Post by Jack Slade on Oct 4, 2013 13:21:26 GMT -4
"I am alone. In this world I am alone."
A man sitting alone in a barn. There is nothing special about this barn, really. If anything it's sort of drab. Paint cracks sporadically, falling and mixing with the hay below. In the center of the barn, between the rotting columns, sits a young man on a small stool. A cigarette hangs loosely from his full lips, smoke billowing into the night air. The only light comes from a shard of fragmented moonlight busting through the open barn window and the occasional shine from his cigarette there as he inhales deeply.
His shirt is off revealing various tattoos. Some are expertly crafted like a fine piece of art- some obviously done in single line by the skilled hands of a jailhouse artist. The unexpected October heat wave has the man sweating slightly, a thin layer of perspiration that gleams across his chiseled frame in the moon's illumination.
"It was in this barn that I first learned my nature."
The man stands up and stretches his long arms toward the sky. He's not very tall, but built like Achilles.
"The Scorpion and the Frog. My dad always used to relate the story to me. He'd say boy, you ain't no good. You're a scorpion. I never held much weight with what the old bastard said, but the older I get the smarter he seems to be."
A shot of the man's face falls into view. He's handsome, lean lines and a freshly shaven face. The cigarette gives his debonaire good looks a sinister edge as it glows orange while he inhales deeply. He blows the smoke out through his nostrils before turning away from the camera.
"There was a scorpion and a frog sitting by a lake bed. The scorpion wanted to cross, but he obviously couldn't because he's a scorpion. So he approaches the frog and asks for a ride. The frog, already fearing for his life being within the proximity of such a dangerous creature, kindly tells the scorpion where to put it. But the scorpion is smart. He's sly. He explains that it would make no sense for him to harm the frog as he would then drown, too. Why put his own like in jeopardy?"
The cigarette falls from the man's lips and bursts into an array of sparks as he snuffs it out with a python skinned cowboy boot.
"The frog relents, allowing the scorpion on his back. Everyone is happy as they begin to cross the river. The frog truly believes he's safe and breathes a sigh of relief just as the scorpion penetrates the poor frog's back with his fucking stinger. What the hell, the frog asks? Now we will both surely parish the frog cries as the pain jettisons through his body like a thousand daggers stabbing him all over his now broken body. I'm sorry, replies the scorpion as the two of them begin to sink into the water, it's just in my nature."
"I am Jack Slade and violence is my nature. Anyone who stands in my way will be dismantled like a forgotten home and thrown by the wayside. Since I was eighteen I've been fighting. Right here, in this barn, I had my first professional fight and I didn't even wear tights. No, this was a blood sport. A dog fight. Pitted against another man like two wild animals, left to punch and kick and bite and tear until one man just could not get up. So I ask, APW, what do any of you have to stop that? I was born and bred to do this."
Slade points to a singular column with much passion.
"That is the post. That's the one that I laid my Ian Creasy's head into fifteen times. They pulled me off or it would've been sixteen. And when I stood up, covered with my blood and his, I knew that this was what I was destined to do. Who here has felt a man's skull crack below the force of his bare hands? What does anyone in the rosters know about how much force it takes to rip another man's ear from his head? Maybe, just maybe there's one here."
The flick of a lighter and a flashing spark of a flame. Slade lights another cigarette, breathing in the fumes deeply before speaking again.
"So who here is that one? The one that can go the distance with me. I came here for greatness and only greatness will do. In sixteen years of fighting I've yet to find the one man that can give me that perfect fight. They call me an adrenaline junky. I guess they're right."
"APW, welcome to the Year of the Scorpion."
The camera fades to black.
A man sitting alone in a barn. There is nothing special about this barn, really. If anything it's sort of drab. Paint cracks sporadically, falling and mixing with the hay below. In the center of the barn, between the rotting columns, sits a young man on a small stool. A cigarette hangs loosely from his full lips, smoke billowing into the night air. The only light comes from a shard of fragmented moonlight busting through the open barn window and the occasional shine from his cigarette there as he inhales deeply.
His shirt is off revealing various tattoos. Some are expertly crafted like a fine piece of art- some obviously done in single line by the skilled hands of a jailhouse artist. The unexpected October heat wave has the man sweating slightly, a thin layer of perspiration that gleams across his chiseled frame in the moon's illumination.
"It was in this barn that I first learned my nature."
The man stands up and stretches his long arms toward the sky. He's not very tall, but built like Achilles.
"The Scorpion and the Frog. My dad always used to relate the story to me. He'd say boy, you ain't no good. You're a scorpion. I never held much weight with what the old bastard said, but the older I get the smarter he seems to be."
A shot of the man's face falls into view. He's handsome, lean lines and a freshly shaven face. The cigarette gives his debonaire good looks a sinister edge as it glows orange while he inhales deeply. He blows the smoke out through his nostrils before turning away from the camera.
"There was a scorpion and a frog sitting by a lake bed. The scorpion wanted to cross, but he obviously couldn't because he's a scorpion. So he approaches the frog and asks for a ride. The frog, already fearing for his life being within the proximity of such a dangerous creature, kindly tells the scorpion where to put it. But the scorpion is smart. He's sly. He explains that it would make no sense for him to harm the frog as he would then drown, too. Why put his own like in jeopardy?"
The cigarette falls from the man's lips and bursts into an array of sparks as he snuffs it out with a python skinned cowboy boot.
"The frog relents, allowing the scorpion on his back. Everyone is happy as they begin to cross the river. The frog truly believes he's safe and breathes a sigh of relief just as the scorpion penetrates the poor frog's back with his fucking stinger. What the hell, the frog asks? Now we will both surely parish the frog cries as the pain jettisons through his body like a thousand daggers stabbing him all over his now broken body. I'm sorry, replies the scorpion as the two of them begin to sink into the water, it's just in my nature."
"I am Jack Slade and violence is my nature. Anyone who stands in my way will be dismantled like a forgotten home and thrown by the wayside. Since I was eighteen I've been fighting. Right here, in this barn, I had my first professional fight and I didn't even wear tights. No, this was a blood sport. A dog fight. Pitted against another man like two wild animals, left to punch and kick and bite and tear until one man just could not get up. So I ask, APW, what do any of you have to stop that? I was born and bred to do this."
Slade points to a singular column with much passion.
"That is the post. That's the one that I laid my Ian Creasy's head into fifteen times. They pulled me off or it would've been sixteen. And when I stood up, covered with my blood and his, I knew that this was what I was destined to do. Who here has felt a man's skull crack below the force of his bare hands? What does anyone in the rosters know about how much force it takes to rip another man's ear from his head? Maybe, just maybe there's one here."
The flick of a lighter and a flashing spark of a flame. Slade lights another cigarette, breathing in the fumes deeply before speaking again.
"So who here is that one? The one that can go the distance with me. I came here for greatness and only greatness will do. In sixteen years of fighting I've yet to find the one man that can give me that perfect fight. They call me an adrenaline junky. I guess they're right."
"APW, welcome to the Year of the Scorpion."
The camera fades to black.
FIN
OOC: My apologies to Fev, I read your shit after writing this. Don't think I'm jocking your style!
