Post by Spartan on Jul 17, 2019 5:02:23 GMT -5
Sometime Ago
“Don’t get it, D?” queries Tristan Cross.Tristan Cross is standing in the middle of the marbled foyer of a gym. While, the floor is marbled and gives the appearance of elegance; it is obvious by the rest of the surrounding decor that the whole area is from a bygone era of opulence. There is a sadness in the fading interior of the building, the columns supporting the ceiling are dirtied and cracked, the wooden reception desk is cracked and aged. Despite it’s once grand status - this building has fallen into disrepair and is struggling with it’s
last breath, but it still has a heartbeat - just.
Cross is leaning on a mop handle as it sits inside a red plastic bucket, he is wearing an orange singlet and a pair of black shorts that expose his gigantic arms and monstrous legs for all the see. The curvature of each muscle group clearly defined - a look that can only be achieved by hard work and perseverance to a cause. Everything is of course, dwarfed by his deliberately unkempt ginger beard that dominates his face in all of its glory.
“What’s not to get, bro?” answers Tristan’s friend and partner in crime - Dante Jones. Jones stands as tall as Cross, though not quite the same physical size. His hair is dread locked, hangs lower than his shoulders. He is wearing the same orange t-shirt and black shorts - clearly defining a well sculpted body. Though lacking in the same definition as Tristan Cross.
“This.” Cross ponders as he sweeps his arm around the broken down foyer and the gym that is behind it.. “Why hire me as a night cleaner? Couldn’t I be a security guard of something?”
The gym that lies behind the two men who are currently chatting in the building’s foyer is antiquated. The equipment is what you would expect; a few benches, rowing machines, treadmills, stationary bikes and various other pieces of equipment that have definitely seen better times, much like the building itself. Even the mirrors that cover the walls are cracked and grimy. The one anomaly, is the boxing ring that sits in the far corner of the room - it’s old, like the equipment around it. Yet, it is offset, and appears to stand away like a loner standing in the corner of the room watching everyone else.
Dante Jones chuckles. “Tee. Tee. Tee.” He says, shakes his head. “Look at this way. If some punk wants to knock over my gym in the middle of the night, well they are gonna take a second to double take when they see my night guard is six foot five and what, two sixty pounds?”
“Two sixty five… fighting weight.” Cross interjects.
“Well two sixty five then. So ya ain’t gonna have nothin’ to do. So, ya can clean this place for me and I get security too.” Jones finishes with a chuckle.
“Gee. Thanks.” Cross responds, obviously disappointed.
“Bro. We go way back. Ya, asked for help and I got ya back. But, I gotta be honest - I ain’t no charity. No even for my oldest homie.”
Cross just nods, understanding of the position of Dante Jones. They have been friends for so many years that neither of them can actually remember when they actually found their way into each other's lives.
“Sides, Bro,” Jones continues, “Ya get to use my gym for free.”
“Yeh.” a stifled muffle comes from the mouth of Tristan Cross.
“What are friends for, bro. Now get to moppin’ the floor.” Jones says as he walks away from Cross, with a wry smile on his face.
“Yes. Sir.” Cross salutes with slight mockery of his friend.
Cross lifts the mop from the bucket and starts mopping the marbled floor of Dante Jones’ gym foyer, moving the mop in slow figure eights has he walks backwards.
“Hey, D!” Cross yells out, just as Jones is about to exit the building.
Jones stops and turns back to face Cross “Sup?”
“You train boxers here?”
“Nah, man. Wrestlers”
“You wrestle?”
“Nah, bro. An old guy just rents the space.”
“Oh”
“Ya good?”
“Yeh.”
Dante nods and continues his exit out of the door, leaving Tristan Cross to take care of the cleaning of an empty gym, in an old building with an old wrestling ring sitting in the corner.
“Sorta like a participation ribbon, isn’t it”
Spartan walks into shot from off the right. He finds himself standing in front of the “Alpha Pro” banner. He, himself is wearing his black wrestling boots, and black wrestling trunks. He is also wearing his own merchandise - a black t-shirt with a gold Spartan logo in the middle. As he stands in front of the banner he locks his fingers together and cracks his knuckles.
“Well, think about it. I lost in the Hardcore Hell. I lost against Jaice Wilds and Road Dawg. Yet, here I am standing talking about how I am going to go out there and dethrone Dean Wolf and become the next Hardcore Champion - all the while taking down Zombie McMorris. It’s like the said well he tried hard - let’s give him another chance. It’s like giving a medal to the last kid picked because there was no one else to pick. It’s like giving the waterboy a shot at field goal in a football game that’s long been decided, like giving the towel boy a free throw at the end of a basketball game when the result is beyond doubt.”
Spartan paces back and forth in front of the banner as he talks, like a man on the edge - pumping with adrenaline. The raw energy can be heard crackling through his voice as he talks.
“Nothing but god-damned participation ribbon.”
“That’s my place in this match.”
Ain’t gonna stop me, though.
“See, just because my record doesn’t indicate that I belong here. I am damn sure going to prove that by the end of that match - that I do belong here. I might have a reputation of trying hard. Trying hard, that just isn’t good enough. Not by a long shot. Trying hard is like almost kissing the girl of your dreams, but only being her best friend for the rest of your life. I can promise you that I have no intention of building my career on a reputation of trying hard.”
No way in Hell.
Spartan pauses in his pacing and rolls his neck, before he returns to walking back and forth, while maintaining his high-intensity forward stare.
“While I may not have the statistical backing to get into this match. While, I may not have the years of reputation behind me. While, I may only be here because I tried hard in one of my psychotic matches ever wrestled. I will promise you, right now, that I intend to make the most of my time in this hardcore match. I intend to make my presence known. I intend to take the title from Dean Wolf and I intend to make sure that I knock Zombie McMorris down.”
God willing.
“As it comes down to it… I intend to be Alpha Pro Wrestling’s Hardcore Champion by the end of this triple threat match…”
By hook or by crook.
Spartan stops makes two fists and raises to a level just at his jawline before dropping them down. He crouches down and stares forward with his powerful eyes.
“But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Appropriate that all roads have led to this match. A match where anything and everything is legal. In a normal match, most of the things that I’m sure will take place would see people arrested and locked for a very long time. But, the thing is, I have no good intentions for Wolf of Zee-Mac. I only have intentions of taking the Hardcore Title home in my luggage and I can promise you that I do everything that necessary to ensure I will walk out of that building with that title - this match… this match allows me to do that.”
“It’s fantastic.”
“It’s fantastic that I can take a screwdriver from the ring assembly toolkit and drive it right into the knee of an opponent. It’s superb that I can a glass plate from catering, shatter it into shards, then slice the face of an opponent. I can find a pair of pliers and rip the teeth from their mouths.”
He strokes his gingerbeard as he rises to his feet and returns to his high intensity pacing back and forth.
“Those are acts of violence that I can commit. Those are acts of violence that I am allowed to commit. I am not saying that I intend to commit such heinous violence on Wolf and Z-Mac, but I am saying that I intend to do what I need to do to achieve one outcome. That outcome, is plain for all to see - and it to walk out of Las Vegas with the Hardcore Title. Of course, I will have to run over the top of two of the most insatiable appetites of bloodlust in Alpha Pro to do that. That’s what the hardcore environment brings to the canvas. A thirst for blood and a thirst for violence that will often know no bounds. And just like me, I am one hundred percent certain that my two opponents will go to the ends of the earth just to inflict the necessary violence to win that Hardcore Title.”
Shit.
“It’s fuckin scary, when I think about the intentions of my opponents. Wolf is known for refusing to quit in any situation. A man that will reach deep into his soul just to way to become number one. And Zombie McMorris can basically come back from the dead. And these men are my challenge. Finding that point that allows all of my intentions of victory to have a chance to become reality. And I will reach down inside of my soul…”
Cliche. I know.
“...to reach my goal.”
Spartan stops. He reaches his arms up and puts both of his palms on the back of his head. He glares straight ahead.
“I will not wilt.”
“I will not bow”
“I will not sway”
Spartan drops his arms and steps forward.
“And I intend to become the next APW Hardcore Champion…”
Spartan takes another step forward and bends over, his face is full of pulsating energy - ready to explode.
“Because I am SPARTAN!”
After finishing his last word, Spartan realises a deep primal scream.
No quit.
