Post by Falcon on Apr 1, 2008 18:12:55 GMT -6
(A Hospital. A Place of pain, anguish and torment. Your average person would do anything to avoid a lengthy stay in a place like this. The white walls betray the dark emptiness inside. Even the overcast sky bids an omen as to what waits after you step through the automatic double doors. The warmth that accompanies entry is but a facade to make you forget just exactly where you are. The lobby puts forth a fake air of welcoming and serenity. For a moment, you forget where you are. Until you venture into stark contrast of peaceful white paint and the hanging air of misery. But this is not just any hospital. Yale-New Haven is one of the premier teaching hospitals in the country. High grade staff, top notch technology and advanced medical research, all standard. A less than stellar Honda Civic pulls through the toll gate into the parking lot. Perhaps one day it was a well maintained performace machine, but that day is not today. It glides seamlessly into a parking spot, as if it did so everyday. A woman gets out, looking like she went from the bed to the car, without thought or concern for what other people think. She stands next to the car in worn slippers, staring at the hospital as though she was wondering why exactly she was here. She sighs openly, her eyes full of sadness and pain, looking like she hadn't slept in ages. The wind flaps her pajama pants as she strides toward the front door, robotic movements that signify neither purpose or intent, just a quiet resignation of repetition. Her hair is unkept, though the wind helped little, and the sweater was two months too late for the salvation army bin. The automatic double doors part to allow her entry, then close behind, not with the thundering finality of a manual door, but a finality nonetheless.)
(We cut to one white hallway after another. Nurses scurry about, doing their work. Doctors walk with purposeful strides, medical charts in hands, while interns and medical students follow behind like footsoldiers, notepads and pens at the ready for their hands-on learning experience. They greet her as she passes. She does not ignore them persay, she simply has little left to say to people she has seen everyday for weeks. Somewhere down the hall a code happens. The busy floor gets even busier as the people rush to help someone in desperate need of aid. The woman, however, cares not. For she knows that the recepient of all that help is not the one she's here to see. Wrong floor after all. She feels that all familar pang of regret as she walks, knowing full well what she knows in her heart she must do, and questioning as she did everyday whether today would be the day she would accomplish it. The elevator was open already when she arrived, a brooding omen that simply said, get it over with. She entered, mechanically hitting the button for seven, as a nursing assistant enters after her. The assistant tries to start a dialogue, but the woman is clearly not interested. The elevator stops at four to let the caregiver out. She looks back as she walks away, already seeing the deep sadness in the woman's eyes, and saying a small prayer for her, before resuming her shift. The elevator stops at the seventh floor. She begins her march back down another white hall. She is so sick of white, it's hope, it's purity. She wants it all to burn down, with everyone inside. She knows these thoughts are evil, that maybe this place has finally driven her to insanity. But she keeps moving. A man in a white doctors coat is standing outside Room 713, checking over the chart that had been placed in the neat little holder outside the door. The plaque reads "K. Bradock." The second slot for the second bed is empty. The doctor looks up as she approaches and smiles.)
Doctor: Good morning, Lisa. How're you today?
Lisa: Fine, doctor.
(They both know she is lying. But after so long, there is very little you can do about it. He doesn't press the matter further, having walked down that road so often he already knows where it leads.)
Lisa: How is he doing?
Doctor: For someone who does what he does for a living, he's in remarkable shape. Turns out his shoulder was only dislocated, his wrist broke cleanly, so he does not need a surgical procedure after all. The blood loss was a bit worrisome, but he'll be over that soon. All in all he'll be out of action for roughly six more weeks, then he'll be good as new. I must say for someone who takes these risks, he seems to always narrowly avoid critical injuries.
Lisa: ...."you can't kill me.. I'm.. immortal.."
Doctor: Excuse me...?
Lisa: Something he says frequently. I guess now we find out it's true after all.
Doctor: I don't know about that. But he certainly is lucky. It is nice to see all the people coming in here with flowers and get well cards. He has quite the fan base I think.
Lisa: That he does.
Doctor: He's awake now. He'll be glad to see you. It's nice to see a woman who stands by her man through all the bad times. I admire you Lisa. If you'll excuse me..
(The doctor went off to check his other patients. Her lip trembles ever so slightly. He's going to be fine. Which means in a month and a half he'll get back in that ring and we'll start this all over again. The hope she held that he would retire this time faded into another internal scream of misery. If she had any doubts about her decision, they were gone. You can ask a lot of a person, but there is only so far a person can be pushed before they finally scream in submission. She enters the room, finding him in the same place he'd been since that event two weeks ago. It had been hailed as the best wrestling show that had ever been put on at the Arena at Harbor Yard. The main event, Falcon vs Mr. Showtime vs "The Unstoppable" Brady Johnson. She'd been backstage watching on the monitor. Worried to death every single second, yet unable to look away. The moment should have been breathtaking, and yet simple. Johnson was prone on a table, Falcon placed a ladder at a sixty degree angle on the ropes and then used it as a ramp to attempt a running diving elbow. Johnson moved. Falcon crashed through the table and onto the floor. She could tell from the look on his face that something was wrong. Later it was revealed that the halfassed crew didn't put any padding around the ring, so Falcon landed on solid concrete. Without the use of his right arm, Falcon was suddenly at a handicap. Allowing Showtime to land the Main Event on Johnson and score the victory. She takes the place beside his hospital bed, as she had done every day for two weeks. He finishes his bagel and looks at her, smiling, taking one of her hands in his good arm, the one not cased in plaster.)
Falcon: Hey babe..
Lisa: Hi...
(Her expression is blank, any trace of emotion is now gone. He looks at her, concerned, but unsure of how to approach this. He squeezes her hand, then uses his good elbow to hit the button on the aid remote to turn off the television.)
Falcon: What's the matter?
Lisa: Nothing...
Falcon: Come on.. I know that look.. you have something you want to tell me. So, out with it. I'm a big boy, I can handle it.
Lisa: ....I'm leaving Kyle..
Falcon: .....why?
Lisa: I can't take this anymore! Spending all night at home, cold.. alone.. Every day, here.. watching you get better to just.. go out and do what it is that you do to entertain all those people that apparently mean more to you than I do.
(He sits through her outburst. His expression doesn't change. She stares at him for a long minute, so many things that should be said, that need to be said. But the words never come out.)
Falcon: I.. don't think there is anything I can do or say to talk you out of this... is there?
Lisa: If you don't know already.. then no.. there isn't anything you can say. I wish there was. I wish you could just turn on the charm and make everything right again. But I don't know what else there is to tell you. It's just the way it has to be. I hope you understand.
Falcon: I'd like to say that I saw this coming. But to be honest I didn't. You have every right to be angry. I did what I promised I would never do. I neglected you for myself..
Lisa: Neither one of us are noble Kyle. This hurts me, just as much as it does you. I know that I'll look back on this fondly, but from somewhere else. ...Good-bye Kyle..
(She stands up, and leaves the hospital room. Not daring to turn around for the fear of the dreaded second guessing. Falcon doesn't move, he just sits there, staring at the wall. The screen fades.)
I went through a lot to get where I am now. To hell and back, to the ends of the earth, I walked the world over only to come back here and stand before you. But that.. might have been the one thing that could have broken me. I was healed in six weeks just like they had predicted. But it was almost half a year before I had the heart to get back in the ring. I mainly sat at home, dodging all the phone calls I could, watching the money I had saved dwindle down as I continued to pay my expenses. A lot of men would have crawled into the bottle, would have picked another poison to become dependant on.. Me? I just sat there in front of the television, watching all the home movies I had made. I came to the realization that none of them dated after I had started wrestling. And that tore me in half with a ferocity unknown to any wrestling move. I had did it. Achieved all the things I desired since I was small. But even with all that I discovered I ended up in the same position I put anyone else who'd ever cared about me in. Sitting at home, all by my lonesome, with nothing to show for it but some trophies on the shelf and replica title belts in their ever so eloquent framed plaques on the wall. Just bastions of the materialistic society to which we all belong, whether we like it or not. I had spent my career up until that point believing that the roar of the crowd was all I needed. That having a title was nice, but it was not going to last forever, and I refused to put much stake in it. But there I was, alone, with nothing but everything I thought I didn't actually need. I had gained what every wrestler dreams off, but paid the ultimate price. A price second only to the final price we could pay in blood. I had sacrificed my life for my career. And now I had a choice to make. Hang it up then, or fight on until I was done. Then worry about me. When I look out from that ring, to all of you sitting in those seats, I know that you want me to keep going. So that's why I'm here, that's why I do what I do. Love me or hate me, I bleed for you.
(We fade back in on a room. There is a podium dead center, behind it a backdrop nCw banner. Falcon steps out from off camera and stands behind the podium, holding several sheets of paper. He arranges them neatly on the podium and looks at the camera.)
Falcon: Now I know what you're thinking. You're wondering.. "Gee, what the hell was all that about?". Well, the answer is simple. I've spent the last couple weeks, trying hard to let the front office know my intentions, and now despite the fact that I received very little response to anything I've said, I find myself exactly where I want to be. In a triple threat match for the nCw Xtreme title at A Night to Remember, against The real real real real god of extreme Dark Prophet and the champion Sexy Jason. Now, being that as it is, I was thinking about how do you mentally prepare for such a grueling encounter. How do you send the right message to the right people in just seven short days? Well, then it came to me. If you've been paying attention lately, you'll notice that Prophet likes to drone on and on about himself. He hears voices, he takes more medication than Scott Weiland, and he's losing his grip on reality. I mean, that's all well and good. Except for the fact that nobody really gives a damn about it. He wastes all this air time with his own personal problems, and by the time he finally gets around to discussing the things that actually matter, everyone is bored out of their skulls and no longer cares. So, I thought, he wants to whine about what's wrong with him, I would show the world a little of what's wrong with good old Falcon. That segment was supposed to appear on a compilation DVD of my career. Unfortunately, the funding ran out, so it never got made. Then I got a call from Agent Orange, offering me a contract with PWW. And the rest is history. But up until now, aside from the casual mentioning in my rants, you'd never seen a real image of it. So, to beat Dark Prophet, I realized I had to become Dark Prophet. Except, I still have my sanity.
(He takes the first sheet of paper, and casually flings it to the side. Taking a minute to read the second sheet, before holding it up to show the one printed word "Phobia".)
Falcon: Phobia.. a fear of something. Sometimes merited, sometimes entirely irrational, always terrifying. Acrophobia.. the fear of heights. Some people look down from the second story and immediately panic, others it takes about eighty, but the fear is there. I'll be honest for a minute. I'm not superman, I look down from those heights, and yeah, I second guess jumping. But I always do, because it's just the way I do things. What the two of you don't know, is that you put a ladder in that ring, you hang a belt from the ceiling, and you've made me happier than christmas morning. Some people have specialties, a place or event where they really shine. Ladders just happen to be my thing. I'm sorry, but that's just something you guys are going to have to deal with. I know what you're going to say. "It doesn't matter if you're good at ladder matches, I'm going to beat you because I'm better than you." And that's exactly what I want you to think. You're going to need that inspiration, that fire.. because nothing else is going to help you get it done, save for a hand from the almighty himself. And I doubt he's listening. Once you get into that ring with the Lord of the Sky, once that ladder starts being a weapon, the advantage is mine, no question. It's tuesday. You have five days to prepare for what's coming. Spend it wisely. Though in the long run, I doubt it will make a difference. Nothing can save you from what's coming. Nothing...
(Fade out. No jokes, no emo references, nothing else. It's all there, like it or not.)
Someday we'll know how to care without sacrificing life.
Everything ends before it matters in the start.
(We cut to one white hallway after another. Nurses scurry about, doing their work. Doctors walk with purposeful strides, medical charts in hands, while interns and medical students follow behind like footsoldiers, notepads and pens at the ready for their hands-on learning experience. They greet her as she passes. She does not ignore them persay, she simply has little left to say to people she has seen everyday for weeks. Somewhere down the hall a code happens. The busy floor gets even busier as the people rush to help someone in desperate need of aid. The woman, however, cares not. For she knows that the recepient of all that help is not the one she's here to see. Wrong floor after all. She feels that all familar pang of regret as she walks, knowing full well what she knows in her heart she must do, and questioning as she did everyday whether today would be the day she would accomplish it. The elevator was open already when she arrived, a brooding omen that simply said, get it over with. She entered, mechanically hitting the button for seven, as a nursing assistant enters after her. The assistant tries to start a dialogue, but the woman is clearly not interested. The elevator stops at four to let the caregiver out. She looks back as she walks away, already seeing the deep sadness in the woman's eyes, and saying a small prayer for her, before resuming her shift. The elevator stops at the seventh floor. She begins her march back down another white hall. She is so sick of white, it's hope, it's purity. She wants it all to burn down, with everyone inside. She knows these thoughts are evil, that maybe this place has finally driven her to insanity. But she keeps moving. A man in a white doctors coat is standing outside Room 713, checking over the chart that had been placed in the neat little holder outside the door. The plaque reads "K. Bradock." The second slot for the second bed is empty. The doctor looks up as she approaches and smiles.)
Doctor: Good morning, Lisa. How're you today?
Lisa: Fine, doctor.
(They both know she is lying. But after so long, there is very little you can do about it. He doesn't press the matter further, having walked down that road so often he already knows where it leads.)
Lisa: How is he doing?
Doctor: For someone who does what he does for a living, he's in remarkable shape. Turns out his shoulder was only dislocated, his wrist broke cleanly, so he does not need a surgical procedure after all. The blood loss was a bit worrisome, but he'll be over that soon. All in all he'll be out of action for roughly six more weeks, then he'll be good as new. I must say for someone who takes these risks, he seems to always narrowly avoid critical injuries.
Lisa: ...."you can't kill me.. I'm.. immortal.."
Doctor: Excuse me...?
Lisa: Something he says frequently. I guess now we find out it's true after all.
Doctor: I don't know about that. But he certainly is lucky. It is nice to see all the people coming in here with flowers and get well cards. He has quite the fan base I think.
Lisa: That he does.
Doctor: He's awake now. He'll be glad to see you. It's nice to see a woman who stands by her man through all the bad times. I admire you Lisa. If you'll excuse me..
(The doctor went off to check his other patients. Her lip trembles ever so slightly. He's going to be fine. Which means in a month and a half he'll get back in that ring and we'll start this all over again. The hope she held that he would retire this time faded into another internal scream of misery. If she had any doubts about her decision, they were gone. You can ask a lot of a person, but there is only so far a person can be pushed before they finally scream in submission. She enters the room, finding him in the same place he'd been since that event two weeks ago. It had been hailed as the best wrestling show that had ever been put on at the Arena at Harbor Yard. The main event, Falcon vs Mr. Showtime vs "The Unstoppable" Brady Johnson. She'd been backstage watching on the monitor. Worried to death every single second, yet unable to look away. The moment should have been breathtaking, and yet simple. Johnson was prone on a table, Falcon placed a ladder at a sixty degree angle on the ropes and then used it as a ramp to attempt a running diving elbow. Johnson moved. Falcon crashed through the table and onto the floor. She could tell from the look on his face that something was wrong. Later it was revealed that the halfassed crew didn't put any padding around the ring, so Falcon landed on solid concrete. Without the use of his right arm, Falcon was suddenly at a handicap. Allowing Showtime to land the Main Event on Johnson and score the victory. She takes the place beside his hospital bed, as she had done every day for two weeks. He finishes his bagel and looks at her, smiling, taking one of her hands in his good arm, the one not cased in plaster.)
Falcon: Hey babe..
Lisa: Hi...
(Her expression is blank, any trace of emotion is now gone. He looks at her, concerned, but unsure of how to approach this. He squeezes her hand, then uses his good elbow to hit the button on the aid remote to turn off the television.)
Falcon: What's the matter?
Lisa: Nothing...
Falcon: Come on.. I know that look.. you have something you want to tell me. So, out with it. I'm a big boy, I can handle it.
Lisa: ....I'm leaving Kyle..
Falcon: .....why?
Lisa: I can't take this anymore! Spending all night at home, cold.. alone.. Every day, here.. watching you get better to just.. go out and do what it is that you do to entertain all those people that apparently mean more to you than I do.
(He sits through her outburst. His expression doesn't change. She stares at him for a long minute, so many things that should be said, that need to be said. But the words never come out.)
Falcon: I.. don't think there is anything I can do or say to talk you out of this... is there?
Lisa: If you don't know already.. then no.. there isn't anything you can say. I wish there was. I wish you could just turn on the charm and make everything right again. But I don't know what else there is to tell you. It's just the way it has to be. I hope you understand.
Falcon: I'd like to say that I saw this coming. But to be honest I didn't. You have every right to be angry. I did what I promised I would never do. I neglected you for myself..
Lisa: Neither one of us are noble Kyle. This hurts me, just as much as it does you. I know that I'll look back on this fondly, but from somewhere else. ...Good-bye Kyle..
(She stands up, and leaves the hospital room. Not daring to turn around for the fear of the dreaded second guessing. Falcon doesn't move, he just sits there, staring at the wall. The screen fades.)
I went through a lot to get where I am now. To hell and back, to the ends of the earth, I walked the world over only to come back here and stand before you. But that.. might have been the one thing that could have broken me. I was healed in six weeks just like they had predicted. But it was almost half a year before I had the heart to get back in the ring. I mainly sat at home, dodging all the phone calls I could, watching the money I had saved dwindle down as I continued to pay my expenses. A lot of men would have crawled into the bottle, would have picked another poison to become dependant on.. Me? I just sat there in front of the television, watching all the home movies I had made. I came to the realization that none of them dated after I had started wrestling. And that tore me in half with a ferocity unknown to any wrestling move. I had did it. Achieved all the things I desired since I was small. But even with all that I discovered I ended up in the same position I put anyone else who'd ever cared about me in. Sitting at home, all by my lonesome, with nothing to show for it but some trophies on the shelf and replica title belts in their ever so eloquent framed plaques on the wall. Just bastions of the materialistic society to which we all belong, whether we like it or not. I had spent my career up until that point believing that the roar of the crowd was all I needed. That having a title was nice, but it was not going to last forever, and I refused to put much stake in it. But there I was, alone, with nothing but everything I thought I didn't actually need. I had gained what every wrestler dreams off, but paid the ultimate price. A price second only to the final price we could pay in blood. I had sacrificed my life for my career. And now I had a choice to make. Hang it up then, or fight on until I was done. Then worry about me. When I look out from that ring, to all of you sitting in those seats, I know that you want me to keep going. So that's why I'm here, that's why I do what I do. Love me or hate me, I bleed for you.
(We fade back in on a room. There is a podium dead center, behind it a backdrop nCw banner. Falcon steps out from off camera and stands behind the podium, holding several sheets of paper. He arranges them neatly on the podium and looks at the camera.)
Falcon: Now I know what you're thinking. You're wondering.. "Gee, what the hell was all that about?". Well, the answer is simple. I've spent the last couple weeks, trying hard to let the front office know my intentions, and now despite the fact that I received very little response to anything I've said, I find myself exactly where I want to be. In a triple threat match for the nCw Xtreme title at A Night to Remember, against The real real real real god of extreme Dark Prophet and the champion Sexy Jason. Now, being that as it is, I was thinking about how do you mentally prepare for such a grueling encounter. How do you send the right message to the right people in just seven short days? Well, then it came to me. If you've been paying attention lately, you'll notice that Prophet likes to drone on and on about himself. He hears voices, he takes more medication than Scott Weiland, and he's losing his grip on reality. I mean, that's all well and good. Except for the fact that nobody really gives a damn about it. He wastes all this air time with his own personal problems, and by the time he finally gets around to discussing the things that actually matter, everyone is bored out of their skulls and no longer cares. So, I thought, he wants to whine about what's wrong with him, I would show the world a little of what's wrong with good old Falcon. That segment was supposed to appear on a compilation DVD of my career. Unfortunately, the funding ran out, so it never got made. Then I got a call from Agent Orange, offering me a contract with PWW. And the rest is history. But up until now, aside from the casual mentioning in my rants, you'd never seen a real image of it. So, to beat Dark Prophet, I realized I had to become Dark Prophet. Except, I still have my sanity.
(He takes the first sheet of paper, and casually flings it to the side. Taking a minute to read the second sheet, before holding it up to show the one printed word "Phobia".)
Falcon: Phobia.. a fear of something. Sometimes merited, sometimes entirely irrational, always terrifying. Acrophobia.. the fear of heights. Some people look down from the second story and immediately panic, others it takes about eighty, but the fear is there. I'll be honest for a minute. I'm not superman, I look down from those heights, and yeah, I second guess jumping. But I always do, because it's just the way I do things. What the two of you don't know, is that you put a ladder in that ring, you hang a belt from the ceiling, and you've made me happier than christmas morning. Some people have specialties, a place or event where they really shine. Ladders just happen to be my thing. I'm sorry, but that's just something you guys are going to have to deal with. I know what you're going to say. "It doesn't matter if you're good at ladder matches, I'm going to beat you because I'm better than you." And that's exactly what I want you to think. You're going to need that inspiration, that fire.. because nothing else is going to help you get it done, save for a hand from the almighty himself. And I doubt he's listening. Once you get into that ring with the Lord of the Sky, once that ladder starts being a weapon, the advantage is mine, no question. It's tuesday. You have five days to prepare for what's coming. Spend it wisely. Though in the long run, I doubt it will make a difference. Nothing can save you from what's coming. Nothing...
(Fade out. No jokes, no emo references, nothing else. It's all there, like it or not.)
Someday we'll know how to care without sacrificing life.
Everything ends before it matters in the start.