Post by Raymond Hatcher on Mar 20, 2016 16:15:56 GMT -5
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- Should’ve Slowed Down -
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***We open on the screeching of rubber tearing across pavement. We see a 2014 McLaren veer down the road caught by a security camera as it rounds the corner of a darkened street. The terrifying sound of crunching metal can be heard as the car takes too sharp a turn and rolls itself, once, twice, three times before coming to a smoking halt left standing on its passenger side. Deep dark smoke billows from the back of the chassis. The crunching metal, the loud screeching all come to an end, now just the empty sound of silence.
No movement can be seen in or around the vehicle. It’s eerie the amount of time we are stuck on this horrific scene. If it wasn’t for the pouring of smoke from the back end you’d almost believe the video had froze. A creek brings our attention back into the scene as we see the drive side door pop open, the door immediately slams shut from the weight of gravity. Soon thereafter it is opened again, this time propped up by an arm creepily reaching out as if a hand from a grave.
From the metal tomb we see the battered and bloody face of Raymond Hatcher emerge. Delirious and disheveled Hatcher stumbles from the vehicle; he crawls about a yard through the rain soaked streets before climbing to his feet. He takes a step, but hobbles favoring his right leg. Raymond’s crimson face turns back to the once beautiful automobile and he stares at it, jaw agape.
A quick look left, a quick look right, Hatcher places his hands on his head. He then slides his hand slowly from his forehead to his chin, he pulls the hands away and stares at the blood filling them. Hatcher almost stumbles to the crowd as he slowly steps back from the car. No sign of fire yet, but the smoke isn’t a good sign. The once renowned professional wrestling looks all around him, no sign of other life, until the shrill shriek of a siren can be heard in the distance. A panicked look washes over his face before he starts hobbling away from the car and off into the black of night as the scene fades***
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- Earlier That Night -
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***Our camera descends on a scene of absolute revelry; it’s a large Victorian house with more scattered drunks on the lawn than blades of grass. They’re all young college aged kids decked out in so much green it’s enough to make St. Patrick himself blush. The camera meanders through the crowd and into the front door which is happily kept wide open. The interior is filled with more smoke than a Cheech and Chong special. There is music blasting some sort of pop synthesized house beat. We move from the causeway into a large room amidst the heckling and loud “woos” is a distinctly trashed face, it’s our main character in this little story, Raymond Hatcher. Hatcher has ditched his suit in favor of a green hat and a “Kiss Me I’m Drunk” t-shirt.
Hatcher’s hands are occupied with two beers, this isn’t enough to feed his insatiable appetite for the drink of the Gods as he happily takes a shot from a man walking around with a bottle of who-knows-what-the-fuck booze. The scraggily haired stranger begins pouring the nectar down Hatcher’s throat, he attempts to pull back, but Hatcher’s mouth moves with the bottle making sure his libations aren’t cut shorter than he’d like. Finally Raymond relents and lets the man escape with whatever small pittance is left in the bottle. Hatcher continues to dance in place, his two beer filled hands in the air, we hear a loud holler come from the other side of the room.***
Voice: CUZ!
***Coming charge down the stairs with a look of purpose and glee is Raymond’s cousin Sam. He’s decked out in some sleeveless green ensemble. Sam in his rush misses the bottom step and almost wipes out, this gets a nice pop from the crowd. The near crash landing isn’t enough to waiver the look of joy on Sam’s face. He charges across the room, less than carefully weaving through the other party-goers. As Sam forces his way through the crowd he causes a nice little human shockwave that sends a pretty young blonde tumbling into Hatcher. Raymond drops one of his beers in his effort to catch her. She drops right into Hatcher arms, the two make eye contact and the chemistry is palpable. Hatcher clears his throat before questioning.***
Hatcher: Are you okay?
Girl: I am now.
***A searingly seductive smile is shoot in Hatcher’s direction.***
Girl: Wow…hey.
***The girl is yanked out of Hatcher’s arms as Sam throws himself around Hatcher with a giant hug.***
Hatcher: Hey, I was talking to her.
***Sam pauses, pulls back from the hug and looks at the gorgeous young girl.***
Sam: Fuck off, Shelley, no one wants crabs tonight.
Shelley: Hey, I don’t have—
Sam: A brain in your head.
Shelley: Hey, fuck you, asshole.
***The young girl scoffs, turns on her heels and marches away as Sam shouts after her.***
Sam: Say hello to your sister for me.
***Sam’s comment is met with a not-so-friendly hand gesture.***
Hatcher: What the fuck, man? She was hot.
Sam: Cuz, come on, there are tons of those around here. Look at Huge Jugs Judy over there.
***The camera pans onto a rather large breasted woman who is clearly taking advantage of her natural endowment as she is a wearing less-than-there green bikini. Her swaying to the music is creating an almost hypnotic gyration of her chest.***
Hatcher: I’m going to go talk to her.
Sam: Hey, you’ve got plenty of time for that, come with me, I wanna show you something.
Hatcher: I’m sure I don’t want to see it.
Sam: Don’t be such a dick in the mud.
Hatcher: You mean stick in the mud.
Sam: No…I don’t. Now come on.
***Sam throws his arm around Hatcher and leads him through the party and up the stairs. And the top of the stairs Sam pauses for a moment.***
Sam: Hang on let me piss real quick.
***Sam walks to a door sitting center of the hallway and swings it open. Inside are a young couple snuggled into the porcelain bathtub the girl is on top without a top veraciously riding the guy underneath. Sam doesn’t even bat an eye at the scene of animalistic passion he simply flips up the toilet seat, and starts going, the camera is sure to aim high as it’s doubtful anyone wants a good shot of Sam’s package. The girl doesn’t stop riding her stallion as she looks over and says.***
Bathtub Girl: You gonna join?
***Sam smiles and says.***
Sam: Nah, I’m alright, maybe another time.
Bathtub Girl: If you say so, it’s worth extra credit.
***The girl refocuses her attention on the man below her as Sam zips up and heads out of the room, he starts to shut the door behind him, but is admonished.***
Bathtub Girl: Hey, leave it open.
***Sam lets the go and it creeks back open as he rejoins Hatcher.***
Hatcher: What was that about?
Sam: Oh, just my accounting professor.
***The two stroll down the hallway and passed a door and into a large bedroom, the space for a bed vacated in order to fit a large ugly brown couch. There are a few assortment of chairs one of which being a lawn chair of all things. The one item dominating the large space and what almost immediately captures everyone’s attention is a large glass bong. The beast has too many chambers to count and is so large it’s left sitting on the floor.***
Hatcher: So, what did you want to show me?
Sam: This, this right here.
***Sam points to the large bong.***
Hatcher: So what, I’ve seen bigger?
Sam: That’s what she—
Hatcher: Said, haha not very clever.
Sam: So you think you can handle this thing?
Hatcher: There’s nothing I can’t handle.
Sam: That’s what she said.
***Hatcher shakes his head and rolls his eyes.***
Sam: Come on, let’s hit it, it’s already packed and ready to go.
Hatcher: Nah, I’m passed all that.
Sam: Come on, don’t be a pussy it’s just weed.
Hatcher: I don’t know.
***We see a little crowd forming in the room, a few people force their support.***
Random Guy: Come on hit that bitch.
Random Girl: Yeah, Hatcher, show us how you’re the real deal.
Hatcher: Alright fine.
Sam: Awesome.
***Hatcher takes position as Sam begins to light her up. We see the smoke slowly crawling through the massive device.***
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- Five Minutes Later -
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***Raymond Hatcher is sunken into the ugly brown coach his eyes are as wide as saucer-plates, his next words are barely audible.***
Hatcher: What was that?
Sam: Don’t worry, it’s just weed.
Hatcher: No…mmm…no it’s not.
***Hatcher starts lift his hand across his chest, the wrist is limp and the hand is droopy almost like a bad impression of a mentally disabled person. Sam lets out a small chuckle.***
Hatcher: Ermm, what’d you, what’ll you do tu’rn’ me?
***Another party-goer, a young brunette girl asks Sam.***
Brunette Girl: What’d you give him?
***Sam leans in a tries to whisper, but the music from the floor below is to loud and he’s forced to speak up when he says.***
Sam: It’s just salvia.
***The girl giggles.***
Hatcher: Why?
***Hatcher tries to get up off the couch, but instead ends up climbing over the arm rest landing onto his head in a crumbled up position. With his speech extremely slurred Raymond blurts out.***
Hatcher: My head is a floating octopus, I must feed it some fish. Where’s the fish? Whur’s the fish? Please I need the fish or it’s going to starve. I don’t want it to die.
Sam: Don’t worry man, chill out, it’ll be over soon.
Hatcher: No, where’s nets?
***Hatcher lays slumped there as our scene fades.***
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- Nowhere To Run -
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***The scene opens to the loud sounding of pounding. Lights shining through a shaded window illuminating parts of the inner sanctum, it’s a cheap motel room the TV is still on playing nothing but static. Laying, passed out, face down on the bed still fully clothed in his St. Patrick’s Day attire is Raymond Hatcher. The pounding on the door calls for a response from Raymond.***
Hatcher: GO AWAY!
***The pounding continues until Hatcher drags himself up out of the bed. He groggily stumbles towards the door barely keeping his balance. He reaches for the knob, but gets another dose of the pounding before he’s able to turn the handle.***
Hatcher: All fucking right, I’m opening the door.
***Hatcher peals the wood frame back to reveal the gleaming light of early morning streaming into the room being shadowed out by the broad stance of three police officers. The one standing just beyond the door closest to Hatcher speaks first.***
Officer: Are you Raymond Hatcher?
***Raymond’s face strains, his brows droop as he struggles out the answer.***
Hatcher: Yeah, that’s me.
***The officer reaches behind himself quickly producing a pair of metal handcuffs.***
Officer: Sir, please put your hands behind your back, you’re under arrest.
Hatcher: For what?
Officer: Well, among other things, leaving the scene of an accident and reckless endangerment. You’re going to have to come with us now. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.
Hatcher: Okay.
***Hatcher turns around with his hands clasped behind his back. The officer grabs his wrists slapping the cuffs behind him, we hear another office chirp in the from the back.***
Officer #2: Smart move.
Hatcher: I’m gonna need to make a call to my lawyer.
Officer: You can do all of that down at the station. Now let’s go.
***The officer pulls Hatcher backwards out of the room and heads off as the scene fades to black.***
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- Steve Orbitting A Hospital Bed Near You -
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***We open on Raymond Hatcher, in his wrestling gear sitting on a chair in a locker-room, we see one of his extravagant robes hanging up behind him. Hatcher looks sober for the first time in a long time, his eyes are fierce, he looks determined as he wraps his hand in black athletic tape. He pauses for a moment and stares into the camera.***
Hatcher: You’ve got this guy who talks and talks about two fucking years ago. Hey, Orbit this isn’t 2014 this is 2016. You may have been running wild back then, but I haven’t seen a wink of that lately. See the big difference between 2014 and now, Raymond Hatcher wasn’t in the WCF in the 2014. If I had been you wouldn’t even be an after-thought, you’d be a no thought at all. I’ve been stomping around the WCF for almost a year now, and sure it’s been hit and miss, but unlike you, I’ve never sleeked away. I’ve never made excuses for my missteps. You’re a guy who can barely string two weeks of work together let alone ever be considered a viable threat to anyone on this roster right now. I’ve been associated with some really losers like Adam Young, but I’ve never let that define who I am.
You are a different story, how cold is it hanging out there in your brother’s shadow. You want to make sure everyone knows who your brother is and that’s simply because you’ve got no prestige of your own. Jonny Fly is well-deservedly one of the greatest competitors in the history of the WCF. I would never say I’m one of his fans, but I have respect for what he has and can still do in the ring if given the chance. What great legacy are you leaving behind, Orbit, none that I can see.
You want to come into this ring all cocky and brash. You have no idea what pain you have heading your way. You couldn’t comprehend just how I can turn your body into a twisted sick mess of human flesh and broken bones. Standing across that ring from me just makes you enemy number one in my book. And I will drag you all over that canvas to make sure you pay for your “crimes”. I’m not some punk thug who comes into your club that you think you can toss around the bar, Hell you even seem unable to do that considering the amount of security you surround yourself with. Look around me, you’ll see nobody, you won’t see a single person watching my back. I don’t need a gang to be a real gangster. I’ll show you some thug like, I’ll beat you up and leave you for dead like your mother should have done the second you were born.
You don’t know a damn thing about me, the guy you’re going to be walking into the ring and trying to defeat in just a few hours and you have no idea who I am. I know who you are though Steve, it may not have been the easiest shit to figure out since you’re in and out of this place so many times you’d need an abacus to count ‘em. You want to be someone around here again, Steve, here’s some advice, stay in the fucking game. You like to split your time between a shitty ass club and a wrestling career, well, that’s a fool’s error. You can’t climb a mountain if you’ve only got half your gear with you. That’s what this place is, it’s the biggest mountain in the game, it’s the Everest of our business. Some people would say the WWE is, but all you need to get along there is a bunch of muscles and the ability to kiss Vince’s ass better than anyone else.
I don’t have tolerance for any of those things. I don’t kiss ass and I’m not some muscle-headed goon-hog. I’m a tactician, a master of that squared circle. No one wants to tune into see you beat up women and pay for sex. You’re a gimmick of a gimmick. You want to be the Godfather, but you also want to be sophisticated, well you can’t be both. You try and try and it comes off as a stale impression of ICE T at a Pimps and Hoes Ball. It’s tacky and tasteless at best.
While you focus on what clothes you wear and making sure you’re goatee is just right, I’m out there working my ass off to be better. I’m in the shit rolling around that ring day in and day out. While I’m studying manuals of ancient fighting techniques you’re too busy staring at chicks you have to pay to get their clothes off. Hatcher, well he never needs to pay. I like to think of myself as the ugliest motherfucker to have the strongest female fan base around. And do you know why that is? It’s because I’m a real man, one of the last true ones left. I can juggle being an abstract alcoholic while being one of the most prolific self-made businessmen you will ever meet, not that you’ve ever met one who wasn’t selling crack on a street corner, but never-the-less, I’m able to do all of that and beat a man like Joey Flash. My wrestling career never becomes second fiddle to anything I do.
In this society it’s all about “what have you done for me lately?” Tell me, Steve Orbit what have you done lately. Who have you defeated who meant anything to anyone? You can think I’m the bottom of the barrel, but that’s the product of your complete of obliviousness of who you are. You’re the scum that the rest of us rest on. You’re the one toiling in the muck looking for hand-ups from your bro’s legacy. You won’t get a hand from me, Steve, you’ll just get a forearm to your silly face. Now, I’ve got my focus on you Steve, but let me not forgot the third man in this match.
Seth, Seth, Seth. You’ve been pushing my buttons over the pass few months. You’ve been pushing me into situations where you know I won’t shine. Like the sad, little, insecure man you are you have to push everyone down in order to bring yourself up. Whatever scheme you have in place for tomorrow night, whatever agenda you’re trying to fulfill, I won’t pass the buck. If I lose tonight, it’ll be my fault. It’ll be my fault because I know what I’m going into. I’m going into a two front war here, unlike fools like Hitler and Napoleon, I won’t let my forces be divided. I won’t rush into this war unprepared I won’t leave my troops without the proper equipment to survive the savage conditions I will face tonight. Steve Orbit can scream to the Gods above about how he has no allegiance with you, but it will take a real idiot to take that at face value. Something fucking sticks around here more than Orbit’s hand’s from all those droopy-eyed sluts he’s finger banging on a regular basis.
I’m a man, I’m a businessman, a wrestler, but above it all I’m a fighter, a warrior, a fucking winner and I’ll be God damned if I let the two of you walk all over me. The fight between me and Orbit will end tonight in that ring, but the fight between me and you, Seth, that one’s just beginning. The great campaign has just begun and it will only end in an unconditional surrender.
***Hatcher leans back and continues the process of taping his hand as the scene fades to black.***
