Post by Dan Hampton on Jun 9, 2008 18:42:22 GMT -6
Dan: You've got to be fucking kidding me.
The camera focuses on Dan sitting on the porch outside of a middle class home, presumably his. The early June heat wave has driven him outside with a beer in his right hand and a pack of cigarettes in his left. He's staring at the label on the latter, the obvious source of his consternation.
Dan: I don't know how many fucking times I have to go to the same place before they realize I don't fucking smoke Ultra Lights. What do I look like, an 85 year old Jewish woman who's on her way to Atlantic City? Fuck!
He disgustedly grabs one out of the pack and lights it. As he takes a drag, he shifts his gaze into the early evening sun, just above the treetops in his suburban neighborhood.
Dan: Well, here we are. A few days before ICW's triumphant return to the wrestling world - the Triple Terror Tournament. And as usual, it's come down to Hampton v. Dudley. The Hardcore Icon versus the Anti-Anti-Hero. Former friends, turned enemies. Insert random cliche here.
Dave, I know what you were trying to do last week. You were embarassed after what I did to you on ICW's first show back. This was your show, your baby, and here I come stealing the show.
But that's not it.
See, Dave, one thing I've noticed[and let's face it, I'm not the only one] is that as much as everyone is coming back to ICW for a fresh start, you've just come back to settle old grudges. You're so fixated on the past, so obsessed with backdoor deals that fell through more than 8 years ago, that you're ignoring the here and now. And I plan on taking full advantage.
He inhales one more time on the cigarette, and throws it away-not without a certain amount of disdain. He rubs his hand over his mouth thoughtfully before continuing.
Dan: Fenyx Kane...a brash "youngster", if you will. The new blood, champing at the bit to take a bite out of the old guard. I remember those days...idealistic, thinking that the world owes you everything and you're going to take it without asking.
But what you're forgetting, Mr. Kane, is the fact that as long as I've been in this game, I'm still only 28 years old. I still have a lot of life left in these limbs.
And obviously a gift for alliteration.
Dan: Thanks, omniscient narrator.
The point is, Fenyx, just because I've been doing this for as long as I have doesn't give reason for you to write me off. And if you dare to make that mistake, you'll sure as fuck come to regret it.
Dan gets up and wipes the small bits of gravel that have accrued on his hands off, and walks towards the camera as this one fades to black....
...or does it? The camera cuts back in, slightly grainy, as you see someone's hands [presumably the cameraman's] twists a filter off of the lens. A burst of white light fills the screen, then the camera auto-focuses back on the scene it had been filming: two pairs of feet; one in a battered pair of Converse Chuck Taylors, and the other in non-descript black boots. Their conversation is loosely picked up by the still-recording camera.
Dan: You think it went over well?
Cameraman: Eh, it was a little cliched at points.
Dan: I know, I know. It's hard though, it's been so long since I've had to do this sort of thing...
Silence falls over them, as the pair of the feet in the Converse shift slightly awkwardly.
Cameraman: Let me bum a smoke while I'm waiting for these assholes. I don't know why the fuck they felt that they needed to get McDonald's NOW, instead of waiting the twenty minutes it took to get that done.
Dan: No problem man. But I wasn't fucking around in that promo...these things blow. You might as well be smoking nothing.
The voices stop talking, and now all the camera picks up is the sound of change rustling in a pocket, and something being pulled out. A lighter is lit and someone inhales deeply on a mediocre cigarette; then all of a sudden, the pack drops into view.
Cameraman: Shit, sorry about that.
Dan: No worries, I got it.
The pack has settled into the red gravel of the walkway. The familiar white-boxed Marlboros with the silver arch, and the ill-fated insignia of "Ultra Lights". Something is amiss tho...part of the logo is obscured by a business card tucked into the outer wrapper around the pack.
The camera refocuses itself on the new object.
A plain cream-colored business card, most of the print on it illegible. But in the upper right hand corner, a number.
"12".
As soon as the camera finally finishes its auto-focus, a distinctively tattooed arm reaches in and yanks the cigarettes out of frame.
-fin-
The camera focuses on Dan sitting on the porch outside of a middle class home, presumably his. The early June heat wave has driven him outside with a beer in his right hand and a pack of cigarettes in his left. He's staring at the label on the latter, the obvious source of his consternation.
Dan: I don't know how many fucking times I have to go to the same place before they realize I don't fucking smoke Ultra Lights. What do I look like, an 85 year old Jewish woman who's on her way to Atlantic City? Fuck!
He disgustedly grabs one out of the pack and lights it. As he takes a drag, he shifts his gaze into the early evening sun, just above the treetops in his suburban neighborhood.
Dan: Well, here we are. A few days before ICW's triumphant return to the wrestling world - the Triple Terror Tournament. And as usual, it's come down to Hampton v. Dudley. The Hardcore Icon versus the Anti-Anti-Hero. Former friends, turned enemies. Insert random cliche here.
Dave, I know what you were trying to do last week. You were embarassed after what I did to you on ICW's first show back. This was your show, your baby, and here I come stealing the show.
But that's not it.
See, Dave, one thing I've noticed[and let's face it, I'm not the only one] is that as much as everyone is coming back to ICW for a fresh start, you've just come back to settle old grudges. You're so fixated on the past, so obsessed with backdoor deals that fell through more than 8 years ago, that you're ignoring the here and now. And I plan on taking full advantage.
He inhales one more time on the cigarette, and throws it away-not without a certain amount of disdain. He rubs his hand over his mouth thoughtfully before continuing.
Dan: Fenyx Kane...a brash "youngster", if you will. The new blood, champing at the bit to take a bite out of the old guard. I remember those days...idealistic, thinking that the world owes you everything and you're going to take it without asking.
But what you're forgetting, Mr. Kane, is the fact that as long as I've been in this game, I'm still only 28 years old. I still have a lot of life left in these limbs.
And obviously a gift for alliteration.
Dan: Thanks, omniscient narrator.
The point is, Fenyx, just because I've been doing this for as long as I have doesn't give reason for you to write me off. And if you dare to make that mistake, you'll sure as fuck come to regret it.
Dan gets up and wipes the small bits of gravel that have accrued on his hands off, and walks towards the camera as this one fades to black....
...or does it? The camera cuts back in, slightly grainy, as you see someone's hands [presumably the cameraman's] twists a filter off of the lens. A burst of white light fills the screen, then the camera auto-focuses back on the scene it had been filming: two pairs of feet; one in a battered pair of Converse Chuck Taylors, and the other in non-descript black boots. Their conversation is loosely picked up by the still-recording camera.
Dan: You think it went over well?
Cameraman: Eh, it was a little cliched at points.
Dan: I know, I know. It's hard though, it's been so long since I've had to do this sort of thing...
Silence falls over them, as the pair of the feet in the Converse shift slightly awkwardly.
Cameraman: Let me bum a smoke while I'm waiting for these assholes. I don't know why the fuck they felt that they needed to get McDonald's NOW, instead of waiting the twenty minutes it took to get that done.
Dan: No problem man. But I wasn't fucking around in that promo...these things blow. You might as well be smoking nothing.
The voices stop talking, and now all the camera picks up is the sound of change rustling in a pocket, and something being pulled out. A lighter is lit and someone inhales deeply on a mediocre cigarette; then all of a sudden, the pack drops into view.
Cameraman: Shit, sorry about that.
Dan: No worries, I got it.
The pack has settled into the red gravel of the walkway. The familiar white-boxed Marlboros with the silver arch, and the ill-fated insignia of "Ultra Lights". Something is amiss tho...part of the logo is obscured by a business card tucked into the outer wrapper around the pack.
The camera refocuses itself on the new object.
A plain cream-colored business card, most of the print on it illegible. But in the upper right hand corner, a number.
"12".
As soon as the camera finally finishes its auto-focus, a distinctively tattooed arm reaches in and yanks the cigarettes out of frame.
-fin-