Post by Old Line Jeff on Mar 2, 2023 20:49:10 GMT -5
The lonely, discordant notes of a koto hang in the air.
A world of shades of gray.
Stillness.
Despondency.
Torpor.
Ennui.
Art.
“Not all dreams… can come true.”
There is a man sitting on concrete stairs. A picture of gray and slightly darker shades of gray and slightly lighter shades of gray.
He holds a cigarette listlessly between two fingers. A trail of gray smoke rises.
He lifts that cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. The end of the cigarette turns a lighter shade of gray, almost white.
“When I was young once, I had dreams.”
Change of scene. A dirty street in some undisclosed inner city. Rubbish coats the ground, plastic bags blow in the wind, and there is oh so much gray.
“I… loved... pro wrestling. And I chased my dreams.”
“We… chased our dream.”
Zoom in on cigarette.
“And we found the dream lacking.”
Black. Or maybe the darkest possible gray that isn’t black.
A different voice.
“The mind of a child is full of wonder and magic. There are many… mystics, can we call them? Philosophers? Who believe that there is not only a sphere of existence outside our own, but that we’re not so incapable of touching it as is surmised by most who believe. And they say that children, unbound by mundanity, are capable of perceiving these things.”
Still an extremely artistic monochrome. Still a koto (or possibly an out-of-tune guitar) playing soulful in the background.
“If this is so, then why… how… do we lose it?”
Very stereotypical wispy white curtains in an open window. Outside the window, the tops of buildings. No sight of solid ground, no sight of life.
“Where do we draw the line between fun and mischief, mischief and malice, malice and evil?”
A man walks in front of the window His long blond hair blows in the unseen wind, the extremely artistic monochrome showing how each individual strand catches the gray sunlight, and each one becomes a slightly different color of gray.
“Because truest evil isn’t malice and hatred, you know.”
He slams the window shut.
“It’s apathy.”
Another fade.
Back to the man on the stairs. His hair is normal length and movie star-esque, combed to one side in a part and anchored with a pair of small sideburns.
“My name is Jeffrey Daniels. I’m in my 20s, I’m single, and I’m a professional wrestler.”
“When I was a child, I watched professional wrestling. I saw it, I loved it, and I said to myself, ‘This is what I want to do. This is what I want to be.’ And of all the pro wrestlers in the world, my favorites were the Untouchables.”
“Such legendary names. Jeff Andrews. Heidi Christenson. Kai Scott. Danny Vicious. Gemma Lockhart. Mr. Dude. Ronnie Long…”
“But as legendary as they were… they weren’t good. Really, the Untouchables were pretty bad.”
“We didn’t want to be bad guys for the sake of being bad guys. We just wanted to be just like the Untouchables. And a sad coincidence, they were the bad guys.”
A montage of images from wrestling matches, too fast to focus on. Roaring static as Andrews and Scott, Vicious and Long, Lockhart and Dude, and Christenson alone, did awesome moves in the ring and brutalized opponents.
Cut to the longer haired blond man.
“My name is Lee Scott Rothlesberger, and I’m also a professional wrestler.”
“By the time Jeffrey and I were old enough to lace up the boots, the Untouchables were gone. We followed what breadcrumbs we could, and we came to a place called Northern Pro Wrestling.”
“And NPW… is where it all went wrong.”
Slow, dramatic, very, very gray fade.
“You’ll have to forgive Jeffrey. He doesn’t actually smoke.”
The New Untouchables, in full color, look like they tumbled out of 1997. Bead necklaces, JNCO jeans, and in LSR’s case his long hair in a middle part. Jeffrey Daniels is doubled over, coughing his lungs out.
“But shit changed around because SOMEBODY fucked up the deadline.”
A glare at the fourth wall.
“We were…” *harumph* “... really only here to shit on Bearodactyl anyway.”
Jeffrey hocks up a loogie and saunters towards the camera.
“So is this thing on? Are we really doing this? Are we really going to say that we didn’t quit NPW because our, y’know, feuds kept getting messed up by other people quitting? And that the stupidity of body hair clothing, lovecraft clowns, and the general existence of Ultramantis Blackhausen didn’t have a lot to do with it? Nah, the ‘hooray for public gay bestiality buttsex’ brigade was the worst of it, but not all of it. Now how are we supposed to live our gimmick of irreverence towards the veterans of this sport when the veterans can’t stop honking? They’re all clowns. Not just the Stephen King Wet Dream Squad, all of em.”
LSR whistles.
“Dude.”
“Yeah bro, they’re clowns.They’re clowns who think they’re smarter than the audience. They’re clowns who think they’re smarter than the audience and don’t even realize they’re clowns. They sit down in a circle instead of clowning, put each other’s dicks in their hands, and jack the fuck off while congratulating each other on how they’ve got the game figured out and everyone else are the clowns.”
“And yet, they’re clowns, with other mens’ dicks in their hands.”
“Yep, and I thoroughly expect them to pull a Steve Awesome and claim it’s a good thing and there’s something weird about ripping them for it.”
“Dude. So are any of them in this battle royale?”
“Who fucking cares, Bearodactyl isn’t and we only came back to shit on them anyways. Tell you what bro, if the match doesn't fill up and you’re in it too, you can laundry list the people who’re actually there.”
Mostly fade.
“Jesse Jamester is a bitch too.”
Finish fade.
A world of shades of gray.
Stillness.
Despondency.
Torpor.
Ennui.
Art.
“Not all dreams… can come true.”
There is a man sitting on concrete stairs. A picture of gray and slightly darker shades of gray and slightly lighter shades of gray.
He holds a cigarette listlessly between two fingers. A trail of gray smoke rises.
He lifts that cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. The end of the cigarette turns a lighter shade of gray, almost white.
“When I was young once, I had dreams.”
Change of scene. A dirty street in some undisclosed inner city. Rubbish coats the ground, plastic bags blow in the wind, and there is oh so much gray.
“I… loved... pro wrestling. And I chased my dreams.”
“We… chased our dream.”
Zoom in on cigarette.
“And we found the dream lacking.”
Black. Or maybe the darkest possible gray that isn’t black.
A different voice.
“The mind of a child is full of wonder and magic. There are many… mystics, can we call them? Philosophers? Who believe that there is not only a sphere of existence outside our own, but that we’re not so incapable of touching it as is surmised by most who believe. And they say that children, unbound by mundanity, are capable of perceiving these things.”
Still an extremely artistic monochrome. Still a koto (or possibly an out-of-tune guitar) playing soulful in the background.
“If this is so, then why… how… do we lose it?”
Very stereotypical wispy white curtains in an open window. Outside the window, the tops of buildings. No sight of solid ground, no sight of life.
“Where do we draw the line between fun and mischief, mischief and malice, malice and evil?”
A man walks in front of the window His long blond hair blows in the unseen wind, the extremely artistic monochrome showing how each individual strand catches the gray sunlight, and each one becomes a slightly different color of gray.
“Because truest evil isn’t malice and hatred, you know.”
He slams the window shut.
“It’s apathy.”
Another fade.
Back to the man on the stairs. His hair is normal length and movie star-esque, combed to one side in a part and anchored with a pair of small sideburns.
“My name is Jeffrey Daniels. I’m in my 20s, I’m single, and I’m a professional wrestler.”
“When I was a child, I watched professional wrestling. I saw it, I loved it, and I said to myself, ‘This is what I want to do. This is what I want to be.’ And of all the pro wrestlers in the world, my favorites were the Untouchables.”
“Such legendary names. Jeff Andrews. Heidi Christenson. Kai Scott. Danny Vicious. Gemma Lockhart. Mr. Dude. Ronnie Long…”
“But as legendary as they were… they weren’t good. Really, the Untouchables were pretty bad.”
“We didn’t want to be bad guys for the sake of being bad guys. We just wanted to be just like the Untouchables. And a sad coincidence, they were the bad guys.”
A montage of images from wrestling matches, too fast to focus on. Roaring static as Andrews and Scott, Vicious and Long, Lockhart and Dude, and Christenson alone, did awesome moves in the ring and brutalized opponents.
Cut to the longer haired blond man.
“My name is Lee Scott Rothlesberger, and I’m also a professional wrestler.”
“By the time Jeffrey and I were old enough to lace up the boots, the Untouchables were gone. We followed what breadcrumbs we could, and we came to a place called Northern Pro Wrestling.”
“And NPW… is where it all went wrong.”
Slow, dramatic, very, very gray fade.
...
...
...
And fade up to someone coughing.
“You’ll have to forgive Jeffrey. He doesn’t actually smoke.”
The New Untouchables, in full color, look like they tumbled out of 1997. Bead necklaces, JNCO jeans, and in LSR’s case his long hair in a middle part. Jeffrey Daniels is doubled over, coughing his lungs out.
“But shit changed around because SOMEBODY fucked up the deadline.”
A glare at the fourth wall.
“We were…” *harumph* “... really only here to shit on Bearodactyl anyway.”
Jeffrey hocks up a loogie and saunters towards the camera.
“So is this thing on? Are we really doing this? Are we really going to say that we didn’t quit NPW because our, y’know, feuds kept getting messed up by other people quitting? And that the stupidity of body hair clothing, lovecraft clowns, and the general existence of Ultramantis Blackhausen didn’t have a lot to do with it? Nah, the ‘hooray for public gay bestiality buttsex’ brigade was the worst of it, but not all of it. Now how are we supposed to live our gimmick of irreverence towards the veterans of this sport when the veterans can’t stop honking? They’re all clowns. Not just the Stephen King Wet Dream Squad, all of em.”
LSR whistles.
“Dude.”
“Yeah bro, they’re clowns.They’re clowns who think they’re smarter than the audience. They’re clowns who think they’re smarter than the audience and don’t even realize they’re clowns. They sit down in a circle instead of clowning, put each other’s dicks in their hands, and jack the fuck off while congratulating each other on how they’ve got the game figured out and everyone else are the clowns.”
“And yet, they’re clowns, with other mens’ dicks in their hands.”
“Yep, and I thoroughly expect them to pull a Steve Awesome and claim it’s a good thing and there’s something weird about ripping them for it.”
“Dude. So are any of them in this battle royale?”
“Who fucking cares, Bearodactyl isn’t and we only came back to shit on them anyways. Tell you what bro, if the match doesn't fill up and you’re in it too, you can laundry list the people who’re actually there.”
Mostly fade.
“Jesse Jamester is a bitch too.”
Finish fade.