Post by Caleb Lockwood on May 19, 2011 20:38:06 GMT -6
“Well, that hurt.”
That's all I can think as the massive right hand of Scrapmetal Stevens meets my jaw and sends me flying halfway across the ring. He rocked me from the center to the ropes on one punch. I can't waste this time, though. When I hit the ropes, I use the momentum to launch off and hit a dropkick to his left knee, the one he hurt wrestling The Unpronounceable One last month in San Diego. Just like I figured, he goes down in a heap. I know I have to keep the volume turned up, so I...
...what's that, you say? Who is this man and why is he going off about people I don't care about? Well, please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste...oh, if only any of you bought that. My name's Caleb Lockwood, sometimes known as the Master of Gravity, other times known as “that damn bum that sits outside Gramercy's Deli and asks for bits of bread.” Right now, I'm wrestling what may be the biggest match of my life. Scrapmetal Stevens is the Cali Pro Wrestling Openweight Champion, and I've got a title match with him—have had it with him for the last twenty-five minutes—but more importantly, there's a guy in the front row. He looks way too well-dressed to be a usual attendee, and anyone who knows anything in this business knows who that person is if they're front row at an indy show with a notepad.
Then it clicks. That's Wes Fox, an exec at New Championship Wrestling. You can talk about all the other players in the game, but nCw is the big leagues. If he likes what he sees, even offers me a chance to go to one of their farm territories...well, that's a dream come true. More importantly for me, it's a steady paycheck, which is something I haven't had since I was all of fourteen years old...damn, has it really been eight years? Am I forgetting something?
The belly to belly suplex Scrapmetal hits me with answers THAT question. I hit the mat and let out an involuntary groan of pain. Scrapmetal grins, hitting the ropes and delivering what the late Gordon Solie would refer to as a “sudden, not fast” elbow drop. People say an elbow drop doesn't look like it hurts that much. When it's 350 pounds of Scrapmetal crashing down on you, it damn well hurts. I was lucky to kick out at two.
I get back to my feet, and cut off Stevens with a kick to the sternum. This time in full control of myself, I run to the ropes and pop him with my signature springboard roundhouse kick that Cali Pro's play-by-play man has been trying to call the Unstoppable Force. I tried to explain how stupid that sounded, but he keeps pressing on. Bless that idiot's heart. Oh, and I hop up for a split-legged moonsault. The sound of air rushing out of Scrapmetal's lungs is rewarding, and the near fall afterwards is almost as good.
I glance over at Fox, and I can't tell what the man's thinking for the life of me. Turning my attention back to Scrapmetal, I see him shouting at the timekeeper, and the ring announcer, a bloated SOB named Luke “The Duke” Darwin, informs me (and the crowd) that the match is now a no-DQ match. I have enough time to walk over and shout at him for being a pushover before Scrapmetal blasts me with a chairshot across the back.
It's all I can do not to go flying over the top rope. As it is, I spin around, groaning in pain, and he charges for another swing. I get my feet up, booting him in the gut, and run right at him, leg lariating him down. I feel the momentum shifting right back, and I roar at the crowd before hitting the ropes and coming off with a Shining Wizard for the ages. He crumples into the corner, holding the chair feebly, and I roll to my feet, keeping my motion fluid. That's my draw, my allure. I know how to keep my moves graceful, chaining one to the next with almost no effort. At least that's what they think, it's a pain to get it all right in reality. I leap to the top turnbuckle adjacent to him, make a flipping motion, and somersault off, doing the most painful-looking Coast to Coast variant you've ever seen. I roll to my feet, snagging the chair and looking to the crowd. They know what's coming next. I can't lift Scrapmetal, but I can do just as good.
Fox perked up during this, and he's watching me intently now. I use the ropes to help me shove Scrappy into position and sling myself up, chair in hand. I look around to the crowd, all five hundred of them, and salute before dropping the chair on his chest and flipping off. I count the rotations...one...and there's the two.
I hit the chair and my chest is immediately on fire. My eyes see what seems to be a million flashbulbs just went off in front of me. I stand up, clutching my ribs, and throw the chair behind me before going for the pin. One. Two. That third slap is punctuated by the entire gym erupting into applause. It doesn't matter that there's only five hundred of them. In that ring, what I heard was just as loud as 93,000 screaming fans in the Silverdome. It was like the Garden had erupted for me. I get to my feet, the ref handing me the belt, and he raises my hand, popping the crowd again. I grin at them, dazed, and walk to the turnbuckle, posing with the belt. I ask for a mic, a bit delirious, and start talking.
“That...that was for each and every one of you crazy fans that comes out here and watches us do what we do. You guys are the greatest fans anyone could ask for. Cali Pro, CAN YOU GIVE ME ONE MORE HURRAH FOR THE BEST SHOW IN THE WORLD?!”
They oblige me, of course. This crowd is red-hot. I cap it off with a quick “THANK YOU! GOOD NIGHT!” and roll out of the ring, clutching the belt. I walk towards the lockers, shaking my head and trying to work the sore out of my back. The belt on my shoulder, though, is a damn good reward.
Darwin meets me at the locker room entrance. He hands me a stack of cash, and I tally it up. Two hundred bucks, big pay for these guys. That's counting the title win bonus and the fact that it was a big show, though. Normally, I'm lucky if I get out with thirty. I nod to him, walking into the showers, and exploit the only opportunity I'll have for a hot shower for a while. When I walk out, hair still wet, Wes Fox is there. He's got his eyebrow cocked, and I brace myself for the worst.
“You looked good out there, Lockwood. A bit sloppy, but I liked what I saw. Wes Fox, nCw. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”
I grin, looking around, and gesture to the now-empty gym around us.
“Does it look like I'm a busy person? You want to talk, let's talk.”
We walk over to the bleachers and sit down. Fox doesn't seem right, somehow. A little slimy. Still, I listen.
“Would you be interested in working for New Championship Wrestling as a member of our talent roster? If you are, I can have you wrestling on TV by next week. You know how to work with a camera crew?”
I nod numbly, having been brought in to do some local NWA affiliate stuff on local access. This, though...this was nCw. And I just got offered a job there. It's all I can do to manage my reply.
“Yeah...you're serious?! A real, paid job working with you guys?”
Fox laughs, nodding, and he grins that slightly smarmy grin again.
“You heard me. I'm looking to bring in some new, exciting talent, and you're the sort of man I'm looking for. I can have HR draw you up a contract, and we can have you doing some retraining work in Dallas by this weekend. What do you say, Mr. Lockwood? Ready to play with the big boys?”
Wes extends his hand. I look at the belt that I not two hours ago was bleeding for, and then back to his hand. After a few moments of hesitation, I take it. Fox grins at me, and I know that I'm not selling my soul. I'm taking a chance, and I'm going to get to show off my athleticism, my acrobatics, and my heart to the world.
New Championship Wrestling is never going to be the same. Mark my words.
That's all I can think as the massive right hand of Scrapmetal Stevens meets my jaw and sends me flying halfway across the ring. He rocked me from the center to the ropes on one punch. I can't waste this time, though. When I hit the ropes, I use the momentum to launch off and hit a dropkick to his left knee, the one he hurt wrestling The Unpronounceable One last month in San Diego. Just like I figured, he goes down in a heap. I know I have to keep the volume turned up, so I...
...what's that, you say? Who is this man and why is he going off about people I don't care about? Well, please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste...oh, if only any of you bought that. My name's Caleb Lockwood, sometimes known as the Master of Gravity, other times known as “that damn bum that sits outside Gramercy's Deli and asks for bits of bread.” Right now, I'm wrestling what may be the biggest match of my life. Scrapmetal Stevens is the Cali Pro Wrestling Openweight Champion, and I've got a title match with him—have had it with him for the last twenty-five minutes—but more importantly, there's a guy in the front row. He looks way too well-dressed to be a usual attendee, and anyone who knows anything in this business knows who that person is if they're front row at an indy show with a notepad.
Then it clicks. That's Wes Fox, an exec at New Championship Wrestling. You can talk about all the other players in the game, but nCw is the big leagues. If he likes what he sees, even offers me a chance to go to one of their farm territories...well, that's a dream come true. More importantly for me, it's a steady paycheck, which is something I haven't had since I was all of fourteen years old...damn, has it really been eight years? Am I forgetting something?
The belly to belly suplex Scrapmetal hits me with answers THAT question. I hit the mat and let out an involuntary groan of pain. Scrapmetal grins, hitting the ropes and delivering what the late Gordon Solie would refer to as a “sudden, not fast” elbow drop. People say an elbow drop doesn't look like it hurts that much. When it's 350 pounds of Scrapmetal crashing down on you, it damn well hurts. I was lucky to kick out at two.
I get back to my feet, and cut off Stevens with a kick to the sternum. This time in full control of myself, I run to the ropes and pop him with my signature springboard roundhouse kick that Cali Pro's play-by-play man has been trying to call the Unstoppable Force. I tried to explain how stupid that sounded, but he keeps pressing on. Bless that idiot's heart. Oh, and I hop up for a split-legged moonsault. The sound of air rushing out of Scrapmetal's lungs is rewarding, and the near fall afterwards is almost as good.
I glance over at Fox, and I can't tell what the man's thinking for the life of me. Turning my attention back to Scrapmetal, I see him shouting at the timekeeper, and the ring announcer, a bloated SOB named Luke “The Duke” Darwin, informs me (and the crowd) that the match is now a no-DQ match. I have enough time to walk over and shout at him for being a pushover before Scrapmetal blasts me with a chairshot across the back.
It's all I can do not to go flying over the top rope. As it is, I spin around, groaning in pain, and he charges for another swing. I get my feet up, booting him in the gut, and run right at him, leg lariating him down. I feel the momentum shifting right back, and I roar at the crowd before hitting the ropes and coming off with a Shining Wizard for the ages. He crumples into the corner, holding the chair feebly, and I roll to my feet, keeping my motion fluid. That's my draw, my allure. I know how to keep my moves graceful, chaining one to the next with almost no effort. At least that's what they think, it's a pain to get it all right in reality. I leap to the top turnbuckle adjacent to him, make a flipping motion, and somersault off, doing the most painful-looking Coast to Coast variant you've ever seen. I roll to my feet, snagging the chair and looking to the crowd. They know what's coming next. I can't lift Scrapmetal, but I can do just as good.
Fox perked up during this, and he's watching me intently now. I use the ropes to help me shove Scrappy into position and sling myself up, chair in hand. I look around to the crowd, all five hundred of them, and salute before dropping the chair on his chest and flipping off. I count the rotations...one...and there's the two.
I hit the chair and my chest is immediately on fire. My eyes see what seems to be a million flashbulbs just went off in front of me. I stand up, clutching my ribs, and throw the chair behind me before going for the pin. One. Two. That third slap is punctuated by the entire gym erupting into applause. It doesn't matter that there's only five hundred of them. In that ring, what I heard was just as loud as 93,000 screaming fans in the Silverdome. It was like the Garden had erupted for me. I get to my feet, the ref handing me the belt, and he raises my hand, popping the crowd again. I grin at them, dazed, and walk to the turnbuckle, posing with the belt. I ask for a mic, a bit delirious, and start talking.
“That...that was for each and every one of you crazy fans that comes out here and watches us do what we do. You guys are the greatest fans anyone could ask for. Cali Pro, CAN YOU GIVE ME ONE MORE HURRAH FOR THE BEST SHOW IN THE WORLD?!”
They oblige me, of course. This crowd is red-hot. I cap it off with a quick “THANK YOU! GOOD NIGHT!” and roll out of the ring, clutching the belt. I walk towards the lockers, shaking my head and trying to work the sore out of my back. The belt on my shoulder, though, is a damn good reward.
Darwin meets me at the locker room entrance. He hands me a stack of cash, and I tally it up. Two hundred bucks, big pay for these guys. That's counting the title win bonus and the fact that it was a big show, though. Normally, I'm lucky if I get out with thirty. I nod to him, walking into the showers, and exploit the only opportunity I'll have for a hot shower for a while. When I walk out, hair still wet, Wes Fox is there. He's got his eyebrow cocked, and I brace myself for the worst.
“You looked good out there, Lockwood. A bit sloppy, but I liked what I saw. Wes Fox, nCw. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”
I grin, looking around, and gesture to the now-empty gym around us.
“Does it look like I'm a busy person? You want to talk, let's talk.”
We walk over to the bleachers and sit down. Fox doesn't seem right, somehow. A little slimy. Still, I listen.
“Would you be interested in working for New Championship Wrestling as a member of our talent roster? If you are, I can have you wrestling on TV by next week. You know how to work with a camera crew?”
I nod numbly, having been brought in to do some local NWA affiliate stuff on local access. This, though...this was nCw. And I just got offered a job there. It's all I can do to manage my reply.
“Yeah...you're serious?! A real, paid job working with you guys?”
Fox laughs, nodding, and he grins that slightly smarmy grin again.
“You heard me. I'm looking to bring in some new, exciting talent, and you're the sort of man I'm looking for. I can have HR draw you up a contract, and we can have you doing some retraining work in Dallas by this weekend. What do you say, Mr. Lockwood? Ready to play with the big boys?”
Wes extends his hand. I look at the belt that I not two hours ago was bleeding for, and then back to his hand. After a few moments of hesitation, I take it. Fox grins at me, and I know that I'm not selling my soul. I'm taking a chance, and I'm going to get to show off my athleticism, my acrobatics, and my heart to the world.
New Championship Wrestling is never going to be the same. Mark my words.