Post by Smith Jones on Aug 24, 2019 19:28:34 GMT -5
~~~
~OFF CAMERA~
WINSTON: “I don’t remember!”
Fade up on a shot of a pair of bloody handcuffs shackled to a pair of bloody caucasian hands. The chain of the cuffs is looped through a hook on a metal table. The blood is quite dry and turning deeper and deeper shades of red. The fingers are tensed, but not clenched into a fist. They tremble like the talons of an endangered eagle, shot to the ground by a poacher with no respect for life. The chains rattle loudly against the metal table as Winston pleads for a sympathetic ear.
WINSTON: “I already told you. I don’t remember!”
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Okay, Mister Jones...”
WINSTON: “It’s Winston.”
The camera zooms out to reveal a pubescent Winston Smith Jones dressed in a gray tee shirt that reads survive on it in large white lettering. The shirt is spattered in the same dried blood that dots his right cheek and chin. Standing behind Winston and leaning against the door is a police officer dressed in a light blue button-down and brown pants. He is a middle-aged man with graying brown hair that has receded quite a bit. His stern brown eyes bore holes in the back of young Winston’s head. He is holding Winston’s written statement. It, too, is smeared with drying blood.
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Yes, Winston. Of course. You’re just a little boy. How could anyone believe that you could do such a thing at such a tender age?”
WINSTON: “Reverse psychology? I’m twelve, not six!”
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Thirteen though, right?”
WINSTON: “Eh?”
The officer looks down at the file in his hand, raising his specs to look at the tiny print.
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Happy birthday, Winston.”
Winton stares off at nothing, trying to banish fresh images from his mind. He closes his eyes. That makes them worse. Smith’s eyelids snap open. He stares straight ahead.
WINSTON: “Where’s mother?”
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Your father was stabbed twenty-nine times, Mister Jones.”
WINSTON: “It’s Winston.”
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Whoever did that to him wanted him dead. They damned near succeeded.”
WINSTON: “He’s not dead?!”
Officer O’Malley comes around from behind Jones and sits across from him at the metal table. Still cuffed, Winston lets his hands fall to the desk as he stares at the chain.
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “You seem… unsatisfied with this news. He will likely be dead within the hour with wounds like those. We know you tried to kill him, Mister Jones.”
WINSTON: “It's Winston”
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Me and those officers behind the glass, we all know what you did. You just need to tell us the truth about what happened. There’s blood spatter all over your plain, white birthday cake. There’s blood everywhere. Do you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with--”
WINSTON: “You’re holding my statement in your hand right now. I told you I don’t remember!”
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “Mister Jones...”
Winston’s hands charge on their own towards Officer O’Malley. The chain stops abruptly, still looped through the hook on the table. Winston’s icy blue eyes pierce into the soul of Officer O’Malley for an instant before… Knock, knock, knock!
OFFICER SINGH: “The mother confessed. She did it, not the kid. Set ‘im free.”
He leaves and closes the door behind him. Officer O’Malley stands from his chair and leans forward, getting as close as he can to Winston while remaining outside striking distance of the shackled boy.
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “I’ve seen punks like you skate free from time to time during my career. Fact is, they always trip up somewhere along the way. You’ll end up right back in this room shackled to this metal table looking at this grizzled mug again someday. You have no idea how frustrating it is to watch people throw their lives away in the name of a thrill. In the name of a good time. Some crazy idea hits and some dumbass such as your sorry self and he decides it’s time to give in to the id and be basic. And just when the GOOD GUY is about to win, YOU get saved by the sympathy of a loved one. Your mother is taking on a lot for you here. Are you sure you have nothing else to say?”
Winston remains silent. The officer presses his forehead against that of the thirteen year old Winston Jones. Winston pushes back, their eyes locked.
OFFICER O’MALLEY: “I know it was you, Mister Jones. Make it a point never to see these eyes in person again. Don’t smell this breath. The next time you do, I’m locking you up for good!”
Officer O’Malley retrieves the key from his belt, unlocks the cuffs, removes them, and leaves the room. The door swings open hard and slams against the wall. Light pours into the room behind Winston. He takes a deep breath before he plants both hands firmly on the table and pushes himself to a standing position. He turns and walks out of the room and into the light.
~~~
SMITH JONES: “This guy has the worst timing.”
The light blinds Jones as he stands in the middle of the street with his hands in the air. He’s dressed in a light green raincoat with a hood. He tries as much as he can to wash away the drops of blood on his hand with the cold rain that pours down over him. A police car with bright, bright headlights and flashing red and blue lights pulls up behind a royal blue Mustang with yellow pinstripes. One tire is off the car. Smith has already dropped the tire iron in a shallow puddle next to the immobilized vehicle. An officer steps out of the cruiser and calls out to Smith.
OFFICER KENSINGTON: “Sir--”
SMITH JONES: “I don’t really need any--”
OFFICER KENSINGTON: “I’m right here.”
Jones cringes at her words. Smith turns away from the light of the police car and veils his face in darkness. The blonde officer, covered in raingear, stands right next to him, also shaded in shadow.
OFFICER KENSINGTON: “This is not a safe place to be this time of night on the side of the freeway. I’ll go wait in the cruiser until you finish up.”
SMITH JONES: “Eh? Thanks.”
She nods and walks back to the police car. Jones picks up the tire iron and gets back to work on the flat.
~~~
~OFF CAMERA~
SMITH JONES: “Broken.”
Fade up on a shot of an APW microphone in the hand of Interviewer Troy Butler. He has it dangling down at his side as he looks down the hall anxiously. He lifts his left cuff and has a quick look at his watch before he gets a little more agitated and looks the other way down the hall, pacing impatiently the whole time. After another glance at his watch, Troy begins to walk away from the interview area towards his trailer.
SMITH JONES: “HEY!!!”
Butler stops in his tracks and quickly spins on his heel towards the voice with wide eyes.
TROY BUTLER: “Smith Jones! I’ve been...”
SMITH JONES: “I know. I’ve been watching you.”
TROY BUTLER: “You’ve been…?”
SMITH JONES: “Were you really about to leave after only waiting fourteen minutes for me? That is not a rhetorical question.”
TROY BUTLER: “I have other things to...”
SMITH JONES: “You’re chummy with Dani, no? Don’t you want to be more than what you’ve been around this place? Don’t you want to put Dani to shame and get the scoop on her more than anything? Don’t give me the watered down political version. Tell the truth.”
Troy opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Jones interjects.
SMITH JONES: “Wouldn’t it be cool if you were the exclusive interviewer of the Number One Contender and soon-to-be APW World Heavyweight Wrestling Champion Smith Jones? Don’t balk at this chance, Troy, ‘cause I am a champion and you’re gonna hear me roar. How’s that for an engaging thought? Y’see, Miss Applegate may be the head journalist here in APW, but that doesn’t mean you and I can’t negotiate an… arrangement that sets you above her in some small way. Months ago when Alpha Pro first launched, I approached Dani Applegate with excitement about a project she had been twirling around in her head called Talk Metal. Ever heard of it? When it came time to actually do the interview, she ghosted me (for whatever personal reasons may have arisen) and forgot to book me on that first episode. I’ve been known to hold a grudge or two in my day, but this is fine. This is all working out just fine for you and for me, isn’t it Troy? You wanna be Dani in training or do you want your own name?”
Troy makes a small circular motion to the cameraman.
~ON CAMERA~
TROY BUTLER: “You really think you can beat Masuda Jubei this Monday night at Ascension?”
Smith’s face remains stern while the sound of laughter escapes his lips for a brief moment. He takes a deep breath and he speaks.
SMITH JONES: “I see Masuda Jubei living it up here in APW. Acquiring colleagues and surrounding himself with, I dunno, friends? Buddies? Shameless butt-kissers? The Masuda Corporation looks to me --and this is just an outsider’s perspective-- like a club. Not unlike the Mickey Mouse Club or a sewing club or a sausage of the month club. Masuda Jubei, a very accomplished and talented wrestling superstar, has started a club so that he can feel socially fulfilled as well as professionally protected. He needs that. People need that. How can I fault him? We are, as a race of beings, social.”
TROY BUTLER: “Social? Mister Jones--”
SMITH JONES: “That’s the last time you ever call me that, Troy.”
TROY BUTLER: “Mister-- uhhhh, Smitty?”
SMITH JONES: “That’s what the fans call me.”
TROY BUTLER: “Smith, Masuda Jubei was able to do what you were not able to do. He earned himself a title match at our previous supershow Alpha Showdown and became the first ever APW World Champion! What makes you think that you are ready to take the title from Masuda tomorrow night at Ascension?”
Jones chews hard on that thought for a good, long time. He nods at Troy's point and then launches into a point of his own.
SMITH JONES: “Because, Troy Butler, last month at Alpha Showdown when Masuda Jubei fought just one guy, I fought ten. TEN! And on that night ALL TEN of those competitors got a tiny taste of what the incredible Smith Jones is capable of when he hits full stride. They all know. Jaice Wilds, Bryan Worthy, Allen Anderson, Johnny Blaze, Tsukiko… the list of names I defeated in that match alone reads as a who’s who of high profile superstars who I cannot thank enough for supporting the undercard under the enormous weight of my numerous massive blockbuster Main Events on our debut show Alpha Rising, on Monday Night Metal, at Alpha Showdown, and now tomorrow night at Ascension. And even though I’ve been waiting and waiting to see my face up on the website banner as the face of APW, they instead still have the face of some guy who took leave after being broken by the pressure of just a couple of matches in this piranha pool of professionals known as the Alpha Pro locker room. It’s tough! I get it! Not everyone can hang on EVERY SINGLE SHOW and stay at the tippy top of the card consistently like I can.”
TROY BUTLER: “That all sounds very impressive, but you have yet to step into the squared circle against The Master. While you’ve been doing what you do here in APW, Jubei has been directly hunting and now carrying THE gold. How will you dethrone Masuda Jubei?”
Jones glares at Troy for a long beat with his brows furrowed tightly. He grinds his teeth so loudly we can hear it through the mic. Smith Jones squares himself up to camera and glares deep into the lens. He takes a deep breath, and he speaks.
SMITH JONES: “Masuda Jubei. I can see that this is a social game for you. You need to be surrounded by people blowing smoke up your ass while they try to suck every ounce of glory, fame, and power out of you that they can. You need people to look up to you; to laud you as their king for all time. Your power comes from bringing the people around you to their knees. My power, Masuda Jubei, comes from within. I’m not like other people. I never have been. And in life, I too have sought social satisfaction. I failed where you seem to succeed. I learned to navigate this world as an outsider. I am the outlier who always wants to zag when the masses want to zig. I’m a loner by choice now, but trust me it was not by choice in the beginning. It was thrust upon me. Throughout the years, I’ve learned that I am independently powerful. And now, even though people often think they are looking down on me, it is really I who looks down on them with god-like judgment. The rules of the world do not apply to me the way they do to other people. They can see it. They all know that I’m not like them. I’m not the kind of guy that regular people stop for on the side of the highway because they know that I am unpredictable. Maybe I would cave a person’s head in with a crowbar and then hide in plain sight as an international wrestling superstar. Or maybe I’m just hrmless. Who really knows? Heheh.”
Smith’s energy remains dark, yet lightens at the same time. His frown begins to resemble a smile while still remaining grave.
SMITH JONES: “This match is being billed as a regular one fall APW World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship Match, but I promise you this will be more than just any other singles match. The rules of your world do not apply to me, Jubei. I am going to push things all the way to the Point of Controversy and make people question whether the referee should stop the match or not. Is it illegal for me to rip a leg off and beat Masuda to death with it? Is that a foreign object? Would it be wrong of me to German suplex him off the top rope and out into the crowd where he lands neck-first on a recently vacated steel chair? If I shatter Masuda’s C7 with a particularly malicious Sleep Paralysis release dragon suplex against the edge of the steel ring steps, should the ref call the match right there or ask for medical attention? Some people still achieve greatness with broken parts. Let’s watch the referee decide what kind of superstar he thinks Masuda Jubei is. Because I’m tired of all the fun and games. I’m sick of watching The Master enjoy the spoils of combat when I’m right here lacing up and showing up every week. I have only one focus. I am your next champion. The first time I laced up a boot, it wasn’t for friends or colleagues or any person at all but ME. Sure, it’s nice to hear the fans chant Smitty, Smitty, Smitty every single week, but they know that I could care less what they think of me! I’m sick of people. I’m done with doing what everyone else thinks is right and getting a pat on the head for my efforts. NO ONE defines me. There are NO RULES EVER. How will I dethrone Masuda Jubei, Troy Butler?”
Jones’ icy blue eyes lock onto those of the interviewer. Troy leans away while holding the mic out towards Smitty as far as he can.
SMITH JONES: “What throne?”
Fade to black.
