Post by Jack Hammond on Jan 28, 2013 18:47:28 GMT -6
A bright but chilly winter’s morning greets us this time, the sun filtering its dim light through the barren trees and pale grey clouds onto an unnamed part of the picturesque American countryside that exists far out of the relative hustle and bustle of the city.
Rather than playing peek-a-boo in his car like his comeback promo last time, our little highflying hero, Jack Hammond is immediately present, walking through what seems a peaceful and quiet grassy field, frost crackling under his walking boots. He’s well protected from the cold, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, a thick and heavy leather thing and a woolen beanie covering his head and ears. He grimaces uncomfortably at the camera, letting out a sigh that escapes as a cloud of annoyed vapor.
“Have I reminded anyone lately how much I hate the cold? Honestly, ancient man invented fire for a reason and yet some people seem to insist that this kind of weather is ‘good for us’, how it’s ‘bracing’ and ‘makes us tougher’. If that's the bloody case, why do we invent things like thermal underpants and winter gloves and itchy woolen scarves is it?”
His tone and demeanor hide none of his misgivings at having to be outside in these conditions despite the sunshine. He looks about a few times before eyeing the camera irritably and trying his best to cheer up as he begins to explain himself.
“So the reason I’m outside this freezing morning is because of who I’ve found out I’m facing this coming Sunday. No, it’s not Jack Frost, even though the bastard is nipping at my nose right now, but another returning superstar in the form of one Jabari Woodhead. Now you and he will have to forgive me if I didn’t immediately know who he was, I have been out of touch with all of this for a while. However, I discovered that Mr. Woodhead is a bit more than just another relatively new face to nCw, but a star in his own right in the world of American Football, and, by all reports, it seems to be something he’s quite keen on reminding people about.”
He frowns, recalling checking a few of the promos Jabari had cut when the other man had just started out back in the summer of ’12 and the very brash and blunt confidence he’d displayed in the process and the unfortunate people who’d been in his way, including one unfortunate nCw cameraman.
“Now, being a Brit, I’ve heard of and have even watched your version of ‘Football’. And as the stereotypical Limey you’re all going to take me for, I was quick to dismiss it as rugby for people who don’t want to get hurt and so they wear pads and helmets. However, current events have me thinking that perhaps I should re-evaluate the sport in order to see what I’m up against. I have bad memories of mis underestimating people on my comebacks and promptly being turned into paste and I’m not exactly keen to repeat the process, what with all the fanfare I’ve tried to strike up. If I recall correctly, it was some guy in a mask who beat me three ways from Sunday last time...at a PPV pre-show of all things.”
The memory of that embarassing time is quickly expunged from his head as the camera zooms out to show that he’s actually stepped onto a football field, looking left to see some men in pads, helmets and cleats practicing nearby, going through basic drills and exercises. The scene cuts to show Hammond watching quietly from the sidelines as the men form themselves into two teams. He commentates out-loud while they set about getting the game set up.
“Now, perhaps just offhandedly deciding to cast aside American Football as another thing you Yanks have copied from us Brits and then watering it down with safety pads was a bit unfair. I’ll admit, the guys out there are built like brick houses and I’m willing to bet they weigh as much as a block of flats combined too. In order to be a professional in this sport, you’re required to be tough, quick as well as strong and...”
As if on cue, a sharp blast of a whistle and there’s a combined clatter as pads and helmets crash against one another and voices raised as muscle presses against muscle, players trying to get past one another, aggression turned up to 11 as the play begins. The camera trains on one man in particular, the ball clutched firmly and securely in one arm as he races towards the opposing team’s goal line. The rate of speed he tears away with is startling and even as opposing player dive at him, he’s able to duck and spin away in a heartbeat, but the numbers are against him as he’s brought down with a violent thud, ball still held possessively to his chest as the play ends, a few yards earned.
Hammond looks on, nodding and looking fairly impressed, even whistling low too, before worry seems to cross his face, his brow knitting into a frown, eyes darting nervously at the camera for a moment.
“...and the man I’m facing played this sport to a professional level and played it well. Actually, more than just 'well', considering the amount of accolades you can put to his name.”
There’s a pause, the sounds of the game continuing in the background before he swallows audibly, then laughs quietly but shakily, his usual, easy confidence not exactly coming to the fore.
“And that’s the kind of man I’ll be having to face in our match come Sunday night. Or, as the bookmakers are calling it already, ‘The Foregone Conclusion’.”
A small montage passes now, Hammond watching the game, wincing at each brutal tackle, eyes locked on the players at each time there’s a breakaway, a well-crafted play or a brilliantly executed counter or defense deployed. Eventually, the whistle blows and the game is over, one side celebrating and the other vowing to be better next time before the field begins to empty, nCw’s Hamster watching them go before he turns and starts walking towards the camera, his nerves seeming to have settled some as he begins again.
“Now, while I’m not going to suddenly become a fan of the sport overnight, just watching this has expunged any sort of prejudices I had of this sport that I may have had before all this. American Football requires skill, strength, speed and the ability to put up with or cause quite a bit of violence. And of course, naturally, you’d think that things like this would transfer quite easily over to something like wrestling. Only, the metaphorical ball in this case could quite easily be me.”
The Hamster’s face screws up at the thought of being smushed up into a ball shape and spiked into the mat. It’s not really all that appealing, warranting a shake of the head from him to shake the unwarranted mental image clear of his thoughts. His eyes return to look into the camera.
“Now, you may be asking yourself, ‘Hammo, you loveable scamp, you make a bunch of very good points in Jabari’s favor here. Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to abandon this little comeback of yours and go back to whatever it was you were doing? We don’t want you getting squished again’.”
Surprisingly for some, but unsurprisingly for others, a cheeky grin breaks out across his face, eyes twinkling with that familiar Hammond-style bravado that has been severely lacking. A slight cock of the head, a relaxed slump of the shoulders and a gentle clearing of the throat as he stops and a slightly exasperated tone to his voice betrays none of the worry he should be feeling.
“Well, I’d like to first and foremost point out that I’m not a Football player. Obvious, I know, but I think I’m too short and certainly too scrawny to be cut out to be a player, something I’m willing to bet Mr. Woodhead will point out. I thought maybe it best to beat him to the punch, so to speak.”
A quiet, sage nod of the head before he arches an eyebrow, his tone turning to something bordering on conspiratorial as he addresses the camera with his reasoning, even going so far to tap his nose.
“You see, something I’ve always been doing in the past is responding. I always wait and let the other person I’m facing speak first and try and get the last word in. I figure this way I’ll get all the insults that I figure are coming my way out in the open before my opponent even has a chance to make them at me on their own. And so...”
Hammond reaches into his jacket, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out a notebook and a pair of reading glasses which he a little over dramatically places on the bridge of his nose, obviously there for comedic effect due to the fact there’s clearly no glass in them.
“...A way I figured I’d help out Mr. Woodhead with his inevitable verbal assault of me was to watch any of his previous promos, cherrypick the best of his insults from them and then edit them so they’re more applicable to me. I’ve got all the top-of-the-line zingers written on this page here, y’see.”
He points proudly to his notebook before peering at the page in question, reading what he’s got scribbled down. However, his brow drops into a frown as he looks over his notes before looking back at the camera.
“Hrm. Well according to my notes, nothing he said reaches the standard of ‘good’. Okay, I guess we’ll go for the ‘not so good’ insults instead.”
He sighs with a casual shake of his head and flips the page over, scanning these lines before laughing nervously once again.
"T-terribly sorry, appears there's none here either. How about we just try the 'terrible/cliche' insults page?"
He flips the page again and does a double take before narrowing his eyes and reading the page more intently.
“Oh wow, plenty of those...but many of these are a little too...well, I was going to say ‘adult’, but with explicit language and material like this, it’s more juvenile to be honest.”
Hammond scratches his head through his beanie, trying his best to look confused at the scrawled writing before glancing apologetically at the camera with a sigh and a shrug.
“I’m really sorry about this Mr. Woodhead, honestly I am. Hopefully you’ll be able to come up with some newer material this time around that perhaps doesn’t involve the size of manhoods, adultery or threats of permanent hospitalization. Because the eternal broken record that is cliched insults has been played at me many times before. Though you could try taking a pop at my size...no wait, Steve Awesome did that. Then perhaps my fetish for cars? No, Rob Diamond did that schtick...And don’t get me started on what Joe Everyman’s said. I have to take a cold shower every time somebody mentions the word ‘underdog’.”
He shudders a little at the thought of previous indiscretions before getting back to the matter in hand, rubbing his chin before shrugging his shoulders, that mischievous glint back in his eye quicker than you can say ‘Hamster’.
“I know that it’s perhaps not the wisest thing in the world to do, get the cheap verbal jabs in first against a man whose bicep is bigger than my head, but I thought it would at least be fair to let Mr. Woodhead get an idea of who he’s up against; a cheeky little arse who’s not afraid to insult a guy much, much larger than him."
Hammond simply grins.
"But y’see, when a violent, musclebound, catchphrase-spouting, glory-seeking, egotistical, overcompensating, megalomaniacal tryhard comes into my crosshairs, I really can’t help myself.
A simple shrug of the shoulders and a casual smile acts as either the exclamation point on that line of insults, or possibly the final nail in his coffin depending on how things on Sunday go.
“But needless to say, I have been itching to get back into the ring and see what I’ve been missing out on. Having a man who could use me as a toothpick as my first opponent back ought to be...interesting, but I’ve faced down odds far worse as far as I’m concerned.”
Hammond casually tosses the notebook over his shoulder, followed by the fake glasses and shoves his hands back into his coat pockets, smiling disarmingly at the camera, almost feeling the rage from the target of his verbal jabs and feeling much warmer thanks to it.
“So I look forward to what you have to say. Be it the size, shape or lack thereof of my manhood, my lack of ability, how I’m going to eat my words...only one thing you can really do to shut me up and that is to bring anything you think you have to the ring on Sunday and try it.”
He slowly rocks on his heels, leaning towards the camera, eyes boring holes into the lens, a fire seeming to burn behind them. The rest of the scene around him seems to slowly fade to black, his form and face dominating the viewer’s attention now.
“I’ve been away from nCw for a long time and I’m in no mood to have to deal with people who think they know what it takes because they were a somebody somewhere else some other time. This is the here and the now and you’d best take me seriously. I’ve scouted you, Mr. Woodhead, I’ve seen where you come from and I know you’re not to be trifled with on your home turf.”
A feral, hungry grin replaces the more innocent and lovable smile, that Hammond desire being burned into their eyes and his passion echoing in everyone’s ears, darkness now surrounding him
“Do you really want to try the same on mine?”
There’s a snap of sound and a flash of white light, Hammond still staring his opponent down via the camera, but no longer out in the cold morning air, standing instead inexplicably in an nCw ring, an empty arena surrounding it, harsh spotlights picking the young high flyer out. He spreads his arms wide and leans back, his question seeming to echo and ring out in the deserted arena, unchecked and unanswered...for now.
His face slowly softens, the cold fury and determination that many had felt and experienced before fading to be hidden by the easygoing demeanor that everyone knew and loved. He winks at the camera cheekily and begins to turn.
“After all, beating some short, crazy, ring-rusted Limey?"
A single glance, that infuriating mocking grin over his shoulder, before Hammond ducks out under the ropes and up into the darkness of the empty seats before the lights all snap out, leaving us in the dark, along with his final words.
"How hard can it be?”
Rather than playing peek-a-boo in his car like his comeback promo last time, our little highflying hero, Jack Hammond is immediately present, walking through what seems a peaceful and quiet grassy field, frost crackling under his walking boots. He’s well protected from the cold, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, a thick and heavy leather thing and a woolen beanie covering his head and ears. He grimaces uncomfortably at the camera, letting out a sigh that escapes as a cloud of annoyed vapor.
“Have I reminded anyone lately how much I hate the cold? Honestly, ancient man invented fire for a reason and yet some people seem to insist that this kind of weather is ‘good for us’, how it’s ‘bracing’ and ‘makes us tougher’. If that's the bloody case, why do we invent things like thermal underpants and winter gloves and itchy woolen scarves is it?”
His tone and demeanor hide none of his misgivings at having to be outside in these conditions despite the sunshine. He looks about a few times before eyeing the camera irritably and trying his best to cheer up as he begins to explain himself.
“So the reason I’m outside this freezing morning is because of who I’ve found out I’m facing this coming Sunday. No, it’s not Jack Frost, even though the bastard is nipping at my nose right now, but another returning superstar in the form of one Jabari Woodhead. Now you and he will have to forgive me if I didn’t immediately know who he was, I have been out of touch with all of this for a while. However, I discovered that Mr. Woodhead is a bit more than just another relatively new face to nCw, but a star in his own right in the world of American Football, and, by all reports, it seems to be something he’s quite keen on reminding people about.”
He frowns, recalling checking a few of the promos Jabari had cut when the other man had just started out back in the summer of ’12 and the very brash and blunt confidence he’d displayed in the process and the unfortunate people who’d been in his way, including one unfortunate nCw cameraman.
“Now, being a Brit, I’ve heard of and have even watched your version of ‘Football’. And as the stereotypical Limey you’re all going to take me for, I was quick to dismiss it as rugby for people who don’t want to get hurt and so they wear pads and helmets. However, current events have me thinking that perhaps I should re-evaluate the sport in order to see what I’m up against. I have bad memories of mis underestimating people on my comebacks and promptly being turned into paste and I’m not exactly keen to repeat the process, what with all the fanfare I’ve tried to strike up. If I recall correctly, it was some guy in a mask who beat me three ways from Sunday last time...at a PPV pre-show of all things.”
The memory of that embarassing time is quickly expunged from his head as the camera zooms out to show that he’s actually stepped onto a football field, looking left to see some men in pads, helmets and cleats practicing nearby, going through basic drills and exercises. The scene cuts to show Hammond watching quietly from the sidelines as the men form themselves into two teams. He commentates out-loud while they set about getting the game set up.
“Now, perhaps just offhandedly deciding to cast aside American Football as another thing you Yanks have copied from us Brits and then watering it down with safety pads was a bit unfair. I’ll admit, the guys out there are built like brick houses and I’m willing to bet they weigh as much as a block of flats combined too. In order to be a professional in this sport, you’re required to be tough, quick as well as strong and...”
As if on cue, a sharp blast of a whistle and there’s a combined clatter as pads and helmets crash against one another and voices raised as muscle presses against muscle, players trying to get past one another, aggression turned up to 11 as the play begins. The camera trains on one man in particular, the ball clutched firmly and securely in one arm as he races towards the opposing team’s goal line. The rate of speed he tears away with is startling and even as opposing player dive at him, he’s able to duck and spin away in a heartbeat, but the numbers are against him as he’s brought down with a violent thud, ball still held possessively to his chest as the play ends, a few yards earned.
Hammond looks on, nodding and looking fairly impressed, even whistling low too, before worry seems to cross his face, his brow knitting into a frown, eyes darting nervously at the camera for a moment.
“...and the man I’m facing played this sport to a professional level and played it well. Actually, more than just 'well', considering the amount of accolades you can put to his name.”
There’s a pause, the sounds of the game continuing in the background before he swallows audibly, then laughs quietly but shakily, his usual, easy confidence not exactly coming to the fore.
“And that’s the kind of man I’ll be having to face in our match come Sunday night. Or, as the bookmakers are calling it already, ‘The Foregone Conclusion’.”
A small montage passes now, Hammond watching the game, wincing at each brutal tackle, eyes locked on the players at each time there’s a breakaway, a well-crafted play or a brilliantly executed counter or defense deployed. Eventually, the whistle blows and the game is over, one side celebrating and the other vowing to be better next time before the field begins to empty, nCw’s Hamster watching them go before he turns and starts walking towards the camera, his nerves seeming to have settled some as he begins again.
“Now, while I’m not going to suddenly become a fan of the sport overnight, just watching this has expunged any sort of prejudices I had of this sport that I may have had before all this. American Football requires skill, strength, speed and the ability to put up with or cause quite a bit of violence. And of course, naturally, you’d think that things like this would transfer quite easily over to something like wrestling. Only, the metaphorical ball in this case could quite easily be me.”
The Hamster’s face screws up at the thought of being smushed up into a ball shape and spiked into the mat. It’s not really all that appealing, warranting a shake of the head from him to shake the unwarranted mental image clear of his thoughts. His eyes return to look into the camera.
“Now, you may be asking yourself, ‘Hammo, you loveable scamp, you make a bunch of very good points in Jabari’s favor here. Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to abandon this little comeback of yours and go back to whatever it was you were doing? We don’t want you getting squished again’.”
Surprisingly for some, but unsurprisingly for others, a cheeky grin breaks out across his face, eyes twinkling with that familiar Hammond-style bravado that has been severely lacking. A slight cock of the head, a relaxed slump of the shoulders and a gentle clearing of the throat as he stops and a slightly exasperated tone to his voice betrays none of the worry he should be feeling.
“Well, I’d like to first and foremost point out that I’m not a Football player. Obvious, I know, but I think I’m too short and certainly too scrawny to be cut out to be a player, something I’m willing to bet Mr. Woodhead will point out. I thought maybe it best to beat him to the punch, so to speak.”
A quiet, sage nod of the head before he arches an eyebrow, his tone turning to something bordering on conspiratorial as he addresses the camera with his reasoning, even going so far to tap his nose.
“You see, something I’ve always been doing in the past is responding. I always wait and let the other person I’m facing speak first and try and get the last word in. I figure this way I’ll get all the insults that I figure are coming my way out in the open before my opponent even has a chance to make them at me on their own. And so...”
Hammond reaches into his jacket, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out a notebook and a pair of reading glasses which he a little over dramatically places on the bridge of his nose, obviously there for comedic effect due to the fact there’s clearly no glass in them.
“...A way I figured I’d help out Mr. Woodhead with his inevitable verbal assault of me was to watch any of his previous promos, cherrypick the best of his insults from them and then edit them so they’re more applicable to me. I’ve got all the top-of-the-line zingers written on this page here, y’see.”
He points proudly to his notebook before peering at the page in question, reading what he’s got scribbled down. However, his brow drops into a frown as he looks over his notes before looking back at the camera.
“Hrm. Well according to my notes, nothing he said reaches the standard of ‘good’. Okay, I guess we’ll go for the ‘not so good’ insults instead.”
He sighs with a casual shake of his head and flips the page over, scanning these lines before laughing nervously once again.
"T-terribly sorry, appears there's none here either. How about we just try the 'terrible/cliche' insults page?"
He flips the page again and does a double take before narrowing his eyes and reading the page more intently.
“Oh wow, plenty of those...but many of these are a little too...well, I was going to say ‘adult’, but with explicit language and material like this, it’s more juvenile to be honest.”
Hammond scratches his head through his beanie, trying his best to look confused at the scrawled writing before glancing apologetically at the camera with a sigh and a shrug.
“I’m really sorry about this Mr. Woodhead, honestly I am. Hopefully you’ll be able to come up with some newer material this time around that perhaps doesn’t involve the size of manhoods, adultery or threats of permanent hospitalization. Because the eternal broken record that is cliched insults has been played at me many times before. Though you could try taking a pop at my size...no wait, Steve Awesome did that. Then perhaps my fetish for cars? No, Rob Diamond did that schtick...And don’t get me started on what Joe Everyman’s said. I have to take a cold shower every time somebody mentions the word ‘underdog’.”
He shudders a little at the thought of previous indiscretions before getting back to the matter in hand, rubbing his chin before shrugging his shoulders, that mischievous glint back in his eye quicker than you can say ‘Hamster’.
“I know that it’s perhaps not the wisest thing in the world to do, get the cheap verbal jabs in first against a man whose bicep is bigger than my head, but I thought it would at least be fair to let Mr. Woodhead get an idea of who he’s up against; a cheeky little arse who’s not afraid to insult a guy much, much larger than him."
Hammond simply grins.
"But y’see, when a violent, musclebound, catchphrase-spouting, glory-seeking, egotistical, overcompensating, megalomaniacal tryhard comes into my crosshairs, I really can’t help myself.
A simple shrug of the shoulders and a casual smile acts as either the exclamation point on that line of insults, or possibly the final nail in his coffin depending on how things on Sunday go.
“But needless to say, I have been itching to get back into the ring and see what I’ve been missing out on. Having a man who could use me as a toothpick as my first opponent back ought to be...interesting, but I’ve faced down odds far worse as far as I’m concerned.”
Hammond casually tosses the notebook over his shoulder, followed by the fake glasses and shoves his hands back into his coat pockets, smiling disarmingly at the camera, almost feeling the rage from the target of his verbal jabs and feeling much warmer thanks to it.
“So I look forward to what you have to say. Be it the size, shape or lack thereof of my manhood, my lack of ability, how I’m going to eat my words...only one thing you can really do to shut me up and that is to bring anything you think you have to the ring on Sunday and try it.”
He slowly rocks on his heels, leaning towards the camera, eyes boring holes into the lens, a fire seeming to burn behind them. The rest of the scene around him seems to slowly fade to black, his form and face dominating the viewer’s attention now.
“I’ve been away from nCw for a long time and I’m in no mood to have to deal with people who think they know what it takes because they were a somebody somewhere else some other time. This is the here and the now and you’d best take me seriously. I’ve scouted you, Mr. Woodhead, I’ve seen where you come from and I know you’re not to be trifled with on your home turf.”
A feral, hungry grin replaces the more innocent and lovable smile, that Hammond desire being burned into their eyes and his passion echoing in everyone’s ears, darkness now surrounding him
“Do you really want to try the same on mine?”
There’s a snap of sound and a flash of white light, Hammond still staring his opponent down via the camera, but no longer out in the cold morning air, standing instead inexplicably in an nCw ring, an empty arena surrounding it, harsh spotlights picking the young high flyer out. He spreads his arms wide and leans back, his question seeming to echo and ring out in the deserted arena, unchecked and unanswered...for now.
His face slowly softens, the cold fury and determination that many had felt and experienced before fading to be hidden by the easygoing demeanor that everyone knew and loved. He winks at the camera cheekily and begins to turn.
“After all, beating some short, crazy, ring-rusted Limey?"
A single glance, that infuriating mocking grin over his shoulder, before Hammond ducks out under the ropes and up into the darkness of the empty seats before the lights all snap out, leaving us in the dark, along with his final words.
"How hard can it be?”