Post by Walls on Mar 21, 2022 12:19:46 GMT -5
In.
We travel down a long barbed wire fence. On the other side stands a row of generational trees holding back dust from a sprawling field behind. A pan around shows a small herd of cattle in the distance, an idle green tractor against the fence. An aged shed, shingles curling, houses hay bales, backed by a larger classic red barn with peeling paint. While seemingly in disrepair, a closer inspection would show a well built, hidden strength.
Another fenced area sits empty currently, while piles of wood are stacked here and there, tractor parts and implements. A beat up truck, rarely washed, well used, sits with it's rusted tail gate open. In the battered box sit a pair of tool bags and a rotary saw for a paused project, layered saw dust evident of this.
A quaint house centers this humble lot. White, two floors. Nothing fancy. Plain.
Humble.
A porch rings the front three quarters with the usual variety: swinging bench, BBQ, folding chairs, childs' toys, sleeping dog. In the field two children chase chickens and are in turn chased by smaller dogs. The menagerie squeal and yip and quack. They laugh and fall and roll and get up and chase and squeal and yip again. Watching this cherubic little circus is the looming figure of Shane Locke. He sits on the steps, steaming coffee in a work thick hand. He wears a button up shirt that strains against his tarmac back, rounded shoulders and thick neck. Dirty jeans cover tree trunk legs and his feet... are bare? He hasn't shaved for a few days and his mullet style hair cut has a sheen of labor created sweat.
Beat.
Shane Locke has his daughters in arm, one under each, racing across the grass. Their smiles, all three, couldn't be wider.
Beat.
Eager to satiate a rumbling stomach, Locke sits at his kitchen table, his honestly beautiful wife handing him a heaping plate of food. He smiles.
Beat.
Sprawled in a recliner, Locke sleeps. One arm is tucked behind his head, his other curled protectively around a small baby. Both are serene. His wife watches on from the doorway, smiling, light flickering from whatever television show put them to rest.
Beat.
It's the break of dawn. Shane walks down creaking stairs, as gingerly as possible, donning a Carhart jacket. The mornings are chilled, a gust of white coming from a deep exhalation as he exits his house.
He sprinkles food into a chicken coop.
He pets his dog as it walks beside him towards the next task.
He throws bails into the back of his truck with evident, if not shocking, ease.
He hammers together a broken fence board.
He looks with pride over his property, hands on his hips.
A small yet sprawling plot of land created by his hands and those before him. His dad and his grandfather. Humble. Purpose built. Just like the man.
"I'm not a guy who wants to talk a whole bunch but... there's a camera and they want me to talk about my match at Fuel for the Fire on the 31st against this Alexander Van Blankenship person. Pay Per View show. Pay Per View money. Daddy needs a new tractor." Locke chuckles to himself, not looking at the camera but out towards the horizon. The cameraman keeps it that way.
He sighs, "What am I supposed to say? Try and force the contrast between the rich kid up and comer and good ole farm boy Shane Locke? I'm not 35, "kid". We are nearly the same age. I've just lived a bit of a different life and I think that's why we act a bit of a different way. I ain't got the money to have celebrities hang out with me. I ain't got the money for the best trainers and machines I've never heard of keeping me in shape like that Russian guy in Rocky. I work here, I raise a family. Then I drive into Portland and find a ring to train in. Heft some steel, heft some more. Eat right. Sleep. Stay humble. Do right by myself and my family. And you know..." he pauses, turning towards the camera. Emphasis. "You know, I've been hearing that people are a bit shocked at how I am in the ring, yet can hold a babe and raise kids and be a good father.
Fighting people in a professional wrestling ring and doing your best to win doesn't make me a bad person. It makes me an honest one. You get in there and you win and that's that. It's how my grandpops taught me. I don't have fancy wrestling holds, twist 'em ups and pressure this and fancy-dancy cool things. I'm strong. I'm big. I can take a hit. I can give it. So that's what I do. I beat people up, I throw them around and I wrap my arm around their neck and they give up or they go out. Simple.
But don't..." he snarls, "Don't you ever, ever say that's how I am as a man outside the wrestling ring. Don't ever think that's me out here. That, THAT is where you make the biggest mistake. I love my family. I love my farm. I love my God and I keep that Shane Locke and this Shane Locke separate."
Taking a deep breath, Locke turns back out to the horizon.
"So Alexander, keep that in mind. I ain't gonna be your servant boy, I ain't doing you no favors. No deals. No bets. We get in there, we fight and one of us wins and hits the pay windah. Frankly, it's goddamn insulting and I don't really wanna stand for it at all. Fuel for the Fire, March 31st in Spain of all places? You're gonna learn real fast, boy that hard work pays off, dreams come true. Bad times don't last.
But bad guys do.
And in Ibiza... I'm gonna have to be the bad guy."
Fade.
We travel down a long barbed wire fence. On the other side stands a row of generational trees holding back dust from a sprawling field behind. A pan around shows a small herd of cattle in the distance, an idle green tractor against the fence. An aged shed, shingles curling, houses hay bales, backed by a larger classic red barn with peeling paint. While seemingly in disrepair, a closer inspection would show a well built, hidden strength.
Another fenced area sits empty currently, while piles of wood are stacked here and there, tractor parts and implements. A beat up truck, rarely washed, well used, sits with it's rusted tail gate open. In the battered box sit a pair of tool bags and a rotary saw for a paused project, layered saw dust evident of this.
A quaint house centers this humble lot. White, two floors. Nothing fancy. Plain.
Humble.
A porch rings the front three quarters with the usual variety: swinging bench, BBQ, folding chairs, childs' toys, sleeping dog. In the field two children chase chickens and are in turn chased by smaller dogs. The menagerie squeal and yip and quack. They laugh and fall and roll and get up and chase and squeal and yip again. Watching this cherubic little circus is the looming figure of Shane Locke. He sits on the steps, steaming coffee in a work thick hand. He wears a button up shirt that strains against his tarmac back, rounded shoulders and thick neck. Dirty jeans cover tree trunk legs and his feet... are bare? He hasn't shaved for a few days and his mullet style hair cut has a sheen of labor created sweat.
Beat.
Shane Locke has his daughters in arm, one under each, racing across the grass. Their smiles, all three, couldn't be wider.
Beat.
Eager to satiate a rumbling stomach, Locke sits at his kitchen table, his honestly beautiful wife handing him a heaping plate of food. He smiles.
Beat.
Sprawled in a recliner, Locke sleeps. One arm is tucked behind his head, his other curled protectively around a small baby. Both are serene. His wife watches on from the doorway, smiling, light flickering from whatever television show put them to rest.
Beat.
It's the break of dawn. Shane walks down creaking stairs, as gingerly as possible, donning a Carhart jacket. The mornings are chilled, a gust of white coming from a deep exhalation as he exits his house.
He sprinkles food into a chicken coop.
He pets his dog as it walks beside him towards the next task.
He throws bails into the back of his truck with evident, if not shocking, ease.
He hammers together a broken fence board.
He looks with pride over his property, hands on his hips.
A small yet sprawling plot of land created by his hands and those before him. His dad and his grandfather. Humble. Purpose built. Just like the man.
"I'm not a guy who wants to talk a whole bunch but... there's a camera and they want me to talk about my match at Fuel for the Fire on the 31st against this Alexander Van Blankenship person. Pay Per View show. Pay Per View money. Daddy needs a new tractor." Locke chuckles to himself, not looking at the camera but out towards the horizon. The cameraman keeps it that way.
He sighs, "What am I supposed to say? Try and force the contrast between the rich kid up and comer and good ole farm boy Shane Locke? I'm not 35, "kid". We are nearly the same age. I've just lived a bit of a different life and I think that's why we act a bit of a different way. I ain't got the money to have celebrities hang out with me. I ain't got the money for the best trainers and machines I've never heard of keeping me in shape like that Russian guy in Rocky. I work here, I raise a family. Then I drive into Portland and find a ring to train in. Heft some steel, heft some more. Eat right. Sleep. Stay humble. Do right by myself and my family. And you know..." he pauses, turning towards the camera. Emphasis. "You know, I've been hearing that people are a bit shocked at how I am in the ring, yet can hold a babe and raise kids and be a good father.
Fighting people in a professional wrestling ring and doing your best to win doesn't make me a bad person. It makes me an honest one. You get in there and you win and that's that. It's how my grandpops taught me. I don't have fancy wrestling holds, twist 'em ups and pressure this and fancy-dancy cool things. I'm strong. I'm big. I can take a hit. I can give it. So that's what I do. I beat people up, I throw them around and I wrap my arm around their neck and they give up or they go out. Simple.
But don't..." he snarls, "Don't you ever, ever say that's how I am as a man outside the wrestling ring. Don't ever think that's me out here. That, THAT is where you make the biggest mistake. I love my family. I love my farm. I love my God and I keep that Shane Locke and this Shane Locke separate."
Taking a deep breath, Locke turns back out to the horizon.
"So Alexander, keep that in mind. I ain't gonna be your servant boy, I ain't doing you no favors. No deals. No bets. We get in there, we fight and one of us wins and hits the pay windah. Frankly, it's goddamn insulting and I don't really wanna stand for it at all. Fuel for the Fire, March 31st in Spain of all places? You're gonna learn real fast, boy that hard work pays off, dreams come true. Bad times don't last.
But bad guys do.
And in Ibiza... I'm gonna have to be the bad guy."
Fade.