Post by danteblack on Nov 13, 2007 16:11:08 GMT -5
Well here’s my RP. It’s a bit shorter than I would have liked, but I was happy with the ending and wanted to keep it as it was. I’m still toying with RP ideas, but I think this is a fairly good start. Enjoy.
Tears of rain paint the car’s windscreen a murky hue, the dense blades falling from the shadowy abyss above allow only pincer snips of the road ahead. It’s dark, and even the full moon’s glow is plagued by strips of billowed cloud sailing below it. The only light; unwelcome blasts of thunder tearing through the distant night, landing far beyond the realms of sight. A crash is painfully imminent, but Dante doesn’t realise this.
Dante is currently, not awake.
The bleak desert highway’s orchestra of crashing rain and fleeting lightning is now accompanied by a more percussive sound. Steel on steel. Car on car. Dante’s head smashing through his windscreen at 70 miles per hour as his frail body is tossed out into the Nevada night. His mortality hangs by a plughole chain, dangling unconsciously. Some people might have considered it mercy for him to die that night, alone splayed angel-wings like a bloody deer in the headlights of his own wrecked car. Some people, ultimately, do not matter. Because even after all he had been through, mercy decided he hadn’t had enough.
Decided that there was still so much more he had left to lose.
Ten years pass like ambulance sirens, and it’s a much different scene. Scratch the desert highway, that’s the past. A distant past. That’s his past. His heroin nightmare, which likes to crawl out from underneath his bed at times like these, catching him in that chemically perfected strangle hold he doubts anybody in the business could escape. It’s tap or die, because those memories are yesterday’s fix still running molten down your throat.
He catches a rope break.
Lucky really, because he needs this time like the blood in his veins. Ten years can change a man, Dante found a new fix; he found wrestling. No one’s ever beaten him in a fair contest, because contrary to what the fans like to believe, to what the other superstars like to believe, wrestling isn’t about how much you bench. It isn’t about your million dollar personal trainer. It sure as hell isn’t about your new fad diet plan, tried and tested by… whoever.
It’s the animal you’ve got caged in your gut.
That vicious little metaphor for all the pain you’ve endured, all the trials you’ve overcome, all the bastards you’ve had to pin in those run down dives to get to this moment, because this moment is your life, this moment is everything. Because to Dante, Scars and Stripes is more than a battle royal, it’s more than a guaranteed title shot at SuperBrawl.
To Dante it’s destiny.
But right now destiny’s taking a back seat as he makes a U-turn down memory lane. There he is, standing alone in a grimy worn out Las Vegas back-alley, flecks of rain like sparks searing down beneath the pools of orange lamp-light, torn up art deco furniture lining the sides of the alley like haggard spectators, soaked and stained, looking like neglected reflection of their past. It’s sad to see things outlive their purpose, even sofas.
His knuckles slam upon the steel door before him, corroded and intimidating in its stature; it looks like a welcome worthy of a giant. His heart skips a beat as he swears he hears someone scream from inside. Nasty habit anyway. A second time and now his heart’s really going. A third time and he’s about two beats off a heart attack. Suddenly the rusted peep-hole slips aside to reveal two watery eyes staring out into the humid Las Vegas night. “Hey Chuck.”
Now Dante’s heart isn’t the only one racing.
Tears of rain paint the car’s windscreen a murky hue, the dense blades falling from the shadowy abyss above allow only pincer snips of the road ahead. It’s dark, and even the full moon’s glow is plagued by strips of billowed cloud sailing below it. The only light; unwelcome blasts of thunder tearing through the distant night, landing far beyond the realms of sight. A crash is painfully imminent, but Dante doesn’t realise this.
Dante is currently, not awake.
The bleak desert highway’s orchestra of crashing rain and fleeting lightning is now accompanied by a more percussive sound. Steel on steel. Car on car. Dante’s head smashing through his windscreen at 70 miles per hour as his frail body is tossed out into the Nevada night. His mortality hangs by a plughole chain, dangling unconsciously. Some people might have considered it mercy for him to die that night, alone splayed angel-wings like a bloody deer in the headlights of his own wrecked car. Some people, ultimately, do not matter. Because even after all he had been through, mercy decided he hadn’t had enough.
Decided that there was still so much more he had left to lose.
Ten years pass like ambulance sirens, and it’s a much different scene. Scratch the desert highway, that’s the past. A distant past. That’s his past. His heroin nightmare, which likes to crawl out from underneath his bed at times like these, catching him in that chemically perfected strangle hold he doubts anybody in the business could escape. It’s tap or die, because those memories are yesterday’s fix still running molten down your throat.
He catches a rope break.
Lucky really, because he needs this time like the blood in his veins. Ten years can change a man, Dante found a new fix; he found wrestling. No one’s ever beaten him in a fair contest, because contrary to what the fans like to believe, to what the other superstars like to believe, wrestling isn’t about how much you bench. It isn’t about your million dollar personal trainer. It sure as hell isn’t about your new fad diet plan, tried and tested by… whoever.
It’s the animal you’ve got caged in your gut.
That vicious little metaphor for all the pain you’ve endured, all the trials you’ve overcome, all the bastards you’ve had to pin in those run down dives to get to this moment, because this moment is your life, this moment is everything. Because to Dante, Scars and Stripes is more than a battle royal, it’s more than a guaranteed title shot at SuperBrawl.
To Dante it’s destiny.
But right now destiny’s taking a back seat as he makes a U-turn down memory lane. There he is, standing alone in a grimy worn out Las Vegas back-alley, flecks of rain like sparks searing down beneath the pools of orange lamp-light, torn up art deco furniture lining the sides of the alley like haggard spectators, soaked and stained, looking like neglected reflection of their past. It’s sad to see things outlive their purpose, even sofas.
His knuckles slam upon the steel door before him, corroded and intimidating in its stature; it looks like a welcome worthy of a giant. His heart skips a beat as he swears he hears someone scream from inside. Nasty habit anyway. A second time and now his heart’s really going. A third time and he’s about two beats off a heart attack. Suddenly the rusted peep-hole slips aside to reveal two watery eyes staring out into the humid Las Vegas night. “Hey Chuck.”
Now Dante’s heart isn’t the only one racing.
