Post by Glen Nodoveit on Aug 24, 2009 11:28:33 GMT -6
Sitting on a wooden stool, back rested against a bare concrete wall, staring holes into a camera, talking complete nonsense. Nothing new. He had done it all before, only this time he wasn't wearing a shirt with his own face plastered on it as well as a fancy logo.
There was not a make-up crew on hand. He was not being fed words by a grinning manager who knew nothing but dollar signs and "what the kids want".
He was not being told to "speak louder" or to "enunciate". There were no lines of cocaine already cut on a table waiting for him nor was there some cheap prostitute patiently smoking her cigarette outside of his car.
A video camera, a dishevelled young man and his perceptible aura of frustration were the only inhabitants of this dark, dank and dilapidated room.
He did not possess any youthful qualities. His eyes were not bright, hopeful nor hungry for experience and his skin was pale and sickly looking, like a canvas stripped of color it once had.
He wore a filthy plaid shirt and a pair of torn jeans that even the grubbiest of men would sneeze at. Though young he was, a part of the MTV generation, he most certainly was not.
What he lacked in the realms of fashion, he made up for in simple presence, giving off an air of calamitous anger even with only a stare or a sigh. The viewer, sitting at home in an arm chair, could not possibly feel the atmosphere that surrounded the young man in front of the camera. A television screen can not express anger and frustration to their extents.
****************************************************************
"You want a promo? A motivational display of confidence with some quirky and comical insults thrown in to keep the kiddies happy? Some steroid addled jack off that stands in front of a camera, toots his own horn, puts down his opponent and all in the name of putting asses in arena seats and hopefully selling some crappy shirts? This is the medium of entertainment you choose to waste your time on every Monday night?"
As the young Nodoveit spoke, he practically spat venom in every direction. His voice was hoarse and it sounded as though it pained him to speak, but his tone was harsh, resentful and desperate to get some sort of point across.
"This is how you enjoy yourself?"
Glen then simply stared at the camera for a few seconds, before dropping his head, almost in defeat of a silent reply. He covered his face with his hands and let out a muffled growl, his frustration building, then returned to the camera once again.
"You want some television drama? Well far be it from me to deprive you of that, the die hard wrestling fan who travelled all the way to their living room and tuned in."
Sarcasm was dripping from his lips.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Glen Nodoveit. You may remember me as the gimmick riddled Sting rip off, 'Crow', that graced your television sets every Friday night on World Hardcore Wrestling. You may remember the chair shots, the barbed wire, the tables, the Japanese explosives, the nails.."
Glen's snotty, sarcastic drone suddenly turned to yelling.
"...you might remember all of the blood I lost, the injuries I sustained and the general torture I put myself through and all for a company and a general manager that wouldn't give me the steam off his piss! The amount of times I had to prick the razor wire from my own flesh. The times I had to treat third degree burns. The times I had to go back to my hotel room and look at myself in the mirror and say 'Look Glen, look at the whore you have become. You aren't fighting for the fight any more, you are fighting so you don't end up on skid row."
He suddenly stopped, dropped his head and returned to his thoughts. He was shaking with rage, but one could tell that from Nodoveit's point of view, this was more of a therapy session than anything.
He swallowed heavily and looked towards the camera once again, his tone of voice calmer this time.
"I put everything on the line for that company and I hardly even afford to eat, hell, I still can't afford to eat. The only good thing the company provided was phone numbers for hookers and cheap drugs. WHW was my life, a terrible life, but it gave me something to get up in the morning for. Then the company folded and everything else that went with it died.
So I take a few years off. I was free of that stupid gimmick, free of having to watch my back all the time in the locker room. But all the while the thought still lingered in the back of my mind, 'Have I really finished?'...after all those years, I still wanted to wrestle. I wanted to fight like I did before."
Then the spitting anger returned.
"And I had to live with that on my mind for five years. So I say, 'Glen, you can't sit at home all day thinking about what you could be doing. You have to do it'.
I have been screwed by the wrestling business in every way shape and form, by every manager, valet and tag team partner I've ever had. I've been a puppet and a tool to the business...a hooker unpaid."
Glen stared, still shaking. He produces a black t-shirt from a plastic bag that was next to his chair. Unfolding it slowly, there is a "World Hardcore Wrestling" logo plastered on it.
He displays it to the camera, before laying it flat on the ground in front of him for the camera to see it in full.
"I've had this shirt for a while..."
He slips his hand into his pocket, whips out a small container of lighter fluid and begins to squirt its contents out onto the shirt, all the while still speaking.
"...but it is in the past. I no longer feel the need to cling to a company that forced a gimmick on me, kept me in the dark, gave me little opportunity and never awarded my efforts."
Glen finally drops the can on the concrete floor. The frown on his face turns to a slight smirk as he flicks his zippo lighter in the air, his eyes fixated with the flame.
"Now that I am back. Minus the fabricated bull**** that goes along with being a 'superstar', I plan on making a name for myself here in the nCw.."
The t-shirt suddenly lights up in flames. The fire licking its fabric and exerting a grey smoke.
"..and I will bleed twice as many buckets as I did in the WHW to make that happen. There will be no frills and no show boating. I stand here a man, stripped. You can have my flesh, my bones and my will to live..."
Glen has one final stare down with the camera as it slowly pans out. He keeps his arms by his sides and tilts his head slightly, as if in question.
"...but I will take as much as I give".
The scene fades to black.
There was not a make-up crew on hand. He was not being fed words by a grinning manager who knew nothing but dollar signs and "what the kids want".
He was not being told to "speak louder" or to "enunciate". There were no lines of cocaine already cut on a table waiting for him nor was there some cheap prostitute patiently smoking her cigarette outside of his car.
A video camera, a dishevelled young man and his perceptible aura of frustration were the only inhabitants of this dark, dank and dilapidated room.
He did not possess any youthful qualities. His eyes were not bright, hopeful nor hungry for experience and his skin was pale and sickly looking, like a canvas stripped of color it once had.
He wore a filthy plaid shirt and a pair of torn jeans that even the grubbiest of men would sneeze at. Though young he was, a part of the MTV generation, he most certainly was not.
What he lacked in the realms of fashion, he made up for in simple presence, giving off an air of calamitous anger even with only a stare or a sigh. The viewer, sitting at home in an arm chair, could not possibly feel the atmosphere that surrounded the young man in front of the camera. A television screen can not express anger and frustration to their extents.
****************************************************************
"You want a promo? A motivational display of confidence with some quirky and comical insults thrown in to keep the kiddies happy? Some steroid addled jack off that stands in front of a camera, toots his own horn, puts down his opponent and all in the name of putting asses in arena seats and hopefully selling some crappy shirts? This is the medium of entertainment you choose to waste your time on every Monday night?"
As the young Nodoveit spoke, he practically spat venom in every direction. His voice was hoarse and it sounded as though it pained him to speak, but his tone was harsh, resentful and desperate to get some sort of point across.
"This is how you enjoy yourself?"
Glen then simply stared at the camera for a few seconds, before dropping his head, almost in defeat of a silent reply. He covered his face with his hands and let out a muffled growl, his frustration building, then returned to the camera once again.
"You want some television drama? Well far be it from me to deprive you of that, the die hard wrestling fan who travelled all the way to their living room and tuned in."
Sarcasm was dripping from his lips.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Glen Nodoveit. You may remember me as the gimmick riddled Sting rip off, 'Crow', that graced your television sets every Friday night on World Hardcore Wrestling. You may remember the chair shots, the barbed wire, the tables, the Japanese explosives, the nails.."
Glen's snotty, sarcastic drone suddenly turned to yelling.
"...you might remember all of the blood I lost, the injuries I sustained and the general torture I put myself through and all for a company and a general manager that wouldn't give me the steam off his piss! The amount of times I had to prick the razor wire from my own flesh. The times I had to treat third degree burns. The times I had to go back to my hotel room and look at myself in the mirror and say 'Look Glen, look at the whore you have become. You aren't fighting for the fight any more, you are fighting so you don't end up on skid row."
He suddenly stopped, dropped his head and returned to his thoughts. He was shaking with rage, but one could tell that from Nodoveit's point of view, this was more of a therapy session than anything.
He swallowed heavily and looked towards the camera once again, his tone of voice calmer this time.
"I put everything on the line for that company and I hardly even afford to eat, hell, I still can't afford to eat. The only good thing the company provided was phone numbers for hookers and cheap drugs. WHW was my life, a terrible life, but it gave me something to get up in the morning for. Then the company folded and everything else that went with it died.
So I take a few years off. I was free of that stupid gimmick, free of having to watch my back all the time in the locker room. But all the while the thought still lingered in the back of my mind, 'Have I really finished?'...after all those years, I still wanted to wrestle. I wanted to fight like I did before."
Then the spitting anger returned.
"And I had to live with that on my mind for five years. So I say, 'Glen, you can't sit at home all day thinking about what you could be doing. You have to do it'.
I have been screwed by the wrestling business in every way shape and form, by every manager, valet and tag team partner I've ever had. I've been a puppet and a tool to the business...a hooker unpaid."
Glen stared, still shaking. He produces a black t-shirt from a plastic bag that was next to his chair. Unfolding it slowly, there is a "World Hardcore Wrestling" logo plastered on it.
He displays it to the camera, before laying it flat on the ground in front of him for the camera to see it in full.
"I've had this shirt for a while..."
He slips his hand into his pocket, whips out a small container of lighter fluid and begins to squirt its contents out onto the shirt, all the while still speaking.
"...but it is in the past. I no longer feel the need to cling to a company that forced a gimmick on me, kept me in the dark, gave me little opportunity and never awarded my efforts."
Glen finally drops the can on the concrete floor. The frown on his face turns to a slight smirk as he flicks his zippo lighter in the air, his eyes fixated with the flame.
"Now that I am back. Minus the fabricated bull**** that goes along with being a 'superstar', I plan on making a name for myself here in the nCw.."
The t-shirt suddenly lights up in flames. The fire licking its fabric and exerting a grey smoke.
"..and I will bleed twice as many buckets as I did in the WHW to make that happen. There will be no frills and no show boating. I stand here a man, stripped. You can have my flesh, my bones and my will to live..."
Glen has one final stare down with the camera as it slowly pans out. He keeps his arms by his sides and tilts his head slightly, as if in question.
"...but I will take as much as I give".
The scene fades to black.