Post by sampsoncyprus on May 20, 2013 6:00:07 GMT -4
*The scene opens in a courtyard. There is a greenish tint to the air cast from alternating slats of opaque siding purposed as a low cost roof. Water will be dripping through it’s cracks soon. The sound of rain can be heard pattering on the sheeting and nearby on fine tin roofs. The rain is heavy and welcome. Little puffs of dust rise from the ground around fat drops falling to earth. Looking through the shades, the sun can be seen set high in a cloudless sky.
In the courtyard are a few tables. Girls, chubby, skinny, old and young laze about the courtyard fanning themselves. In a corner set at a table are the only men. One sits high, a soft cotton shirt pulled tight over proud shoulders, face surrounded by a shock of white hair. Sampson is as he always is: relaxed at thee table, a tall glass full of a clear liquid, ice and mint sits in front of him. Across, an older gentleman in a linen suit relaxes, legs crossed politely. His face is deeply tanned and has serious features. A five o’clock shadow adorns what remains of a strong jaw. Even in the rain, both men sweat visibly.*
Sampson: Thank you for allowing me to pass the night here Mr. Sanchez.
*The man takes a drag from a rough rolled cigarillo and responds casually.*
Fabian: Please, call me Fabian. Truly, it is my pleasure to have you here as a guest. I have a great appreciation for fighters. There is a beautiful tragedy to your existences.
*Sampson takes a sip from his drink and smiles.*
Sampson: Tragedy is probably the right word for it. We do our best to deny it but we do what we do because we think people should be watching us. Every one of us comes into this business addicted to attention; strutting like peacocks.
* His companion smiles as well, smoke drifting from his lip.*
Fabian: Men come into my profession in the same way, and with similar reasoning. Most are gone long before they begin to question what brought them here.
Sampson: But not you.
Fabian: And not you. Most men quit your job long before having a chance to turn an eye inward.
*A snort*
Sampson: I turn a bottle upward. At my age, it makes for the same effect.
*The men share a short laugh. Sampson shifts uncomfortably on his chair, grimacing. Fabian looks amused.*
Fabian: Your knee? It hurts you?
Sampson: Don’t pity me.
Fabian: How could I pity your glorious war wounds? Most scars and injuries seem to come from honorless conflicts over women and drugs in this day.
*The tone is mostly sarcastic until this point. Now, Sampson becomes serious.*
Sampson: This-
*He motions to his knee and spits to the side*
Sampson:-Was not obtained gloriously. That helmet Jace Savage hit me with the nancy baton from his night-time security job.
*He lights a cigarette as Fabian clucks his tongue.*
Fabian: Yes, I saw. How did he take you unaware?
*Sampson exhales, annoyed.*
Sampson: If you must know: he took me coming out of the shitter, nine beers deep on my night off.
Fabian: Excuses...
Sampson: I would have been just as happy not talking about it. That kid’s doing something different ever since his dad showed up. He’s much angrier. And retard strong. I’m pretty sure the old man has him on performance enhancing drugs. That’s a typical ‘throw money at it’ solution for the problem he has in that boy, yeah?
*He takes a long gulp from his glass and lets out a satisfied sound.*
Sampson: Honestly though, a ton of stuff just started making sense to me. This kid has had someone buying his way through life, completely unbeknownst to him, since he was seven years old. How can Jason be surprised that his housekeepers have raised an idiot if the kid never had to learn to read?
Fabian: You’re exaggerating.
Sampson: I am not. If this thing is true, which I wouldn’t put past the elder Savage, Jace has never worked for anything and has accomplished absolutely nothing. He has been running on a hamster wheel since he was a small boy. Talk about tragedies? Jace is a tragedy. A manchild lost in the immense skirt of his mami.
*Fabian sits back with a sly smile.*
Fabian: I don’t know if I buy it, in honesty. It would be an enormous advantage to have your enemies think you are that stupid and oblivious. It may be an act.
*Sampson nods, appreciative of the argument. He takes a drag from his cigarette as he mulls the idea over.*
Sampson: The whole thing has been very reality tv. I mean, this guy Jason is a high power businessman AND a small time hustler? Sending his son on low life collection jobs while he bitches about his son not making anything of himself? Bullshit. This is more throwing money at the problem. Trying to drum up some cheap exposure for the kid. Its a media man trick, I suppose. Same thing with my knee. That didn’t have anything to do with me. That was Jace begging the business for respect.
Fabian: Will he get it?
Sampson: Not at my expense. He thought brutality would be the way to differentiate himself, and in most fights it would. But not a fight with me. I enjoy the fighting. The brutality of our sport is what drew me. I knew that people would want to watch me hurt men like Jace from the time I was very young.
Fabian: But what of your knee?
Sampson: It won’t stop me. It will slow me down. I am going to have to hurt him early on in the fight to have a chance of winning. In the worst case I’ll lose the match and do damage enough to him that he takes some time to think about what drew him. We’ve fought before and each time I’ve left him with something to think about. This won’t be much different.
*The scene fades*
In the courtyard are a few tables. Girls, chubby, skinny, old and young laze about the courtyard fanning themselves. In a corner set at a table are the only men. One sits high, a soft cotton shirt pulled tight over proud shoulders, face surrounded by a shock of white hair. Sampson is as he always is: relaxed at thee table, a tall glass full of a clear liquid, ice and mint sits in front of him. Across, an older gentleman in a linen suit relaxes, legs crossed politely. His face is deeply tanned and has serious features. A five o’clock shadow adorns what remains of a strong jaw. Even in the rain, both men sweat visibly.*
Sampson: Thank you for allowing me to pass the night here Mr. Sanchez.
*The man takes a drag from a rough rolled cigarillo and responds casually.*
Fabian: Please, call me Fabian. Truly, it is my pleasure to have you here as a guest. I have a great appreciation for fighters. There is a beautiful tragedy to your existences.
*Sampson takes a sip from his drink and smiles.*
Sampson: Tragedy is probably the right word for it. We do our best to deny it but we do what we do because we think people should be watching us. Every one of us comes into this business addicted to attention; strutting like peacocks.
* His companion smiles as well, smoke drifting from his lip.*
Fabian: Men come into my profession in the same way, and with similar reasoning. Most are gone long before they begin to question what brought them here.
Sampson: But not you.
Fabian: And not you. Most men quit your job long before having a chance to turn an eye inward.
*A snort*
Sampson: I turn a bottle upward. At my age, it makes for the same effect.
*The men share a short laugh. Sampson shifts uncomfortably on his chair, grimacing. Fabian looks amused.*
Fabian: Your knee? It hurts you?
Sampson: Don’t pity me.
Fabian: How could I pity your glorious war wounds? Most scars and injuries seem to come from honorless conflicts over women and drugs in this day.
*The tone is mostly sarcastic until this point. Now, Sampson becomes serious.*
Sampson: This-
*He motions to his knee and spits to the side*
Sampson:-Was not obtained gloriously. That helmet Jace Savage hit me with the nancy baton from his night-time security job.
*He lights a cigarette as Fabian clucks his tongue.*
Fabian: Yes, I saw. How did he take you unaware?
*Sampson exhales, annoyed.*
Sampson: If you must know: he took me coming out of the shitter, nine beers deep on my night off.
Fabian: Excuses...
Sampson: I would have been just as happy not talking about it. That kid’s doing something different ever since his dad showed up. He’s much angrier. And retard strong. I’m pretty sure the old man has him on performance enhancing drugs. That’s a typical ‘throw money at it’ solution for the problem he has in that boy, yeah?
*He takes a long gulp from his glass and lets out a satisfied sound.*
Sampson: Honestly though, a ton of stuff just started making sense to me. This kid has had someone buying his way through life, completely unbeknownst to him, since he was seven years old. How can Jason be surprised that his housekeepers have raised an idiot if the kid never had to learn to read?
Fabian: You’re exaggerating.
Sampson: I am not. If this thing is true, which I wouldn’t put past the elder Savage, Jace has never worked for anything and has accomplished absolutely nothing. He has been running on a hamster wheel since he was a small boy. Talk about tragedies? Jace is a tragedy. A manchild lost in the immense skirt of his mami.
*Fabian sits back with a sly smile.*
Fabian: I don’t know if I buy it, in honesty. It would be an enormous advantage to have your enemies think you are that stupid and oblivious. It may be an act.
*Sampson nods, appreciative of the argument. He takes a drag from his cigarette as he mulls the idea over.*
Sampson: The whole thing has been very reality tv. I mean, this guy Jason is a high power businessman AND a small time hustler? Sending his son on low life collection jobs while he bitches about his son not making anything of himself? Bullshit. This is more throwing money at the problem. Trying to drum up some cheap exposure for the kid. Its a media man trick, I suppose. Same thing with my knee. That didn’t have anything to do with me. That was Jace begging the business for respect.
Fabian: Will he get it?
Sampson: Not at my expense. He thought brutality would be the way to differentiate himself, and in most fights it would. But not a fight with me. I enjoy the fighting. The brutality of our sport is what drew me. I knew that people would want to watch me hurt men like Jace from the time I was very young.
Fabian: But what of your knee?
Sampson: It won’t stop me. It will slow me down. I am going to have to hurt him early on in the fight to have a chance of winning. In the worst case I’ll lose the match and do damage enough to him that he takes some time to think about what drew him. We’ve fought before and each time I’ve left him with something to think about. This won’t be much different.
*The scene fades*
