Combat Arts & Wrestling 1.3

The scene opens to a small but well-furnished office. A smiling Scarlett is sat behind the desk.

Scarlett: So... champions have been crowned but they need number one contenders. It's High Stakes soon and so the champs must put their precious titles on the line. Seth Skyfire and Trevor Andrews both came close to Pure Championship glory last week so they'll face off with the winner going on to face Psycho Dragon at High Stakes. Meanwhile the Bloodsport number one contender will be determined via a mini-tournament featuring two newcomers Howard Shaw and Chris Williams as well as Manu Soldier and the debuting former Takedown Champion Krash.

Elsewhere, The Bloodhounds will have a chance to avenge their DQ loss last week as they'll both be seperated to take on the random tag team they faced last week. Cornelius Newman vs Horatio Gates while the more established Cesar Pineda and Eric Logan do battle a little later on - with a third element added. The Boss and Logan nearly came to blows at 1.1 and now they definitely will. Finally, in the main event of the evening, the alliance of Alyster Black and Steve Storme - known as None More Evil - will go up against the Ultraviolent Champion Sonichu and a Bloodsport division stand-out Butcha Yafi. Black and Sonichu have bad blood from 1.2 and with Ryan Ashburn in Sonichu's corner, you know Storme will be fired up. Hehe.

Alyster Black Presents: Ch. III

Legend
italics = Alyster's thoughts
bold = actions/descriptions
red = Alyster's dialog
... (on its own) = other side of phone conversation

The scene opens in the parking lot of a New York motel where Alyster Black is getting his luggage out of his car. He walks up to the room he has purchased for the night and opens the door. Alyster enters the room and drops his bags. He walks up to the bed in the centre of the room and drops down face first onto it, after a few minutes he rolls over and reaches for the remote to the TV located on the bedside table. He turns on the TV and starts flicking through the channels until he finds a replay of CAW 1.2. He is watching the highlights of the show which features himself losing to Sonichu in what is now a first blood match. Alyster throws the remote at the TV, shattering the screen and making the socket in the wall short circuit and explode. He then jumps off the bed and kicks the bedside table, his foot goes straight through it. He then walks into the bathroom and starts breaking things in a fit of pure anger.

FADE2BLACK

Italics = Krash/Jake Morrison’s thoughts.
Bold = Anything that's not Krash's thoughts.

Simple, no?


Our scene opens in a study-ish looking room, the glare of the switched on laptop illuminating the shaded white walls of this room from the place of a sturdy workman’s desk. Apart from the laptop, the only other source of light was two candles: Both lit at opposing ends of the previously mentioned desk, one on either side of the laptop, sending a dark orange hue against the otherwise clear walls. The lighting of the walls were barely adequate to illuminate the entire room, thus resulting in the focus of our attention being shrouded in darkness.

Jake Morrison, known more commonly as Krash to the world of… well, everything, seemed to be almost in a trance-like state. An almost dreamy smile was etched on his face, his eyes closed contently, as his fingers tapped lightly on the keyboard on his large grand piano. The soft orchestra of ‘Life & Death’ echoed in the large, empty house, the keyboard itself hidden in the darkness yet still, every correct key was hit perfectly.

Rrrring.

The sudden unexpected interruption of the telephone ripped Jake from his apparent ‘DreamWorld’, his fingers fumbling on the keyboard and striking several wrong notes. Jake re-opened his eyes, his connection lost, and frowned in disappointment.

‘Godamnit.’

His gaze rested in the keyboard, before the shrill continuous ringing of the phone reminded him that someone was trying to contact him, and he closed the lid on the piano’s keyboard, then glanced at the phone on the desk next to the laptop.

INCOMING CALL: UNKNOWN CALLER

‘Huh. That rules out Sylvester, Steve and Wade. Ah, fuck, Alyster. Force of Habit. I’ve got to try and get more than three numbers in my phonebook next year.’

After a moment’s deliberation, Jake grabbed the phone and answered. “Hello?”

“Am I speaking to Jake Morrison?” The voice on the other end of the conversation asked, a voice that sounded old and tired, as if the person had spent all day trying to catch hold of this number.

“That depends on why you want to speak to him.”

“I’ll take that as a yes… Hello, Mr. Morrison. Or as you’re more used to nowadays, Krash.” Jake had a sudden thought that if the next sentence out of this man’s mouth was ‘I want to play a game’, he would immediately hang up, set fire to the phone, and run away into the night. Damn Sylvester for dragging him to watch the latest SAW movie. And for dragging him to the previous movie the year before. And so on, so forth… Fucking tradition.

“Uh, Mr. Krash? You still there?” The voice on the phone wrenched Jake back into reality, away from the horror that is the SAW franchise.

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Alright, Mr. Krash. I’m calling on behalf of CAW, a new promotion set to, well, replace CGS. We’re interested in bringing you on board, as we feel that your particular skills, abilities, and your previous relationship with the fans of CGS, will be a large positive for CAW. Would you like us to set up a meeting sometime in the near future, so we can talk in more detail?”

---

The next week. Or 1 week earlier than present day. Whatever tickles your fancy.

“We’ve got two vastly different divisions here in CAW. One is the Olympian division, which specializes in the technical aspect of professional wrestling, almost a throw-back to the old-school style of wrestling, if you will. The other is the Bloodsport division, which specializes in the hardcore, major risk area of wrestling. The choice of which division you choose to be in is completely your choice.”

‘Oh my god. This man could cure insomnia.’ Krash tried not to show his boredom as the short, fat man in front of him (Mr. Belvedere, no relation to any other Belvedere in TV, literature, or movies, the man had been quite clear on that.) droned on and on about the wonders of working with CAW. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall above them, and was mildly surprised to see that it was 3:14, pm. ‘Fourteen minutes? It’s only been fourteen minutes? Fuck, it feels like fourteen years.’

“We’ve just completed our first show at the HSBC arena here in New York. This week’s show is set to be held in the Nassau Coliseum, just a few roads down from the very restaurant we’re sitting in.” The fat man from CAW, whose name Jake could not remember, for some reason was talking about the schedule. Shows in America only until they got a bigger fanbase. ‘I think I can die of old age faster than this guy can finish the next paragraph.’

“As a matter of fact, if you had joined earlier you might’ve had a spot on this week’s card.”

‘Maybe if I focus hard enough, I can make him explode using my mind. That should provide some ample entertainment.’

“But I digress.”

‘Explode, damn you! EXPLEWDE!’

“If you do decide to sign with us, I can guarantee you a spot on next week’s card.”

‘WHY AREN’T YOU EXPLODING?!?’

“Of course, that’s considering… Um… Why are you staring at me like that?”

It suddenly occurred to Krash that he was staring intensely at Mr. Belvedere, no doubt looking quite intimidating to the old man. Krash blinked twice, and relaxed his features into a calming smile. “I was trying to see what those words said on your tie.” He lied expertly, flashing a toothy grin.

“You like my tie?” The old man suddenly looked overjoyed. “I brought it last week and wore it every day and the wife didn’t even notice! Then this morning I turned to her and said ‘Honey, what’s wrong?’ And, get this, she said, ‘Harvey, you stubborn old bastard, I hate that new tie of yours. Can’t you just wear a normal black one like everyone else, and not one that says ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt?’”

‘Oh god, what have I done…’

“And I said ‘But Honey, look at the elaborate stitching on the SEXY.’ And the stitching was elaborate, very glittery. But she-”

‘Maybe if I bang my head on the table hard enough, I can knock myself out…’ Krash seriously considered doing so, but before he could begin with K.Oing himself, his mobile phone suddenly buzzed with the tune of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ This did catch the attention of Mr. Belvedere, who stopped mid-tirade to stare at Krash with puzzlement. Krash checked his phone: New message from Telstra.

“Oh.” Krash mumbled in disappointment. Then, he got an idea. “That was my Doctor. He was reminding me that my scheduled appointment with him is at 3:35… In 15 minutes. So… Can we just skip the stories and get down to business?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I must’ve been ranting. I do that sometimes. I think it stems from a childhood fear of not being heard…”

‘OH MY GOD, SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP!’

“Er… We are on a time limit, Mr. Belvedere.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Mr. Belvedere nodded, and began filing through his large brown briefcase. “I suppose we should cut to the chase. I have here two contracts, one for Bloodsport, and one for Olympian. All you have to do is sign one, and you’ll gladly be accepted to the main roster.” With that note, he handed two contracts across the table, and Krash leaned forward to collect them. “Bloodsport or Olympian, Mr. Krash. The choice is yours.”

A quick scan of both documents revealed the basic rules and guidelines of both divisions. For Olympian matches, unless stated otherwise, every match would have a 20-minute time limit, and matches could be stopped by referees if needed. Bloodsport was pretty much the opposite. No DQ or Count-outs, and matches only won by Pinfall or Submission unless specifially stated otherwise.

‘What to do, what to do… I suppose the ‘high-risk, high-reward’ style I excel in would make me a certain standout in Bloodsport, but Olympian has the ‘Pure’ aspect, which is more commonly thought as better then the ‘Garbage Wrestling’ that could be described at the Bloodsport division… Hmmm… Ah, screw it.’

“Bloodsport, I think.” Krash said, and signed the Bloodsport contract.

‘At least there I can hang out with Wade… Fuck, Alyster. It’s gonna take me a while before I get used to that.’

----

Back to the present.

The screen fizzled from black to show a man. This man was about 5’10, 180 pounds, and was 20 years old, one of the youngest professional wrestlers today. He wore a short-sleeve lavender open jacket over a white skull shirt, black jeans, and red sneakers. A purple & black fedora hid his messy dark blue dyed hair, and the

“Greetings, casual fans of the upstart promotion known as CAW. For those of you who already know me, Hi.” The man waved casually at the camera. “Nice to see you again. For those of you who do NOT know about me, then allow me to introduce myself.” The man took a theatrical bow, and began his obviously rehearsed speech.

“My name is Krash. I am 20 years old, and already have a more decorated career that the majority of the roster. 2-time Takedown Tag Team Champion, the second time with wrestling legend Steve Storme. Youngest world champion in history, winning the Takedown World Title at only 19 years of age. I am young. I am fast. I am agile. I am the guy who’ll do virtually anything to make sure the crowd goes home happy. My match this week, or more accurately, matches, are against some guys whose names escape me. Luckily, I have the match card here next to me to remind me who I’m supposed to attack.”

At this point, Krash glanced at the piece of paper next to him, obviously reading his scheduled match and possible opponents. “First up: Manu Soldier! Oh, sorry: Manu ‘JUSTICE’ Soldier! The ‘justice’ is in capitals, so it must be shouted. Manu, who talks like a bored Youtube user and has about as much wrestling skill as a dead body. And as much charisma to match. ‘Oh, but Krash!’ I hear you say. ‘Manu has the power factor! To date, he’s got two wins and one loss!’ And I respond: Your point? One win was teaming with me while in CGS, the other was against some guy who is basically invisible, the amount of impact he’s had on CAW. Need I remind you: 2-time Tag Team Champion, youngest World Champion in history, and waaaaay better w/l record than Manu. Place your bets, people: How long will Manu last? I’d say around the 20-second mark, how bout you?”

Crossing Manu’s name out with a purple texta, Krash then moved on to the Williams/Shaw match.

“Hmmm… I’ll do Howard Shaw first. Howard is, quite possible, one of the blandest wrestlers today. His profile says nothing! His original profile was so bad the Caw officials must’ve thought ‘We better get rid of the bad stuff. You know, to make him look somewhat good.’ And the result? Only about six lines. SIX LINES! There’s more lines in a Christmas card! C’mon, Howie. Be a little more giving. Tell us about yourself, dude!”

Howard Shaw’s name was then crossed out, and Krash moved on to his final potential opponent.

“Chris ‘Ice Cold’ Williams. His name sent a shiver down my spine. Ha, get it? Cuz he’s ‘Ice Cold’, and you shiver when cold, and… Ah, fuck it. He’s some kinda rapper. Yes, folks. He wished to be a musician, but apparently no-one wanted to sign him. So he turned to wrestling… you know, because the two are SO much alike. Apparently he spent quite a while in prison, though I’m unsure why. If I could hazard a guess, I’d probably say it’s cos his singing caused Atlantis to sink, or something like that. I dunno. I’ll be sure to ask him if he manages to get past Shaw.”

And Krash crossed out Chris William’s name too.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this week’s Krash promo. Remember, folks: I’m Krash, and I’ll see you later.” Krash finished, clapped his hands, and the room was engulfed in darkness.

Note: highlight the spaces for the other end of the phone conversation.


Fade in. The lounge of Steve Storme’s new Brooklyn apartment is dark; curtains drawn tightly shut and no artificial light. On the black leather sofa sits Storme, dressed only in baggy grey pants. On the glass table in front of him lays a pile of cocaine and a white prosthetic mask. Storme’s face is cast in shadow, obscuring the full extent of his burns. He eyes the coke with a vacant stare before suddenly snapping out of it as the thought of 1.3 comes to mind. He finds Alyster Black in the contacts list of his cell phone and makes the call...

Black: What is it?

Storme: We have a match on the 26th.

Black: Merry fucking Christmas. Is this my present, you finally decide to return my calls?

Storme: No. Your present is the same as mine; the chance to rip Sonichu’s furry little head off.

Black: Heh, I’d drink to that.

Storme: If you had lost by pinfall to that thing, I never would have returned your calls. You know that, right?

Black: If I had lost cleanly I would have hung myself. Then you’d never get a chance to call me. But you’d enjoy not having to talk to me unless it was an hour before match time and you wanted to dress me in riot gear.

Storme: And yet you still didn’t say no.

Black: Shut the fuck up Steve! I didn’t do that shit for you! I stopped doing that shit for you when I tried calling for the past three weeks worrying about your condition and not getting a single fucking answer.

Storme: I didn’t feel like talking - I still don’t. I just wanted to make sure you had your shit together because I don’t lose.

Black: Yeah, nothing but the right side of your face.

Storme: Cold. I like it... doesn’t mean I won't put you in your fucking place again though. Maybe you’re forgotten who you’re talking to – I’m not your little buddy Krash. We’re not friends; I don’t like you and I barely respect you. Even though you failed me last time on Livewire, I’m giving you another chance at relevance. So tell me, Alyster, are you going to make the most of it this time? Or are you going to act like a petulant brat and bite the hand that feeds?

Black: I’ll bite the hand off its fucking wrist and spit it into Ashburn’s face.

Storme: Just remember that you’re replaceable.

Black: Yeah but you’d miss me.

Storme: I’d miss you like a hole in the head. Anyway, just come prepared. I don’t want to have to carry you to a victory you don’t deserve.

Black: You’re just jealous cause my mask is better than yours...

Storme: ... grow the fuck up, kid.

Storme doesn’t want to hear more, simply shutting his phone with a sigh. He drops onto his knees and hunches over the glass table. After several snorts, thick blood begins to slowly trickle from his nose, the droplets falling into the white powder. Storme stares down at the contrast of colour for a few seconds before his eyes shut momentarily.

When they open, Storme is stood in a void of total blackness. Then a single white spotlight flickers on to reveal he’s now clad in the prosthetic mask and wearing a stylish black slim-fit suit.

Storme: So, here I am again... on the eve of yet another match. What makes this one any different to the hundreds before? It’s not the opponents; two curtain-jerking no-name faggots; one in clown make-up and the other in some cheap “Sonichu” costume. I don’t give a damn what a “Sonichu” is, all I know is that this bad joke holds the Ultraviolent Title. He’s no champion and yet he holds the championship. Gold is the price for rebellion. Alyster Black stepped out of line and lost that title for it.

Don’t you motherfuckers get it? Nothing’s changed – I’m still a deity. Disfigure my face and destroy my fed but you’re tripping if you think it will change what I’m capable of. I can give life and I can take it away. Think about it; I’ve brought countless allies and enemies to prominence and caused the downfall of even more, forcing them back down the card or into an early retirement. I’ve seen kids with egos come and go in this business – I’m one of the few to last. Most of these punks have to bite the curb and it’s usually me pulling the trigger.

See, the past year, I’ve had damn near everything taken from me. What have I got left to lose? Only my legacy... and you pieces of shit better believe I’ll fight to my DEATH to preserve it. I refuse to allow ANYONE – lest of all you miscreant bitches – to jump-start your pathetic careers at the expense of my own. I’ve had too many bones broken to let that happen. I’ve lost too much of my own blood to let the undeserving claim the recognition that I’ve EARNED.

I smell a massacre.

Fade out.

ful

The scene fades in with Cesar Pineda in his loft, laying down in his bed staring at the ceiling. Outside the window the sun is beginning to rise over the New York City skyline slowly illuminating the dark room. As the light begins to spread throughout Pineda's loft his face starts to become more visible, showing the bruises that he sustained from getting jumped by the New York City Latin King members. Pineda touches the side of his face and winces in pain realizing that the damage done to him was worse than he thought. Pineda gets out of bed and grabs his macbook and goes to www.themexicannightmare.com and clicks on new blog entry:

December 19th 2010

As a member of the Latin Kings you learn a couple of lessons while your in the gang. You learn that as a King the one rule that you must follow and not break is that you in no way shape or form speak about any of the activities, actions, and business of the gang. Another lesson that you learn as a Latin King member is that your worst enemy is a Latin King member. Now in the wrestling world you learn a couple of lessons as well. You learn that everyone is in this business for themselves, no "wrestler" is truly your friend because we all wana rise to the top and your only true friend is your self. Basically you learn shit all throughout your life and thats pretty much what has happened to me. Everyone's dream in this world is to be successful but not everyone can achieve that dream. I had that dream of being successful and I achieved that dream for a short amount of time and that time was before I became a "wrestler" and was deep into the Latin Kings. Before I got into this wrestling shit I would have never gotten jumped by some little high school pussies trying to make a name for themselves in the gang. I wouldn't be having pussies in masks talking shit about me and my career and my father. I would have never had any of these problems with the shit that I'm going through if I would have never become a "wrestler". What's the perks of being a wrestler huh? We get to go out and beat the fuck out of some other dude, who is barely wearing any clothes and get booed or cheered by some fucking marks that don't know shit about what we do in the business. When it comes to being a respected athlete, us wrestlers are at the bottom of the list because people don't consider what we do a real sport. We don't have the perks of MMA fighters, Football Players, Basketball Players and what not because the life of a wrestler aint as glamourous as it used to be. As a full fledged member of the Latin Kings I HAD the perks of the MMA Fighters and Football Players because I had the respect that those guys had. Im getting sick of this wrestling bullshit because the wrestling business ruins our lives. This wrestling shit has caused me to lose everything that I worked for in my life and right now I just don't give a fuck. I'm on a mission to get everything I worked for back and shit I just wana be back successful. I'm ready to gain the respect from my gang and my family. I let it be none that I'm on a mission to gain back my "crown" and respect in the game and I said that I'm going through everyone to do it.

Last week I beat these muthafuckas that call themselves the blood hounds and now I'm in a match with the leader of the blood hounds Eric Logan and The Boss. Umm Eric Logan lets be real with ourselves right now man, you ain shit man and I proved that last week. I guess you were some type of big deal in CGS , a former Carnage Champion and a former 2 time Ultraviolent Champion. Yea I did my research on you and I watched some of your matches and I aint impressed. You haven't done shit in your career worth bragging about in my opinion. When I think about CGS the first names that come to mind are Steve Storme, Kyle Evers, and Dash Blade. Who the fuck is Eric Logan? A nobody that is trying to make a name for himself by stepping in the ring with Cesar Pineda. You've been doing all this little talk about how you and Horatio are going to be taking down the Olympian Division and all this shit but in your first match as a Tag-Team you didn't do shit. I whooped on you and your little bitch Horatio Gates by myself. You aint no type of competition to me and if I have to face you again, trust me when I say that it'll be a nightmare for you.

As for The Boss your not on my radar man and it's best if you don't even show up to the match because I don't care whose in my way. I'm gona earn my spot and my respect back and your just gona be a fatal casualty on my way back to the top.

Let me go ahead and end this by saying that until I get back the respect of my family and the Latin Kings and regain my crown its gona be a nightmare for the Olympian Division here in CAW.

Let the nightmare begin pussies.

Cornelius Newman walks into Ashburn's office, tells him that his doctor hasn't cleared him to participate in the upcoming match, and walks out.

We open upon Howard Shaw sat at a dining table. He is carving his christmas turkey laughing and joking with his family, the house is old and poor looking. As though they had made the best of what they had. For a second we see the family all start laughing at a joke Howard had made, before placing pieces of turkey on everyones plates. Carving smaller pieces for the children. While carving himself the largest slices of all. He pauses smiling around at his family. A look of pride and honour in his eyes before looking down at his plate. A tear running down his face. As the scene fades to black.

We next open upon Howard taking a moment away from his family, to talk about his match. He walks into what seems like a childs bedroom. Before taking a seat. He looks up at the camera and smiles.

"I am unknown, a faceless, nameless and worthless person on this earth. Unimportant to you, to them, to anyone. However I'm going to prove you all wrong. I'm going to show you who I really am. Merry Christmas."

The scene fades to black.


((I thought a terrible roleplay is better then a no show. Sorry dude.))

Thanks to all who RPed. Results will be up tomorrow morning.