"We are not the same" [FftF XHF Tag Team Title RP]
Mar 21, 2021 15:26:54 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Eron Hunter, and 2 more like this
Post by Jesse Jamester on Mar 21, 2021 15:26:54 GMT -5
“Let’s cut the shit and get straight to it.”
A raspy voice from the Northern Pro Wrestling star echoed in the dark room. The camera turned on and the spotlight hit him from above. One half of the recently crowned NPW Imperial Crown Tag Team Champions sat in a lush regal high back chair. Straight from Mississauga, Ontario, home of Northern Pro Wrestling and the country of the Canadian Nightmare, Jesse Jamester.
“Anthony Caffrey. Is that all it takes to get under your skin? A couple of backhand remarks and you’re threatened by my masculinity? Poor kid, if that’s all it takes to throw you off your game, I’m not sure you’re going to last five minutes with the Syndicate come Fuel for the Fire.”
Hair flowing down to his shoulders, the grizzled bearded veteran with sapphire cold eyes cracked his knuckles.
“I’ve spent my life working in this business called wrestling. When I started, I had two loves. Wrestling and my wife Julie. When she passed away, I put wrestling first over everything else. It was and still is the world to me.
This world of wrestling takes everything from us, yet we continue to pour our heart into our craft. I’ve lived the dream I had as a kid and done everything I ever wished to in this business. Traveling from Canada to Mexico to Japan and every country that would have me. There has been no shortage of moments I have cherished on the road, with my brothers, and with my fans. The list of what I haven’t seen is shorter than what I have. Yet, some twenty five years later I find myself reflecting on my career. What legacy I want to leave behind. What I want to teach my son. Some would say, I’m stealing the spotlight from the younger stars - and they may be right.”
Leaning back, he looks at the camera with a cold dead stare.
“I really don’t give a damn what they say though. See, so many people think they ‘know’ me. Caff for instance, thinks he can do a quick Google search and get the clift notes of my career. Somehow that now qualifies him to chalk it up as he’s superior and this match is a one and done for Subject to Change. Aye, if that’s what it takes to feel good about yourself and be able to look in the mirror and feel like you have a chance, then more power to ya. I don’t want some sob story when the final bell rings. No Caff, I want to look you dead in the eyes and know you gave me your best. Anything less and I’ll feel like I’m stealing it from you.”
Grabbing a bottle of water, Jesse takes a sip. Clears his throat and nods as though someone asked him a question.
“Caffrey has written off my partner, and that was his first mistake. Scott Steel is more than a box of rocks made of muscles. See there is this stigma; that the big guy who powerbombs his foes into oblivion is all bronze and no brains. Matter of fact, that couldn’t be further from the truth. What Subject to Change tried to do was find an equalizer. Caffrey knew he had a mountain to climb to retain those straps. So he went and found Subject #42, a seven footer who looks the part of bigfoot and called him an equal champion. I don’t know your partner, and I don’t need to Caff. When it comes to the art of what I do, I will break him down limb by limb. Like everyone before him, I will find every weak point in his armor and expose his lack of experience being your partner. What Subject to Change lacks is the experience, the history, and the comroderoity that the Syndicate has forged in fire and mastered.”
Bringing himself closer to the edge of the chair, Jesse leans on his knees as he looks directly at the camera.
“What I do know, is Scott Steel. Scott has spent the last six months with me riding the roads. Scott is carved from the granite of the gods! His work ethic is super-fucking-human! To boot, noo man has pinned Scott Steel in his tenure with Northern Pro. We went from formidable foes, to the most unlikeable duo to dominate tag team wrestling in the Northern hemisphere. Every team we have competed against have felt the raw dynamic power and technical prowess we bring to the table.
Aye, I come up with all the catchy nicknames, all the marketing slogans, and bill us as the marquee players. That’s done by design, cause I know what we are capable of - Total Domination. So while you plan on isolating him and finding a way to break me down, I warn you - bring an Atom bomb, it’s the only way you will stop the godzilla of wrestling known as Scott Steel.
Caffrey, you accused me of standing behind Scott and Dane, labeling me the weak link of the Syndicate. (scoffs) Let me educate you for a moment. It was the two of them who seeked me out. They knew I was good for business. I’ve proven that night in and night out. The Syndicate rides and dies for one another. Our moral line has blurred to the point that there is no telling what we won’t do to assure our victory.
You made an assumption about a man you didn’t know. Taking a stab in the dark with your remarks, comparing us as if we had anything in common - thinking I was anything like you. I’m not. I am the last of a dying breed. On March 25th, you come face to face with the Canadian Nightmare. The whole world will witness the Syndicate burn this false dynasty you call Subject to Change to the ground. Leaving your legacy, in ashes.”
Standing up, Jesse Jamester walks towards the camera as the frame darkens and the shot fades.
“Take me down, to paradise city, cause the card is stacked, and the sun is whistlin’ myyyy name”
Singing out of tune to the rock classic by Guns N Roses, with his own improv lyrics included. Jesse Jamester sat tapping his fingers in the trainer’s private room of Northern Pro Wrestling.
Jesse sat there on the training table, in mesh Adidas shorts and a black tank top. Visible scars and tattoos scattered his body. Every scar was a story, every tattoo, well we believe they had a story. As with any person with tattoos, that’s always the question asked first by the non-inked. With his left leg stretched out, Jesse appeared in good spirits.
Recent victory over The Dark Stars earned him and Scott Steel the NPW Imperial Crown tag team championships. Now the task at hand was Subject to Change over at Fireside Wrestling. The decorated XHF tag team championships were on the line. As the Syndicate had made clear months ago, the tag team world was on notice. This was their moment to prove to the world, that they meant business.
In walked the trainer, a tablet in hand, as he nodded to Jesse and propped it up at the end of the athletic table Jesse was sitting on.
Trainer: Big match coming up aye?
Jesse: Yep.
Trainer: Would wish you luck, but I know you don’t need it.
Jesse: I make my own.
Feeling the knee, the trainer presses on specific spots as he evaluates the side of the leg, where a scar goes up Jesse’s hamstring.
Trainer: How’s this been feeling for you? Any pain?
Jesse: No issues. Haven’t felt a tinge in three years.
Trainer: Great to hear. Can’t let my stars work with injuries.
Jesse: Hah, that’s a new one. Back when I started, we’d slap some ben gay on it, let it air out the window going down the road, and pop a skittle for the pain.
Eyeing up Jesse with a concerned look, the trainer couldn’t read if he was joshing him or being serious.
Jesse: I’d let you know if it was bad. Seriously, haven’t felt a thing. Schedule has been good to me since I returned.
Trainer: Good, this only works if we are honest with one another.
Jesse: Scout’s honor boss.
Leaning back, the trainer stretches the leg, and taps the knee, taking one last look at the athlete’s mobility.
Trainer: Excited to travel?
Jesse: With my boy Julius, hell yeah. Got a new lease on life! Ain't nothin’ bringing me down.
Trainer: Oh yeah, I saw him in the back. When’s he debut?
Jesse: Ay, I don’t know. I’m training him, keeps me fit. Kid runs circles, and I try and remind him to slow down. He’s his own man, just like I was at his age. He’ll make that call for himself.
Trainer: I look forward to watching him. Always nice to see young blood come up in this business. Keeps me employed! You’re all set Jess. Go make NPW proud!
Laughing at the comment, the two shrug at the truth of the matter. Grabbing the tablet, the trainer leaves the room, and Jesse Jamester proceeds to get off the table and walk out the door and down the hallway of the Northern Pro arena they had been isolated in for the last year. The bubble created by Gus Arnold to isolate the personnel and roster helped keep everyone healthy and safe.
Finding his way back to his locker room, Jesse sat on the end of a bench and grabbed his duffel bag from underneath. Laying in front of him he pulled out the green horned reptilian mask, and stared down at it. Marks of wars he and Scott Steel had taken part in were worn into its sculpting. Since his return, the mask was a staple for his look, but it also embodied the mean streak he had become known for. Being a part of the Syndicate, Jesse had changed from being the nice likable guy that every company before had known him as. Now, he was one of the most hated and recognizable men on the roster.
Looking up at the mirror again he put the mask over his face, however he didn’t slide it over his head. Turning his face, he looked at the sides of the mask in the dim light, wondering what the fans would think if he had dropped the mask and returned to his natural look.
There were some benefits to wrestling with your face covered. Punches didn’t quite hit the same. Hair didn’t get stuck in his mouth all the time. The merch sales were a nice bonus check every quarter too. Though it was a bitch to clean, and he had to carry it through airports on his trek from Calgary to Mississauga.
The lizardman mask, as it was referred to by many, symbolized the shift in his attitude as he returned to the ring after four years. Yet after months wearing it, he had questioned whether it was needed. Behind it, his opponents lacked the insight to the tells of his facial features. With it, he embodied the man the Syndicate had come to count on.
Pulling the mask down, Jesse stared back up at the mirror and suddenly was taken aback. Staring back at him was his fully dressed and masked self, the man he was in the ring, but in the mirror now. Rubbing his eyes, Jesse couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or hallucinating.
You’re not asleep.
“Who the fuck said that?”
You did.
“What?”
I am you.
“Uhhhh-”
Shut up and listen.
Blinking, Jesse looked down and the mask he was holding was gone. His eyes returned to the mirror, where his in-ring attired self stood up.
I am you. The person you have become. That ruthless, vengeful, wraith of hell that you pent up for a quarter of a century - that is who we are. Embrace it. Show the world what a real living nightmare is capable of.
“Okay…. Haven’t I already?”
No. You have held back for so long. Let it out. Let your hate spill and have no mercy on these men who think they are better than you! I will help harness this, and make it your weapon. Make everyone respect the name, Jesse Jamester.
“Why now?”
Because it is time. Time for us to take everything we have ever wanted.
Blinking, the reflection in the mirror returns to normal. His mask laid there on his duffel bag, as though it had never moved. Lifting the mask up, Jesse’s eyes narrow, a thought enters his head and he doesn’t wait another moment. Placing his face in the mask, he pulls the straps around his head, and snaps it on the other side of the mask. Looking back up at the mirror, the mask is now a dark black scaley representation, with a green scar running down the left eye.
"It's time to take what I deserve."
A raspy voice from the Northern Pro Wrestling star echoed in the dark room. The camera turned on and the spotlight hit him from above. One half of the recently crowned NPW Imperial Crown Tag Team Champions sat in a lush regal high back chair. Straight from Mississauga, Ontario, home of Northern Pro Wrestling and the country of the Canadian Nightmare, Jesse Jamester.
“Anthony Caffrey. Is that all it takes to get under your skin? A couple of backhand remarks and you’re threatened by my masculinity? Poor kid, if that’s all it takes to throw you off your game, I’m not sure you’re going to last five minutes with the Syndicate come Fuel for the Fire.”
Hair flowing down to his shoulders, the grizzled bearded veteran with sapphire cold eyes cracked his knuckles.
“I’ve spent my life working in this business called wrestling. When I started, I had two loves. Wrestling and my wife Julie. When she passed away, I put wrestling first over everything else. It was and still is the world to me.
This world of wrestling takes everything from us, yet we continue to pour our heart into our craft. I’ve lived the dream I had as a kid and done everything I ever wished to in this business. Traveling from Canada to Mexico to Japan and every country that would have me. There has been no shortage of moments I have cherished on the road, with my brothers, and with my fans. The list of what I haven’t seen is shorter than what I have. Yet, some twenty five years later I find myself reflecting on my career. What legacy I want to leave behind. What I want to teach my son. Some would say, I’m stealing the spotlight from the younger stars - and they may be right.”
Leaning back, he looks at the camera with a cold dead stare.
“I really don’t give a damn what they say though. See, so many people think they ‘know’ me. Caff for instance, thinks he can do a quick Google search and get the clift notes of my career. Somehow that now qualifies him to chalk it up as he’s superior and this match is a one and done for Subject to Change. Aye, if that’s what it takes to feel good about yourself and be able to look in the mirror and feel like you have a chance, then more power to ya. I don’t want some sob story when the final bell rings. No Caff, I want to look you dead in the eyes and know you gave me your best. Anything less and I’ll feel like I’m stealing it from you.”
Grabbing a bottle of water, Jesse takes a sip. Clears his throat and nods as though someone asked him a question.
“Caffrey has written off my partner, and that was his first mistake. Scott Steel is more than a box of rocks made of muscles. See there is this stigma; that the big guy who powerbombs his foes into oblivion is all bronze and no brains. Matter of fact, that couldn’t be further from the truth. What Subject to Change tried to do was find an equalizer. Caffrey knew he had a mountain to climb to retain those straps. So he went and found Subject #42, a seven footer who looks the part of bigfoot and called him an equal champion. I don’t know your partner, and I don’t need to Caff. When it comes to the art of what I do, I will break him down limb by limb. Like everyone before him, I will find every weak point in his armor and expose his lack of experience being your partner. What Subject to Change lacks is the experience, the history, and the comroderoity that the Syndicate has forged in fire and mastered.”
Bringing himself closer to the edge of the chair, Jesse leans on his knees as he looks directly at the camera.
“What I do know, is Scott Steel. Scott has spent the last six months with me riding the roads. Scott is carved from the granite of the gods! His work ethic is super-fucking-human! To boot, noo man has pinned Scott Steel in his tenure with Northern Pro. We went from formidable foes, to the most unlikeable duo to dominate tag team wrestling in the Northern hemisphere. Every team we have competed against have felt the raw dynamic power and technical prowess we bring to the table.
Aye, I come up with all the catchy nicknames, all the marketing slogans, and bill us as the marquee players. That’s done by design, cause I know what we are capable of - Total Domination. So while you plan on isolating him and finding a way to break me down, I warn you - bring an Atom bomb, it’s the only way you will stop the godzilla of wrestling known as Scott Steel.
Caffrey, you accused me of standing behind Scott and Dane, labeling me the weak link of the Syndicate. (scoffs) Let me educate you for a moment. It was the two of them who seeked me out. They knew I was good for business. I’ve proven that night in and night out. The Syndicate rides and dies for one another. Our moral line has blurred to the point that there is no telling what we won’t do to assure our victory.
You made an assumption about a man you didn’t know. Taking a stab in the dark with your remarks, comparing us as if we had anything in common - thinking I was anything like you. I’m not. I am the last of a dying breed. On March 25th, you come face to face with the Canadian Nightmare. The whole world will witness the Syndicate burn this false dynasty you call Subject to Change to the ground. Leaving your legacy, in ashes.”
Standing up, Jesse Jamester walks towards the camera as the frame darkens and the shot fades.
______________________________________________________________________
“Take me down, to paradise city, cause the card is stacked, and the sun is whistlin’ myyyy name”
Singing out of tune to the rock classic by Guns N Roses, with his own improv lyrics included. Jesse Jamester sat tapping his fingers in the trainer’s private room of Northern Pro Wrestling.
Jesse sat there on the training table, in mesh Adidas shorts and a black tank top. Visible scars and tattoos scattered his body. Every scar was a story, every tattoo, well we believe they had a story. As with any person with tattoos, that’s always the question asked first by the non-inked. With his left leg stretched out, Jesse appeared in good spirits.
Recent victory over The Dark Stars earned him and Scott Steel the NPW Imperial Crown tag team championships. Now the task at hand was Subject to Change over at Fireside Wrestling. The decorated XHF tag team championships were on the line. As the Syndicate had made clear months ago, the tag team world was on notice. This was their moment to prove to the world, that they meant business.
In walked the trainer, a tablet in hand, as he nodded to Jesse and propped it up at the end of the athletic table Jesse was sitting on.
Trainer: Big match coming up aye?
Jesse: Yep.
Trainer: Would wish you luck, but I know you don’t need it.
Jesse: I make my own.
Feeling the knee, the trainer presses on specific spots as he evaluates the side of the leg, where a scar goes up Jesse’s hamstring.
Trainer: How’s this been feeling for you? Any pain?
Jesse: No issues. Haven’t felt a tinge in three years.
Trainer: Great to hear. Can’t let my stars work with injuries.
Jesse: Hah, that’s a new one. Back when I started, we’d slap some ben gay on it, let it air out the window going down the road, and pop a skittle for the pain.
Eyeing up Jesse with a concerned look, the trainer couldn’t read if he was joshing him or being serious.
Jesse: I’d let you know if it was bad. Seriously, haven’t felt a thing. Schedule has been good to me since I returned.
Trainer: Good, this only works if we are honest with one another.
Jesse: Scout’s honor boss.
Leaning back, the trainer stretches the leg, and taps the knee, taking one last look at the athlete’s mobility.
Trainer: Excited to travel?
Jesse: With my boy Julius, hell yeah. Got a new lease on life! Ain't nothin’ bringing me down.
Trainer: Oh yeah, I saw him in the back. When’s he debut?
Jesse: Ay, I don’t know. I’m training him, keeps me fit. Kid runs circles, and I try and remind him to slow down. He’s his own man, just like I was at his age. He’ll make that call for himself.
Trainer: I look forward to watching him. Always nice to see young blood come up in this business. Keeps me employed! You’re all set Jess. Go make NPW proud!
Laughing at the comment, the two shrug at the truth of the matter. Grabbing the tablet, the trainer leaves the room, and Jesse Jamester proceeds to get off the table and walk out the door and down the hallway of the Northern Pro arena they had been isolated in for the last year. The bubble created by Gus Arnold to isolate the personnel and roster helped keep everyone healthy and safe.
Finding his way back to his locker room, Jesse sat on the end of a bench and grabbed his duffel bag from underneath. Laying in front of him he pulled out the green horned reptilian mask, and stared down at it. Marks of wars he and Scott Steel had taken part in were worn into its sculpting. Since his return, the mask was a staple for his look, but it also embodied the mean streak he had become known for. Being a part of the Syndicate, Jesse had changed from being the nice likable guy that every company before had known him as. Now, he was one of the most hated and recognizable men on the roster.
Looking up at the mirror again he put the mask over his face, however he didn’t slide it over his head. Turning his face, he looked at the sides of the mask in the dim light, wondering what the fans would think if he had dropped the mask and returned to his natural look.
There were some benefits to wrestling with your face covered. Punches didn’t quite hit the same. Hair didn’t get stuck in his mouth all the time. The merch sales were a nice bonus check every quarter too. Though it was a bitch to clean, and he had to carry it through airports on his trek from Calgary to Mississauga.
The lizardman mask, as it was referred to by many, symbolized the shift in his attitude as he returned to the ring after four years. Yet after months wearing it, he had questioned whether it was needed. Behind it, his opponents lacked the insight to the tells of his facial features. With it, he embodied the man the Syndicate had come to count on.
Pulling the mask down, Jesse stared back up at the mirror and suddenly was taken aback. Staring back at him was his fully dressed and masked self, the man he was in the ring, but in the mirror now. Rubbing his eyes, Jesse couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or hallucinating.
You’re not asleep.
“Who the fuck said that?”
You did.
“What?”
I am you.
“Uhhhh-”
Shut up and listen.
Blinking, Jesse looked down and the mask he was holding was gone. His eyes returned to the mirror, where his in-ring attired self stood up.
I am you. The person you have become. That ruthless, vengeful, wraith of hell that you pent up for a quarter of a century - that is who we are. Embrace it. Show the world what a real living nightmare is capable of.
“Okay…. Haven’t I already?”
No. You have held back for so long. Let it out. Let your hate spill and have no mercy on these men who think they are better than you! I will help harness this, and make it your weapon. Make everyone respect the name, Jesse Jamester.
“Why now?”
Because it is time. Time for us to take everything we have ever wanted.
Blinking, the reflection in the mirror returns to normal. His mask laid there on his duffel bag, as though it had never moved. Lifting the mask up, Jesse’s eyes narrow, a thought enters his head and he doesn’t wait another moment. Placing his face in the mask, he pulls the straps around his head, and snaps it on the other side of the mask. Looking back up at the mirror, the mask is now a dark black scaley representation, with a green scar running down the left eye.
"It's time to take what I deserve."
