Post by Jack Hammond on Jan 26, 2013 13:05:47 GMT -6
A dour scene greets us, dark grey clouds scudding across the sky as the wind whistles, carrying them in a race towards the distant horizon, leaden with their load, a low rumble echoing across the empty, stark landscape below. The land itself is barren, dusty and dry, save for small patches of scrub, the lay of the land scoured by shallow rifts and with short rises of natural rock, jagged and scoured by sun and wind over the years.
The only thing of note that stands out from the hostile scene is a black line that runs through it, a black line that runs not straight, but which winds its way around the rocks that dot the land, that dip down into the shallow basins, rising up again. A road, shining and snaking its way from one side of this scene to the other, linking two unseen forms of civilization. It’s pitted and pockmarked, reflecting the nature of its surroundings, in a state of disrepair, but with not a solitary soul in sight and the very distant presence of a highway shows that it will most likely never receive any future attention or need for use in guiding people to the places it used to guide them.
Until today.
An alien sound begins to reverberate off the previously silent stones, a sound that echoes the low rumble of thunder, which once again rolls through the empty landscape, suggesting it could simple be the sign of the storm coming to feed the land with precious water. But the low roar seems to rise in pitch, a constant rather than a fading echo. It grows in volume too, before there’s a juddering pause followed by the note dropping in pitch dramatically but seeming to increase with its intensity.
The sound of an engine, howling and spitting as a car, a tiny speck on the ribbon of tarmac, graces the road with another passenger. It pitches back onto its rear axels as it presses forwards, threading its way along the wide and lazy curves at speed, whoever was in control of it pushing it hard, the faint, high-pitched screech of rubber on road evidence of how close the vehicle was coming to the limit of grip it could have before it would let go.
The car hoves closer and closer into view, the shape and color becoming more distinct. A shape that would echo times of old, times of previous glory and of might; a ’68 Ford ‘Bullit’ Mustang GT Fastback, the galloping horse of its namesake shining with pride on the front grille as a faint ray of sunlight broke its way through the clouds, as if allowing the sky itself to peek at what was making such a raucous racket. It would glint a bold, metallic blue, reflecting the blue-collar nature of its heritage, the twin white stripes that ran along its length shining brightly in the dim sunlight.
All that was visible for now through the car’s windscreen would be a set of steady hands on the wheel, the driver’s face and figure silhouetted in the shade of the interior, one hand leaving the wheel only to reach for the gearstick as the engine note rose to a meaty, roaring crescendo of high revs, interrupted as the driver shifted up by a short burst of pops and crackles as spots and squirts of excess fuel, no longer being supplied to the engine to drive as the clutch was popped, was dumped into the red-hot pipes of the car’s exhaust, igniting in a small burst of flame from the tailpipes at the car’s rear before the gears meshed and the body jerked backwards again, the hood rising slightly like a bucking beast as the rear axle received drive from the V8 powerhouse and the roar would start again at 3,500 rpm and rising.
We watch as the car dances its way across the road, zipping and weaving to meet each corner, finding the apex of each corner and shooting away down the straights, the wheels bobbling and catching a little each time they ran over a small piece of debris or a small pothole, none of which seemed to be able to slow the car or its driver down, nor dissuade them from slowing their pace.
A shot of the interior of the car, peering over the driver’s shoulder, almost able to see what he sees as the road rolls up towards him, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a cool, quiet confidence. A shot from the car’s rear quarter panel, looking along the body of the car, watching as the front wheel that’s visible turns sharply out and then back in with each corner it’s faced with. A shot from the front bumper, mere inches from the blacktop as it whips by under us, the cracked and pockmarked black surface sometimes broken up starkly by a flash of white paint that used to denote the middle of the road as the Mustang flies past.
These shots and sights and sounds cut and edit into one another, a montage of car and driver expertly navigating this broken and winding road that seemingly leads to nowhere in the blasted landscape it currently exists in. No voice, no sight of who is driving, no impression of where he is headed or why.
But things have to come to a head at some point as we watch from a different angle as the car approaches down a long straight section of the road, its pace slower now, the sound of the engine’s note now decreasing in pitch as the driver leans on its brakes. It slows to a gradual crawl, turning side-on so we’re given a shot of it and the driver’s door as it finally comes to a halt, the engine being turned off soon after. The car creaks, pops and hisses quietly as the red-hot innards are finally allowed to rest and cool, released from their task of being pushed to their limit.
The door pops open and slowly swings wide, the driver swinging a leather booted foot out onto the road. He pulls himself out of his seat, out into the dim sunlight, allowing us to see his face for the first time....well, for the first time after about 12 months, anyway.
It’s not that much of a surprise considering the nature of this promo so far who it is, his youthful face already split by a wide, toothy grin, his eyes still twinkling with a mischievous energy, his mousey-brown hair tousled by the wind. Clad in a set of blue jeans and a zipped up black leather jacket that looks like it may be a little more suited to a biker with its design, the driver closes the door behind him before turning to look at the camera, smile only seeming to grow wider as he finds his voice.
“Ta-dah~”
The Hamster, as he’s known more affectionately by the people who like him, leans back against his car, hands sliding down into the pockets of his jeans, his mood and attitude, as always, casual and playful. He looks as though he hasn’t changed since we last saw him, haircut a little more wild than before, but otherwise, the same.
“So about a year ago, I made a decision that...well, to put it a little bluntly, was wildly misjudged. I came back to a small amount of fanfare, hoping to relive previous success and get back on top of things in the world of nCw, casually insulting and lucking my way through matches like I always do.”
A slightly pained expression clouds the British highflyer’s expression, memories of the ill-fated ‘return’ that lasted all but a couple of weeks before he was suddenly gone again, consigned to being just a memory again.
“Needless to say, it was a fairly sobering experience and I daresay I let a few people down. Being a disappointment isn’t something that’s sat all that well with me.”
He shakes his head, clearly a little disappointed at having to admit that, his shoulders slumped, reflecting the more somber mood he’s descended into for now. He looks down, eyes averted as he searches for the right thing to say.
“It’s that kind of thing, making a commitment that you can’t keep, trying to be an inspiration again and putting myself in a position to be something I was...hoping to be again. Was it greed that saw me come back last time? Pride? A misjudged sense that I still had it in me to do great things? Maybe it was all those things.”
Hammo shrugs his shoulders again, looking back up at the camera again, pausing for a moment to sigh and shake his head as if to try to emphasize his confusion and trying to search for the definitive answer that seemed to elude him, making his brow furrow with frustration.
“To be honest, there’s probably a whole raft of things that saw me come back, only to disappear into the ether like I did. Too many things for me to mention, but probably nothing that would satisfy everyone out there who gives a damn.”
Another long, drawn-out sigh that seems to carry a weight behind it, something that still burdens Hammond. But then that all-too familiar smile plays across his lips, his eyes regaining that spark.
“But in all honesty, that really doesn’t matter. I’m old enough and big enough to make my own mistakes and they only serve to help drive me not to make the same ones again.”
He chuckles quietly, shaking his head.
“In which case, you could currently be asking ‘but Hammy, if you think that your return was a mistake, what are you doing back here again? Didn’t you learn from it, like you just said, you clot? If you’re not coming back, then get lost! And get a bloody haircut, y you hippie!’”
He coughs, stopping his faux-anti-Hammy-rant and holds his hands up disarmingly, but unable to completely wipe the smile thanks to his little piece of theatre from his face as he continues.
“First off, my hair is my own business. I keep it clean and not all unkempt, so I think I’m allowed to have it as long as I like. Just be glad I’ve not gone all Steve Awesome and have it blowing in the wind in slow motion while flights of angels in bikinis coo and ‘ahh’ all over it.”
He stops and frowns, muttering to himself.
“Actually, that may not have been that bad an idea.”
Another small pause and a quick shake of the head to derail that train of thought and Hammond tries his level best to get back on point.
“Secondly, am I coming back? Am I going to go down this metaphorical road all over again? Risk more ridicule if I screw it up again and leave with my name sullied and my reputation in tatters? Do I have the guts to even step into that ring with the way I left things last time? What would it take for me to come back into an nCw arena and have anyone accept me?”
Hammond pauses, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before there’s a quick edit and the entire scene goes dark before a spotlight clicks on, showing only Hammond as he falls to his knees, a melodramatic cry being torn from his throat, his hands clawing at the air, his eyes turned to the sky.
“What if they all hate me?! What if I’m no good and get beaten? Oh, cruel fate, thou wicked thing, thou has cursed me forevermore to wallow in misery and shame!”
An arm is thrown across his face as if to cover his eyes, his overblown and overly dramatic tone probably familiar to those who know him and his ‘methods’. He continues, unabated and unchallenged.
“O’ wicked fate! I have been cast down, never to rise and see the light! My actions have forever damned me! And all I ask is...all I want to know is...”
An audible groan can be heard from the audience who know what is coming next, the arm covering his face dropping to reveal a set of poorly applied emo-makeup on Hammond’s face. The all-too-familiar piano notes begin as the British high-flyer begins to mime to Simple Plan’s ‘How Could This Happen To Me?’
This continues for a while before is suddenly stops with a vinyl-record style ‘screech’, the video editing as well to show Hammond back against his car, an awkward grimace on his face, a small shake of the head and a slight chuckle as things return to ‘normal’.
“Yyyeah, if I’m honest that’s not really too much of an issue. If I’d worried what people had thought of me, I don’t think I’d have gotten into the ring ever.”
He shrugs again, casually this time, no genuine look of concern crossing his features as he continues to grin, his hands sliding easily back into his pockets again.
“And I suppose I ought to be a little more explicit on whether I’m just dropping by to say ‘hi’ or if this is a genuine attempt to stir up some buzz that I’m on my way back, well...”
There’s a glint in Hammond’s eye as he reaches for the top of his leather jacket, very deliberately pulling the zipper down, the jacket opening to reveal an ‘nCw’-branded t-shirt underneath. His hands tug at the ends of his jacket, making sure the logo on his shirt would be difficult to miss, hopefully being enough to answer that question.
Hammond looks back up, the smile on his face and fire in his eyes at the prospect of what’s to come, his body seeming to tense and shake with a sudden influx of adrenaline and endorphins, hands clenching unconsciously.
“I may be rusty, I may not be able to lay claim to any stake for a while. But the chance to be back in the ring, to face the best of the best, to be able to walk down that ramp and do what I love to do in front of people who will be cheering me on...I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
A small step forward and the click of the driver’s side door opening before Hammond, still a little giddy from the adrenaline, plops down into the seat, the camera angle switching to the inside of the car, his face clearly visible now as it looks right at him from the dashboard. He slams the door closed and twists the key in the ignition, the Mustang roaring to life, a few prods of the throttle making the thing buck and shudder, held still by the handbrake. Hammond’s eyes alight on the camera lens as he grins savagely.
“So, another year gone, starting from the bottom rung once more and a whole load of new people to piss off. It’s going to be tough and it’s going to be painful and it most certainly isn’t going to be pretty. But honestly, getting back on top of things again?”
Another prod of the throttle and a roar from the V8 engine under the bonnet and a wink from Hammond before he reaches down to release the handbrake.
“...how hard can it be?”
With that, all hell breaks loose, the rear tyres lighting up as the handbrake is yanked down and the back end of the car dips as a few hundred horses are let loose, the rubber skidding and sliding before it catches on the hard-worn asphalt, twin plumes of blue smoke erupting from the back as the car slews away, sliding this way and that down the road, searching for grip, finally straightening out as it shoots off back the way it had come, Hammond grinning like a dervish at the wheel, a trip back along that rutted and worn road as he races off into the darkened horizon, back into the fold, back to where he belongs.
Back, to New Championship Wrestling.
The only thing of note that stands out from the hostile scene is a black line that runs through it, a black line that runs not straight, but which winds its way around the rocks that dot the land, that dip down into the shallow basins, rising up again. A road, shining and snaking its way from one side of this scene to the other, linking two unseen forms of civilization. It’s pitted and pockmarked, reflecting the nature of its surroundings, in a state of disrepair, but with not a solitary soul in sight and the very distant presence of a highway shows that it will most likely never receive any future attention or need for use in guiding people to the places it used to guide them.
Until today.
An alien sound begins to reverberate off the previously silent stones, a sound that echoes the low rumble of thunder, which once again rolls through the empty landscape, suggesting it could simple be the sign of the storm coming to feed the land with precious water. But the low roar seems to rise in pitch, a constant rather than a fading echo. It grows in volume too, before there’s a juddering pause followed by the note dropping in pitch dramatically but seeming to increase with its intensity.
The sound of an engine, howling and spitting as a car, a tiny speck on the ribbon of tarmac, graces the road with another passenger. It pitches back onto its rear axels as it presses forwards, threading its way along the wide and lazy curves at speed, whoever was in control of it pushing it hard, the faint, high-pitched screech of rubber on road evidence of how close the vehicle was coming to the limit of grip it could have before it would let go.
The car hoves closer and closer into view, the shape and color becoming more distinct. A shape that would echo times of old, times of previous glory and of might; a ’68 Ford ‘Bullit’ Mustang GT Fastback, the galloping horse of its namesake shining with pride on the front grille as a faint ray of sunlight broke its way through the clouds, as if allowing the sky itself to peek at what was making such a raucous racket. It would glint a bold, metallic blue, reflecting the blue-collar nature of its heritage, the twin white stripes that ran along its length shining brightly in the dim sunlight.
All that was visible for now through the car’s windscreen would be a set of steady hands on the wheel, the driver’s face and figure silhouetted in the shade of the interior, one hand leaving the wheel only to reach for the gearstick as the engine note rose to a meaty, roaring crescendo of high revs, interrupted as the driver shifted up by a short burst of pops and crackles as spots and squirts of excess fuel, no longer being supplied to the engine to drive as the clutch was popped, was dumped into the red-hot pipes of the car’s exhaust, igniting in a small burst of flame from the tailpipes at the car’s rear before the gears meshed and the body jerked backwards again, the hood rising slightly like a bucking beast as the rear axle received drive from the V8 powerhouse and the roar would start again at 3,500 rpm and rising.
We watch as the car dances its way across the road, zipping and weaving to meet each corner, finding the apex of each corner and shooting away down the straights, the wheels bobbling and catching a little each time they ran over a small piece of debris or a small pothole, none of which seemed to be able to slow the car or its driver down, nor dissuade them from slowing their pace.
A shot of the interior of the car, peering over the driver’s shoulder, almost able to see what he sees as the road rolls up towards him, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a cool, quiet confidence. A shot from the car’s rear quarter panel, looking along the body of the car, watching as the front wheel that’s visible turns sharply out and then back in with each corner it’s faced with. A shot from the front bumper, mere inches from the blacktop as it whips by under us, the cracked and pockmarked black surface sometimes broken up starkly by a flash of white paint that used to denote the middle of the road as the Mustang flies past.
These shots and sights and sounds cut and edit into one another, a montage of car and driver expertly navigating this broken and winding road that seemingly leads to nowhere in the blasted landscape it currently exists in. No voice, no sight of who is driving, no impression of where he is headed or why.
But things have to come to a head at some point as we watch from a different angle as the car approaches down a long straight section of the road, its pace slower now, the sound of the engine’s note now decreasing in pitch as the driver leans on its brakes. It slows to a gradual crawl, turning side-on so we’re given a shot of it and the driver’s door as it finally comes to a halt, the engine being turned off soon after. The car creaks, pops and hisses quietly as the red-hot innards are finally allowed to rest and cool, released from their task of being pushed to their limit.
The door pops open and slowly swings wide, the driver swinging a leather booted foot out onto the road. He pulls himself out of his seat, out into the dim sunlight, allowing us to see his face for the first time....well, for the first time after about 12 months, anyway.
It’s not that much of a surprise considering the nature of this promo so far who it is, his youthful face already split by a wide, toothy grin, his eyes still twinkling with a mischievous energy, his mousey-brown hair tousled by the wind. Clad in a set of blue jeans and a zipped up black leather jacket that looks like it may be a little more suited to a biker with its design, the driver closes the door behind him before turning to look at the camera, smile only seeming to grow wider as he finds his voice.
“Ta-dah~”
The Hamster, as he’s known more affectionately by the people who like him, leans back against his car, hands sliding down into the pockets of his jeans, his mood and attitude, as always, casual and playful. He looks as though he hasn’t changed since we last saw him, haircut a little more wild than before, but otherwise, the same.
“So about a year ago, I made a decision that...well, to put it a little bluntly, was wildly misjudged. I came back to a small amount of fanfare, hoping to relive previous success and get back on top of things in the world of nCw, casually insulting and lucking my way through matches like I always do.”
A slightly pained expression clouds the British highflyer’s expression, memories of the ill-fated ‘return’ that lasted all but a couple of weeks before he was suddenly gone again, consigned to being just a memory again.
“Needless to say, it was a fairly sobering experience and I daresay I let a few people down. Being a disappointment isn’t something that’s sat all that well with me.”
He shakes his head, clearly a little disappointed at having to admit that, his shoulders slumped, reflecting the more somber mood he’s descended into for now. He looks down, eyes averted as he searches for the right thing to say.
“It’s that kind of thing, making a commitment that you can’t keep, trying to be an inspiration again and putting myself in a position to be something I was...hoping to be again. Was it greed that saw me come back last time? Pride? A misjudged sense that I still had it in me to do great things? Maybe it was all those things.”
Hammo shrugs his shoulders again, looking back up at the camera again, pausing for a moment to sigh and shake his head as if to try to emphasize his confusion and trying to search for the definitive answer that seemed to elude him, making his brow furrow with frustration.
“To be honest, there’s probably a whole raft of things that saw me come back, only to disappear into the ether like I did. Too many things for me to mention, but probably nothing that would satisfy everyone out there who gives a damn.”
Another long, drawn-out sigh that seems to carry a weight behind it, something that still burdens Hammond. But then that all-too familiar smile plays across his lips, his eyes regaining that spark.
“But in all honesty, that really doesn’t matter. I’m old enough and big enough to make my own mistakes and they only serve to help drive me not to make the same ones again.”
He chuckles quietly, shaking his head.
“In which case, you could currently be asking ‘but Hammy, if you think that your return was a mistake, what are you doing back here again? Didn’t you learn from it, like you just said, you clot? If you’re not coming back, then get lost! And get a bloody haircut, y you hippie!’”
He coughs, stopping his faux-anti-Hammy-rant and holds his hands up disarmingly, but unable to completely wipe the smile thanks to his little piece of theatre from his face as he continues.
“First off, my hair is my own business. I keep it clean and not all unkempt, so I think I’m allowed to have it as long as I like. Just be glad I’ve not gone all Steve Awesome and have it blowing in the wind in slow motion while flights of angels in bikinis coo and ‘ahh’ all over it.”
He stops and frowns, muttering to himself.
“Actually, that may not have been that bad an idea.”
Another small pause and a quick shake of the head to derail that train of thought and Hammond tries his level best to get back on point.
“Secondly, am I coming back? Am I going to go down this metaphorical road all over again? Risk more ridicule if I screw it up again and leave with my name sullied and my reputation in tatters? Do I have the guts to even step into that ring with the way I left things last time? What would it take for me to come back into an nCw arena and have anyone accept me?”
Hammond pauses, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before there’s a quick edit and the entire scene goes dark before a spotlight clicks on, showing only Hammond as he falls to his knees, a melodramatic cry being torn from his throat, his hands clawing at the air, his eyes turned to the sky.
“What if they all hate me?! What if I’m no good and get beaten? Oh, cruel fate, thou wicked thing, thou has cursed me forevermore to wallow in misery and shame!”
An arm is thrown across his face as if to cover his eyes, his overblown and overly dramatic tone probably familiar to those who know him and his ‘methods’. He continues, unabated and unchallenged.
“O’ wicked fate! I have been cast down, never to rise and see the light! My actions have forever damned me! And all I ask is...all I want to know is...”
An audible groan can be heard from the audience who know what is coming next, the arm covering his face dropping to reveal a set of poorly applied emo-makeup on Hammond’s face. The all-too-familiar piano notes begin as the British high-flyer begins to mime to Simple Plan’s ‘How Could This Happen To Me?’
This continues for a while before is suddenly stops with a vinyl-record style ‘screech’, the video editing as well to show Hammond back against his car, an awkward grimace on his face, a small shake of the head and a slight chuckle as things return to ‘normal’.
“Yyyeah, if I’m honest that’s not really too much of an issue. If I’d worried what people had thought of me, I don’t think I’d have gotten into the ring ever.”
He shrugs again, casually this time, no genuine look of concern crossing his features as he continues to grin, his hands sliding easily back into his pockets again.
“And I suppose I ought to be a little more explicit on whether I’m just dropping by to say ‘hi’ or if this is a genuine attempt to stir up some buzz that I’m on my way back, well...”
There’s a glint in Hammond’s eye as he reaches for the top of his leather jacket, very deliberately pulling the zipper down, the jacket opening to reveal an ‘nCw’-branded t-shirt underneath. His hands tug at the ends of his jacket, making sure the logo on his shirt would be difficult to miss, hopefully being enough to answer that question.
Hammond looks back up, the smile on his face and fire in his eyes at the prospect of what’s to come, his body seeming to tense and shake with a sudden influx of adrenaline and endorphins, hands clenching unconsciously.
“I may be rusty, I may not be able to lay claim to any stake for a while. But the chance to be back in the ring, to face the best of the best, to be able to walk down that ramp and do what I love to do in front of people who will be cheering me on...I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
A small step forward and the click of the driver’s side door opening before Hammond, still a little giddy from the adrenaline, plops down into the seat, the camera angle switching to the inside of the car, his face clearly visible now as it looks right at him from the dashboard. He slams the door closed and twists the key in the ignition, the Mustang roaring to life, a few prods of the throttle making the thing buck and shudder, held still by the handbrake. Hammond’s eyes alight on the camera lens as he grins savagely.
“So, another year gone, starting from the bottom rung once more and a whole load of new people to piss off. It’s going to be tough and it’s going to be painful and it most certainly isn’t going to be pretty. But honestly, getting back on top of things again?”
Another prod of the throttle and a roar from the V8 engine under the bonnet and a wink from Hammond before he reaches down to release the handbrake.
“...how hard can it be?”
With that, all hell breaks loose, the rear tyres lighting up as the handbrake is yanked down and the back end of the car dips as a few hundred horses are let loose, the rubber skidding and sliding before it catches on the hard-worn asphalt, twin plumes of blue smoke erupting from the back as the car slews away, sliding this way and that down the road, searching for grip, finally straightening out as it shoots off back the way it had come, Hammond grinning like a dervish at the wheel, a trip back along that rutted and worn road as he races off into the darkened horizon, back into the fold, back to where he belongs.
Back, to New Championship Wrestling.