To the Throne (LVZ)
Dec 13, 2020 13:07:59 GMT -5
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Mongo the Destroyer, Oh-Oh, and 1 more like this
Post by leonvanzandt on Dec 13, 2020 13:07:59 GMT -5
“It has been said that the Chair of Saint Peter, upon which the Pope sits, is the only throne a common man can ascend to.”
Cold open.
Leon Van Zandt greets us once again; seated on the mat of a musty, minimalist gym, stripped to the waist, and resting what appears to be a large mace on his left shoulder, a long shaft attached to a bulbous, cannonball-like sphere at the end. The Professional’s eyes stare daggers into us.
“I do not know who said that, or how literal they were when they did, but I can say with confidence that they had never watched a pehlwan approach a dirt floor, being treated with the reverence usually reserved for GODS. Or a champion of lutte traditionelle, both boasting of his prowess in combat in ways that would intimidate the most braggart of American showmen, and PROVING his skills as a wrestler, in front of throngs of cheering Senegalese.
“All of this to say, that wrestling, as a sport, is paradoxical; it is a sport not of kings, but of the people. And yet, wrestling can make those people… into kings. Which is why, as we draw closer and closer to day when Northern Pro Wrestling has its first ever North American Double Crown Champion, I am ever vigilant; finding every piece of information I can find on all twelve of my opponents in the main event. Studying them. Analyzing everything from their gait to their grapple, so to speak.
“Because the battle royal is a style of match I do not have much experience with, I have been training by having students face me, in situations where I must not let myself be thrown out of the ring. And, of course, honing my skills on the mat; a broken-down opponent, after all, is easier to eliminate, are they not?”
The Professional rises to his feet, first using his mace as a crutch to lift him, and then raising it overhead with both arms, with ease, speaking as he does a set of complicated-looking exercises with it.
“It is a bit much to take in, admittedly. But my entire tenure since my return to Canada has been outside that comfort zone. Tag teams, and now a battle royal, for NPW’s new championship and a quarter million Canadian dollars. A rich prize, by any standard, one that will have many challenges to overcome.”
Van Zandt stops, and rests the mace on his opposite shoulder now.
“Eric Dane.”
The joviality in Van Zandt’s face, like the color of someone who has seen a ghost.
“You are not like the competitors I have faced throughout Europe. Your years of battle have left you a shell of your past self in terms of skill, of conditioning. But your ring awareness, and your cunning in the ways of rule breaking compensate for that, and make you a threat in any situation. To say nothing of your underling Scott Steel.
“My mentors would tell you that anyone over two meters in height was absolutely ineffective in any aspect of wrestling. Though I am grateful to them for teaching me their ways in the sport, I admit I have parted ways with them in terms of their philosophy. Scott Steel is not a man to ignore; he is tied to Eric Dane to such a degree that he may well be an extension of ‘The Only Star.’ Every powerbomb; every opponent driven to the mat, is one less obstacle for Dane to rule the roost. In a battle royal, his strength and size are his most dangerous assets.”
The camera pulls in closer to the now-smiling face of The Gent from Ghent.
“But as my mentors were often fond of saying; bulls are killed on the floor. And for a bipedal beast like you, Scott, they can be hobbled on the mat as well. I have been heralded as one of the best technical wrestlers on Earth; but the way wrestling discourse has been altered in America means that technical skill is a means of impressing a crowd…”
Sternness washes over the Belgian’s face.
“...to the point where its ability to inflict pain is ignored. Suffice it to say, Scott, should you stand in my way on December 17, you won’t be doing much standing afterwards, for a while.
“I would be a fool to ignore the other ten wrestlers who will join us in the ring for a chance at Northern Pro Wrestling’s newest, and richest, prize. Each of them, whether through skill, cunning, or just plain luck, have made it this far and are one match away from that distinguished accolade.
“Timeless. My partner for the first round of the Lethal Lottery, surely taking credit for taking the victory in our match. No matter; it is now every man for himself in that final match, and should he try to intrude, he will find himself on the receiving end of my arsenal of agonizing holds.”
A grin.
“Lord Dominicus. His buffoonish exterior belies a talented aerialist and grappler, but in his quest for global conquest, he will find himself alone, against a dozen others in search of conquest of Northern Pro Wrestling.
“Jesse Jamester; another veteran looking for one last grasp for stardom. But he is also one man against many, and he will find himself with his body, and ego, bruised and bleeding.
“Nemo. A cold-blooded warrior whose brutal offense in the ring makes him a difficult opponent. Should we lock up, I am certain he will find that the cold efficiency of catch wrestling is a worthy opponent for his brutal strong style. It should be a noble fight.”
He bows his head.
“There are others, but I will have to address them another time. Just know, I am not disregarding you. It will be an honor to defeat you and claim that Double Crown as mine.”
With a grin, he once against begins swinging the mace.
Cut.
Cold open.
Leon Van Zandt greets us once again; seated on the mat of a musty, minimalist gym, stripped to the waist, and resting what appears to be a large mace on his left shoulder, a long shaft attached to a bulbous, cannonball-like sphere at the end. The Professional’s eyes stare daggers into us.
“I do not know who said that, or how literal they were when they did, but I can say with confidence that they had never watched a pehlwan approach a dirt floor, being treated with the reverence usually reserved for GODS. Or a champion of lutte traditionelle, both boasting of his prowess in combat in ways that would intimidate the most braggart of American showmen, and PROVING his skills as a wrestler, in front of throngs of cheering Senegalese.
“All of this to say, that wrestling, as a sport, is paradoxical; it is a sport not of kings, but of the people. And yet, wrestling can make those people… into kings. Which is why, as we draw closer and closer to day when Northern Pro Wrestling has its first ever North American Double Crown Champion, I am ever vigilant; finding every piece of information I can find on all twelve of my opponents in the main event. Studying them. Analyzing everything from their gait to their grapple, so to speak.
“Because the battle royal is a style of match I do not have much experience with, I have been training by having students face me, in situations where I must not let myself be thrown out of the ring. And, of course, honing my skills on the mat; a broken-down opponent, after all, is easier to eliminate, are they not?”
The Professional rises to his feet, first using his mace as a crutch to lift him, and then raising it overhead with both arms, with ease, speaking as he does a set of complicated-looking exercises with it.
“It is a bit much to take in, admittedly. But my entire tenure since my return to Canada has been outside that comfort zone. Tag teams, and now a battle royal, for NPW’s new championship and a quarter million Canadian dollars. A rich prize, by any standard, one that will have many challenges to overcome.”
Van Zandt stops, and rests the mace on his opposite shoulder now.
“Eric Dane.”
The joviality in Van Zandt’s face, like the color of someone who has seen a ghost.
“You are not like the competitors I have faced throughout Europe. Your years of battle have left you a shell of your past self in terms of skill, of conditioning. But your ring awareness, and your cunning in the ways of rule breaking compensate for that, and make you a threat in any situation. To say nothing of your underling Scott Steel.
“My mentors would tell you that anyone over two meters in height was absolutely ineffective in any aspect of wrestling. Though I am grateful to them for teaching me their ways in the sport, I admit I have parted ways with them in terms of their philosophy. Scott Steel is not a man to ignore; he is tied to Eric Dane to such a degree that he may well be an extension of ‘The Only Star.’ Every powerbomb; every opponent driven to the mat, is one less obstacle for Dane to rule the roost. In a battle royal, his strength and size are his most dangerous assets.”
The camera pulls in closer to the now-smiling face of The Gent from Ghent.
“But as my mentors were often fond of saying; bulls are killed on the floor. And for a bipedal beast like you, Scott, they can be hobbled on the mat as well. I have been heralded as one of the best technical wrestlers on Earth; but the way wrestling discourse has been altered in America means that technical skill is a means of impressing a crowd…”
Sternness washes over the Belgian’s face.
“...to the point where its ability to inflict pain is ignored. Suffice it to say, Scott, should you stand in my way on December 17, you won’t be doing much standing afterwards, for a while.
“I would be a fool to ignore the other ten wrestlers who will join us in the ring for a chance at Northern Pro Wrestling’s newest, and richest, prize. Each of them, whether through skill, cunning, or just plain luck, have made it this far and are one match away from that distinguished accolade.
“Timeless. My partner for the first round of the Lethal Lottery, surely taking credit for taking the victory in our match. No matter; it is now every man for himself in that final match, and should he try to intrude, he will find himself on the receiving end of my arsenal of agonizing holds.”
A grin.
“Lord Dominicus. His buffoonish exterior belies a talented aerialist and grappler, but in his quest for global conquest, he will find himself alone, against a dozen others in search of conquest of Northern Pro Wrestling.
“Jesse Jamester; another veteran looking for one last grasp for stardom. But he is also one man against many, and he will find himself with his body, and ego, bruised and bleeding.
“Nemo. A cold-blooded warrior whose brutal offense in the ring makes him a difficult opponent. Should we lock up, I am certain he will find that the cold efficiency of catch wrestling is a worthy opponent for his brutal strong style. It should be a noble fight.”
He bows his head.
“There are others, but I will have to address them another time. Just know, I am not disregarding you. It will be an honor to defeat you and claim that Double Crown as mine.”
With a grin, he once against begins swinging the mace.
Cut.