Post by Link on Mar 11, 2009 4:33:27 GMT -4
Mr. Carter: Wake up son, wake up. You've got much work to do.
Fades.
Voice: You've got much work to do.
"Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt."
"You know what I want", he says.
"C'mon forward", he whispers, still watching the beautiful teller.
"Where are you going, sweetie pie?"
"I..."
Fades.
Link: I smell like shit, I feel like shit. And my head is too clouded to talk about a piece of shit like the one I'm facing tomorrow. There are so many things going on that I can't rightly explain. How am I supposed to talk about my opponent. He finds himself to be a saint and a savior. He is so full of himself and won't stop talking about himself that I feel like he does all the trash talking I need to do for me. He doesn't even realize that his own words betray him. I WILL not utter his name tonight. In fact, I don't want to spend any time talking about him, because he isn't worth my time. I've fought many people and he is no different than them. You strip away the lights and colors from Las Vegas and you've got a shithole desert wasteland. You take the same principle and apply it to my opponent this week and you come to the same conclusion. I don't know what the hell is going on, but I'm going to figure it out. Everyone knows I'm a talker. I could go on and on for hours about why my opponent doesn't amount to anything, why his "doomsday clock" is set to five minutes till midnight. Yes, a watchmen reference. I could go on and on about how he is only delaying destiny. He will be losing his title at Rasslemania. Level Five has a large erection and no one can stop it. But I understand him and once he wins that title, his streak, and his skills will fall flaccid, at which point I will have my sweet revenge and take what I have sought to own.
Link: Obviously my opponent doesn't listen to the others that have fallen before him. Yes. I haven't been in the spotlight. YES, my name hasn't been talked about in the halls and backstage and in newspapers, but what you seem to have not realized, just like those that came before you, I have NEVER been in this for glory. I am trying to prove a point. Hearing you talk about me proved to me that you don't know jack shit about me. It proves that you are even more self absorbed than I thought. I get the feeling you don't even write your own promos anymore. Or if you do you've got them all pre planned, and you just insert your opponents name where it fits. How you've come this far escapes me. Ugh. I don't even know why I'm talking anymore. Why I'm even trying. So many more important things to deal with...to figure out.
Link: I don't know what the hell is going on.
Fades
James Carter aka, Link, slowly begins to wake up. His vision is blurred but he can tell that the image of his father lies right before him. What he can't understand is how, and why father is is here. It isn't uncommon knowledge that Links father died many years ago when Link was a young boy, a young link if you will. But now he stands before Link, guiding him and giving him instructions. Link rubs his eyes and opens them wide. He is startled as he looks around his room and his father has vanished. He looks over at the clock and it reads 5:43AM. "Shit", he thinks, "its actually 6:43AM, I forgot to spring my clock forward. Oh well, who wakes up at 6:43, I'll sleep until an even 7:00. He falls back into his soft bed and closes his eyes slowly. At 7:05AM the room starts to rumble. Everything in Links new apartment shakes. Pens, pencils and books shake off of a small desk, a cup of water spills over, rolls off of a nightstand and smashes on the floor. Link jolts up to ride the earthquake consciously. He quickly jumps out of bed to get to cover but lands hard on the broken glass barefooted. "FUCK!" he screams as he falls forward from the shock of the quake and the imbalance caused by only having one free foot. He stumbles and reaches to grab for the wall. It feels likes low motion as he sees his hand barely miss the wall; he turns and sees the hard floor moving closer to his face. With a large smack he hits the ground. To make things worse more items begin to shift and fall. A large dictionary, being one of them, finding a sweet landing spot upon Links head. He lets out a faint cry and then everything turns to black.
Fades.
Voice: You've got much work to do.
Eyes closed, becomes eyes opened. He lets the warm water soak his face and his hair as he rinses off the suds from his body. A warm shower heals all. He never understood showering at night before bed; a shower was like the world’s best energy drink. How could one feel like sleeping after a shower? Shower turned off, steam filling his bathroom. He grabs a towel and dries off most of his pale naked body. Was he loosing color? In a low and raspy voice he mutters, "I need to get out more." He finishes drying his body but neglects his dark hair. He sits on the edge of his bed putting his clothes on slowly. He places each item onto his body with such care as if it is an art to put on clothing. By now his hair has self dried and falls where it pleases. He puts on red pants, a large white belt, and a fitting red t shirt. He adds a red and white jacket and a matching bandana around his neck. He slowly puts on matching boots before looking in the mirror. "Hello. Link.” he says to man in the mirror before darting out of the door.
He finds himself walking in a cool yet quizzical manner inside of a nearby bank. He plays with a toothpick in his mouth as he grins, surveying the people in the bank. There is a very beautiful teller. She is dressed like an innocent student from the country rather than a big city banker. Her hair falls down to her shoulders and behind her back with a deep amber tone. Her eyes light up the darkest soul like headlights on forest road. She wears a headband that keeps her hair neat, a white dress shirt and a black sweater that covers it. He yearns for her. She is soft and polite and he imagines the kind of person she is and the kind of life they could have together. The security guard steps out to go across the street for a sandwich, like he always does. Right on time. He pulls the red bandana up over his face and without hesitation he flings his jacket back and pulls two mini cannons from holsters like an old cowboy. He walks forward confidently as the guns point in opposite directions all while keeping eye contact with the beautiful teller. He speaks with the toothpick rattling around in his mouth.
"Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt."
He slowly keeps walking toward the beautiful teller, his eyes fixed on her position. It makes her uncomfortable to the point she breaks character, "what do you want?"
"You know what I want", he says.
Quickly she and the other tellers begin collecting money and putting them in bags. The customers, and other bankers are on the floor tears in their eyes or trying not to look at this vigilante in the face.
"C'mon forward", he whispers, still watching the beautiful teller.
She brings the bags of cash and sets them right by his feet and starts to back away.
"Where are you going, sweetie pie?"
"I..."
Before she can answer, the interchange is interrupted by... "FREEZE!" The security guard, returned with his own cannon in hand pointed at the masked thief. With his back to the security guard still watching the beautiful teller tremble in fear, he winks at her and whispers, "Don't be alarmed chere." In a motion that seems innate in all humans he spins one hundred eighty degrees around and blows the security guard away. He grabs one bag, says "the rest are for you, whether you like it or not." He shoots out the window and flips his guns back into their proper resting place. ", and runs out and through the shattered glass.
The beautiful teller is left crying and scared as she drops to her knees.
As he makes it out and around his corner he throws away his jacket and his bandanna, and tries to blend in with the crowd. He pulls out a read umbrella and walks down the street holding that and the bag of money. He stops and looks up at a large window and gazes at the reflection in the mirror. It startles him for a moment, but then he keeps on moving walking away, getting away with his crimes.
As he makes it out and around his corner he throws away his jacket and his bandanna, and tries to blend in with the crowd. He pulls out a read umbrella and walks down the street holding that and the bag of money. He stops and looks up at a large window and gazes at the reflection in the mirror. It startles him for a moment, but then he keeps on moving walking away, getting away with his crimes.
Fades.
Link: I smell like shit, I feel like shit. And my head is too clouded to talk about a piece of shit like the one I'm facing tomorrow. There are so many things going on that I can't rightly explain. How am I supposed to talk about my opponent. He finds himself to be a saint and a savior. He is so full of himself and won't stop talking about himself that I feel like he does all the trash talking I need to do for me. He doesn't even realize that his own words betray him. I WILL not utter his name tonight. In fact, I don't want to spend any time talking about him, because he isn't worth my time. I've fought many people and he is no different than them. You strip away the lights and colors from Las Vegas and you've got a shithole desert wasteland. You take the same principle and apply it to my opponent this week and you come to the same conclusion. I don't know what the hell is going on, but I'm going to figure it out. Everyone knows I'm a talker. I could go on and on for hours about why my opponent doesn't amount to anything, why his "doomsday clock" is set to five minutes till midnight. Yes, a watchmen reference. I could go on and on about how he is only delaying destiny. He will be losing his title at Rasslemania. Level Five has a large erection and no one can stop it. But I understand him and once he wins that title, his streak, and his skills will fall flaccid, at which point I will have my sweet revenge and take what I have sought to own.
Link: Obviously my opponent doesn't listen to the others that have fallen before him. Yes. I haven't been in the spotlight. YES, my name hasn't been talked about in the halls and backstage and in newspapers, but what you seem to have not realized, just like those that came before you, I have NEVER been in this for glory. I am trying to prove a point. Hearing you talk about me proved to me that you don't know jack shit about me. It proves that you are even more self absorbed than I thought. I get the feeling you don't even write your own promos anymore. Or if you do you've got them all pre planned, and you just insert your opponents name where it fits. How you've come this far escapes me. Ugh. I don't even know why I'm talking anymore. Why I'm even trying. So many more important things to deal with...to figure out.
Link: I don't know what the hell is going on.
Link looks over to the corner of his apartment and sees a pile of red and white clothes and a bag of money.
Fades
