Post by Speede on Jul 11, 2011 9:13:37 GMT -5
The scene opens at dusk. The camera tracing around the buildings of downtown comes to a rest as we see Roy Speede walking down the middle of the road, toward a somewhat active four-way intersection with the signals busted. Cars are backed up from all four directions, and Speede continues walking through the intersection, before suddenly stopping in the middle.
He notices the camera, and gets a puzzled look on his face, looking around him, and seeing all the cars. He motions for the cars from one direction to go, and as those clear out from that direction, he looks toward another corner of the intersection, motioning for those cars to go. The camera zooms in on him as the vehicles pass him by, and he stand for a moment, staring directly into the camera before starting to speak up.
Roy Speede: “So, this match is called a fatal four way, is it not? Well, it looks like I’m going to be involved in two four-ways for a while; while you can see this traffic light is burnt out, I’m conducting traffic in a real four-way intersection. Why? Because among these people are the same people that support the WCF and its wrestlers; among these people are the same people that sit in the audience and cheer for me every time I come to the ring; among these people are the folks that give me the drive to do what I do.”
Roy stops the traffic coming from one direction, and motions for another direction’s cars to go.
Roy Speede: “You see, unlike Steve Thunder, unlike Doc Henry, unlike even Mr. FPV, I acknowledge these fans to be the livelihood of the company, of the show, and even of myself, to an extent. Without them, there would be no Roy Speede. Those three try to survive without the support of those fans, and they all fail miserably, with the exception of FPV, who won the tag team title match after I took the beating of a lifetime.”
After a loud honk, a car swerves, and Roy jumps, managing to land a foot on the hood of the small Subaru before the momentum of the vehicle caused him to go somersaulting over the car’s roof; he lands on his chest, but manages to stand himself back up and away from the dangers of lying in the road. He looks around him, and sees that the cars are all back at a dead stop, no wrecks or injuries, but the cars are all honking and waiting trying to get through the intersection. He again starts to conduct people through the traffic.
Roy Speede: “You all are probably asking, ‘but Roy, isn’t being in a four-way intersection with lots of cars dangerous?’ The answer to that question, of course, is yes. What I’m doing now is very dangerous. At the same time, stepping into a ring with three guys willing to go through hell in order to pull off a win in a match for a title shot is equally, if not even more dangerous. Four wrestlers, neither of them willing to give an inch as they try to end the brawl and walk on to Ultimate Showdown, or in the case of these drivers, trying to get through the four-way intersection unscathed. And escaping a four way like this unscathed... That is a lot easier to do driving a vehicle in downtown anywhere than it is in a WCF wrestling ring.”
Roy pauses and holds his hands over his eyes for a moment, blinded by the headlights of one particularly inconsiderate driver’s vehicle. As the car passes him, he continues.
Roy Speede: “Franky, you and I may be tag partners, but there are no friends in this match. If you get in my way, I’ll run you over just like I’ll do to anyone else who steps into the ring with me. So what if you beat me in the classic? The classic was two months ago, Franky, and while you’d been jobbing out to everyone and their brother until you got my help to win you that belt, I, however, have never had a problem with making a statement in a losing effort. Take my match with Logan on the twentieth of June, for example; I may have lost, but his forehead was gushing blood by the time our match ended.
You and I, Franky, we’re complete opposites. While you may be some chubby, arrogant man who likes to lock horns with an opponent head-on, I’m the most fit, the most respectful, the most long-distance fighter the WCF has to offer. While you like to silence an opponent with a vertical suplex or a catapult move, I silence them with a shooting star frog splash or a backflipping mat slam. We’re nothing alike, and that’s what makes this team work. But being nothing like me is something that separates us. You get drunk, while I live the straightedge lifestyle; you fear the past striking again, while I embrace the future with open arms. And as usual, I’ll let you keep your feet on the ground and revel in the moment with that tag title of yours, while I shoot for the stars and go flying high all the way to that World Heavyweight Title.”
A pickup truck rumbles by, and Roy has to take several steps out of the way in order avoid being flattened by it.
Roy Speede: “Hey, dumbass! Watch where you’re going!”
He shakes his fist in the air at the pickup truck as it rolls out of the shot.
Roy Speede: “Then you’ve got these mentally insufficient rednecks rolling down the street from the south side, just like you’ve got the severely incapable man Doc Henry coming into the WCF ring this Monday. Doc may look like he’s hell to compete with in the ring, but his fallback of his lack of sense and overall stupidity. Granted, I dreamed I was driving down the road at two hundred miles an hour in a Lamborghini, but when I did it, it was just a dream. I’m not stupid enough to actually do that; maybe one hundred if I’m in a hurry, but I’m no maniac like Doc Henry. Nor am I such a nonsensical redneck. I may be from Virginia, home of a bunch of America’s rednecks, but I’m not one of them, aside from the occasional “Ain’t”. Doc, however, is too focused on beating up on minorities and homosexuals to focus on our match... Good thing he’s got Steve Thunder there to keep him busy.”
Roy lets out a laugh at his own joke; calling Doc a homophobe and calling Steve a homosexual in the same joke really gave him a good laugh. As he subdued the laugh, he continued.
Roy Speede: “Doc, we all know it, your excuses are pathetic. You said it yourself that I’m the only real competition in this match. Not even you hold a candle to The Silver Lining, Doc, and you know it, too. I saw you sweating there as you drove along in your fancy little car, and it wasn’t just because your little... what’s the word? I’m gonna go with ‘wench’. You weren’t just sweating because your little wench was giving you oral; you were sweating because you knew you would be in hell come match time; you knew you would be put through a shitload of a beating at the hands of Roy Speede! That’s exactly what’s gonna happen, old man! I’m going to defeat you and go on to the World Title match at Ultimate Showdown!”
As the cars come whizzing by, two directions at a time now, Speede lets out a yawn.
Roy Speede: “Talking about Doc Henry got me so bored, I don’t think I can finish this thing. Well here goes. Steve Thunder is a nuisance. Not only is he a fool for getting drunk before his matches, he remains silent in the face of a shot at greatness. Anyone and everyone knows it’s my big mouth that’s given me so much in this business, and if Thunder had any sense, he’d at least have said something about his match. Even I know to say something about the match.”
He laughs; Roy really thinks Steve Thunder is an idiot, and he’s letting it show.
Roy Speede: “Alright, I’m not one who should really be talking with the length of my US Title reign the first go-around, but for real, isn’t Steve Thunder’s supposed United States Title reign a bit... unlikely? Take for example is match against Odin Balfore; he lost miserably in the most embarrassing of fashions possible, and the same thing happened last week in that battle royal at the hands of my girlfriend, Aubrey Summers. That isn’t surprising that Aubrey would pull off that victory, but am I really to believe that someone who couldn’t even defeat Odin Balfore had a four month US Title reign? Someone’s yanking my chain; it couldn’t be possible. The WCF doesn’t suck bad enough for that to be reality. Or at least, it doesn’t today.
Thunder, if you really think anyone gives a damn about your supposed title reign that began over a full year ago, you’re dead wrong. You came back, claiming you never got the chance to defend it, which may have been true, but you failed miserably to get that strap back around your waist. Yet they booked you in this qualifier match; that really shows faith on the part of the WCF, Thunder; you’re awfully quiet to have been put in such a position, don’t you think? Or are you just scared of me like Doc Henry is? You know, I’d bet that’s it. FPV has fear seeping out from under his breath, the sweat could be seen running down Doc’s neck... You haven’t said a word because the sheer terror sent you running home scared. Let me tell you Thunder, with me in this match, you have a right to be.”
He stops speaking, takes a step to his left to avoid a rather large tractor trailer truck, and then to his right again after it passes by for the traffic from that direction, before beginning to speak once more.
Roy Speede: “Boys, you all should be scared. Last week, I had a match featuring barbed wire ropes; I went into the match scared, and came out of the match scarred, and now I plan on replicating those battle wounds across the faces of three other men: an idiot redneck, a miserable excuse for a former US Champion, and even my own tag team partner. This match will be a great danger to the four of us...”
Three cars suddenly decide to disregard Roy’s instruction. Two of the three crash into one another after one swerves around Roy, and the third cannot avoid the wreckage in time to get caught in the pile-up. Drivers from those three lanes start honking their horns in rage that their paths have been blocked. The fourth direction’s path, however, is completely unblocked, and rolling through the intersection rather slowly is an Infiniti G35 coupe, a black one, with the back window on the side facing Roy down. Roy gets a bit of a running start, and manages to jump into the moving vehicle through the window. The shot picks up from a camera positioned facing back at Roy from the passenger’s seat of the vehicle, and Roy begins to speak as that window rolls up.
Roy Speede: “Boys, only one of the four wrestlers in this match will be able to pull off the victory. When the dust clears, only one of us will be able to pull through that instersection without a big “L” on our records. And that someone... It’s going to be me, The Silver Lining, Roy Speede. For you, this is going to be a fatal four way indeed, and while you three collide and crash and burn, I’m going to coast through this match and drive on to victory, and drive on to Ultimate Showdown.”
The scene fades to black as Roy grins evilly, and lets out a devilish laugh.
He notices the camera, and gets a puzzled look on his face, looking around him, and seeing all the cars. He motions for the cars from one direction to go, and as those clear out from that direction, he looks toward another corner of the intersection, motioning for those cars to go. The camera zooms in on him as the vehicles pass him by, and he stand for a moment, staring directly into the camera before starting to speak up.
Roy Speede: “So, this match is called a fatal four way, is it not? Well, it looks like I’m going to be involved in two four-ways for a while; while you can see this traffic light is burnt out, I’m conducting traffic in a real four-way intersection. Why? Because among these people are the same people that support the WCF and its wrestlers; among these people are the same people that sit in the audience and cheer for me every time I come to the ring; among these people are the folks that give me the drive to do what I do.”
Roy stops the traffic coming from one direction, and motions for another direction’s cars to go.
Roy Speede: “You see, unlike Steve Thunder, unlike Doc Henry, unlike even Mr. FPV, I acknowledge these fans to be the livelihood of the company, of the show, and even of myself, to an extent. Without them, there would be no Roy Speede. Those three try to survive without the support of those fans, and they all fail miserably, with the exception of FPV, who won the tag team title match after I took the beating of a lifetime.”
After a loud honk, a car swerves, and Roy jumps, managing to land a foot on the hood of the small Subaru before the momentum of the vehicle caused him to go somersaulting over the car’s roof; he lands on his chest, but manages to stand himself back up and away from the dangers of lying in the road. He looks around him, and sees that the cars are all back at a dead stop, no wrecks or injuries, but the cars are all honking and waiting trying to get through the intersection. He again starts to conduct people through the traffic.
Roy Speede: “You all are probably asking, ‘but Roy, isn’t being in a four-way intersection with lots of cars dangerous?’ The answer to that question, of course, is yes. What I’m doing now is very dangerous. At the same time, stepping into a ring with three guys willing to go through hell in order to pull off a win in a match for a title shot is equally, if not even more dangerous. Four wrestlers, neither of them willing to give an inch as they try to end the brawl and walk on to Ultimate Showdown, or in the case of these drivers, trying to get through the four-way intersection unscathed. And escaping a four way like this unscathed... That is a lot easier to do driving a vehicle in downtown anywhere than it is in a WCF wrestling ring.”
Roy pauses and holds his hands over his eyes for a moment, blinded by the headlights of one particularly inconsiderate driver’s vehicle. As the car passes him, he continues.
Roy Speede: “Franky, you and I may be tag partners, but there are no friends in this match. If you get in my way, I’ll run you over just like I’ll do to anyone else who steps into the ring with me. So what if you beat me in the classic? The classic was two months ago, Franky, and while you’d been jobbing out to everyone and their brother until you got my help to win you that belt, I, however, have never had a problem with making a statement in a losing effort. Take my match with Logan on the twentieth of June, for example; I may have lost, but his forehead was gushing blood by the time our match ended.
You and I, Franky, we’re complete opposites. While you may be some chubby, arrogant man who likes to lock horns with an opponent head-on, I’m the most fit, the most respectful, the most long-distance fighter the WCF has to offer. While you like to silence an opponent with a vertical suplex or a catapult move, I silence them with a shooting star frog splash or a backflipping mat slam. We’re nothing alike, and that’s what makes this team work. But being nothing like me is something that separates us. You get drunk, while I live the straightedge lifestyle; you fear the past striking again, while I embrace the future with open arms. And as usual, I’ll let you keep your feet on the ground and revel in the moment with that tag title of yours, while I shoot for the stars and go flying high all the way to that World Heavyweight Title.”
A pickup truck rumbles by, and Roy has to take several steps out of the way in order avoid being flattened by it.
Roy Speede: “Hey, dumbass! Watch where you’re going!”
He shakes his fist in the air at the pickup truck as it rolls out of the shot.
Roy Speede: “Then you’ve got these mentally insufficient rednecks rolling down the street from the south side, just like you’ve got the severely incapable man Doc Henry coming into the WCF ring this Monday. Doc may look like he’s hell to compete with in the ring, but his fallback of his lack of sense and overall stupidity. Granted, I dreamed I was driving down the road at two hundred miles an hour in a Lamborghini, but when I did it, it was just a dream. I’m not stupid enough to actually do that; maybe one hundred if I’m in a hurry, but I’m no maniac like Doc Henry. Nor am I such a nonsensical redneck. I may be from Virginia, home of a bunch of America’s rednecks, but I’m not one of them, aside from the occasional “Ain’t”. Doc, however, is too focused on beating up on minorities and homosexuals to focus on our match... Good thing he’s got Steve Thunder there to keep him busy.”
Roy lets out a laugh at his own joke; calling Doc a homophobe and calling Steve a homosexual in the same joke really gave him a good laugh. As he subdued the laugh, he continued.
Roy Speede: “Doc, we all know it, your excuses are pathetic. You said it yourself that I’m the only real competition in this match. Not even you hold a candle to The Silver Lining, Doc, and you know it, too. I saw you sweating there as you drove along in your fancy little car, and it wasn’t just because your little... what’s the word? I’m gonna go with ‘wench’. You weren’t just sweating because your little wench was giving you oral; you were sweating because you knew you would be in hell come match time; you knew you would be put through a shitload of a beating at the hands of Roy Speede! That’s exactly what’s gonna happen, old man! I’m going to defeat you and go on to the World Title match at Ultimate Showdown!”
As the cars come whizzing by, two directions at a time now, Speede lets out a yawn.
Roy Speede: “Talking about Doc Henry got me so bored, I don’t think I can finish this thing. Well here goes. Steve Thunder is a nuisance. Not only is he a fool for getting drunk before his matches, he remains silent in the face of a shot at greatness. Anyone and everyone knows it’s my big mouth that’s given me so much in this business, and if Thunder had any sense, he’d at least have said something about his match. Even I know to say something about the match.”
He laughs; Roy really thinks Steve Thunder is an idiot, and he’s letting it show.
Roy Speede: “Alright, I’m not one who should really be talking with the length of my US Title reign the first go-around, but for real, isn’t Steve Thunder’s supposed United States Title reign a bit... unlikely? Take for example is match against Odin Balfore; he lost miserably in the most embarrassing of fashions possible, and the same thing happened last week in that battle royal at the hands of my girlfriend, Aubrey Summers. That isn’t surprising that Aubrey would pull off that victory, but am I really to believe that someone who couldn’t even defeat Odin Balfore had a four month US Title reign? Someone’s yanking my chain; it couldn’t be possible. The WCF doesn’t suck bad enough for that to be reality. Or at least, it doesn’t today.
Thunder, if you really think anyone gives a damn about your supposed title reign that began over a full year ago, you’re dead wrong. You came back, claiming you never got the chance to defend it, which may have been true, but you failed miserably to get that strap back around your waist. Yet they booked you in this qualifier match; that really shows faith on the part of the WCF, Thunder; you’re awfully quiet to have been put in such a position, don’t you think? Or are you just scared of me like Doc Henry is? You know, I’d bet that’s it. FPV has fear seeping out from under his breath, the sweat could be seen running down Doc’s neck... You haven’t said a word because the sheer terror sent you running home scared. Let me tell you Thunder, with me in this match, you have a right to be.”
He stops speaking, takes a step to his left to avoid a rather large tractor trailer truck, and then to his right again after it passes by for the traffic from that direction, before beginning to speak once more.
Roy Speede: “Boys, you all should be scared. Last week, I had a match featuring barbed wire ropes; I went into the match scared, and came out of the match scarred, and now I plan on replicating those battle wounds across the faces of three other men: an idiot redneck, a miserable excuse for a former US Champion, and even my own tag team partner. This match will be a great danger to the four of us...”
Three cars suddenly decide to disregard Roy’s instruction. Two of the three crash into one another after one swerves around Roy, and the third cannot avoid the wreckage in time to get caught in the pile-up. Drivers from those three lanes start honking their horns in rage that their paths have been blocked. The fourth direction’s path, however, is completely unblocked, and rolling through the intersection rather slowly is an Infiniti G35 coupe, a black one, with the back window on the side facing Roy down. Roy gets a bit of a running start, and manages to jump into the moving vehicle through the window. The shot picks up from a camera positioned facing back at Roy from the passenger’s seat of the vehicle, and Roy begins to speak as that window rolls up.
Roy Speede: “Boys, only one of the four wrestlers in this match will be able to pull off the victory. When the dust clears, only one of us will be able to pull through that instersection without a big “L” on our records. And that someone... It’s going to be me, The Silver Lining, Roy Speede. For you, this is going to be a fatal four way indeed, and while you three collide and crash and burn, I’m going to coast through this match and drive on to victory, and drive on to Ultimate Showdown.”
The scene fades to black as Roy grins evilly, and lets out a devilish laugh.
