Post by Awesome Stick Labor on Feb 19, 2015 20:34:27 GMT
~PROLOGUE~
[At the crack of dawn on a South Texas beach, we see two sihouetted figures walking towards the crashing waters of the Gulf of Mexico. The two turn their gazes toward the rising sun as the wind blows ever so slightly from the southwest. The only sounds the break the silence are the chirping of segulls as they fly overhead.]
”Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible sweet sword,
His truth is marching on.”
-”The Battle Hymn of the Republic” (Julia Ward Howe, 1861)
*************
Episode IV
GET BUSY LIVIN' OR GET BUSY DYIN'
Gazing upon the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, I stand before the heavens and watch with awe as the waves crash on a sandy beach off the coast, a place I've known since long before I started walkin'. Yet as the shimmering sun beats down upon my very soul, I shrug my shoulders and quietly memorize the checklist I've had in my mind since I started wrasslin' for peanuts.
Eyes, opened.
Ears, clicked.
Mind, focused on the task at hand.
For what seems like an eternity, I've struggled mightily to put into words a simple truth: that I've been fought in my own private war that has transcended the boundaries of time and space. Throughout my entire life, I've fought many battles in ten thousand places—from the shores of Corpus Christi to the deserts of Iraq, from the Rocky Mountains in Denver to the majestic medieval castles of the United Kingdom.
I've come across people of all races, nationalities, and creeds—from the poorest of the poor to the richest of the rich.
I've marched many miles upon open roads, continuing my neverending struggle to survive in a world that prides itself on egotism, hatred, politics, and sex.
From sea to shining sea, I've fought bravely against some of the wrasslin' gig's biggest and brightest stars. But nothing will ever compare to the sight that befalls me in the present. As I walk the open field, as I look out toward the horizon, I find myself on the verge of finally becomin' what I've always dreamt of becomin' ever since I was a child.
The Man of Steel.
In order to get the glory that comes with that moniker, I have to do something that I never thought I'd see myself doin': make someone tap. I feel scared—scared in knowin' that the the folks I'll be facin' are far bigger and more powerful than anything God has ever given to me. A man from the plateaus of New Mexico, who at 6'6” and 330 pounds thought he was livin' the life of wrasslin's biggest stars, yet instead has managed to become a shell of who he once was—a homeless man who's lost his wife, children, and his his sanity. Despite his challenges he's had to endure, he's the current Man of Steel.
Born on the island of Samoa, a 6'4”, 298 pound former rugby player strives to bring his brand of aggression and raw power into the business—only to be distracted by a meddling manager and a desire to settle for a tie.
At 6'6” and 275, this charismatic native of the scorching deserts surrounding Doha, Qatar seeks to build an empire for himself and his fellow Arab countrymen, but he finds himself entangled in a Western world that shuns him for his inability to overcome the language barrier--not to mention his lust for power.
Finally, ya got me—the smallest of the lot standin' at only 5'11”, 191—a tough talkin' yet gentle Texan whose undaunted and unbridled passion and love for the industry can only be overshadowed by a lack of size and brute strength. I've always found it funny how everyone used to tell me that I was “too small” for the wrasslin' gig, but no one would realize that I'll always have the knack for provin' people wrong—that I was bigger than the rest in terms of iron will.
I figure...shit, I'm gonna need it if I'm gonna become the Man of Steel.
As I'm moseyin' along the blessed sand and crashin' waves, my brain makes me ponder my own existence in three different fronts.
How things were back then.
How things are right now.
How things will shape up to be in the future.
Yet like the greatest military tacticians in our history—from Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant to George S. Patton and Douglas MacArthur—I wait for the dawn.
–--------------------------
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible sweet sword,
His truth is marching on.”
-”The Battle Hymn of the Republic” (Julia Ward Howe, 1861)
*************
Episode IV
GET BUSY LIVIN' OR GET BUSY DYIN'
Gazing upon the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, I stand before the heavens and watch with awe as the waves crash on a sandy beach off the coast, a place I've known since long before I started walkin'. Yet as the shimmering sun beats down upon my very soul, I shrug my shoulders and quietly memorize the checklist I've had in my mind since I started wrasslin' for peanuts.
Eyes, opened.
Ears, clicked.
Mind, focused on the task at hand.
For what seems like an eternity, I've struggled mightily to put into words a simple truth: that I've been fought in my own private war that has transcended the boundaries of time and space. Throughout my entire life, I've fought many battles in ten thousand places—from the shores of Corpus Christi to the deserts of Iraq, from the Rocky Mountains in Denver to the majestic medieval castles of the United Kingdom.
I've come across people of all races, nationalities, and creeds—from the poorest of the poor to the richest of the rich.
I've marched many miles upon open roads, continuing my neverending struggle to survive in a world that prides itself on egotism, hatred, politics, and sex.
From sea to shining sea, I've fought bravely against some of the wrasslin' gig's biggest and brightest stars. But nothing will ever compare to the sight that befalls me in the present. As I walk the open field, as I look out toward the horizon, I find myself on the verge of finally becomin' what I've always dreamt of becomin' ever since I was a child.
The Man of Steel.
In order to get the glory that comes with that moniker, I have to do something that I never thought I'd see myself doin': make someone tap. I feel scared—scared in knowin' that the the folks I'll be facin' are far bigger and more powerful than anything God has ever given to me. A man from the plateaus of New Mexico, who at 6'6” and 330 pounds thought he was livin' the life of wrasslin's biggest stars, yet instead has managed to become a shell of who he once was—a homeless man who's lost his wife, children, and his his sanity. Despite his challenges he's had to endure, he's the current Man of Steel.
Born on the island of Samoa, a 6'4”, 298 pound former rugby player strives to bring his brand of aggression and raw power into the business—only to be distracted by a meddling manager and a desire to settle for a tie.
At 6'6” and 275, this charismatic native of the scorching deserts surrounding Doha, Qatar seeks to build an empire for himself and his fellow Arab countrymen, but he finds himself entangled in a Western world that shuns him for his inability to overcome the language barrier--not to mention his lust for power.
Finally, ya got me—the smallest of the lot standin' at only 5'11”, 191—a tough talkin' yet gentle Texan whose undaunted and unbridled passion and love for the industry can only be overshadowed by a lack of size and brute strength. I've always found it funny how everyone used to tell me that I was “too small” for the wrasslin' gig, but no one would realize that I'll always have the knack for provin' people wrong—that I was bigger than the rest in terms of iron will.
I figure...shit, I'm gonna need it if I'm gonna become the Man of Steel.
As I'm moseyin' along the blessed sand and crashin' waves, my brain makes me ponder my own existence in three different fronts.
How things were back then.
How things are right now.
How things will shape up to be in the future.
Yet like the greatest military tacticians in our history—from Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant to George S. Patton and Douglas MacArthur—I wait for the dawn.
–--------------------------
February 27, 1998 – 10:50 AM
ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL (Gymnasium – J.V. Men's Locker Room)
[We find ourselves inside the junior varsity men's athletic locker room inside the AHS Gymnasium as Jack Gaither sits on a bench in front of green-hued locker #2112 after individual quarterback practice with the varsity coach, Jim Kennison. Weeks have passed since he and Fiona McFly first encountered the bully Russell Janeway without any further incidents; yet Jack has his friend on his mind as he ponders how he did in his recent varsity football tryout. Coach Kennison—who at age 66 continues to sport a massive physique—comes into the room and gives his starting JV quarterback a friendly pat on the back for his efforts on the gridiron.]
COACH JIM KENNISON: Yo Gaither! Just wanted to let you know that you had a helluva good tryout last week—one of the best I ever saw.
YOUNG JACK GAITHER: How long before the rosters are announced?
COACH KENNISON: I'm thinkin' another week—give or take. Can't make any guarantees though; we're still lookin' through the film. But...nonetheless, helluva job out there, son.
YOUNG JACK: Thanks Coach.
[The veteran ball coach, sporting a white shirt reading “COLTS PRIDE” in green letters, a clipboard in his right hand, and a whistle around his neck—heads out of the locker room and back toward his office. Jack is left alone to think about what might happen to his football playing future, but his silent meditation is interrupted when he hears a faint, but noticeable, scream through the wall. The JV Colt stands up and grabs the only thing he can find that's big enough to use as a potential weapon—his white football helmet—and closes up his locker.]
YOUNG JACK: Fifi...?!
[The Texan quickly strolls out of the JV locker room and heads toward the next-door varsity locker room, where he finds that the door is cracked open slightly. Jack peeks through the doorway, gasping as he sees Fiona being held against a set of white lockers by two bald-headed guys sporting green shirts that say “COLTS VARSITY FOOTBALL” on the front. Their leader, Russell Janeway, steps into the frame and says something to the Irish girl.]
RUSSELL JANEWAY (voice): Now bitch...I'm gonna open my fly, and you're gonna swallow what I'm gonna give ya to swallow. After all...I own this school, and pretty soon...I'll own you.
[Knowing that Fiona's in distress—yet not wanting to attract the bullies' attention—Jack quietly sneaks into the varsity locker room as we hear the sound of a belt coming off. As Jack sees his ladyfriend being forced onto knees by Big Russ's flunkies, he throws his football helmet with a mighty heave from his left arm.]
-BOOM!-
[The gridiron headgear bounces off one of the lockers, scaring the hell out of the bullies. They drop Fiona to the deck as Russell puts his belt back on and turns around, spotting Jack and giving the 10th grader a death stare.]
RUSSELL: You...!
[Angered that he didn't get his catch, the thug icily walks toward his smaller rival. The two flunkies follow close behind.]
FLUNKY: What do ya want us to do with 'im, bro?
RUSSELL: Nothin', Billy Bob. I can handle this piss-on myself.
[The two-sport star sends his cronies away, leaving him to deal with Jack. The cocky bastard smiles, gleefully chuckling as he thinks about what he was going to make Fiona do.]
RUSSELL: What's the matter, Gaither? You wanna piece o' me?
YOUNG JACK: I don't wanna “piece” of you, Granny's Boy.
[Jack's cold demeanor in making that statement makes the bully raise his eyebrows in contempt.]
YOUNG JACK: I want the whole fuckin' thing.
RUSSELL: A'right punk...let's dance.
[Leading the way, Jack and Russell head out of the locker room and back into the gymnasium. The two young men head out of a side entrance and proceed towards the campus's main front courtyard. Yet as he steps onto the grassy area, Jack is immediately ambushed from behind. Jack is spun around and kicked in his ribs, causing him to crumple to the ground; Russell pulls Jack's head up and verbally taunts him, cackling with pure joy over his latest victim.]
RUSSELL: What's wrong, l'il hero? Had enough?
[Jack responds with a punch to the bully's balls! The 18-year-old principal's grandson clutches his family jewels as the brave sophomore backs away, looking down upon his rival with an aura of contempt.]
JACK: Now we're even.
[Thinkng that his rival won't bother him anymore, Jack turns around and humbly walks away. Russell, however, shakes his head as he charges toward the smaller Jack, who winds up taking a vicious forearm shiver to the back of the neck. The JV football player crumples to the grass, but the stronger thug mounts his supposedly weaker rival and begins pounding the shit of him. Jack's face starts to look like raw hamburger meat as he continues to get pummeled.
However, these two won't be alone for much longer.
Chaos ensues as a large gallery of students converge on the main courtyard, followed by an army of teachers and school principal Dr. Janeway. Happy that he's apparently finished Jack off for keeps, Russell gets off of him and high-fives his flunkies, throwing his hands up into the air as the crowd—led by Fiona, Mr. Logan, and Coach Kennison—watches with great concern as Jack rolls on the ground, trying to get to his feet yet collapsing due to the pain shooting through his body.]
KIRK GAITHER (voice): Son, in life you're gonna have two choices: get busy livin'...or get busy dyin.'
[The husky, strong-willed voice of his father rolls through Jack's mind, and slowly but surely, the brave sophomore pulls himself back to his feet using the bark of a large oak tree as a crutch. The people watching watches with great awe as Jack points to the cackling Russell, who continues to celebrate with his buddies.]
YOUNG JACK: 'Ey Big Russ!
[The big bully turns his head and stares at Jack, who gestures to come back and finish him once and for all.]
YOUNG JACK: C'mon, dude...one more round. Gimme one more round!
RUSSELL: A'right, little man. Let's go!
[Russell charges toward his smaller rival, but Jack blocks the attempted right forearm shiver and transitions into a classic wrestling hammerlock that he learned while hanging out at the local gym down the road from campus. Raining punches to the back of his bigger opponent's noggin, the son of Kirk Gaither knocks his principal's grandson to the ground with a shove; yet the flustered high school senior gets right back up and tries to take the sophomore down with a football-esque spear. Yet Jack--running on adrenaline--quickly turns around once more and takes the 6'4", 235-pounder down with a waistlock takedown, flustering the goon and sending the sending gathering into a raucous cheer.]
YOUNG FIONA MCFLY: KNOCK THE NUTTER OUT, LAD!!
[Jack listens to Fiona cheering for him wildly as the authority figures--including principal Janeway--look on in astonishment. Russell shakes his head, pulling himself back to his feet; yet Jack proceeds to grab his rival's shirt and give him several crushing blows to the ribs as the students begin to sense the unthinkable. Eventually, the junior varsity QB delivers a final, crushing blow to Russell's temples! The bully slowly turns around before falling face-first into a cart marked "C. MANSON MANURE HAULING, INC.," tipping it over. The elder Dr. Janeway looks down at her grandson, who's now covered in horseshit, and gasps in horror as the rest of the assembly laughs.
DR. JANEWAY: Well, I'll be...DAMNED!
[Jack, however, doesn't laugh with his fellow classmates; he humbly nods his head--relieved that he doesn't have to fight any longer--and walks toward his smiling girlfriend, wrapping his arm around her. The bloody and disheveled young Texan turns his focus toward his principal, who sports a curious grin on her face, as the cheering and laughing students quiet down.]
DR. JANEWAY: You're still a knucklehead, Gaither.
[Jack simply chuckles at her, nodding his head in agreement.]
DR. JANEWAY: But I'm happy you were able to teach that grandson of mine a l'il lesson in humility. As far as I'm concerned, he can kiss his full ride to Notre Dame goodbye.
[Dr. Janeway slowly extends her left hand, much to Jack's sheer amazement; he turns to look at Fiona—who gives him a wide grin—before turning back to the elder principal. We see both hands clasp together in a hearty, professional handshake; the other students—along with Mr. Logan, Coach Kennison, and most of their fellow teaching colleagues—cheer with delight.]
YOUNG JACK: Thanks Doc.
DR. JANEWAY: Don't mention it. Now get yourself patched up and mosey on back to class.
YOUNG JACK: Yes ma'am.
[The principal orders everyone back into the building; as the entire campus still buzzes over the fall of its biggest bully in history, Jack gives his Irish girlfriend a warm and loving embrace.]
YOUNG JACK: Fifi, are ya gonna be a'right?
YOUNG FIONA: I just had a wee bit of a bad hair day, but I'll be okay. That wanker wasn't gonna do anything anyway—after all, you were there for me.
YOUNG JACK: Well...I'm not particularly good at handlin' praise, but that's what friends are there for, right?
[Jack and Fiona are the last two to enter the building, which they do so triumphantly—shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand—leaving the humiliated bully known as “Big Russ” to silently collect himself, still covered in the stench of the shit that fell out of the little cart.]
YOUNG FIONA: I've got great news from your gridiron coach. He wanted me to personally tell ya that ya made varsity as the team's starting Q-back next season.
YOUNG JACK: Holy shit...
******************
February 17, 2015 – 7:10 AM | University Beach – Texas A&M-Corpus Christi
PRESENT DAY
[Back at the beach, we find the figures of Jack Gaither and Fiona McFly—still sihouetted against the glare of the sunrise—as the two head toward the waters, gazing down upon a small dinghy that has no business being in the middle of the sand anyway. Yet when we inspect the tiny boat closely, we see an inscription on its hull in black permanent marker.]
HIROKO WAS HERE
[Jack solemnly nods his head as he looks toward the horizon, yet he ekes out a small, bu tnoticable, grin.]
FIONA MCFLY: I can tell that this place means a lot to you.
JACK GAITHER: Oh yeah...this was where I met Hiroko for the very fist time—twelve years ago.
[Jack pulls out a photo of himself and Hiroko, dated “2-22-2003,” and hands it to Fiona.]
JACK: She was goin' to school here for the nursing program; I was tourin' the joint lookin' for a place that I could study and hopefully play college ball. There she stood, right on this very sand. I...welp, I just couldn't resist talkin' to her; the rest was history from that time goin' forward.
[The Irish woman nods her head before giving her friend's photo back to him.]
JACK: Can I have a moment?
[Fiona rubs her hand on Jack's shoulder before heading up the sand and towards their rental car. Jack looks down upon the old picture, solemnly nodding his head as he gazes upon a clean-shaven man that used to be himself at an earlier time.]
JACK: How would ya feel if you were locked inside a cage for sport?
[Jack puts his keepsake back into his wallet and looks down on the inscription Hiroko wrote on the dinghy.]
JACK: I dunnno if this'll make any sense or not, but apparently the higher-ups at my job decided to put me in the slaughterhouse against three big dudes—guys who're at least one-and-a-half times bigger and stronger than myself and who'll stop at nothin' to whip my ass. Would ya be thrilled, excited, or scared about what I'm gonna be doin' in a few days? Right now...if you was me, I'd probably be all three of them things right now.
[The Texan smiles as he peers upon a group of people getting off a bus with schoolbooks in hand.]
JACK: Should I be excited to be facin' the current Man of Steel, Cliff Clinton? He's a dude who wound up homeless 'cuz he lost his marbles in pursuit of his dreams, but he's showed me that he's got a set of balls after punchin' out the returnin' Ace at the last big pay-per-view show, Metamorphosis, only to be dicked over by a Qatari man that's been a pain in everyone's ass for sometime?
[Jack watches as a windsurfer flies high into the air.]
JACK: I've never met Mr. Clinton inside a wrasslin' ring before, so he should be quite a formidable foe. How many other folks in my profession could say that they've taken on the so-called “Greatest of All Time” and The Ace and lived to talk about it—win or lose? I know a few others who got to enjoy such braggin' rights—and I'm in that company with 'em.
In all honesty though...I respect the shit outta Cliff. This guy loves travelin' the roads and playin' the role of a good guy; now he's left to ponder his future as the one closest to him gave him the news that someone he once knew in his past has returned. Yet I'd sit there and tell Cliff that wrasslin' ain't about thinkin' about the past or dwellin' about the future. It's about the here and now—and right now, he's standin' directly in my sights. Am I gonna be the unlikely dude that's gonna end his reign as Man of Steel? The future ain't written, but win or lose...I'm gonna make it a good one—just like him.
[Jack takes off the Texas state high school football championshp ring that he won during this time in Arlington High School; he looks down upon the diamond football with a warm yet humble grin.]
JACK: Am I supposed to be thrilled for Malaki Toala, the big Samoan? Likee Cliff, I've never went up against 'im in mortal combat before. Malaki's been tryin' to make a run since he came back in November after solving his visa issues, but he seems to not like the fact that he hasn't been booked on a card or seen on TV on a regular basis.
[The AHS alum holds his trophy high up in the air.]
JACK: If I were talkin' to Malaki, here's what I'd say to the man: don't worry 'bout bein' placed on a docket or bein' shown on the tube every day. It just ain't worth it. It ain't logical to get all hard-up just 'cuz he feels responsible for his buddies Joey and Simon despite the fact that they've treated him like garbage in the past. This gig—this industry—is about somethin' more than simply bein' scheduled to compete for peanuts.
I'd get the big dude to look in the mirror and focus on what I've got to offer. After all, I'm the smallest of the lot of four who'll be steppin' into the cage, but it won't matter 'cuz I could be the one to outpace 'em all. I'd tell Mr. Toala that wrasslin' ain't about the competition—that it's about bein' on the road and sharin' stories with the fans who worship you from all over the planet. I'd simply point out that he shouldn't bitch or moan about not bein' on a card—that his day to shine will come soon enough. To be fair, I'm totally thrilled that I get to take on a man with such size and scope as Malaki Toala, but will I be able to survive his raw power and sheer strength once he's got me in his crosshairs? I'll just have to wait and see how things turn out before the question can be truthfully answered.
[The Texan puts the prized possession back on his right ring finger.]
JACK: Should I be scared of Mohammed Al-Thani? I mean...shit, this dude jumped my ass pretty good and now has set himself up as a “high and mighty” figure; yet he loves talkin' about how, as a pup, he watched a main event between two guys from an alternate universe that I really don't give two fucks about. He talks about buildin' an empire with his gal pal while boastin' how he needs the win in order to bring it to the forefront.
[The ex-QB turns his attention from the skies above to the American flag that proudly flies above the campus's bus station.]
JACK: If only he knew...that the greatest empires throughout our history were built not by zealots like him, but by those who had the drive and ambition to see their peoples flourish and prosper. What if he succeeds, huh? Will he understand that his empire might crumble underneath him someday—much like the Romans or many others throughout time? He talks about how this ain't about race; well he's right, it ain't. It's about integrity—he ain't got it.
I ain't scared of some Middle Eastern dude who thinks that he alone was responsible for puttin' wrasslin' into his people's market when he knows that THEY wanted to see the sport on their own free will. I ain't stereotypin' him either—I'm just tellin' the honest-to-God truth. I'm an American that's loved and respected his countrymen and women in the past, and they've always been in a resilient bunch—just like us folks in the States. Will I be the one that'll get to enjoy watchin' Mohammed fall—not just for the sake of all Americans but for his own people as well?
[Jack turns his gaze back toward the horizon.]
JACK: In the end, however, I dunno if I'm gonna get my ass killed or come out on top, but I don't give a shit. I wish I was able to go back in time to 1998 and meet the kid who used to be me—so he could kick the shit outta me and make me earn my pay—but things just ain't that simple no more, ain't they? All that's left is a guy with spikey hair and a scraggly beard.
[Jack looks toward the rising sun with a humble grin on his face.]
JACK: How am I feelin'? Proud...proud that I can be able to win the hearts and minds of those 'round me in any given situation. I still have visions of that lone high school fight to this day, and I ask myself "what would I have become had I not done what I did?" If I hadn't tried to make a stand for the people I knew...it would've cost me my soul. I'd have been labeled somethin' far worse than a knucklehead...a coward. Yet as I look back on that day in '98, I remembered somethin' my father once said to me.
[Jack hunches down and writes something on the hull of the watercraft with a black permanent marker before slowly backing away from it.]
JACK: “Get busy livin' or get busy dyin.'” (nods) That's goddamn right...at least, that's how I see it.
[Placing the marker back in his pants pocket, the ex-QB turns around and heads toward Fiona, who was watching her friend next to the green Ford Fiesta that they've rented.}
FIONA: You alright, lad?
JACK: Yeah, I'll be OK.
[We hear the sounds of the pair getting into the small car and driving away as we take one last look at the boat. The inscription on it remains the same—save for one minor change. Once more, we the solitary, yet peaceful, sounds of a steady wind, waves crashing, and seagulls chirping and fluttering into the breeze.]
HIROKO WAS HERE
(so was Jack)
(so was Jack)
Well howdy there pardner.