Post by Allen Guiliano on Jan 4, 2010 3:12:38 GMT -5
OOC: Not the best I have put together and I apologize. Ran out of time but I think I made the most of out what I was trying to achieve with this RP. Hope you enjoy.
A field of darkness is interrupted by two slits of light, as the scene opens from behind the eyes of an individual. The eyes open only part of the way at first, the view blurry, as overhead lights start to come into view. The smoke from pyros have filled the air and an unfamiliar song is blaring over the speakers of the arena. The darkness returns once again as the eye close for a short moment before reopening and glancing down at the blood, sweat, and tears that are spattered over a pair of white wrestling tights with the colors of Italy, red and green, adorning the tights as well. The view is obviously from behind the eyes of the defeated Allen Guiliano as he lay nearly lifeless in the middle of the ring at the Los Angeles Coliseum on the night of December 20, 2009.
The downtrodden superstar reluctantly finds the energy to roll himself across the canvas decorated with the green WCF logo and under the ropes to the padded concrete floor outside the squared circle. Once again the will to move removes itself from his body as he lays face down on the blue padding, feeling the looks of disappoint gaze open him from over the steel railings where the loyal Slickie T fans remain as the rest of the patrons begin to file out of the arena as the current World Champion celebrates inside the ring after retaining his title.
Guiliano places his hands under his body and attempts to lift himself off the ground, but his first attempt fails as his heaving chest once again meets the protective layer below. A pair of black steel ring stairs now look awfully friendly as Guiliano struggles to crawl toward the stairs, first an elbow, then a knee, one at a time before his palm finally rests upon the bottom step and his muscles ache as he attempts to lift his own body weight in an attempt to make his way to his knees. The aid of the steps prove successful as he is able to pull himself up onto his right knee, still breathing heavily as he rests against the short metal staircase. He then reaches from the ring post, hoisting himself to his feet, standing for the first time since having his shoulders held to the mat for a three count. He slowly scans the crowd as he feels the coldness of the steel against his cheek as he stands propped up against the post, watching as the aisles fill with people and men, women, and children alike make the trek out of the arena, to the parking lot outside, and attempt to find their vehicles after perhaps the greatest event and most spectacular match an WCF audience has ever seen.
The Italian and former #1 Contender starts to get his bearings back as he makes his way along the ring apron, using the bottom rope to help guide him to the side of the ring in which the ramp empties. The cloth of the apron provides a constant touch at the back of his thigh as he continues his route toward the ramp, thousands of thoughts finally starting to fill his mind as he glances up at the referee for the last time, nodding to inform the official that he is able to exit the ring area under his own power. A couple of outstretched hands and the long ramp are all that separate Guiliano from the backstage area as he slowly strides away from the ring, fully standing on his own legs, lightly slapping the hands of the youth that have convinced their parents to stay until the loser of the World Championship match has finally departed the ring. The fragile hand of the youngster lingers against Guiliano's palm as he peers into the eyes of the youthful fan, trying to smile, but unable to as he realizes his chance at true accomplishment and glory have been dashed.
The battered and broken superstar continues up the ramp at a slightly quicker pace than before, glancing up at the large screen in front of him and then quickly away again as he sees the portrait of the man that he tried so hard to defeat. The gold award once again strapped around his waist as it avoided Guiliano and the work he had put and the battles that he had won had all been for not. A deep sigh escapes his lungs as he forcefully pushes open the curtains that lead to the locker room area, where he finds it a barren and empty place as all the other superstars have been escorted back to their hotel rooms or travel buses, leaving only Guiliano behind.
He stares down the long hallway that awaits him, angrily tearing a One poster that bears an image of himself after his War victory from the wall and finds the gold nameplate etched with his own signature and "Slickie T" underneath. The tarnished knob of the dark wooden door turns easily in his hand as he pushes it open, revealing his locker room just the way he had left it before making his way to the ring for the most important bout of his long career. He pulls the black padded folding chair away from his large cherry wood locker before relaxing against it and staring at the bottle of champagne that will forever remain corked and the CoolWear Inc. t-shirt that was to be distributed to the fans if he were to emerge victorious. Both items will be filed away under the "what could have been" category in his career archives and may someday be valuable collectibles to some wrestling fanatic, but for now they remain painful reminders of the recent outcome.
Guiliano reaches down and unlaces his glossy black wrestling boots, pulling them from his sore feet before wrapping a towel around himself and dropping his tights before making his way into the small tiled shower and pulling out the knob, closing his eyes once more, this time in relief as the stream of warm water rushes over his bruised cheeks and swollen lip. The visible wounds that he suffered tonight will heal but those on the inside will forever leave a scar not only on the man himself, but on his career as well. Thoughts of previous matches and the superstars he hand earned victories over began to come rushing back, but were quickly extinguished by the final moments of the match that had just occurred and the one name that will continue and may forever trump each and every other victory Guiliano had achieved. The pearl tile floor of the shower becomes tinted with crimson as Guiliano nurses his wounds and squeezes a generous amount of shower gel into a washcloth, grimacing in pain and clinching his teeth as the antibacterial liquid makes its way into the lacerations that litter his upper and then lower body. He then dispenses a dime-sized glob of shampoo into his right hand before weaving his hair through his fingers and massaging his scalp, working it into a lather before rinsing and roughly pushing the knob back into the wall, shutting off the water and wrapping his towel back around him before exiting the shower.
Wet footprints dotted the carpet of the locker room as Guiliano made his way back over to his locker, slipping on a pair of briefs, followed by a pair of black slacks before thrusting a white t-shirt over his head followed by a white button up shirt and black suit jacket. Guiliano then slicked back his jet black hair with a dollop of gel before packing his gym back for the last time in Los Angeles and lifting it up over his shoulder and making his way back out into the hallway, glancing over his shoulder for one more painful glance at the bottle of liquor and CoolWear merchandise. A press conference was to follow the match for each competitor and perhaps it was his “obligation” as a WCF superstar to attend and answer the plethora of questions that were sure to be spewed in his direction, but that wasn't going to happen on this evening no matter the consequences of his actions. There was no humanly way possible that a defeated man could stand up on a stage behind a podium and field questions about a recent loss, more less one as devastating as the one that had just occurred. The last thing that a defeated combatant wanted to do was be reminded of his shortcomings and how “oh so close” he had come to becoming the next WCF World Champion. Perhaps close was the exact word that would define his quest for a World Title, as Seth had all but guaranteed there would be no rematch after the stunts that were pulled by Guiliano against Mr. Lerch and the Team of Torture. The Italian had worked his magic and pulled the rug out from under the feet of the most powerful men in the World Championship Federation and the only thing left to do was face the consequences.
The hallway was far too silent for Guiliano's liking as he peered into every door, making sure that each and every other competitor that night had cleaned out there locker and was nowhere to be found on the premesis of the arena. Only one more door stood between Guiliano and the outside world, but before he could reach it and finally leave the Godforsaken Los Angeles Coliseum, a WCF representative had the nerve to grab him by the sleeve and instruct him of his obligations.
Employee = Mr. Guiliano, the media is now ready for your press conference and your presence has been requested by quite a few reporters.
A simple shake of the head and firm hand to the man's chest was all that Guiliano gave as he forced his way to the door and outside into the warm California evening. Although the arena, the ring, the locker room, and the result were behind him, much more lay ahead even though his one chance and his best effort at the WCF's highest accolades had fallen short less than 30 minutes ago. The bout that he had wished and hope for had been granted and perhaps the better man was the victor on this certain day, but then again perhaps the victor would have been the same no matter the circumstances and no matter the venue as Guiliano knew he had given each and every ounce of effort that was contained inside his body and it was simply not enough for the man on the other side of the ring. It was one on one, no special rules, no secret stipulations, just a good old fashioned wrestling match and his own move had been used against him in defeat. It was the ultimate kick in the groin, the proverbial slap in the face, and the definition of pouring salt in the wound.
Guiliano continued to wear the result of the match upon his face as a black Cadillac met him outside the arena a tall, slender male figure emerged from the vehicle, separating Guiliano from his bags as he tossed them into the trunk and opened the door to the back seat for his employer. As the door shut behind him, Guiliano quickly poured himself a bottle of straight gin from the bottle that was on ice in the back seat of the vehicle and downed it as a grimace came over his face as the clear liquid burned his throat on the way down. Although the gin did little to ease his inner pain, Guiliano appreciated its sting as he quickly swallowed yet another glass to take the edge off of the physical aches he was now suffering from after such a confrontation as the one he had in the ring that evening.
The driver kept glancing over his shoulder, perhaps in concern for the health of man in the back seat, but eventually gave up and let out a sigh before focusing his full attention on the road ahead as Guiliano sprawled out in the back seat, closing his eyes, attempting to sleep on the ride from Los Angeles to his home in Las Vegas. No matter how hard he shut his eyes or how relaxed he attempted to be, sleep eluded him as scenes from his match continued to play over and over in his head like a movie stuck on repeat. However, none of the moments were ones in which he had the upper hand, although several times, he was simply one maneuver on one mistake on the part of his opponent from emerging as the top wrestling in the WCF. The visions and dreams that he once had of having his arm raised and having the colors of his home country stream from the ceiling had been replaced with the complete opposite. Not only was it the opposite, but it was reality and perhaps that was what was hardest to handle.
Guiliano began to ponder his future as a superstar in the WCF, wondering what he would be remembered as by not only the fans but by the rest of his fellow wrestlers after he made an appearance at the next event. Would it be a hero's welcome or would he hear the resounding sound of disappointment from the masses when he music finally played again? Was he still a top tier superstar or had he been shown the way back to the upper midcard in which he had competed before his heated feud with the current World Title holder? Was he still a feared opponent or was he now a springboard for others to use to launch their future World Title runs? Guiliano was impatient to have these questions answered, but knew that only time would heal his wounds and only time would decide his future in the World Championship Federation.
The year 2009 would soon come to a close and it could not end fast enough for the man that now lay uncomfortably in the black leather seat of the Cadillac, attempting to block out any source of light by laying his suit jacket over his eyes in an attempt to doze off and simply have his own hotel be the next thing that he saw when he opened his eyes again. His wish would finally be granted as the camera faded to black yet again as perhaps pure exhaustion granted Guiliano's wish of slumber or perhaps his mind had simply given up and ran out of disappointing moments to display. Whatever the reason, the fallen superstar now found himself in the state in which he appeared on the canvas earlier in the night, on his back, eyes closed, and uncertainty on his mind.
A field of darkness is interrupted by two slits of light, as the scene opens from behind the eyes of an individual. The eyes open only part of the way at first, the view blurry, as overhead lights start to come into view. The smoke from pyros have filled the air and an unfamiliar song is blaring over the speakers of the arena. The darkness returns once again as the eye close for a short moment before reopening and glancing down at the blood, sweat, and tears that are spattered over a pair of white wrestling tights with the colors of Italy, red and green, adorning the tights as well. The view is obviously from behind the eyes of the defeated Allen Guiliano as he lay nearly lifeless in the middle of the ring at the Los Angeles Coliseum on the night of December 20, 2009.
The downtrodden superstar reluctantly finds the energy to roll himself across the canvas decorated with the green WCF logo and under the ropes to the padded concrete floor outside the squared circle. Once again the will to move removes itself from his body as he lays face down on the blue padding, feeling the looks of disappoint gaze open him from over the steel railings where the loyal Slickie T fans remain as the rest of the patrons begin to file out of the arena as the current World Champion celebrates inside the ring after retaining his title.
Guiliano places his hands under his body and attempts to lift himself off the ground, but his first attempt fails as his heaving chest once again meets the protective layer below. A pair of black steel ring stairs now look awfully friendly as Guiliano struggles to crawl toward the stairs, first an elbow, then a knee, one at a time before his palm finally rests upon the bottom step and his muscles ache as he attempts to lift his own body weight in an attempt to make his way to his knees. The aid of the steps prove successful as he is able to pull himself up onto his right knee, still breathing heavily as he rests against the short metal staircase. He then reaches from the ring post, hoisting himself to his feet, standing for the first time since having his shoulders held to the mat for a three count. He slowly scans the crowd as he feels the coldness of the steel against his cheek as he stands propped up against the post, watching as the aisles fill with people and men, women, and children alike make the trek out of the arena, to the parking lot outside, and attempt to find their vehicles after perhaps the greatest event and most spectacular match an WCF audience has ever seen.
The Italian and former #1 Contender starts to get his bearings back as he makes his way along the ring apron, using the bottom rope to help guide him to the side of the ring in which the ramp empties. The cloth of the apron provides a constant touch at the back of his thigh as he continues his route toward the ramp, thousands of thoughts finally starting to fill his mind as he glances up at the referee for the last time, nodding to inform the official that he is able to exit the ring area under his own power. A couple of outstretched hands and the long ramp are all that separate Guiliano from the backstage area as he slowly strides away from the ring, fully standing on his own legs, lightly slapping the hands of the youth that have convinced their parents to stay until the loser of the World Championship match has finally departed the ring. The fragile hand of the youngster lingers against Guiliano's palm as he peers into the eyes of the youthful fan, trying to smile, but unable to as he realizes his chance at true accomplishment and glory have been dashed.
The battered and broken superstar continues up the ramp at a slightly quicker pace than before, glancing up at the large screen in front of him and then quickly away again as he sees the portrait of the man that he tried so hard to defeat. The gold award once again strapped around his waist as it avoided Guiliano and the work he had put and the battles that he had won had all been for not. A deep sigh escapes his lungs as he forcefully pushes open the curtains that lead to the locker room area, where he finds it a barren and empty place as all the other superstars have been escorted back to their hotel rooms or travel buses, leaving only Guiliano behind.
He stares down the long hallway that awaits him, angrily tearing a One poster that bears an image of himself after his War victory from the wall and finds the gold nameplate etched with his own signature and "Slickie T" underneath. The tarnished knob of the dark wooden door turns easily in his hand as he pushes it open, revealing his locker room just the way he had left it before making his way to the ring for the most important bout of his long career. He pulls the black padded folding chair away from his large cherry wood locker before relaxing against it and staring at the bottle of champagne that will forever remain corked and the CoolWear Inc. t-shirt that was to be distributed to the fans if he were to emerge victorious. Both items will be filed away under the "what could have been" category in his career archives and may someday be valuable collectibles to some wrestling fanatic, but for now they remain painful reminders of the recent outcome.
Guiliano reaches down and unlaces his glossy black wrestling boots, pulling them from his sore feet before wrapping a towel around himself and dropping his tights before making his way into the small tiled shower and pulling out the knob, closing his eyes once more, this time in relief as the stream of warm water rushes over his bruised cheeks and swollen lip. The visible wounds that he suffered tonight will heal but those on the inside will forever leave a scar not only on the man himself, but on his career as well. Thoughts of previous matches and the superstars he hand earned victories over began to come rushing back, but were quickly extinguished by the final moments of the match that had just occurred and the one name that will continue and may forever trump each and every other victory Guiliano had achieved. The pearl tile floor of the shower becomes tinted with crimson as Guiliano nurses his wounds and squeezes a generous amount of shower gel into a washcloth, grimacing in pain and clinching his teeth as the antibacterial liquid makes its way into the lacerations that litter his upper and then lower body. He then dispenses a dime-sized glob of shampoo into his right hand before weaving his hair through his fingers and massaging his scalp, working it into a lather before rinsing and roughly pushing the knob back into the wall, shutting off the water and wrapping his towel back around him before exiting the shower.
Wet footprints dotted the carpet of the locker room as Guiliano made his way back over to his locker, slipping on a pair of briefs, followed by a pair of black slacks before thrusting a white t-shirt over his head followed by a white button up shirt and black suit jacket. Guiliano then slicked back his jet black hair with a dollop of gel before packing his gym back for the last time in Los Angeles and lifting it up over his shoulder and making his way back out into the hallway, glancing over his shoulder for one more painful glance at the bottle of liquor and CoolWear merchandise. A press conference was to follow the match for each competitor and perhaps it was his “obligation” as a WCF superstar to attend and answer the plethora of questions that were sure to be spewed in his direction, but that wasn't going to happen on this evening no matter the consequences of his actions. There was no humanly way possible that a defeated man could stand up on a stage behind a podium and field questions about a recent loss, more less one as devastating as the one that had just occurred. The last thing that a defeated combatant wanted to do was be reminded of his shortcomings and how “oh so close” he had come to becoming the next WCF World Champion. Perhaps close was the exact word that would define his quest for a World Title, as Seth had all but guaranteed there would be no rematch after the stunts that were pulled by Guiliano against Mr. Lerch and the Team of Torture. The Italian had worked his magic and pulled the rug out from under the feet of the most powerful men in the World Championship Federation and the only thing left to do was face the consequences.
The hallway was far too silent for Guiliano's liking as he peered into every door, making sure that each and every other competitor that night had cleaned out there locker and was nowhere to be found on the premesis of the arena. Only one more door stood between Guiliano and the outside world, but before he could reach it and finally leave the Godforsaken Los Angeles Coliseum, a WCF representative had the nerve to grab him by the sleeve and instruct him of his obligations.
Employee = Mr. Guiliano, the media is now ready for your press conference and your presence has been requested by quite a few reporters.
A simple shake of the head and firm hand to the man's chest was all that Guiliano gave as he forced his way to the door and outside into the warm California evening. Although the arena, the ring, the locker room, and the result were behind him, much more lay ahead even though his one chance and his best effort at the WCF's highest accolades had fallen short less than 30 minutes ago. The bout that he had wished and hope for had been granted and perhaps the better man was the victor on this certain day, but then again perhaps the victor would have been the same no matter the circumstances and no matter the venue as Guiliano knew he had given each and every ounce of effort that was contained inside his body and it was simply not enough for the man on the other side of the ring. It was one on one, no special rules, no secret stipulations, just a good old fashioned wrestling match and his own move had been used against him in defeat. It was the ultimate kick in the groin, the proverbial slap in the face, and the definition of pouring salt in the wound.
Guiliano continued to wear the result of the match upon his face as a black Cadillac met him outside the arena a tall, slender male figure emerged from the vehicle, separating Guiliano from his bags as he tossed them into the trunk and opened the door to the back seat for his employer. As the door shut behind him, Guiliano quickly poured himself a bottle of straight gin from the bottle that was on ice in the back seat of the vehicle and downed it as a grimace came over his face as the clear liquid burned his throat on the way down. Although the gin did little to ease his inner pain, Guiliano appreciated its sting as he quickly swallowed yet another glass to take the edge off of the physical aches he was now suffering from after such a confrontation as the one he had in the ring that evening.
The driver kept glancing over his shoulder, perhaps in concern for the health of man in the back seat, but eventually gave up and let out a sigh before focusing his full attention on the road ahead as Guiliano sprawled out in the back seat, closing his eyes, attempting to sleep on the ride from Los Angeles to his home in Las Vegas. No matter how hard he shut his eyes or how relaxed he attempted to be, sleep eluded him as scenes from his match continued to play over and over in his head like a movie stuck on repeat. However, none of the moments were ones in which he had the upper hand, although several times, he was simply one maneuver on one mistake on the part of his opponent from emerging as the top wrestling in the WCF. The visions and dreams that he once had of having his arm raised and having the colors of his home country stream from the ceiling had been replaced with the complete opposite. Not only was it the opposite, but it was reality and perhaps that was what was hardest to handle.
Guiliano began to ponder his future as a superstar in the WCF, wondering what he would be remembered as by not only the fans but by the rest of his fellow wrestlers after he made an appearance at the next event. Would it be a hero's welcome or would he hear the resounding sound of disappointment from the masses when he music finally played again? Was he still a top tier superstar or had he been shown the way back to the upper midcard in which he had competed before his heated feud with the current World Title holder? Was he still a feared opponent or was he now a springboard for others to use to launch their future World Title runs? Guiliano was impatient to have these questions answered, but knew that only time would heal his wounds and only time would decide his future in the World Championship Federation.
The year 2009 would soon come to a close and it could not end fast enough for the man that now lay uncomfortably in the black leather seat of the Cadillac, attempting to block out any source of light by laying his suit jacket over his eyes in an attempt to doze off and simply have his own hotel be the next thing that he saw when he opened his eyes again. His wish would finally be granted as the camera faded to black yet again as perhaps pure exhaustion granted Guiliano's wish of slumber or perhaps his mind had simply given up and ran out of disappointing moments to display. Whatever the reason, the fallen superstar now found himself in the state in which he appeared on the canvas earlier in the night, on his back, eyes closed, and uncertainty on his mind.
