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| Date of RP: 12/02/02 Current Record: 1/0/3 Current Accomplishments: IWF Bad-Ass Champion |
~~The camera opens to darkness. A cigarette
is lit, igniting the screen in a soft orange flame, and then dying out. The
face of the person lighting the cigarette is concealed, a puff is taken, and
then exhaled over the glowing red ember of the cherry. A voice picks
up...a voice that seems to be masked by something...~~ VOICE: Showdown. -One week ago. A car loaded with a whole hell of a lot of ass-kicking trucked right over the body of Chris Sparks, caught in the headlights like a deer. Paul Jay was already dead, done in before hand. The only person around was Shawn Holliday, and it was on camera. It wasn't supposed to be on camera, but somebody fucked up. Sometimes, thats all you need. ~~The cigarette is put out, soaking us in darkness again. Beyond the darkness, somewhere, the sound of heavy breathing is heard...breathing as in sleep. Interior of Appartment- Pittsburgh- Present Day. The black explodes with the opening of a door into a dark room. Outside, the hall is filled with blinding white light. Shadows in the shapes of men flood into the room. We can make out men in hoods with flashlights. They are laden with weapons.~~ VOICES: POLICE! SEARCH WARRANT! DON'T MOVE. ~~It is a blur of violent action and sound...flashlights cut down the darkness like hot knives through butter, moving through a spartan appartment, searching. Finally they come through a doorway, and all the lights come together on one man, laying in bed in his boxers, slowly waking up. He squints at the light and pulls a pillow over his head, more annoyed than frightened. He laughs as a dozen or so guns cock on him. He pulls the pill back from over his head. He is Krev MacDougan. Age thirty-eight.~~ COP: Mr. MacDougan? KMD: Yeah. COP: Police. We have a warrant for your arrest. KMD: Will they be serving coffee downtown? ~~A dozen black-gloved hands grab him and yank him out of bed. Our shot fades away, and then returns to the outside of a wrestling ring. There is a large man standing outside of it, nearly 8 feet tall, with warped and giant knuckles. If there were Ogres on earth, this man would be one of them. There is a smaller kid, Mexican, standing beside him dressed in a luchadore outfit. Suddenly the door of the place is opened to reveal five dark figures bathed in the white light from outside. The man- Knuckles, mid-thirties- looks up.~~ KNUCKLES: Can I help you? OFFICER: Tim "Knuckles" Hollister? ~~Knuckles reaches for something inside a near locker.~~ KNUCKLES: Who are you? ~~All of the men pull out pistols and point them at Knuckles.~~ OFFICER: Police. ~~Knuckles pulls out a grungy towel and wipes sweat from his forehead.~~ KNUCKLES: We don't train for gun fighting. ~~The cop snaps the cuffs around Knuckles wrists, and we fade to a shot of a street, downtown Pittsburgh, daytime. The Slogfather, a tall, thin man in his thirties strolls casually down the street. He's dressed in a plain black suit, clean as a button, and wearing hair so ungodly curly and long that one would think the 80's were making a comback. He smokes a pipe and curses to himself as he stumbles over his cane.~~ ~~He looks over his shoulder and notices a black Ford sedan with four men in it cruising along the curb. Slogfather tries to pick up the pace a little more, but only limps on his cane as the vehicle keeps up.~~ ~~He glances up at the corner, and tries to keep comfortable. He glances at his watch, acting like he's just remembering an appointment he's late for. The car keeps up with him.~~ ~~Suddenly he picks up the cane and bolts for the corner. He doesn't get very far before more cars pull out of alleyways and down the street, blocking him off. Brakes squeel and radios squack as guns cock, aimed at him. The Slogfather stops and holds his hands up. We fade to a shot, a bit later, of these same men, as well as Joey Padrino and Bryan Tann. The same, unidentified voice picks up again...~~ VOICE: It didn't make sense that they left a few out. I mean these guys were hard-core bad-asses, but there were a few missing. At taht point, no one had to be scared, they knew that they hadn't done anything they could be locked up for, and if they did, they had the best lawyers in the country. Besides, it was probably fun for them, inflating their egos, making them look more notorious. ~~The five men are ushered into a room, in a single line, in front of a white wall painted with horizontal blue stripes to indicate height. Bright lights come up, and force all of them to squint. Tann leans forward and looks at the other men in the line-up. He shares a look of familiarity to The Slogfather, and then to MacDougan. Knuckles gives a gap-toothed smile to all of them. MacDougan speaks to Tann.~~ KMD: Where you been, man? COP: SHUT UP IN THERE. Alright, you all know the drill. When your number is called, step forward and repeat the phrase you've been given. Understand? ~~The men all nod.~~ COP: Number one. Step forward. ~~Knuckles steps forward and scratches the tuft of hair on his head. He stares down at the paper. He looks back up at the two-way mirror.~~ KMD: Eh...yeah. Knuckles here has a rough time reading...cut him some slack. COP: Alright. Read it to him, and then you repeat it. ~~Krev nods, and leans in and whispers something into Knuckle's ear. Knuckles nods as Krev steps back in line.~~ KNUCKLES: Give me the title to the IWF, you-fucking-cock-sucker. COP: Number two. Step forward. ~~KMD steps forward, making a gun with his thumb and forefinger. He does his best Al Capone, pointing the finger at the mirror.~~ KMD: Give me the title to the IWF, you motherfucking, cocksucking pile of shit, or I'll rip off your- COP: KNOCK IT OFF. Get back in line. ~~The rest of the wrestlers do their bit as the voice picks back up and we fade to black, slowly.~~ VOICE: It was bullshit. The whole rap was a set up. Everything is the Holliday's fault. You don't put guys like that in a room together. Who knows what can happen? ~~We fade to black completely as Padrino, the last in the line up, says his line.~~ |
