Post by Trent Page on Jun 23, 2019 22:04:57 GMT -5
Clouds hang overhead. The steady buzz of raindrops slapping against the ground covers any other sound that might be occurring across the Savannah plains. Rain pings off of Trent Page’s metal trailer home, as it sits, seemingly vacant, in the middle of the hidden clearing. Trent comes jogging down the small path through the trees, dressed in a pair of black gym shorts, and a pair of mud caked running shoes. Rain runs down his bulky, muscular torso, as he comes to a stop, and leans against his house. Gasping for air, he stares down at the soaked ground, watching as a tiny frog hops across his path, completely unaware of the world above.
His chest aches, trying to pull in more air than is possible with each breath. His rusty muscles beg him to collapse, but he refuses. Eventually he manages to stand up, and catch up with his lungs. He takes a moment to bask in the serenity of the early morning rain. He lets the water cool his burning skin for a few moments, before looking over and noticing that the door to his trailer is unlocked. Slowly, he tip toes across the grass, and up the stairs, easing the door open. Inside he sees the tall, suited figure of Scott Savage standing in the tiny kitchen, his back to the door. Trent rolls his eyes, and steps inside, kicking off his shoes.
Trent:Jesus Christ.
Scott:I prefer my secular title. By the way, the coffee selection in this backwater garbage town is surprisingly not terrible.
The lanky, dark haired man turns around, sipping at a steaming mug.
Trent:I don’t have any coffee… or a coffee maker.
Scott:You do now. Just one of the perks of being managed by Savage Enterprises. I figure if I’m going to be...spending time here...I should at least be properly caffeinated.
Trent:You’re not.
Scott:Beg your pardon?
Trent:You’re not going to be spending time here. You brought me the contract. Good job. Go collect your finder’s fee, and get the hell out of my life.
Scott takes a belabored sip, and sets the cup down on a small patch of clean counter top.
Scott:Trent, I’m hurt. What is it? Do you not trust me to have your best interests at heart? Do you not believe I know what I’m doing?
Trent:All of the above, and more. After Ohio, I wouldn’t trust you to cut my fuckin’ hair. Now you think I’m gonna trust you with my career?
Scott:Right, because you’re doing so well. Fantastic job against Jubei, by the way.
Trent immediately flips a switch, shoving the much taller man up against the flimsy wall.
Trent:You listen to me, Hellboy, and you listen good. I don’t need your condescending bullshit. I don’t need your conditional loyalty, and I sure as hell don’t need you.
Scott:But you do. Look, I know you’re angry about Ohio. You have every right to be. I messed up.
Trent:You damn near landed my ass in federal prison! After what you pulled, I’m begging you to give me one single reason why I would ever trust you again. Just fucking one!
Scott looks Trent in the eye. When he speaks, it is with a rare sincerity.
Scott:I can never make up for what I did. If that’s what you’re looking for, it will never happen. What I’m asking you to do is look back. Think about who hid you when you were on the run after you egged that house.
Trent:First of all, I threw a rock through the window of the governor’s mansion, so fuck you. Second of all, that doesn’t make up for-
Scott:I know. But you know as well as I do that that’s far from the only time I have stuck my neck out for you. I would like to think that after being friends for twenty years, you could forgive me for the one mistake I made. And even if that is impossible. Even if you could never forgive me, just try to understand that this is what’s best for your career. This lone wolf thing was cute when you were in your twenties. Now that you’re three hundred…
Trent:Double fuck you.
Scott:...you need someone watching your back. You can’t take fifty more beatings like you took last week. You can’t keep living here in the woods, doing this outdated Rocky IV nonsense, and expect to be in the shape you need. Trent please, for your own sake, sign with me, and let me take you back to New Jersey. We’ll get you out of this god forsaken stink pit, and into one of the most technologically advanced training centers in the world. I’m not asking you to forgive me, I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to let me pay you back for the mistake I made.
Trent looks into Scott’s eyes, and sees no hidden agenda. Only the caring gaze of a friend. He is clearly considering the offer behind his steely gray eyes. Eventually he lets out a long sigh.
Trent:One of the things I always hated about you was the fact that you could sell shit to a toilet.
Scott:Needlessly vulgar, but appreciated all the same.
Trent:I’ll think about it. I’m not interested in getting burned again...but you make some good points. Either way, I gotta move back to Jersey. This is where right wing assholes go to die...and Waylon goes to grow pot. I’m not doing myself any favors sticking around here.
They both jump, as an unexpected knock comes at the door. Trent immediately grabs pistol off the counter, and Scott rolls his eyes.
Scott:Jesus. Not everything that makes noise needs to be shot at. Calm down.
Trent:Fine, then do your job as my manager, and see who it is.
With a slight hesitation, Scott makes his way over to the door, and slowly opens it. On the other side is a sight that wouldn’t scare anyone, aside from a box of kleenex and a bottle of lotion. The short, scrawny young man looks like he weighs 110 soaking wet, and he is. The rain comes down even harder than before, soaking his war torn Trent Page t-shirt. His frightened eyes stare at Scott Savage from behind a thick pair of glasses.
Scott:Yes?
The young man blinks a couple times, before holding out his hand, and speaking in a distinct southern accent.
Carter:H-hello Mr. Savage. My name’s Carter White. It’s a p-pleasure to meet you.
Scott:No need to stutter. I can’t possibly be that scary anymore.
Carter:Sorry sir. Just nerves I guess. I was hopin’ to talk to Trent Page. I do a podcast, and it’d be a real big deal if I could get him on for just a little while.
With a mischievous smile, Scott steps back out of the doorway.
Scott: Why don’t you come in out of the rain, and ask him yourself?
Trent’s eyes go wide, and he glares at Scott.
Trent:Are you out of your mind?!
The young man steps inside, and gives Trent a pleading look.
Carter:Hello Mr. Page. My name’s-
Trent:Look, I heard you the first time. I’m not going on any podcast. Sorry.
Carter:Please sir. I’m tryin’ to get this thing off the ground, but the only other wrestler for a hundred miles is Waylon Cash. I mean, I like him and all, but I done had him on some seven, eight times. Other day he came over to my place just to hang out. I’m startin’ to worry about him. Please, if there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it.
Trent looks like he’s going to say no again, but stops himself. He eyes the eager young wannabe journalist, an idea stirring behind his eyes.
Trent:I’ll tell ya what. I’ll do you one better. I’m going to make you my personal media concierge. I mean, with a powerhouse like Savage Enterprises behind me, I think we could get you a decent paycheck for a gig like that. Don’t you think, Scott?
Scott grits his teeth, and tries to turn it into a smile, as he stares daggers at Trent.
Scott:I suppose we could find some room in the budget for some sort of salary.
Trent:Benefits too. I can’t be worried about my personal media rep falling ill.
During this back and forth, Carter’s eyes shift from man to man, his smile growing involuntarily.
Trent:I’ll tell you what, Carter. First thing you can do is film a video for me.
Page reaches behind his threadbare couch, and pulls out a large, plastic suitcase. He opens it up, revealing what looks to be an incredibly expensive camera.
Scott:Where did you get that?!
Trent:None of your business.
Scott:How much did it cost.
Trent:Exact same amount as an APW signing bonus, turns out. Alright kid, you know how to work one of these?
Carter shakes his head, fear in his eyes.
Trent:Good thing there’s an instruction book in the case. Scott, help him. I’m gonna go grab a smoke and get my shit together. And kid...this is your first test. Don’t fuck it up.
Trent turns and heads into the other room, leaving Scott and carter to stare at each other in complete confusion.
___ _ ____ _ _ ______
The camera comes to life, and takes a moment to focus on Trent Page’s face, which fills up most of the screen. A spotlight mounted on the camera casts severe looking shadows across his face, making him look more manic and angry than usual. He glares into the camera for a few moments, leaving the scene in silence. He spits the first worst from his mouth like they taste disgusting.
Trent:Masuda Jubei. Let me ask you something. I know you’ll always have that win on your record. I can’t change that at this point...but did you really think you were going to get away with it? I mean, at the end of the day, did you think you were going to be able to steal my first win from me, and not have my wrath rain down on you like the fire on Sodom and Gomorrah? If so, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were. No, see, if you’re smart, you’ve been looking over your shoulder all week long. If you’re smrt, you’ve been sleeping with one eye open, every waking moment filled with fear and morbid anticipation. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you know I’m coming for you.
The camera fades in and out a bit, but luckily it serves to look stylistic, rather than the handiwork of an untrained camera man. Trent stares at the man behind the camera, rolls his eyes, and continues.
Trent:Don’t worry, I want to win this week, but at the same time, I want to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. One that leaves a...lasting impression. I’ll gladly fight Bob and Doug McKenzie with you, but you better grow eyes in the back of that thick skull of yours pretty damn quick. I might be your partner, but I’m also your worst nightmare. A pissed off monster that’s always following behind you. Watching every move you make, waiting for the right moment to strike, and show the world what happens when you fuck up my day. You already know the lengths I’m willing to go to to destroy. You saw it in my eyes last week. It’s the reason you were relieved when you heard the bell ring. You knew what you were in for, and you knew you had just barely escaped it. Well, your escape lasted a week. It was less an escape, and more of a temporary reprieve...and time is ticking.
Trent’s eyes drop to whatever’s on the table in front of him. He smiles, and turns his gaze back up to the camera lens.
Trent:And as far as those Molson chugging, poutine eating, Doug Ford electing, universal healthcare having, maple syrup drinking, indigenous people oppressing, zamboni driving, moose riding, Tim Horton loving, chucklefucks from da great white nort? Well I’m gonna be awfully mad if you let them beat us. That’ll be two bullshit losses in a row for me, and I’ll be happy to take both of them out on you. I’m better than them, and so are you. Losing to them isn’t an option, so you better have your shit together.
Trent leans back into the shadows, taking a cigarette from behind his ear, and sticking the filter in his mouth. He leans forward, but before he can light it, a string of words comes to him, and he pulls it from between his lips.
Trent:Alright, maybe I shouldn’t be so flippant. Yeah it’s fun to laugh at the Canadian Coalition, but the would be ignoring the fact that they’re one hell of a tag team, with a good amount of experience in this business. They’re not going to let up until that bell rings, and neither am I. They’re far from pushovers, and I’m not going to treat them like they are, but I’d be lying if I said they were my main focus this week. All I can think about is last week when the referee rang that bell. I didn't tap. I wasn’t pinned. I didn’t lose. I was screwed out of my first win by an incompetent referee, and the rock hard fists of Masuda Jubei. Trust me when I say you will never bloody me like that again, and I plan on this week ending much differently than last week did.
Trent tucks the cigarette back behind his ear. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath before speaking again.
Trent:Boys, understand something, I’m not just some veteran trying to make a few bucks off his legacy. I’m not an empty powder keg. In fact, I’m as explosive as I’ve ever been, and my fuse has never been shorter. I’m a disaster in the making, just waiting to go off, and leave you missing an arm. I’m the monster in your closet, just waiting for you to let your guard down. That goes for all three of the men who are gonna be in the ring with me this week. I am not a beast to be tamed. I am a demon to be avoided. I am wrestling’s angel of death, and this week, I visit all three of you.
With a grin, Trent reaches down onto the table, and picks up a cigar, and a small, chrome cigar cutter. He snips the end off as if to emphasize his point, before putting it in his mouth, and lighting the end. A cloud of wispy smoke quickly envelopes his head, as he blows a plume out to disappear into the dark room.
Trent:Trust me when I say I’m going to do my best to make this a night that nobody ever forgets.
He inhales, brightening the glowing end of the cigar, as the camera fades to black.
Trent reaches over and flips on a light, smiling at Carter, who looks horrified.
Trent:Good job, kid. How would you like to go to New Jersey?
His chest aches, trying to pull in more air than is possible with each breath. His rusty muscles beg him to collapse, but he refuses. Eventually he manages to stand up, and catch up with his lungs. He takes a moment to bask in the serenity of the early morning rain. He lets the water cool his burning skin for a few moments, before looking over and noticing that the door to his trailer is unlocked. Slowly, he tip toes across the grass, and up the stairs, easing the door open. Inside he sees the tall, suited figure of Scott Savage standing in the tiny kitchen, his back to the door. Trent rolls his eyes, and steps inside, kicking off his shoes.
Trent:Jesus Christ.
Scott:I prefer my secular title. By the way, the coffee selection in this backwater garbage town is surprisingly not terrible.
The lanky, dark haired man turns around, sipping at a steaming mug.
Trent:I don’t have any coffee… or a coffee maker.
Scott:You do now. Just one of the perks of being managed by Savage Enterprises. I figure if I’m going to be...spending time here...I should at least be properly caffeinated.
Trent:You’re not.
Scott:Beg your pardon?
Trent:You’re not going to be spending time here. You brought me the contract. Good job. Go collect your finder’s fee, and get the hell out of my life.
Scott takes a belabored sip, and sets the cup down on a small patch of clean counter top.
Scott:Trent, I’m hurt. What is it? Do you not trust me to have your best interests at heart? Do you not believe I know what I’m doing?
Trent:All of the above, and more. After Ohio, I wouldn’t trust you to cut my fuckin’ hair. Now you think I’m gonna trust you with my career?
Scott:Right, because you’re doing so well. Fantastic job against Jubei, by the way.
Trent immediately flips a switch, shoving the much taller man up against the flimsy wall.
Trent:You listen to me, Hellboy, and you listen good. I don’t need your condescending bullshit. I don’t need your conditional loyalty, and I sure as hell don’t need you.
Scott:But you do. Look, I know you’re angry about Ohio. You have every right to be. I messed up.
Trent:You damn near landed my ass in federal prison! After what you pulled, I’m begging you to give me one single reason why I would ever trust you again. Just fucking one!
Scott looks Trent in the eye. When he speaks, it is with a rare sincerity.
Scott:I can never make up for what I did. If that’s what you’re looking for, it will never happen. What I’m asking you to do is look back. Think about who hid you when you were on the run after you egged that house.
Trent:First of all, I threw a rock through the window of the governor’s mansion, so fuck you. Second of all, that doesn’t make up for-
Scott:I know. But you know as well as I do that that’s far from the only time I have stuck my neck out for you. I would like to think that after being friends for twenty years, you could forgive me for the one mistake I made. And even if that is impossible. Even if you could never forgive me, just try to understand that this is what’s best for your career. This lone wolf thing was cute when you were in your twenties. Now that you’re three hundred…
Trent:Double fuck you.
Scott:...you need someone watching your back. You can’t take fifty more beatings like you took last week. You can’t keep living here in the woods, doing this outdated Rocky IV nonsense, and expect to be in the shape you need. Trent please, for your own sake, sign with me, and let me take you back to New Jersey. We’ll get you out of this god forsaken stink pit, and into one of the most technologically advanced training centers in the world. I’m not asking you to forgive me, I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to let me pay you back for the mistake I made.
Trent looks into Scott’s eyes, and sees no hidden agenda. Only the caring gaze of a friend. He is clearly considering the offer behind his steely gray eyes. Eventually he lets out a long sigh.
Trent:One of the things I always hated about you was the fact that you could sell shit to a toilet.
Scott:Needlessly vulgar, but appreciated all the same.
Trent:I’ll think about it. I’m not interested in getting burned again...but you make some good points. Either way, I gotta move back to Jersey. This is where right wing assholes go to die...and Waylon goes to grow pot. I’m not doing myself any favors sticking around here.
They both jump, as an unexpected knock comes at the door. Trent immediately grabs pistol off the counter, and Scott rolls his eyes.
Scott:Jesus. Not everything that makes noise needs to be shot at. Calm down.
Trent:Fine, then do your job as my manager, and see who it is.
With a slight hesitation, Scott makes his way over to the door, and slowly opens it. On the other side is a sight that wouldn’t scare anyone, aside from a box of kleenex and a bottle of lotion. The short, scrawny young man looks like he weighs 110 soaking wet, and he is. The rain comes down even harder than before, soaking his war torn Trent Page t-shirt. His frightened eyes stare at Scott Savage from behind a thick pair of glasses.
Scott:Yes?
The young man blinks a couple times, before holding out his hand, and speaking in a distinct southern accent.
Carter:H-hello Mr. Savage. My name’s Carter White. It’s a p-pleasure to meet you.
Scott:No need to stutter. I can’t possibly be that scary anymore.
Carter:Sorry sir. Just nerves I guess. I was hopin’ to talk to Trent Page. I do a podcast, and it’d be a real big deal if I could get him on for just a little while.
With a mischievous smile, Scott steps back out of the doorway.
Scott: Why don’t you come in out of the rain, and ask him yourself?
Trent’s eyes go wide, and he glares at Scott.
Trent:Are you out of your mind?!
The young man steps inside, and gives Trent a pleading look.
Carter:Hello Mr. Page. My name’s-
Trent:Look, I heard you the first time. I’m not going on any podcast. Sorry.
Carter:Please sir. I’m tryin’ to get this thing off the ground, but the only other wrestler for a hundred miles is Waylon Cash. I mean, I like him and all, but I done had him on some seven, eight times. Other day he came over to my place just to hang out. I’m startin’ to worry about him. Please, if there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it.
Trent looks like he’s going to say no again, but stops himself. He eyes the eager young wannabe journalist, an idea stirring behind his eyes.
Trent:I’ll tell ya what. I’ll do you one better. I’m going to make you my personal media concierge. I mean, with a powerhouse like Savage Enterprises behind me, I think we could get you a decent paycheck for a gig like that. Don’t you think, Scott?
Scott grits his teeth, and tries to turn it into a smile, as he stares daggers at Trent.
Scott:I suppose we could find some room in the budget for some sort of salary.
Trent:Benefits too. I can’t be worried about my personal media rep falling ill.
During this back and forth, Carter’s eyes shift from man to man, his smile growing involuntarily.
Trent:I’ll tell you what, Carter. First thing you can do is film a video for me.
Page reaches behind his threadbare couch, and pulls out a large, plastic suitcase. He opens it up, revealing what looks to be an incredibly expensive camera.
Scott:Where did you get that?!
Trent:None of your business.
Scott:How much did it cost.
Trent:Exact same amount as an APW signing bonus, turns out. Alright kid, you know how to work one of these?
Carter shakes his head, fear in his eyes.
Trent:Good thing there’s an instruction book in the case. Scott, help him. I’m gonna go grab a smoke and get my shit together. And kid...this is your first test. Don’t fuck it up.
Trent turns and heads into the other room, leaving Scott and carter to stare at each other in complete confusion.
___ _ ____ _ _ ______
The camera comes to life, and takes a moment to focus on Trent Page’s face, which fills up most of the screen. A spotlight mounted on the camera casts severe looking shadows across his face, making him look more manic and angry than usual. He glares into the camera for a few moments, leaving the scene in silence. He spits the first worst from his mouth like they taste disgusting.
Trent:Masuda Jubei. Let me ask you something. I know you’ll always have that win on your record. I can’t change that at this point...but did you really think you were going to get away with it? I mean, at the end of the day, did you think you were going to be able to steal my first win from me, and not have my wrath rain down on you like the fire on Sodom and Gomorrah? If so, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were. No, see, if you’re smart, you’ve been looking over your shoulder all week long. If you’re smrt, you’ve been sleeping with one eye open, every waking moment filled with fear and morbid anticipation. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you know I’m coming for you.
The camera fades in and out a bit, but luckily it serves to look stylistic, rather than the handiwork of an untrained camera man. Trent stares at the man behind the camera, rolls his eyes, and continues.
Trent:Don’t worry, I want to win this week, but at the same time, I want to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. One that leaves a...lasting impression. I’ll gladly fight Bob and Doug McKenzie with you, but you better grow eyes in the back of that thick skull of yours pretty damn quick. I might be your partner, but I’m also your worst nightmare. A pissed off monster that’s always following behind you. Watching every move you make, waiting for the right moment to strike, and show the world what happens when you fuck up my day. You already know the lengths I’m willing to go to to destroy. You saw it in my eyes last week. It’s the reason you were relieved when you heard the bell ring. You knew what you were in for, and you knew you had just barely escaped it. Well, your escape lasted a week. It was less an escape, and more of a temporary reprieve...and time is ticking.
Trent’s eyes drop to whatever’s on the table in front of him. He smiles, and turns his gaze back up to the camera lens.
Trent:And as far as those Molson chugging, poutine eating, Doug Ford electing, universal healthcare having, maple syrup drinking, indigenous people oppressing, zamboni driving, moose riding, Tim Horton loving, chucklefucks from da great white nort? Well I’m gonna be awfully mad if you let them beat us. That’ll be two bullshit losses in a row for me, and I’ll be happy to take both of them out on you. I’m better than them, and so are you. Losing to them isn’t an option, so you better have your shit together.
Trent leans back into the shadows, taking a cigarette from behind his ear, and sticking the filter in his mouth. He leans forward, but before he can light it, a string of words comes to him, and he pulls it from between his lips.
Trent:Alright, maybe I shouldn’t be so flippant. Yeah it’s fun to laugh at the Canadian Coalition, but the would be ignoring the fact that they’re one hell of a tag team, with a good amount of experience in this business. They’re not going to let up until that bell rings, and neither am I. They’re far from pushovers, and I’m not going to treat them like they are, but I’d be lying if I said they were my main focus this week. All I can think about is last week when the referee rang that bell. I didn't tap. I wasn’t pinned. I didn’t lose. I was screwed out of my first win by an incompetent referee, and the rock hard fists of Masuda Jubei. Trust me when I say you will never bloody me like that again, and I plan on this week ending much differently than last week did.
Trent tucks the cigarette back behind his ear. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath before speaking again.
Trent:Boys, understand something, I’m not just some veteran trying to make a few bucks off his legacy. I’m not an empty powder keg. In fact, I’m as explosive as I’ve ever been, and my fuse has never been shorter. I’m a disaster in the making, just waiting to go off, and leave you missing an arm. I’m the monster in your closet, just waiting for you to let your guard down. That goes for all three of the men who are gonna be in the ring with me this week. I am not a beast to be tamed. I am a demon to be avoided. I am wrestling’s angel of death, and this week, I visit all three of you.
With a grin, Trent reaches down onto the table, and picks up a cigar, and a small, chrome cigar cutter. He snips the end off as if to emphasize his point, before putting it in his mouth, and lighting the end. A cloud of wispy smoke quickly envelopes his head, as he blows a plume out to disappear into the dark room.
Trent:Trust me when I say I’m going to do my best to make this a night that nobody ever forgets.
He inhales, brightening the glowing end of the cigar, as the camera fades to black.
Trent reaches over and flips on a light, smiling at Carter, who looks horrified.
Trent:Good job, kid. How would you like to go to New Jersey?
