Post by Holden Ross on May 20, 2019 20:14:52 GMT -5
*For the past week, Holden has been in Toronto, training up to sixteen hours a day under the tutelage of N.L.C.W. Hall of Famer, Ethan Andrews. Ethan is a former multi-time Champion, holding every major belt the Company had. Many men tapped out to the “Canadian Maple Leaf,” Ethan’s version of the Texas Cloverleaf submission, and he has spent many hours instructing Holden how to properly apply the hold. How to reverse the hold. And how to apply it even when your body and mind are exhausted and ready to quit. Ethan also is friends with Frank, Holden's Father, but nothing has been said of Holden’s attack on Frank.
The wheels have just pulled up from the runway as the plane lifts off from Toronto. His back is sore. His joints are sore. His head is pounding and he is beat. But he is ready, more than ready, for his colossal task which is approaching faster than the plane he is flying in is approaching the Carolina’s. He stretches his legs and pops a chocolate M&M into his mouth. After a few more minutes of climbing for altitude, the “Fasten Seatbelts” light turns off and the stewardess begins serving drinks. A vodka cranberry is in his hand shortly thereafter and he swallows half of it in one swig.
Several hours later and he is pulling up in front of his double-wide in Greenville. Wes is sitting in a weathered wooden rocker, a cheroot cigar squeezed between his stubby fingers, with two glasses of sweet tea gathering condensation on the table next to him. As Holden climbs the few steps, his eyebrow cocks at the sight of the second glass. Wes looks like a cat that’s eaten the canary. He drops the cigar into the ashtray behind the glasses and slides off the seat onto his feet; both hands held up in a defensive pose.*
Wes: N-now look, Holden, y-y-yer mom said it would be good for him to come stay here…I didn’t invite him. N-no sir…
Who?
*As if on cue, the screen door leading inside nearly bursts off of its hinges as his cousin Llewellyn emerges from within. Six feet-one inch tall and nearly two hundred and ninety pounds, his cousin is a professional louse who has leeched off of one family member or another, like his parents before him, since they were both imprisoned a couple years back after being convicted of running a pyramid scheme in Arizona. He currently holds a sandwich made from a half of a loaf of French bread, some sliced meat, cheese, and a couple pieces of lettuce. Holden's teeth grind and the muscles of his jaw flex. He fakes a smile but his cousin is too ignorant, or more likely uncaring, to notice. He grins and waves with his empty hand.*
Llewellyn: Well, look what the cat drug in?! Mister Hollywood, jet-setting around the country like yer Charlie Sheen! Luh-key!
*He guffaws as he moves over to the empty chair next to Wes and flops into it. The legs of the old wooden chair creek and groan in objection which falls upon deaf ears.*
Who said you could…no…you know what? Never mind. How long you here for Lew?
*He shrugs while chewing loudly.*
Lew: I dunno….
*The screen door thumps closed behind him and in a couple breaths he is in his room, door closed and locked, and on the flat screen; old skateboarding videos playing on a loop. He takes a seat on the edge of the foot of his bead and picks his glass bong up from near his feet. He sparks his lighter and applies the flame to the bowl he left packed. It percolates a few times before he removes the bowl and clears the bong of the smoke by inhaling it deep into his lungs. He flicks the power button on a small handheld camera and aims it at himself before pressing the “record” button.
The image of Holden shows the fatigue of the week and a half worth of training in Canada. His eyes are bloodshot, stubble covers his face, and his hair hangs in greasy stands. On the wall behind him is an all black tapestry with Baphomet's head in the center of a pentagram. A haze of smoke hangs in the air and his voice is a little tired and gruff.*
What can be said that hasn’t already been uttered before? I have faced Dom twice now and while I wasn’t successful, I took him to the very limit. We beat each other half to death and walked away slightly worse for wear because of it. The first time we met it was for the Underground Championship that you held. This time it is for the North American Championship and to move on in this tournament. The almighty Dominator. The Juggernaut. The Immovable Object.
*He scoffs and runs a hand through his hair.*
This week we will put on a show, you and I; one which these ungrateful hicks don’t deserve. I know the limits you can be pushed to and the amount of brutality you are able to seemingly absorb as if you were superhuman. You believe your own hype and read your own press. Well, big man, I am here to show you and the others in this company who roam these halls with the belief that they are somehow above the likes of me, or David Hunter, or even Darren Hughes. We are going to show P.C.W., and the World, just how delicate your hold on your World really is. You’re big. You’re mean. And you’re full of a confidence that leaves you blind to the likes of us. All shall fall! Beginning with you…
*The last shot of the promo is of the tapestry after he has picked up the camera. It remains focused on it briefly before cutting off.*
The wheels have just pulled up from the runway as the plane lifts off from Toronto. His back is sore. His joints are sore. His head is pounding and he is beat. But he is ready, more than ready, for his colossal task which is approaching faster than the plane he is flying in is approaching the Carolina’s. He stretches his legs and pops a chocolate M&M into his mouth. After a few more minutes of climbing for altitude, the “Fasten Seatbelts” light turns off and the stewardess begins serving drinks. A vodka cranberry is in his hand shortly thereafter and he swallows half of it in one swig.
Several hours later and he is pulling up in front of his double-wide in Greenville. Wes is sitting in a weathered wooden rocker, a cheroot cigar squeezed between his stubby fingers, with two glasses of sweet tea gathering condensation on the table next to him. As Holden climbs the few steps, his eyebrow cocks at the sight of the second glass. Wes looks like a cat that’s eaten the canary. He drops the cigar into the ashtray behind the glasses and slides off the seat onto his feet; both hands held up in a defensive pose.*
Wes: N-now look, Holden, y-y-yer mom said it would be good for him to come stay here…I didn’t invite him. N-no sir…
Who?
*As if on cue, the screen door leading inside nearly bursts off of its hinges as his cousin Llewellyn emerges from within. Six feet-one inch tall and nearly two hundred and ninety pounds, his cousin is a professional louse who has leeched off of one family member or another, like his parents before him, since they were both imprisoned a couple years back after being convicted of running a pyramid scheme in Arizona. He currently holds a sandwich made from a half of a loaf of French bread, some sliced meat, cheese, and a couple pieces of lettuce. Holden's teeth grind and the muscles of his jaw flex. He fakes a smile but his cousin is too ignorant, or more likely uncaring, to notice. He grins and waves with his empty hand.*
Llewellyn: Well, look what the cat drug in?! Mister Hollywood, jet-setting around the country like yer Charlie Sheen! Luh-key!
*He guffaws as he moves over to the empty chair next to Wes and flops into it. The legs of the old wooden chair creek and groan in objection which falls upon deaf ears.*
Who said you could…no…you know what? Never mind. How long you here for Lew?
*He shrugs while chewing loudly.*
Lew: I dunno….
*The screen door thumps closed behind him and in a couple breaths he is in his room, door closed and locked, and on the flat screen; old skateboarding videos playing on a loop. He takes a seat on the edge of the foot of his bead and picks his glass bong up from near his feet. He sparks his lighter and applies the flame to the bowl he left packed. It percolates a few times before he removes the bowl and clears the bong of the smoke by inhaling it deep into his lungs. He flicks the power button on a small handheld camera and aims it at himself before pressing the “record” button.
The image of Holden shows the fatigue of the week and a half worth of training in Canada. His eyes are bloodshot, stubble covers his face, and his hair hangs in greasy stands. On the wall behind him is an all black tapestry with Baphomet's head in the center of a pentagram. A haze of smoke hangs in the air and his voice is a little tired and gruff.*
What can be said that hasn’t already been uttered before? I have faced Dom twice now and while I wasn’t successful, I took him to the very limit. We beat each other half to death and walked away slightly worse for wear because of it. The first time we met it was for the Underground Championship that you held. This time it is for the North American Championship and to move on in this tournament. The almighty Dominator. The Juggernaut. The Immovable Object.
*He scoffs and runs a hand through his hair.*
This week we will put on a show, you and I; one which these ungrateful hicks don’t deserve. I know the limits you can be pushed to and the amount of brutality you are able to seemingly absorb as if you were superhuman. You believe your own hype and read your own press. Well, big man, I am here to show you and the others in this company who roam these halls with the belief that they are somehow above the likes of me, or David Hunter, or even Darren Hughes. We are going to show P.C.W., and the World, just how delicate your hold on your World really is. You’re big. You’re mean. And you’re full of a confidence that leaves you blind to the likes of us. All shall fall! Beginning with you…
*The last shot of the promo is of the tapestry after he has picked up the camera. It remains focused on it briefly before cutting off.*