Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Sept 16, 2010 17:26:25 GMT -6
We open on Andrew Jacobsen sitting on the hood of his rental car. He's parked in the parking lot of the Staples Center, and for once he isn't wearing one of nCw's merchandised shirts. He's just got on a plain black T-shirt and jeans. Andrew looks at the building, big posters advertising Battlegrounds plastered around the area. He sighs, looking down at the hood of the car. Andrew drums on it with his fingers for a few moments before finally speaking. His voice is almost hollow, and his words show that he's weary. Maybe not physically, but emotionally he's been beat down.
“This is it. This is the grand blowoff to the feud of the summer. The Revolution and the Front Office clash in the destructive confines of the Warfare match, with only Gib to keep us from utter chaos. But that's not what it feels like. It feels like it did when I started: I feel alone. Everyone else has their own agendas. My teammates have other issues on their mind, my opponents are fractured and bickering...and here I am, in the eye of the storm. I'm looking in on myself and I have to ask...why did I try? Why did I try to do what I thought was right? This isn't the business for sentimentality. Why?”
He shakes his head, looking up again. The bags under his eyes are striking, considering AJ usually appears to be in great shape physically when he promos. He rubs his eyes, yawning a bit. Andrew shakes his head, trying to will himself on through the video. He steeples his fingers, looking around carefully as he speaks.
“Why? Because I don't care about people telling me that I'm wrong to stick to my guns. I care about my family. I care about my friends, even if they don't care about me. But I will never care if someone tells me that I'm wrong. Because Charlie Velez isn't going to change my mind. Nobody's going to break my spirit. Not Steve Awesome. Not Ron Gibson or Joe freakin' Everyman. I may be disenchanted with the Revolution, but I still hold what it stood for high and tight. Try to rip that away from me, I dare you. Try to make me change.”
He ponders standing up from the hood, deciding against it. Clouds are beginning to fill the sky over Los Angeles, perhaps threatening rain. Andrew sighs, his hands moving to his sides and resting on the hood. Unconsciously he begins drumming on the hood again, quietly.
“Charlie Velez. We've done this dance too often. We've swapped victories. Unfortunately, mine came in a tag match when I pinned your running buddy JFK. I'm sick and tired of this vicious cycle, Charlie. You want me to lay out what I believe in, Mr. Clutch? I believe in getting the chance to prove yourself instead of having an old man handpick who HE wants to be the upper echelon. I believe in fair fights, instead of circling like a pack of wolves and taking shots at targets that can't defend themselves. I obviously haven't done anything worthwhile, though...I try to stand up for the girl I like? I choke when I have the chance to tell her how I feel and she ends up siding with you. I try to prove myself against you, I end up choking. It seems like all I've been able to do in this whole thing is choke. And when me and Brad decided that enough was enough with the Reign of Awesome? We never got anything done. Everyone quickly developed their own problems.”
He sighs, clenching his right hand into a fist. This stops the drumming. Andrew looks down, running his hand through his hair nervously. All of the bravado and confidence he showed last week is gone. Instead, we see that Andrew's finally beginning to crack. Not in an angry, uncontrolled way...but in a much more sinister fashion. His voice doesn't betray the stress fractures that are beginning to show, however.
“Brad just got apathetic. He saw that we were effectively hamsters on a giant treadmill and stopped caring. Falcon? He's concerned about Zelda to a fault, and I give him credit for that. It just somewhat pisses me off that last week two of our members decided that it was more important to avenge her getting hurt—when she's fully capable of avenging herself by herself, as we've seen—than finally putting the nail in this whole business with the Front Office. Know what? Adam, congratulations. Beat the living hell out of that fanged freak and make him pay for what his goons did to her. If I didn't have to fight the Office's contingent, I'd have loved to get that chance. But the thing is...I know that there's more than one thing to deal with. If you two want to take care of Fangs, I suppose I'm going to have to mop up these guys.”
Andrew finally lifts himself off the hood, standing in front of the car. His feet disturb the gravel, making a crackling sound as he steps away from his former resting place. Andrew looks back at the Staples Center, feeling a massive swell of regret mounting in his throat. He fights it back down, managing a grin as he sees the two teams in the Warfare match arrayed against each other on one of the larger posters. His smile fades somewhat when he sees himself matched across from Ron Gibson in the background.
“I hate feeling like an afterthought. I'm glad I got into the main event. Not my first main event, so Charlie can take that and stuff it. I think it might be his first, though. Not sure, I'll have to check on that. On top of it, I get to accomplish one of my dreams: I get to wrestle Steve Awesome. Likely, that is. I might never get the chance to actually lock up with him, but I'm hoping I can. The man, douchebag or not—and he most definitely is one—is still a certifiable legend. Former World Champion I don't know how many times over, Face of the Franchise, Hall of Famer...you're incredible. I'm just as good as you, though. I promise. It's a hell of a statement, I know. But this is put up or shut up, one more time. This is me hanging with the big dogs, the guys no rookie should be able to stand toe-to-toe with. But here I am, not even one year in this business and I'm main-eventing pay-per-views against men like Steve Awesome. Hell of a feeling, let me tell you.”
He absentmindedly reaches into his pocket and locks the car, beginning to walk towards the Staples Center. He pulls the keys out of his pocket, shifting them around in his hand and tossing them up in the air to catch them as he walks.
“But then I realize that I have to deal with guys like Joe Everyman and Ron Gibson. Ron's like a fat, redneck version of Marty Jannetty: hopelessly outclassed by his former tag team partner and relevant only when someone's got something to prove. I already beat Curtis. I can beat you no problem. See, the fundamental difference between you and Kanyon is that Curtis has talent when he doesn't have someone backing him up. He's probably one of the most unpredictably clever men I've ever met. There's a reason he's challenging for the World Title, after all. Ron, you're just another cog in the machine...albeit a deranged, disgusting cog. Think about it. One of your teammates was putting you through a table not weeks ago. Now you're supposed to be partners with him? That doesn't seem like a recipe for success to me.”
Andrew grins, pocketing the keys and angling for the exit to the lot. He glances down the street to ensure he isn't going to get run over before darting down to the crosswalk and across the street. Andrew grins to himself as he glances back, the light turning just as he finishes crossing.
“And then there's Joe Everyman. Joe, what can I say? I've wrestled you, I've beaten you. You might be the New And Improved Joe Everyman With Minty Fresh Scent, but you're still gonna be the same goon I've made tap out. And it's a shame too, because you've fallen so damn far. You were National Champion earlier this year. Now you're just Ashlie Ember's bitch. Come on. Man up! You've abandoned your wife to Karras now? What the hell's wrong with that? If I were you, I'd be out there fighting to get her back, not running around with Adam Knite's sloppy seconds. 'course, that basically sums up your career, doesn't it? Always lagging behind the big dogs, never getting that handhold on greatness. You've got all the tools, all the potential, all the horsepower you need. You just can't seem to put that to work. Maybe this is the right path for you...but it isn't the right night.”
He takes a few more steps, looking up at the massive outer wall of the Center. Andrew looks back down again, sighing as he begins to walk towards the doors. His head's still down, but his voice carries, determined now instead of weary.
“So we fight. We fight on, not because we choose to but because we must. We all have something to fight for. Me? I'm fighting for all of those fans that are going to pack this arena to see the Revolution kick the Front Office's ass all the way back to Dallas. I'm fighting for my honor and the chance to prove that I'm the next Face of the Franchise. Eight men will enter this match. Only one team will exit victorious. I've had it with being pushed around. I've had it with being shoved aside. It's my time, ***damnit. I pity any of you four that gets in my way. We will win, I promise you. So take all your threats, all your lines about me being a little boy among the big dogs, every single solitary damn thing you have ever siad about me not being good enough, and throw them out the window. I'm not taking any prisoners this week. I'll see you gentlemen on Sunday.”
He walks away, the camera following him from a distance as he walks into the building. It fades out on AJ turning the corner and walking out of sight.
“This is it. This is the grand blowoff to the feud of the summer. The Revolution and the Front Office clash in the destructive confines of the Warfare match, with only Gib to keep us from utter chaos. But that's not what it feels like. It feels like it did when I started: I feel alone. Everyone else has their own agendas. My teammates have other issues on their mind, my opponents are fractured and bickering...and here I am, in the eye of the storm. I'm looking in on myself and I have to ask...why did I try? Why did I try to do what I thought was right? This isn't the business for sentimentality. Why?”
He shakes his head, looking up again. The bags under his eyes are striking, considering AJ usually appears to be in great shape physically when he promos. He rubs his eyes, yawning a bit. Andrew shakes his head, trying to will himself on through the video. He steeples his fingers, looking around carefully as he speaks.
“Why? Because I don't care about people telling me that I'm wrong to stick to my guns. I care about my family. I care about my friends, even if they don't care about me. But I will never care if someone tells me that I'm wrong. Because Charlie Velez isn't going to change my mind. Nobody's going to break my spirit. Not Steve Awesome. Not Ron Gibson or Joe freakin' Everyman. I may be disenchanted with the Revolution, but I still hold what it stood for high and tight. Try to rip that away from me, I dare you. Try to make me change.”
He ponders standing up from the hood, deciding against it. Clouds are beginning to fill the sky over Los Angeles, perhaps threatening rain. Andrew sighs, his hands moving to his sides and resting on the hood. Unconsciously he begins drumming on the hood again, quietly.
“Charlie Velez. We've done this dance too often. We've swapped victories. Unfortunately, mine came in a tag match when I pinned your running buddy JFK. I'm sick and tired of this vicious cycle, Charlie. You want me to lay out what I believe in, Mr. Clutch? I believe in getting the chance to prove yourself instead of having an old man handpick who HE wants to be the upper echelon. I believe in fair fights, instead of circling like a pack of wolves and taking shots at targets that can't defend themselves. I obviously haven't done anything worthwhile, though...I try to stand up for the girl I like? I choke when I have the chance to tell her how I feel and she ends up siding with you. I try to prove myself against you, I end up choking. It seems like all I've been able to do in this whole thing is choke. And when me and Brad decided that enough was enough with the Reign of Awesome? We never got anything done. Everyone quickly developed their own problems.”
He sighs, clenching his right hand into a fist. This stops the drumming. Andrew looks down, running his hand through his hair nervously. All of the bravado and confidence he showed last week is gone. Instead, we see that Andrew's finally beginning to crack. Not in an angry, uncontrolled way...but in a much more sinister fashion. His voice doesn't betray the stress fractures that are beginning to show, however.
“Brad just got apathetic. He saw that we were effectively hamsters on a giant treadmill and stopped caring. Falcon? He's concerned about Zelda to a fault, and I give him credit for that. It just somewhat pisses me off that last week two of our members decided that it was more important to avenge her getting hurt—when she's fully capable of avenging herself by herself, as we've seen—than finally putting the nail in this whole business with the Front Office. Know what? Adam, congratulations. Beat the living hell out of that fanged freak and make him pay for what his goons did to her. If I didn't have to fight the Office's contingent, I'd have loved to get that chance. But the thing is...I know that there's more than one thing to deal with. If you two want to take care of Fangs, I suppose I'm going to have to mop up these guys.”
Andrew finally lifts himself off the hood, standing in front of the car. His feet disturb the gravel, making a crackling sound as he steps away from his former resting place. Andrew looks back at the Staples Center, feeling a massive swell of regret mounting in his throat. He fights it back down, managing a grin as he sees the two teams in the Warfare match arrayed against each other on one of the larger posters. His smile fades somewhat when he sees himself matched across from Ron Gibson in the background.
“I hate feeling like an afterthought. I'm glad I got into the main event. Not my first main event, so Charlie can take that and stuff it. I think it might be his first, though. Not sure, I'll have to check on that. On top of it, I get to accomplish one of my dreams: I get to wrestle Steve Awesome. Likely, that is. I might never get the chance to actually lock up with him, but I'm hoping I can. The man, douchebag or not—and he most definitely is one—is still a certifiable legend. Former World Champion I don't know how many times over, Face of the Franchise, Hall of Famer...you're incredible. I'm just as good as you, though. I promise. It's a hell of a statement, I know. But this is put up or shut up, one more time. This is me hanging with the big dogs, the guys no rookie should be able to stand toe-to-toe with. But here I am, not even one year in this business and I'm main-eventing pay-per-views against men like Steve Awesome. Hell of a feeling, let me tell you.”
He absentmindedly reaches into his pocket and locks the car, beginning to walk towards the Staples Center. He pulls the keys out of his pocket, shifting them around in his hand and tossing them up in the air to catch them as he walks.
“But then I realize that I have to deal with guys like Joe Everyman and Ron Gibson. Ron's like a fat, redneck version of Marty Jannetty: hopelessly outclassed by his former tag team partner and relevant only when someone's got something to prove. I already beat Curtis. I can beat you no problem. See, the fundamental difference between you and Kanyon is that Curtis has talent when he doesn't have someone backing him up. He's probably one of the most unpredictably clever men I've ever met. There's a reason he's challenging for the World Title, after all. Ron, you're just another cog in the machine...albeit a deranged, disgusting cog. Think about it. One of your teammates was putting you through a table not weeks ago. Now you're supposed to be partners with him? That doesn't seem like a recipe for success to me.”
Andrew grins, pocketing the keys and angling for the exit to the lot. He glances down the street to ensure he isn't going to get run over before darting down to the crosswalk and across the street. Andrew grins to himself as he glances back, the light turning just as he finishes crossing.
“And then there's Joe Everyman. Joe, what can I say? I've wrestled you, I've beaten you. You might be the New And Improved Joe Everyman With Minty Fresh Scent, but you're still gonna be the same goon I've made tap out. And it's a shame too, because you've fallen so damn far. You were National Champion earlier this year. Now you're just Ashlie Ember's bitch. Come on. Man up! You've abandoned your wife to Karras now? What the hell's wrong with that? If I were you, I'd be out there fighting to get her back, not running around with Adam Knite's sloppy seconds. 'course, that basically sums up your career, doesn't it? Always lagging behind the big dogs, never getting that handhold on greatness. You've got all the tools, all the potential, all the horsepower you need. You just can't seem to put that to work. Maybe this is the right path for you...but it isn't the right night.”
He takes a few more steps, looking up at the massive outer wall of the Center. Andrew looks back down again, sighing as he begins to walk towards the doors. His head's still down, but his voice carries, determined now instead of weary.
“So we fight. We fight on, not because we choose to but because we must. We all have something to fight for. Me? I'm fighting for all of those fans that are going to pack this arena to see the Revolution kick the Front Office's ass all the way back to Dallas. I'm fighting for my honor and the chance to prove that I'm the next Face of the Franchise. Eight men will enter this match. Only one team will exit victorious. I've had it with being pushed around. I've had it with being shoved aside. It's my time, ***damnit. I pity any of you four that gets in my way. We will win, I promise you. So take all your threats, all your lines about me being a little boy among the big dogs, every single solitary damn thing you have ever siad about me not being good enough, and throw them out the window. I'm not taking any prisoners this week. I'll see you gentlemen on Sunday.”
He walks away, the camera following him from a distance as he walks into the building. It fades out on AJ turning the corner and walking out of sight.