Post by Kurt Burton: Script Doctor! on Apr 16, 2007 18:30:23 GMT -5
The sweat flows heavily from the brow. The repeated thud of his leg smashing into the heavy weight bag is silenced in amongst the clank of the various exercise machines. Kurt’s form is sloppy, but the undeniable power of his left leg is apparent as he does repeated high kicks. However, when he feels like his leg is about to fall off, he turns to the man at his side, a lanky man with surprisingly toned muscle and long red hair.
Kurt: How many more times do I have to kick this?
Jimi: Until you kick it right.
Kurt grunts in disapproval
Kurt: Can I at least switch to the other leg? I’m starting to cramp up.
Jimi: The simpler road is the road of least fuition.
Kurt: What the hell does that mean?
Jimi: If I have to explain my cryptic answers, then they won’t be very interesting will they.
Kurt picks up his kicking. Aiming his boot near the top of the blue sandbag, shifting its weight so that it teeters slightly with each kick.
Kurt: You know, I don’t understand why I have to perfect this kick by the end of our session. I am only facing the High Horror and Josh Dean. Shouldn’t I be saving this for Yukio?
Jimi: You whine like a mule. If you spent nearly that amount of energy on your competition, you’d be World champ by now.
Kurt returns to his training. The old musty gym was his kind of place. He had always been attracted to filth. But this gym was special. He had a free lifetime membership, due to the fact he was dating the owners sister. And there He stood, Jimi Hamilton.
Kurt did well to listen to Jimi during these little sessions. The man had third degree black belts in four different forms of Martial Arts, and was considered a Master in the discipline of Brazilian Ju-jitsue. He had competed for a while in the MMA scene, but he could never make it to Pride or UFC, due to his incredible levels of THC flowing through his veins. One could say, there were nearly as many buds in his system as blood cells. While thinking of these things, Jimi yells to him.
Jimi: Congratulations.
Kurt stops. He looks at Jimi.
Kurt: Did I get it?
Jimi: No. You just did exactly 1000 crappy kicks in a row.
Kurt slumps down onto the mat. It doesn’t provide much different of a sensation than the floor. He lays down for a second and stretches his leg out. He views the boxing ring. Two featherweights, a white guy and a Latino, are having a sparring session, trading blows, and shuffling their feet all around the ring. Kurt laughs.
Kurt: That sport is week, a few punches here and there, but any dillhole can throw a punch. It takes a superbly conditioned athlete to compete in my business.
Jimi looks at him disapprovingly, shaking his head.
Jimi: Says the man whimpering about a few kicks.
Kurt: I have been kicking for the past fourty-five minutes straight, back off. You know, I don’t know why you’re pushing me so hard for such a rudimentary match. I mean, one of my opponents is the High Horror. He’s more like the High Whore, everyone in this company’s laid him on his back. I mean, for crap’s sake, the man has been in the House Show circuit since he debuted. I debuted and won a title. And his egotism, it drives me up the wall.
Jimi laughs condescendingly at Kurt.
Jimi: Sounds familiar.
Kurt: Hey, number one, I’m not as bad as he is, and two, I can back my claim up. I have been a champion twice, I have always been on the A-show, and I have gone toe to toe with the greatest in our company. Percy, Obo, Reverend Shadow, Calvin Lee. He has gone up against the turds of the House Show circuit, and managed a pretty crappy record at that. Me, I ruled this scene for months before getting my shoulders got pinned to the mat. And the guy, gets this, cut a promo in a castle. Sounds pretty Napoleonic to me. Delusions of Grandeur. But lets remember, that High Horror is the man who goes into people’s houses, dressed up like a repairman, and jacks them. Sounds real freaking grand to me. SO tell me… Why am I training this hard for such an incompetent turd. SHouldn’t I be focusing on Yukio?
Jimi walks away, as he leaves he has one word for Burton.
Jimi: Close your eyes.
Kurt does so, and waits patiently. He is immersed in the grunting and clashing sounds of the gym, the heavy moisture in the air from the sweat and poor plumbing. He begins to tap his foot, he’s getting feeling back. Finally, a hand grabs his arm.
Jimi: Stand up.
With Jimi’s help, Kurt rises to his feet with a grunt. Jimi turns him, and moves his head up with his hand.
Jimi: Open your eyes.
Kurt does as commanded, and he sees that his head is pointed towards the banner hanging from the ceiling at the gym’s door.
Jimi: See that banner?
Kurt: Yeah.
Jimi: I want you to walk over to the pipe next to the banner, climb it, and take down the banner; all the while never take your eyes off of that banner.
Kurt laughs at the simplicity of this challenge. He steps forward, and he hits a box, tripping, and falling flat on his face with a thud. Jimi cackles like a hyena, as Kurt rolls over, rubbing his jaw.
Kurt: Why the f*** did you do that?
Jimi: Because you can become dead focused on one thing and one thing alone, and lose sight of the obstacles standing in your path. The High Horror and Josh Dean are just that. Obstacles. And while they may not be impressve like Yukio, a loss to them could be devastating to your chances against Yukio.
Jimi extends his hand, and Kurt takes it and steps up.
Jimi: So, back to the bag.
Kurt groans as Jimi leads him back to the sandbag. Kurt resumes his stance, and once again, kicks the bag.
Message to Josh Dean:
Mr Dean, how are you after your defeat last week. My partner swings a pretty mean chair, huh? But enough about the past, we must deal with the present. I got your little message from last week, bringing up my ignorant and bigoted father. I see no reason to mend the bridges. There comes a point in everyone’s life where they must weigh the pain, and the pleasure. For me, the pain far outweighs the pleasure as it relates to that impotent old fart.
But why the interest, Mr Dean? Is it because of your parents, the white trash trailer park hicks who let you wind up with a nice little stay in juvie. Or is it because of the trainer that died in the seat right next to you. The man who raised you out of the gutter, and made you the man you are today. My words to you, forget about all three. Forget the parents, their just ignorant hicks, much like yourself. And forget… oh what is his name… Robbie. If that pathetic pedantic plebian could have seen the sorry sob you grew into, he would have offed himself from the shame.
See Josh, there’s a thing that is very important, that you must learn. And that is why I am a champion, and you are not. Were both of our lives difficult, yes they were. I will not challenge this fact. And who had it worse, who knows? Your car accident took away your surrogate father, mine took away my passion, my dreams, my life. But I used that pain, and I harnessed it. It became like throwing coal into a steam engine, the hotter I got, the more determined I became. And I rose above losing my first career as a musician, and became a man that many in this business look up to and admire. Just ask your house show buddy Spider.
ON the other hand, we have you Josh, a man who wallows in his past. Your past, your pain, is an anchor, dragging you deep into the ocean. Wasn’t it just last week you talked about waking up in the middle of the night, screaming and crying like a baby with a loadful in its diapers. Your loss does not make you weak, Dean, your inability to cope and rise above does.
I have risen above every adversity I have faced, be it the beatings of my Baptist preacher father, or the beatings that Rev, Obo, and the Annointed have given me in that ring, and I have used it as fuel to the fire, and I have put gold around my waist for the second time. But you Dean, well, I think it’s about that time in your career where you need to weigh the pain and the pleasure. And does the pleasure of competing in your little show of two-bit losers outweigh the pain that I will inflict on you come Felo-de-Se. It is a very important question, with an equally important answer.
Well Mr Dean, I bid you adieu, and good luck in your match against the Revolution, because you will need all the luck you can get.
Kurt: How many more times do I have to kick this?
Jimi: Until you kick it right.
Kurt grunts in disapproval
Kurt: Can I at least switch to the other leg? I’m starting to cramp up.
Jimi: The simpler road is the road of least fuition.
Kurt: What the hell does that mean?
Jimi: If I have to explain my cryptic answers, then they won’t be very interesting will they.
Kurt picks up his kicking. Aiming his boot near the top of the blue sandbag, shifting its weight so that it teeters slightly with each kick.
Kurt: You know, I don’t understand why I have to perfect this kick by the end of our session. I am only facing the High Horror and Josh Dean. Shouldn’t I be saving this for Yukio?
Jimi: You whine like a mule. If you spent nearly that amount of energy on your competition, you’d be World champ by now.
Kurt returns to his training. The old musty gym was his kind of place. He had always been attracted to filth. But this gym was special. He had a free lifetime membership, due to the fact he was dating the owners sister. And there He stood, Jimi Hamilton.
Kurt did well to listen to Jimi during these little sessions. The man had third degree black belts in four different forms of Martial Arts, and was considered a Master in the discipline of Brazilian Ju-jitsue. He had competed for a while in the MMA scene, but he could never make it to Pride or UFC, due to his incredible levels of THC flowing through his veins. One could say, there were nearly as many buds in his system as blood cells. While thinking of these things, Jimi yells to him.
Jimi: Congratulations.
Kurt stops. He looks at Jimi.
Kurt: Did I get it?
Jimi: No. You just did exactly 1000 crappy kicks in a row.
Kurt slumps down onto the mat. It doesn’t provide much different of a sensation than the floor. He lays down for a second and stretches his leg out. He views the boxing ring. Two featherweights, a white guy and a Latino, are having a sparring session, trading blows, and shuffling their feet all around the ring. Kurt laughs.
Kurt: That sport is week, a few punches here and there, but any dillhole can throw a punch. It takes a superbly conditioned athlete to compete in my business.
Jimi looks at him disapprovingly, shaking his head.
Jimi: Says the man whimpering about a few kicks.
Kurt: I have been kicking for the past fourty-five minutes straight, back off. You know, I don’t know why you’re pushing me so hard for such a rudimentary match. I mean, one of my opponents is the High Horror. He’s more like the High Whore, everyone in this company’s laid him on his back. I mean, for crap’s sake, the man has been in the House Show circuit since he debuted. I debuted and won a title. And his egotism, it drives me up the wall.
Jimi laughs condescendingly at Kurt.
Jimi: Sounds familiar.
Kurt: Hey, number one, I’m not as bad as he is, and two, I can back my claim up. I have been a champion twice, I have always been on the A-show, and I have gone toe to toe with the greatest in our company. Percy, Obo, Reverend Shadow, Calvin Lee. He has gone up against the turds of the House Show circuit, and managed a pretty crappy record at that. Me, I ruled this scene for months before getting my shoulders got pinned to the mat. And the guy, gets this, cut a promo in a castle. Sounds pretty Napoleonic to me. Delusions of Grandeur. But lets remember, that High Horror is the man who goes into people’s houses, dressed up like a repairman, and jacks them. Sounds real freaking grand to me. SO tell me… Why am I training this hard for such an incompetent turd. SHouldn’t I be focusing on Yukio?
Jimi walks away, as he leaves he has one word for Burton.
Jimi: Close your eyes.
Kurt does so, and waits patiently. He is immersed in the grunting and clashing sounds of the gym, the heavy moisture in the air from the sweat and poor plumbing. He begins to tap his foot, he’s getting feeling back. Finally, a hand grabs his arm.
Jimi: Stand up.
With Jimi’s help, Kurt rises to his feet with a grunt. Jimi turns him, and moves his head up with his hand.
Jimi: Open your eyes.
Kurt does as commanded, and he sees that his head is pointed towards the banner hanging from the ceiling at the gym’s door.
Jimi: See that banner?
Kurt: Yeah.
Jimi: I want you to walk over to the pipe next to the banner, climb it, and take down the banner; all the while never take your eyes off of that banner.
Kurt laughs at the simplicity of this challenge. He steps forward, and he hits a box, tripping, and falling flat on his face with a thud. Jimi cackles like a hyena, as Kurt rolls over, rubbing his jaw.
Kurt: Why the f*** did you do that?
Jimi: Because you can become dead focused on one thing and one thing alone, and lose sight of the obstacles standing in your path. The High Horror and Josh Dean are just that. Obstacles. And while they may not be impressve like Yukio, a loss to them could be devastating to your chances against Yukio.
Jimi extends his hand, and Kurt takes it and steps up.
Jimi: So, back to the bag.
Kurt groans as Jimi leads him back to the sandbag. Kurt resumes his stance, and once again, kicks the bag.
Message to Josh Dean:
Mr Dean, how are you after your defeat last week. My partner swings a pretty mean chair, huh? But enough about the past, we must deal with the present. I got your little message from last week, bringing up my ignorant and bigoted father. I see no reason to mend the bridges. There comes a point in everyone’s life where they must weigh the pain, and the pleasure. For me, the pain far outweighs the pleasure as it relates to that impotent old fart.
But why the interest, Mr Dean? Is it because of your parents, the white trash trailer park hicks who let you wind up with a nice little stay in juvie. Or is it because of the trainer that died in the seat right next to you. The man who raised you out of the gutter, and made you the man you are today. My words to you, forget about all three. Forget the parents, their just ignorant hicks, much like yourself. And forget… oh what is his name… Robbie. If that pathetic pedantic plebian could have seen the sorry sob you grew into, he would have offed himself from the shame.
See Josh, there’s a thing that is very important, that you must learn. And that is why I am a champion, and you are not. Were both of our lives difficult, yes they were. I will not challenge this fact. And who had it worse, who knows? Your car accident took away your surrogate father, mine took away my passion, my dreams, my life. But I used that pain, and I harnessed it. It became like throwing coal into a steam engine, the hotter I got, the more determined I became. And I rose above losing my first career as a musician, and became a man that many in this business look up to and admire. Just ask your house show buddy Spider.
ON the other hand, we have you Josh, a man who wallows in his past. Your past, your pain, is an anchor, dragging you deep into the ocean. Wasn’t it just last week you talked about waking up in the middle of the night, screaming and crying like a baby with a loadful in its diapers. Your loss does not make you weak, Dean, your inability to cope and rise above does.
I have risen above every adversity I have faced, be it the beatings of my Baptist preacher father, or the beatings that Rev, Obo, and the Annointed have given me in that ring, and I have used it as fuel to the fire, and I have put gold around my waist for the second time. But you Dean, well, I think it’s about that time in your career where you need to weigh the pain and the pleasure. And does the pleasure of competing in your little show of two-bit losers outweigh the pain that I will inflict on you come Felo-de-Se. It is a very important question, with an equally important answer.
Well Mr Dean, I bid you adieu, and good luck in your match against the Revolution, because you will need all the luck you can get.
