Post by Jack of Blades on Aug 24, 2006 7:35:05 GMT -5
(OOC Note: Although this RP is for the match against Creeping Death at Ultimate Showdown, the reason I have changed tact is to explain some of the backstory and context of the feud as due to our pre-occupation with the T.O.T./New Dynasty war, it hasn't been developed that much.)
(The camera opens up on no exorbitant television set or any exotic setting. Instead, we open up on the most unlikeliest place, well, the most unlikeliest place for the enigmatic, Jack of Blades to cut a promo: the WCF interview area. The WCF logo emblazoned on the wall behind indicates that this is the setting for today’s tirade. But of course, this is not the most central factor within this scene. No, the pacing and dishevelled Jack of Blades is. ‘The Bastard Clown’ is staring heavily into the character as if to find some inspiration within its lens. Wearing a versace suit underneath a dirtied trenchcoat, nothing seems to be a miss in his attire. His shoulder-length black hair is styled to impossible angles and design and his combination of accessories promote the same degrees of opulence and political standpoint whether they are a watch or wristband. However, his posture is incorrect and although erratic caricature movements are common to him, his inability to settle in one place seems to indicate that something is concerning him. After a few scowls of frustration on his part, ‘The Bastard Clown’ begins what he came here for.)
Jack of Blades: Here I am. You bastards finally got me here. I wanted nothing of the such. I wanted to play on my own terms. I wanted to attack my opponent for Ultimate Showdown in a reality where I feel comfortable. I wanted to attack ‘Creeping Death’ in a sketch I devised and that I performed in a devised world that has all the pomp and pageantry of the circus. But, no, you incredulous bastards, had to reel me in. Tell me that no one wanted to see a series of comic sketches that denigrate my opponent and make light of the state of the world. No, what the fans, want to see is another generic competition of who can be the most misogynistic and relay the indignities that I will do to my opponent come the time when we step in to the ring together. Those animated, talking suits, who hide behind their pinstripe suits of armour tell me that my philosophical style of satire doesn’t appeal to its key demographic and ‘at this stage in time, what with everything being so close to the pay-per-view and all, we feel that it would be better suited for you to lay down a normal vignette about your grievances with the hardcore champion, you know, so you can connect with the fans better.’ First of all, you must not be listening, because the last thing I would ever want to do is connect with an audience who believes a bunch of tired veterans who sprout diatribe about their opponents so that they can cling onto their fleeting moments of glory, are the heroes of this piece.
But, I will indulge you. You see at Sunday, I face off against Creeping Death in a fight for a title long ago made redundant by political games. So, that’s why I haven’t mentioned that leather strap in any of my musings. And that’s all it is a leather strap. So, then why didn’t I spew filth about my opponent? Well, the problem is, it’s not about him and it’s not about me. Like any good story, this all started about a girl. A girl whose only chance in life was taken away by the hardcore champion. A girl, who in one despicable example, was forced to acknowledge all of her anger and pain and how futile they were in her efforts. A girl who was stripped of any hope just so that you could prove a point. You lucky bastard, I wanted to do it. You see, my issue is this: your name. Creeping Death. The word ‘creeping’ suggests something that is slow, methodical and precise. You are none of those things. You took her away like a bull in a china-shop. I spent months insulting her heritage, dispelling her ideas of a happy future, reinforcing her self-doubt and converting her to my very unique way of thinking. But you, you defecated all over my hard work, when you ran down to that ring, retaining your masculine idea of ‘bravado’, and took away my favoured play-thing with all the subtlety and panache of a dog needing to relieve himself.
She was mine to have. Not for you to express you distaste in not receiving any attention from the WCF faithful. She was my masterpiece. I was Francis Bacon and she was my ‘Figure with Meat.’ You were some hyperactive child with finger paints and she your tactless creation. So there we go. That’s why no mention to the title has been made. That’s why no personal attacks of Creeping Death have been issued. It is about her. Forever her. But of course, you feel assured in the knowledge that the WCF will promote this as being a battle between two factions instead of in memorandum of her. But come, Sunday, it won’t matter. I’ll have the hardcore title, you’ll be left face down, Torture will have played the ‘widower’ card some more, and Judas Iscariot will have nothing on Logan in terms of treachery. Which will be a shame…as I always liked him.
(Jack breaks into a series of riotous laughter changing erratically in pitch and frequency before managing to catch a breath and add ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’ causing the laughter to return more dramatic and of greater prominence as he leaves the camera’s view and the scene fades out.)
(The camera opens up on no exorbitant television set or any exotic setting. Instead, we open up on the most unlikeliest place, well, the most unlikeliest place for the enigmatic, Jack of Blades to cut a promo: the WCF interview area. The WCF logo emblazoned on the wall behind indicates that this is the setting for today’s tirade. But of course, this is not the most central factor within this scene. No, the pacing and dishevelled Jack of Blades is. ‘The Bastard Clown’ is staring heavily into the character as if to find some inspiration within its lens. Wearing a versace suit underneath a dirtied trenchcoat, nothing seems to be a miss in his attire. His shoulder-length black hair is styled to impossible angles and design and his combination of accessories promote the same degrees of opulence and political standpoint whether they are a watch or wristband. However, his posture is incorrect and although erratic caricature movements are common to him, his inability to settle in one place seems to indicate that something is concerning him. After a few scowls of frustration on his part, ‘The Bastard Clown’ begins what he came here for.)
Jack of Blades: Here I am. You bastards finally got me here. I wanted nothing of the such. I wanted to play on my own terms. I wanted to attack my opponent for Ultimate Showdown in a reality where I feel comfortable. I wanted to attack ‘Creeping Death’ in a sketch I devised and that I performed in a devised world that has all the pomp and pageantry of the circus. But, no, you incredulous bastards, had to reel me in. Tell me that no one wanted to see a series of comic sketches that denigrate my opponent and make light of the state of the world. No, what the fans, want to see is another generic competition of who can be the most misogynistic and relay the indignities that I will do to my opponent come the time when we step in to the ring together. Those animated, talking suits, who hide behind their pinstripe suits of armour tell me that my philosophical style of satire doesn’t appeal to its key demographic and ‘at this stage in time, what with everything being so close to the pay-per-view and all, we feel that it would be better suited for you to lay down a normal vignette about your grievances with the hardcore champion, you know, so you can connect with the fans better.’ First of all, you must not be listening, because the last thing I would ever want to do is connect with an audience who believes a bunch of tired veterans who sprout diatribe about their opponents so that they can cling onto their fleeting moments of glory, are the heroes of this piece.
But, I will indulge you. You see at Sunday, I face off against Creeping Death in a fight for a title long ago made redundant by political games. So, that’s why I haven’t mentioned that leather strap in any of my musings. And that’s all it is a leather strap. So, then why didn’t I spew filth about my opponent? Well, the problem is, it’s not about him and it’s not about me. Like any good story, this all started about a girl. A girl whose only chance in life was taken away by the hardcore champion. A girl, who in one despicable example, was forced to acknowledge all of her anger and pain and how futile they were in her efforts. A girl who was stripped of any hope just so that you could prove a point. You lucky bastard, I wanted to do it. You see, my issue is this: your name. Creeping Death. The word ‘creeping’ suggests something that is slow, methodical and precise. You are none of those things. You took her away like a bull in a china-shop. I spent months insulting her heritage, dispelling her ideas of a happy future, reinforcing her self-doubt and converting her to my very unique way of thinking. But you, you defecated all over my hard work, when you ran down to that ring, retaining your masculine idea of ‘bravado’, and took away my favoured play-thing with all the subtlety and panache of a dog needing to relieve himself.
She was mine to have. Not for you to express you distaste in not receiving any attention from the WCF faithful. She was my masterpiece. I was Francis Bacon and she was my ‘Figure with Meat.’ You were some hyperactive child with finger paints and she your tactless creation. So there we go. That’s why no mention to the title has been made. That’s why no personal attacks of Creeping Death have been issued. It is about her. Forever her. But of course, you feel assured in the knowledge that the WCF will promote this as being a battle between two factions instead of in memorandum of her. But come, Sunday, it won’t matter. I’ll have the hardcore title, you’ll be left face down, Torture will have played the ‘widower’ card some more, and Judas Iscariot will have nothing on Logan in terms of treachery. Which will be a shame…as I always liked him.
(Jack breaks into a series of riotous laughter changing erratically in pitch and frequency before managing to catch a breath and add ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’ causing the laughter to return more dramatic and of greater prominence as he leaves the camera’s view and the scene fades out.)
