Post by "The Gentleman" Jeremiah Locke on Jan 6, 2019 21:44:12 GMT -5
Dear Dad,
I’m sorry to tell you, but I won’t be home for Christmas. I’ve actually managed to make a few friends here. I’ve especially gotten close to one girl. Her name is Eliza. Dad, she’s literally the sweetest thing! We have so much in common too! I mean, she likes comic books, and Harry Potter. She’s a whiz when it comes to random movie trivia. It’s like she’s the perfect girl for me!
I’m getting carried away, though. I’m writing to tell you that I’ll be spending Christmas with Eliza and my other friends. It’s my first Christmas on my own. And no offense, Dad, but always kinda hover when I’m home. I just want a little space, and just a little bit of freedom for once. You have my cell number and my facebook. You can get in touch with me, and I promise to call on Christmas day. Otherwise, I’ll see you for Spring Break!
Jeremiah Locke folded the letter back up and tossed it on the desk in front of him. Most dads would be upset that they won’t be with their kids on Christmas, but Jeremiah felt nothing but pride. It’s been ages since his little girl had friends, he thought. He couldn’t have been happier for her. He rose from his office chair and headed towards the door. As he got nearer, though, he stopped. He turned around and picked the letter up, exiting the room.
He turned down the hallway towards the family area of the home. Even the empty house wasn’t enough to bring his mood down. He swung into the kitchen and pinned the letter to his fridge, a smile plastered across his face.
Jerry grabbed a bag of chips from the cabinet and walked into the living room. He stood, looking into the entertainment center for a few moments before kneeling to a cabinet on the bottom. Inside sat a collection of DVDs, each labelled with a different date, dating back to August 14, 2000: “Rowan at Hospital.”
He shuffled through the cases for a minute before pulling out one labelled “July 24, 2008.” He put the DVD in the player and sat on the couch.
The scene began with a bedroom door opening, and a female voice whispering.
(Voice, whispering)
There he is! Go get him!
A little girl, no more than 8 years old, pushed the door wide open, revealing Jeremiah in bed, sound asleep. The little girl dashed to the bed, climbed it quickly and SPLASHED! Onto Jeremiah!
(8 Year Old Dezirae)
Daddy! Daddy wake up!
Jeremiah began to stir, the young lady’s jumping causing him to toss and turn.
(8 Year Old Dezirae)
Daaaaaaaaaddyyyy! Daddy Daddy Daddy!
(Jeremiah)
Ughhhh
Jeremiah’s eyes open, and he lightly tackles his little girl, enveloping her in a big bear hug. The hug quickly turns into a visit from the tickle monster as Dezzie squeals with glee.
(Jeremiah)
Ahhhh! I got you now, little demon! Ahahahah!
The “attack” goes on for about a minute as the camera closes in on the two. Jeremiah looks up at the camera and reaches past it, pulling the camera-woman down into the mayhem. The view is rough for a moment until the camera is set on a nightstand, with a slightly obstructed view of the tickling.
As the commotion begins to settle, Jeremiah reaches over and picks up the camera, the whole family now clearly visible in the shot. He smiles as his baby girl looks up to him.
(8 Year Old Dezirae)
Happy birthday, Daddy!
She reaches up and kisses him on the cheek as the feed cuts out.
We rejoin Locke, in present time, still sitting on his couch. His eyes are watery, but no tears have fallen, and a smile rests on his face.
(Voice)
God, she was so young!
A voice behind him doesn’t even cause Jeremiah to flinch. He simply turns around to face his best friend, a somewhat nerdy fellow with short, black hair.
(Jeremiah)
How many times must I ask you to knock, Sal?
(Sal)
However many times it takes before you finally give up, bud.
Sal hops the couch and plants himself right next to Jeremiah, his eyes darting to the screen.
(Sal)
Do you miss her being that little?
(Jeremiah)
Every living day, man. I used to be her favourite person. But she’s grown up now. She’s developed into her own woman, and it’s perfect. I love it, and I am so damn proud of her. I wish I could have seen her for Christmas, but I’m glad she was with friends. Do you get what I mean?
(Sal)
I… I think I do?
(Jeremiah)
It’s just… When she was in grade school, she didn’t really have friends. She was always the weird girl. The one nobody wanted to be around. It was almost like every other day she would come home crying. And I’d sit on her bed with her, and I’d hug her, and talk to her. I mean, I wish she was still with me, but I would take her being with friend on Christmas over her not having any day.
A slightly awkward silence filled the room. Jeremiah looked towards his friend, who was shaking his head, a smile on his face.
(Jeremiah)
What?
(Sal)
It’s just strange, is all.
(Jeremiah)
What is?
(Sal)
This. This soft side of you. You look at what happened last Monday on Slam, you wouldn’t even imagine this person. It’s a completely separate entity on this couch right now, it has to be.
(Jeremiah)
No, it’s the same person. I just know how to flip a switch. When I enter an arena, I’m there for one reason. I leave fatherhood at the doorstep. I leave my personal feelings at home. From the moment I walk in, I’m a wrestler. It’s a respect thing, to me, you know? I respect professional wrestling enough to put in 100%. No more, no less.
(Sal)
Yeah?
(Jeremiah)
Yes. You see, that’s what irks me so much about Dayton Miles. He inked his signature on a dotted line to be a wrestler. Not a singer. Yet he has this gimmick. God, I hate gimmicks. Especially ones that are so… Well there’s a plethora of words I can end that sentence with. Unoriginal. Uncreative. Disrespectful. Dayton Miles doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life. That’s obvious. He’s got two jobs, and he’s pretty mediocre at both, if I do say so myself.
Locke takes a second to breathe.
(Sal)
You’ve got pretty strong opinions for this Dayton dude, don’t you?
Locke gets up, headed to the back hallway and back into his office area. Sal immediately follows.
(Sal)
Promo time?
(Jeremiah)
You know it. Grab the camera and I’ll be at my desk. Let me just grab a few things.
Jeremiah opens a cupboard and pulls out a three piece suit. He slides everything on and sits down behind his desk. Meanwhile, Sal grabs a video camera on a tripod and sets it up in the middle of the the room, pointed at the desk. At this point, the room looks as though a presidential address is about to be delivered.
(Sal)
Rolling in three… two… one!
A simple *BEEP* is heard, and a red light says that the camera is now recording.
Rec
(Jeremiah Locke)
Ladies and Gentleman, my name is Jeremiah Locke. I come to you today to report a severe wrongdoing that is being force-fed to the WCF galaxy, faculty and fans alike. This wrongdoing is one that, if not for me, would go unnoticed in the WCF. This wrongdoing is something that yours truly will not stand for.
Jeremiah slides open a drawer on his desk, and pulls out a picture of Dayton Miles, playing a tiny stage in Reading, Pennsylvania. He pulls out another item, not revealing it to the camera, and closes the drawer.
(Jeremiah Locke)
This wrongdoing exists in the form of a man named Dayton Miles. Dayton Miles, folks, is a pest. One of many that plague the realm of the Wrestling Championship Federation. He’s a man of little morals and less brain. To be entirely honest, I am appalled that this man was contracted. Now, I know that Corey Black doesn’t care enough to filter down the undercard talent, but to employ such a weak-willed con artist like Dayton Miles is a blemish on the good name of WCF. And with our esteemed authority otherwise preoccupied, it is I who shall take over the task of cutting down on the dosage of needless jobbers that have cursed this great sport for so long. And this week, I start with you, Dayton Miles.
In his left hand, Locke holds a Zippo lighter. He flicks it open, igniting the flame, and holds it far enough away from the picture so as to not burn it, but close enough to get his point across.
(Jeremiah Locke)
Dayton Miles, Slam was just the beginning. I am not a man who stands for stupidity. And I am damn sure not a man who stands for disrespect. And that’s why I have a problem with you, Dayton. You simply have no respect. No respect for the music that you pass off as your own. No respect for the fans who sign your paycheck. No respect for the company that lets you carry on your charade. It’s sickening. People like you are the reason I lack faith in humanity. I remember a trend that went around the wrestling world for some time. “#fuccboigenocide.” And while I don’t exactly agree with the words used, I do believe in the cause. You, dear Miles, are the scum that clouds the pond that is the WCF, blocking potential fans from seeing the truly talented individuals in the locker room, and turning the fans off from the product. Fear not, WCF Galaxy. A cleanse is coming.
He brings the lighter and the photograph closer together, but pauses. He then closes the lighter and tosses the picture down, rising to his feet and getting closer to the camera.
(Jeremiah Locke)
No, I’m not done. I just can't let this man off mercifully. He simply doesn’t deserve it. Dayton, I’ve come across people like you. You think too highly of yourself. You live elsewhere, on a cloud of lies, guarded by your own facade. But let me be clear about one thing: those people changed. Quickly. And so shall you.
Jeremiah begins to pace, occasionally going outside the view of the camera.
(Jeremiah Locke)
This arrogance, it radiates. The sheer idea that you can get away with anything and everything you want to, it’s completely sickening. You’re not just what’s wrong with the WCF, mate, you’re the problem with America. You sit and flaunt other people’s hard work and pass it off as your own. You attempt to steal money, and credit. Frankly, the whole of your personality is a blemish on the face of humanity. And let’s fast forward to your blatant disrespect for the sport that you wish to call home.
He stops, facing the camera once more with a horrifically serious expression.
(Jeremiah Locke)
Do you know what it takes to get anywhere in the professional wrestling business?
It takes a 100% dedication to the craft. Full devotion. The fact that you genuinely believe you can come into this business, waste valuable airtime singing some lackluster ripoff of a song, and still get treated as a credible competitor is the biggest slap in the face to every credible member of the locker room. It’s a wonder you ever make it to the stage. Yes, an occasional performance can be accepted. But to make it an every week occurrence, it’s ridiculous. You continuously find yourself in a predicament where you can’t distinguish the line between work and play. You believe this to be easy. You believe that you can walk out and half-ass a performance in the very ring where countless men have lost their lives. You don’t take it seriously, and it is disgusting. You’ve seen “The Shining?” I ask if you’ve seen it because something tells me you lack the mental capacity to read a book. Well there’s a line in the Shining. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Yes, it’s true. Your life shouldn’t be completely dedicated to work. But the opposite it without a doubt true. You should have enough respect for your craft, whether that be wrestling or singing, to hone it on it completely. Don’t split your time like a whore going through college.
He walks behind his desk as he speaks, taking a seat once more.
(Jeremiah Locke)
And here’s where we seem to have come full circle. Now, I’m going to stop right here. I’ll admit, I have a few more choice words for this ingrate, but I believe them to be better left unsaid in public. So, I shall close with a promise to the WCF Galaxy. One starts me on a mission, one to purge the roster of those unworthy to lace a pair of boots.
He takes up both the lighter and the photo, igniting the flame and setting the picture ablaze.
(Jeremiah Locke)
And it all starts with Dayton Miles.
He tosses the flaming image forward. As the camera stops recording, the very last sight is the charred remains of Dayton Miles’ likeness, a sign of what’s to come.
I’m sorry to tell you, but I won’t be home for Christmas. I’ve actually managed to make a few friends here. I’ve especially gotten close to one girl. Her name is Eliza. Dad, she’s literally the sweetest thing! We have so much in common too! I mean, she likes comic books, and Harry Potter. She’s a whiz when it comes to random movie trivia. It’s like she’s the perfect girl for me!
I’m getting carried away, though. I’m writing to tell you that I’ll be spending Christmas with Eliza and my other friends. It’s my first Christmas on my own. And no offense, Dad, but always kinda hover when I’m home. I just want a little space, and just a little bit of freedom for once. You have my cell number and my facebook. You can get in touch with me, and I promise to call on Christmas day. Otherwise, I’ll see you for Spring Break!
Love, Dezirae
Jeremiah Locke folded the letter back up and tossed it on the desk in front of him. Most dads would be upset that they won’t be with their kids on Christmas, but Jeremiah felt nothing but pride. It’s been ages since his little girl had friends, he thought. He couldn’t have been happier for her. He rose from his office chair and headed towards the door. As he got nearer, though, he stopped. He turned around and picked the letter up, exiting the room.
He turned down the hallway towards the family area of the home. Even the empty house wasn’t enough to bring his mood down. He swung into the kitchen and pinned the letter to his fridge, a smile plastered across his face.
Jerry grabbed a bag of chips from the cabinet and walked into the living room. He stood, looking into the entertainment center for a few moments before kneeling to a cabinet on the bottom. Inside sat a collection of DVDs, each labelled with a different date, dating back to August 14, 2000: “Rowan at Hospital.”
He shuffled through the cases for a minute before pulling out one labelled “July 24, 2008.” He put the DVD in the player and sat on the couch.
The scene began with a bedroom door opening, and a female voice whispering.
(Voice, whispering)
There he is! Go get him!
A little girl, no more than 8 years old, pushed the door wide open, revealing Jeremiah in bed, sound asleep. The little girl dashed to the bed, climbed it quickly and SPLASHED! Onto Jeremiah!
(8 Year Old Dezirae)
Daddy! Daddy wake up!
Jeremiah began to stir, the young lady’s jumping causing him to toss and turn.
(8 Year Old Dezirae)
Daaaaaaaaaddyyyy! Daddy Daddy Daddy!
(Jeremiah)
Ughhhh
Jeremiah’s eyes open, and he lightly tackles his little girl, enveloping her in a big bear hug. The hug quickly turns into a visit from the tickle monster as Dezzie squeals with glee.
(Jeremiah)
Ahhhh! I got you now, little demon! Ahahahah!
The “attack” goes on for about a minute as the camera closes in on the two. Jeremiah looks up at the camera and reaches past it, pulling the camera-woman down into the mayhem. The view is rough for a moment until the camera is set on a nightstand, with a slightly obstructed view of the tickling.
As the commotion begins to settle, Jeremiah reaches over and picks up the camera, the whole family now clearly visible in the shot. He smiles as his baby girl looks up to him.
(8 Year Old Dezirae)
Happy birthday, Daddy!
She reaches up and kisses him on the cheek as the feed cuts out.
We rejoin Locke, in present time, still sitting on his couch. His eyes are watery, but no tears have fallen, and a smile rests on his face.
(Voice)
God, she was so young!
A voice behind him doesn’t even cause Jeremiah to flinch. He simply turns around to face his best friend, a somewhat nerdy fellow with short, black hair.
(Jeremiah)
How many times must I ask you to knock, Sal?
(Sal)
However many times it takes before you finally give up, bud.
Sal hops the couch and plants himself right next to Jeremiah, his eyes darting to the screen.
(Sal)
Do you miss her being that little?
(Jeremiah)
Every living day, man. I used to be her favourite person. But she’s grown up now. She’s developed into her own woman, and it’s perfect. I love it, and I am so damn proud of her. I wish I could have seen her for Christmas, but I’m glad she was with friends. Do you get what I mean?
(Sal)
I… I think I do?
(Jeremiah)
It’s just… When she was in grade school, she didn’t really have friends. She was always the weird girl. The one nobody wanted to be around. It was almost like every other day she would come home crying. And I’d sit on her bed with her, and I’d hug her, and talk to her. I mean, I wish she was still with me, but I would take her being with friend on Christmas over her not having any day.
A slightly awkward silence filled the room. Jeremiah looked towards his friend, who was shaking his head, a smile on his face.
(Jeremiah)
What?
(Sal)
It’s just strange, is all.
(Jeremiah)
What is?
(Sal)
This. This soft side of you. You look at what happened last Monday on Slam, you wouldn’t even imagine this person. It’s a completely separate entity on this couch right now, it has to be.
(Jeremiah)
No, it’s the same person. I just know how to flip a switch. When I enter an arena, I’m there for one reason. I leave fatherhood at the doorstep. I leave my personal feelings at home. From the moment I walk in, I’m a wrestler. It’s a respect thing, to me, you know? I respect professional wrestling enough to put in 100%. No more, no less.
(Sal)
Yeah?
(Jeremiah)
Yes. You see, that’s what irks me so much about Dayton Miles. He inked his signature on a dotted line to be a wrestler. Not a singer. Yet he has this gimmick. God, I hate gimmicks. Especially ones that are so… Well there’s a plethora of words I can end that sentence with. Unoriginal. Uncreative. Disrespectful. Dayton Miles doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life. That’s obvious. He’s got two jobs, and he’s pretty mediocre at both, if I do say so myself.
Locke takes a second to breathe.
(Sal)
You’ve got pretty strong opinions for this Dayton dude, don’t you?
Locke gets up, headed to the back hallway and back into his office area. Sal immediately follows.
(Sal)
Promo time?
(Jeremiah)
You know it. Grab the camera and I’ll be at my desk. Let me just grab a few things.
Jeremiah opens a cupboard and pulls out a three piece suit. He slides everything on and sits down behind his desk. Meanwhile, Sal grabs a video camera on a tripod and sets it up in the middle of the the room, pointed at the desk. At this point, the room looks as though a presidential address is about to be delivered.
(Sal)
Rolling in three… two… one!
A simple *BEEP* is heard, and a red light says that the camera is now recording.
Rec(Jeremiah Locke)
Ladies and Gentleman, my name is Jeremiah Locke. I come to you today to report a severe wrongdoing that is being force-fed to the WCF galaxy, faculty and fans alike. This wrongdoing is one that, if not for me, would go unnoticed in the WCF. This wrongdoing is something that yours truly will not stand for.
Jeremiah slides open a drawer on his desk, and pulls out a picture of Dayton Miles, playing a tiny stage in Reading, Pennsylvania. He pulls out another item, not revealing it to the camera, and closes the drawer.
(Jeremiah Locke)
This wrongdoing exists in the form of a man named Dayton Miles. Dayton Miles, folks, is a pest. One of many that plague the realm of the Wrestling Championship Federation. He’s a man of little morals and less brain. To be entirely honest, I am appalled that this man was contracted. Now, I know that Corey Black doesn’t care enough to filter down the undercard talent, but to employ such a weak-willed con artist like Dayton Miles is a blemish on the good name of WCF. And with our esteemed authority otherwise preoccupied, it is I who shall take over the task of cutting down on the dosage of needless jobbers that have cursed this great sport for so long. And this week, I start with you, Dayton Miles.
In his left hand, Locke holds a Zippo lighter. He flicks it open, igniting the flame, and holds it far enough away from the picture so as to not burn it, but close enough to get his point across.
(Jeremiah Locke)
Dayton Miles, Slam was just the beginning. I am not a man who stands for stupidity. And I am damn sure not a man who stands for disrespect. And that’s why I have a problem with you, Dayton. You simply have no respect. No respect for the music that you pass off as your own. No respect for the fans who sign your paycheck. No respect for the company that lets you carry on your charade. It’s sickening. People like you are the reason I lack faith in humanity. I remember a trend that went around the wrestling world for some time. “#fuccboigenocide.” And while I don’t exactly agree with the words used, I do believe in the cause. You, dear Miles, are the scum that clouds the pond that is the WCF, blocking potential fans from seeing the truly talented individuals in the locker room, and turning the fans off from the product. Fear not, WCF Galaxy. A cleanse is coming.
He brings the lighter and the photograph closer together, but pauses. He then closes the lighter and tosses the picture down, rising to his feet and getting closer to the camera.
(Jeremiah Locke)
No, I’m not done. I just can't let this man off mercifully. He simply doesn’t deserve it. Dayton, I’ve come across people like you. You think too highly of yourself. You live elsewhere, on a cloud of lies, guarded by your own facade. But let me be clear about one thing: those people changed. Quickly. And so shall you.
Jeremiah begins to pace, occasionally going outside the view of the camera.
(Jeremiah Locke)
This arrogance, it radiates. The sheer idea that you can get away with anything and everything you want to, it’s completely sickening. You’re not just what’s wrong with the WCF, mate, you’re the problem with America. You sit and flaunt other people’s hard work and pass it off as your own. You attempt to steal money, and credit. Frankly, the whole of your personality is a blemish on the face of humanity. And let’s fast forward to your blatant disrespect for the sport that you wish to call home.
He stops, facing the camera once more with a horrifically serious expression.
(Jeremiah Locke)
Do you know what it takes to get anywhere in the professional wrestling business?
It takes a 100% dedication to the craft. Full devotion. The fact that you genuinely believe you can come into this business, waste valuable airtime singing some lackluster ripoff of a song, and still get treated as a credible competitor is the biggest slap in the face to every credible member of the locker room. It’s a wonder you ever make it to the stage. Yes, an occasional performance can be accepted. But to make it an every week occurrence, it’s ridiculous. You continuously find yourself in a predicament where you can’t distinguish the line between work and play. You believe this to be easy. You believe that you can walk out and half-ass a performance in the very ring where countless men have lost their lives. You don’t take it seriously, and it is disgusting. You’ve seen “The Shining?” I ask if you’ve seen it because something tells me you lack the mental capacity to read a book. Well there’s a line in the Shining. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Yes, it’s true. Your life shouldn’t be completely dedicated to work. But the opposite it without a doubt true. You should have enough respect for your craft, whether that be wrestling or singing, to hone it on it completely. Don’t split your time like a whore going through college.
He walks behind his desk as he speaks, taking a seat once more.
(Jeremiah Locke)
And here’s where we seem to have come full circle. Now, I’m going to stop right here. I’ll admit, I have a few more choice words for this ingrate, but I believe them to be better left unsaid in public. So, I shall close with a promise to the WCF Galaxy. One starts me on a mission, one to purge the roster of those unworthy to lace a pair of boots.
He takes up both the lighter and the photo, igniting the flame and setting the picture ablaze.
(Jeremiah Locke)
And it all starts with Dayton Miles.
He tosses the flaming image forward. As the camera stops recording, the very last sight is the charred remains of Dayton Miles’ likeness, a sign of what’s to come.
