Post by Deleted on Sept 2, 2014 13:55:37 GMT -5
The screen is black as the voice over begins….
Trust me, I know what I’m doing.
The words start to scroll across the screen…ala Star Wars.
This is the story of Michael Soloman, adopted by Dave Ferguson known in the wrestling world as the Crimson Killer, the King of pro wrestling in the Amarillo territory in the late 1980’s. He is the foster brother of Chet Ferguson. They didn’t always get along.
Admittedly, that was because Michael became involved in increasingly wicked schemes over the years. Until eventually he was known by all as the Son of Evil.
And he was trapped by that definition-spiraling deeper into infamy with each new misdeed, unable to escape his role, unable to escape himself, doomed to never be anything but Michael-Michael the bad son, Michael the villain until the day he disappeard…
This was of course, his greatest scheme of all.
He reemerged as a new, youthful mind and spirit, free to choose his own fate. With the training of his father, Amarillo’s last wrestling hero, and a slate full of missions from his mysterious handler Clarke, who is ruling from afar to help him continue to polish his sparkling new reputation.
Obviously after all that he wouldn’t stab his brother in the back….surely.
The scene opens to a shot of a bathroom. The walls are painted green and there is steam all around. The shower is running. There is the faint sound of humming coming from the shower. That breaks in and out of a full blown chorus.
Michael: (singing) Well it looks like 1968 or was it 69, when I heard you caught a bullet, well I guess you’re doing fine…
The Turnpike Troubadors, I once despised this music. Songs of hope and loss, so short and petty, just like our lives. So far from the roaring streets of Memphis, but these days I’m learning to see the magic in them.
M: (still singing) It’s been a long time goooooone, good to see you my old friend.
(A cell phone begins to ring, as Soloman shuts off the shower and reaches for a towel through the curtain)
RIIIIIIINNNNNNG
(The shower curtain opens to reveal Michael Soloman, his skin is red, obviously from the hot water. He is a taller gentleman, with dark hair and a muscular build. A tattoo of an executioner graces the right side of his chest just above his nipple. A towel is wrapped around his waste. He still has soap dripping down from his hair to his shoulders. He gives it a quick wipe and picks up the phone.)
M: Why hello there..
(Michael listens intently to what is being said on the other end of the line)
M: I just got out of the shower, and even you can’t get me down today Clarke. I’ve got the Troubador’s pumping through my veins. (He pauses momentarily as the person on the other end responds). As much as I would love to entertain you at the next Thanksgiving feast, I have a feeling that’s not the purpose of your call….
The camera slowly pans away and goes to black as a voice over starts again.
So let’s talk about magic. We can argue over the exact rules if you like. There are all sorts of gimmicks and sleights of hand. My father armed me with an entire manual, which I still have…somewhere. At the core though…magic is taking a thought and making it real. Taking a lie and making it truth. Telling a story to the universe so utterly, cosmically perfect that for a single shining moment, the world believes a man has superhuman strength. That’s actually more my brother’s thing. What I have is a wonderful arsenal, and a pair of boots, boots that have led people to believe I could run up turnbuckles or walk tightropes with ease or scale other assorted surfaces. I liberated those from “Honest” Jack Styles the ZCW Heavyweight Champ, who was way too ‘honest’ for his own good. Meanwhile, I’ve also purchased a coat…and by purchased I mean stole, it looked better on me than the jobber who was wearing it anyway. Thank goodness his name wasn’t stitched into the back of it. This should help me blend in….but then again, maybe not.
The scene fades back in to a gentleman sitting at a desk. His arms are crossed and a beer sits within his reach. He is a giant of a man, with bulking arms and long blonde hair. He has a white collered shirt with a loosened red plaid tie. He slowly reaches out and grabs the bottle of beer, letting out a collective groan. This man is Michael’s brother Chet, the current head of Ferguson Enterprises. It’s after hours and Chet stares endlessly into a large stack of paperwork.
Chet: I need another beer (he mumbles)
A random assistant pops into the screen.
Random Assistant: M-Mister Ferguson, with the greatest respect sir, I think you’ve had enough, how about calling it a night.
Chet: (slams his fist down) I SAID ANOTHER BEER!!!
The random assistant scurries away…fearful.
Oh yes, the sound of my brother with his beer and the bullying of the help are all to familiar from our youth. Of course we’re on much better terms nowadays.
Chet: (sits up straight and looks around) Michael, what are you doing here.
Chet turns around as Michael appears out of a dark corner of the room. Chet makes a straight line for Michael and as Soloman opens his arms for a hug
Well, I am anyway.
Michael is caught square on the jaw with a left cross. The two tussle for a short time, before a few random people left in the office, janitors and such, start to pour into the room and breaks up the fight.
Now I know what you’re thinking, why am I being beaten to death by a man who obviously makes great life decisions. This won’t stop him from sending his fists straight to my face. Eh? Why don’t I just magic everything better? Tell the universe a nice BIG story? “Then Michael wiggled his fingers and everything was FINE. Also his mission was complete and he had a pony and balloons and a world title. The End. It’s not a very good story is it? I mean..just imagine you had a big red button that could save you from anything. But if you pressed it too hard….you’d spend the rest of forever in the chains and fires of Hell. Burning. Every THOUGHT an endless BURNING. Personally, I’d rather be punched in the face, at least it’s QUICK.
Random office worker: You two have to quit meeting like this.
Security and the other employees break the two up and Michael is cuffed by security and escorted to a room downstaisr as Chet scurries to grab paperwork that has been spilled on the floor.
Once upon a time, Chet was suspended from wrestling in Memphis and spent his time playing the face in other promotions. Michael stuck around in Memphis. So his brother Michael—smarting over a few minor squabbles—decided to play the role of the heel. But the bookers are the gods, and the gods are creatures of magic, creatures of story. We must be careful which roles we step into. The brother of mischief, became the brother of evil. But Michael didn’t care. He was burning.
A faint voiceover briefly comes over the audio sounding like a distant quote from Michaels past as the security guards uncuff Michael and set him in the chair.
Back, Back don’t touch me, no other wrestler can lay a hand on me. AH HA HA! I have abilities you have never Dreeeamed of! AHHHHH HA HA HA HAAAA!
Forever burning. Michael made a lot of SACRIFICES to stop burning. Mostly he sacrificed OTHER WORKERS talents. I won’t let that all be for NOTHING. I’ll take the fists to the face every time.
Security Guard #1: You sure this is Michael, he kind of looks….different.
Security Guard #2: It’s him. He’s still wanted in Mississippi for stealing a $200 custom made jacket from a wrestler and incapacitating a security guard who decided to stop him.
Michael: All in the past, I’m a changed man. A loveable scamp with a heart of gold, here on a purely friendly visit.
A voice comes from the other side of the room “You are not my friend, Michael.”
The camera pans to reveal Chet standing with a few of the office assistants, including Julian Lott (his personal assistant) who helped to break up the fight.
Chet: You are my brother. For you’re sins, you are the devil. What brings you here I thought you were long out of the family business.
Michael: Well I never could lie to you, Chet. I’m Clarke’s, you know, dad’s attorney’s undercover operative and I’m here on a top secret spy type thing. (He leans in to Chet and whispers, but obviously says loud enough for other’s to hear.) Shhh, don’t tell anyone. (He pulls away and raises his voice) Anyway, you remember when your friends stole your private records of “workout supplements” that you were taking…
Chet let’s out a large groan.
Julian Lott: Uh-Oh let’s not bring that up again…
Michael: And you remember how Julian, your friend right there, promised you he’d absolutely positively, definitely, no crossed fingers wiped all of that information out of the national registry and that he’s never dreamed of using it again ever, EVER, so no one outside of Memphis would ever mention it again. Wellllll….
Chet: Dammit, Lott I swear to you that if what he says is true…..
Julian: If he…Chet, come on! It’s Michael, he’s lied to you thousands of…
Chet: He never pretended to unlike you…
Assistant #1: Settle down, Chet.
Assistant #2: Guys….(Michael is slowly slipping out of the room. Assistant #2 tries to draw their attention to it, but Chet and Julian are too engaged in their argument as is security who are trying to keep the two apart.)
Chet: I say that this room will serve as your burial ground today..
Julian: Chet, you’ve been asking for this all week. (Julian begins to square up and start to push through security as a small tussle ensues)
Assistant #2: (As he is holding Chet away from Julian) Guys, seriously he’s…..
(Assistant #2 starts towards the door when the door to the room slams shut…all the wrestlers and security inside try to get out but the door is locked from the outside.)
Ah misdirection. What sweet chaos you bring.
Michael slowly makes his way to a makeshift office for Ferguson Enterprises and opens the door. Michael steps back and reveals a room with countless computers and TV monitors. Michael slowly steps into room and stands in front of the monitors.
With all of the yelling and fighting going on in the other room, nobodies worried about this. Access to the infamous national database. Linked to the local criminal database, which is linked to state websites, the US government database, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It’s databases all the way down. All of them full of ultra-juicy top secret files and absolutely impossible to hack…for anyone else. Machines are easier to trick than people, believe it or not, they really are incredibly gullible. And there he is, T.K. Money, and there’s the “Crazy Boy.” And here I stand, knowing they shall burn. This universe prefers old patterns and old cycles. It would prefer me in my old shape. These files--these stories—have a gravity that pulls at me. That would crush me back into what I no longer am. Let’s do away with them, then. But, then again…let’s not. I did terrible things to become Michael Soloman—things that haunt me. Crimes that cannot be forgiven----but I am Michael Soloman and more than that----I am myself.
Michael looks over the computer screen and hits a button. The sound of a printer starts as Michael pulls out the printed paper and begins to look it over.
Michael: Interesting…you can find anything in the database nowadays.
Michael slowly turns to the camera
Michael: T.K., Tyrone, you can run, but your past will never be hidden and I’ve got all I need right here. Your ultimate successes, will only be dictated by your short term failures. Let’s face it, whether you like it or not, the two you will just have too….
(Michael moves out of the shot and the camera zooms in on the television monitor in the center of the screen. Laughter is heard as the screen fades to black and Michael whispers in a voice over….)
TRUST ME!”