Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Jul 9, 2010 2:53:06 GMT -6
We fade in on Andrew Jacobsen sitting in a hotel room at a table, something that we haven't caught him doing on camera for...weeks now. Dear God, the humanity! He's got a bottle of Coke in front of him, somewhat atypically, but the reason is revealed when Emma Danielson walks into the room, a bottle of Pepsi in her hand. Andrew looks at the Pepsi confusedly, and Emma rolls her eyes at his surprise.
"Look, I like Pepsi. Can we just get on with this? You know why I called. So can you explain that to me? Can you explain why I've taken a liking to this girl? I have no idea, frankly."
Andrew shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. He leans forward a bit, resting his arm on the table. Emma leans back,
"That depends on if you can help me figure out what to do against Velez. Something just isn't clicking there. I just can't think of what to do...see, since YOU came to ME, I figure you help me first. Alright?”
Emma sighs, setting down her drink. She grabs a few notecards that AJ had prepared earlier off the table, rifling through them as she reads at lightning-fast speed.
“Suppose I can. Uh huh. Okay. So that's what he's on about? Jesus, that's stupid. Right...right...aaaand done. I think I can help you.”
Andrew nods to her intently, hanging on her every word. Emma takes a sip of her Pepsi, glancing down at the notecards before she begins her musing.
“Okay then. Velez thinks you're an ill-informed idiot. Well, you ill-informed idiot, I did my research for you IN ANTICIPATION of your asking for this information, and here's what I got: he was a two-time X*Crown Champion, three-time Tag Champ with Venom—THAT'S where you got confused, Venom only had tag reigns—twice Junior Heavyweight Champion, and one time Phoenix Champion. So quite a bit more than you thought, dumbass.”
Andrew winces, sitting up. He looks over his cards, groaning.
“Yeah, yeah. I screwed up, you're right. So, he got a bunch of titles back there? Great. If he heard me talking to that goon Venom, he'd realize that I don't give a damn about that. For all his skill, for how long he's been at this...he still hasn't been World Champion. And I know that this title's the most important one he's ever held, buuuut...I guess he's going to lose it and have to go cry into his piles of money.”
Emma snorts at the visual. She shuffles along to the next card, reading it over again.
“So, do you actually KNOW what sort of style he wrestles? Are we talking “Rob Diamond's Cock-Punching Extravaganza” or something completely different? Well, Andy?”
Andrew stammers, not actually having done his research on Velez. Emma smirks, having caught him once again in his ill-informed state. She rolls her eyes, taking another drink.
“Yeah...so, I did your homework for you...again...that doesn't bring back any memories...and here's what I came up with: he wrestles a fairly technical style, which means he'll be a good matchup for you. Plenty of suplexes and arm locks. He throws in some high-flyer stuff here and there, so keep an eye out if you see him go to the turnbuckle. Could be nothing but bad news for you. I think you have him out-technicaled, though. Just remember to go to work on the legs early. Soften him up for something like a figure-four or cloverleaf. And for Christ's sake, don't flip out if the Office comes down. You can handle them.”
Andrew nods, pulling over one of the cards. He looks back at it, and the camera shows that he has the members of the Front Office and what matches they have at Picture Perfect, if any, written down. He grins, realizing that with the lone exception of Xavier Cross, every member of F.Off has a match.
“They're not stupid enough to jeopardize their matches by coming down and acting like a figurative shield for Charlie. I should be good. So, I guess that's my stuff taken care of. Now, about this girl...”
We fade out on Andrew and Emma talking, but their words are cut off by the audio muting.
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We fade back in on Andrew in a park. He's sitting on a park bench, although contrary to what you might think, he is NOT eyeing little girls with bad intent. That's Falcon's job. Andrew still has his half-drank bottle of Coke sitting next to him, but, in his usual tradition of wearing someone else's T-shirt, he's wearing an “I Believe In Joe Everyman” shirt. He grins as the camera focuses in on him.
“Ahh, Charlie. Thanks for the clarification. So you're a decorated veteran of that other place whose name we must never speak, lest Mongo the Destroyer come in and hit us with a lawsuit. Oh, and by the way, Doc's a druggie and Venom has chronic headaches. Boo hoo. What's next, JFK's going to get a papercut and not be able to compete? Oh, I know. Xavier Cross is gonna come down with a life-threatening stubbed toe and be put out of action for weeks. Seriously, man? Just get him some aspirin and get the hell over it.”
He grabs the bottle, taking a drink. Andrew shrugs, setting the bottle by one of his feet and looking back up.
“I'm sick and tired of you not taking me seriously. Charlie, if you let yourself keep this complacent crap up, I'm going to be walking out with the title, zero doubts. And if you don't nut up and remember that YOU ARE A WRESTLER IN ONE OF THE BIGGEST COMPANIES IN THE WORLD AND HAVE MORE MONEY THAN SOME SMALL CITIES, I might just have to start smacking you silly. Christ on a pogo stick, I've wrestled some messed-up people, but you've got an inferiority complex that makes even Bad Luck Chuck look like the world's most confident guy. Look at yourself. You're a champion, you're rich, you're famous, you've got a good family. Why in the hell are you depressive?”
Andrew shrugs, leaning back on the bench. Someone walks by and stops, looking at Andrew.
“Hey, aren't you Andrew Jacobsen?”
He nods, mildly surprised that someone recognized him, much less while he was wearing a Captain No-Show shirt.
“Yeah, that'd be me. What's up?”
The man turns to face Andrew, clearly north of three hundred pounds and very ill-kempt. He pompously clears his throat and begins to lecture Andrew.
“Well, for starters, you're utterly vapid and boring. Seriously, your character is decades old. You're completely out of touch with what a modern wrestling fan wants. We want people with layers, with complexity. You're one-dimensional. Plus, your talking skills are horrible. You're good in the ring, but you're just too bland to ever be a star. Personally, I think Charlie Velez is going to win, and rightfully so. He's so much cooler than you are. Y'know, since he's all complex and not a goody two-shoes.”
Andrew chuckles, standing up. He has about three inches of height on the other man, and the big guy gulps as Andrew stands, realizing that he might have picked a fight with the wrong guy.
“That's funny. That really is. Where do you get off saying I'm one-dimensional and out of touch? What do you want me to do, develop an addiction to painkillers like we're on a ***damn HBO drama? I'm a wrestler, not an actor. This isn't a character, it's who I am. And I'm sick and tired of people like you saying that I'm charismaless and I'll never be a star. Who the hell are you to judge me? Have you busted your ass in this business? Have you paid your dues? Have you put in the effort that I have to get where I am? No. So shut up with your “oh, Velez is going to win because he's more DEEP” crap. He's losing because he's not as good a wrestler as I am. Now get out of my way...I have some more training to do.”
Andrew walks off, the camera following him. It fades out on the other man spouting a tirade at Andrew, who jauntily replies with a wave and a ****-eating grin.
"Look, I like Pepsi. Can we just get on with this? You know why I called. So can you explain that to me? Can you explain why I've taken a liking to this girl? I have no idea, frankly."
Andrew shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. He leans forward a bit, resting his arm on the table. Emma leans back,
"That depends on if you can help me figure out what to do against Velez. Something just isn't clicking there. I just can't think of what to do...see, since YOU came to ME, I figure you help me first. Alright?”
Emma sighs, setting down her drink. She grabs a few notecards that AJ had prepared earlier off the table, rifling through them as she reads at lightning-fast speed.
“Suppose I can. Uh huh. Okay. So that's what he's on about? Jesus, that's stupid. Right...right...aaaand done. I think I can help you.”
Andrew nods to her intently, hanging on her every word. Emma takes a sip of her Pepsi, glancing down at the notecards before she begins her musing.
“Okay then. Velez thinks you're an ill-informed idiot. Well, you ill-informed idiot, I did my research for you IN ANTICIPATION of your asking for this information, and here's what I got: he was a two-time X*Crown Champion, three-time Tag Champ with Venom—THAT'S where you got confused, Venom only had tag reigns—twice Junior Heavyweight Champion, and one time Phoenix Champion. So quite a bit more than you thought, dumbass.”
Andrew winces, sitting up. He looks over his cards, groaning.
“Yeah, yeah. I screwed up, you're right. So, he got a bunch of titles back there? Great. If he heard me talking to that goon Venom, he'd realize that I don't give a damn about that. For all his skill, for how long he's been at this...he still hasn't been World Champion. And I know that this title's the most important one he's ever held, buuuut...I guess he's going to lose it and have to go cry into his piles of money.”
Emma snorts at the visual. She shuffles along to the next card, reading it over again.
“So, do you actually KNOW what sort of style he wrestles? Are we talking “Rob Diamond's Cock-Punching Extravaganza” or something completely different? Well, Andy?”
Andrew stammers, not actually having done his research on Velez. Emma smirks, having caught him once again in his ill-informed state. She rolls her eyes, taking another drink.
“Yeah...so, I did your homework for you...again...that doesn't bring back any memories...and here's what I came up with: he wrestles a fairly technical style, which means he'll be a good matchup for you. Plenty of suplexes and arm locks. He throws in some high-flyer stuff here and there, so keep an eye out if you see him go to the turnbuckle. Could be nothing but bad news for you. I think you have him out-technicaled, though. Just remember to go to work on the legs early. Soften him up for something like a figure-four or cloverleaf. And for Christ's sake, don't flip out if the Office comes down. You can handle them.”
Andrew nods, pulling over one of the cards. He looks back at it, and the camera shows that he has the members of the Front Office and what matches they have at Picture Perfect, if any, written down. He grins, realizing that with the lone exception of Xavier Cross, every member of F.Off has a match.
“They're not stupid enough to jeopardize their matches by coming down and acting like a figurative shield for Charlie. I should be good. So, I guess that's my stuff taken care of. Now, about this girl...”
We fade out on Andrew and Emma talking, but their words are cut off by the audio muting.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
We fade back in on Andrew in a park. He's sitting on a park bench, although contrary to what you might think, he is NOT eyeing little girls with bad intent. That's Falcon's job. Andrew still has his half-drank bottle of Coke sitting next to him, but, in his usual tradition of wearing someone else's T-shirt, he's wearing an “I Believe In Joe Everyman” shirt. He grins as the camera focuses in on him.
“Ahh, Charlie. Thanks for the clarification. So you're a decorated veteran of that other place whose name we must never speak, lest Mongo the Destroyer come in and hit us with a lawsuit. Oh, and by the way, Doc's a druggie and Venom has chronic headaches. Boo hoo. What's next, JFK's going to get a papercut and not be able to compete? Oh, I know. Xavier Cross is gonna come down with a life-threatening stubbed toe and be put out of action for weeks. Seriously, man? Just get him some aspirin and get the hell over it.”
He grabs the bottle, taking a drink. Andrew shrugs, setting the bottle by one of his feet and looking back up.
“I'm sick and tired of you not taking me seriously. Charlie, if you let yourself keep this complacent crap up, I'm going to be walking out with the title, zero doubts. And if you don't nut up and remember that YOU ARE A WRESTLER IN ONE OF THE BIGGEST COMPANIES IN THE WORLD AND HAVE MORE MONEY THAN SOME SMALL CITIES, I might just have to start smacking you silly. Christ on a pogo stick, I've wrestled some messed-up people, but you've got an inferiority complex that makes even Bad Luck Chuck look like the world's most confident guy. Look at yourself. You're a champion, you're rich, you're famous, you've got a good family. Why in the hell are you depressive?”
Andrew shrugs, leaning back on the bench. Someone walks by and stops, looking at Andrew.
“Hey, aren't you Andrew Jacobsen?”
He nods, mildly surprised that someone recognized him, much less while he was wearing a Captain No-Show shirt.
“Yeah, that'd be me. What's up?”
The man turns to face Andrew, clearly north of three hundred pounds and very ill-kempt. He pompously clears his throat and begins to lecture Andrew.
“Well, for starters, you're utterly vapid and boring. Seriously, your character is decades old. You're completely out of touch with what a modern wrestling fan wants. We want people with layers, with complexity. You're one-dimensional. Plus, your talking skills are horrible. You're good in the ring, but you're just too bland to ever be a star. Personally, I think Charlie Velez is going to win, and rightfully so. He's so much cooler than you are. Y'know, since he's all complex and not a goody two-shoes.”
Andrew chuckles, standing up. He has about three inches of height on the other man, and the big guy gulps as Andrew stands, realizing that he might have picked a fight with the wrong guy.
“That's funny. That really is. Where do you get off saying I'm one-dimensional and out of touch? What do you want me to do, develop an addiction to painkillers like we're on a ***damn HBO drama? I'm a wrestler, not an actor. This isn't a character, it's who I am. And I'm sick and tired of people like you saying that I'm charismaless and I'll never be a star. Who the hell are you to judge me? Have you busted your ass in this business? Have you paid your dues? Have you put in the effort that I have to get where I am? No. So shut up with your “oh, Velez is going to win because he's more DEEP” crap. He's losing because he's not as good a wrestler as I am. Now get out of my way...I have some more training to do.”
Andrew walks off, the camera following him. It fades out on the other man spouting a tirade at Andrew, who jauntily replies with a wave and a ****-eating grin.