Post by Jason Blair on Oct 21, 2010 19:22:07 GMT -6
“(voice over)It’s never really been my scene, the club thing.”
The voice over comes through crisp and clear over the attenuated thumping house music accompanying the video on screen. Jason sits on a luxurious white leather couch. His white suit exceeds the dress code of the trendy nightclub he’s attending, but it fits. It makes him feel like he’s above everyone else; which, of course, he is.
“(voice over)It’s not the music. I love the music. Something tribal, and pure – it lets your mind wander to more important things. No, the music is fine. It’s the people. I’m reminded how worthless and pathetic the general public really is. How sad it must be to trudge through a job that you hate every week, only to spend all of your money on the weekend, trying to show off a wealth that you don’t really have.”
Jason shoos a scantily clad woman away from his private table, and reaches for his clear glass of gin & tonic. He takes a small sip and looks out onto the dance floor. People dance, jump, and clap their hands in a drunken joy that he would never understand. Machado was in there, somewhere, bouncing around with a whistle, covered in neon body paint. If only he could live so carefree.
“(voice over)But they say you have to stay loose going into a match like this; a match that could very well decide the course of my entire career. Losing wouldn’t end my career completely, but it would mean that I’ve wasted the last month of my life. A month’s worth of studying video, a month’s worth of drilling reversals, counters, and backbreakers. Losing wouldn’t end my career, but it would sure hurt like hell.”
“It’s really not an option at this point. I’ve seen what happens to men that squander title opportunities in this place. Losing to Freakke could very well mean wrestling for nothing on Wired next month. That’s not where I belong. That isn’t the path that Jason Blair should be on.”
Another sip of the cool, strong drink. Finally, he starts to relax some. The tension of it all starts to wash away. His anxiety begins to transform into the confidence that he knew so well. Why was the doubt ever there in the first place? Jason Blair was better than Freakke the Clown. He knew it, and he’d prove it.
“(voice over)You’re right, clown – I am predictable. When wrestlers see my name next to theirs – they know exactly what they’re going to get. They’re going to get all they can handle, and probably more than that. They’re going to have their will tested. Sure, I’m monotonous. My in-ring approach is the same every week. Why change something that works so well? I don’t need the roar of the fans, or some false sense of worth and love. I don’t need to jump off the top rope, or flip around like some damned circus act for their approval.”
“I’m a wrestler. I’m paid to hurt people. You’re a clown, you’re paid to entertain people.[/color][/b]”
Thinking about Freakke soured Jason’s mood. He fills the half empty glass to the brim with gin; and takes a larger gulp. Turns out staying loose is easier said than done.
“(voice over)Disappointing the damned “cretins” will be almost as sweet as hoisting the National Title into the air. Good-for-nothing mindless idiots, running around with their faces painted as if their support actually means something. I’ll enjoy every frowning face. Every tear from every child will sweeten the pot of my victory. I’ll look out to them, while I snap your spine like a wishbone, and I’ll smile as the fear and helplessness wells up inside them. Then, when the inevitable finally does happen, when you’ve finally had enough, and you tell the ref that you’re done; I’ll celebrate while their hearts break in half.”
Jason smiles at the thought, and brings the glass to his mouth for another huge gulp. The bitterness no longer offends him at all. He is suddenly sufficiently numb, and this would be his last drink. He would remain in control of his body, and his actions. There would be no reckless behavior, not from Jason Blair, definitely not so close to Road to the Gold. Champions don’t act that way; and Jason Blair is a champion. He places the glass down and sinks back into the luxurious leather of the couch. The bass thumps rhythmically, and Blair’s mind wanders freely.
“(voice over)New Championship Wrestling will celebrate with me. Finally, they will have a champion that will be worthy of holding the National title. You call me stereotypical, but this is no stereotype. I am a prototype. I am the consummate professional, in an industry where my job is to break others. You admit that I broke you, and I say that I will do it again.”
“So in a way, I am a broken record; stuck on a song that you don’t want to hear. You just sit back, hoping that the song will change. Hoping that you can skip to one where you come out on top; but that isn’t how it works. Things haven’t changed just because you say they have. Sure, you lucked into a title that you don’t deserve; but you are still you, and I am still me.”
“I am still better than you;”
“And I will prove it on Sunday.”
“…Again.”
Blair neglects the end of his drink and stands up, looking around for the best way to leave. He doesn’t see a route that doesn’t involve ‘bumping elbows’ with the inferior public, so he motions for a bouncer to escort him out. The bouncer is smaller than Blair, but has no problem pushing and shoving club patrons out of the way. Jason follows behind, and is almost out of the door before one of the more intoxicated guys takes offense to being moved out of the way. He shoves the bouncer, who falls into Blair. Blair stumbles back, and is infuriated.
“INCOMPETANT F***!”
Blair’s voice roars over the music. He shoves the bouncer in the opposite direction, causing a chain reaction that ends with a frail younger woman being knocked into and onto a bar. Glasses crash and break loudly. The commotion draws more club employees, and Blair waves them toward him. They escort him to the back door where he makes his exit into the city streets.
“I have NEVER seen such pure-concentrated INCOMPETANCE in my life. I will not be returning to this piece of s*** establishment, and I’ll make sure that no one I know supports this third rate pile of garbage.[/color][/b]”
Jason spits on the ground in front of the gathering of employees. Most of which are bouncers. They stand with their arms crossed, obviously taking Jason for an obnoxious and belligerent drunk. Suddenly the back doors burst open, and the woman Jason knocked into the bar is rushed through. She’s unconscious, and her face is cut by a shard of glass. Blair curses as they rush by him, almost knocking him over.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole! That bitch just got blood on my suit.”
The valet pulls up Jason’s new Infiniti and hops out. Blair angrily gets into the car, shouting more obscenities along the way. He slams the driver’s side door shut, and pulls off recklessly before speeding down the city street and out of the picture.
fade
The voice over comes through crisp and clear over the attenuated thumping house music accompanying the video on screen. Jason sits on a luxurious white leather couch. His white suit exceeds the dress code of the trendy nightclub he’s attending, but it fits. It makes him feel like he’s above everyone else; which, of course, he is.
“(voice over)It’s not the music. I love the music. Something tribal, and pure – it lets your mind wander to more important things. No, the music is fine. It’s the people. I’m reminded how worthless and pathetic the general public really is. How sad it must be to trudge through a job that you hate every week, only to spend all of your money on the weekend, trying to show off a wealth that you don’t really have.”
Jason shoos a scantily clad woman away from his private table, and reaches for his clear glass of gin & tonic. He takes a small sip and looks out onto the dance floor. People dance, jump, and clap their hands in a drunken joy that he would never understand. Machado was in there, somewhere, bouncing around with a whistle, covered in neon body paint. If only he could live so carefree.
“(voice over)But they say you have to stay loose going into a match like this; a match that could very well decide the course of my entire career. Losing wouldn’t end my career completely, but it would mean that I’ve wasted the last month of my life. A month’s worth of studying video, a month’s worth of drilling reversals, counters, and backbreakers. Losing wouldn’t end my career, but it would sure hurt like hell.”
“It’s really not an option at this point. I’ve seen what happens to men that squander title opportunities in this place. Losing to Freakke could very well mean wrestling for nothing on Wired next month. That’s not where I belong. That isn’t the path that Jason Blair should be on.”
Another sip of the cool, strong drink. Finally, he starts to relax some. The tension of it all starts to wash away. His anxiety begins to transform into the confidence that he knew so well. Why was the doubt ever there in the first place? Jason Blair was better than Freakke the Clown. He knew it, and he’d prove it.
“(voice over)You’re right, clown – I am predictable. When wrestlers see my name next to theirs – they know exactly what they’re going to get. They’re going to get all they can handle, and probably more than that. They’re going to have their will tested. Sure, I’m monotonous. My in-ring approach is the same every week. Why change something that works so well? I don’t need the roar of the fans, or some false sense of worth and love. I don’t need to jump off the top rope, or flip around like some damned circus act for their approval.”
“I’m a wrestler. I’m paid to hurt people. You’re a clown, you’re paid to entertain people.[/color][/b]”
Thinking about Freakke soured Jason’s mood. He fills the half empty glass to the brim with gin; and takes a larger gulp. Turns out staying loose is easier said than done.
“(voice over)Disappointing the damned “cretins” will be almost as sweet as hoisting the National Title into the air. Good-for-nothing mindless idiots, running around with their faces painted as if their support actually means something. I’ll enjoy every frowning face. Every tear from every child will sweeten the pot of my victory. I’ll look out to them, while I snap your spine like a wishbone, and I’ll smile as the fear and helplessness wells up inside them. Then, when the inevitable finally does happen, when you’ve finally had enough, and you tell the ref that you’re done; I’ll celebrate while their hearts break in half.”
Jason smiles at the thought, and brings the glass to his mouth for another huge gulp. The bitterness no longer offends him at all. He is suddenly sufficiently numb, and this would be his last drink. He would remain in control of his body, and his actions. There would be no reckless behavior, not from Jason Blair, definitely not so close to Road to the Gold. Champions don’t act that way; and Jason Blair is a champion. He places the glass down and sinks back into the luxurious leather of the couch. The bass thumps rhythmically, and Blair’s mind wanders freely.
“(voice over)New Championship Wrestling will celebrate with me. Finally, they will have a champion that will be worthy of holding the National title. You call me stereotypical, but this is no stereotype. I am a prototype. I am the consummate professional, in an industry where my job is to break others. You admit that I broke you, and I say that I will do it again.”
“So in a way, I am a broken record; stuck on a song that you don’t want to hear. You just sit back, hoping that the song will change. Hoping that you can skip to one where you come out on top; but that isn’t how it works. Things haven’t changed just because you say they have. Sure, you lucked into a title that you don’t deserve; but you are still you, and I am still me.”
“I am still better than you;”
“And I will prove it on Sunday.”
“…Again.”
Blair neglects the end of his drink and stands up, looking around for the best way to leave. He doesn’t see a route that doesn’t involve ‘bumping elbows’ with the inferior public, so he motions for a bouncer to escort him out. The bouncer is smaller than Blair, but has no problem pushing and shoving club patrons out of the way. Jason follows behind, and is almost out of the door before one of the more intoxicated guys takes offense to being moved out of the way. He shoves the bouncer, who falls into Blair. Blair stumbles back, and is infuriated.
“INCOMPETANT F***!”
Blair’s voice roars over the music. He shoves the bouncer in the opposite direction, causing a chain reaction that ends with a frail younger woman being knocked into and onto a bar. Glasses crash and break loudly. The commotion draws more club employees, and Blair waves them toward him. They escort him to the back door where he makes his exit into the city streets.
“I have NEVER seen such pure-concentrated INCOMPETANCE in my life. I will not be returning to this piece of s*** establishment, and I’ll make sure that no one I know supports this third rate pile of garbage.[/color][/b]”
Jason spits on the ground in front of the gathering of employees. Most of which are bouncers. They stand with their arms crossed, obviously taking Jason for an obnoxious and belligerent drunk. Suddenly the back doors burst open, and the woman Jason knocked into the bar is rushed through. She’s unconscious, and her face is cut by a shard of glass. Blair curses as they rush by him, almost knocking him over.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole! That bitch just got blood on my suit.”
The valet pulls up Jason’s new Infiniti and hops out. Blair angrily gets into the car, shouting more obscenities along the way. He slams the driver’s side door shut, and pulls off recklessly before speeding down the city street and out of the picture.
fade