Post by Non Compos Mentis on Jan 10, 2007 14:29:21 GMT -5
For all who dont know yet, i have taken it upon myself to take a step back from active rping with Non Compos Mentis for the forseeable future. I chose to do this because PCW is no longer a competetive fed, although there is a competetive board, but you get my drift.
Since i made this decision i have entered a new fed and created a new character called Isaac Reynolds, or 'The Reality'. Unfortunatly i dont have my first rp with him but this is the second, tell me what you think and if it comes out good NCM might be for the scrap heep, who knows.
Btw, the match i am rping for with this is an intergender tag match. Me + Tanya Black vs Dazz and Faith. No real significance to you guys but they are featured in it, so enjoy.
“Ohhhh Man, do they even clean these toilets.”
The urine stained surface of the urinal stared up at me as I stood above it doing what is only natural. I couldn’t help but notice the useless blue blocks sat in the trough at the bottom of the ceramic bathroom fixture that were meant to neutralize the smell but only succeeded in creating a nauseous musk. The tiles beneath my feet were speckled with the same pungent piss stains as where on the pottery. Whether it was a drunkard pissing all over himself or a guy that had one too many and couldn’t reach the toilet in time, I didn’t care, all I knew was the urine of another person was sticking to the bottom of my shoe.
“God damn.”
I could feel the sole of my shoe sticking to the floor and a waited for my bodily functions to finish. I shook myself dry and zipped up as quick as I could so I didn’t have to expose myself to this decrepit thing then I turn to the wash basins on the adjacent wall. Looking at the dirt tainted washing bowls I wondered whether it would be more hygienic to keep the odur de crotch on my hands rather than wash my hands in those things but I settle to keep my hands clear of the bowls and the communal soap and soak my hands in the vaguely clean water. I choose to dry my hands on my own dark denim jeans rather than use the cloth provided. I turn to walk to the door but look left to the right to see a horrific sight.
“I think I’m going to puke.”
What stood, or sat disheveled against the wall, were the two toilet cubicles that were inside the gentleman’s toilets. They, on their own were not such a ghastly image but their immediate surroundings were a shock of monumental proportions. Everywhere to be seen was covered in excrement. Every inch of tile space was no longer just speckled brown, it was coated in brown. I don’t know how the stench had not spread beyond the cubicles, maybe the blue cubes in the urinal really did work, or maybe I was choosing to ignore it subconsciously, all I know is that I couldn’t smell it and I didn’t want to.
How could somebody blatantly shit all over the floor when a toilet lay only inches behind them. I wish I could relate it to something so that I could reason with it. I wish there was something that had happened in my life that could present a reason, an insight, into why somebody would have the compulsion to crap all over the floor. The closest I could find was a burglary at one of my foster homes when the would be criminal took a piss on the couch. The police said he was probably mentally ill, I thought he was either immensely stupid or has been drinking a lot. Either way it had little or no relevance to the current situation and gave no insight into the reason a person would crap on a toilet floor. I just wanted to get out of there and away from it.
I made for the door and didn’t look back, not that I even wanted too. The first thing to hit me was the music coming from an old fashioned juke box in the far left corner of the room. Country and Western, horrible Country and Western. The bar was a few meters ahead of me and the number of locals gathered around it had grown since I had entered the gentleman’s room. Many startling differences existed between myself and them, the very least being the color of my skin. The thing that really threatened to spark a situation was that they were grizzled Utah men and I was a Ghetto guy from Chicago. This was a culture clash I had not anticipated, but I hadn’t anticipated stopping at a dead end motel and the bar right next to it. The motel was stuck in the middle of nowhere on the long, straight road half way between Ceder City and Provo and could only be seen because of the light emanating from the occupied rooms otherwise you would drive straight past it.
As I walked towards the bar the notable differences only increased. I may have been poor when until a few weeks ago but my first pay check proved enough to buy myself some suave threads and smarten myself up. I was wearing designer gear, from my carefully handcrafted Leather boots to my Gucci Sunglasses, my designer Jeans to my black Versace shirt.. All that just about left enough for the rental car that I had parked outside, a rusted pile of bolts that cost more in gas than the actual rental. The banged up, thirty year old Chevy was sat in the parking lot awaiting my return so that it could taunt me by stalling three times before I could leave this place. My appearance, however, told people that the Chevy was not mine and I had something much more substantial as a ride. And what where they wearing? Flannel shirts, ripped jeans, baseball caps and 10-year-old sneakers
“This might be interesting.”
I wanted a drink, something to calm my nerves and put a cap on night. I wanted to just sit at the bar with a bottle of Budweiser, sipping at the lip of it every so often in a relaxed rhythm. What I wanted was to sit at the bar and mind my own business as I drank the one bottle of beer I would allow myself. I edged closer to the bar, now only feet from the only empty seat I could see and it was stuck between a guy with half of his ass hanging from the back of his pants and a man that, rather eerily, had a shotgun leant up against bottom of the bar. Reluctantly, I take the seat in between these two surly characters and hail the barman. Through the corner of my eyes I see the man with the shotgun turn his head to look at me. He seems to scan me up and down, working out how much of a threat I am or maybe just curious about the look of my clothes, whichever option it is I don’t want to provoke a reaction so I stay quiet and wait for the barman.
“Do aye know you?”
The voice comes from my right, the twang of a country boy who ha lived around here his whole life. It is the man with the shotgun by his side who attempts to get my attention and succeeds. I turn my head to face him, immediately startled by a shock or bronze hair across his upper lip. I settle myself and select a reply, fully knowing that I want to keep my head down and remain inconspicuous.
“I don’t think so, you must have me confused with somebody else.”
How many people like me has this guy ever see, over six feet tall, black, bald and dressed in designer gear, who am I kidding? He barman finally arrives. “A Budweiser, please.’
I am fully aware that the man next to me is still staring at me, trying to recall where he had seen my face recently. Then, completely noticeably, his face lights up and he finally diverts his view towards the man to his right. For a couple of seconds the faint noise of mumbling and whispering can be heard. Then the head of another man leans forward from behind the man with the shotgun, his face marked out like a dot-to-dot with acne scars and his hair like a birds nest, twisted and matted. His face has a picture of interest painted across it before he springs a smile and returns back to his previous position. Further whispering ensues as both men confirm their suspicions. The barmen, during this, returns with a bottle of Budweiser and puts it on the bar infront of me. I pay him courteously and take hold of the bottle.
“Warm”
I don’t like warm beer. It’s like snow. Everybody like snow because it is comforting and happy but what happens if it is warm. Rain, and nobody likes rain. Warm beer is exactly like that. It isn’t comforting, it isn’t happy, Rain is dull and flat and only serves to be a let down. But I still don’t want to make a scene so I it there and drink it. The man next to me turns his head after the consultation with his friend and begins to stare again. As soon as the bottle is removed from my lips he sparks into conversation once again.
“Aye know who ya are. You’re that wrastlin guy aint ya?”
I didn’t want to say it. It felt like I would be admitting a crime and passing myself up for sentencing. I didn’t want to admit that I was ‘that wrastlin guy’ and satisfy this man’s inquiry. I didn’t want to but I knew that to lied now and masked my identity he would think I was mocking him and his friend, the shotgun, would not be too pleased.
“You watch wrestling?”
It was neither here nor there. I hadn’t admitted my identity nor had I rejected his correct, and yet annoying, question. I thought that he would be keen to just talk about wrestling and ignore the fact that I was who he had thought. I was wrong.
“Yeah, we get wrastlin here. It’s quite popular with the folks ‘round these parts. So, ya are him, aint ya?
There was no hiding it anymore. The man was set on discovering it and he would not simply forget when prompted by another subject. His eyes glowed with a hope that I would admit to him my identity so that he could ask for an autograph or have me sign his shirt. I didn’t want the attention but if it was the only way left to get rid of him I would have to.
“Yeah, I’m Isaac Reynolds.”
That was all I said and his eyes turned from a look of hope to a look confusion and distain. It was clearly not the answer he had been expecting, whether that was because he didn’t actually know my name or that I really wasn’t the person he thought I was wasn’t my concern, I just answered the question, if the answer didn’t satisfy him that was his fault.
“So, ya aint that Senshi guy then?”
Senshi. Low Ki. Not much of a resemblance to myself if I say so. The only thing I would come up with was the bald thing and that was it. Then again, these guys have probably been in here for a long time and all of had been spent at the bar, downing cold one after cold one. It can be forgiven.
“Nah, Jake, Aye know this guy. He’s part of that NLCW thing.
A voice slightly muffled by a glass of liquor held in front of his face ran towards me. It came from beyond the man next to me and belonged to his friend with the acne-ridden features. Quite a bit deeper but still with the twang, his voice was distinguishable from the other man easily. His head emerged from its cover and stared directly at me.
“Ya the guy that faced the British prick on the last show, aint ya?”
My first match, my first loss. I wanted to forget about it but it seem that it was destiny that I would be asked about the match wherever I went. Don’t get me wrong, it was a good match and one that could have swung either way, but a loss is a loss and it was something I didn’t want to remember.
“Yeah, I faced Tyler Scott last week. You want to complain that I lost?”
“Nah, ya had a good match. Ya did well.”
I hadn’t been expecting a person like this to be so hospitable. What I had expected was distinct disappointment that I had lost and chewing tobacco spat in my face for the disrespect shown. And yet at least this person could look me in the eye and tell me I had done a good job. It meant the world, it meant that I had a future and it meant I would go on with the thought that I had pushed an established roster member to his limit.
“Ya got a match this week?”
“Yeah, I got a match. It’s Me and Tanya Black vs Dazz and Faith.”
This was next on the agenda. I was on my way to Salt Lake City for the second match of my NLCW career. An inter-gender tag match with the women allowed to face the men in the ring. This was good, this was promising, this was putting me in a good position for the future, the near future. The NLCW management was putting me in different matches, pitting me against different opponents and giving me challenges to overcome. For two weeks straight I will have faced some of the top stars in the federation and that could only be good. They were seeing if I could step up to a higher level than just a newcomer.
The match will be challenging, it will be a struggle against two people who can both hold their own more than well in the ring with anybody. It would be a fight that would need strength, speed, intelligence and guile, qualities that I consider myself to have in abundance. Faith has proved in the past that facing men was not a factor once she was in the ring, I have seen this in tapes and on TV. She is quick, agile and brutal when needed and will definitely be a challenge when in the ring. Dazz is immensely strong and powerful as well a agile, a perfect combination. He has proved a vicious and callous competitor before and has beaten more than his fair share of tough opponents.
As for my partner, Tanya Black, I cannot say I know much about her. What I do know is that she is not afraid of facing men in the ring having been the only woman in the Slamfest Battle royal two weeks ago. She may not be very strong but what she lacks in strength she makes up for in agility, speed and technical ability. I have no doubt that, as a team, me and Tanya Black will be able to beat our opponents and prove our own points for future success.
“Well, good luck man. I gotta go.”
“Much appreciated.”
The acne man got to his feet and pushed his stool back so that he could walk away from the bar. He pushed his seat back in and gathered his coat from off the bar before making for the door and his pickup parked outside that was constructed almost completely of iron oxide. In the distance, the noise of a chugging, gas guzzling engine starts up and rolls away into silence. Looking back to the bar I focused back on the shotgun man, taking a giant gulp from my bottle at the same time. His head rotated to watch me and he was almost startled by the sight revealed to him.
“What the hell are ya looking at, boy?”
His voice was tinged with anger and insult, a clear sign that he was no under the influence and easily over the limit. He stared back at me with his bloodshot, enraged eyes as if to challenge for a fight. I wanted nothing of this man and, seeing that any sudden action, however innocent it may, could provoke a violent attack I decided to do the sensible thing. I brought my bottle to my lips and took the last swig of warm beer, I pushed back the stool and I stood up.
The man’s face was glued to my position and would not relent until it was clear I had backed down from his challenge and given him the satisfaction that his drunken state requested. I walked forward, behind him, his head seemingly rotates to follow my path. Finally he moves back to his drink, swilling it around the bottle in a solemn stupor. I don’t look back, I just keep walking and open the door before walking out onto the gravel parking lot. The rusted Chevy sat there, flicking the proverbial ‘V’ sign as I fumble around with the keys to open the door. Suddenly it bolts open and nearly knocks me off my feet. I climb in and throw the keys into ignition, hoping for a reaction on the first attempt for once. The engine splutters and gurgles into life and jumps forward along the gravel beneath its wheels and its on to Salt Lake City.
Since i made this decision i have entered a new fed and created a new character called Isaac Reynolds, or 'The Reality'. Unfortunatly i dont have my first rp with him but this is the second, tell me what you think and if it comes out good NCM might be for the scrap heep, who knows.
Btw, the match i am rping for with this is an intergender tag match. Me + Tanya Black vs Dazz and Faith. No real significance to you guys but they are featured in it, so enjoy.
“Ohhhh Man, do they even clean these toilets.”
The urine stained surface of the urinal stared up at me as I stood above it doing what is only natural. I couldn’t help but notice the useless blue blocks sat in the trough at the bottom of the ceramic bathroom fixture that were meant to neutralize the smell but only succeeded in creating a nauseous musk. The tiles beneath my feet were speckled with the same pungent piss stains as where on the pottery. Whether it was a drunkard pissing all over himself or a guy that had one too many and couldn’t reach the toilet in time, I didn’t care, all I knew was the urine of another person was sticking to the bottom of my shoe.
“God damn.”
I could feel the sole of my shoe sticking to the floor and a waited for my bodily functions to finish. I shook myself dry and zipped up as quick as I could so I didn’t have to expose myself to this decrepit thing then I turn to the wash basins on the adjacent wall. Looking at the dirt tainted washing bowls I wondered whether it would be more hygienic to keep the odur de crotch on my hands rather than wash my hands in those things but I settle to keep my hands clear of the bowls and the communal soap and soak my hands in the vaguely clean water. I choose to dry my hands on my own dark denim jeans rather than use the cloth provided. I turn to walk to the door but look left to the right to see a horrific sight.
“I think I’m going to puke.”
What stood, or sat disheveled against the wall, were the two toilet cubicles that were inside the gentleman’s toilets. They, on their own were not such a ghastly image but their immediate surroundings were a shock of monumental proportions. Everywhere to be seen was covered in excrement. Every inch of tile space was no longer just speckled brown, it was coated in brown. I don’t know how the stench had not spread beyond the cubicles, maybe the blue cubes in the urinal really did work, or maybe I was choosing to ignore it subconsciously, all I know is that I couldn’t smell it and I didn’t want to.
How could somebody blatantly shit all over the floor when a toilet lay only inches behind them. I wish I could relate it to something so that I could reason with it. I wish there was something that had happened in my life that could present a reason, an insight, into why somebody would have the compulsion to crap all over the floor. The closest I could find was a burglary at one of my foster homes when the would be criminal took a piss on the couch. The police said he was probably mentally ill, I thought he was either immensely stupid or has been drinking a lot. Either way it had little or no relevance to the current situation and gave no insight into the reason a person would crap on a toilet floor. I just wanted to get out of there and away from it.
I made for the door and didn’t look back, not that I even wanted too. The first thing to hit me was the music coming from an old fashioned juke box in the far left corner of the room. Country and Western, horrible Country and Western. The bar was a few meters ahead of me and the number of locals gathered around it had grown since I had entered the gentleman’s room. Many startling differences existed between myself and them, the very least being the color of my skin. The thing that really threatened to spark a situation was that they were grizzled Utah men and I was a Ghetto guy from Chicago. This was a culture clash I had not anticipated, but I hadn’t anticipated stopping at a dead end motel and the bar right next to it. The motel was stuck in the middle of nowhere on the long, straight road half way between Ceder City and Provo and could only be seen because of the light emanating from the occupied rooms otherwise you would drive straight past it.
As I walked towards the bar the notable differences only increased. I may have been poor when until a few weeks ago but my first pay check proved enough to buy myself some suave threads and smarten myself up. I was wearing designer gear, from my carefully handcrafted Leather boots to my Gucci Sunglasses, my designer Jeans to my black Versace shirt.. All that just about left enough for the rental car that I had parked outside, a rusted pile of bolts that cost more in gas than the actual rental. The banged up, thirty year old Chevy was sat in the parking lot awaiting my return so that it could taunt me by stalling three times before I could leave this place. My appearance, however, told people that the Chevy was not mine and I had something much more substantial as a ride. And what where they wearing? Flannel shirts, ripped jeans, baseball caps and 10-year-old sneakers
“This might be interesting.”
I wanted a drink, something to calm my nerves and put a cap on night. I wanted to just sit at the bar with a bottle of Budweiser, sipping at the lip of it every so often in a relaxed rhythm. What I wanted was to sit at the bar and mind my own business as I drank the one bottle of beer I would allow myself. I edged closer to the bar, now only feet from the only empty seat I could see and it was stuck between a guy with half of his ass hanging from the back of his pants and a man that, rather eerily, had a shotgun leant up against bottom of the bar. Reluctantly, I take the seat in between these two surly characters and hail the barman. Through the corner of my eyes I see the man with the shotgun turn his head to look at me. He seems to scan me up and down, working out how much of a threat I am or maybe just curious about the look of my clothes, whichever option it is I don’t want to provoke a reaction so I stay quiet and wait for the barman.
“Do aye know you?”
The voice comes from my right, the twang of a country boy who ha lived around here his whole life. It is the man with the shotgun by his side who attempts to get my attention and succeeds. I turn my head to face him, immediately startled by a shock or bronze hair across his upper lip. I settle myself and select a reply, fully knowing that I want to keep my head down and remain inconspicuous.
“I don’t think so, you must have me confused with somebody else.”
How many people like me has this guy ever see, over six feet tall, black, bald and dressed in designer gear, who am I kidding? He barman finally arrives. “A Budweiser, please.’
I am fully aware that the man next to me is still staring at me, trying to recall where he had seen my face recently. Then, completely noticeably, his face lights up and he finally diverts his view towards the man to his right. For a couple of seconds the faint noise of mumbling and whispering can be heard. Then the head of another man leans forward from behind the man with the shotgun, his face marked out like a dot-to-dot with acne scars and his hair like a birds nest, twisted and matted. His face has a picture of interest painted across it before he springs a smile and returns back to his previous position. Further whispering ensues as both men confirm their suspicions. The barmen, during this, returns with a bottle of Budweiser and puts it on the bar infront of me. I pay him courteously and take hold of the bottle.
“Warm”
I don’t like warm beer. It’s like snow. Everybody like snow because it is comforting and happy but what happens if it is warm. Rain, and nobody likes rain. Warm beer is exactly like that. It isn’t comforting, it isn’t happy, Rain is dull and flat and only serves to be a let down. But I still don’t want to make a scene so I it there and drink it. The man next to me turns his head after the consultation with his friend and begins to stare again. As soon as the bottle is removed from my lips he sparks into conversation once again.
“Aye know who ya are. You’re that wrastlin guy aint ya?”
I didn’t want to say it. It felt like I would be admitting a crime and passing myself up for sentencing. I didn’t want to admit that I was ‘that wrastlin guy’ and satisfy this man’s inquiry. I didn’t want to but I knew that to lied now and masked my identity he would think I was mocking him and his friend, the shotgun, would not be too pleased.
“You watch wrestling?”
It was neither here nor there. I hadn’t admitted my identity nor had I rejected his correct, and yet annoying, question. I thought that he would be keen to just talk about wrestling and ignore the fact that I was who he had thought. I was wrong.
“Yeah, we get wrastlin here. It’s quite popular with the folks ‘round these parts. So, ya are him, aint ya?
There was no hiding it anymore. The man was set on discovering it and he would not simply forget when prompted by another subject. His eyes glowed with a hope that I would admit to him my identity so that he could ask for an autograph or have me sign his shirt. I didn’t want the attention but if it was the only way left to get rid of him I would have to.
“Yeah, I’m Isaac Reynolds.”
That was all I said and his eyes turned from a look of hope to a look confusion and distain. It was clearly not the answer he had been expecting, whether that was because he didn’t actually know my name or that I really wasn’t the person he thought I was wasn’t my concern, I just answered the question, if the answer didn’t satisfy him that was his fault.
“So, ya aint that Senshi guy then?”
Senshi. Low Ki. Not much of a resemblance to myself if I say so. The only thing I would come up with was the bald thing and that was it. Then again, these guys have probably been in here for a long time and all of had been spent at the bar, downing cold one after cold one. It can be forgiven.
“Nah, Jake, Aye know this guy. He’s part of that NLCW thing.
A voice slightly muffled by a glass of liquor held in front of his face ran towards me. It came from beyond the man next to me and belonged to his friend with the acne-ridden features. Quite a bit deeper but still with the twang, his voice was distinguishable from the other man easily. His head emerged from its cover and stared directly at me.
“Ya the guy that faced the British prick on the last show, aint ya?”
My first match, my first loss. I wanted to forget about it but it seem that it was destiny that I would be asked about the match wherever I went. Don’t get me wrong, it was a good match and one that could have swung either way, but a loss is a loss and it was something I didn’t want to remember.
“Yeah, I faced Tyler Scott last week. You want to complain that I lost?”
“Nah, ya had a good match. Ya did well.”
I hadn’t been expecting a person like this to be so hospitable. What I had expected was distinct disappointment that I had lost and chewing tobacco spat in my face for the disrespect shown. And yet at least this person could look me in the eye and tell me I had done a good job. It meant the world, it meant that I had a future and it meant I would go on with the thought that I had pushed an established roster member to his limit.
“Ya got a match this week?”
“Yeah, I got a match. It’s Me and Tanya Black vs Dazz and Faith.”
This was next on the agenda. I was on my way to Salt Lake City for the second match of my NLCW career. An inter-gender tag match with the women allowed to face the men in the ring. This was good, this was promising, this was putting me in a good position for the future, the near future. The NLCW management was putting me in different matches, pitting me against different opponents and giving me challenges to overcome. For two weeks straight I will have faced some of the top stars in the federation and that could only be good. They were seeing if I could step up to a higher level than just a newcomer.
The match will be challenging, it will be a struggle against two people who can both hold their own more than well in the ring with anybody. It would be a fight that would need strength, speed, intelligence and guile, qualities that I consider myself to have in abundance. Faith has proved in the past that facing men was not a factor once she was in the ring, I have seen this in tapes and on TV. She is quick, agile and brutal when needed and will definitely be a challenge when in the ring. Dazz is immensely strong and powerful as well a agile, a perfect combination. He has proved a vicious and callous competitor before and has beaten more than his fair share of tough opponents.
As for my partner, Tanya Black, I cannot say I know much about her. What I do know is that she is not afraid of facing men in the ring having been the only woman in the Slamfest Battle royal two weeks ago. She may not be very strong but what she lacks in strength she makes up for in agility, speed and technical ability. I have no doubt that, as a team, me and Tanya Black will be able to beat our opponents and prove our own points for future success.
“Well, good luck man. I gotta go.”
“Much appreciated.”
The acne man got to his feet and pushed his stool back so that he could walk away from the bar. He pushed his seat back in and gathered his coat from off the bar before making for the door and his pickup parked outside that was constructed almost completely of iron oxide. In the distance, the noise of a chugging, gas guzzling engine starts up and rolls away into silence. Looking back to the bar I focused back on the shotgun man, taking a giant gulp from my bottle at the same time. His head rotated to watch me and he was almost startled by the sight revealed to him.
“What the hell are ya looking at, boy?”
His voice was tinged with anger and insult, a clear sign that he was no under the influence and easily over the limit. He stared back at me with his bloodshot, enraged eyes as if to challenge for a fight. I wanted nothing of this man and, seeing that any sudden action, however innocent it may, could provoke a violent attack I decided to do the sensible thing. I brought my bottle to my lips and took the last swig of warm beer, I pushed back the stool and I stood up.
The man’s face was glued to my position and would not relent until it was clear I had backed down from his challenge and given him the satisfaction that his drunken state requested. I walked forward, behind him, his head seemingly rotates to follow my path. Finally he moves back to his drink, swilling it around the bottle in a solemn stupor. I don’t look back, I just keep walking and open the door before walking out onto the gravel parking lot. The rusted Chevy sat there, flicking the proverbial ‘V’ sign as I fumble around with the keys to open the door. Suddenly it bolts open and nearly knocks me off my feet. I climb in and throw the keys into ignition, hoping for a reaction on the first attempt for once. The engine splutters and gurgles into life and jumps forward along the gravel beneath its wheels and its on to Salt Lake City.
