Post by Marco Keller on Mar 4, 2015 21:57:59 GMT
We open on Marco Keller and his trainer Adrian sitting in a diner. The diner itself is run-down and looks like it's seen much better years, but somehow the old man feels right at home in it. Marco, much to the contrary, seems to be rather discomforted at the whole setting, looking around with a skeptical look on his face.
"I don't understand why you brought us here."
Adrian shrugs, drumming his fingers on the menu that sits before him.
"Why do I need a reason? I like this place. Food's greasy, but it tastes good. Besides, you got too used to all the fancy comforts. Makes ya soft."
Marco shakes his head at this, smirking and chuckling.
"So...another week, another victory snatched from my fingers at the last moment. This company has an obsession with multiple-man matches, it seems. What's the problem with just two men wrestling? Are you afraid that the crowd will lose interest? If so, I think they need to remember what wrestling is really about."
Adrian lets out a racking cough, shaking his head and taking a sip of his coffee.
"Listen here, lad. It's not about what you think wrestling's really about. It's what you have to do to keep the job. Swallow your pride and focus on winning, not on complaining. Plenty enough wrestlers or would-be ones that complain, don't need your gob added to the mix."
In point of fact, Marco's mouth does open to complain, but he shuts it again, nodding briefly to concede the point. The waiter walks over to their table, setting down two plates of essentially everything you could want for breakfast before both men. They nod to him, Adrian offering a "Thank ya, son.", and set to work eating. After a few moments, Marco sets down his fork, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Why Freakke? I want to know that. Why do I have to wrestle him, of all people? He's a joke. He's a punchline. The man's one step removed from being a wrestling clown, no matter how much he might protest it. He has no respect—he spit in my face, LITERALLY—and his acrobatics are a cheap cover for the fact that he hasn't got what it takes to last in the world of grappling. So why did the Powers that Be decide that he would be a good opponent for me?"
Adrian sets down his own fork, bemused grin on his face.
"Said it all yerself, my son. You two are a clash of everything: styles, visual presentation, tradition versus the new and exciting...you're opposites, and that makes for an interesting match-up. Half of this business is getting the crowd to give two tugs of a rat's cock about the action. Doesn't matter how much of an athletic competition it is, if you're not exciting they won't care. Sad to say, but it's the truth. People are spoiled these days. They want spectacle, they want grandeur, they want the larger-than-life, and this Freakke knows how to do larger-than-life."
He takes another bite of hash browns, pointing his fork at Marco and nodding as he chews through it.
"But...but...they also love seeing the larger-than-life be chopped down. You've got enough power that they can't help but watch you. You don't need the gimmicks others have, because you're the raw athlete. It's something they don't see much of anymore. All these people, trying to be giants, and you're just trying to be the best man out there. 's a novelty. It's your act. Work it."
Marco shakes his head at Adrian, looking across the table at the old man with a curious expression on his face.
"You never mentioned any of this before. Why didn't you? It could have saved me a lot of headaches over the last month or two."
The older man shrugs, taking another bite of food and washing it down with a sip of his coffee.
"Because I never thought you'd go to America. It's not who you are, it's not your style. I figured you'd spend your career in Europe. 's not as important there, all the showmanship and flashiness. Europe's got your wrestling style at heart. Suppose you're here now, though. No two ways about it. Freakke's part of that junior heavyweight style. Takes notes from Mexico, from Japan. Something you could stand to do. A lot of brilliant grapplers out of those countries."
Marco snorts dismissively, waving his hand and finishing his sausage.
"Junior heavyweight. It's great when you can work against a man your size, your strength. Once I get ahold of him, his entire arsenal goes out the window. And if he tries that mist on me again, I'll uppercut it down his throat. His tricks only work once, if that. I'm stronger than he is, I can match his speed, and I'm a superior grappler. What reason is there that he could win?"
Adrian fires back immediately, as if he was waiting for Marco to pose that question.
"That's exactly why. You're overconfident, and you think in conventional terms. I don't think Charlie Smiles even knows there is a box. If you want to win, you'll have to be able to put yourself in his mindset. Empathy isn't just feeling sorry for some poor sod, Marco, it's understanding emotions and thought processes. Can't be the best without it. Now, if you were Freakke, matched up against a man like yourself, what would you do?"
Marco ponders this for a moment before responding.
"Throw the rulebook out the window. I've already shown myself to be ill-suited to fighting those who cheat, so why not capitalize? Use the ropes, the barricades, the ring itself...stay moving and refuse to let myself be tagged."
Adrian nods, making a 'go on' gesture with his hand. Marco furrows his brow, musing to himself.
"His best chance is to keep moving, which means he'll have no time to rest, because when he does I have him. So if I force the issue...I'll have more stamina, and I can win that way. Why didn't I think of it before?"
Adrian lets out another throaty chuckle, shaking his head.
"Too busy lost in your outrage, son. Let the Alex Joneses of the world be outraged about the pointless. You're more than one of those people. Now eat up. No sense going to battle on an empty stomach, and we're paying good money for that food."
With that, Adrian digs back in. After a moment, Marco shrugs, nodding, and he resumes his meal as well as our scene closes.
"I don't understand why you brought us here."
Adrian shrugs, drumming his fingers on the menu that sits before him.
"Why do I need a reason? I like this place. Food's greasy, but it tastes good. Besides, you got too used to all the fancy comforts. Makes ya soft."
Marco shakes his head at this, smirking and chuckling.
"So...another week, another victory snatched from my fingers at the last moment. This company has an obsession with multiple-man matches, it seems. What's the problem with just two men wrestling? Are you afraid that the crowd will lose interest? If so, I think they need to remember what wrestling is really about."
Adrian lets out a racking cough, shaking his head and taking a sip of his coffee.
"Listen here, lad. It's not about what you think wrestling's really about. It's what you have to do to keep the job. Swallow your pride and focus on winning, not on complaining. Plenty enough wrestlers or would-be ones that complain, don't need your gob added to the mix."
In point of fact, Marco's mouth does open to complain, but he shuts it again, nodding briefly to concede the point. The waiter walks over to their table, setting down two plates of essentially everything you could want for breakfast before both men. They nod to him, Adrian offering a "Thank ya, son.", and set to work eating. After a few moments, Marco sets down his fork, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Why Freakke? I want to know that. Why do I have to wrestle him, of all people? He's a joke. He's a punchline. The man's one step removed from being a wrestling clown, no matter how much he might protest it. He has no respect—he spit in my face, LITERALLY—and his acrobatics are a cheap cover for the fact that he hasn't got what it takes to last in the world of grappling. So why did the Powers that Be decide that he would be a good opponent for me?"
Adrian sets down his own fork, bemused grin on his face.
"Said it all yerself, my son. You two are a clash of everything: styles, visual presentation, tradition versus the new and exciting...you're opposites, and that makes for an interesting match-up. Half of this business is getting the crowd to give two tugs of a rat's cock about the action. Doesn't matter how much of an athletic competition it is, if you're not exciting they won't care. Sad to say, but it's the truth. People are spoiled these days. They want spectacle, they want grandeur, they want the larger-than-life, and this Freakke knows how to do larger-than-life."
He takes another bite of hash browns, pointing his fork at Marco and nodding as he chews through it.
"But...but...they also love seeing the larger-than-life be chopped down. You've got enough power that they can't help but watch you. You don't need the gimmicks others have, because you're the raw athlete. It's something they don't see much of anymore. All these people, trying to be giants, and you're just trying to be the best man out there. 's a novelty. It's your act. Work it."
Marco shakes his head at Adrian, looking across the table at the old man with a curious expression on his face.
"You never mentioned any of this before. Why didn't you? It could have saved me a lot of headaches over the last month or two."
The older man shrugs, taking another bite of food and washing it down with a sip of his coffee.
"Because I never thought you'd go to America. It's not who you are, it's not your style. I figured you'd spend your career in Europe. 's not as important there, all the showmanship and flashiness. Europe's got your wrestling style at heart. Suppose you're here now, though. No two ways about it. Freakke's part of that junior heavyweight style. Takes notes from Mexico, from Japan. Something you could stand to do. A lot of brilliant grapplers out of those countries."
Marco snorts dismissively, waving his hand and finishing his sausage.
"Junior heavyweight. It's great when you can work against a man your size, your strength. Once I get ahold of him, his entire arsenal goes out the window. And if he tries that mist on me again, I'll uppercut it down his throat. His tricks only work once, if that. I'm stronger than he is, I can match his speed, and I'm a superior grappler. What reason is there that he could win?"
Adrian fires back immediately, as if he was waiting for Marco to pose that question.
"That's exactly why. You're overconfident, and you think in conventional terms. I don't think Charlie Smiles even knows there is a box. If you want to win, you'll have to be able to put yourself in his mindset. Empathy isn't just feeling sorry for some poor sod, Marco, it's understanding emotions and thought processes. Can't be the best without it. Now, if you were Freakke, matched up against a man like yourself, what would you do?"
Marco ponders this for a moment before responding.
"Throw the rulebook out the window. I've already shown myself to be ill-suited to fighting those who cheat, so why not capitalize? Use the ropes, the barricades, the ring itself...stay moving and refuse to let myself be tagged."
Adrian nods, making a 'go on' gesture with his hand. Marco furrows his brow, musing to himself.
"His best chance is to keep moving, which means he'll have no time to rest, because when he does I have him. So if I force the issue...I'll have more stamina, and I can win that way. Why didn't I think of it before?"
Adrian lets out another throaty chuckle, shaking his head.
"Too busy lost in your outrage, son. Let the Alex Joneses of the world be outraged about the pointless. You're more than one of those people. Now eat up. No sense going to battle on an empty stomach, and we're paying good money for that food."
With that, Adrian digs back in. After a moment, Marco shrugs, nodding, and he resumes his meal as well as our scene closes.
Well howdy there pardner.