Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Sept 18, 2010 23:12:02 GMT -6
We open on Andrew Jacobsen in a familiar setting: the inside of Will Washington's home. He walks out of a room where presumably the Revolution has just finished their meeting, shaking his head. Andrew walks through the main hall, groaning and glancing back over his shoulder to the room. He pauses, wondering if he should go back in and try to pick up the pieces, but decides against it, instead taking a right and walking over to one of the chairs in the room. He sits down, rubbing his temples. As the headache begins to fully develop, Andrew winces, looking once more to the room. In the background, we hear a car door slam and the car start, presumably Brad Kane vacating the premises.
“Great. We're fragmented, we're arguing amongst ourselves...I'm gonna be impressed if we make it to Sunday. But we will. Just...somehow, some way, we will. We might not be able to agree on jack, but...who the hell am I kidding? Washington's a douchebag, Brad makes “mercurial” an understatement, and Kyle is...he's Kyle. Wish I could understand half of what that man does. On the plus side, we've got more talent on our team than the Front Office does on theirs. If we can pull our heads out of our collective asses, we might have a shot at this.”
Andrew looks back up again at the sound of screaming tires, a sad realization flooding him. He slumps back in the chair, looking drained of all his enthusiasm and prior energy. He sighs, a grim expression replacing the nervous grin that he wore out of the room.
“At least we're not the...god, can I even call them the Front Office team? Gibson feels like an afterthought, Velez is more for the Guns than anyone else, Everyman out and out said he hates Fox's guts...only Steve's really able to fly that banner. Even he's halfhearted now. I mean, the whole point of this crap was to get him the World Title and to get him Kelly. Does he have either? Hmm...no. I wouldn't be surprised if one of those guys walks out in the middle of the match. Even if we all are sick of each other, at least the Revolution's going to see the whole thing through.”
He chuckles to himself, sitting up. The sound of Will Washington ranting can be heard, although muffled, through the door. Andrew smirks, nodding as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and pulls open his e-mail inbox. As he's checking it, the door opens and Falcon walks out, jacket over his shoulder. He swings the door shut on a still ranting Washington. Andrew nods to Falcon, who returns the sentiment before walking out the door.
“Guess the weak link in their team's gotta be Joe Everyman. He hates every other man on the team, he's said that he hates what they stand for, and he wants to kick the ass of everyone in the match, not just his teammates. On the other hand, he hates the Revolution because...it shares part of its name with Adam's old stable? Are you serious, Joe? This isn't anything like that. For one, Adam didn't start this war. I did. Are you calling me an ingrate? Are you saying that I've been on top for too long? You're a dumbass, Joe. You're a grade-A bonafide dumbass. I've been wrestling for a year. Period. You? You've been at this for almost eight and a half years. You've done nothing of note in that time. Oh, you were the first three-time National Champion, yeah. Sorry. But with such momentous reigns as the one where you lost to Jackhammer a month after you won the title and the one where you lost it to the guy I pinned a few weeks ago...yeah, how could I forget?”
Andrew sits up, grabbing his jacket from a hook by the door. He looks over to the room, where Will's finally fallen silent, and shakes his head before he walks out into the night. Andrew shrugs on the jacket, fishing his keys out of his pocket, and walks over to his rental car, a different one from the one he had in LA.
“I swear, I'm billing Will for all of this...where was I? Oh yeah, insulting Joe Everyman. Well, there's only so much you can do that before it gets stale, so let's move on. Charlie Velez. Do you even know the definition of handpicked? It means directly selected for a specific purpose. You might have already had that title, but the fact is, Fox picked you to be part of the Front Office because he wanted to keep the National Title under his control. I know that Falcon never had the same interests as I did. I know that Brad stopped caring. I know that Adam had one thing on his mind and when he got it, he just dropped away. Do you think that means that I'll STOP caring? Hell no. I won't thank you for anything. I don't have anything to thank you for except making me realize that sometimes, the only guy you can put any faith in is yourself.”
Andrew gets in the car, firing it up and driving away. The mansion recedes in his rearview mirror, and Andrew shakes his head as it turns into a speck in the distance. He flips through the radio stations, not finding any decent songs before shutting off the radio and trying to concentrate on the road. Inevitably, he finds himself drifting back to the match and his opponents.
“Velez, you're all I hate about professional wrestling. You're good, but you can't seem to get it through your head that you should be grateful for your natural ability instead of waving it in everyone's faces like a jackass. Instead of accepting a loss and trying to get better from it, you whine and complain about it. I've got to say, my initial reaction to Freakke beating you was one of shock. But as it settled, I realized that Freakke's gotten to be a hell of a wrestler lately. And you've been slipping. Those two just converged at the right point, and...all of a sudden you're not National Champion anymore. Sucks, doesn't it?”
Andrew gets on the highway, headed towards the airport so he can get to LA in time for the show. He tries flipping through the dial again, but gets nothing once more. Andrew sighs, shutting the radio off and shaking his head as the lights flash by though the window.
“Charlie, this is my moment to, as you put it, come out of my shell. And I'm going to seize it and rise to the level that people have mocked me for not being at for the last year. Everyone takes time to develop. I'm finally ready to make myself...what's the word they use for the highest-caliber athletes in this business? What do they call the guys that get shots at the World Title, that hold the World Title? They call them main eventers. This is a main event. And it's going to be a great match. I've pinned three of the Young Guns. Can I make it four for four? Only one way to find out...”
Andrew pulls off the highway on the exit leading to the airport. He mentally runs through a checklist of things he has in the car, trying to ensure that he didn't forget anything at Will's.
“And then there's the Face of the Franchise, the Shaman of Sexy, the Lord of the Dance himself, Steve Awesome. Steve, what can I say about you that hasn't already been said? Oh, plenty. Charlie didn't make me his bitch, you vain mother****er. I lost, but I took him to his limit. I never asked for Will to sign up. He just got lumped in with us and it went from there. You call me naïve, you call me inexperienced...god, I'm sick of condescending sons of bitches like you. You want me to give you a big win? Here's the big win: I'm going to make you tap the **** out. I'm going to make you pound a hole in the mat, you'll be tapping so hard. I will light your back up in agony and I will make you respect me. If I have to leave you bleeding on the mat, I will. Anything to make you shut your ***damn mouth.”
He pulls into the rental lot, parking and shutting off the car. Andrew gets out, popping the trunk and grabbing his carry-on bag out. He slams the lid closed again, leaning on it for a minute as he looks at the terminal.
“Unlike most people, I really don't care about your personal life, with this pathetic reality TV show to find a replacement for Kelly and all that crap. I know that you're just going to end up giving some stupid girl who's willing to whore herself out for her fifteen minutes more diseases than a Dark Ages leper. What I care about is that you blew me off. Steve, if my big wins come once in a blue moon, then you had better look overhead. I didn't like you before, Steve. But you hurt the girl I love. Your insatiable ego got the entire company revolving around you. Every time I look at anything nCw puts out, I have to deal with seeing that grin on it. You're the Face of the Franchise, right? Consider me the sledgehammer that's going to bash you in. Leonard didn't give me anything. I've made my opportunities since Day One. You had him reshape this company just for you, and you blew it time and time again. Say what you will about my consistency, but at least I've got the balls to admit when I've screwed up.”
Andrew shifts his bag onto his shoulder, eyes ablaze. He speaks through clenched teeth, and his voice carries with it an anger that seems to grow with every word he speaks. Andrew's hand tightens around the car's keys, and his knuckles begin to whiten. He doesn't seem to care, though. Andrew seems to be off in another world, if the look in his eyes is anything to judge by.
“Steve, you're going to fail, just like you've failed in everything else with the Front Office. Charlie, you lost your title and this week you're going to lose to the man who just won't shut up. Gibson, you're too busy planning your victory celebration that you don't notice your impending doom. And Joe? You're too blinded by visions of future glory to realize that in the present, you still suck. The Revolution is not going away, not because you throw some words at us. I dislike one of you. I hate one of you. I want two of you dead. Road to the Gold comes up next month, and I promise you, I am going to tear through whoever they put me up against like wildfire. You four come first, though. I'll see you on Sunday, gentlemen. Prepare for war.”
F.T.B.
“Great. We're fragmented, we're arguing amongst ourselves...I'm gonna be impressed if we make it to Sunday. But we will. Just...somehow, some way, we will. We might not be able to agree on jack, but...who the hell am I kidding? Washington's a douchebag, Brad makes “mercurial” an understatement, and Kyle is...he's Kyle. Wish I could understand half of what that man does. On the plus side, we've got more talent on our team than the Front Office does on theirs. If we can pull our heads out of our collective asses, we might have a shot at this.”
Andrew looks back up again at the sound of screaming tires, a sad realization flooding him. He slumps back in the chair, looking drained of all his enthusiasm and prior energy. He sighs, a grim expression replacing the nervous grin that he wore out of the room.
“At least we're not the...god, can I even call them the Front Office team? Gibson feels like an afterthought, Velez is more for the Guns than anyone else, Everyman out and out said he hates Fox's guts...only Steve's really able to fly that banner. Even he's halfhearted now. I mean, the whole point of this crap was to get him the World Title and to get him Kelly. Does he have either? Hmm...no. I wouldn't be surprised if one of those guys walks out in the middle of the match. Even if we all are sick of each other, at least the Revolution's going to see the whole thing through.”
He chuckles to himself, sitting up. The sound of Will Washington ranting can be heard, although muffled, through the door. Andrew smirks, nodding as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and pulls open his e-mail inbox. As he's checking it, the door opens and Falcon walks out, jacket over his shoulder. He swings the door shut on a still ranting Washington. Andrew nods to Falcon, who returns the sentiment before walking out the door.
“Guess the weak link in their team's gotta be Joe Everyman. He hates every other man on the team, he's said that he hates what they stand for, and he wants to kick the ass of everyone in the match, not just his teammates. On the other hand, he hates the Revolution because...it shares part of its name with Adam's old stable? Are you serious, Joe? This isn't anything like that. For one, Adam didn't start this war. I did. Are you calling me an ingrate? Are you saying that I've been on top for too long? You're a dumbass, Joe. You're a grade-A bonafide dumbass. I've been wrestling for a year. Period. You? You've been at this for almost eight and a half years. You've done nothing of note in that time. Oh, you were the first three-time National Champion, yeah. Sorry. But with such momentous reigns as the one where you lost to Jackhammer a month after you won the title and the one where you lost it to the guy I pinned a few weeks ago...yeah, how could I forget?”
Andrew sits up, grabbing his jacket from a hook by the door. He looks over to the room, where Will's finally fallen silent, and shakes his head before he walks out into the night. Andrew shrugs on the jacket, fishing his keys out of his pocket, and walks over to his rental car, a different one from the one he had in LA.
“I swear, I'm billing Will for all of this...where was I? Oh yeah, insulting Joe Everyman. Well, there's only so much you can do that before it gets stale, so let's move on. Charlie Velez. Do you even know the definition of handpicked? It means directly selected for a specific purpose. You might have already had that title, but the fact is, Fox picked you to be part of the Front Office because he wanted to keep the National Title under his control. I know that Falcon never had the same interests as I did. I know that Brad stopped caring. I know that Adam had one thing on his mind and when he got it, he just dropped away. Do you think that means that I'll STOP caring? Hell no. I won't thank you for anything. I don't have anything to thank you for except making me realize that sometimes, the only guy you can put any faith in is yourself.”
Andrew gets in the car, firing it up and driving away. The mansion recedes in his rearview mirror, and Andrew shakes his head as it turns into a speck in the distance. He flips through the radio stations, not finding any decent songs before shutting off the radio and trying to concentrate on the road. Inevitably, he finds himself drifting back to the match and his opponents.
“Velez, you're all I hate about professional wrestling. You're good, but you can't seem to get it through your head that you should be grateful for your natural ability instead of waving it in everyone's faces like a jackass. Instead of accepting a loss and trying to get better from it, you whine and complain about it. I've got to say, my initial reaction to Freakke beating you was one of shock. But as it settled, I realized that Freakke's gotten to be a hell of a wrestler lately. And you've been slipping. Those two just converged at the right point, and...all of a sudden you're not National Champion anymore. Sucks, doesn't it?”
Andrew gets on the highway, headed towards the airport so he can get to LA in time for the show. He tries flipping through the dial again, but gets nothing once more. Andrew sighs, shutting the radio off and shaking his head as the lights flash by though the window.
“Charlie, this is my moment to, as you put it, come out of my shell. And I'm going to seize it and rise to the level that people have mocked me for not being at for the last year. Everyone takes time to develop. I'm finally ready to make myself...what's the word they use for the highest-caliber athletes in this business? What do they call the guys that get shots at the World Title, that hold the World Title? They call them main eventers. This is a main event. And it's going to be a great match. I've pinned three of the Young Guns. Can I make it four for four? Only one way to find out...”
Andrew pulls off the highway on the exit leading to the airport. He mentally runs through a checklist of things he has in the car, trying to ensure that he didn't forget anything at Will's.
“And then there's the Face of the Franchise, the Shaman of Sexy, the Lord of the Dance himself, Steve Awesome. Steve, what can I say about you that hasn't already been said? Oh, plenty. Charlie didn't make me his bitch, you vain mother****er. I lost, but I took him to his limit. I never asked for Will to sign up. He just got lumped in with us and it went from there. You call me naïve, you call me inexperienced...god, I'm sick of condescending sons of bitches like you. You want me to give you a big win? Here's the big win: I'm going to make you tap the **** out. I'm going to make you pound a hole in the mat, you'll be tapping so hard. I will light your back up in agony and I will make you respect me. If I have to leave you bleeding on the mat, I will. Anything to make you shut your ***damn mouth.”
He pulls into the rental lot, parking and shutting off the car. Andrew gets out, popping the trunk and grabbing his carry-on bag out. He slams the lid closed again, leaning on it for a minute as he looks at the terminal.
“Unlike most people, I really don't care about your personal life, with this pathetic reality TV show to find a replacement for Kelly and all that crap. I know that you're just going to end up giving some stupid girl who's willing to whore herself out for her fifteen minutes more diseases than a Dark Ages leper. What I care about is that you blew me off. Steve, if my big wins come once in a blue moon, then you had better look overhead. I didn't like you before, Steve. But you hurt the girl I love. Your insatiable ego got the entire company revolving around you. Every time I look at anything nCw puts out, I have to deal with seeing that grin on it. You're the Face of the Franchise, right? Consider me the sledgehammer that's going to bash you in. Leonard didn't give me anything. I've made my opportunities since Day One. You had him reshape this company just for you, and you blew it time and time again. Say what you will about my consistency, but at least I've got the balls to admit when I've screwed up.”
Andrew shifts his bag onto his shoulder, eyes ablaze. He speaks through clenched teeth, and his voice carries with it an anger that seems to grow with every word he speaks. Andrew's hand tightens around the car's keys, and his knuckles begin to whiten. He doesn't seem to care, though. Andrew seems to be off in another world, if the look in his eyes is anything to judge by.
“Steve, you're going to fail, just like you've failed in everything else with the Front Office. Charlie, you lost your title and this week you're going to lose to the man who just won't shut up. Gibson, you're too busy planning your victory celebration that you don't notice your impending doom. And Joe? You're too blinded by visions of future glory to realize that in the present, you still suck. The Revolution is not going away, not because you throw some words at us. I dislike one of you. I hate one of you. I want two of you dead. Road to the Gold comes up next month, and I promise you, I am going to tear through whoever they put me up against like wildfire. You four come first, though. I'll see you on Sunday, gentlemen. Prepare for war.”
F.T.B.