Tommy Kelly
.::XHF Competitor::.
Crude, Rude, the absolute Dude
Posts: 82
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Post by Tommy Kelly on Oct 24, 2017 17:41:08 GMT -5
*It has been a while…..too long, some might say….The years have not been good, and the world has grown more evil, more unfamiliar. Youth has become a distant memory, and suffering is part of every-day life. Trying to make it from one day to the next, trying to survive in a world that just wants him dead….not a lot of people remember his name, not a lot of people want to remember his name...he rose so quickly, won over so many hearts, lead a legion of black-hearts and devil worshipers on a gauntlet through the industry….then vanished, like a crow in the night….*
“.....and then there was this one fella, big hairy guy. Used to go by the name of DeAndre Coleman. Scary motherfucker. Nobody would look at him twice, never mind step foot in the ring. But I did….I tore that giant to pieces, whopped his ass from here to there! Yeah….me and him used to be great friends after that…..two real life monsters…….” *Sitting in a classic East London pub, we find our protagonist, reeling in the years and telling a table of listeners about what it was like in his day, what it felt like to go into that ring week after week, taking on giants of the game, legends in their own rights. Risking life and limb to entertain the masses, looking for that one moment of sheer brilliance, as you stand mid-ring, your opponent beneath your foot, while thousands scream your name…..* “And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. After that I got the brilliant idea of putting all these deadbeats into the same corner, having them team up. It took some work, none of them wanted to share the limelight, none wanted to watch out for anyone but themselves. You had Synn, very headstrong and nasty in his own way. Hell's Guardian, more jovial and nice, but still not to be messed with. You have Brother Gloom, a miserable dude who never spoke to anybody, just grunted….yeah, we had quite the team assembled alright. We were the original Four Horsemen, the quartet of killers, destroyers, game-changers….” “Mate, this all sounds well and lovely, but get to the good part will you? When did you tour with the band? When did you and Eddie play?” “.....The band?” “Yeah, you told us you played with Pearl Jam. You told us you know Eddie Vedder, McCready and the gang. So, get to that will you.” *Looking around him, he knows the future is here before him- skinny pants and thick framed glasses, girls with shaved heads and nose rings, guys wearing flamingo print shirts and boat shoes without socks. One of the girls before him moves her hair behind her ear, exposing a tattoo under her ear of a pizza slice….a fucking pizza slice. He looks to his own hand, the back of which boasts the skull and crossbones of his division, the team he was sent out east with. The skull is a helmet, the bones are criss-crossed AK’s. Done to himself by himself one lonely night in the middle of a country he didn’t know, during a war the world never heard of…..* “Did you even play with the band?” “.....Son, let me ask you something. Let’s say I told you that all my stories of wrestling superstars, and putting on a show for the fans, getting into character and perfecting my gimmick as the prince of darkness….let’s say I told you that was abruptly ended with an unexpected trip to the slam-house. A trip that put me on death row, to die by electric chair….and my only option to live, to get away from it all, is to accept the offer of some unknown and uncharted military unit, to fly to a country nobody knows is there, and to attack, kill or capture the heads of the world's most infamous terrorist organizations, years before you ever heard of them...would you accept that offer? Would you go fly to Bagfuckistan and kill a bunch of civilians, or would you take your punishment, and sit on that chair, to fry the last of your breathe away?” “....man, you are fucked up mate. Look, you either played with the band, and have some proper stories for us, or you can sling off.” *The offer of ‘I’ll buy you a beer, come sit with us and tell us a story’ has expired, and these post-pubescent drones, slaves to modern media and commercialization, are only pining for one thing….exposure on the world wide web. A photo of them with a has-been rocker, or a tweet about ‘I just met someone from Pearl Jam! WOW!’. To post a meaningless message on a website, so that other people can express their emotional response, happy sad or jealous. And for a few minutes, these little shitfaced kids can feel important to the world, the ever overflowing sea of brat-faced losers.* “....I see how it is now, what is important to you…..would you rather hear a story of me, playing guitar in my garage, Eddie with me practising, learning how to riff? Or would you rather know the truth, of the unknown war that took place, the thousands of lives lost due to the fighting, the prevention of a planet-wide catastrophe? The countless men I fought alongside, the friends I made…..lost, never to be mentioned again….” *One of the girls pipes up, and scooches closer on her chair.* “What was Eddie like? I bet he’s really fit in person. Did you meet the other bands?” “Yeah, Seattle was booming in the 90’s, you must have seen Nirvana, or Guns ‘N Roses, or Motley Crue. They all played up in Seattle!” “....yeah, I saw them all….they were great……” *The kids, excited about something as unimportant as what bands played where, twenty-odd years ago, is not the audience our man wants. He needs an ear to listen, not a mouth to ask. He picks up his pint glass, and chugs it down in one. He salutes the group with the empty glass, and stands to leave.* “Oi mate, you haven’t finished yet. You said you would tell us a story of when you went on tour with the band.” “Are you buying me another pint?” “I got you that one already.” “Then fuck off.” *Offended, the youths start to shout at the man, insulting him, picking on his appearance and his style- standing taller than anyone else in the pub, he still holds a formidable form. But his clothes are a mess, torn, tattered and dirty. His hair is long and matted, pressed into locks. His beard, full of crumbs and beer drippings. His face, worn and leathery, from years of abuse thrown at it. Time takes its toll on all, some more so than others. His spritely, athletic self has withered away to death, and an old man replaced him. He walks back to the bar, pulls up a stool and gets comfortable. A young couple sitting next to him move their seats away from him slightly, offended by his smell. Or his looks. Or all of the above. The barman notices his arrival, and strolls over.* “Alrigh’ chap, back again?” “Hey Georgie…..yeah, I can’t get enough of these ‘wonderful’ people….” “See, that’s the attitude got you thrown out on your rocker last time. Now, are you here to cause ‘bovver’, or just drink.” “Drink first….we’ll see about the trouble later.” *He shoots the barman a grin, toothless, scabbed, mischievous. The barman rolls his eyes and pulls him a pint. The derelict figure opens his pocket, and starts to pull out some coins to the counter.*
“Keep your change pal, this one’s on me.” “How very sweet of you….what’s the catch?” “No catch, you come in here now and then, and usually get tossed out on your head. I expect you don’t have a better place to go, and if a few drinks helps you sleep at night, who am I to judge you of that.” “I’ll drink to that.” *The walking pile of rags ‘cheers’ his drink to the barman.* “What’s your story anyway? You’ve been around here a while, I’ve seen your mug in the city, busking. Asking for change. Rooting through garbage. Have you nowhere to go?” “Ha, nowhere to go….I’m here, why would I go anywhere else!” “Well when you can come in a bullshit kids over and over about playing with famous bands, why would you leave!” “Ah yeah….sad part is, I never tell lies. I did play with all those guys, way back when….back when I was much much…...happier….” “Where ya from mate?” “Seattle, the jewel of the Evergreen state….ah, she's a beaut alright. London ain’t bad, I’ll give it that. But the Queen Liz ain’t a patch on my Queen Anne.” “Who’s she?” “Not she….a neighbourhood. My hood. Pull any record out of a 90s band and you can bet your last dollar they played in my hood...oh it was sweet back in the day, rockers everywhere, chicks just fucking everyone. Drink and drugs bonanza.” “Ah, burned out rocker. We get plenty of your likes round this town.” “Haha, rocker….I wish. I loved a bit of bass, that was was axe of choice. But no, I went a different route….wrestling.” “Wrestling? Like rolling round a mat trying to flip the other guy?” “Sure, in high school that's what its all about. What I got into was much more...spectacular. ‘Sport Entertainment’ I’ve heard it called. The gritty, weird world of professional wrestling. Where men became characters, monoliths. Stags of muscle and glitter and face paint.” “Like Hulk Horgan and The Macho Guy?” “Yeah, just like those cats. I was in a dark place at the time, doing heavy shit all week long, drinking myself into a blur. Depressed like nobody ever, thinking bad stuff all the time. I used to paint my face, hide myself from the world. I’d go to a bar, wait for someone to say somethin’ stupid, and smash them out the door. Boy, was I good at it. Friend of mine pointed me towards wrestling, and dragged me to a trial one day. Man, I’d have loved to see their faces! All white makeup, gaunt and skinny, looking like a dead body walking.”
“How did it go? The try out?” “Good, it went good…..no, actually it went fucking GREAT. Hired on, starting two weeks later on an small show. They had me bashing skulls and whipping bodies off the floors. I liked the pain and I liked the blood, so they kept pushing me. Eventually, I got into it, starts loving it. Those guys, those crazy bastards, they became my brothers. Each night we went out there, having a crazy good time, slamming each other around a ring. I got good, really good….even became their champion. Hell, I became champion a few times! Got myself a partner, and we went to war. Got myself a team, and we took over. Everyone loved us, brothers united in their darkness…..the ‘Legion’.... “Why did you stop?” “It wasn’t by choice….the owner ended up selling the business to some bigger company, some guys went pro, other faded away like me. Then, the darkness came back. The depression. I got caught doing something stupid, in the wrong place at the worst time ever, and got locked up. For a long time. Got a visit one day off some suit, telling me my date was set for the ‘chair’...” “The ‘chair’? You were on fucking death row?” “Yeah man! Haha those bastards wanted to fry this handsome man!” *He shoots the bartender another toothless smile.* “Something I wish I didn’t do, but in reality I’d do it all over again if I was given the choice. This suit told me he was taking convicts from death row, giving them a new start…..fighting for their country in some unmentioned war out east….” “What war was that?” “Exactly! Nobody's even heard of it….think ISIS, but ten times worse. We were sent in to stop them. Survive, and we get to go home. Die, and you die a hero rather than a criminal. Seemed like a good idea.” “And you survived, so you beat the system.” “Heh, it wasn’t that simple. When the fighting was over, the big boys got pulled out, shipped home. The runts, like me and any other death row escapee’s….they left us there. In the warzone. Left us all to die. I made it to civilization again, tried to get myself home….but all records of me were wiped. Fuck, even my family were told I was dead, I saw some headline mentioning my name during some prison riot…..’victim of penitentiary gang troubles’......scummy life, eh?” “Fuck me lad, that’s some journey….and you can’t go home?” “Nah, I don’t think I want to anyway, there’s nothing left for me back home. I’m a corpse. I made my way to London from fucking Baghdad, I figure I’ll just keep cruisin’ this world until my luck runs out, and my time’s up….” “Jesus, that’s a tough one to hear…..why not try it out again? The wrestling life?”
*The hobo starts laughing, loudly. Obnoxiously, especially to the couple behind him.* “Oh man…..oh, that was good…..oh boy. Me? Wrestle? Hahaha, look at me! I don’t even remember how to use a shower! I’ve been sleeping in that park down the street for the past two weeks, and I haven’t eating since yesterday morning. How could I wrestle, and who would hire me?” *The bar man walks to the end of the bar, where there is a bulletin board. He unpins something a brings it back to him.* “Check this out. Some new crowd coming to town, throwing a big show at the end of the month. Looks like they are part of some bigger network, says here this is a sell-out show too. It’ll be packed.” “And...what? You want me to sneak in, get a lock on the ring and run for it?” “No, I’m saying you can sign up and wrestle again, says there they are looking for people. Who cares if you’re shit, or past your time. All you need is one match right? To get back into the game?” “No, it’s not that easy….or maybe it is…..I dunno, I’m no wrestler anymore. My days were good, but so was I. I’m old, worn out, bones are stiff, muscles are weak. What good will I be against these young guys, studs training night and day for this show? I’m a blood and tears man. I fight my fights on the streets, or from the trenches.” “Sounds like a shitty attitude. Stick this is your pocket, and think about it. Even if you’re shit, you still get paid right? One night pay from one of these gigs must be good.” *Our protagonist sticks the flyer into his jacket pocket, still chuckling at the idea. A group of guys arrives to the bar, to join the couple at the bar. One of them passes a comment, one that doesn’t resonate well with the barman, or the former-wrestler. The barman shakes his head, telling the hobo to ignore it, but another comment followed by riotous laughter seems to irk him too much.* “Leave it go pal, no need.” “Ah don’t worry Georgie, I won’t ruin your bar…” “I’m telling you, don’t cause a fuss. Last time was plenty, you kick off again, and you’re barred from here.” *The hobo smiles once more, and brushes his hair back over his head. He hears the term ‘loser’ and ‘hobo’, and can’t help but turn around to view the crowd- there is four men standing, not one of them older than 22. The couple from the bar are joining in on the laughter, glancing back over their shoulders, treating the man like garbage. He looks over to the table of post-teens, the ones so eager to listen to his rock n’ roll stories, now all engorged in their own mindless conversations. One eyes him and laughs to herself, elbowing her friend to take another look over to the man, the ‘freak show’ in the bar.* “Yeah Georgie, don’t think I’m gonna be back in here for a while…..cheers for the pint. I might go check out that show after all, I could do with the money….and the exercise....maybe you’ll see me again one day, on the big screen…..’The Storm Crow’......” *StormCrow picks up the ¾ full pint from the bar, belonging to the man sitting with his back to him. He starts chugging it, as the bartender pinches his nose, annoyed at what’s to come. His girl notices, and yells at him.* “Oi mate! You fackin’ theef, who’ju think you are!” “Oh, I’m sorry, was this his? Here, let me give it back….” *He finishes the pint, and smashes the glass off the side of the man's head, sending him flying to the bar counter. He grabs the stool the guy was sitting on, and swings it at one of the other guys, hitting him in the chest and knocking him down. The remaining men jump on him immediately, pushing him backwards to the floor. StormCrow is on his back, two men kneeling on him, landing blow after blow to his face, punching him until he no longer feels the blows, only hears a dull thud sound. He kicks out, managing to headbutt one of the younger guys, and gets to his feet again. The whole bar is on alert, watching the crazed homeless warrior standing tall. He swings a punch at the last guy standing, but misses, and receives one back. The two men from the floor get up, and all three drag him outside to the street, kicking him and punching him until he is reduced to a ball on the floor. When they have finished beating on him, they walk away, back to the bar to check on their friend. He gets up from the floor, and hurriedly escapes down the street to the local park, finding a bench- his bed for the past few nights. Taking a seat, he heaves heavily, coughing and spitting blood in between breaths. The sun is still out on this early October evening, as he looks to the sky…..* “What a beautiful fucking day…..” *He checks his pockets, and removes a pair of sunglasses, now cracked and broken from the ordeal. He puts them on anyway, and flicks his hair back over his ears. He pulls out the flyer and looks it over again…..
---------------------------------------------------------------- XHF: ANONYMOUS UNDERGROUND PRESENTS... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ..::THE 13TH RING::.. Live from the Legion, London England. 30th Oct: 11PM - only on the XHF Network
Come see your favourite stars! Local talent invited to apply here!
...he reads the words over to himself, repeating them. He stares at the piece of paper a little while longer…..* “Fuck it...let’s do this shit.” *He coughs some more, and spits blood to the floor. Something appears in his mouth, and he spits it out onto his palm; it's one of his teeth, dislodged from the fighting earlier. He looks at the tooth, and starts laughing. Erratic, crazy laughter. Laughter loud enough to disrupt the birds from the trees…...The Storm Crow is going back to wrestling!......*
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Tommy Kelly
.::XHF Competitor::.
Crude, Rude, the absolute Dude
Posts: 82
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Post by Tommy Kelly on Oct 25, 2017 0:39:08 GMT -5
*The summer has been good, the sky stayed bright for longer, and the birds sang so sweetly in the mornings. Living without a roof overhead has not been a total hassle this season. However with the weather changed so drastically, is such a short space of time, that godsend is fast vanishing. It is a cold Thursday morning, much colder than the last few days. Waking up soaked through, his coat ringing wet and his hair pasted to his skin, StormCrow is not living up to his namesake. On the plus side, last night's downpour seemed to have washed the smell of funk from his clothing. This might bode well for him later today, as his appointment likely won’t last long if he smells of the streets. He sits upright on the park bench, his body stiff, his muscles tight…*“Ugh, I need to do some stretches, get back to fighting shape….”*He stands up, and peels off his heavy, water-logged coat. Underneath, he is wearing an old Slayer tank top, black torn jeans, and heavy old-school Dr. Martin’s boots. He tosses his jacket over the bench, and slowly gets down onto the wet park pathway, down on his knees.* “OK buddy, gimme one. Just one…” *He lays down on the floor across his front side, and gets into position for a push-up. He manages to do one, and enthusiastically goes for another. And another. He gets to eight, before his arms start to tremble, and his back starts to ache.*
“Hmm, need to work on it, but not bad. OK, sit-ups.” *He flips over to his back, and lays flat again. This time he tries to do some sit-ups, stretching to reach his toes. He only gets to five, before he starts coughing up a lung, and needs to spit out his phlegm onto the floor.* “Fuck, REALLY need to work on that. Alright, legs...let’s see what I got.” *He gets up to his feet, and shakes out his legs a bit. He gets ready, and tries for a squat- and actually does it perfectly. He slowly stands upright, and goes down again. And repeats. He does a total of twenty squats in a row.* “Not bad Stormy, not too bad…”*As he stops squatting and starts to walk back to the bench, the toll of his exercise is obvious...as the whole rear of his legs lock up, trembling him with every step.* “Oh FUCK….leg day, you asshole….” *He sits on the bench, massaging his legs, his lower back, trying to share some warmth around his muscles. A woman is walking by, talking loudly on her cellphone as all park visitors do early in the morning. She is biting into an apple but tosses the core aside into the grass. StormCrow sees this, and walks over to pick up the half-eaten apple. He wipes off some grass from it, and takes a bite.*“Cheers for the breakfast, lady….OK, time to get moving. Time to get going….yup, time to….what the fuck am I doing, I can’t do this….” *StormCrow walks back to the bench, and sits down. The rain has stopped, but the ground is soaked, and puddles loiter all over the pathway. StormCrow eats his discarded breakfast, and returns the core to the grass.*“Give it up old man, you can’t do this...they will turn you away, reject you as soon as they see you….nobody wants to wrestle a hobo, and nobody will pay a hobo to wrestle. Get over yourself….”*He starts to put back on his coat, heavy from water. He winces as he puts it on, cold from the night, and sore on his body, now tighter from his brief exercise routine. He sits there, in the cold, wet clothing, the only clothes he owns. His hair is still beaded with rain, his beard uncomfortable on his face.* “Forget it, it's only a pipe dream. A stupid idea a stupid barman put into your stupid head. It’s not the life for you anymore…” *A man on a bicycle zooms past him, hitting one of the puddles nearby, and spraying a wave of dirt and soil directly at him. It splashes him straight in the face.* “What the fuck man! There’s people here!” *The cyclist keeps going, ignoring the homeless man, paying him no attention. And why would he? This nobody, this dirty tramp, he is lower than shit on that man’s level of importance. The cyclist would be more upset to have actual shit on his shoe, than to care about how he lives, how he eats, how he barely stays alive….* “Fuck it, go to town, ask around Piccadilly Circus, today will be full of tourists. Might make twenty pounds, get a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Can always go to Greggs, they always fill their bins with burned bread, can get something from there….but that alleyway has those pissy dogs, and they bite….can’t get rabies, can’t afford tetanus!....Could always go see if the shelter is open I suppose….but they are always stingy with their rooms, plus last time some guy took your hat. Can’t afford to lose anything else, we don’t have anything…..” *Looking around the park, people walk by him or cross paths on phones, on bikes, exercising or commuting to work. The regular, everyday hustle and bustle of London….and nobody looking twice at the ex-superstar. He’s become that which he always claimed to be, the Prince of Darkness, a living ghost, invisible to everyone, living in the shadows, slowly becoming a shadow….*“FUCK IT! I am not staying here in the park arguing with you! You will only talk me out of it! I’m going to that try-out, and I am getting myself a match! Fuck if it kills me, then at least I died on my feet. Sitting here will freeze us to death, or starve. And we didn't crawl back here from fucking Iraq to just die in some park…” *A passer by looks at the homeless man, shouting at himself, arguing loudly. He hurries his pace and moves away* “...no, we are going. They might not even let us in the door, never mind to wrestle. So no point in blowing this off, let’s just go, and let’s just find out!” *Arguing with himself still, the deranged man start to hobble from his bench, limping and shaking with every step. We watch him go as the scene fades out to black….
THREE HOURS LATER ...as the bus pulls up to the Legion in London, our man jumps off the back of the red bus, the conductor shouting at him as he does so.* “Ah fuck you too buddy, have a little heart, you monster.” *He has arrived, but barely. What would have been a simple transit became a challenge for our penniless pal, having to sneak onto the tube train, and avoid conductors on the bus. From security chases to threats from bus drivers, he was never so glad to reach a destination.* “The Legion huh? Well that’s just a crazy coincidence….” *He makes his way inside the double front doors, to an entrance hallway. Girl sits inside a booth as he walks by.* “Scuse me sir, the club is closed. You cannae go in yet.” “Oh, sorry. The club?....I am here, um….here, for this….” *Searching his pockets, he eventually finds the flyer, now crumpled and soaked.* “Sorry, it got a bit...wet….” “You’re here for the wrestling show, yeah? Go down the hall and ask for Trish.” “Trish, OK….got it…um I have a quick question. When you said club…” “Look for Trish. I'm only coat-check.” “Right….Trish it is.” *He continues to walk down the hallway, which turns and leads into a large, open dance floor. He looks around, very much inside a nightclub. There are no seats, no curtains, and more importantly, no ring.* “This is the wrong place, you numbnut, let's get out of here….but that girl did say Trish could help us. Maybe she’s around….but there’s not even a ring. Unless this is some underground boxing show….no, we can’t do that. We can pull of wrestling, not mixed martial arts….no, let's get out of here. Try get some coins on the tube before everyone is gone…” “Hello? Is someone there?” *A woman's voice echoes around the room, but Crow can’t pinpoint from where. He looks around again, and doesn’t see anyone.* “Ah, I thought I had heard someone talking out here. How are ya?” *Still spinning around, he fails to see where the voice is coming from….until she clinks a glass bottle.* “Oi, over here.” *Standing behind the bar is a short, stuffy looking woman, barely visible over the top of the bar. Crow makes his way over to her, smiling his toothless head at her.* “Heya there….Trish?” “The one and only. Are you here to drop off?” “Drop off?....I’m afraid I don't follow…” “Are you delivering the chairs, or the ring gear?” “Ah, you must have me mistaken, see I am not doing any delivery-” “Right, then that means they are waiting for me outside. Sorry pal, you’ve to go, club is closed.” “No see, I came here about….what I wanted to see was…” *Trish has now come out from behind the bar, and is ushering him out of the club. He is getting escorted out, when he just blurts out;* “I’m here to apply for the wrestling!” “The...wrestling? Aren’t you a bit old to be up to that carry on? I don’t think you’d like that sort of-” “I have years experience….years. I wrestling in Debug Inc. Wrestling Federation for years, won gold in several divisions. Even had my own stable going. Then I moved to High Impact Wrestling Federation, and set up camp there. Used to train in and help the new arrivals, worked as mentor. From there I went onto Cyclone Wrestling Association, spent a few months there…”“Hold your horses now. Have you got a CV for me with all this? Or a ‘resume’ to you yanks?...did you even bring a profile for me to look at?” *Stupidly, StormCrow stands there, looking at her, blankly.* “Look, I’m sure you were great once upon a time, but this isn’t the same malarkey. This company comes in and sets up for one night only. They hit hard and but on a show for the crowd. There’s blood, sweat, tears. These guys are young, and starting off their game. Might be a bit much for an old-timer like you..” “No, Trish….I can do it! I’ve been training real hard. Heck, I just came from the gym this morning! That’s right, today was leg day, can barely stand from the workout I did….look, I can do this. I still got it, just give me a shot….” “Hmm, I can’t go risking you hurting yourself or slipping a disc, this crowd is in and out. Like I said, one night only. You get hurt, then they’ll leave you behind…..can I look you up, is there evidence only at least?” *He gives her some information, and she starts searching for it on her cellphone. She pulls up bio pages and company histories, but nothing tying the man to his story. She scrolls through images when StormCrow stops her, pointing at one picture.* “That’s you?” “Yeah, that was me, almost 20 years back…’The Prince of Darkness’, looked a lot different then too! Working out non-stop, I was the high flying demon!” “Hmm, I don’t see the resemblance…” “That’s me alright, used to get the face all painted white, spook the shit outta everyone. Girls loved me, even had a ‘harem’, like groupies but into the dark shit hahaha…” *Not convinced, Trish kills the phone screen. She looks StormCrow up and down one more time, sizing him up.* “Look, I don’t think this is a good idea….but I’ll give you a shot. What happens after that is your business.” “Oh, perfect, that is PERFECT! Thank you Trish darling, thank you!” “Don’t thank me pal, I’m just saying you can go in. You need to be able to put on a show on the night, and that's not my call.” “Your call? I don't…” “You gotta impress V. He’s the owner. Shady guy, don’t know much about him at all. Always wears a mask. He’s the one that you need to impress.” “Ah, OK….is he here?” “No, he won't be here until Monday night. He shows up on fight night, and still you might not see him.” “Shit….do you at least know who I will be fighting?” “Yeah, hang on…..” *She takes her phone out again, and searches online…* “There is a space open against Kevin Cross, so you’ll be in that match. This is him-”
*She shows a picture of him to StormCrow….he’s almost half his age, fit, fast and strong. She plays a clip of him wrestling, and another of him during a promo.* “Young kid, looks tough….you sure you can handle that?” “Yeah...sure thing….I got it.” *She gives him a nod, a ‘don’t bullshit me’ kinda nod.* “I’ll go grab your contract, and you’ll have to be back here on the 30th at 6pm latest to sign in….got it? OK, hang on here, and don’t touch anything! There’s cameras everywhere here.” *She leaves StormCrow at the bar, and walks to the back. He looks over the counter, and eyes up the top shelf- high quality booze, watered down and to be sold off at crazy, extortionate prices to the alcohol fueled punters of the weekend. He spots two unopened bottles of Jack Daniels sitting on the side, just waiting to be taken….* “Alright, here ya go. Sign this form, and bring it back with you. And I’d think about getting a costume or something.” “Costume?” “Yeah, all these guys fight in shorts or trunks. And they have the bodies for it. A man like you….might be worth covering up a bit….and have a shower. You smell like you slept in a park!” “Right...gotcha…..thanks...” *Taking the contract, Crow makes his way out of the club, and outside to the street side air. Trish walks with him to the outside, and waves him off and he shuffles down the street. She goes back into the club, and over to the bar to continue restocking...to notice that new new bottles of Jack Daniels are missing.* “That smelly fucking tramp!” *After signing up for his first match in almost twenty years, potentially his comeback match, StormCrow is elated. A prospective job, a chance to return to the world he once loved, and two bottles of Kentucky bourbon tucked under his arms, today has been a success on all accounts. He heads back home the way he came, thinking of where the local Greggs is, and how he might score some free burned bread or pasties for dinner…..*
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Tommy Kelly
.::XHF Competitor::.
Crude, Rude, the absolute Dude
Posts: 82
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Post by Tommy Kelly on Oct 27, 2017 18:46:51 GMT -5
*OCTOBER 30TH, 2017; The crowds of people gathered outside of the Legion in London are buzzing, looking forward to their fill of hard hits, body shots, blood and screams. Tickets have sold out, and this little club is now home to the first ever Anonymous Underground pay-per-view….The 13th Ring! Strictly an adult only show, there is not a child to be seen, apart for the wrestling fanatics who never grew up. Fans of the sports are here to watch what they believe to be an indie show, a group of casual performers trying to impress the crowd, and maybe someone more important. Little do they realise, tonight marks a change in history, a day where men are propelled to stardom, a night where Europe final gets what it’s been lacking….a true Champion! Tonight, the XHF brings another fed-ling under its wing, but unknownst this is not going to be an ordinary acquisition….tonight, the world will see that Anonymous Underground is here to take control!*
-- 24 HOURS EARLIER -- “....Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste, I've been around for a long, long year, Stole many a man's soul and faith….”
*StormCrow has set himself up in the center of Piccadilly Circus, sat on a plastic bucket formerly used to house mayonnaise. He has another two between his feet, and two by his sides, one on either side. He is drumming out a pretty good beat, catching the attention of some people passing by.*
”....Pleased to meet you, Hope you guess my name…. But what's puzzling you, Is the nature of my game…” *A crummy old cap is tossed onto the floor before him, where tourists, locals and anyone who wants to help can chip in a few pence. There doesn’t look to be much in there yet, despite people stopping by to watch. He continues to play the beat regardless.*
”...I rode a tank, Held a general's rank, When the blitzkrieg raged, And the bodies stank
Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name! What's puzzling you... Is the nature of my game! Oh yeah!
Just as every cop is a criminal, And all the sinners saints, As heads is tails, Just call me Lucifer!
Cause I'm in need of some restraint, So if you meet me, Have some courtesy, Have some sympathy, and some taste.
Use all your well-learned politesse, Or I'll lay your soul to waste, um yeah, Pleased to meet you, Hope you guessed my name, um yeah!
But what's puzzling you, Is the nature of my game, um mean it, Get down, Woo, who Oh yeah, get on down
Oh yeah Oh yeah! Tell me baby, what's my name Tell me honey, can ya guess my name
Tell me baby, what's my name I tell you one time, you're to blame Ooo, who Ooo, who
Ooo, who Ooo, who, who Ooo, who, who Ooo, who, who….” *A crowd of younger fans are chiming along, hooting and singing ‘who whoo’ as StormCrow bops and bangs the makeshift bongos, smartphones recording his cover from a number of angles. He finishes up with a dramatic, out of the blue burst of finger drumming, foot-banging and wolf howls. Out of play to a normal, civilized person, but coming from a crazed looking reject like him, StormCrow makes the scene look great. He dramatically finishes his track, and is greeted by applause and some cheering from the gathered spectators.*
“Thank you, thank you. I do try! Please, any contributions will help in getting my album launched and get me on the radio! Heh heh heh.” *A number of people come forward and dump in coins, the sound of money clanging together putting a twinkle in this old man’s eye. One man walks forward, familiar looking but hard to distinguish.* “Not bad old man, not bad. You might just have a musical note in your body after all.” “Heh, only a little left….do I know you?” “I’d hope so, you made a right mess of my bar the other night.” “Your bar?.....oh shit, Georgie.” *The barman for a few nights back, the man who’s bar he had an ‘altercation’ in, with some youths mocking him..* “Forgot me so soon, huh? Just decided to come in and smash up the place as if it wasn’t a bother?” “Look dude, I’m…..I’m sorry man. Every day has been bad for me for as long as I can remember now, and that day just felt worse than the others….look, I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back for any damages caused, I never meant to-”“Pipe down , old geezer. No need to get all soppy and sad. I’m not here to swindle you out of your hard earned coins. You need that more than me.” *StormCrow looks at the man- short, fat, stout-body and pig-nosed. Wearing a mustard jumper, with a shitty looking green jacket over the top. A mince pie fan if you’ve ever seen one.* “I was walking past, and I heard you playing...more I should say, I heard someone singing my favourite Stone’s song. Normally you get buskers out here, polluting the air with their shitty vocals, but you….you really got something.”“Heh heh, thanks man. That’s real nice of you to say that. It’s nothing really….” “It’s not nothing, you used a bunch of old mayonnaise tubs to get a good beat going, and sang like Jagger himself, only huskier…..I liked it. It was bleedin’ good!” “Thanks Georgie….you can chip in a pound if you liked it that much.” *StormCrow shoots him a wink, but Georgie only replies with half a smile.* “Look man, I didn’t mean to disrupt to flow of your bar or nothin’....those kids, they things they were saying….” “I get it man, you told them a few porkies and they lapped it up, buying you drinks. It’s a good swindle if I ever saw one.” “Yeah, pork pies….except they weren’t all lies…..I used to be someone, y’know…..used to be a big shot, big name….I wasn’t just playing buckets in the street for spare change….” “After that performance, I’d believe it…..’would-be rockstar turns to professional wrestling, before spiraling out of control’....good headline, innit.” “Yeah….your headline, my life….” “Look...I’m about to nip down to the Queen’s Head for a pint and some grub….you fancy it?” *StormCrow picks up the cap from the floor and nudges around the coins….there looks to be about £15~ in there, if he’s lucky.* “I don’t think so bud, I can’t blow this in a bar, this might have to last me the weekend….I’ve a match tomorrow….” “A match?.....No way! You didn’t!” *StormCrow gives him a friendly smile, and shoots him a Hulk flex pose.* “Gonna be champion again someday! I hope….” “Heh heh heh, nice one mate! Where’s it on? Wait….tell me later. Let’s go get some grub and a pint….my treat.” “You sure Georgie? I don’t want to put you out, and feel bad about the bar y’know….” “Naw, it’s fine. I got them shithead kids to pay for it anyway, they’re all here on ‘Daddy’s money’ anyway right? C’mon, I’m starvin’. I don’t even want to know how you must feel!” *StormCrow stacks up all his buckets back into one pile, empties the cap of change into his pocket, and heads off in the hopes of a free meal…..* -- ONE HOUR LATER --*The two men are sat in a busy central London pub, considerably busy even though it is late on a Sunday evening. Both men have pints of Stella in front of them, and plates of Sunday roast...that is to say had full plates. Georgie is still tucking into his, but StormCrow is scarfing his down like a wild dog who hasn’t eaten for days.* “Slow down lad, you’re mucking into that like a wild dog who hasn’t eaten for days!” “(slurp)....I haven’t…..(loud swallowing).....” “Jeez man, you can’t be living like this! Why not find yerself a shelter, or go find a job?” “....shelters here are worst than prison…..(chomp).......nothing but lowlifes and scum trying to rob the last of what you got…..(munch).....job centers need a fixed address…...and a full resume…..(slurp).....” “I didn’t know that….but there must be something you can do? Maybe I can do some research for ya?”
“You already did Georgie…..Anonymous Underground…..” “The wha-?” *StormCrow sits up and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, burps loudly, and picks up his beer to wash down his mouthfuls of food.* “Anonymous Underground. The wrestling show…..I signed up for it during the week, they are having their first show tomorrow night. And they are going to pay me after the show.” “Good for you! I didn’t think you would go through with it. How much they paying you?” “No idea, but anything is better than what I have now. Oodles and oodles of sweet fuck all.” “Yeah, I hear yeah...but maybe wrestling isn’t the way forward. You’ve a good voice man, and you know how to make a good beat. You busk like that a bit more and you’ll come out on top.” “Nah, busking is fool's work. I might come home with £20 in my pocket after a good day. Weekends are best, but today I got sweet all, not now that it's colder and summer is over. Tourist have come and gone.” “What are you talking about, you have a crowd loving that beat earlier! Your hat was full!” “It’s not enough Georgie. I can get kids and hippies to dance to the Stone’s all day, but it’s not enough to fix my life, change it for the better….I can’t do another year like this. I feel it, every day it rains, every night it freezes….my body can’t take much more of the elements.” *The two sits in silence for a minute or two.* “It’s funny, when I signed up for this show, I had to pick a name for myself, a gimmick….I used my old one, from back in the day….The Storm Crow…..” “Funny name. What’s it mean?” “Hmm, nothing really. I was obsessed with the movie ‘The Crow’, so much so that I dressed and acted like the dude. Friends called me Crow because of it. Face paint, black lips, spooky eyes, all that shit. But no matter what, when it rained, even with all that shit on my face, I used to go outside and just stand there, letting the rain hit my face…..the worse the weather, the happier I’d be…..” “I getcha….The Storm Crow…..make sense.” “The name followed me when they shipped me out. Nobody was allowed to use their real name….our real names were dead. Our identities, our records, our histories….wiped clean. They made me pick a name, on the fly….I said StormCrow, and that was it. The last time I was marked alive on any paper, my name was StormCrow…” “What’s your real name?” “I remember it….but that’s not who I am anymore….so that name belongs to a dead man now…..” *The two sits there again in silence for a moment…..* “Yer a real dramatic fucker ain’t cha!” *StormCrow laughs, a big belly laugh that seems to come from nowhere.* “Heh heh heh!.......Yeah, I guess I am Georgie.” “So what’s the plan for tomorrow, you know the fella yer fighting?” “Yeah, the woman at the venue told me about him….young kid named Kevin Cross. She said he’s fit, agile, arrogant, thinks he’s the big shot or whatever….we’ll see what he’s all about.” “You not worried? Like, going into the ring again, after all these years? You’re bound to be stiff, tight. Not as limber or quick as you once were. Chances are high of you getting a good kicking.” “Cheers for the vote of confidence! Yeah, by the sounds of it this kid is going to be gunning for me, trying to make a target out of me. I know I’d go for the weak old man if I had to go out fighting! Under this smelly coat, I might be frail. Weaker. But I was once strong. If this works out, and I can get back to it full-time….then I’ll be good again….” “That’s if this Kevin Cross kid doesn’t kill you.” “Fingers crossed!” *The two chuckle, and drink their pints.* “I’ve to get back to the missus, she’ll be wondering where I am. Dinner was an hour ago, and her cooking is shite.” “Two dinner’s in a row, poor you.” *Georgie’s face reddens, realizing what he said.* “I, uh….I didn’t mean it like…..” *StormCrow laughs, making Georgie more uncomfortable.*
“Don’t worry, you ape. I’ve to get to Hyde Park anyway, I found A good spot there where I can get some late night training in, maybe do some laps, some push-ups, that kind of thing….Hey, thanks George.” “For what, a pint and some smelly roast beef?” “No man….for just….for not ignoring me, like the masses. For seeing that under this, I am still human, I am still a person. A son, a brother, a father….” *Georgie picks up on his last words, but doesn’t mention it.* “Anytime pal. After your show, swing by the pub. You owe me a pint back!” *The two men get up from the table, and leave the bar. Outside, StormCrow haggle Georgie for a couple of cigarettes, before leaving him into the night. He lights up one, and enjoy the smoke as he makes his way across town to Hyde Park, his makeshift campsite for the night, and soon to be training grounds. He takes his time getting there, enjoying the chilly night air, breathing it in slowly, and out again, cherishing the warm cloud on his face as he walks. After tonight, things may never be the same again, he might never breathe through his nose again if Kevin Cross gets his way! After arriving to the park, and situating himself by an overgrowth, he finds a dry patch of land, and puts his possessions down- a dirty old pea coat, found dumped in an alleyway. A chain around his neck, holding dog tags with names on them, names known only to him. He scrapes a small patch of soil, and empties his pockets into small plastic bag- lighter, coins, a guitar pick, and an old, very used toothbrush. He puts this bag into the soil, covers it over lightly, and places his coat over the top. Not much at all, but it's everything he owns. He does some warm-up stretches, trying to remember the old routine of his from two decades ago…..and takes off, jogging around the park. He hopes that this night will be the last night of his darkest years….the end of his suffering.* -- BACK TO PRESENT TIME -- “Do you have ID, or something to prove this?” “ID? No man, I came by here during the week. I spoke with a chick....dammit, what was her name…...she told me come back here today!” *The front door of the Legion is teething with excitement, the line-up growing slowly as more and more arrive to claim their seats at the sold out show. StormCrow is at the top of that line, but having trouble getting in….* “Man, I am one of the wrestlers! I am going up tonight!” *The doorman takes one look at StormCrow, and rolls his eyes.* “OK, sure buddy. Move along now, c’mon, you can’t stand here.” “Man, please! I need to get in there!” “Look pal, I’ll be straight with you, there is no way you would be left in here on a good night, especially not a sold out gig. Not you can think what you want, but you are not going in. I suggest you fuck right off.” *StormCrow backs up a bit….he could take this guy in a fight, but he wouldn’t make it inside for his real fight with Cross…..he could stay here and aggro him some more, and risk the police pulling him away….he could try to steal a ticket from a punter in line, maybe duck in like that….a woman approaches from the side, clearly staff for the nightclub. Dressed in a short skirt and knee high boots, she’s either bartender or a hooker.The doorman gives her a welcoming grin, and open the door for her, holding it open as he watches her walk in, distracted by her ass…..* ~Fuck it, lets do this Stormy…..LEEEROY…..JENKINSSSSSS~ *StormCrow guns it, just fucking guns it for the doorway, and blasts the doorman out of the way with his shoulder. He stumbles inside, falling onto his side and tumbling forward, but keeps his momentum, and gets to his feet again. He quickly legs it into the club, passing the hoochie at speed. He turns and enters the dancefloor area- now occupied by a giant ring, and surrounded by seats. Without hesitating, he runs for the ring, and slides in, stopping in the center to judge his next move. The surrounding seats are empty still, as the doors haven't opened fully, but StormCrow is lost, overwhelmed….he hears the angry roars closing in, as the doorman runs up to the apron of the ring.* “You are going to fucking GET IT, old man.” *As the doorman enters the ring, ready to attack, a familiar voice bellows from across the room.* “What’chu fink you are doing ‘Arry! Get away from him, ‘es one of the wrestlers!” *Stopped in his tracks by the club owner, Harry the doorman backs up, as Trish makes her way to the ring.* “This old git just barged his way in here Trish, bust me onto the floor an’ all!” “Well if ‘old gits’ can get in so easily, maybe I need a new doorman!” *Embarrassed, and still fuming, ‘Arry’ the doorman stands by the ropes, glaring at StormCrow.* “Well what are you waiting for? Fuck off? C’mon old man, lemme show you to your room.” *As the doorman retreats, grumbling and complaining, Trish walks him to the back of the club, and down a hallway. They pass various doors, with names printed on sheets of paper now taped to the doors…..he see’s a Rob Arnold….little further he sees Kevin Cross…..the name Hyperion is written across one of the doors near the end…...and then they get to a door without a name hanging on it.* “Righto lovey, this is your room. All you need is in there. You go up after the opener, so you have a few hours to relax and settle in. I take it you didn’t pick up a costume like I said?” *StormCrow shakes his head, breathing a little heavy from his daring entrance. Trish opens the door to the room, and leads him in- it's not a huge room, big enough to have a couch, TV, fridge, some bottles water and a tray of handy snacks. Cheeses, sliced meats, fruits etc. There is a seat in front of a well lit mirror, and a makeup kit on a table.* ”Settle in here, I’ll come get you when it’s nearly time….you can eat that food y’know, don’t have to stare at it. And get some water into ya too. Makeup kit is all yours, you mentioned something about white face or that….now, costume…..we can’t let you wrestle in *that*.....” *She eyes up his dirty coat, and helps him to remove it. Under it he’s wearing an equally dirty, soiled black tank top. She ‘tut-tut’s and potters around the room. She tells him to ‘hold up’, and walks out. He walks to the tray of food, and starts picking at it, stuffing his face with different meats and dried breads. A few minutes later, Trish comes back, holding a bunch of stuff.* “Righto, here we go. This looks like it’ll fit you….you also mentioned you used to wear something like this, so you can hang onto that….oh, and we found this too, dunno who the hell would wear it, but you might like it.” *She hands him all the items…..a black Megadeth t-shirt, a long black, leather trenchcoat, and a torn, black velvet top hat. He holds them all in his hands, staring at them, eyeing her then the items, then her again…* “Don’t worry, they’re all lost & found pieces. Weird things get left at clubs, especially here. Hold on to them, that’s all you now. And pop on the top hat when walking to the ring, I reckon it’ll look the ticket! Now, I need to leave you be, there towels over there that you can use, showers at the end of the hall. I recommend you use them! You smell like you haven't seen a shower in weeks…...and, and before I go, there one last thing- a name. I need to print a sign and hang it on the door here.”
*StormCrow looks at her, his eyes tearing up a little.* “The Storm Crow…….my name is…….The Storm Crow…..” “The Storm Crow? Hmm, alright, whatever you say. I’m gonna call you StormCrow for now, let’s drop the ‘the’ alright? OK I’ll get that printed out, welcome to Anonymous Underground wrestling, StormCrow! And do me a favor, don’t get killed out there, alright!” *She gives him a big smile and leaves the room. As the door is closing, he hears her shout back-* “And kick Kevin Cross’s ass for us all won’cha!” *The door fully closes, and his faith is sealed….StormCrow is back in the world of wrestling! With his debut coming up, and many skeptics and doubters sure to fill the seats, this will be one of the biggest matches of his life, to prove his worth and return in glory….tonight, the Storm Crow will fly again!*
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