicker. Cormack stayed huddled behind the dresser until he was sure the water had stopped. Slowly getting to his feet, he began to get dressed, discarding the soggy kilt for a fresh one from the floor. As the scene fades out, a last comment can be heard from MacNeill.
'Last time a I ask for a wake-up call from that lassie.'
Scene fades in on a large room.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014, 0600 hrs
A large table dominates the room, warm oak polished to a dull shine. The warm colour of the table is in stark contrast to the concrete walls, whitewashed and scrubbed clean so many times that it also shines dully.
Cormack enters the room, looking around at the empty chairs before taking one near the door. As he settled into his seat, the door opens to admit Isla. Even at 6 am, she is dressed in a pantsuit, black in colour and dedicated to holding every curve on her frame. That's a lot to ask of any pantsuit. As she takes a seat to Cormack's left, she smiles sweetly at him.
'How did you sleep Mr. MacNeill?'
Cormack looked at her with a expressionless face.
'Great lassie, but the wake-up was a little icy, don't you think?'
'It seemed the best way to wake you up. And it worked it seems.'
As he began to snap back and answer, the door opened once again. James Church walked into the room, and nodded to both Isla and Cormack before taking a seat at the head of the table. Dressed down today, he wore grey sweats and sneakers. His salt-and-pepper hair was soaked, and a white towel hung around his neck.
'Good Morning Mr. MacNeill. I trust you slept well?
'I slept great, but the wake-up was something else all together.'
'You slept great? No, no you slept well. Sleep is not great, Alexander was Great, Catherine was Great, steak can be great, expectations are great, but sleeping is something done well.'
Cormack just stared at Church. Without acknowledging him, James turned to Isla.
'And you my dear? How did you sleep?'
'Well James, I slept very well.'
A door on the opposite wall swung open, giving entry to a pair of men carrying trays of food. Both were in their mid-to-late 40's, dressed impeccably in chef's whites, and moved with practiced precision as they lay the trays down on the table.
'Good Morning Mr. Church. Shall we serve you breakfast?'
'No Marcus, we can serve ourselves. Thank you, and you Frederick, for this food. As always, it looks fabulous.'
'Our pleasure Mr. Church. Bon Appetit'
With that, they left the room. The trays were loaded with ham, bacon, chicken, eggs done ala Benedict, and fruit in many varieties.
'Help yourself Cormack, Isla.'
As they moved to grab what food they chose, James added.
'You've both got a long day ahead of you. Eat your fill.'
Scene fades out
Scene fades in on a wrestling ring.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014. 1000 hrs
Cormack is in the ring, facing off against an unknown opponent. A tall, rangy blond-haired wrestler faces off against him. Both are covered in sweat, and Cormack's face is set in determination.
'Once more, Cormack. Show me your 'Stone of Kings' move.'
With a nod, Cormack advances on his foe, blocking a well-thrown punch and countering with a one-armed whip to the ropes. Upon returning, MacNeill grabs him and spins 360 degrees before planting him with a spine-buster. The opponent rolls on the floor, trying to recover from having the wind knocked out of him.
'Nice, I like that one. I think however you should lose the Glasgow Express. It's been avoided/countered too often. It's become a liability for you, something they watch for. You need a new move, something to tale these 'Wild Gangsters' by surprise.'
Cormack leaned against the ropes, taking a moment to catch his breath.
'What do you suggest Church?'
'Call me James, Cormack.'
'Call me Mack, James.'
'Ok Mack, you need a submission finisher. Something no one else is doing. Something that works to your strengths.'
Cormack turned to James, and leaned over the ropes.
'And what are my strengths?'
Church smiled, and climbed up onto the apron.
'You're a fighter. You never say die. You don't give up. You have upper body strength, more than one would expect from you. That's what we need to exploit. We need to show them something they've never seen before. Something that will surprise your opponents '
He climbed into the ring. With a wave he dismissed the still recovering stand-in.
'Take five John, I'll call you if we need you again.'
With a nod, John slid out of the ring.
'Ok Mack, let me show you something I came up with.'
Church spun MacNeill around and hooked both arms in a chickenwing, twisting forward and up. Cormack let a bellow out and struggled to get out. Church locked his hands together, forcing his opponents shoulder blades to touch, adding to the stress on the shoulders and back.
'What do you think Mack. Effective?'
MacNeill just let out a grunt and continued to struggle. With a laugh, Church released the hold.
'If you can't break it, I can't see either of your opponents doing that this Sunday either.'
Church steps back and throws his arms out. With a sly grin, he nods to Cormack.
'Now, you try it.'
With a grim face, Cormack steps in to Church. He throws a left-right combination into his midsection, and as Church is sent reeling, he spins his around and slaps on the double chicken-wing. Clasping his hands together, and pulling him back towards his chest, MacNeill sets his feet and lifts Church up in the air, suspending him by his shoulders and chest.
Church lets out a shout of pain, and struggles. But each movement puts tremendous strain on the shoulders and chest, and within seconds he's frantically tapping out. Cormack releases the hold, sending Church crashing to the mat. He immediately rushes to him, checking to see that he's all right.
James crawls to the ropes, and pulls himself to his feet. With a look, mixed of pain and respect, he smiles at MacNeill.
'That is exactly what I'm talking about! Now, what are you going to call it?'
Cormack looks at Church for a second, then smiles broadly.
'Locked in with no escape, no chance, no hope....it's like being locked in the Citadel.'
'The Citadel...I like it. Now, let's get John back here and see if you can lock that on a fighting opponent.'
'John, come in here. I've got something to show you.'
fade out
Static fills the screen
An image fills the screen. It's Cormack MacNeill, standing in the center of the ring with his hands on his hips. He's dressed in his usual kilt, and a band shirt. This time is The Sons of Maxwell. John the stand-in is laying in a corner, cradling his arm.
'Wild Gangsters...sounds like something out of a Bill & Ted's movie. Bill & Ted's Excellent Beatdown. I like the ring of that. You boys have talent, I'll give you that. But what you don't have is heart, skill, and a man like James Church in your corner.'
He turns to John, and nods before turning back to the camera.
'John here was brave enough to Help me test out some new moves. I broke his shoulder. And I kinda like him. You two I don't like. At all.'
'Zack Wild. Let's set the record straight. I love cornbread. I love cake. And I do love pie. Know what I mean? Maybe you don't. Anyone that seems to favor groups of guys in empty warehouses and jail cells at the station probably hasn't seen much pie lately. You more of a strudel man? I woulda guessed that. Doesn't matter. Sunday night, you're going down. Just like your Friday nights, huh?'
'Original Gangster? No my friend, you are no gangster and there isn't a single original thought or word that comes out of your mouth. You're a punk kid trying to look like a 'thug'. You dress in expensive suits, and talk about running drugs and pimpin hoes. But deep down inside, you're still just a snot-nosed kid who needs everyone to think he's a cool dude, a bad dude. Just like your strudel lovin friend, you're going down on Sunday!'
With a smile Cormack looks to John, who is being helped out of the ring by James. As he turns back to the camera to finish his spiel, Isla glides into frame. Well, undulate is a better word for what she does when she walks, but men are often at a loss for words when she walks into a room. She passes Cormack a note, and looks at the camera with a smile before undulating back out of the frame. One glance at the note, and you can see it's not good news.
'The lovely Isla just passed me this note. It looks like you two actually have a chance on Sunday. My partner Jorge has been hurt in a training accident. So it will be just me against the two of you. It just went from a beat down to a fair fight. That just means I'm going to have to be on my game. Two-on-one is always dangerous, even when it's two like you.'
MacNeill turned to James, and motioned him over.
'We're going to need a couple more sparring partners. I need to practice beating up two losers at once.'
James Church looked at the camera with a slow spreading smile.
'This is going to be glorious. Mack will show you all what he's capable of. And maybe he will beat some sense into those Wild Gangsters. Or a sense of grammar and sentence structure. Every time i read a 'tweet' from those two, I need a drink.'
Cormack turned to the camera one last time.
'Zack, O.G....one of you will feel the pain, and one will be locked in...The Citadel!'
Fade to Black
