Post by Smith Jones on Feb 18, 2020 21:24:04 GMT -5
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“A week of Liberty?”
Fade up on a shot of a cell phone sitting on a white coffee table in the middle of Smith and Siobhan’s new home in Las Vegas, Nevada. Smith’s finger hits redial to call a phone number that we do not recognize. At this angle, the number can’t be clearly seen. Voicemail picks up, but Smith hangs up just before the person speaks. The camera tilts up to Smith’s face as the bluish glow from the phone hits his trembling flesh. Smith glares directly into camera as he blindly, yet successfully, hits redial on his phone. Voicemail. He hangs up. Redial. Voicemail...
“I know you’ve gotten my voicemails, Reenie. Ghosting your champion? What, you can’t find ANYONE in ALL of APW to fight YOUR Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion at the pay-per-view??!?”
Jones glares steadfastly into the camera with rage in his eyes.
“People told me that you were a manipulative shrew. I didn’t listen. I trusted you. And then… I started to notice things. Like when I wasn’t booked on the very first show of the decade. Time off. Like I need time to rest my aching bones instead of stepping into that ring like I love to do. And then the following week with this damned #HorrorKore garbage getting featured, bumping me off a second consecutive show. I’m trying to look like a fighting champion and you’re booking me like a chump right before my eyes. And now, this PPV. More time off. I do not want it. Just because Lucy flaked and backed down doesn’t mean I get time off.
No, Reenie. I love my new home, but you are not paying me to sit here and watch the product from across the continent. I am your CHAMPION and I am coming to Boston for a fight!”
The camera zooms out. Jones picks up The World Title belt that has been resting next to him on his white leather couch. As he slings the belt over his shoulder, the camera begins to slowly zoom all the way into a super tight closeup of his face.
“A week of Liberty from being The World Champion is so damned tempting. Then, over time, as I take more and more days off, the locker room starts to look at me as that part-timer champion. The more I sit on my ass, the less they respect me. I am a leader, Irina. I teach by example, so everybody take notes.
I would rather lace up and stare into the eyes of Death himself than sit and watch this show from home.
So, you’d better book me a match, Reenie. Get me onto that damned card or I am flying to your home for an unpleasant visit. I’ve had enough of the excuses. Find me suitable competition or I’ll become... difficult. Ample warning, I'm sure. Get at me.”
He gnashes his teeth and looks down at his phone. Smith presses redial again. Voicemail... Fade to black.
