Post by Caleb Lockwood on Oct 30, 2011 7:14:25 GMT -6
Open on Caleb Lockwood in his formalwear, looking rather grave. He stands before the camera, hands crossed behind his back, and sighs, shaking his head before proceeding in an uneasy tone of voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of Joe Everyman. Please, don’t look at me like that…though a man by that name walks this Earth still and indeed is scheduled to wrestle me for the number-one contender status to the Honor Championship on Wired at Road to the Gold, that man is not Joe Everyman. He is a shell of his former being. If you need confirmation of this tragic but true occurrence, I need only direct you to the promos posted under his name for proof.”
He sits down in an armchair, shaking his head and reaching over to take a drink from a glass of water before sighing and continuing.
“Apparently this man who claims to be Joe Everyman is aurally impaired. He can’t hear, folks. Because if he could hear…he would have heard me talking about how I idolized him on the independent circuit. How I watched his matches and admired his tenacity. Instead, he sees fit to paint me as a whiny, ungrateful pissant who wouldn’t know respect for veterans if it hit me in the face with a trout. I don’t get why he would do that…I mean, it’s completely the opposite of the truth.”
Lockwood looks genuinely puzzled at the conundrum, squaring his jaw and nodding with new resolve.
“I mean, I’ve got nothing but respect for the people that made this company possible. Joe, as a three-time National Champion, you’re an icon! I remember every single one of those wins, from taking advantage of Jack Manson’s distraction to roll him up on Collision in ’08 to that INSANE Swanton Bomb that put JFK through a table and gave you your second reign…and of course, pulling it out against four other men in 2009 to pick up that historic third National Championship. I was right there, freaking out like a good Everymaniac every time.”
He grins, images from those title wins flashing through his head. The smile fades after a few seconds and he sighs, hanging his head.
“But in the end, people don’t remember that. They don’t remember that you’re a world-class athlete that has taken the legends of this company to their very limits and, in the case of the Icon himself, Lance Ryan, whooped the ass of time and time again. They think of the hamster promo, Joe. They think of your falterings, your failures, the moments when you could have ascended that mountain and become one of the greatest this company has ever seen…and your hand slipped on the last rung of the ladder.”
Caleb shakes his head at this, dismay written across his face. He stands up again, removing the bowtie and tossing it to the side.
“And then things went south. Sure, you had that amazing title match with Angel, but since then you’ve floundered, and I’m not going to touch your personal life, because that’s not what we’re supposed to do. We don’t go slandering each other’s characters for the sake of a competitive advantage, because we’re not a bunch of high-school girls who incessantly titter about the most minor of things without actually doing anything substantial. No, we go out there and we wrestle our asses off in the middle of that ring!”
He sighs, forcing himself to not start pacing again, and looks back to the camera, uncomfortable in his current attire.
“Joe, if there’s one thing you’ll never be able to do, it’s get me to shut up. Well, get me to shut up and eat snails. Christ, I don’t know how the French do it. But I digress. I can talk and talk all I want, and all you can do is listen and make half-baked threats of beating some respect into me. I’ve already got respect for a lot of the veterans of this company, and that includes you. I’m approaching this match like it’s the most important one in my entire career. Hell, I went out and I recruited no less a person than the man that ended your third National Title reign as my manager. Although I fail to see how carrying his bags is training…I guess it builds upper body strength? The man’s a former World Champion, so he’s gotta know what he’s doing, right?”
Caleb looks at the camera, as if adding “Please let that be true.” He sighs, about to continue, but abruptly stands, shaking his head.
“Y’know, I can’t do it. I just can’t. I can’t sit here in this monkey suit anymore and act like this is…like this is normal! I feel unnatural, and sick, and wrong! Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be right back in a moment…”
One jump cut later, Caleb’s walking back into shot in his jeans and Black Flag shirt. He grins, sighing and sitting back down in the chair. A smile spreads over his face as he leans back and sighs.
“Ahh, much better. This is a lot more natural…Joe, I’m using all the tools I have available to me…I want this win. I need this win. You’re trying to deny that you’re rebuilding your career, but here’s the trick: I haven’t built one yet. I want to get off the ground, and this is my shot at greatness. This right here could be the moment that puts me on the map. So no matter how much you mock, belittle and abuse me, never think that I won’t get right back up and keep firing on all cylinders. Give me all you’ve got, Joe…I want to be able to say I beat the best to get where I’ll be. Good luck Sunday. And whatever you do…don’t blink. Don’t even blink. Blink and you’re…I’m sorry, wrong quote. You know the drill.”
Lockwood gets to his feet, flashing a grin at the camera…
…and we’re back on the air, baby.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of Joe Everyman. Please, don’t look at me like that…though a man by that name walks this Earth still and indeed is scheduled to wrestle me for the number-one contender status to the Honor Championship on Wired at Road to the Gold, that man is not Joe Everyman. He is a shell of his former being. If you need confirmation of this tragic but true occurrence, I need only direct you to the promos posted under his name for proof.”
He sits down in an armchair, shaking his head and reaching over to take a drink from a glass of water before sighing and continuing.
“Apparently this man who claims to be Joe Everyman is aurally impaired. He can’t hear, folks. Because if he could hear…he would have heard me talking about how I idolized him on the independent circuit. How I watched his matches and admired his tenacity. Instead, he sees fit to paint me as a whiny, ungrateful pissant who wouldn’t know respect for veterans if it hit me in the face with a trout. I don’t get why he would do that…I mean, it’s completely the opposite of the truth.”
Lockwood looks genuinely puzzled at the conundrum, squaring his jaw and nodding with new resolve.
“I mean, I’ve got nothing but respect for the people that made this company possible. Joe, as a three-time National Champion, you’re an icon! I remember every single one of those wins, from taking advantage of Jack Manson’s distraction to roll him up on Collision in ’08 to that INSANE Swanton Bomb that put JFK through a table and gave you your second reign…and of course, pulling it out against four other men in 2009 to pick up that historic third National Championship. I was right there, freaking out like a good Everymaniac every time.”
He grins, images from those title wins flashing through his head. The smile fades after a few seconds and he sighs, hanging his head.
“But in the end, people don’t remember that. They don’t remember that you’re a world-class athlete that has taken the legends of this company to their very limits and, in the case of the Icon himself, Lance Ryan, whooped the ass of time and time again. They think of the hamster promo, Joe. They think of your falterings, your failures, the moments when you could have ascended that mountain and become one of the greatest this company has ever seen…and your hand slipped on the last rung of the ladder.”
Caleb shakes his head at this, dismay written across his face. He stands up again, removing the bowtie and tossing it to the side.
“And then things went south. Sure, you had that amazing title match with Angel, but since then you’ve floundered, and I’m not going to touch your personal life, because that’s not what we’re supposed to do. We don’t go slandering each other’s characters for the sake of a competitive advantage, because we’re not a bunch of high-school girls who incessantly titter about the most minor of things without actually doing anything substantial. No, we go out there and we wrestle our asses off in the middle of that ring!”
He sighs, forcing himself to not start pacing again, and looks back to the camera, uncomfortable in his current attire.
“Joe, if there’s one thing you’ll never be able to do, it’s get me to shut up. Well, get me to shut up and eat snails. Christ, I don’t know how the French do it. But I digress. I can talk and talk all I want, and all you can do is listen and make half-baked threats of beating some respect into me. I’ve already got respect for a lot of the veterans of this company, and that includes you. I’m approaching this match like it’s the most important one in my entire career. Hell, I went out and I recruited no less a person than the man that ended your third National Title reign as my manager. Although I fail to see how carrying his bags is training…I guess it builds upper body strength? The man’s a former World Champion, so he’s gotta know what he’s doing, right?”
Caleb looks at the camera, as if adding “Please let that be true.” He sighs, about to continue, but abruptly stands, shaking his head.
“Y’know, I can’t do it. I just can’t. I can’t sit here in this monkey suit anymore and act like this is…like this is normal! I feel unnatural, and sick, and wrong! Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be right back in a moment…”
One jump cut later, Caleb’s walking back into shot in his jeans and Black Flag shirt. He grins, sighing and sitting back down in the chair. A smile spreads over his face as he leans back and sighs.
“Ahh, much better. This is a lot more natural…Joe, I’m using all the tools I have available to me…I want this win. I need this win. You’re trying to deny that you’re rebuilding your career, but here’s the trick: I haven’t built one yet. I want to get off the ground, and this is my shot at greatness. This right here could be the moment that puts me on the map. So no matter how much you mock, belittle and abuse me, never think that I won’t get right back up and keep firing on all cylinders. Give me all you’ve got, Joe…I want to be able to say I beat the best to get where I’ll be. Good luck Sunday. And whatever you do…don’t blink. Don’t even blink. Blink and you’re…I’m sorry, wrong quote. You know the drill.”
Lockwood gets to his feet, flashing a grin at the camera…
…and we’re back on the air, baby.