Post by Smith Jones on Nov 17, 2019 22:10:44 GMT -5
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Fade up on a shot of a single snowflake floating in the air high above some wintery scene. Its elegant crystalline form is a visual feast of scientific magic. In often underappreciated wonder of life on Earth. As we examine its delicate intricacies, it becomes easier and easier to believe it is indeed one of a kind. In all of history all over the universe, there has never been a snowflake just exactly like this. There is...
“Only one.”
As the wind takes the snowflake, the camera manages to follow as it floats, whips, and flies downward. The snowflake drifts further and further away from us into a blizzard of snowflakes trying to look just like him.
Silly blizzard.
Through the storm, we see evergreen trees that surround a small opening where rests a log cabin. Next to the cabin is a white Ford pickup truck. A large woodshed is a short path away from the main cabin. Dark smoke billows into the wind, dispersed as soon as it hits the air. We move toward the front door, arriving just as it flings open, caught by the wind. In the doorway stands Smith Jones, dressed in a gray parka, zipped up as high as it can go. His red Canada themed toque is the brightest shot of colour in the scene. It even has a red pop-pom on top. Jones wears a deep scowl as he glares into the snowstorm. Smitty tucks his head down into his raised shoulders. He slams the door behind him as he walks the path to the woodshed.
“How far would you go for a little bit of solitude? Where do you go when the voices of the world become too loud for you to take any longer? Where is your fortress wherein you recharge to face The World again? You are now looking at never before seen footage of my wintery lair in the middle of nowhere somewhere in northern Canada. Even though I don’t hate fan interaction as much as I once did, I am not a fan of talking to so many people so much of the time. Even though I love my girlfriend very much… What can I say? I’m Smith Jones. Loving me is a unique challenge.
That goes for the girlfriend AND the fans.”
Smith opens the door of the shed and steps inside. It is decorated with a Canadian flag hanging from the ceiling and there are license plates from all over the country nailed to the walls. In front of those same walls, the shed is stocked with neat stacks of firewood. Smith walks up to a stack and begins to use his right hand to load his left arm with wood.
“There’s too much noise in the city. People think they need to be constantly spilling their opinions all over the place to be valid. Listen, I hear you all yammering on. I hear you, Wolf, talking about how you’re gonna kick my ass all over the arena at Omega. Your confidence is at an all-time high! I mean, if Smith Jones can’t stop Dean Wolf, who can? Allow me to reassure you all that Smith… Jones… can.
And my opponent this Monday night on Metal. McCarty. Just like Dean Wolf, you’ve been beggin Reenie for her attention; pleading for a shot at my Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship. Hehehehe. Okay. Yeah, I see you. You’ve been doing big things on the midcard, things that you believe should propel you beyond where you’ve been able to go until now. Now, you’ve got a Main Event Match against the incredible Smith Jones. Non-title, of course. All eyes are on you now more than ever. More than when you made it to the finals of the Heavyweight Contendership Tournament. More than any social media blurb you’ve ever sent out. More than the sweetest song you’ve ever played in APW.”
Now fully loaded up with as much as he can carry, Smith again braves the cold and walks the path back towards the cabin. Snowflakes assault his face like tiny razorblades. He squints and keeps moving forward.
“This is your solo, John. This is your chance to shine, to wow the judges with your skill. This is your chance to be louder than any trumpet blast, hotter than any saxophone toot, sweeter than any piccolo trill that has ever been heard by the human ear. When the sky rips open with the music of angels, it isn’t the second coming. It’s John McCarty’s big moment coming to fruition in front of his largest, most attentive audience yet! Crash a symbol. Bang a gong. Put your hands together... for the Jazzman. ”
Jones struggles to pry the cabin door open with one free finger. He steps inside and slams the door behind him. There is a little entranceway where he keeps his boots, coats, and a large stack of wood… er… this stack is actually quite low. He drops the new logs on top of the old ones. Shedding his outdoor layers, he picks up three logs and carries them through the kitchen to the wood stove. He opens the hatch and throws the wood in. The fire roars and then settles again. The walls are a mix of logs and large, gray stones. It’s a very rustic feel. Smitty goes to the living room and sits on his white faux fur couch that sits opposite a large bay window. The white haze from outdoors casts a cool glow over Jones while he sips a Tim Horton’s brand hot chocolate, looks out the window. He locks eyes with a whitetailed deer outside the den window in his backyard. He slowly reaches to the side and retrieves his hunting rifle. Very slowly, he raises the weapon to height and takes aim. Smith watches the deer be a deer through his rifle sight as he speaks on.
“John. Your past is impressive, but don’t make the mistake of spending too much of your day dwelling there. The past is meant to be remembered, yes, but the main point is to prepare us for more difficult times to come. Are you ready to face the future you’ve been dreaming of? The future you’ve have veritably been fighting for?
You’ve been declaring up and down that you deserve a shot at The World Title. Arguable, truly. You’re gonna haveta wait till twenty twenty for your chance to make your dreams come true. You’re a talented fighter. Sooner or later, you will get your shot. So… let’s decide right now.”
Cut to a closeup of the deer, unaware of the current threat to its existence.
“Let’s decide if your shot will come sooner...”
Cut to a closeup of Smith Jones as he stares down the rifle sight at the deer through the window glass.
“...or later.”
Smitty squeezes the trigger.
“POW!”
A flag shoots out and dangles from the tip of the barrel. Smitty lets out a healthy guffaw that startles the animal, sending it darting and bounding through the deepening snow. Smith’s laughs settles into a light chuckle before it dies as a light grunt. He lowers his ‘weapon’ and looks directly into camera. Stern. Deadly serious.
“Let’s decide Monday night whether you truly deserve a title shot. Come into this knowing that the pain you’ve been dealt by life so far is NOTHING compared to what I am going to do to you tomorrow night. You’re just another voice echoing around my skull that I am learning one by one to ignore. I’m gonna rip your vocal chords out through your nose. Wrong way. I know. Can you feel it? I’m not some heavy bag you can rip into when you’re feelin’ blue. Yeah. I’ve seen the way you train. You’re a legitimate threat to my sanity and I’m gonna shut you down now. I’m pulling the plug on your premature parade.
I took particular offense when you referred to yourself as the most technical wrestler in Alpha Pro. Why would you lie to these people that way? Or is it at all possible that you think you’re more technically proficient than I? You have a more masterful grasp on your craft of choice than I do. Is that right?”
He leans back on his white faux fur couch and chews on a thought. He then sits straight up with renewed passion.
“How does this sound? You bring your best moves to Monday Night Metal and I’ll bring mine. We will lock up dead centre in that sacred squared circle and do our damndest to disarm and dismantle one another until only one of us is able to walk out of that ring on our own. Gimme a taste of your best superkick and I’ll show you a solid busaiku running knee strike. Snap mare me into a destructive dragon sleeper and I’ll fold you in half with an old school stump puller. Git me with that Guillotine Groove and I’ll freeze you up with Sleep Paralysis. Nab me with a New Orleans Neckbreaker and I’ll come crashing down with The Crestfall... But, know this going in. We are fully scripted this time around and there is NO ROOM for improvisation.
If you even think about going for the Ad Lib, I’ll flatten the bassof your skull over my knee with the Point of Controversy so hard you’ll have treble walking. You’ll need a staff. You know the score. It’s music to the ears. Say it with me.
Point of Controversy.
Pinfall.
One, two, three.
This savage beast will not be soothed until I hear that tune. Irina Ivanova paid attention to you when I was constantly busy focusing on the challenge directly before me. She and I don’t work together in a traditional sense, but she knows that I am loyal to what she has built and is building here in Alpha Pro Wrestling. Reenie gets it. I may have hated working that tag match alongside Dean Wolf last week, but I cannot deny that it was ingenious. APW would not be APW without the hard work and vision of Irina Ivanova; likewise, Alpha Pro would not be Alpha Pro without the elegant artistry and technical terrorism of the incredible Smith Jones. She and I don’t talk much in public or in private. You’ve spoken more words to her in one of your conversations than I have my entire career. I am not champion because I begged for a shot.
I worked hard. Through a losing streak, I worked. Versus all comers, I worked. I worked hard to get the best of guys like ZMAC, Zion Simmons, The Provocateur… Don’t make me list people again. Do your own research! Better yet, why don’t you ask Irina to tell you all about me during one of your little chats? She booked this match for you. Not saying you didn’t earn it too. At the core of you, you are one heel of a competitor. When you get rolling, you are a danger to all within arm’s reach.”
Smith stands and walks right up to the big bay window. He looks out into the endless winter wilderness. He hears a coyote howl in the distance. Or maybe it’s some other sort of fetid canine mutt. Jones closes his eyes and takes a deeeeeeeeep breath. He hears the fire now raging within the wood stove. Heat radiates throughout the cabin.
“I got into this biz to fight the best of the best. You’d be surprised how many times in history I’ve walked into the ring with the odds stacked against me and came out shocking the world. Let me tell you, it is such a rush when everyone is forced to see that the claims I made along the way rang as true as the final ring bell.
Jazzy John, I want you fired up and ready to make me eat my every word. It’s always that much sweeter when my opponent thinks he’s got it in the bag before I rip their dreams to tattered shreds. You think you feel alone in life right now? You don’t know the dread of solitude the way I do. You haven’t tamed its torturous agony the way I have. Let me show you, John, what it’s like to be trapped in the middle of the ring with a man who knows every way to slowly dissect you one limb at a time with no hope of help ever coming. Let me illustrate that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you know that everything is not going to be okay this time. There is no such thing as Smitty repellant. Once I’ve got the scent of you in my nostrils, there is nothing that will stop me from chasing you through an environment you thought was your own habitat and spilling you out into the very ground we stand on.
The ring is MINE between the bells. You want a shot at claiming otherwise?
I’m…
right…
here.”
Fade to black.
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We see Copeland Sanderson walking out of Bumpz Fight Club in downtown Toronto. He’s dressed in a long gray coat with a black toque, carrying a gray gym bag. Suddenly, the roar of American muscle can be heard rumbling down the street. A white Dodge Charger slides to a halt on the snowy roadway next to Copeland. The window rolls open and we see Smith Jones leaning over to the passenger’s side to speak with his...
“Son.”
“Dad. How did you?”
“You’re here every morning.”
“And you’re not.”
Copeland begins to walk down the street in the opposite direction of where the Charger stormed in from. Jones throws it into reverse and attempts to match pace with...
“Copeland! Listen to me. I know you don’t understand why I won’t train you. I have a lot going on these days! You can under--”
“I get it. I don’t rank.”
“I’m right here, Copeland. I could be anywhere in the world.”
“Thank you for your sacrifice.”
Copeland ducks into an alleyway. Jones parks the car where it stands and runs after his son.
“After Omega!”
Copeland stops in his tracks, but does not turn around.
“After I shut down John McCarty on Metal. After I imholate Dean Wolf and successfully retain the Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship at Omega... I will train you.”
The eighteen year old lets out a dramatic sigh and then begins to walk away from his father. Frozen, Smith watches him disappear into the waking city.
