Post by jamesradford on Apr 6, 2020 11:44:18 GMT -5
FOLLOWING COUPS DE GRACE III
PLAZA DE TOROS CALAFIA
MEXICALI, BAJA CALIFORNIA, MEXICO
Bobby Benson approached his locker room still holding his lower back and jaw after the chaotic main event of Coups De Grace III. Just as he arrives he can hear what sounds like a whirlwind inside, things crashing on the floor, something tossed into a locker. His brows raise in surprise before pushing the door open only to see James Radford leaning against a table at the far end, the contents of the room completely upturned.
Bobby sighed, hobbled into the room, and let the door close behind him.
"James..."
"Not now, Bobby!" James said in a dangerous voice, not even turning around.
Bobby rolled his eyes at the threatening tone, and moved over to begin picking up the contents of his overturned bag.
"If you had just hit that bitch with that chair, you wouldn't be feeling like thi..."
Bobby doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before he's slammed hard into one of the metal lockers by his jacket lapels. The damage he had already taken earlier in the night mingles with the force used to put him there, and the weak manager crumples as he's held in place by two bulging arms. When he finally does manage to look up, James Radford has a fist poised to strike and his eyes are wild.
But it doesn't.
Instead he just stands there staring, fist still hovering. His hot breath passes into Benson's face and he can smell the post match residue on his clients skin. It's a mixture of iron from the blood, and sour from the sweat.
Bobby moves to speak but before he can, he's tossed to the ground at Radfords feet. He curls up in a fetal position, expecting more assault, but instead listens as footfalls walk away from him and then the door blasts open and swings shut seconds later.
Bobby slowly uncurls himself and sits up to survey the room and finds no sign of his client. He mulls the moment over in his head, trying to decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand, he had almost gotten his head taken off, but on the other that was a side of aggression that James desperately required if he were going to get anywhere in this restart of his career.
After a few more minutes of contemplation, Bobby finally chuckles, and pushes himself to his feet. Maybe, after all this time, James Radford had gotten a clue.
When the scene cuts in there is complete darkness.
The only thing indicating that there is anyone close by is the rhythmic sound of steady breathing.
Just then a sliver of light pierces the darkness and comes to rest on a pair of green eyes peering into the camera lens. The breathing halts, almost as if the owner of those dark orbs wasn't prepared to be revealed, but it settles back into a steady rhythm seconds later.
The eyes seem to pierce the soul, telling their own story. Taking you on a journey that is fraught with pain, setbacks, and defeat. The kind of journey that forces the person taking it to become more than when they started, or to whither back into the depths of whence they came.
When the voice breaks the silence it's startling. It has a hollow tone, devoid of emotion.
"Is this the part where I name the event and then try and personalize it to my own situation?"
The question sits there for long seconds unanswered, the eyes twitching in response as if trying to mull through their options.
"Relapse."
The voice is low and harsh but retains its apathy.
"To suffer deterioration after a period of improvement."
The eyes close for a moment just before the curse escapes.
"Shit! I guess it does sound like me. Open the rest of those fucking blinds."
Light suddenly spills in like slats to illuminate the room and the owner of the eyes, James Radford, is sitting on a wooden stool in what appears to be a dank warehouse. The space has been emptied of whatever it is that once was held there so that it's only occupants are the man, his camera, and whoever it was that was helping with production.
James smirked, shaking his head and running his fingers through his blond mane. That's right, no Stetson cowboy hat. He's wearing a black button up shirt that is partially unbuttoned to reveal a silver chain around his neck with a cross pendant on it's end that is crudely made by a piece of battered steel.
His eyes find the camera once more.
"Well, Union Battleground, I gave it an honest try. I got the undisclosed location, the dark, almost sinister, room. The dim lighting, the edgy tone in my voice. Hell, I even got rid of my gimmick, but now that I'm revealed I'll be having that back."
Somewhere off camera the Stetson is tossed over, and James expertly twirls the hat before plunking it down onto his head. He crosses his arms over his chest and sets his jaw, amusement quickly turning to irritation.
"But that's what you want, isn't it? For every single one of these people on the roster to look like something out of a horror movie? For everyone to be so hardcore and noir? Like charactures of some malformed beasts, twisted shells of what once were human beings? Devoid of emotion. Devoid of weaknesses. All so arrogant that they can't conceive of a loss, and too glib to recognize any need for improvement?"
James spits out the side of his mouth onto the cement floor and his nostrils flare.
"And I guess ole' James Radford doesn't fit the bill. Coming in to this promotion with my 'aw shucks' attitude and trying to keep things civil. An appreciation for real wrestling, where the rules haven't been thrown completely out the window, and everything doesn't end in some underhanded tactic. Oh...I've heard the fucking feedback."
James sneers.
"James, you should have used the chair on Indi. If you had, you wouldn't be in this predicament. James, you're a good wrestler, but you need to do whatever it takes to prove to them you really want it. James, management doesn't feel like you are selling the match enough. James, you seem like just a talking bobble head in front of the camera. You have to show more emotion. You have to be more convincing. In short, James, you need to be like everyone fucking else."
The last comes out in burst of anger and frustration, years of being told the same thing and finding that even with success people will ask you to be something you aren't.
"So this was my attempt to give you people an example of exactly what you look like. What you sound like. With your elaborate sets, your hokey production, and your promises of annihilation. Every one of you look like you just stepped off the set of the next fucking super hero film, and I guess because I'm not trying to inflate myself to be anything more than I am that it just doesn't cut the mustard!"
James is seething now, but there is pain behind his eyes. Maybe even disappointment.
"And obviously I fucking can't! Bryan Williams, you beat me at Guerrilla Warfare. You beat both Indi and I at Lights Out #36. And just as Union entered its spring break, Indi beat me for this very opportunity at Coups De Grace to go on and face the Union Battleground Champion. But I guess that didn't make for a good enough story. They decided instead of Indy, this would round out the Main Event of Relapse III, and maybe it's because my whole goddamn career thus far in Union has been a relapse."
James allows a smile with no mirth behind it.
"There it is, folks. The circle back to the beginning of this little shoot. You see, I came into this company after taking nearly three years away from the business after a successful run in Alpha Wrestling Empire to try and show the masses that I still had it. And why not? I'm not that old, still in good shape, and have proven that I'm still able to entertain. I got pretty far in that Guerrilla Warfare match, and after that have been circling this Main Event title picture ever since. Yet, with all of that improvement from where I was, I can't win a match to save my fucking life!"
He shakes his head again, doubt and frustration building up to this moment.
"So let's just get past all this fucking pretense. Let's forget about the visual aides and the post production artwork. Let's take these substandard character models of who they want us to be out of the equation and just get real."
James points at himself.
"I'm a good ole' country boy redneck who won't break the rules, and has suffered for it. I got about as much 'edge' as play-dough cause I don't have enough sense to be anything more than myself. I got a shitty manager who conned me into a contract cause I'm gullible and stupid, and I haven't won a fucking match since coming into this company."
He then points to the camera.
"And you, Bryan Williams, are a pompous, arrogant prick who has done 'just enough' in his career to make it seem like your confident words carry weight. You have some mental instability, which isn't a slight, but come on. Any man who puts on a chicken mask and claims that is his real face has some issues. You don't have a problem doing whatever it takes and it has served you well. You decorated your mantle with a few championships in respectable establishments and currently stand on top of the Union Battleground mountain."
James sighs heavily, letting his hand fall into his lap.
"And the truth is, you've beaten me. Not once, but twice. If we're going by Vegas standards, I'd say you are the odds on favorite to take home the victory this time around."
James shrugs, having no real rebuttal.
"I'm literally backed into a corner here, but that's just it, Bryan..."
James stares hard into the camera.
"There is nothing more dangerous than an animal backed into a corner. Even the dumbest of creatures can be dangerous when they don't feel like they have anymore options left. When they feel desperate to find some purchase in order to save their life. People are often the same, and that's where we are currently, cause you see..."
James' eyes shimmer with emotion and he looks down at the ground for a minute, searching his soul over the statement that he just cut short. Just when it looks like he might not ever say anything more, he nods, looking up from the long pause with determination.
"You see, Bryan, you don't need this win or that belt to justify your existence in this business, but I do..."
James nods, allowing the truth to wash completely over him.
"While everyone else out here wants me to change, expects me to change, I continue to hold fast to my ideals despite my setbacks. But it's getting closer to crunch time here, to that moment where I have to ask myself again, earnestly; Do I conform to what is just another generic dark death match wannabe, or do I stay James Radford?"
He allows that country boy smile to give his answer before elaborating.
"Nah, ya see, I'm not buying it. Sure, it's quite obvious that this shtick is what works here at Union Battleground. I killed a chicken in my last conversation with you as an illustration that even the cock of the walk could turn into dinner, but I guess cause I did it in the sunshine of my farm and that same chicken would really end up on my plate as food, it just didn't satisfy. But you...you butcher a chicken all gussied up as a metaphor for Dakota Smith, in your dark set and elaborate bloody apron. Well god damn...it damn near broke the internet. I could feel the Battleground Network servers groaning with people who lapped that shit up like Management laps up the sponsorship. And look at you, you became the champion to boot!"
James shakes his head.
"And don't get me wrong Bryan, I'm not jealous. I'm just a little perturbed. Perturbed by the fact that people so blatantly disregard any semblance of rules. That people so easily find themselves doing the wrong thing in order to advance their own careers. Line their own pockets with the earnings of their misdeeds. My manager, Bobby Benson is one of these people. I wish more than anything that I could take that moment back when I signed with him, that I hadn't been so naive and gullible. I thought that he was going to guide me through this business, but instead has lead me down a path of ruin."
He lowers his gaze in consternation.
"But he was right about one thing. The battles he chooses to make I'll end up having to fight because he represents me. Bryan, I didn't get this shot because I earned it, I got this shot because the same management that feeds off of underhandedness and blood enjoyed what Bobby Benson tried to do to you at Coups De Grace."
He crosses his arms over his chest.
"While I would have liked to get to this point on my own, I also can't stand down from an opportunity. I literally can't afford it. I need this Bryan. It's more than just desire or avarice, it's life support for me. This victory, that belt, can change my entire trajectory. When facing you last I came in confidently, certain I could do this. Same with Indy on the last show. I was sure that I had called your numbers, and if I could turn those encounters personal then I could find the will to win. The drive to overcome."
James smirks, eyes flitting up to the camera.
"But they were just words, Bryan. The grasping at straws you sometimes do to psyche yourself up. This time, though...this time I have no other choice but to bare my soul. I have no other choice but to be that animal backed into a corner. I have no other choice to but to be just me."
A heavy sigh, followed by a wink and a smile.
"Because at the end of the day you may have taken care of the 'Tumor' that was Dakota Smith, but you weren't Union Battlegrounds savior. You were just it's chemo treatment, leaving it sick and weak. I, Bryan, will be it's full remission. I will bring this place back to a state of life, revert it back to something pure. Where tradition isn't set aside for cheap Hollywood theatrics, and two competitors can stand opposite of one another in the ring, one on one, without fear that they may lose just because the other is too afraid to do it clean.
I will rise up from the ashes, stand against the tide that places like this represent. Where every distraction or advantage is cheered and someone that actually tries to be descent is booed. I will fight, Bryan. I will fight with every breath I have left to survive what's to come, and I will do so with my head held high."
James closes his eyes, almost as if in prayer, and slowly nods.
"I may be fighting out of a corner and have a lot left to prove, but Bryan, that's exactly what I'll do at Relapse III when I unrest that Union Battleground Championship from your waist. Cause I'm still the 'Pride of Jackson'. I'm still 'Country Fine'. And I'm still looking to prove that the underdog can still rise to the occasion in this ole world and be the hope that everyone needs."
James eyes pop open and he regards the lens with some of that country boy charm, his confidence fully returning to him.
"Bryan, I'll see you real soon. Ye Hear?"
Fade to black.
Bobby sighed, hobbled into the room, and let the door close behind him.
"James..."
"Not now, Bobby!" James said in a dangerous voice, not even turning around.
Bobby rolled his eyes at the threatening tone, and moved over to begin picking up the contents of his overturned bag.
"If you had just hit that bitch with that chair, you wouldn't be feeling like thi..."
Bobby doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before he's slammed hard into one of the metal lockers by his jacket lapels. The damage he had already taken earlier in the night mingles with the force used to put him there, and the weak manager crumples as he's held in place by two bulging arms. When he finally does manage to look up, James Radford has a fist poised to strike and his eyes are wild.
But it doesn't.
Instead he just stands there staring, fist still hovering. His hot breath passes into Benson's face and he can smell the post match residue on his clients skin. It's a mixture of iron from the blood, and sour from the sweat.
Bobby moves to speak but before he can, he's tossed to the ground at Radfords feet. He curls up in a fetal position, expecting more assault, but instead listens as footfalls walk away from him and then the door blasts open and swings shut seconds later.
Bobby slowly uncurls himself and sits up to survey the room and finds no sign of his client. He mulls the moment over in his head, trying to decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand, he had almost gotten his head taken off, but on the other that was a side of aggression that James desperately required if he were going to get anywhere in this restart of his career.
After a few more minutes of contemplation, Bobby finally chuckles, and pushes himself to his feet. Maybe, after all this time, James Radford had gotten a clue.
4/6/2020
LOCATION UNDISCLOSED
When the scene cuts in there is complete darkness.
The only thing indicating that there is anyone close by is the rhythmic sound of steady breathing.
Just then a sliver of light pierces the darkness and comes to rest on a pair of green eyes peering into the camera lens. The breathing halts, almost as if the owner of those dark orbs wasn't prepared to be revealed, but it settles back into a steady rhythm seconds later.
The eyes seem to pierce the soul, telling their own story. Taking you on a journey that is fraught with pain, setbacks, and defeat. The kind of journey that forces the person taking it to become more than when they started, or to whither back into the depths of whence they came.
When the voice breaks the silence it's startling. It has a hollow tone, devoid of emotion.
"Is this the part where I name the event and then try and personalize it to my own situation?"
The question sits there for long seconds unanswered, the eyes twitching in response as if trying to mull through their options.
"Relapse."
The voice is low and harsh but retains its apathy.
"To suffer deterioration after a period of improvement."
The eyes close for a moment just before the curse escapes.
"Shit! I guess it does sound like me. Open the rest of those fucking blinds."
Light suddenly spills in like slats to illuminate the room and the owner of the eyes, James Radford, is sitting on a wooden stool in what appears to be a dank warehouse. The space has been emptied of whatever it is that once was held there so that it's only occupants are the man, his camera, and whoever it was that was helping with production.
James smirked, shaking his head and running his fingers through his blond mane. That's right, no Stetson cowboy hat. He's wearing a black button up shirt that is partially unbuttoned to reveal a silver chain around his neck with a cross pendant on it's end that is crudely made by a piece of battered steel.
His eyes find the camera once more.
"Well, Union Battleground, I gave it an honest try. I got the undisclosed location, the dark, almost sinister, room. The dim lighting, the edgy tone in my voice. Hell, I even got rid of my gimmick, but now that I'm revealed I'll be having that back."
Somewhere off camera the Stetson is tossed over, and James expertly twirls the hat before plunking it down onto his head. He crosses his arms over his chest and sets his jaw, amusement quickly turning to irritation.
"But that's what you want, isn't it? For every single one of these people on the roster to look like something out of a horror movie? For everyone to be so hardcore and noir? Like charactures of some malformed beasts, twisted shells of what once were human beings? Devoid of emotion. Devoid of weaknesses. All so arrogant that they can't conceive of a loss, and too glib to recognize any need for improvement?"
James spits out the side of his mouth onto the cement floor and his nostrils flare.
"And I guess ole' James Radford doesn't fit the bill. Coming in to this promotion with my 'aw shucks' attitude and trying to keep things civil. An appreciation for real wrestling, where the rules haven't been thrown completely out the window, and everything doesn't end in some underhanded tactic. Oh...I've heard the fucking feedback."
James sneers.
"James, you should have used the chair on Indi. If you had, you wouldn't be in this predicament. James, you're a good wrestler, but you need to do whatever it takes to prove to them you really want it. James, management doesn't feel like you are selling the match enough. James, you seem like just a talking bobble head in front of the camera. You have to show more emotion. You have to be more convincing. In short, James, you need to be like everyone fucking else."
The last comes out in burst of anger and frustration, years of being told the same thing and finding that even with success people will ask you to be something you aren't.
"So this was my attempt to give you people an example of exactly what you look like. What you sound like. With your elaborate sets, your hokey production, and your promises of annihilation. Every one of you look like you just stepped off the set of the next fucking super hero film, and I guess because I'm not trying to inflate myself to be anything more than I am that it just doesn't cut the mustard!"
James is seething now, but there is pain behind his eyes. Maybe even disappointment.
"And obviously I fucking can't! Bryan Williams, you beat me at Guerrilla Warfare. You beat both Indi and I at Lights Out #36. And just as Union entered its spring break, Indi beat me for this very opportunity at Coups De Grace to go on and face the Union Battleground Champion. But I guess that didn't make for a good enough story. They decided instead of Indy, this would round out the Main Event of Relapse III, and maybe it's because my whole goddamn career thus far in Union has been a relapse."
James allows a smile with no mirth behind it.
"There it is, folks. The circle back to the beginning of this little shoot. You see, I came into this company after taking nearly three years away from the business after a successful run in Alpha Wrestling Empire to try and show the masses that I still had it. And why not? I'm not that old, still in good shape, and have proven that I'm still able to entertain. I got pretty far in that Guerrilla Warfare match, and after that have been circling this Main Event title picture ever since. Yet, with all of that improvement from where I was, I can't win a match to save my fucking life!"
He shakes his head again, doubt and frustration building up to this moment.
"So let's just get past all this fucking pretense. Let's forget about the visual aides and the post production artwork. Let's take these substandard character models of who they want us to be out of the equation and just get real."
James points at himself.
"I'm a good ole' country boy redneck who won't break the rules, and has suffered for it. I got about as much 'edge' as play-dough cause I don't have enough sense to be anything more than myself. I got a shitty manager who conned me into a contract cause I'm gullible and stupid, and I haven't won a fucking match since coming into this company."
He then points to the camera.
"And you, Bryan Williams, are a pompous, arrogant prick who has done 'just enough' in his career to make it seem like your confident words carry weight. You have some mental instability, which isn't a slight, but come on. Any man who puts on a chicken mask and claims that is his real face has some issues. You don't have a problem doing whatever it takes and it has served you well. You decorated your mantle with a few championships in respectable establishments and currently stand on top of the Union Battleground mountain."
James sighs heavily, letting his hand fall into his lap.
"And the truth is, you've beaten me. Not once, but twice. If we're going by Vegas standards, I'd say you are the odds on favorite to take home the victory this time around."
James shrugs, having no real rebuttal.
"I'm literally backed into a corner here, but that's just it, Bryan..."
James stares hard into the camera.
"There is nothing more dangerous than an animal backed into a corner. Even the dumbest of creatures can be dangerous when they don't feel like they have anymore options left. When they feel desperate to find some purchase in order to save their life. People are often the same, and that's where we are currently, cause you see..."
James' eyes shimmer with emotion and he looks down at the ground for a minute, searching his soul over the statement that he just cut short. Just when it looks like he might not ever say anything more, he nods, looking up from the long pause with determination.
"You see, Bryan, you don't need this win or that belt to justify your existence in this business, but I do..."
James nods, allowing the truth to wash completely over him.
"While everyone else out here wants me to change, expects me to change, I continue to hold fast to my ideals despite my setbacks. But it's getting closer to crunch time here, to that moment where I have to ask myself again, earnestly; Do I conform to what is just another generic dark death match wannabe, or do I stay James Radford?"
He allows that country boy smile to give his answer before elaborating.
"Nah, ya see, I'm not buying it. Sure, it's quite obvious that this shtick is what works here at Union Battleground. I killed a chicken in my last conversation with you as an illustration that even the cock of the walk could turn into dinner, but I guess cause I did it in the sunshine of my farm and that same chicken would really end up on my plate as food, it just didn't satisfy. But you...you butcher a chicken all gussied up as a metaphor for Dakota Smith, in your dark set and elaborate bloody apron. Well god damn...it damn near broke the internet. I could feel the Battleground Network servers groaning with people who lapped that shit up like Management laps up the sponsorship. And look at you, you became the champion to boot!"
James shakes his head.
"And don't get me wrong Bryan, I'm not jealous. I'm just a little perturbed. Perturbed by the fact that people so blatantly disregard any semblance of rules. That people so easily find themselves doing the wrong thing in order to advance their own careers. Line their own pockets with the earnings of their misdeeds. My manager, Bobby Benson is one of these people. I wish more than anything that I could take that moment back when I signed with him, that I hadn't been so naive and gullible. I thought that he was going to guide me through this business, but instead has lead me down a path of ruin."
He lowers his gaze in consternation.
"But he was right about one thing. The battles he chooses to make I'll end up having to fight because he represents me. Bryan, I didn't get this shot because I earned it, I got this shot because the same management that feeds off of underhandedness and blood enjoyed what Bobby Benson tried to do to you at Coups De Grace."
He crosses his arms over his chest.
"While I would have liked to get to this point on my own, I also can't stand down from an opportunity. I literally can't afford it. I need this Bryan. It's more than just desire or avarice, it's life support for me. This victory, that belt, can change my entire trajectory. When facing you last I came in confidently, certain I could do this. Same with Indy on the last show. I was sure that I had called your numbers, and if I could turn those encounters personal then I could find the will to win. The drive to overcome."
James smirks, eyes flitting up to the camera.
"But they were just words, Bryan. The grasping at straws you sometimes do to psyche yourself up. This time, though...this time I have no other choice but to bare my soul. I have no other choice but to be that animal backed into a corner. I have no other choice to but to be just me."
A heavy sigh, followed by a wink and a smile.
"Because at the end of the day you may have taken care of the 'Tumor' that was Dakota Smith, but you weren't Union Battlegrounds savior. You were just it's chemo treatment, leaving it sick and weak. I, Bryan, will be it's full remission. I will bring this place back to a state of life, revert it back to something pure. Where tradition isn't set aside for cheap Hollywood theatrics, and two competitors can stand opposite of one another in the ring, one on one, without fear that they may lose just because the other is too afraid to do it clean.
I will rise up from the ashes, stand against the tide that places like this represent. Where every distraction or advantage is cheered and someone that actually tries to be descent is booed. I will fight, Bryan. I will fight with every breath I have left to survive what's to come, and I will do so with my head held high."
James closes his eyes, almost as if in prayer, and slowly nods.
"I may be fighting out of a corner and have a lot left to prove, but Bryan, that's exactly what I'll do at Relapse III when I unrest that Union Battleground Championship from your waist. Cause I'm still the 'Pride of Jackson'. I'm still 'Country Fine'. And I'm still looking to prove that the underdog can still rise to the occasion in this ole world and be the hope that everyone needs."
James eyes pop open and he regards the lens with some of that country boy charm, his confidence fully returning to him.
"Bryan, I'll see you real soon. Ye Hear?"
Fade to black.
TO BE CONTINUED AT RELAPSE III...