Post by Nikolai Molotov on Jul 14, 2008 20:03:56 GMT -4
The scene opens up to a dim lit room. Candle light guides the camera man's way as viewers watch at home. As the companies crew member postions the camera on it's tripod stand aiming it at what looks like an old wooden table. On this table is a circular glass ashtray, an ordinary shotglass, the flickering candle and a glass bottle of Vodka. From the darkness a hand reaches toward the bottle and begins to pour a shot in the emply glass. Putting the bottle back down on the table, the unknown figure draws the attention of the crew man and his camera. Pointing the lense now upward we watch as the figure flicks a zippo like lighter open and lights what looks to be a cigar. The cherry glows in the darkness and begins to make its way down to the candle light. Our mystery guest has a face, one of which not many from around here have seen. With thick dark hair slicked back and his tie straightened proper, you notice just how seemingly well dressed this man is. Clean cut and shaved, he seems to take well care of himself. Taking the cigar from his lips with his right hand, we're able to see the tattooed artwork he has drawn into his hands. Letters writing out must on his right hand digits and kill on his left are easily visable. With the thick smoke now in the air after his slow, easy exhale we watch as the man takes his first shot from the glass. Pouring another, he begins to look around the room but is still able to begin talking to the camera infront of him.
Have you ever wished to turn back the hands of time? To ponder on what could have been or what should have been but never was. The slightest detail in your past could have caused the most catastrophic change in your life. You wrap your mind around the 'what ifs' and 'could ofs'. We now know there is no way to turn back the fabeled 'hands of time', just the choices that you make that decide your turn of events. My turn is just around the corner. It was my choice to leave my family, to leave who I was for what I must become, to leave the Motherland. Growing up, I would witness acts no child should endure, but these were the everyday events in my home. Not some sob story of an American child in a disfunctional home. There was nothing disfunction about the way my father ran things, and he did just that...ran things.
Taking another long drag from his shortening cigar, he blows smoke rings towards the lense and then takes down another shot of the Vodka on the table. The wax from the candle is nothing more now than liquid. He had been waiting for quite some time now. Ashing into the glass tray, the man continues to speak.
The boss of the town. He had his eye on everything that went on around us. If it wasn't him who kept a close watch, it was his loyal followers nearby. Over the course of the last few decades, people have called my familys life style many things, but to this day it is still known as communism. Decending from close ties to that of Joseph Stalin, my family has kept it's faith in the Soviet dream since day one. The dream started with one and turned its course to many. My grandfather's journey led him to war. Soon, my journey would seem to start that same path. To live by my father's wishes, my grandfather's wishes, and our family's; I too would step next in line and wave the flag proud. But to do that I needed to branch out. My course would start on the outer bounds of the Russian territory, where men fought in cages like dogs, being bet on by men watching outside. Fight after fight, I felt my skin turn to leather and noticed that the fights lasted shorter and shorter with each opponent. My journey would continue to the Land of the Rising Sun.
Chuckling to himself, he looks away and trys to remember the details. Almost trying to recall the events that took place. The smiles and grins were washed from his face as he rans his fingers across some visable scars on his hands. Some fingernails were longer than other, hinting towards a common habit. Situations can be harder than others, but nail biting tends to calm some nerves. In some cases, a shot or two or aged Vodka could do the trick also. Tilting his head back the man swallows down another hard shot of the liqour and sighs. With his throat somewhat horse with his first few words, the man talks about how he came to know the sport.
After months of continuous matches, I started to become more familiar with what the west would call wrestling. I got a taste for blood. Contestants lined from near and far to join in what was called hardcore matches. Men jumping from heights known to birds. Through tables...in glass...in fire. Pain was not a factor for these men, so I made it my purpose to endure what they too felt. When the night came, I was left to lick my wounds. After nearly a year of self reliance and training to my mind and body, the locals would know me by one name..."The Red Scare".
Nearly droppingt he bottle as he pours another drink, he shakes himself back to health and pours another round. The aged liquor has it's way with the man, and with a grin he has his way with it. Kicking the shot down, he slams the glass on the table and then tosses it past the camera. Drinking straight from the bottle now, he looks around the dark room for a few seconds and then tips his bottle at an object hanging from the wall next to us. Focusing in on the object, your able to distinguish the golden hammer and sickle crossing eachother on the blood red backround of the old style Communist Russian flag. Sitting the bottle back down on the table he looks back toward the camera.
Dating back to my great grandfathers customs, Communist blood continues to flow through my veins as well. To this day, I can still remember his flag hanging in the air. He held it proud and became the one man, next to my father, whom I would idolize. Democracy..pfft. Over the years, your president has neatly cut and torn each star and stripe on your precious American flag and shoved it down your throats. If he hadn't, you would find a communist waiting in line to do so anyway. But here today there is no time to wait. I have traveled from the Motherland to make my mark. Here and now is where I stand. 'The Red Scare' is here and waiting. Waiting for my chance to become a champion in this so called company. With men and women like the wrestlers here, it should be a walk in the park to hold whatever championship title I so choose. The day of Nikolai Molotov approaches, and no helpless soul will be ready. Mark my words, I will become champion.
Standing up from his chair, he leans over the table pushing the candle closer toward the lense. His silk suit gives a soft glow of the candle. Hands on the table, face towards the camera, and eyes more piercing than any words could describe, the man gives a half assed grin at the viewers at home and those watching from the arena.
The real question remains, 'champion of what'? What division will I call my own? Will I go after our World Champion or perhaps your Overdrive Champion. Maybe I should bring a little taste of Communist pain to the so called Xtreme division. Whos to stand in my way? Not even the "president" Hurricane Jeff would be able to control the storm headed to this company. Any one standing in my path will feel the devastation I will unleash. "The Red Scare" is not a myth but a true fact. My blood has never run so red. The Soviet dream lives on through me. Things will be different, I promise you that.
Taking one last drag from his cigar, Nikolai puts the cherry out on his tongue and drops the butt into the ash tray. Squeezing the bottle in his hand he pushes the seat back and walks away from the table. With the candle still lit, the scene fades away with the USSR flag hanging in the background of the room and the candle dies out. Soft smoke hovers around the wax candle, but there is no light in this now empty room. Questions fill the auditorium. Viewers ask themselves what everyone whats to know. Has the mark of the russian been felt? When will we see this man again? Most importantly, what championship title will Nikolai want? You may get your answer sooner than you think.
Have you ever wished to turn back the hands of time? To ponder on what could have been or what should have been but never was. The slightest detail in your past could have caused the most catastrophic change in your life. You wrap your mind around the 'what ifs' and 'could ofs'. We now know there is no way to turn back the fabeled 'hands of time', just the choices that you make that decide your turn of events. My turn is just around the corner. It was my choice to leave my family, to leave who I was for what I must become, to leave the Motherland. Growing up, I would witness acts no child should endure, but these were the everyday events in my home. Not some sob story of an American child in a disfunctional home. There was nothing disfunction about the way my father ran things, and he did just that...ran things.
Taking another long drag from his shortening cigar, he blows smoke rings towards the lense and then takes down another shot of the Vodka on the table. The wax from the candle is nothing more now than liquid. He had been waiting for quite some time now. Ashing into the glass tray, the man continues to speak.
The boss of the town. He had his eye on everything that went on around us. If it wasn't him who kept a close watch, it was his loyal followers nearby. Over the course of the last few decades, people have called my familys life style many things, but to this day it is still known as communism. Decending from close ties to that of Joseph Stalin, my family has kept it's faith in the Soviet dream since day one. The dream started with one and turned its course to many. My grandfather's journey led him to war. Soon, my journey would seem to start that same path. To live by my father's wishes, my grandfather's wishes, and our family's; I too would step next in line and wave the flag proud. But to do that I needed to branch out. My course would start on the outer bounds of the Russian territory, where men fought in cages like dogs, being bet on by men watching outside. Fight after fight, I felt my skin turn to leather and noticed that the fights lasted shorter and shorter with each opponent. My journey would continue to the Land of the Rising Sun.
Chuckling to himself, he looks away and trys to remember the details. Almost trying to recall the events that took place. The smiles and grins were washed from his face as he rans his fingers across some visable scars on his hands. Some fingernails were longer than other, hinting towards a common habit. Situations can be harder than others, but nail biting tends to calm some nerves. In some cases, a shot or two or aged Vodka could do the trick also. Tilting his head back the man swallows down another hard shot of the liqour and sighs. With his throat somewhat horse with his first few words, the man talks about how he came to know the sport.
After months of continuous matches, I started to become more familiar with what the west would call wrestling. I got a taste for blood. Contestants lined from near and far to join in what was called hardcore matches. Men jumping from heights known to birds. Through tables...in glass...in fire. Pain was not a factor for these men, so I made it my purpose to endure what they too felt. When the night came, I was left to lick my wounds. After nearly a year of self reliance and training to my mind and body, the locals would know me by one name..."The Red Scare".
Nearly droppingt he bottle as he pours another drink, he shakes himself back to health and pours another round. The aged liquor has it's way with the man, and with a grin he has his way with it. Kicking the shot down, he slams the glass on the table and then tosses it past the camera. Drinking straight from the bottle now, he looks around the dark room for a few seconds and then tips his bottle at an object hanging from the wall next to us. Focusing in on the object, your able to distinguish the golden hammer and sickle crossing eachother on the blood red backround of the old style Communist Russian flag. Sitting the bottle back down on the table he looks back toward the camera.
Dating back to my great grandfathers customs, Communist blood continues to flow through my veins as well. To this day, I can still remember his flag hanging in the air. He held it proud and became the one man, next to my father, whom I would idolize. Democracy..pfft. Over the years, your president has neatly cut and torn each star and stripe on your precious American flag and shoved it down your throats. If he hadn't, you would find a communist waiting in line to do so anyway. But here today there is no time to wait. I have traveled from the Motherland to make my mark. Here and now is where I stand. 'The Red Scare' is here and waiting. Waiting for my chance to become a champion in this so called company. With men and women like the wrestlers here, it should be a walk in the park to hold whatever championship title I so choose. The day of Nikolai Molotov approaches, and no helpless soul will be ready. Mark my words, I will become champion.
Standing up from his chair, he leans over the table pushing the candle closer toward the lense. His silk suit gives a soft glow of the candle. Hands on the table, face towards the camera, and eyes more piercing than any words could describe, the man gives a half assed grin at the viewers at home and those watching from the arena.
The real question remains, 'champion of what'? What division will I call my own? Will I go after our World Champion or perhaps your Overdrive Champion. Maybe I should bring a little taste of Communist pain to the so called Xtreme division. Whos to stand in my way? Not even the "president" Hurricane Jeff would be able to control the storm headed to this company. Any one standing in my path will feel the devastation I will unleash. "The Red Scare" is not a myth but a true fact. My blood has never run so red. The Soviet dream lives on through me. Things will be different, I promise you that.
Taking one last drag from his cigar, Nikolai puts the cherry out on his tongue and drops the butt into the ash tray. Squeezing the bottle in his hand he pushes the seat back and walks away from the table. With the candle still lit, the scene fades away with the USSR flag hanging in the background of the room and the candle dies out. Soft smoke hovers around the wax candle, but there is no light in this now empty room. Questions fill the auditorium. Viewers ask themselves what everyone whats to know. Has the mark of the russian been felt? When will we see this man again? Most importantly, what championship title will Nikolai want? You may get your answer sooner than you think.
