Post by defunctlies on Jun 14, 2008 18:00:11 GMT -6
The scene opens back on Hammond in his stock car, roaring around an oval in a 24-hour race, the title '13 Hours To Go'. The camera cuts to inside and Jack looks a little tired, but mostly bored having just gone round in circles for about 8 hours. He points outside briefly.
"I'm trying to play little games to keep me entertained; I'm trying to count how many signs I pass by have the word 'Go!' on them, but I'm going too fast to read them all."
He pauses and lets out a long wistful sigh.
"I wish I had a radio."
The scene fades out and fades back in after a title reading 'One Silly Suggestion Later' pops up. Jack is now bobbing his head, apparently singing.
"Driving around in my automo-*bump-ba-bump-bump-bump-ba-bump-bump* My Baby beside me at the wh-*bump-ba-bump-bump-bump-ba-bump-bump*"
A cut later and a new song.
"Don't. Stop. Me. Now~ I'm having such a good time, I'm having a ball, yeah~"
Another cut.
"Attack of the Radioactive Hamsters from a planet near Mars~"
Another cut.
"Like a bat outta he-no, I'm not singing that one."
Another cut.
"If I were a rich man, *beediebeediebeediebumbeediebeediebeediebum*"
He coughs and appears to key his pitlane intercom, talking to someone in his crew.
"Okay, I've done 'If I Were a Rich Man', what next?"
The muffled answer comes after a pause.
"If I Were A Tall Man?"
Jack laughs out loud and shakes his fist as he passes the pit wall.
"Real funny."
The camera fades out and after a '12 Hours to Go' title, it fades back in on Jack about to pull into the pits. He points out of his window.
"We started first thing this morning, and the sun's just gone down. Thankfully, this car has lights, but I forgot that all Stock Car ovals have floodlights, which kind of defeats the hard part of having to race in the dark. But then again, I think I could drive a lap now with my eyes closed."
Jack is quiet for a while and then closes his eyes before opening them quickly, shaking his head.
"No, bad Hamster."
The scene cuts to Jack sitting back in the pit garage, taking a breather, looking quite tired now. He appears to watching a TV, watching a couple of promos that were released over the course of his driving. He 'hmm's, yawns and turns to the camera.
"Well, I know that this promo won't be going out until Saturday as that's when this race ends, and also it's going to need some editing, but I think it's best I at least try to make some structured responses rather than one long boring rant."
He coughs and sips on his soda.
"First off, Ace. I talked earlier about him trying to find some respect for his opponents. It seems that his second promo has only supported my theory on how the amount of ego in the head is inverse to the amount of respect someone has for his rivals."
Jack sighs.
"He says I have no place to hide on Sunday; mate, it's not as if I'm going to turn up like a Sniper in a ghillie suit and try to bend into one of the ringposts. And as massive as yours and Ortega's egos are, I don't think there's anything substantial enough to hide behind."
Someone chirps up from behind the camera mentioning the words 'short' and 'height', making Hammond deadpan, but chuckle.
"I'm not that short! And I never had any intention of running away from a fight. In case you haven't noticed, I'm running into each match head on. I'm not the brightest person out there..."
The same voice chirps up with a sarcastic 'coulda fooled us!' making Jack sigh and nod.
"...and I don't have any strategies, and I don't calculate odds in my head on how much of a kicking my head's going to get this Sunday; I just go for my opponent and try to see if I can get him on the ground long enough for me to get on top of him and-wait...that's not right."
He waves his hands.
"Look, I just want him to go down so I can straddle him for th-no."
Laughter comes from behind the camera.
"And you guys aren't helping!"
The scene cuts to a reset of Hammond sighing.
"So, Ace, with all your card tricks and all of your boasting, I hope you can understand that I'm not going to be coming into this match with 'born to lose' pasted to my forehead. I'm not going to be all 'well it's the taking part that counts'. And my expert knowledge on Emo-Bands has nothi-I mean cars, has nothing to do with our match. It's all about who wants it more, and I'm thinking I want that title way more than you do. Seeing as you can't shut up about Ortega each time you open your mouth, I can see where your focus truly lies, and that, Mr. Ace, is your downfall. Just don't go crying to your business buddies if this Jack trumps the Ace."
Jack pauses then blinks.
"I said that last bit out loud, didn't I?"
He laughs along with the camera and pit crews.
"Down ego, down!"
The scene cuts again, Jack chowing down another cheeseburger.
"...why do they always ask if I 'want cheese with that'? I try to help American stereotypes and then they throw it in my face...like a drink on a fratboy who's run out of rohypnol and tried sleazy chatup lines."
The scene cuts, Jack sucking down another soda.
"Reckoning. Okay, maybe his white boy gangster rap get a bit too much stick; it's a bit of an easy target, acting like another ethnicity and using a certain style that I personally don't appreciate as much as maybe I should."
Jack shrugs and grins at someone behind the camera.
"What? That's what I think. But then again, that 'easy target' that he paints on his back is a little hard to miss. Creating an illusion in which he's accused me of being his brother's murderer, and the other competitors as accessories to the murder."
Jack blinks.
"Now...I understand that perhaps he's using this as an aid in which he can use his emotions to motivate himself to beat us all to bloody pulps. Again, I hold his hardcore skills in high regard, and his brutal chair attack against Ace was not just amusing for some of us..."
Jack pauses to hold a 'thumbs-up'.
"...but it also shows how merciless you can be. But running into the ring with emotions as a weapon does not make a winner. The last time I let myself run purely on emotion in a ring, I managed to throw a match I had in the bag to a count-out, and made an idiot of myself."
He shrugs.
"I have no doubt that you and I will butt heads at least once at Picture Perfect in our match. Hell, I may be in the receiving end of your rage at one point. For all I know, you could put me away and get the win. But so long as there are three level-headed people standing across from you in the ring, brains will outsmart the brawn."
Jack sighs.
"I just hope this little phase you're going through ends soon. It's not pretty to see a man beating other people up in some deluded dementia to try to get closure."
Jack empties the soda can and tosses it into the trashcan nearby.
"Ortega. My views on you still haven't changed. I know you think I'm going to be coming into this match with a 'at least I'm competing' mentality, but I want this win. My first chance to grab a title and I'm not going to let it slip so easily. I hope I can at least prove that to you on Sunday."
Hammond sighs and closes his eyes before glancing at the clock on the wall, swearing softly.
"Right. Got to get back in that bloody car..."
A scene transition later and Jack' back in the car, looking tired and bad-tempered.
"Again. I know I've made some Americanisms in the past and I'm trying to find things that defeat all of these prejudices in my mind, but I cannot see anything fun about stock car racing or oval racing. There is no excitement whatsoever. Sure, the cars can be doing more than 200mph, but there is no real chance to do any overtaking, nor is there any real skill! All you've got to do is make sure you drive a cleaner line than everyone else. That, and perhaps slip-streaming, and pit-stop strategies are the only things that tax the brains of NASCAR drivers."
Jack pauses, just about fed up with driving.
"...5 hours to go."
The scene fades out on Hammond, grumbling under his breath, before humming 'Bat Out Of Hell' to himself.
"I'm trying to play little games to keep me entertained; I'm trying to count how many signs I pass by have the word 'Go!' on them, but I'm going too fast to read them all."
He pauses and lets out a long wistful sigh.
"I wish I had a radio."
The scene fades out and fades back in after a title reading 'One Silly Suggestion Later' pops up. Jack is now bobbing his head, apparently singing.
"Driving around in my automo-*bump-ba-bump-bump-bump-ba-bump-bump* My Baby beside me at the wh-*bump-ba-bump-bump-bump-ba-bump-bump*"
A cut later and a new song.
"Don't. Stop. Me. Now~ I'm having such a good time, I'm having a ball, yeah~"
Another cut.
"Attack of the Radioactive Hamsters from a planet near Mars~"
Another cut.
"Like a bat outta he-no, I'm not singing that one."
Another cut.
"If I were a rich man, *beediebeediebeediebumbeediebeediebeediebum*"
He coughs and appears to key his pitlane intercom, talking to someone in his crew.
"Okay, I've done 'If I Were a Rich Man', what next?"
The muffled answer comes after a pause.
"If I Were A Tall Man?"
Jack laughs out loud and shakes his fist as he passes the pit wall.
"Real funny."
The camera fades out and after a '12 Hours to Go' title, it fades back in on Jack about to pull into the pits. He points out of his window.
"We started first thing this morning, and the sun's just gone down. Thankfully, this car has lights, but I forgot that all Stock Car ovals have floodlights, which kind of defeats the hard part of having to race in the dark. But then again, I think I could drive a lap now with my eyes closed."
Jack is quiet for a while and then closes his eyes before opening them quickly, shaking his head.
"No, bad Hamster."
The scene cuts to Jack sitting back in the pit garage, taking a breather, looking quite tired now. He appears to watching a TV, watching a couple of promos that were released over the course of his driving. He 'hmm's, yawns and turns to the camera.
"Well, I know that this promo won't be going out until Saturday as that's when this race ends, and also it's going to need some editing, but I think it's best I at least try to make some structured responses rather than one long boring rant."
He coughs and sips on his soda.
"First off, Ace. I talked earlier about him trying to find some respect for his opponents. It seems that his second promo has only supported my theory on how the amount of ego in the head is inverse to the amount of respect someone has for his rivals."
Jack sighs.
"He says I have no place to hide on Sunday; mate, it's not as if I'm going to turn up like a Sniper in a ghillie suit and try to bend into one of the ringposts. And as massive as yours and Ortega's egos are, I don't think there's anything substantial enough to hide behind."
Someone chirps up from behind the camera mentioning the words 'short' and 'height', making Hammond deadpan, but chuckle.
"I'm not that short! And I never had any intention of running away from a fight. In case you haven't noticed, I'm running into each match head on. I'm not the brightest person out there..."
The same voice chirps up with a sarcastic 'coulda fooled us!' making Jack sigh and nod.
"...and I don't have any strategies, and I don't calculate odds in my head on how much of a kicking my head's going to get this Sunday; I just go for my opponent and try to see if I can get him on the ground long enough for me to get on top of him and-wait...that's not right."
He waves his hands.
"Look, I just want him to go down so I can straddle him for th-no."
Laughter comes from behind the camera.
"And you guys aren't helping!"
The scene cuts to a reset of Hammond sighing.
"So, Ace, with all your card tricks and all of your boasting, I hope you can understand that I'm not going to be coming into this match with 'born to lose' pasted to my forehead. I'm not going to be all 'well it's the taking part that counts'. And my expert knowledge on Emo-Bands has nothi-I mean cars, has nothing to do with our match. It's all about who wants it more, and I'm thinking I want that title way more than you do. Seeing as you can't shut up about Ortega each time you open your mouth, I can see where your focus truly lies, and that, Mr. Ace, is your downfall. Just don't go crying to your business buddies if this Jack trumps the Ace."
Jack pauses then blinks.
"I said that last bit out loud, didn't I?"
He laughs along with the camera and pit crews.
"Down ego, down!"
The scene cuts again, Jack chowing down another cheeseburger.
"...why do they always ask if I 'want cheese with that'? I try to help American stereotypes and then they throw it in my face...like a drink on a fratboy who's run out of rohypnol and tried sleazy chatup lines."
The scene cuts, Jack sucking down another soda.
"Reckoning. Okay, maybe his white boy gangster rap get a bit too much stick; it's a bit of an easy target, acting like another ethnicity and using a certain style that I personally don't appreciate as much as maybe I should."
Jack shrugs and grins at someone behind the camera.
"What? That's what I think. But then again, that 'easy target' that he paints on his back is a little hard to miss. Creating an illusion in which he's accused me of being his brother's murderer, and the other competitors as accessories to the murder."
Jack blinks.
"Now...I understand that perhaps he's using this as an aid in which he can use his emotions to motivate himself to beat us all to bloody pulps. Again, I hold his hardcore skills in high regard, and his brutal chair attack against Ace was not just amusing for some of us..."
Jack pauses to hold a 'thumbs-up'.
"...but it also shows how merciless you can be. But running into the ring with emotions as a weapon does not make a winner. The last time I let myself run purely on emotion in a ring, I managed to throw a match I had in the bag to a count-out, and made an idiot of myself."
He shrugs.
"I have no doubt that you and I will butt heads at least once at Picture Perfect in our match. Hell, I may be in the receiving end of your rage at one point. For all I know, you could put me away and get the win. But so long as there are three level-headed people standing across from you in the ring, brains will outsmart the brawn."
Jack sighs.
"I just hope this little phase you're going through ends soon. It's not pretty to see a man beating other people up in some deluded dementia to try to get closure."
Jack empties the soda can and tosses it into the trashcan nearby.
"Ortega. My views on you still haven't changed. I know you think I'm going to be coming into this match with a 'at least I'm competing' mentality, but I want this win. My first chance to grab a title and I'm not going to let it slip so easily. I hope I can at least prove that to you on Sunday."
Hammond sighs and closes his eyes before glancing at the clock on the wall, swearing softly.
"Right. Got to get back in that bloody car..."
A scene transition later and Jack' back in the car, looking tired and bad-tempered.
"Again. I know I've made some Americanisms in the past and I'm trying to find things that defeat all of these prejudices in my mind, but I cannot see anything fun about stock car racing or oval racing. There is no excitement whatsoever. Sure, the cars can be doing more than 200mph, but there is no real chance to do any overtaking, nor is there any real skill! All you've got to do is make sure you drive a cleaner line than everyone else. That, and perhaps slip-streaming, and pit-stop strategies are the only things that tax the brains of NASCAR drivers."
Jack pauses, just about fed up with driving.
"...5 hours to go."
The scene fades out on Hammond, grumbling under his breath, before humming 'Bat Out Of Hell' to himself.