Post by Caleb Lockwood on Feb 3, 2012 2:20:20 GMT -6
We open on Caleb Lockwood sitting in the study of the Ace, obsessively reviewing match footage and notes on the one and only Fergus Callaghan. He’s confused, going over the notes and stopping several times to go back and look at various items on the career summary again and again. He shakes his head, sighing.
“Hang on. So first he’s a drunk Irish-American from Boston. Then he’s straight-edge. Then he’s a drunk from Dublin and he turned into a steroidal leprechaun. Now he’s back to being from Boston and he looks somewhat normal. Am I tracking that all right, or did someone decide April Fool’s Day came early?”
Ace looks up, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“Caleb, what have I told you? This company, while attracting some high-shelf talent such as myself, and the potential stars of the future, such as yourself, also attracts the utter dregs of the company. Fergus has been in and out of nCw more than your average businessman goes in and out of an Asian prostitute. He is the epitome of the revolving door, the ultimate in goonery, and quite frankly an embarrassment to everyone living in the British Isles AND the state of Massachusetts.”
Caleb nods, shaking his head and pausing the tape before setting the papers aside. He looks at Fergus’s expression in the freeze-frame, groaning.
“Well, Jesus. This guy’s not a good high-flyer, he’s a decent brawler, and his entire plan is…rely on the assumption that I’ve never been in a barfight in my life? Jesus Christ, he must have offed the last of his brain cells with a Jamison binge. He thinks because I was homeless I’d never fought a drunk or an Irishman? Fergus, do you have any idea how many hooch-swilling, Night Train-guzzlin’, Thunderbird-chugging psychos tried to mug me for my wrestling paychecks? Buddy, I’ve been in more drunken brawls than you’ve forgotten.”
Ace looks up at him incredulously again.
“Who in the devil are you talking to?!”
He blinks, suddenly realizing what he’s doing, and hangs his head sheepishly.
“Sorry, sir. I’m used to rambling into the camera and tossing off a few snappy one-liners. Usually that works. I uh, guess I figured it’d work with Fergus. God knows he didn’t put any effort in.”
Ace shakes his head, standing and walking over before crouching down to eye level with Lockwood. He addresses him patiently, as a parent might address a confused or disorderly child.
“Now, that’s your problem. If you want to be a major-league star, you have to think and act like one. Doing this same tired independent act won’t get you anywhere. Carry yourself like a champion, and gold will not be far behind. Now, if you have any…pertinent…questions, you may address them now. If not…I have a spiderweb to clean out. Anything?”
Caleb shakes his head, sighing. Ace nods, patting him on the shoulder patronizingly and walking off to his desk, presumably to concoct more nefarious plans. Lockwood sits back down, grabbing the papers again, and sighs, rereading them before looking up into the camera with a disdainful expression on his face.
“Is that the best ya got, Fergus? Having your poor man’s Jimmy Doohan take a shot at the Oakland Raiders and getting utterly ****faced? I’m disappointed. This is your return match. The chance you get to prove that you’re really championship material this time. Golly gee honest, you mean it. But in my expert opinon, Fergie? You’re no more championship material than I am an expert on hip-hop. Face it. You’ve tried every trick under the sun. Getting loaded, getting clean and preaching the virtues of straight-edge, bulking up and pretending you’re a European, none of it has brought you an ounce of success. Me?”
He grins, a flash of somewhat undeserved arrogance showing through his normally modest exterior.
“I’m being trained by the only nCw Grand Slam Champion in history—I don’t care what the front office says, having to hold five titles for a Grand Slam is bullcrap politicking to deny him his spot and they know it—to become not just a better wrestler, but better overall. I come from nothing, Fergus. The streets. The dregs of society. I’m the refuse nobody wanted. But I have potential. And Ace saw that potential, and he wants to be able to say that he trained the next big thing. And you know what? I have zero intent of letting him down. So when I get some constant washout like you walking up and declaring that I don’t know what I’m dealing with…all I can say is you’re dead wrong.”
Caleb shakes his head again, leaning back in the chair and putting his legs up on a footstool with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Your assessment of me is wrong, your tactics are shoddy, and your preparation is just not enough. You think you can just go to your vaunted drunken boxing and suddenly I get reduced to a helpless fool…I’m the Master of Gravity, jackass. I don’t just jump, though. I kick, I punch, and I damn well scrap. Because you don’t survive on the streets of Oakland without learning how to fight. Not just flip and fly, but brawl. Fergus…Sunday, at Metamorphosis, for the entire Internet to see…I will lay your ass out and show you how a real man flies. Sober up, boy. And don’t blink. You might miss something.”
He grins at the camera, only for a sharp shout to intrude on his promo.
“WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TALKING TO NOBODY?!”
Caleb winces, shaking his head, and tosses off a two-fingered salute as we fade to black.
“Hang on. So first he’s a drunk Irish-American from Boston. Then he’s straight-edge. Then he’s a drunk from Dublin and he turned into a steroidal leprechaun. Now he’s back to being from Boston and he looks somewhat normal. Am I tracking that all right, or did someone decide April Fool’s Day came early?”
Ace looks up, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“Caleb, what have I told you? This company, while attracting some high-shelf talent such as myself, and the potential stars of the future, such as yourself, also attracts the utter dregs of the company. Fergus has been in and out of nCw more than your average businessman goes in and out of an Asian prostitute. He is the epitome of the revolving door, the ultimate in goonery, and quite frankly an embarrassment to everyone living in the British Isles AND the state of Massachusetts.”
Caleb nods, shaking his head and pausing the tape before setting the papers aside. He looks at Fergus’s expression in the freeze-frame, groaning.
“Well, Jesus. This guy’s not a good high-flyer, he’s a decent brawler, and his entire plan is…rely on the assumption that I’ve never been in a barfight in my life? Jesus Christ, he must have offed the last of his brain cells with a Jamison binge. He thinks because I was homeless I’d never fought a drunk or an Irishman? Fergus, do you have any idea how many hooch-swilling, Night Train-guzzlin’, Thunderbird-chugging psychos tried to mug me for my wrestling paychecks? Buddy, I’ve been in more drunken brawls than you’ve forgotten.”
Ace looks up at him incredulously again.
“Who in the devil are you talking to?!”
He blinks, suddenly realizing what he’s doing, and hangs his head sheepishly.
“Sorry, sir. I’m used to rambling into the camera and tossing off a few snappy one-liners. Usually that works. I uh, guess I figured it’d work with Fergus. God knows he didn’t put any effort in.”
Ace shakes his head, standing and walking over before crouching down to eye level with Lockwood. He addresses him patiently, as a parent might address a confused or disorderly child.
“Now, that’s your problem. If you want to be a major-league star, you have to think and act like one. Doing this same tired independent act won’t get you anywhere. Carry yourself like a champion, and gold will not be far behind. Now, if you have any…pertinent…questions, you may address them now. If not…I have a spiderweb to clean out. Anything?”
Caleb shakes his head, sighing. Ace nods, patting him on the shoulder patronizingly and walking off to his desk, presumably to concoct more nefarious plans. Lockwood sits back down, grabbing the papers again, and sighs, rereading them before looking up into the camera with a disdainful expression on his face.
“Is that the best ya got, Fergus? Having your poor man’s Jimmy Doohan take a shot at the Oakland Raiders and getting utterly ****faced? I’m disappointed. This is your return match. The chance you get to prove that you’re really championship material this time. Golly gee honest, you mean it. But in my expert opinon, Fergie? You’re no more championship material than I am an expert on hip-hop. Face it. You’ve tried every trick under the sun. Getting loaded, getting clean and preaching the virtues of straight-edge, bulking up and pretending you’re a European, none of it has brought you an ounce of success. Me?”
He grins, a flash of somewhat undeserved arrogance showing through his normally modest exterior.
“I’m being trained by the only nCw Grand Slam Champion in history—I don’t care what the front office says, having to hold five titles for a Grand Slam is bullcrap politicking to deny him his spot and they know it—to become not just a better wrestler, but better overall. I come from nothing, Fergus. The streets. The dregs of society. I’m the refuse nobody wanted. But I have potential. And Ace saw that potential, and he wants to be able to say that he trained the next big thing. And you know what? I have zero intent of letting him down. So when I get some constant washout like you walking up and declaring that I don’t know what I’m dealing with…all I can say is you’re dead wrong.”
Caleb shakes his head again, leaning back in the chair and putting his legs up on a footstool with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Your assessment of me is wrong, your tactics are shoddy, and your preparation is just not enough. You think you can just go to your vaunted drunken boxing and suddenly I get reduced to a helpless fool…I’m the Master of Gravity, jackass. I don’t just jump, though. I kick, I punch, and I damn well scrap. Because you don’t survive on the streets of Oakland without learning how to fight. Not just flip and fly, but brawl. Fergus…Sunday, at Metamorphosis, for the entire Internet to see…I will lay your ass out and show you how a real man flies. Sober up, boy. And don’t blink. You might miss something.”
He grins at the camera, only for a sharp shout to intrude on his promo.
“WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TALKING TO NOBODY?!”
Caleb winces, shaking his head, and tosses off a two-fingered salute as we fade to black.
