Post by terrycross on Aug 22, 2006 18:24:02 GMT -5
Scene opens in a brightly lit gym. The equipment is new and shines in the light. There's no evidence that the gym has ever been used, except a white towel hanging over a bench located across the room from the large, wooden double doors. The camera shows the decent sized gym in it's entirety before focusing on a twisting doorknob located on the main door.
An inaudible remark is made as the door opens.
A man enters the gym, wearing a wifebeater and gym shorts. He's carrying a large duffle bag. A white American Eagle hat covers his face, his blonde hair hanging out the bag. He stands at the entrance to the room, surveying it carefully. He brings his hand up to stroke his unshaven chin, a small grin on his face.
Cross: ...Yeah.
He walks slowly towards a punching bag in the center of the room. He tosses his bag aside and it slides across the room towards the bench. He runs a hand against the bag, studying it. He turns the bag around a few times, and gives it a practice tap with his left hand. He turns his hat around, revealing his blue eyes. He takes a step back and nails the punching bag with a series of rights and lefts. He steadies the swaying bag and nods his head.
Cross: Yeah. This'll do.
Cross makes his way to the bench with the white towel, situated in front of a single gray locker. He picks up his bag and drops it onto the bench as he sits down. He unzips the bag and pulls out his wrestling gear, stuffing it into his locker. Cross tosses the hat into the locker and runs his hands through his hair. The camera focuses on Cross from his right side, and without turning to face it, he begins to speak:
Cross: Funny...it never starts out like this. I never step in and see things like these. It's always the same dingy dimly-lit, dilapated building with run down equipment. Nothing like this. This is nice. This is what any wrestler would ask for when he walks into the door of a new company. A fresh start, as it seems.
Cross sighs and lays his head back.
Cross: Seems perfect...but it's not. This place...this gym...it doesn't look like the gym of a well toned athlete. It looks like a primadonna's playhouse...one they can go to and pretend that they know what it's like to be a top tier athlete. There's nothing here to remind me of the pain, the sacrifice, the hardships of coming up in this business. I've been on all the highs, but moreso, all the lows. That's something that I would ever trade though. I would never refuse to look back upon my past, where I've struggled and almost quit. I crave the reminder. It makes me rise above the rest of these spoon fed fakes. It gives me the strength, passion and desire to go above-and-beyond some of these pathetic "wrestlers" here.
Cross gives a cold stare into the camera.
Cross: My fucking name is Terry Cross.
Cross turns his head back away.
Cross: I know that doesn't carry much weight around here yet, but that's going to change. Soon. I've been around the world. I've slain giants and ended careers. No matter where I go though, it's always the same. Country after country, promotion after promotion...locker room after locker room...The same goddamn thing. These primadonnas...theres always a "Golden child." I'm sick of these bastards thinking they're hot shots because they've been able to put on half way decent matches against semi-professionals in their backyards. I'm here to show these little wannabe's to keep to their flaming cardboard and thumbtacks, and to leave the real wrestling to guys such as myself.
Cross leaps to his feet, facing the camera.
Cross: And I could sit here and ramble on and on about what I can do. What I will do. Hell, even who I'm going to do it to. But I know as well as everyone that words don't count for anything. Action is what's important. And I assure you, I'm a man of action. So WCF, welcome the new face of wrestling. You'll be seeing me again. You'll be seeing a lot of me.
The cell phone in Cross' bag rings, and he turns and answers. Cross nods to the voice in the phone and then hangs up.
Cross: Here we go again.
Cross smirks and turns to the bag, he pulls out a photo and puts in his locker. Cross turns and heads toward the barbells. The camera focuses in on the picture. The picture is a smiling Cross, busted open with blood covering his face. A title belt is rested firmly across his shoulder. In the back is a dirty, dark gymnasium with the word "Home" painted on the back wall.
An inaudible remark is made as the door opens.
A man enters the gym, wearing a wifebeater and gym shorts. He's carrying a large duffle bag. A white American Eagle hat covers his face, his blonde hair hanging out the bag. He stands at the entrance to the room, surveying it carefully. He brings his hand up to stroke his unshaven chin, a small grin on his face.
Cross: ...Yeah.
He walks slowly towards a punching bag in the center of the room. He tosses his bag aside and it slides across the room towards the bench. He runs a hand against the bag, studying it. He turns the bag around a few times, and gives it a practice tap with his left hand. He turns his hat around, revealing his blue eyes. He takes a step back and nails the punching bag with a series of rights and lefts. He steadies the swaying bag and nods his head.
Cross: Yeah. This'll do.
Cross makes his way to the bench with the white towel, situated in front of a single gray locker. He picks up his bag and drops it onto the bench as he sits down. He unzips the bag and pulls out his wrestling gear, stuffing it into his locker. Cross tosses the hat into the locker and runs his hands through his hair. The camera focuses on Cross from his right side, and without turning to face it, he begins to speak:
Cross: Funny...it never starts out like this. I never step in and see things like these. It's always the same dingy dimly-lit, dilapated building with run down equipment. Nothing like this. This is nice. This is what any wrestler would ask for when he walks into the door of a new company. A fresh start, as it seems.
Cross sighs and lays his head back.
Cross: Seems perfect...but it's not. This place...this gym...it doesn't look like the gym of a well toned athlete. It looks like a primadonna's playhouse...one they can go to and pretend that they know what it's like to be a top tier athlete. There's nothing here to remind me of the pain, the sacrifice, the hardships of coming up in this business. I've been on all the highs, but moreso, all the lows. That's something that I would ever trade though. I would never refuse to look back upon my past, where I've struggled and almost quit. I crave the reminder. It makes me rise above the rest of these spoon fed fakes. It gives me the strength, passion and desire to go above-and-beyond some of these pathetic "wrestlers" here.
Cross gives a cold stare into the camera.
Cross: My fucking name is Terry Cross.
Cross turns his head back away.
Cross: I know that doesn't carry much weight around here yet, but that's going to change. Soon. I've been around the world. I've slain giants and ended careers. No matter where I go though, it's always the same. Country after country, promotion after promotion...locker room after locker room...The same goddamn thing. These primadonnas...theres always a "Golden child." I'm sick of these bastards thinking they're hot shots because they've been able to put on half way decent matches against semi-professionals in their backyards. I'm here to show these little wannabe's to keep to their flaming cardboard and thumbtacks, and to leave the real wrestling to guys such as myself.
Cross leaps to his feet, facing the camera.
Cross: And I could sit here and ramble on and on about what I can do. What I will do. Hell, even who I'm going to do it to. But I know as well as everyone that words don't count for anything. Action is what's important. And I assure you, I'm a man of action. So WCF, welcome the new face of wrestling. You'll be seeing me again. You'll be seeing a lot of me.
The cell phone in Cross' bag rings, and he turns and answers. Cross nods to the voice in the phone and then hangs up.
Cross: Here we go again.
Cross smirks and turns to the bag, he pulls out a photo and puts in his locker. Cross turns and heads toward the barbells. The camera focuses in on the picture. The picture is a smiling Cross, busted open with blood covering his face. A title belt is rested firmly across his shoulder. In the back is a dirty, dark gymnasium with the word "Home" painted on the back wall.
