Post by Holden Ross on Jun 28, 2018 22:14:07 GMT -5
*A gun metal gray and black, custom "chopper" style bike, complete with ape hangers and a long front spoke, pulls to a stop in front of the "Shady Pine Motel" on the outskirts of the southern part of Greenville, South Carolina. The engine is from a sixty-six Harley "Shovelhead" and rumbles in idle briefly before the rider kills the engine. The rider climbs off of his bike and strolls into the small office.
The walls are hand treated pine, the two chairs in the lobby for customers, are hand made from pine. The counter top, pine. The old man, looking every bit the eighty-some odd years he has been on this spinning rock, approaches the counter with a whistle.*
Ol' Timer: You's a biggun ain't yuh?
*He grins, showing he only has about seven teeth left in his skull; all of his front teeth. They, themselves, are yellowed and chipped. His thin face is covered in a few days growth of white stubble. He looks frail and moves with the alacrity of a sloth, but his eyes show his mind is as sharp as a Ginsu. It's ability to saw through a piece of steel might not be on par with the "As seen on t.v." kitchen accessory but this old timer doesn't miss a thing.*
They grow em big where I come from....
*The old man gives a snort of a laugh before lighting an old, hand carved pipe in the shape of a toad. It could be made of pine as well....*
Ol' Timer: Uh-yuh! I see that. Where you be from, big fella?
San Luis Obispo.
*The old fella scowls in confusion.*
It's in California.
*The old man gives a whistle and bangs a closed fist on the counter top.*
Ol' Timer: Yer a long ways from home, boy! The Hell brings ya out here....'sides all them damned illegals?
Work. I just signed to Pure Class Wrestling barely a month ago.
*The old man's eyes narrow as he finally begins to view this stranger with suspicion.*
Ol' Timer: You ain't some queer playin grabass, are ya? I mean, rollin aroun' in a pair of tights with another man.... It ain't right....
*A grin plays at the corner of Holden's mouth. He digs into the right front pocket of his well worn, dark blue Levis "Silvertab's" and pulls out a "gangster roll" of cash nearly two inches thick. He removes the rubber band holding it together and opens the roll up to get to the smaller bills. In this case, he only has twenties, fifties, and hundreds. He counts out and hands the man three grand in twenties and fifties.*
Ol' Timer: I don't care if you got a husband and dance like that Mikey Jackson fruitcake....money talks. I'll give you our "Presidential Suite."
What's so Presidential about it?
Ol' Timer: Jimmy Carter once stayed here on a campaign trip through the south. That was the room he got....
*The old man gives Holden a look as if everyone know that while sliding a battered, yellowed book across the counter to his guest.*
Ol' Timer: Just sign there and fill in the info in the space next to where you sign. Yer in room number twelve. There's coffee here in the lobby, which is open twenty-four hours, all the time. Might not be fresh, or hot, but it's there. There's a Coke machine out there and a vending machine with some snacks. It also has some toiletries if ya need em.
There's also a diner up the road a couple miles. They have the best pie in three counties. What did'ja say yer name was again, bubba?
Holden Ross. I'll stay here a couple months probably before getting my own pad. Whats your name again?
*The old codger grins proudly.*
Ol' Timer: My ma named me Lester....but ev'rbody calls me "Les."
*They shake hands and Holden takes the worn key on a faded plastic keychain in the shape of a pine tree. You would assume a key chain, in the shape of a pine tree would be green. Not this puppy, it's a faded orange with a few gouges on one side.
Upon entering room twelve, the "Presidential Suite," it looks like any other room in the hotel aside from the autographed picture of Jimmy Carter attatched to the wall with a few screws drilled into the picture frame.
The television is a flat screen at least and the bed seems new. Other than that, this room looks like it stepped right out of the late sixties. He laughs to himself at the living arrangement he finds himself in; a small hotel room in some dive in a backwater South Carolina town....*
The following day.....
*The next morning Holden cruises through downtown Greenville on his bike. It turns heads of both young and old, male and female.....isn't that one of the pleasures of riding such a machine? He finally stops at a small, hole-in-the-wall diner, "Janines." A cute, petite blonde just this side of twenty serves him and when he leaves, he has a belly full of fine home cookin as well as her number in his phone.
Another short ride and he is parked on a bluff overlooking the town. When the camera opens on him his is standing next to his bike, the town in behind and below him. He is in baggy "Lucky" brand jeans, a white wife beater, and black engineer boots. His Mohawk and chops are done to perfection and a hand rolled "cigarette" is tucked behind his right ear. The sun reflects on the Locs brand sunglasses he has covering his eyes.*
Last week, against two of the best students this companies training facilities have produced, I was victorious after manhandling both of them. And who should happen to make an appearance? Who was looking for their fifteen minutes of fame? None other than the Samoan shitpile in black. He came out and decided to put his nose into my business.
*He scoffs.*
Razor, that's how you get you nose knocked outta joint. You lookin to get your neck-bone broke? Keep interfering in my business and you will be the one in the Rack screamin for relief, begging for me to release you....
*He plucks the "cigarette" from behind his ear and lights it with a silver Zippo fished from his right from jeans pocket. He takes a long pull from it before exhaling a plume of smoke and spending a moment to savor the feeling of the effects of this "cigarette."*
This week is face a man who opposed my Father twice in the past here in this company. Twice you were victorious. Now, in no way am I looking for Vengeance for him or his partner. Hell, I doubt you even remember facing him. And that's ok....because you will never forget facing me.
I may not have the most experience.... you are the first man on the main roster I am facing. In my second match ever. Stepping stone is a truly what you have become. And step on you I will. When I am finished with you and you are up in the Rack, you will scream for relief just like everyone else does. No amount of craziness can prevent you from losing to the Rack. Your loss will legitimize it as a finisher to be feared.
*He takes another long pull from the "cigarette" and exhaled another plume into the evening air.*
Come one, come all! Witness the destruction of, and pay homage to the relic, Tyrone Smith. And if Razor wants to get his chin checked the I suggest he stay on course and interfere in my business once more. I am Holden Ross. I am the true future of this business. And I begin building my dynasty now, beginning with you, Ty. See you soon, Crazy Boy.....
*The scene wraps and Holden thanks the crew before roaring off into the night on his chopper, in search of any young lady with loose enough morals. He is certainly his Father's son in that regard....*
The walls are hand treated pine, the two chairs in the lobby for customers, are hand made from pine. The counter top, pine. The old man, looking every bit the eighty-some odd years he has been on this spinning rock, approaches the counter with a whistle.*
Ol' Timer: You's a biggun ain't yuh?
*He grins, showing he only has about seven teeth left in his skull; all of his front teeth. They, themselves, are yellowed and chipped. His thin face is covered in a few days growth of white stubble. He looks frail and moves with the alacrity of a sloth, but his eyes show his mind is as sharp as a Ginsu. It's ability to saw through a piece of steel might not be on par with the "As seen on t.v." kitchen accessory but this old timer doesn't miss a thing.*
They grow em big where I come from....
*The old man gives a snort of a laugh before lighting an old, hand carved pipe in the shape of a toad. It could be made of pine as well....*
Ol' Timer: Uh-yuh! I see that. Where you be from, big fella?
San Luis Obispo.
*The old fella scowls in confusion.*
It's in California.
*The old man gives a whistle and bangs a closed fist on the counter top.*
Ol' Timer: Yer a long ways from home, boy! The Hell brings ya out here....'sides all them damned illegals?
Work. I just signed to Pure Class Wrestling barely a month ago.
*The old man's eyes narrow as he finally begins to view this stranger with suspicion.*
Ol' Timer: You ain't some queer playin grabass, are ya? I mean, rollin aroun' in a pair of tights with another man.... It ain't right....
*A grin plays at the corner of Holden's mouth. He digs into the right front pocket of his well worn, dark blue Levis "Silvertab's" and pulls out a "gangster roll" of cash nearly two inches thick. He removes the rubber band holding it together and opens the roll up to get to the smaller bills. In this case, he only has twenties, fifties, and hundreds. He counts out and hands the man three grand in twenties and fifties.*
Ol' Timer: I don't care if you got a husband and dance like that Mikey Jackson fruitcake....money talks. I'll give you our "Presidential Suite."
What's so Presidential about it?
Ol' Timer: Jimmy Carter once stayed here on a campaign trip through the south. That was the room he got....
*The old man gives Holden a look as if everyone know that while sliding a battered, yellowed book across the counter to his guest.*
Ol' Timer: Just sign there and fill in the info in the space next to where you sign. Yer in room number twelve. There's coffee here in the lobby, which is open twenty-four hours, all the time. Might not be fresh, or hot, but it's there. There's a Coke machine out there and a vending machine with some snacks. It also has some toiletries if ya need em.
There's also a diner up the road a couple miles. They have the best pie in three counties. What did'ja say yer name was again, bubba?
Holden Ross. I'll stay here a couple months probably before getting my own pad. Whats your name again?
*The old codger grins proudly.*
Ol' Timer: My ma named me Lester....but ev'rbody calls me "Les."
*They shake hands and Holden takes the worn key on a faded plastic keychain in the shape of a pine tree. You would assume a key chain, in the shape of a pine tree would be green. Not this puppy, it's a faded orange with a few gouges on one side.
Upon entering room twelve, the "Presidential Suite," it looks like any other room in the hotel aside from the autographed picture of Jimmy Carter attatched to the wall with a few screws drilled into the picture frame.
The television is a flat screen at least and the bed seems new. Other than that, this room looks like it stepped right out of the late sixties. He laughs to himself at the living arrangement he finds himself in; a small hotel room in some dive in a backwater South Carolina town....*
The following day.....
*The next morning Holden cruises through downtown Greenville on his bike. It turns heads of both young and old, male and female.....isn't that one of the pleasures of riding such a machine? He finally stops at a small, hole-in-the-wall diner, "Janines." A cute, petite blonde just this side of twenty serves him and when he leaves, he has a belly full of fine home cookin as well as her number in his phone.
Another short ride and he is parked on a bluff overlooking the town. When the camera opens on him his is standing next to his bike, the town in behind and below him. He is in baggy "Lucky" brand jeans, a white wife beater, and black engineer boots. His Mohawk and chops are done to perfection and a hand rolled "cigarette" is tucked behind his right ear. The sun reflects on the Locs brand sunglasses he has covering his eyes.*
Last week, against two of the best students this companies training facilities have produced, I was victorious after manhandling both of them. And who should happen to make an appearance? Who was looking for their fifteen minutes of fame? None other than the Samoan shitpile in black. He came out and decided to put his nose into my business.
*He scoffs.*
Razor, that's how you get you nose knocked outta joint. You lookin to get your neck-bone broke? Keep interfering in my business and you will be the one in the Rack screamin for relief, begging for me to release you....
*He plucks the "cigarette" from behind his ear and lights it with a silver Zippo fished from his right from jeans pocket. He takes a long pull from it before exhaling a plume of smoke and spending a moment to savor the feeling of the effects of this "cigarette."*
This week is face a man who opposed my Father twice in the past here in this company. Twice you were victorious. Now, in no way am I looking for Vengeance for him or his partner. Hell, I doubt you even remember facing him. And that's ok....because you will never forget facing me.
I may not have the most experience.... you are the first man on the main roster I am facing. In my second match ever. Stepping stone is a truly what you have become. And step on you I will. When I am finished with you and you are up in the Rack, you will scream for relief just like everyone else does. No amount of craziness can prevent you from losing to the Rack. Your loss will legitimize it as a finisher to be feared.
*He takes another long pull from the "cigarette" and exhaled another plume into the evening air.*
Come one, come all! Witness the destruction of, and pay homage to the relic, Tyrone Smith. And if Razor wants to get his chin checked the I suggest he stay on course and interfere in my business once more. I am Holden Ross. I am the true future of this business. And I begin building my dynasty now, beginning with you, Ty. See you soon, Crazy Boy.....
*The scene wraps and Holden thanks the crew before roaring off into the night on his chopper, in search of any young lady with loose enough morals. He is certainly his Father's son in that regard....*