Post by E.W Montgomery on Nov 15, 2020 0:35:58 GMT -5
“...and out came another horse, bright red
Its rider was permitted to take peace from the earth
so that people should slay one another
and he was given a great sword.”
Its rider was permitted to take peace from the earth
so that people should slay one another
and he was given a great sword.”
Where to start?
Let’s go back to 2005.
“Wh… what happened?”
Facing upwards from the ground the ceiling lights are bright, a bit fuzzy and out of focus. Popping in and out of the sight of the person laying on the floor looking up are a nurse and a doctor. The doctor does a quick snap of his fingers over the front of the ceiling lights grabbing the attention of whomever is on the ground. The red headed nurse waves some smelling salts under the person’s nose just to the bottom of the screen, just then the lights come back into focus.
The others leave, but just then the face of Christopher J. Wrigley pops into frame. His red rimmed glasses cannot be mistaken, nor can his navy blue suit with red tie. He does appear to be a bit younger, but the man is ageless -- he moisturizes. Wrigley looks downwards at the person on the floor standing over the frame blinking in shock.
WRIGLEY: “I’ll tell you what happened. You got hit with a fucking brick! A brick, right in the goddamn head Earl!”
Wrigley adjusts his glasses as he moves around towards the bottom of the screen and holds his hand out and helps the massive frame of E.W Montgomery back up to a sitting position. The mammoth six foot five three hundred thirty pound plus Arkansas native pulls himself the rest of the way up into the nearest chair. Montgomery’s head is bandaged up, the rest of his body is just a mess of blood and sweat mixed together making him look like an extra from the Mad Max movies. With pain on his face he lifts up his black hat on the table next to his chair, and strains to put it on his head.
“Ah, shit.”
Wrigley knowing his client well, moves around to the front where he pours E.W a short glass filled with whiskey.
WRIGLEY: “We could probably sue someone for this. Wanna do that, Earl?”
Wrigley says this mostly jokingly, but probably half serious at the same time.
“Nah.. nah. I probably had it coming.”
From the table E.W picks up an unlit cigarillo and lights it with a match that he strikes up the side of the chair he’s sitting in. He takes a long puff from the thin cigar and leans his bandaged head back once again. Wrigley waves the smoke out of his face as the puff comes, E.W puts the cigarillo down.
“It’s time, Wrigley. I’m tired and I can’t even lift my arms much anymore. When a swordsman can’t even pick the sword up no more… well, he ain’t much of a swordsman. Know what I mean?
It’s time to hang’ em up for good.”
E.W covers his face with a towel and we fade to black.
Let’s jump to the present day.
E.W is still sitting in a chair with his arms to his sides and a towel over his face. In the background a television is playing a workout show, but the sound is on mute. Slowly, E.W pulls the towel off of his face and tosses it towards the TV with relative ease. E.W’s face has aged from earlier, more wrinkles and more scars along with a lot more grey hair in his oversized handlebar mustache. Good news, his head is no longer wrapped in a bandage.
Instead of a small whiskey glass, E.W reaches for a Gatorade and chugs it down. E.W turns towards the television and nods.
“You’re gonna kill me, ain’t ya? You’re gonna put me six feet under before I even have a chance of stepping foot back into that ring one more time. All this time people have been warning me about the cigars or the chewing tobacco and the thing that takes me is a damn workout show trying to get my heart rate up. How the hell would that look in the obituary? E.W Montgomery, former All-American football player and former world champion, dead because he got his heart rate up above one fifty.
Shit.”
E.W chuckles at that one, but the chuckle causes him to cough forcing him to grab his chest in the process. He calms himself down, but the fifty year old has to give it an extra moment before continuing. To make sure everything’s good and clear, the ring veteran slams his massive paw into his chest giving himself a bit of a jumpstart.
“You know, I thought I was gonna walk away for good in 1998, then I came back and thought I was done in 2003. And when that didn’t work, I thought 2005 for sure was the year, after getting smacked in the side of the head with a brick I couldn’t see straight for months. I thought that was it. I thought that was my time. But no, at the age of forty I came back again and again… you get the idea, right?
Here I go again. It’s 2020 and I’m coming back one more time. I’m coming to Union Battleground and I’m going for the biggest prize in the game. Now, I know I’ve got a long road ahead of me once again before getting there, but...”
The monstrous frame of E.W stands up out of his chair, he is still six foot five he is still over three hundred thirty pounds but somehow he is leaner, his arms are powerfully built like a statue. From the side of the table he grabs his black hat and places it back on his head.
“...but, I ain’t come back for some happy-awe-shucks sort of bullshit. That ain’t me neither. I might be fifty years old, but believe me when I say this I aim to lay a path of destruction through all of Union Battleground. I will lay waste to all that cross my paths with little regard for them, we’ll start with Blue Barrera. You can bring the fucking fire that you want to start the show off against me, Blue. You can light the whole damn place on fire if you want and let the cinders rain down onto the ring for all I care, and none of it is going to make one lick of difference. Because that fire you bring? Ain’t nothing compared to what I got. You see, you’re just a young pup in the world, barking makes you strong and it has tricked you into thinking that you’ve got this fight inside of the pit of your soul that rages. I actually do admire that, because you’re going to need that raging fire in your gut to get back up off the ground when that bark of yours doesn't equal shit in that ring.
When you’ve figured out how to keep that fire burning for the next thirty years, then come find me. Until then you’re just a little doggie yapping at my feet. Trust me when I say it, that fire that you’re going to bring will only lead you to lights out against me. Lights out.”
From the pocket of his shirt E.W pops out a cigarillo which he takes a moment to light. Looking at the flame from the Zippo lighter E.W flips the cap back down upon it snuffing the flame out quickly. This brings a smile to the face of the old man as he puffs away at his thin cigar.
“Many years ago, I told an old friend of mine that a swordsman that couldn’t pick up their own sword wasn’t much of a swordsman. Well, times have changed and this swordsman is not only able to lift his sword back up but he’s learned a ton of ways to wield it over the years that’ll make you just… well, shit. Why spoil the fun?
How does it go? And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, come and see.
That’s right, come and see.”
With that E.W takes another long puff of his cigarillo giving a solid final view of the end burning, smoke pours out from the sides of his mouth as he turns towards the door and begins to head outside. There waiting for him is none other than Christopher J. Wrigley, who is wearing the exact same thing he did fifteen years ago and probably fifteen years before that. We fade to black.