Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Feb 2, 2011 20:59:07 GMT -6
We open backstage after Collision. A bloodied and bruised Andrew Jacobsen staggers back towards the locker room, not acknowledging anyone. The numb pain of seeing Rob Diamond be a better friend than him, the brawl he had with Steve, getting kicked in the nuts, losing the title match because of Awesome...it all was piling on. Each step he takes seems like lifting a lead weight. He brushes off a trainer trying to attend to the open cuts on his forehead, just wanting the isolation of the locker room. He spits out a mouthful of bloody saliva, looking up to see the door. He makes it over, opening it with his head hung. Andrew steps in, closing it behind him, and turns around to see Ander Carvetti, Roxxxie, and Ayako Minemura standing there. He looks at them in disbelief, shaking his head and finally speaking.
“Wha...why are you here? Were you waiting for me?”
They nod, almost as one. Ander steps forward, his usual neutral grimace on his face, and offers a handshake.
“Err... thanks. You, uh, didn't have to do that. You had your own match and you decided to help me when damn near no one else outside of Trent would have stepped up. I, umm... appreciate that.”
Andrew takes the handshake, shaking firmly. Carvetti nods, stepping back. Roxxxie nods as well, speaking up.
“We all went down hard tonight. But the Rat Pack keeps on fighting. Hell, you saw my match. Do you think I'm giving up? We just keep going. That's who we are. You can't be the best if you don't fight in the first place.”
She smiles a bit, leaning in and giving Andrew a hug. He winces, smiling through the pain as he returns it. Andrew lets her step back, surveying the three.
“Look, I've been burned before on stuff like this. The Revolution fell apart because nobody cared. I saw how Holliday crumbled...I'm not sure if I can be consistent enough. I don't want to flake out on you. You're better than that. You deserve better than that. I'm sorry we couldn't pull it out this week. Thanks for the gesture, though.”
Andrew turns to leave, but Ayako clears her throat. He turns back around, cocking an eyebrow as she speaks to him.
“Andrew, I called you for a reason. I knew that you were one of the best men on this roster, bar none. I knew that you're the sort of person that's agreeable to this sort of last-minute thing. And, moreover, I picked you because you respected your competition. You know how to approach it like a real athletic event, not just a trash-talking contest punctuated by fists. You don't have to worry about “flaking” with us. I can only speak for myself, but I believe that you're good enough no matter how we did out there.”
Andrew pauses for a second, looking to Ander and Roxxxie. The silent nods of assent from them confirm Andrew's suspicions, and he steps away from the door. He looks at them solemnly for a moment, then a grin spreads across his face. He offers his hand to Ander, who takes it. AJ shakes his hand with a huge grin on his face.
“Well then, I guess the Rat Pack rides again. Guys...I need to rest, but consider the offer accepted. Talk to you three in the morning.”
Andrew nods to each of them in turn before tossing off a salute and walking out of the locker room. He walks away, injuries driven from his thoughts. Instead, he thinks of what can be with his new allies, and what he'll be able to do. We fade out on the sight of Andrew, scheming for the future.
_______________________________________________
We open back up on Andrew Jacobsen, standing outside the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit, Michigan. He's wearing a peacoat, and his hair is impeccably done, even though there's nobody around but him and the cameraman. He grins, seeing his breath cloud the air in front of him, and speaks with the calm demeanor of a man with nothing to lose.
“So this is how it ends, Steve. You and me, in the Joe Louis Arena. 20,000 screaming fans, in your hometown of Detroit, Michigan. You humiliated me at the Target Center in front of my family. You've mocked me and made my life hell for months. Even past the whole “personal” stage, back through the Front Office and Revolution. Steve, you've dominated the story of nCw for the last year...but it's a new start. 2011's barely begun, and I'm going to set a good tone for it by making you scream who your daddy is to the Motor City.”
He smirks, pulling a toothpick out of his pocket and ensuring he doesn't have anything in his teeth. AJ leaves it clamped between his back teeth, briefly pulling his gloves on more to ensure proper warmth. He looks over to the camera, giving a subtle signal. He nods after a moment, indicating he got a response.
“I know what you're thinking, and it's the same thing that Maniac thought last week: “This is Andrew Jacobsen. He doesn't have enough balls to do anything.” Well, enough is enough, and it's time for a change. I'm not going to let ANYONE kick me around anymore. Not you, not Leonard Fox, not Rob Diamond. NOBODY is going to dictate my fate anymore but me. If you want to treat me like a pushover, prepare to be snapped into so many pieces they'll need to duct tape you back together. Your funeral, pal.”
He stops leaning on the wall, beginning to walk down the sidewalk at a relaxed pace. The camera has no problem keeping up with him, and he takes the moment to phrase everything correctly before continuing to speak.
“This isn't just for me and all the **** you've given me, though. This is for all the people it's affected throughout the months. The first that come to mind are my partners. From people like Brad Kane and Will Washington who got screwed by the Front Office to last week with Ander Carvetti, you've been causing trouble for anyone that allies themselves with me. Steve, that's why I do things like breaking the glass on your limo and locking Jayson Matthews in the Sharpshooter. It's an eye for an eye, buddy. You've overextended this time, though. I'm not just taking the eye. I'm going to take your whole head.”
Andrew looks up, chuckling humorlessly again. He doesn't seem to be as concerned as he might be in this situation, and his body language radiates confidence rather than the introspection or timidity that might be seen in the face of a Hall of Famer.
“Steve, you've cost people around me titles, you've killed their careers, and you've corrupted their minds. All you touch turns to ash, and blows away in the breeze. Not this week. Not this time. I'm done being the Boy Scout, the guy who thinks that there's good in the heart of everyone. No more of that crap. I'm going to do what I should have done the first time and brutalize you so badly you won't want to even hear my name again. I've already got you running from me, scared ****less. All that's left is the finishing blow, the masterstroke. On Sunday, the thousands in attendence and millions watching at home are going to hear you scream those three words that you dread saying. You're going to give up, Steve. You will admit that I'm the better man. And at the end of the night, I'm going to leave you in that crumpled heap and not look back for a heartbeat. God have mercy on you, Awesome. He knows I won't.”
Andrew walks off into the night. Fade out.
“Wha...why are you here? Were you waiting for me?”
They nod, almost as one. Ander steps forward, his usual neutral grimace on his face, and offers a handshake.
“Err... thanks. You, uh, didn't have to do that. You had your own match and you decided to help me when damn near no one else outside of Trent would have stepped up. I, umm... appreciate that.”
Andrew takes the handshake, shaking firmly. Carvetti nods, stepping back. Roxxxie nods as well, speaking up.
“We all went down hard tonight. But the Rat Pack keeps on fighting. Hell, you saw my match. Do you think I'm giving up? We just keep going. That's who we are. You can't be the best if you don't fight in the first place.”
She smiles a bit, leaning in and giving Andrew a hug. He winces, smiling through the pain as he returns it. Andrew lets her step back, surveying the three.
“Look, I've been burned before on stuff like this. The Revolution fell apart because nobody cared. I saw how Holliday crumbled...I'm not sure if I can be consistent enough. I don't want to flake out on you. You're better than that. You deserve better than that. I'm sorry we couldn't pull it out this week. Thanks for the gesture, though.”
Andrew turns to leave, but Ayako clears her throat. He turns back around, cocking an eyebrow as she speaks to him.
“Andrew, I called you for a reason. I knew that you were one of the best men on this roster, bar none. I knew that you're the sort of person that's agreeable to this sort of last-minute thing. And, moreover, I picked you because you respected your competition. You know how to approach it like a real athletic event, not just a trash-talking contest punctuated by fists. You don't have to worry about “flaking” with us. I can only speak for myself, but I believe that you're good enough no matter how we did out there.”
Andrew pauses for a second, looking to Ander and Roxxxie. The silent nods of assent from them confirm Andrew's suspicions, and he steps away from the door. He looks at them solemnly for a moment, then a grin spreads across his face. He offers his hand to Ander, who takes it. AJ shakes his hand with a huge grin on his face.
“Well then, I guess the Rat Pack rides again. Guys...I need to rest, but consider the offer accepted. Talk to you three in the morning.”
Andrew nods to each of them in turn before tossing off a salute and walking out of the locker room. He walks away, injuries driven from his thoughts. Instead, he thinks of what can be with his new allies, and what he'll be able to do. We fade out on the sight of Andrew, scheming for the future.
_______________________________________________
We open back up on Andrew Jacobsen, standing outside the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit, Michigan. He's wearing a peacoat, and his hair is impeccably done, even though there's nobody around but him and the cameraman. He grins, seeing his breath cloud the air in front of him, and speaks with the calm demeanor of a man with nothing to lose.
“So this is how it ends, Steve. You and me, in the Joe Louis Arena. 20,000 screaming fans, in your hometown of Detroit, Michigan. You humiliated me at the Target Center in front of my family. You've mocked me and made my life hell for months. Even past the whole “personal” stage, back through the Front Office and Revolution. Steve, you've dominated the story of nCw for the last year...but it's a new start. 2011's barely begun, and I'm going to set a good tone for it by making you scream who your daddy is to the Motor City.”
He smirks, pulling a toothpick out of his pocket and ensuring he doesn't have anything in his teeth. AJ leaves it clamped between his back teeth, briefly pulling his gloves on more to ensure proper warmth. He looks over to the camera, giving a subtle signal. He nods after a moment, indicating he got a response.
“I know what you're thinking, and it's the same thing that Maniac thought last week: “This is Andrew Jacobsen. He doesn't have enough balls to do anything.” Well, enough is enough, and it's time for a change. I'm not going to let ANYONE kick me around anymore. Not you, not Leonard Fox, not Rob Diamond. NOBODY is going to dictate my fate anymore but me. If you want to treat me like a pushover, prepare to be snapped into so many pieces they'll need to duct tape you back together. Your funeral, pal.”
He stops leaning on the wall, beginning to walk down the sidewalk at a relaxed pace. The camera has no problem keeping up with him, and he takes the moment to phrase everything correctly before continuing to speak.
“This isn't just for me and all the **** you've given me, though. This is for all the people it's affected throughout the months. The first that come to mind are my partners. From people like Brad Kane and Will Washington who got screwed by the Front Office to last week with Ander Carvetti, you've been causing trouble for anyone that allies themselves with me. Steve, that's why I do things like breaking the glass on your limo and locking Jayson Matthews in the Sharpshooter. It's an eye for an eye, buddy. You've overextended this time, though. I'm not just taking the eye. I'm going to take your whole head.”
Andrew looks up, chuckling humorlessly again. He doesn't seem to be as concerned as he might be in this situation, and his body language radiates confidence rather than the introspection or timidity that might be seen in the face of a Hall of Famer.
“Steve, you've cost people around me titles, you've killed their careers, and you've corrupted their minds. All you touch turns to ash, and blows away in the breeze. Not this week. Not this time. I'm done being the Boy Scout, the guy who thinks that there's good in the heart of everyone. No more of that crap. I'm going to do what I should have done the first time and brutalize you so badly you won't want to even hear my name again. I've already got you running from me, scared ****less. All that's left is the finishing blow, the masterstroke. On Sunday, the thousands in attendence and millions watching at home are going to hear you scream those three words that you dread saying. You're going to give up, Steve. You will admit that I'm the better man. And at the end of the night, I'm going to leave you in that crumpled heap and not look back for a heartbeat. God have mercy on you, Awesome. He knows I won't.”
Andrew walks off into the night. Fade out.