Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Nov 25, 2011 0:06:37 GMT -6
Open on Andrew Jacobsen sitting on a park bench in Minneapolis, overlooking the Mississippi River. He’s wearing a dark green windbreaker, and doesn’t seem to be paying attention to the cold. He smiles darkly, his words carrying with them a light but irate mocking tone, as if he doesn’t really believe in the spirit of what he’s saying.
“This is a season when we’re supposed to give thanks. Think about what we have in our lives and be thankful for the blessings which I have received. Well, I tried, folks. I sat down and I thought to myself ‘what do I have that I can be thankful for?’ Well, there’s my girlfri…oh, wait. Don’t have one of those. Last time I had one, it was in the heat of the moment and the most recent attempt ended with me realizing I was lugging around a useless prop who did nothing but spout vague encouragements and occasionally sleep with me out of inevitable pity. Okay then, what about my friends?”
Andrew pauses, contemplating, before ‘coming’ to a slow realization, light dawning in his eyes as he speaks, venom clear in his voice.
“Wait, what friends? The two guys I associate with the most in this company are a vain, pompous whore that destroyed my family for kicks and a foul-mouthed manchild who’s engaged to the girl I let get away and constantly insults me and my ability in the ring. And that guy’s my tag team partner! Uhm, what about my family? Oh, right. My father and mother are on opposite sides of the country because of the aforementioned man-whore, I haven’t spoken to my brother in months and my sister still hasn’t forgiven me for this summer, where I got thrust into a leadership position I never asked for and promptly spent two months as Alex Jones’ hacky-sack. We didn’t even have Thanksgiving this year. Mom didn’t show, Dad was “busy”, Callie didn’t answer my call, and Rick was with Cassandra’s family. This is the first time in living memory for me that we haven’t done that. Yeah, doing real great on those fronts, aren’t I?”
He sneers as he speaks, folding his fingers together and leaning forward.
“Oh, and did I mention that there’s a man in this company that I almost killed and who undoubtedly is out for my blood? And I’m in arguably the worst career slide in the two years I’ve been with this company? And lest I forget the fact that since I began associating with the man-child, I haven’t been able to buy a credible win in the eyes of the locker room? Oh yeah, I’ve got loads to be thankful for. It’s a wonderful fricking life for me, yeah? Andrew Jacobsen, living the dream. Gotta envy that guy.”
Andrew sighs, the energy seeming to drain out of his form as he does so. He slumps back on the bench, looking to the sky for some solace, but only finding a grey canvas overhead.
“I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t the business for me. I mean, I love wrestling. I love it with all my heart and I always have. It’s just that no matter what I put into it, no matter how much I invest myself, body and soul, I barely seem to get anything out of it. I get the fans’ love and respect, and that normally would be all I need, but…it’s fading. I can see it in the crowds. There aren’t as many signs as there were. They don’t cheer as much for me. Hell, I saw a “Man-Purse and Giant Douche = Tag Champs” sign last week. I…I think I’m losing them. And I can’t bear that. Maybe it’s residual effects from the Young Guns? But who knows…all I know is that I won’t let it continue.”
He stands up, tucking his hands in his pockets, and looks around, tapping his foot a bit. He looks down at the pavement, a bit unfocused and despondent.
“I really don’t know what to do, though. Obviously, winning a few damn matches would help my case, and there is no way I’m going down in the record books as the man that let Mark Evil win the Tag Team Championship…but I mean, what do I do for my career? I can’t tie myself to INfamous much longer…I barely had any respect beforehand from the locker room, this is draining it to unprecedentedly low levels. I need to remind the world that I’m a threat. Losing like that to guys like Mark Evil isn’t going to do that…I hate to admit it, but Ricky was partially right. It’s an insult to my opponents to show up like I do…and an insult to the fans. They deserve my best, and I will damn well give them my best.”
He feels his phone go off, and checks it, seeing a message from an unknown number that simply reads “Meet me at Longfellow Grill ASAP. Re: nCw.” Andrew sighs, pocketing his phone and walking up the road towards the nearby restaurant. He looks around, feeling a cool breeze blow in and shivering a bit.
“So to Matt Jackson and Mark Evil…or Markus Reeves, which I still maintain is the wrong name for the image you want to project…Rob might not take you seriously. He might not respect the possibility that you might take the World Tag Team Championship at Breaking Away. But I do. Because I can’t afford to act like him. I don’t have the résumé, I don’t have the respect, and I frankly can’t afford that chance. I need to rebuild. I need to restructure. I need to remember what brought me to the dance…and I need to get back to that. If you want to take this and mock me incessantly for it…I know you will. But at the end of the day, it’s not about who talks the best ****, but who backs it up in the ring. I’m going to remind you two jokers why I got to this place to begin with, and here’s a hint: it’s not because of any favors management owes me. So bring your best. I’ll bring mine. And may the best men win.”
He walks up to the restaurant, not familiar with his surroundings, and stops at the front desk, speaking to the man standing there with a bored expression on his face.
“Table for two? I’m expecting someone.”
The man nods, getting two menus and leading Andrew to a table where he sets the menus. Andrew nods to him, sitting down. Andrew cracks open the menu, reading it over, and so he doesn’t notice someone else sit down at the table. The server walks up, an unseasonably bright smile on his face.
“Welcome to the Longfellow Grill. Can I get you something to drink?”
Andrew nods absentmindedly.
“Grain Belt.”
The server takes it down dutifully, and Andrew’s eyes widen a bit as he hears the other person speak to the server.
“Just water for me, thank you.”
He nods, walking off to get their drinks. Andrew sets down the menu, gazing across the table at Danielle Chase. She smiles a bit, adjusting her glasses and shrugging off her coat. Andrew finds his voice after a moment.
“Why didn’t you call me from your phone?”
She sighs, brushing back a hair that dared stray out of place.
“Because I thought you wouldn’t answer. Not after last time…”
Andrew flashes back to that, and he winces, nodding and sitting up straight in the booth.
“Alright, fair enough. Next question…why did you contact me? It’s not like you’re my manager anymore or anything.”
Danielle chuckles, smirking mischievously.
“I can’t call as an associate? Honestly…I wanted to tell you something, but I think you can find out better if I just point you in the right direction. Pull out that phone of yours and check your bank balance. Specifically, your account activity for the last three months.”
Andrew pauses, blinking. He pulls out his phone, pulling up his bank’s application, and logs in, doing as she requests. He seems confused by it, though.
“What am I supposed to be seeing here? Paycheck, endorsement paycheck, dry-cleaning bill, paying for Steve’s bar tab, paying for you, deposit, car payment, savings deposit…wait a minute…”
He checks the screen, scrolling back and forth, confusion written all over his face. Danielle chuckles, smiling at Andrew and stating what he’s seen for the audience’s benefit.
“I’ve been sending back the paychecks you’ve been writing me ever since you left the Young Guns. Andrew, like I said: this was never about the money for me. I’m making enough cash from my other consulting gigs that I can afford to do this. Honestly, Andy…I stuck around because I care. And because I’m worried. I’ve never seen you like this, whether it was watching on TV or managing you. You…I want to be there for you, Andrew. Whether it’s as your manager or just as a friend…it eats me alive to see you like this. Please…let me help you.”
Andrew pauses, nodding to the server as their drinks come, and sips his beer, swallowing and looking her in the eyes. She smiles softly at him, and he manages to grin back and nod to her, uttering one word.
“Okay.”
Danielle’s smile blossoms fully, and she giggles a bit. Andrew chuckles as well, his thoughts echoing in his head.
”Maybe I do have something to be thankful for after all…”
The camera pulls back and the two begin talking as we fade to black.
“This is a season when we’re supposed to give thanks. Think about what we have in our lives and be thankful for the blessings which I have received. Well, I tried, folks. I sat down and I thought to myself ‘what do I have that I can be thankful for?’ Well, there’s my girlfri…oh, wait. Don’t have one of those. Last time I had one, it was in the heat of the moment and the most recent attempt ended with me realizing I was lugging around a useless prop who did nothing but spout vague encouragements and occasionally sleep with me out of inevitable pity. Okay then, what about my friends?”
Andrew pauses, contemplating, before ‘coming’ to a slow realization, light dawning in his eyes as he speaks, venom clear in his voice.
“Wait, what friends? The two guys I associate with the most in this company are a vain, pompous whore that destroyed my family for kicks and a foul-mouthed manchild who’s engaged to the girl I let get away and constantly insults me and my ability in the ring. And that guy’s my tag team partner! Uhm, what about my family? Oh, right. My father and mother are on opposite sides of the country because of the aforementioned man-whore, I haven’t spoken to my brother in months and my sister still hasn’t forgiven me for this summer, where I got thrust into a leadership position I never asked for and promptly spent two months as Alex Jones’ hacky-sack. We didn’t even have Thanksgiving this year. Mom didn’t show, Dad was “busy”, Callie didn’t answer my call, and Rick was with Cassandra’s family. This is the first time in living memory for me that we haven’t done that. Yeah, doing real great on those fronts, aren’t I?”
He sneers as he speaks, folding his fingers together and leaning forward.
“Oh, and did I mention that there’s a man in this company that I almost killed and who undoubtedly is out for my blood? And I’m in arguably the worst career slide in the two years I’ve been with this company? And lest I forget the fact that since I began associating with the man-child, I haven’t been able to buy a credible win in the eyes of the locker room? Oh yeah, I’ve got loads to be thankful for. It’s a wonderful fricking life for me, yeah? Andrew Jacobsen, living the dream. Gotta envy that guy.”
Andrew sighs, the energy seeming to drain out of his form as he does so. He slumps back on the bench, looking to the sky for some solace, but only finding a grey canvas overhead.
“I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t the business for me. I mean, I love wrestling. I love it with all my heart and I always have. It’s just that no matter what I put into it, no matter how much I invest myself, body and soul, I barely seem to get anything out of it. I get the fans’ love and respect, and that normally would be all I need, but…it’s fading. I can see it in the crowds. There aren’t as many signs as there were. They don’t cheer as much for me. Hell, I saw a “Man-Purse and Giant Douche = Tag Champs” sign last week. I…I think I’m losing them. And I can’t bear that. Maybe it’s residual effects from the Young Guns? But who knows…all I know is that I won’t let it continue.”
He stands up, tucking his hands in his pockets, and looks around, tapping his foot a bit. He looks down at the pavement, a bit unfocused and despondent.
“I really don’t know what to do, though. Obviously, winning a few damn matches would help my case, and there is no way I’m going down in the record books as the man that let Mark Evil win the Tag Team Championship…but I mean, what do I do for my career? I can’t tie myself to INfamous much longer…I barely had any respect beforehand from the locker room, this is draining it to unprecedentedly low levels. I need to remind the world that I’m a threat. Losing like that to guys like Mark Evil isn’t going to do that…I hate to admit it, but Ricky was partially right. It’s an insult to my opponents to show up like I do…and an insult to the fans. They deserve my best, and I will damn well give them my best.”
He feels his phone go off, and checks it, seeing a message from an unknown number that simply reads “Meet me at Longfellow Grill ASAP. Re: nCw.” Andrew sighs, pocketing his phone and walking up the road towards the nearby restaurant. He looks around, feeling a cool breeze blow in and shivering a bit.
“So to Matt Jackson and Mark Evil…or Markus Reeves, which I still maintain is the wrong name for the image you want to project…Rob might not take you seriously. He might not respect the possibility that you might take the World Tag Team Championship at Breaking Away. But I do. Because I can’t afford to act like him. I don’t have the résumé, I don’t have the respect, and I frankly can’t afford that chance. I need to rebuild. I need to restructure. I need to remember what brought me to the dance…and I need to get back to that. If you want to take this and mock me incessantly for it…I know you will. But at the end of the day, it’s not about who talks the best ****, but who backs it up in the ring. I’m going to remind you two jokers why I got to this place to begin with, and here’s a hint: it’s not because of any favors management owes me. So bring your best. I’ll bring mine. And may the best men win.”
He walks up to the restaurant, not familiar with his surroundings, and stops at the front desk, speaking to the man standing there with a bored expression on his face.
“Table for two? I’m expecting someone.”
The man nods, getting two menus and leading Andrew to a table where he sets the menus. Andrew nods to him, sitting down. Andrew cracks open the menu, reading it over, and so he doesn’t notice someone else sit down at the table. The server walks up, an unseasonably bright smile on his face.
“Welcome to the Longfellow Grill. Can I get you something to drink?”
Andrew nods absentmindedly.
“Grain Belt.”
The server takes it down dutifully, and Andrew’s eyes widen a bit as he hears the other person speak to the server.
“Just water for me, thank you.”
He nods, walking off to get their drinks. Andrew sets down the menu, gazing across the table at Danielle Chase. She smiles a bit, adjusting her glasses and shrugging off her coat. Andrew finds his voice after a moment.
“Why didn’t you call me from your phone?”
She sighs, brushing back a hair that dared stray out of place.
“Because I thought you wouldn’t answer. Not after last time…”
Andrew flashes back to that, and he winces, nodding and sitting up straight in the booth.
“Alright, fair enough. Next question…why did you contact me? It’s not like you’re my manager anymore or anything.”
Danielle chuckles, smirking mischievously.
“I can’t call as an associate? Honestly…I wanted to tell you something, but I think you can find out better if I just point you in the right direction. Pull out that phone of yours and check your bank balance. Specifically, your account activity for the last three months.”
Andrew pauses, blinking. He pulls out his phone, pulling up his bank’s application, and logs in, doing as she requests. He seems confused by it, though.
“What am I supposed to be seeing here? Paycheck, endorsement paycheck, dry-cleaning bill, paying for Steve’s bar tab, paying for you, deposit, car payment, savings deposit…wait a minute…”
He checks the screen, scrolling back and forth, confusion written all over his face. Danielle chuckles, smiling at Andrew and stating what he’s seen for the audience’s benefit.
“I’ve been sending back the paychecks you’ve been writing me ever since you left the Young Guns. Andrew, like I said: this was never about the money for me. I’m making enough cash from my other consulting gigs that I can afford to do this. Honestly, Andy…I stuck around because I care. And because I’m worried. I’ve never seen you like this, whether it was watching on TV or managing you. You…I want to be there for you, Andrew. Whether it’s as your manager or just as a friend…it eats me alive to see you like this. Please…let me help you.”
Andrew pauses, nodding to the server as their drinks come, and sips his beer, swallowing and looking her in the eyes. She smiles softly at him, and he manages to grin back and nod to her, uttering one word.
“Okay.”
Danielle’s smile blossoms fully, and she giggles a bit. Andrew chuckles as well, his thoughts echoing in his head.
”Maybe I do have something to be thankful for after all…”
The camera pulls back and the two begin talking as we fade to black.
