Post by andrew87 on May 27, 2021 16:15:23 GMT -5
The scene opens with smoke billowing in to the air and the faint sound of a guitar playing a blues riff. A quote appears on the screen over the smoke:
“A man who is a master of patience is master of everything else.”
-George Savile
The camera pans down to the source of the smoke: a large barrel smoker with the lid closed. In front of the smoker sit the New South, Beau Traywick, Waylon Kirk (guitar on his lap) & Jolene. Their feet are kicked up and they are all sipping glasses of bourbon while they watch the smoke rise high in the air.
Traywick: Patience.
There’s a long pause while they continue to sip their bourbon. Traywick finishes his glass and looks to the camera before smiling and grabbing the bottle of Eagle Rare from the table in front of them and pouring more in his glass. He takes another sip and looks back to the camera.
Traywick: Now that I’ve got my balance, it’s all about patience. I’ve trained, I’ve prepped, I’ve studied film. The only thing left to do is wait.
Another sip and Jolene & Waylon nodding in agreement with Beau.
Traywick: That’s ok though, I don’t mind. I understand patience. This smoker? (Traywick motions to the large smoker in front of him). This one belonged to my grandfather. He taught me all about making barbecue. And barbecue isn’t just another food, it’s an art form. My grandfather taught me the secret to good barbecue and I’ll share it with all of you in NLW. It’s not a rub or a specific type of wood.
Beau gets up from his chair and walks to the smoker. He lifts the top and we see racks of ribs, pork shoulders and sausages all laid out. He takes a pair of tongs and adjusts some of the meats on the smoker before closing the lid again.
Traywick: It’s patience. I’ve been patient all day, waiting to eat dinner. But I’ve been biding my time - talking with my partners here, talking about Saturday. Drinking some good bourbon. That’s not all I’ve been patient about though.
Traywick takes a seat again and kicks his feet back up. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, glass of bourbon still in hand.
Traywick: We came to Next Level Wrestling in January of this year and this is the first real title shot that either one of us have seen. BB Gunn, apparently in his infinite wisdom, hasn’t felt the need to provide us with the opportunities we’ve clearly earned. The New South is constantly must see television. When we’re in that ring, all bets are off and all eyes are dialed in. BB, were it not for us, your ratings would have plummeted a long time ago. Hell, we had one of the highest rated main events in the history of this company two weeks ago. These other jokers though? Please.
Beau laughs at the thought of his Hostile Intent opponents.
Traywick: I mean, come on. This clown, David Goon? He’s entertaining in the same way a monkey shoving a finger up its ass and sniffing is. Like, I get it but we’ve seen all there is to see. El Rey? I mean, what more can be said? His heart isn’t in it and damn sure not his head. Honestly, he’s some family therapy and a game of catch from packing up and going back to community college to get that two year in dental hygiene.
Beau stops to take a sip and top off Jolene & Waylon who are both nodding in agreement with his points. He checks the thermometer connected to the smoker and sees it’s not ready yet.
Traywick: SHIVANI? Bless your heart, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I lose to someone on a work release. My only real concern there is if she’s got a shank on her. BB, I’m counting on you to get that shit checked. Graham Parker…
Jolene interrupts.
Jolene: It’s Baker, not Parker.
Beau just laughs.
Traywick: Really though, it doesn’t even matter. Barker, Parker, this is a do nothing guy who won’t be around in a few months anyway. The only way he’s walking out of Hostile Intent holding the Southern States title is if I hire him to carry my bags. And that leaves Nathan Parker. Former Southern States champ, Nathan Parker, the man who got in to a car accident...with a wrestling ring. His best move is just a Ford Fiesta.
Traywick just chuckles with his teammates as he sips his bourbon.
Traywick: Ya’ll, as God as my witness, I will be the next NLW Southern States champion. And for once, it will be carried by someone with some dignity. Someone who commands respect. Frank Dylan James, Nathan Parker, David Goon. These are nobodies. Absolute and utter fools who I wouldn’t trust to clean the bathrooms at the Avron B Fogelman arena, much less represent my company amongst the sixteen states that make up the South. NLW deserves better and damn it, the South deserves better. And Beau Traywick is that better.
Traywick stands up again, checks the thermometer and looks back at the camera.
Traywick: That’s ok though. Because on Saturday? It’s time.
Traywick sets the thermometer and his drink down and opens the smoker. Waylon holds a tray for him as Beau begins to pull meat off of the smoker.
Traywick(over his shoulder): Believe me, I am the king of that mountain.
Scene fades to black.
“A man who is a master of patience is master of everything else.”
-George Savile
The camera pans down to the source of the smoke: a large barrel smoker with the lid closed. In front of the smoker sit the New South, Beau Traywick, Waylon Kirk (guitar on his lap) & Jolene. Their feet are kicked up and they are all sipping glasses of bourbon while they watch the smoke rise high in the air.
Traywick: Patience.
There’s a long pause while they continue to sip their bourbon. Traywick finishes his glass and looks to the camera before smiling and grabbing the bottle of Eagle Rare from the table in front of them and pouring more in his glass. He takes another sip and looks back to the camera.
Traywick: Now that I’ve got my balance, it’s all about patience. I’ve trained, I’ve prepped, I’ve studied film. The only thing left to do is wait.
Another sip and Jolene & Waylon nodding in agreement with Beau.
Traywick: That’s ok though, I don’t mind. I understand patience. This smoker? (Traywick motions to the large smoker in front of him). This one belonged to my grandfather. He taught me all about making barbecue. And barbecue isn’t just another food, it’s an art form. My grandfather taught me the secret to good barbecue and I’ll share it with all of you in NLW. It’s not a rub or a specific type of wood.
Beau gets up from his chair and walks to the smoker. He lifts the top and we see racks of ribs, pork shoulders and sausages all laid out. He takes a pair of tongs and adjusts some of the meats on the smoker before closing the lid again.
Traywick: It’s patience. I’ve been patient all day, waiting to eat dinner. But I’ve been biding my time - talking with my partners here, talking about Saturday. Drinking some good bourbon. That’s not all I’ve been patient about though.
Traywick takes a seat again and kicks his feet back up. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, glass of bourbon still in hand.
Traywick: We came to Next Level Wrestling in January of this year and this is the first real title shot that either one of us have seen. BB Gunn, apparently in his infinite wisdom, hasn’t felt the need to provide us with the opportunities we’ve clearly earned. The New South is constantly must see television. When we’re in that ring, all bets are off and all eyes are dialed in. BB, were it not for us, your ratings would have plummeted a long time ago. Hell, we had one of the highest rated main events in the history of this company two weeks ago. These other jokers though? Please.
Beau laughs at the thought of his Hostile Intent opponents.
Traywick: I mean, come on. This clown, David Goon? He’s entertaining in the same way a monkey shoving a finger up its ass and sniffing is. Like, I get it but we’ve seen all there is to see. El Rey? I mean, what more can be said? His heart isn’t in it and damn sure not his head. Honestly, he’s some family therapy and a game of catch from packing up and going back to community college to get that two year in dental hygiene.
Beau stops to take a sip and top off Jolene & Waylon who are both nodding in agreement with his points. He checks the thermometer connected to the smoker and sees it’s not ready yet.
Traywick: SHIVANI? Bless your heart, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I lose to someone on a work release. My only real concern there is if she’s got a shank on her. BB, I’m counting on you to get that shit checked. Graham Parker…
Jolene interrupts.
Jolene: It’s Baker, not Parker.
Beau just laughs.
Traywick: Really though, it doesn’t even matter. Barker, Parker, this is a do nothing guy who won’t be around in a few months anyway. The only way he’s walking out of Hostile Intent holding the Southern States title is if I hire him to carry my bags. And that leaves Nathan Parker. Former Southern States champ, Nathan Parker, the man who got in to a car accident...with a wrestling ring. His best move is just a Ford Fiesta.
Traywick just chuckles with his teammates as he sips his bourbon.
Traywick: Ya’ll, as God as my witness, I will be the next NLW Southern States champion. And for once, it will be carried by someone with some dignity. Someone who commands respect. Frank Dylan James, Nathan Parker, David Goon. These are nobodies. Absolute and utter fools who I wouldn’t trust to clean the bathrooms at the Avron B Fogelman arena, much less represent my company amongst the sixteen states that make up the South. NLW deserves better and damn it, the South deserves better. And Beau Traywick is that better.
Traywick stands up again, checks the thermometer and looks back at the camera.
Traywick: That’s ok though. Because on Saturday? It’s time.
Traywick sets the thermometer and his drink down and opens the smoker. Waylon holds a tray for him as Beau begins to pull meat off of the smoker.
Traywick(over his shoulder): Believe me, I am the king of that mountain.
Scene fades to black.