Post by Smith Jones on Nov 22, 2019 22:06:17 GMT -5
NOTE: This is my RP for the PCW Reunion Show called One Last Dance. I was having trouble with my account on the PCW site, so I thought this is a good way to draw traffic to APW while also spotlighting PCW. Trading eyeballs and such. If anyone has trouble with me doing things this way, please let me know and I will look into an alternative solution. Regardless of the potential... controversy, I hope everyone simply enjoys it for what it is.
Link to Smith's profile
Enjoy.
~ ~ ~
~ ON CAMERA ~
Fade up on a shot of the desert. What can I say? It’s the desert. The sun beats down. The sand is hot. Heat waves ripple as far as the eye can see. Suddenly, a dune buggy tears through the undisturbed sand, throwing grains of ancient dust up into the air. The camera follows the dune buggy as it rips and hops over and through the sandy hills. As the driver whips by, we see that it is Smith Jones. His foot remains floored to the metal, undaunted by being jolted in all directions, riding the wild war between the shock absorbers and the terrain.
The buggy rolls to a stop in a seemingly random location, although Jones seems to have some idea where he’s headed. He gets out of the vehicle and walks to the back of the dune buggy. He lifts a flap and pulls out a large, black… okay, that’s a body bag. Is that really a body bag?
The bag is a bit stuck having been folded in half and jammed into a space far too small for it. Jones gets up on the back of the buggy, braces his foot against the back rail, and heaves. Oof! Smitty falls backwards and lands in the hot sand with the head of the body bag directly between his legs. It is now that we see thick locks of long, pink hair caught in the zipper. The zipper of the body bag! Not Smith’s white racing suit.
Smitty gets up and dusts himself off. He grabs his canteen and takes a long swig of warm water before clipping it to his belt and returning to the body bag. Jones reaches down and gets his fingers all tangled up in the long, pink hair. He lets out a gravely chuckle, watching the hair itself struggle to get loose from his grasp.
“Not a chance.”
Smith tightens his grip and begins to drag the black body bag by the pink hair through the hot desert sand. He drags it a good hundred yards or so in a bit of a zig-zag pattern, seeking just the right… There! With renewed fervour, He drags the bag alongside the edge of a rectangular hole, laying it down parallel to the hole. It’s about three feet deep. Just deep enough to make the victim hidden from general view, but still available to lizards and buzzards and scorpions. Whatever might feel like coming to play.
He drops the head of the body bag in the sand again as he looks around in every direction. Not a lick of motion in sight.
“Hn.”
Smith gets down on one knee and leans over. He unzips the body bag, but the camera does not show us what, er, who he’s looking at. A creepy grin crawls across his lips and rests crookedly on his face.
“I was expecting a whole lot more from you. When this match was agreed upon by you, me, and PCW management on May 22nd, 2019, I was… in retirement. I was vacationing, trying to find new meaning in a life where professional wrestling was in the past. My, how much has changed since then.
Now, I am out of retirement. Now, I am pushing myself beyond limits I never thought I could surpass. Now, I am the current Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion. And you?
You seem to be running away from me. Are you running away from me, dear? I’m not the frail old man you thought I was when we inked this deal, am I? You didn’t expect me to be able to come back from my vacation in South America and refocus on wrestling. But, come on. You know how it is, don’t you? You know how the bug is always biting at you. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, wrestling will always be a memory that tries to drag you back to the past.
That’s why I’ve dragged your body all the way out here to the desert. I need to put my past in the past once and for all! I need to bury you out here in the middle of the desert. Could be Vegas or Cali. Eh? Could be the Mojave. Could be the Sahara, the Kalahari, the Namib, the Atacama...”
Smith gets right on the ground and lies down on his back next to the body bag. We can now see that the ‘body’ is a mannequin that loosely resembles Brytain Rollins. Its large anime style eyes stare up at the blue sky. Jones does the same. He grabs a handful of sand and lets the grains spill out through his fingers.
“What do you think, Bryte? Is this the sand of the Sonoran? Would anyone care if they found you buried here? Would anyone in the wrestling world even bother to look for you? You still enjoy the underground, Brytain Montgomery?
I should bury myself here right alongside you. People in the wrestling world are ALWAYS seeking Smith Jones. Doesn’t matter whether it’s my pro debut in XHW when I stole the X-Core Championship or whether I’m on top in Alpha Pro Wrestling carrying The World Title with dignity, grace, and aggressive elegance. When I was XWA TV Champion, they sought me out. When I was SCW Heritage Champion, they hunted me. When I was PCW #BroadcastChampion, they all wanted a piece, including you, honey. I was, I am, I always have been a heavy duty heat score.
People always want a piece of me.
People always wish me harm.”
Jones gets angry. He sits up and turns to put both feet on the side of the torso portion of the body bag. He shoves it into the hole with contempt. Smitty stands over the open hole and glares into it.
“When we booked this match six months ago, I knew I had to do everything within my power to make sure that I was in the best shape of my entire career to be able to go toe to toe with the OLD Brytain. The one who did so many horrific things to me over the years. But, I can clearly see from where I stand that the old Brytain Montgomery is no longer with us.
You’re just Brytain Rollins now.
FUNERAL is an anagram for REAL FUN. I wonder if Imagine Dragons knows that? I am very excited to bury you.
So, here I am. Alone in the middle of a vast, open desert, wondering what I’m supposed to do about PCW One Last Dance if you’re not going to be the real Brytain Montgomery. As I bury this Japanese sex doll in your much, much… much younger likeness, I lift my dry eyes to the heavens and scream out WHERE HAVE YOU GONE, MISS MONTGOMERY?!!? Where are you? Where’s your fire? Where’s your unending creativity? Where’s your unstoppable grit and determination? I did everything I could over the past six months to show that I have not yet been relegated to the hallowed hallways of history. I’m right here! I’m World Champion! I’m still Smith Jones. Sure, I have yet another new audience and a new locker room to terrorize in whatever way I see fit, but I still stride confidently down to ringside wearing an updated pair of the same white patent leather boots I used to stomp your head in with as often as Time would allow. I still wipe my feet on that sacred apron every time I step into the ring. And where are you?
Off raising your kids, eh? Off getting your hunky hubby wet. That’s nice. You do that.”
In the distance, the horizon begins to change. The sky is growing darker. The ground is rising up.
Sandstorm.
Jones picks up a handful of sand and tosses it into the hole on top of the Brytain Montgomery sex doll. He then walks back to the dune buggy and fires it up, driving off to where he had come from. Smitty speaks loudly over the sound of the roaring engine.
“Bryte, look. I don’t even hate you as much as I used to. Even though I’m still on top, I've changed in many ways. I no longer curse, swear, or use much vulgarity of any kind in my work. Still, I am incredible. I no longer feel the need to break rules to get my victories. Still, I just keep on beating people I have no business beating. I don’t attack people from behind as often as I once did. There are no clowns at ringside anymore, no crooked riot cops, no managers of any kind. I still win. I don’t need to kidnap you and leave you for dead on the side of the road in the middle of the night to show the world I’m better than you are. All I do… All I’ve EVER had to do is simply be Smith Jones. That’s enough and it will always be enough.
And the very best part of watching you squirm is knowing how deep inside your head I've gotten over the last few months. You didn't think I could become so big so fast yet again after all these years. I know you were watching me. I made sure of it. I know that you saw this day coming from kilometres away. Each passing day, it became more and more difficult to face the fact that if there was going to be another chapter in this sadistic saga of ours, Smith Jones would be the hero of the story.”
Smith Jones is not driving fast enough to outrun this storm. It is, in fact, catching up to him with every passing moment. He is unfazed as the wall of sand grows taller and nearer behind him.
“Truth? It’ll be nice not to have you spouting off yet again about your Cage of Death Matches and the time you burned my title belt in a garbage can or the time I shoved glass into your gut or the time you blew up my limo! People should be focusing more on the time I dragged your sweet little sports car into the sea with a tugboat. Yeah, that really happened. Or the time I cut your hair off and left you laying in the ring. Or the time I took you forcefully out of society to a remote location and did whatever I wanted with you (non-sexually of course) and dumped you on a dark road in the middle of the night. They should remember you for all the times I made you wonder if you really had what it would take to stop me from getting up and coming after you time and again. They should know that even though you did defeat me more than once, that I also did beat you in a PCW Broadcast Championship Match and I held it over your head while it ate at you inside for years while you tried to bury it with your brand of spin.
But, the thing I want them to remember you for the most is how you’ve never been able to maintain yourself as the Brytain Montgomery that you were at the very start. I was there when you debuted, babe. I had been working there a few months before you showed up in PCW. I saw you before you met Syn. I saw that light in your eyes. I know it’s gone because I watched it die a slow and painful death while you tried and tried to regain it year after vulgar, flashy, pink-haired year. You still look like a troll to me and you always will!!!
You need me, sweetheart. You've needed me all along.”
The storm has now almost caught up to Smith. He doesn’t seem worried much. Ahead, he sees the underground haven he’d been looking for. He drives down a long, sandy bank that leads into an underground tunnel. The further into the tunnel he drives, the less the wind affects him.
“I know how you work, babe. I know how far you’d be willing to go to drop me flat on my face. You’ve done it so many times before, haven’t you. That’s what history chooses to remember. That’s the way you’ve told it to all of your followers and friends. You know deep down in your heart of hearts that I am one of if not THE GUY who always kept you guessing. Always kept you on your toes. Made you check under the bed just one extra time each night because you never knew what I would do to make your life a living hell.
You seem to have ghosted social media. But, I know, Rollins, that you’ve always wanted to pull one last trick on the man you were never able to quite put into the ground.”
The dune buggy comes to a stop deep inside this storm bunker. The lighting is bright white and sparsely furnished in all white. The walls, floors, and ceilings are white. There is a very large white desk with a white leather office chair at the far end of the room covered in large monitors, sixteen of them all lined up and connected to one another. Every monitor has a different still frame from sixteen different Brytain Rollins moments. The images cycle randomly so that we see many more than just the original sixteen. Some are matches. Brytain versus Dom Harter, Brytain versus V. Brytain versus Smith Jones... Some are random pics she’s posted over the years. Her in lingerie. Her covered in blood. Her fallen on a hardwood floor wearing rollerskates. Weird stuff.
Jones is already out of the buggy and he is walking about a hundred feet from where he parked to where the desk is. He watches the images change on the screens ahead of him as he walks closer to them.
“When I started in this biz, I used to take public transit to get to local wrestling shows. I lived in my car on the road so I could make it to shows. Well, look at me now. Now, I have so much money that I can build myself a cooler than cool superhero lair in the middle of whatever desert I want! I mean, via the use of TV magic and special effects, that is.
How much of what I do is real and how much is fantasy?
You will never fully know.
What you will be reminded of, Brytain, is what it feels like when my real hard work, training, and intense violence comes into contact with your pale skin. I intend to do you severe harm. I want the officers and medical staff that process your corpse to have trouble sleeping for months afterwards. I want to be right there next to you (closer to you than Syn cuddling you on a chilly winter night) when you breathe the last breath you will ever expel within the hallowed space between those ropes. Forget Cages of Death. Forget wild stipulations and unnecessarily hazardous environments. Who needs them?
I aim to hurt you beyond repair. Your body parts belong to me and I have no use for them beyond tomorrow night. At One Last Stand, i will guide you through the agony of being ripped from the pages of wrestling history page by painful page. I started before you. I will outlast you. You are an eventual blip now. After all the things we've done to one another, there is so much happening in my illustrious career that you will end up being not much more than an interesting anecdote. I want to crush the bones in the back of your neck. I want to fracture the base of your skull with my patented Backstabber to the neck known the world over as the Point of Controversy.
So, ghost all you want. Lie in wait to strike me down at the last minute. I’ll be ready for you. I’ll be standing tall in plain view dead centre in the middle of the ring as always. I’ll be dressed in white so you can’t miss me. Your winner will be none other than PCW Hall of Famer… your Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion… the destroyer of the destroyer of worlds… the incredible Smith Jones.”
When he arrives at the desk, Smith hits a few keystrokes. The entire monitor wall, all sixteen screens, fade to plain white. Jones sits in the large white leather chair at the desk facing away from the camera. He lets out a loud laugh that echoes throughout his lair. After a time, his laughter slows down and becomes a tiny titter and then a sigh. His expression becomes grave as he slowly spins his chair to the camera, looks deep into the lens, and he speaks.
“Bryte. We agreed to One Last Dance here in PCW in my hometown. One last stroll down memory lane. After tomorrow night, I’m going to forget you and keep on making new history without you. Brytain who? Montgomery? Rollins?”
Fade to black.
“Who really cares anymore anyway?”
Link to Smith's profile
Enjoy.
~ ~ ~
~ ON CAMERA ~
Fade up on a shot of the desert. What can I say? It’s the desert. The sun beats down. The sand is hot. Heat waves ripple as far as the eye can see. Suddenly, a dune buggy tears through the undisturbed sand, throwing grains of ancient dust up into the air. The camera follows the dune buggy as it rips and hops over and through the sandy hills. As the driver whips by, we see that it is Smith Jones. His foot remains floored to the metal, undaunted by being jolted in all directions, riding the wild war between the shock absorbers and the terrain.
The buggy rolls to a stop in a seemingly random location, although Jones seems to have some idea where he’s headed. He gets out of the vehicle and walks to the back of the dune buggy. He lifts a flap and pulls out a large, black… okay, that’s a body bag. Is that really a body bag?
The bag is a bit stuck having been folded in half and jammed into a space far too small for it. Jones gets up on the back of the buggy, braces his foot against the back rail, and heaves. Oof! Smitty falls backwards and lands in the hot sand with the head of the body bag directly between his legs. It is now that we see thick locks of long, pink hair caught in the zipper. The zipper of the body bag! Not Smith’s white racing suit.
Smitty gets up and dusts himself off. He grabs his canteen and takes a long swig of warm water before clipping it to his belt and returning to the body bag. Jones reaches down and gets his fingers all tangled up in the long, pink hair. He lets out a gravely chuckle, watching the hair itself struggle to get loose from his grasp.
“Not a chance.”
Smith tightens his grip and begins to drag the black body bag by the pink hair through the hot desert sand. He drags it a good hundred yards or so in a bit of a zig-zag pattern, seeking just the right… There! With renewed fervour, He drags the bag alongside the edge of a rectangular hole, laying it down parallel to the hole. It’s about three feet deep. Just deep enough to make the victim hidden from general view, but still available to lizards and buzzards and scorpions. Whatever might feel like coming to play.
He drops the head of the body bag in the sand again as he looks around in every direction. Not a lick of motion in sight.
“Hn.”
Smith gets down on one knee and leans over. He unzips the body bag, but the camera does not show us what, er, who he’s looking at. A creepy grin crawls across his lips and rests crookedly on his face.
“I was expecting a whole lot more from you. When this match was agreed upon by you, me, and PCW management on May 22nd, 2019, I was… in retirement. I was vacationing, trying to find new meaning in a life where professional wrestling was in the past. My, how much has changed since then.
Now, I am out of retirement. Now, I am pushing myself beyond limits I never thought I could surpass. Now, I am the current Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion. And you?
You seem to be running away from me. Are you running away from me, dear? I’m not the frail old man you thought I was when we inked this deal, am I? You didn’t expect me to be able to come back from my vacation in South America and refocus on wrestling. But, come on. You know how it is, don’t you? You know how the bug is always biting at you. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, wrestling will always be a memory that tries to drag you back to the past.
That’s why I’ve dragged your body all the way out here to the desert. I need to put my past in the past once and for all! I need to bury you out here in the middle of the desert. Could be Vegas or Cali. Eh? Could be the Mojave. Could be the Sahara, the Kalahari, the Namib, the Atacama...”
Smith gets right on the ground and lies down on his back next to the body bag. We can now see that the ‘body’ is a mannequin that loosely resembles Brytain Rollins. Its large anime style eyes stare up at the blue sky. Jones does the same. He grabs a handful of sand and lets the grains spill out through his fingers.
“What do you think, Bryte? Is this the sand of the Sonoran? Would anyone care if they found you buried here? Would anyone in the wrestling world even bother to look for you? You still enjoy the underground, Brytain Montgomery?
I should bury myself here right alongside you. People in the wrestling world are ALWAYS seeking Smith Jones. Doesn’t matter whether it’s my pro debut in XHW when I stole the X-Core Championship or whether I’m on top in Alpha Pro Wrestling carrying The World Title with dignity, grace, and aggressive elegance. When I was XWA TV Champion, they sought me out. When I was SCW Heritage Champion, they hunted me. When I was PCW #BroadcastChampion, they all wanted a piece, including you, honey. I was, I am, I always have been a heavy duty heat score.
People always want a piece of me.
People always wish me harm.”
Jones gets angry. He sits up and turns to put both feet on the side of the torso portion of the body bag. He shoves it into the hole with contempt. Smitty stands over the open hole and glares into it.
“When we booked this match six months ago, I knew I had to do everything within my power to make sure that I was in the best shape of my entire career to be able to go toe to toe with the OLD Brytain. The one who did so many horrific things to me over the years. But, I can clearly see from where I stand that the old Brytain Montgomery is no longer with us.
You’re just Brytain Rollins now.
FUNERAL is an anagram for REAL FUN. I wonder if Imagine Dragons knows that? I am very excited to bury you.
So, here I am. Alone in the middle of a vast, open desert, wondering what I’m supposed to do about PCW One Last Dance if you’re not going to be the real Brytain Montgomery. As I bury this Japanese sex doll in your much, much… much younger likeness, I lift my dry eyes to the heavens and scream out WHERE HAVE YOU GONE, MISS MONTGOMERY?!!? Where are you? Where’s your fire? Where’s your unending creativity? Where’s your unstoppable grit and determination? I did everything I could over the past six months to show that I have not yet been relegated to the hallowed hallways of history. I’m right here! I’m World Champion! I’m still Smith Jones. Sure, I have yet another new audience and a new locker room to terrorize in whatever way I see fit, but I still stride confidently down to ringside wearing an updated pair of the same white patent leather boots I used to stomp your head in with as often as Time would allow. I still wipe my feet on that sacred apron every time I step into the ring. And where are you?
Off raising your kids, eh? Off getting your hunky hubby wet. That’s nice. You do that.”
In the distance, the horizon begins to change. The sky is growing darker. The ground is rising up.
Sandstorm.
Jones picks up a handful of sand and tosses it into the hole on top of the Brytain Montgomery sex doll. He then walks back to the dune buggy and fires it up, driving off to where he had come from. Smitty speaks loudly over the sound of the roaring engine.
“Bryte, look. I don’t even hate you as much as I used to. Even though I’m still on top, I've changed in many ways. I no longer curse, swear, or use much vulgarity of any kind in my work. Still, I am incredible. I no longer feel the need to break rules to get my victories. Still, I just keep on beating people I have no business beating. I don’t attack people from behind as often as I once did. There are no clowns at ringside anymore, no crooked riot cops, no managers of any kind. I still win. I don’t need to kidnap you and leave you for dead on the side of the road in the middle of the night to show the world I’m better than you are. All I do… All I’ve EVER had to do is simply be Smith Jones. That’s enough and it will always be enough.
And the very best part of watching you squirm is knowing how deep inside your head I've gotten over the last few months. You didn't think I could become so big so fast yet again after all these years. I know you were watching me. I made sure of it. I know that you saw this day coming from kilometres away. Each passing day, it became more and more difficult to face the fact that if there was going to be another chapter in this sadistic saga of ours, Smith Jones would be the hero of the story.”
Smith Jones is not driving fast enough to outrun this storm. It is, in fact, catching up to him with every passing moment. He is unfazed as the wall of sand grows taller and nearer behind him.
“Truth? It’ll be nice not to have you spouting off yet again about your Cage of Death Matches and the time you burned my title belt in a garbage can or the time I shoved glass into your gut or the time you blew up my limo! People should be focusing more on the time I dragged your sweet little sports car into the sea with a tugboat. Yeah, that really happened. Or the time I cut your hair off and left you laying in the ring. Or the time I took you forcefully out of society to a remote location and did whatever I wanted with you (non-sexually of course) and dumped you on a dark road in the middle of the night. They should remember you for all the times I made you wonder if you really had what it would take to stop me from getting up and coming after you time and again. They should know that even though you did defeat me more than once, that I also did beat you in a PCW Broadcast Championship Match and I held it over your head while it ate at you inside for years while you tried to bury it with your brand of spin.
But, the thing I want them to remember you for the most is how you’ve never been able to maintain yourself as the Brytain Montgomery that you were at the very start. I was there when you debuted, babe. I had been working there a few months before you showed up in PCW. I saw you before you met Syn. I saw that light in your eyes. I know it’s gone because I watched it die a slow and painful death while you tried and tried to regain it year after vulgar, flashy, pink-haired year. You still look like a troll to me and you always will!!!
You need me, sweetheart. You've needed me all along.”
The storm has now almost caught up to Smith. He doesn’t seem worried much. Ahead, he sees the underground haven he’d been looking for. He drives down a long, sandy bank that leads into an underground tunnel. The further into the tunnel he drives, the less the wind affects him.
“I know how you work, babe. I know how far you’d be willing to go to drop me flat on my face. You’ve done it so many times before, haven’t you. That’s what history chooses to remember. That’s the way you’ve told it to all of your followers and friends. You know deep down in your heart of hearts that I am one of if not THE GUY who always kept you guessing. Always kept you on your toes. Made you check under the bed just one extra time each night because you never knew what I would do to make your life a living hell.
You seem to have ghosted social media. But, I know, Rollins, that you’ve always wanted to pull one last trick on the man you were never able to quite put into the ground.”
The dune buggy comes to a stop deep inside this storm bunker. The lighting is bright white and sparsely furnished in all white. The walls, floors, and ceilings are white. There is a very large white desk with a white leather office chair at the far end of the room covered in large monitors, sixteen of them all lined up and connected to one another. Every monitor has a different still frame from sixteen different Brytain Rollins moments. The images cycle randomly so that we see many more than just the original sixteen. Some are matches. Brytain versus Dom Harter, Brytain versus V. Brytain versus Smith Jones... Some are random pics she’s posted over the years. Her in lingerie. Her covered in blood. Her fallen on a hardwood floor wearing rollerskates. Weird stuff.
Jones is already out of the buggy and he is walking about a hundred feet from where he parked to where the desk is. He watches the images change on the screens ahead of him as he walks closer to them.
“When I started in this biz, I used to take public transit to get to local wrestling shows. I lived in my car on the road so I could make it to shows. Well, look at me now. Now, I have so much money that I can build myself a cooler than cool superhero lair in the middle of whatever desert I want! I mean, via the use of TV magic and special effects, that is.
How much of what I do is real and how much is fantasy?
You will never fully know.
What you will be reminded of, Brytain, is what it feels like when my real hard work, training, and intense violence comes into contact with your pale skin. I intend to do you severe harm. I want the officers and medical staff that process your corpse to have trouble sleeping for months afterwards. I want to be right there next to you (closer to you than Syn cuddling you on a chilly winter night) when you breathe the last breath you will ever expel within the hallowed space between those ropes. Forget Cages of Death. Forget wild stipulations and unnecessarily hazardous environments. Who needs them?
I aim to hurt you beyond repair. Your body parts belong to me and I have no use for them beyond tomorrow night. At One Last Stand, i will guide you through the agony of being ripped from the pages of wrestling history page by painful page. I started before you. I will outlast you. You are an eventual blip now. After all the things we've done to one another, there is so much happening in my illustrious career that you will end up being not much more than an interesting anecdote. I want to crush the bones in the back of your neck. I want to fracture the base of your skull with my patented Backstabber to the neck known the world over as the Point of Controversy.
So, ghost all you want. Lie in wait to strike me down at the last minute. I’ll be ready for you. I’ll be standing tall in plain view dead centre in the middle of the ring as always. I’ll be dressed in white so you can’t miss me. Your winner will be none other than PCW Hall of Famer… your Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion… the destroyer of the destroyer of worlds… the incredible Smith Jones.”
When he arrives at the desk, Smith hits a few keystrokes. The entire monitor wall, all sixteen screens, fade to plain white. Jones sits in the large white leather chair at the desk facing away from the camera. He lets out a loud laugh that echoes throughout his lair. After a time, his laughter slows down and becomes a tiny titter and then a sigh. His expression becomes grave as he slowly spins his chair to the camera, looks deep into the lens, and he speaks.
“Bryte. We agreed to One Last Dance here in PCW in my hometown. One last stroll down memory lane. After tomorrow night, I’m going to forget you and keep on making new history without you. Brytain who? Montgomery? Rollins?”
Fade to black.
“Who really cares anymore anyway?”
