Post by Danny Vice on Sept 14, 2006 19:18:27 GMT -5
6:02. The bright red light on the digital clock inside of the WCF production truck looks hypnotizing in the grey haze of Thursday morning. Three WCF employees are sifting through past footage to find highlights from the past few Slams for a video montage for School of Pain. All the men look incredibly groggy and would give anything to not be at the WCF arena this early in the morning.
The truck is full of video monitors and editing equipment. A large compact disc player sits on the floor in the back of the truck, loaded with entrance music, theme songs, and special effects sounds for the superstars of the WCF. The eldest of the three employees tinkers with the wiring to ensure the music for the School for Pain desire video has pinpoint sound.
Just above the cd player is a huge circuit board with multiple switches and buttons. Each is labeled with some of the high card participants in the WCF. Torture. Logan. Lawnmower Jones. Creeping Death. One can only imagine this board is the center of the WCF arena's pyrotechnics. A young man, probably not even of legal drinking age, uses a computer program of a nearby computer to program the design and pattern for each of these effects. He stares wildly at the board as his trigger finger itches to set off the explosives inside the empty arena.
There is a rapping at the side door of the production truck. The third member of this morning's crew, and most likely the supervisor, goes to answer it. He swings the door open only to find no one present. Just beneath the door is three metal steps leading to the concrete floor outside the arena. On the middle step is a bulky manilla package. Since none of these three men noticed it when it came in, it has to be from whoever just approached the truck. These kinds of packages come by pretty regularly, as aspiring wrestlers will drop off footage in hopes that either Seth Lerch or Steve Carr will take a look at them and give them "their big break" into the business. The production crew usually gets a pretty good kick out of it.
Supervisor: Good news boys, I found something that we can look at to pass a little time before finishing this video.
Older Man: Oh goodness. Not another one of those trampoline wrestling matches. They're getting so old.
Young Man: Not as old as you Old Man River over here. I hope its a backyard wrestling match where some punk kid tries to prove he can take a chair shot to the head.
Either way, let's pop the sucker in.
The supervisor opens the package to find exactly what he expected, a VHS cassette. Luckily for these three, the WCF allows the production to keep a VCR for this exact purpose. He turns the VCR on and pops in the tape. All three grab a seat close to the monitor, and by the way they are seated it looks like all they're missing is a large popcorn.
The first several seconds of the tape are fuzzy. The young man slaps the monitor as if it responds to being struck. The other two technicians stare at him and shake their heads. After the short delay, the picture finally comes in. The setting is a dark room full of wooden crates. The floorboards are also made of wood, but covered in sawdust and filth from the years of abandonment. From the hazy look of the wood flooring it seems the film is lacking any color. In the center of the picture is a tall object. It’s shape is difficult to make out in the darkness. The cameraperson moves the shot in closer, but still it is too dark to tell exactly what is being filmed.
What the hell is this shit? This is easily the worst tryout film I have ever seen.
No. This is old school, he’s building the suspense. Look, the entire thing is even shot in black and white.
Suddenly, just above and to the left of the screen, a light comes shining through a window. The camera pans and finds Jimmy Vice standing there, ribs fully bandaged, after removing a large wooden board blocking out the sunlight. The camera pans back down and finds the large object is now a bright, illuminated ladder. Atop the ladder sits one Danny “The Vagrant” Vice. His hair is in his face, rather than his traditional mohawk, casting a grey shadow over his face. He lifts his head slightly, stares into the camera, and speaks.[/b]
Skyler Striker. You say you feel sorry for the Vagrant because you decided to put him in a ladder match at School of Pain. You say you feel sorry for him because he’s going to have to face you at Slam this week. The reality of it is this…Skyler Striker. You attacked the Vagrant’s family. You sent him from his home. You sent his little brother to this hospital after assaulting him in broad daylight out on the street. And you cost him his debut match in the World Championship Federation. And you feel bad for The Vagrant? Well…Skyler Striker…you should. You should feel bad for him. In fact, you should pity him. Since coming to the WCF, the Vagrant has lost his way. He forgot what it took to get here. He forgot what it takes to do what he came here to do. The Vagrant did not come to the WCF, to a federation that defines wrestling, for championships and glory. No, the Vagrant came here for one thing…PAIN. He came to inflict pain upon the weak and unable. He came to rid the WCF of the vermin, the infectious, and the disease-ridden wrestlers who climb into that very ring and perform in “wrestling matches”. He came here to exterminate. He came here to eradicate. Somewhere, in the last two months, The Vagrant lost his way. He forgot about the promise he made to himself as a young boy, a boy whose family was beaten and abused by that same kind of infected pest that runs untamed in the WCF. Skyler Striker…oh Fatebringer…you are that very type of pest the Vagrant came to eliminate. This week at Slam will be the rebirth of the Vagrant. At School of Pain, it will be the end of one Skyler Striker.
The camera cuts out and goes fuzzy again. All three tech workers sit silent for several seconds, before the elder gentleman speaks.[/b]
That’s one angry wrestler.
Scene fades out...[/b]
The truck is full of video monitors and editing equipment. A large compact disc player sits on the floor in the back of the truck, loaded with entrance music, theme songs, and special effects sounds for the superstars of the WCF. The eldest of the three employees tinkers with the wiring to ensure the music for the School for Pain desire video has pinpoint sound.
Just above the cd player is a huge circuit board with multiple switches and buttons. Each is labeled with some of the high card participants in the WCF. Torture. Logan. Lawnmower Jones. Creeping Death. One can only imagine this board is the center of the WCF arena's pyrotechnics. A young man, probably not even of legal drinking age, uses a computer program of a nearby computer to program the design and pattern for each of these effects. He stares wildly at the board as his trigger finger itches to set off the explosives inside the empty arena.
There is a rapping at the side door of the production truck. The third member of this morning's crew, and most likely the supervisor, goes to answer it. He swings the door open only to find no one present. Just beneath the door is three metal steps leading to the concrete floor outside the arena. On the middle step is a bulky manilla package. Since none of these three men noticed it when it came in, it has to be from whoever just approached the truck. These kinds of packages come by pretty regularly, as aspiring wrestlers will drop off footage in hopes that either Seth Lerch or Steve Carr will take a look at them and give them "their big break" into the business. The production crew usually gets a pretty good kick out of it.
Supervisor: Good news boys, I found something that we can look at to pass a little time before finishing this video.
Older Man: Oh goodness. Not another one of those trampoline wrestling matches. They're getting so old.
Young Man: Not as old as you Old Man River over here. I hope its a backyard wrestling match where some punk kid tries to prove he can take a chair shot to the head.
Either way, let's pop the sucker in.
The supervisor opens the package to find exactly what he expected, a VHS cassette. Luckily for these three, the WCF allows the production to keep a VCR for this exact purpose. He turns the VCR on and pops in the tape. All three grab a seat close to the monitor, and by the way they are seated it looks like all they're missing is a large popcorn.
The first several seconds of the tape are fuzzy. The young man slaps the monitor as if it responds to being struck. The other two technicians stare at him and shake their heads. After the short delay, the picture finally comes in. The setting is a dark room full of wooden crates. The floorboards are also made of wood, but covered in sawdust and filth from the years of abandonment. From the hazy look of the wood flooring it seems the film is lacking any color. In the center of the picture is a tall object. It’s shape is difficult to make out in the darkness. The cameraperson moves the shot in closer, but still it is too dark to tell exactly what is being filmed.
What the hell is this shit? This is easily the worst tryout film I have ever seen.
No. This is old school, he’s building the suspense. Look, the entire thing is even shot in black and white.
Suddenly, just above and to the left of the screen, a light comes shining through a window. The camera pans and finds Jimmy Vice standing there, ribs fully bandaged, after removing a large wooden board blocking out the sunlight. The camera pans back down and finds the large object is now a bright, illuminated ladder. Atop the ladder sits one Danny “The Vagrant” Vice. His hair is in his face, rather than his traditional mohawk, casting a grey shadow over his face. He lifts his head slightly, stares into the camera, and speaks.[/b]
Skyler Striker. You say you feel sorry for the Vagrant because you decided to put him in a ladder match at School of Pain. You say you feel sorry for him because he’s going to have to face you at Slam this week. The reality of it is this…Skyler Striker. You attacked the Vagrant’s family. You sent him from his home. You sent his little brother to this hospital after assaulting him in broad daylight out on the street. And you cost him his debut match in the World Championship Federation. And you feel bad for The Vagrant? Well…Skyler Striker…you should. You should feel bad for him. In fact, you should pity him. Since coming to the WCF, the Vagrant has lost his way. He forgot what it took to get here. He forgot what it takes to do what he came here to do. The Vagrant did not come to the WCF, to a federation that defines wrestling, for championships and glory. No, the Vagrant came here for one thing…PAIN. He came to inflict pain upon the weak and unable. He came to rid the WCF of the vermin, the infectious, and the disease-ridden wrestlers who climb into that very ring and perform in “wrestling matches”. He came here to exterminate. He came here to eradicate. Somewhere, in the last two months, The Vagrant lost his way. He forgot about the promise he made to himself as a young boy, a boy whose family was beaten and abused by that same kind of infected pest that runs untamed in the WCF. Skyler Striker…oh Fatebringer…you are that very type of pest the Vagrant came to eliminate. This week at Slam will be the rebirth of the Vagrant. At School of Pain, it will be the end of one Skyler Striker.
The camera cuts out and goes fuzzy again. All three tech workers sit silent for several seconds, before the elder gentleman speaks.[/b]
That’s one angry wrestler.
Scene fades out...[/b]
