Post by Spartan on Jul 18, 2019 6:54:31 GMT -5
Sometime Ago
Tristan John Cross stands alone in the middle of a dilapidated wrestling ring. The canvas is faded and worn, the ring ropes sag in the middle and turnbuckles pads are ripped with the filler inside falling out. He is standing in nothing but a pair of black shorts and black shoes. His grandiose ginger beard is lathered with sweat. His body shines in a layer of sweat.
Cross looks at the ropes in front of him and then he looks at the ropes behind him. He runs forwards and bounces off the ropes, he hits the ropes on the opposite side of the ring and flies back to the first set of ropes he used to generate his momentum. He runs back towards the ropes that were originally behind him and uses his generated energy and front flips over the top of the ropes and lands on his feet on the outside of the ring.
He crouches down and catches his breathe.
Tristan Cross lifts himself up by pushing down on the ground with the palms of his hands. He turns into a half pirouette so he is facing the ring apron. He springs up in a single jump and lands on the apron. He than makes an immediate spring and launches over the top rope without touching the ropes with his hands.
Tristan John Cross stands alone in the middle of a dilapidated wrestling ring.
The sound of clapping can be heard, the noise distracts Cross who looks around to see where it is coming from. Standing outside of the ring, not far away from the squared circle - but still in the main gym area is an older man. The visitor’s hair is long and grayed, it is tied back in a pony tail. He is wearing denim jeans and a black and white flannel shirt.
Cross looks at the visitor with a steely gaze “Who the hell are you?”
The visitor smirks “I could ask you the same thing, son. That ring ya in - that’s my ring.”
Cross walks to the edge and flips himself out of the ring and lands on his feet. This front flip causes the visitor to burst out in laughter.
“What’s your problem?” asks Cross with slight frustration, mainly because he is being laughed at on doesn’t really understand why.
“No problem,” say the visitor suppressing his laughter. “Just thinkin’ that flippy-floppy shit is funny.”
“You know you still haven’t told me who you are.” Cross presses sternly.
“And neither have you, son.” The visitor pushes back.
“Tristan Cross. Now, who the hell are you?” Cross spits at the visitor, clearly getting annoyed at the old gray-haired man.
“Jerry Eisenhower, son. The man who owns that wrestling you have been treatin’ like ya own personal playground. Which brings me to my next question. What the hell are ya doin’ here son?” he asks with a degree of forcefulness that indicates he expects a clear answer.
“I’m the cleaner. Dante hired me.” answers Cross seemly annoyed at the inquisition.
“Ya ain’t cleanin’ my ring. I reckon ya messin’ it up more than anythin’ else.” Eisenhower keeps verbally pushing forward. “So the way I see it son, ya can go an’ get ya mop an’ bucket and wipe that sweat outta my canvas.”
“Or what?” Cross tries to use his size to intimidate, which just causes Eisenhower to laugh some more.at Cross, which just frustrates Tristan even more Eisenhower see it in his face.
“Son, I’ve been ‘round far too long for someone like you to intimidate and scare me. Just ‘cause ya got some pretty muscles I ain’t gonna shit me pants. I’ll fight ya if ya want, but I don’t need ta, son.”
“What do you want?” says Cross, now clearly unsure of how to take Jerry Eisenhower.
“One of two things, son. I need ya outta my ring or I need ya ta clean my ring.”
Cross looks at Eisenhower and then looks at the ring, then back at Eisenhower.
“Ya thinkin’ somethin’, son?” Quips Eisenhower.
“Are you willing to teach me how to wrestle?” asks Cross.
“Pay me the right president and I will teach you whatever ya want, son.”
“I’m the third wheel.”
Spartan sits on a wooden stool in front of the Alpha Pro banner. He is wearing the standard wrestling garb; black boots, black trunks and a black t-shirt complete with his own logo splashed all over the front of it. He is also wearing a hat with his Spartan logo front and centre. He continues to speak as he strokes his glorious beard full of ginger.
“It’s pretty obvious that I am the odd one out in this match. Z-Mac and Wolf have made it clear that each of them is the other one’s primary target and that I am an afterthought. A by-product of the booking. In many ways they are probably right; I am the third member of this match. Their own personal battle within the Big Brawl was, and further will stuff of legend. The personal scrap between those two men will be spoken about forever. It will always be one of youtube clips that never gets old. And for people that were in Atlantic City for Metal - they will tell their kids, their grandkids and if they live long their great grandkids.”
Spartan leans forward a little.
“They will be spoken about with hushed tones forever because of the war they put together. That’s why they both are here, and then there is me. The third wheel. The friend standing at the bottom of the ferris wheel at the carnival holding the bags and fairy floss, while his best mate has his tongue down his girlfriend's throat.”
“That’s me.”
“There is an advantage of being the third wheel, though. See, when someone drags you along to hang out, they don’t see you as a threat. When someone doesn’t see you as a threat, they drop their guard around you. They don’t worry about drinking too much. They don’t think about what you can do, because you are just there. Little do they know, when they fall asleep, you’re going to be the one talking to the girlfriend and while they are snoring, too drunk to even remember their own name. You are the one that has been talking to their girlfriend all damn night and you’ee the one that has made her feel valubale, and then you are the one that is fucking her while he snores away next to you.”
“That’s me.”
“The third wheel.”
“Only I’m not stealing someone’s girl. I will be taking the APW Hardcore Title, because Dean Wolf and Zombie McMorris are too obsessed with each other to be bothered wtih me. And truth to be told, that’s the way I like it.”
Right play Maybe, maybe not. Doesn’t matter - done now.
“You’ve got Dean Wolf agonising over the past and apologies long never given and you’ve got Z-mac going out of his way to offend Wolf and just plain piss the general public off.”
Forgetting about me.
“Oh I know, they acknowledge my existence. Throw away line here. So out of my way request there. But while they go at each other hammer and tong. I am a passing moment to them, my presence in my match is nothing but an afterthought. An appetiser to the main course. And seeing it the way most would.”
“They wouldn’t be wrong.”
“They are both legends of the ring. The ends they are known to reach to succeed are well known. Dean Wolf is the APW Hardcore Champion and Zombie McMorris may as well as invented the genre of violence. They belong on this match on those reputations alone - let alone their shared violent history. Even if that history only started in Atlantic City”
And then there’s me.
“Me. Me, I’m in this match because I tried hard.”
“Like I said…”
“The third wheel.”
Maybe that’s my weapon.
Eyes on the prize.
“But that allows me to remain focussed on what I want to achieve. While Wolf want to rip the heart from Z-Mac’s chest and Z-Mac wants to do what he wants to his sister-in-law. I want the Hardcore TItle. I don’t have vengeance on my mind. I don’t have a reputation to uphold. I have nothing holding me back from seeking out the APW Hardcore Title and claiming it as my mine.”
“I just have to make sure that I put down the two men that are in front of me at Alpha Showdown.”
Easier said than done, of course.
“Wolf, you’ve asked me to stay out of your way. I need to say this, Wolf, your going to have to leave me on that list, simply you are the current owner of the prize I seek to claim. And Z-Mac, truth be told, I’m not quite sure what you have said - I’m pretty sure it was meant to be insulting, but you rambled on so much it lost its meaning. Cool, let’s get hardcore.”
HARD-CORE!
“You two are the usual suspects when it comes to this environment, but at the end of the day I will be remembered as your Roger Kint.”
Spartan stands up from the stool and walks off to the ring, leaving nothing but the Alpha Pro logo.
