Post by Xtreme on Sept 18, 2016 23:16:04 GMT -5
>Disclosure<
I know, I know. But work kinda beat me to deadline, so... My bad. But here's what I had for this week. Next one will be on time.
>Back To Your Regularly Scheduled Promo<
Slam. 9/11/16.
The camera comes up on Jaice Wilds, packing his bags. He breathes in deeply, closing his locker. Hoisting his belonging over his shoulder, he heads for the doors. Just as he reaches for a handle, they spring open to reveal Cliff of Doom, still in celebration from his win. The two pause, staring at the other. Wilds nods, offering a hand.
I underestimated you, Cliff. My apologies. Congratulations on your victory.
Cliff ponders a second, shrugging as he takes Wilds' hand. They shake, Cliff breaking out another grin.
No harm, no foul, Jaice. You put up a hell of a fight. I appreciate your humility. Good luck in your next match.
The two nod in a sign of respect, Jaice heading out to the parking lot as Doom is once again pelted by adoring fans with backstage passes.
Later That Week
The scene opens on a battered Wilds, tracing super glue along what appears to be a decent gash in his right arm. He wraps it up with a bandana, giving it a few moments before moving it. A moment, he looks up to notice the camera.
I underestimated some of my opponents last week. Came in with a head full of steam based on past accomplishments and lost sight of what was in front of me. This isn't the South Pacific, this isn't Missouri or Chicago. This is the WCF. And I need to respect the fact that with a new setting comes a different level of competition.
My apologies to my foes in last week's match. It shan't happen again.
Jaice takes a breath, looking about the area. A few other men are beaten and bloody, each one bigger than the last. Hell, Jaice looks miniscule next to some of these guys. But I digress. Jaice grins, looking purposefully into the camera.
I'm used to being the smallest guy in the ring. Which means I have to adapt to my surroundings. So I come here.
Welcome to the Underground. It's a collective in the Midwest that gets together to build endurance and encourage brotherhood through battle. We beat the hell out of each other, pushing each other to our limits and then beyond... and then grab some Denny's after. After last week, I've realized I need to get back to basics if I'm going to push myself forward in this business.
This week, my integrity was challeneged. Words denouncing my hardcore style as a "crutch". I assure you, it is quite the opposite.
My size carries with it a distinct disadvantage in the power department. So I go aerial. Yes, often that style is high risk and I carry the weight of injuring myself as well. But it evens out the playing field a bit against larger opponents. THEY have to learn to adapt to ME, and that tends to prove difficult when, at times, even I don't know my next move.
As far as my hardcore style... one believes it means we lack willingness or ability to compete in the ring. Again, a falsehood spouted by a purist.
I respect the sport for what it is. Don't get me wrong. But there is a certain level of mental fortitude that goes into the hardcore style.
Wilds steps back, pulling up a pant leg. The camera pans his form as he turns, revealing numerous lacerations and leisons about his flesh. He turns back to the camera, stern.
Some people would give up. Some would have quit from the pain and agony, others would be very much dead.
The things I do, the pain I endure. This isn't something that just happens. Taking baseball bats and kendo sticks to the back, chairs to the head, barbed wire and razors to various parts of the body... this is something you willingly sign up for. This is the kind of warfare that one pays dearly for: mind, body and soul.
Broken bones, lacerations near major arteries, black eyes and bruises everywhere. Most people in our industry would look at that job description and burn the contract. But I dive in head-first.
Do I have a deathwish? No. Do I like the pain? Actually, maybe a little bit. But the truth is, I do this because it makes me stronger. It forces me to improvise, to think on my feet. Kill or be killed, THAT is the spirit of the hardcore style and THAT, my friends, is the very passion I bring into the ring with me EVERY. SINGLE. MATCH.
Wilds drops his pant leg, breathing in deeply. He ponders for a moment, forming his words carefully.
I could go into detail about each of my opponents. The talent, the weaknesses, their win/loss record this far. I could talk about my own team. How we can work together to overcome our individual weaknesses and come to victory this week.
But instead, I'm simply going to lay it out on the line.
Singh, West, Fuego. You three appear to be a solid team. Certainly, rather ragtag like my own, but you each have strengths that will prove interesting for me to overcome.
Smarts, Armstrong. We are not friends, but this week we are allies. Let us use our abilities to push forward and gain that notch on our respective win columns.
I promise you all, I have EVERY intention of pushing myself to the limits this week. I am bringing everything to our match and I am leaving it all in the ring. This week, fellas, it is do or die. Kill or be killed. This week, you all get to learn just what it means to be in the ring with an animal, and the damage that comes with it. This week, I will fly like a mockingbird, I will strike like the viper and I will spare NOTHING, not even my own health, to assure victory. The only thing I ask is that my partners have my back and our opponents give me RESPECTABLE targets worth the risks.
Wilds nods, running back into the mix. He starts going to town, thrashing about with the bigger men and drawing blood. The scene fades to black.
