Post by dannyvice on Dec 12, 2006 19:43:24 GMT -5
The scene opens as the camera fades in. The setting is a dark, old, abandoned industrial wherehouse. Most of the windows have been knocked out and are boarded up. The few remaining create a constant glow of pale sunlight, caused by the inch thick dust upon the glass. The floor is masked by sawdust; only several places remain barren and expose the old oak flooring. Cobwebs dangle from the second and third floor, growing at an unparalleled rate. Despite its somewhat poor shape, a certain sense of majesty can be felt. The raised ceilings and thick concrete walls give it a sense of class, that great things once took place within these walls, and could conceivably take place their once again.
A clicking sound is heard, and directly in the center of the room, on top of three wooden crates, sits a figure. A single light bulb hangs on a long power cable from the ceiling just inches away from his mohawked skull. A long metallic cord drapes next to it, presumably the switch which caused the clicking sound, and thus, the light to turn on. The figures head is down with his hands clasped in front. He wears a long silver and red fur coat one would likely see on a 1950’s debutante and black wrestling tights. Red lettering runs along the sides, but the words cannot be comprehended from the current camera angle.
The man slowly lifts his head, his eyes surrounded by two thick black crosses, lips painted black; face glimmering with multiple piercings that create sparks of glare off the sole light with every slight movement of his head. The camera zooms until his foot-long blonde mohawk can no longer be seen. His breathing is calm; his eyes solemn.
Danny Vice: The WFWF has changed. It has become a wasteland. Polluted by its very own children that struggled and strived to build it. Now, those very children have turned their backs on the very essence of this once proud federation, and been tainted and tarnished by contempt and greed. No longer do the lost ones strive for physical, athletic, intellectual, and inspirational perfection, but instead for their own power, wealth, and fanaticism.
Danny rubs his brow and shakes his head, knowing that the WFWF will take time to correct and reshape. Chris Hammers is a small peice of a much larger puzzle.
Danny Vice: Take for instance The Vagrant’s first opponent here in the WFWF, Chris Hammers. “Irish Doomsday” as he so calls himself, Hammers turned his back on his own childhood hometown. Rather than recommit himself to rebuilding what was so important to him, he abandoned it for greener pastures in the form of green paper. And of course, rather than prove his abilities and innovative skills, Hammers rather talked about them. Was The Vagrant the only one who also saw the 20 foot ladder and wrestling ring Hammers claims he purchased? And was The Vagrant also the only one who saw Hammers run his mouth as if he had earned the right to, rather than acting.
Danny scoffs at the mere thought of Hammers, disgusted that the WFWF match him with such a disgrace. Yet, he's eager to prove his point immediately.
Danny Vice: The Vagrant hails from San Diego, California. Before being orphaned, he and his younger siblings grew up in a broken and abusive home. The Vagrant grew up moving from town to town, shelter to shelter, overcoming odds unimaginable to simple men like Chris Hammers. The Vagrant did not have a childhood talking about pain and agony; The Vagrant’s childhood was pain and agony. However, he need not talk and talk about it, as there is no time for introductions and pleasantries. The WFWF has welcomed in a force they failed to properly estimate. The filth and poison of the WFWF will be eradicated and exterminated, so it may return its purer and proper form. And there’s nothing Chris Hammers can do about it.
Danny Vice grabs the light bulb with his right hand and crushes it, an action with a profound two-fold affect. The room darkens once again to the hazed glow of before, and Danny Vice’s hand begins to drip with blood from the shards of glass which pierce his palm. He tosses the glass aside, brushes away the sawdust on a spot on the ground, and begins to write in his own blood. The camera zooms in to see the words written in blood: THE VAGRANT!
The camera slowly fades out...
A clicking sound is heard, and directly in the center of the room, on top of three wooden crates, sits a figure. A single light bulb hangs on a long power cable from the ceiling just inches away from his mohawked skull. A long metallic cord drapes next to it, presumably the switch which caused the clicking sound, and thus, the light to turn on. The figures head is down with his hands clasped in front. He wears a long silver and red fur coat one would likely see on a 1950’s debutante and black wrestling tights. Red lettering runs along the sides, but the words cannot be comprehended from the current camera angle.
The man slowly lifts his head, his eyes surrounded by two thick black crosses, lips painted black; face glimmering with multiple piercings that create sparks of glare off the sole light with every slight movement of his head. The camera zooms until his foot-long blonde mohawk can no longer be seen. His breathing is calm; his eyes solemn.
Danny Vice: The WFWF has changed. It has become a wasteland. Polluted by its very own children that struggled and strived to build it. Now, those very children have turned their backs on the very essence of this once proud federation, and been tainted and tarnished by contempt and greed. No longer do the lost ones strive for physical, athletic, intellectual, and inspirational perfection, but instead for their own power, wealth, and fanaticism.
Danny rubs his brow and shakes his head, knowing that the WFWF will take time to correct and reshape. Chris Hammers is a small peice of a much larger puzzle.
Danny Vice: Take for instance The Vagrant’s first opponent here in the WFWF, Chris Hammers. “Irish Doomsday” as he so calls himself, Hammers turned his back on his own childhood hometown. Rather than recommit himself to rebuilding what was so important to him, he abandoned it for greener pastures in the form of green paper. And of course, rather than prove his abilities and innovative skills, Hammers rather talked about them. Was The Vagrant the only one who also saw the 20 foot ladder and wrestling ring Hammers claims he purchased? And was The Vagrant also the only one who saw Hammers run his mouth as if he had earned the right to, rather than acting.
Danny scoffs at the mere thought of Hammers, disgusted that the WFWF match him with such a disgrace. Yet, he's eager to prove his point immediately.
Danny Vice: The Vagrant hails from San Diego, California. Before being orphaned, he and his younger siblings grew up in a broken and abusive home. The Vagrant grew up moving from town to town, shelter to shelter, overcoming odds unimaginable to simple men like Chris Hammers. The Vagrant did not have a childhood talking about pain and agony; The Vagrant’s childhood was pain and agony. However, he need not talk and talk about it, as there is no time for introductions and pleasantries. The WFWF has welcomed in a force they failed to properly estimate. The filth and poison of the WFWF will be eradicated and exterminated, so it may return its purer and proper form. And there’s nothing Chris Hammers can do about it.
Danny Vice grabs the light bulb with his right hand and crushes it, an action with a profound two-fold affect. The room darkens once again to the hazed glow of before, and Danny Vice’s hand begins to drip with blood from the shards of glass which pierce his palm. He tosses the glass aside, brushes away the sawdust on a spot on the ground, and begins to write in his own blood. The camera zooms in to see the words written in blood: THE VAGRANT!
The camera slowly fades out...
