Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Jan 7, 2010 18:33:03 GMT -6
The scene opens on Tempestad kneeling in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. He is reciting the Lord's Prayer in Spanish, clutching a rosary in his right hand, as the camera gently pans around him. Tempestad stands, finishing the prayer, and looks directly into the camera.
“A new year. The celebration of the Savior's birth has come and gone, and with it so many things. We have new faces and old in this match on Friday. A former World Champion in Xavier Williams. The large and unmysterious Mr. Mysterio. A man of the cloth who I can respect and identify with, Gabriel Karras. And then there is du Lac...I will touch on him later. For now, I will address Father Karras.”
Tempestad turns, slowly walking out of what is revealed to be a Catholic church. The camera tracks him as he walks.
“You presented me with a simple question. You wanted me to explain what my mask meant. So I shall. My mask has a special significance to me beyond merely the usual connotations of a luchadore's mask. It was given to me by the man that taught me to wrestle. His name was Alejandro Davilla. He wrestled in my home state of Coahuila for thirty years as El Principe del Cielo. The man taught me everything he knew about wrestling and specifically about lucha libre. But he also exposed me to other wrestlers. I learned about Misawa, Kobashi, and Inoki from Mr. Davilla. He taught me to expand my horizons and learn from all styles, not just lucha. For that I am eternally grateful to him. Without that skill, I would not be half the wrestler I am today.”
Tempestad exits the church into the streets of Oakland, California. His coat flaps behind him lightly as the wind plays with it.
“He gave me my mask after eight long years of training. Alejandro said that it was intended for his son, but he had decided to go into politics instead. Receiving it was a true honor. I felt like he had adopted me as that of his own flesh. You know that feeling of being loved, Gabriel. To feel the Lord's love. I felt the love of that man then and I knew that I had found something truly unique. I would dare say that it was almost a holy thing, that passing of the torch. With the receipt of my mask, I felt I had become not only a true luchadore, but a man.”
He smiles fondly to himself, fingering the rosary. Tempestad turns towards downtown, where his hotel is.
“That is what my mask means to me, Gabriel Karras. It means love, and honor, and tradition. It means who I am, and what that man in Coahuila taught me. My mask is everything to me. It is part of me, as much as my soul is. It is integral to my being.”
He sighs, walking into the lobby.
“Now I move on to a much less pleasant subject, that of Sephiroth du Lac. I came to the United States in the hopes that I would find good wrestlers and not merely the cartoon characters and boogeymen of the past. With your appearance, I find myself sorely mistaken. That line of thought is alive and well, and you are unremarkable in who you are. Your surroundings indicate failings of the spirit, bathed as your environment is in debauchery and sin. Your actions have yet to show failings of the flesh. That will be determined, as so many things are in our line of work ,within the squared circle. Or the ring, or whatever other moniker you wish to bestow upon it. Perhaps you would prefer 'Satan's Domain'? Or 'unhallowed ground'? Whatever strikes your fancy, bizarre one...”
He enters the elevator with the camera.
“You style yourself as a vampire, a bloodthirsty and merciless creature of the night. What you are in reality is no more than a man who believes that it's Halloween every time he gets into the ring. That insults the people that pay to see wrestling and it insults your opponents. Theatrics are all well and fine, but this level of ridiculousness just cannot stand in a decent world. If you are truly what you claim, then could I not ward you off by carrying one of these?”
Tempestad fishes a crucifix out from under his wrestling top. He smirks, dropping it back in.
“My faith tells me that such creatures are a sin against God, and therefore cannot exist. So either you are a blasphemous stain on this Earth that I would be wholeheartedly ready to erase from the soil of God's land or a deluded fool who needs to be brought to his senses. I can test this when it comes time for our match. Carrying a crucifix, lacing the ring with garlic...many precautions could be taken against a vampire. But I believe you to be nothing more than a man. A man who is lost in his own world of fantasy and avarice. I sincerely wish you God's blessing and some clarity of thought, that you might realize the foolishness of your pretentions. That is unlikely to change either the behaviors or the appearance of one such as you, but I must make an effort to redeem others from their own demons.”
He exits the elevator, walking now down the hotel hallway towards his room.
“Xavier Williams. Black Jesus, the One Man Crusade. Talk and I will listen. Act and I will respond. I cannot make something out of nothing. So speak, man. Speak, and I will listen to your words.”
Tempestad turns down another hallway, approaching his room.
“Mysterio. You and I have, in your mind, unfinished business. As far as I am concerned, our business ended at the bell. You got pinned. That's too bad. This is the nature of our business. One man has to lose. It happened to be you. Sorry for your loss. You keep coming back to the fog...it does not scare me. I await your 'plans' with serenity, knowing that I have defeated you once before and I shall again.”
He reaches his door, pulling out the keycard and opening it. Tempestad looks to the camera lens one more time.
“To all of you...may the grace of the Lord guide you. I will see you on Friday. Adios, mis compadres.”
He smiles to the camera, crossing it and himself, and gently closes the door behind him. The segment fades out on this image.
“A new year. The celebration of the Savior's birth has come and gone, and with it so many things. We have new faces and old in this match on Friday. A former World Champion in Xavier Williams. The large and unmysterious Mr. Mysterio. A man of the cloth who I can respect and identify with, Gabriel Karras. And then there is du Lac...I will touch on him later. For now, I will address Father Karras.”
Tempestad turns, slowly walking out of what is revealed to be a Catholic church. The camera tracks him as he walks.
“You presented me with a simple question. You wanted me to explain what my mask meant. So I shall. My mask has a special significance to me beyond merely the usual connotations of a luchadore's mask. It was given to me by the man that taught me to wrestle. His name was Alejandro Davilla. He wrestled in my home state of Coahuila for thirty years as El Principe del Cielo. The man taught me everything he knew about wrestling and specifically about lucha libre. But he also exposed me to other wrestlers. I learned about Misawa, Kobashi, and Inoki from Mr. Davilla. He taught me to expand my horizons and learn from all styles, not just lucha. For that I am eternally grateful to him. Without that skill, I would not be half the wrestler I am today.”
Tempestad exits the church into the streets of Oakland, California. His coat flaps behind him lightly as the wind plays with it.
“He gave me my mask after eight long years of training. Alejandro said that it was intended for his son, but he had decided to go into politics instead. Receiving it was a true honor. I felt like he had adopted me as that of his own flesh. You know that feeling of being loved, Gabriel. To feel the Lord's love. I felt the love of that man then and I knew that I had found something truly unique. I would dare say that it was almost a holy thing, that passing of the torch. With the receipt of my mask, I felt I had become not only a true luchadore, but a man.”
He smiles fondly to himself, fingering the rosary. Tempestad turns towards downtown, where his hotel is.
“That is what my mask means to me, Gabriel Karras. It means love, and honor, and tradition. It means who I am, and what that man in Coahuila taught me. My mask is everything to me. It is part of me, as much as my soul is. It is integral to my being.”
He sighs, walking into the lobby.
“Now I move on to a much less pleasant subject, that of Sephiroth du Lac. I came to the United States in the hopes that I would find good wrestlers and not merely the cartoon characters and boogeymen of the past. With your appearance, I find myself sorely mistaken. That line of thought is alive and well, and you are unremarkable in who you are. Your surroundings indicate failings of the spirit, bathed as your environment is in debauchery and sin. Your actions have yet to show failings of the flesh. That will be determined, as so many things are in our line of work ,within the squared circle. Or the ring, or whatever other moniker you wish to bestow upon it. Perhaps you would prefer 'Satan's Domain'? Or 'unhallowed ground'? Whatever strikes your fancy, bizarre one...”
He enters the elevator with the camera.
“You style yourself as a vampire, a bloodthirsty and merciless creature of the night. What you are in reality is no more than a man who believes that it's Halloween every time he gets into the ring. That insults the people that pay to see wrestling and it insults your opponents. Theatrics are all well and fine, but this level of ridiculousness just cannot stand in a decent world. If you are truly what you claim, then could I not ward you off by carrying one of these?”
Tempestad fishes a crucifix out from under his wrestling top. He smirks, dropping it back in.
“My faith tells me that such creatures are a sin against God, and therefore cannot exist. So either you are a blasphemous stain on this Earth that I would be wholeheartedly ready to erase from the soil of God's land or a deluded fool who needs to be brought to his senses. I can test this when it comes time for our match. Carrying a crucifix, lacing the ring with garlic...many precautions could be taken against a vampire. But I believe you to be nothing more than a man. A man who is lost in his own world of fantasy and avarice. I sincerely wish you God's blessing and some clarity of thought, that you might realize the foolishness of your pretentions. That is unlikely to change either the behaviors or the appearance of one such as you, but I must make an effort to redeem others from their own demons.”
He exits the elevator, walking now down the hotel hallway towards his room.
“Xavier Williams. Black Jesus, the One Man Crusade. Talk and I will listen. Act and I will respond. I cannot make something out of nothing. So speak, man. Speak, and I will listen to your words.”
Tempestad turns down another hallway, approaching his room.
“Mysterio. You and I have, in your mind, unfinished business. As far as I am concerned, our business ended at the bell. You got pinned. That's too bad. This is the nature of our business. One man has to lose. It happened to be you. Sorry for your loss. You keep coming back to the fog...it does not scare me. I await your 'plans' with serenity, knowing that I have defeated you once before and I shall again.”
He reaches his door, pulling out the keycard and opening it. Tempestad looks to the camera lens one more time.
“To all of you...may the grace of the Lord guide you. I will see you on Friday. Adios, mis compadres.”
He smiles to the camera, crossing it and himself, and gently closes the door behind him. The segment fades out on this image.