Post by jake on Mar 8, 2012 20:59:00 GMT -5
The shot opens looking out a window; yes, definitely out a window. There is a slight glare from a light not on the screen, and across the far left-hand corner, the edge of a dark green wooden shutter is present. Outside, a heavy rain sweeps across the grass of someone’s front yard, or presumably the front yard since there is a cul-de-sac barely visible on the far side, anyway. A sole tree stands in the front yard, its leaves droopy from the water. A crack of lightning rips across the sky, and then a few moments later the low rumble of thunder is heard.
Jake Eaton: ”Just look at the rain coming down out there. I do believe it parallels the Triple X Pay-Per-View quite well, actually. I mean, it’s not like it is any old rain; it’s a thunderstorm. Like with the UWA; when it rains, it pours. And unluckily enough for one self-centered little bastard, he’s been booked in a match against UWA’s own American Monsoon, Jake Eaton.”
The camera pans around to show Jake Eaton. He’s sitting on his black leather couch, toward his right, next to a table with a lamp. The lamp is on, and is the only source of internal light visible; it was this lamp that made the reflection on the window pane. Jake has his arm around the shoulders of his girlfriend, Lindsey Ferncliff; her hair is noticeably frizzy due to the humidity, and she has an expression that shows almost a disapproval of being on camera, likely due to the way her hair looks. Nonetheless, a smile still exists on her face in moderation, and has her arms around his waist and her feet up on the couch, hugging closely to his upper body.
Jake Eaton: “It’s such a disappointment, isn’t it? After all, Ryan Blake is booking me in match after match trying to make me suffer and make me lose just because I came into this company and showed him that I am, without a doubt in my mind, better than everyone else in this company. I stepped into the ring for my debut at iNew Year, and I made Andy Star bleed; I ripped open his flesh and made blood gush from the wound. Anyone else on this roster would’ve been given a title match then and there, but I was held back from my potential because everyone else thinks that I lack the time to focus on in-ring competition because of my baby right here. But she knows better than anyone that I’m not going to give anyone any leeway to protect myself for her. She knows how dangerous this business can be, and as a matter of fact she’s come down to the ring with me before to support me; she knows that I risk a lot to do what I love; ain’t that right baby?”
Lindsey looks up at Jake and smiles.
Lindsey Ferncliff: “It sure is. But I wouldn’t let you go down to that ring every week if I didn’t know you’d do everything you could to make sure you came out okay, and preferably the victor.”
Jake Eaton: “Indeed I do. But going back to focus on what I was saying, anyone else would’ve been given a title match then and there after the sheer dominance I displayed against Star. But no, Ryan Blake had the audacity to book me in a triple threat nontitle matchup against the World Champion, and against the guy who lost in a World Championship match just one week earlier. I’d have been fine kicking their asses in a title match; surely, it would’ve drawn bigger ratings than the clinic I put on out there. Ryan Blake, however, chose to ignore ratings to hold me back from the World Championship, when he knows as well as anyone that giving me the belt would’ve created instant ratings for the show that, without me, would be more like Dancing with the Stars than professional wrestling. I made my anger at him over that mistake clear when I took a chair to Joanne Canelli’s head.”
Lindsey Ferncliff: “Even if you had gotten your World Championship, you still needed to let that little bitch know who’s boss!”
Jake Eaton: “Exactly, Lindsey. Exactly. Joanne Canelli doesn’t run this company; I run this company. Although, it isn’t apparent, judging by the ineptitude with which Ryan Blake does booking. News flash, Ry-Ry: You don’t host a pay-per-view without a single title match if you want any sales! It’s like trying to teach a cow to fly; it doesn’t work. But see, here, that’s not even the worst part; Ryan Blake first showed signs of his hatred for me then and there; he threw me into a steel cage tag team match that turned into a complete three against one beat down, because my partner, of course, was the World Champion, the very same one I should’ve taken the title from then and there, and he despises me as much as Joanne, and as much as her little chump boyfriend with the faggot-y looking hat who just so happens to be my opponent tonight. Now, what I find to be the most entertaining part of this entire thing is that I’ve fought in one match since that last pay-per-view, and it was a handicap match against Joanne Canelli and Classless J Callahan. I have sensed bias against me since day one in this company from Ryan Blake, and it isn’t a shocker at all to me that I still am not getting my World Championship match, like I should’ve gotten months ago. No; I’m stuck in the fucking mid-card against none other than Joanne’s bitch boyfriend, with a chance to capture... No, I don’t get the World Championship. That imbecile gave me a match for the Rush Hour Championship.
Did I hear about his booking strategy correctly? Does he think Jake Eaton will be happy playing mid-carder, or that I’ll be satisfied with allowing anybody above me? Honestly, if he does, he’s a fool. I said once that he’s an imbecile, and I’ll say it again; Ryan Blake does not understand the concept of booking a card. I’ll tell you another thing; when I beat Samuel Silas and Manabu Fujiwara in that triple threat nontitle match a month and a half ago, I was informed by an employee of the company that I was the number one contender. What the fuck happened to that, Ryan? Do you think I forgot that I was granted a World Championship match? Did you just expect me to move on and be satisfied with this dinky little belt you call the Rush Hour Championship, when I’m supposed to be in the position the self-proclaimed ‘Jersey Devil Diva’ is in right now? Think again, tough guy. I’m in the position of a rookie who has never proven himself in the ring before; I’m sitting here as the hottest commodity you have, Blake, and I’m being given a mid-card title as compensation because you realized that I’m better than anyone else on your roster, and you’re trying to put me down so I don’t even realize it. How sad; how fucking sad.”
Lindsey removes her arms and slides over onto her own half of the couch as Jake stands up, and he proceeds to walk down the hallway, a slight smirk on his face.
Jake Eaton: “But, moving on, I’m not going to let the chump I’m facing have the Rush Hour Championship belt. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t even deserve to be a part of this company, unless you were to make him Joanne Canelli’s manager or send him to a developmental territory or- oh, wait, I forgot. The United Wrestling Alliance is too pathetic to have a developmental territory. It’s not like we’re supposed to consider this place the premier company anymore; after all, there’s a biased owner, a lack of talent, and about as many different flaws in the scheduling process as most doctors’ offices.
Dammit, I’m getting off topic again, aren’t I? Well, let me put it this way. I’m facing ‘Classy’ J Callahan, whose nickname is about as far from the truth as possible; it’s almost ironic to think that, of all the people that could be called ‘Classy’, it was this guy who’s barely anything more than a bum. He’s the average joe, when you think about it; he’s weak, slow, about as incompetent as a cardboard box, unaware of the danger he’s getting himself into, and quite frankly, too stupid to know when to shut up and face the fact that he’s not getting a victory over Jake Eaton.”
Jake opens a door to his right and steps inside. We see that it is a bathroom, with the toilet against the back wall, a combination bathtub and shower to the right, and then a sink to the left; it’s of decent size, and there’s plenty of space for the cameraman to enter the room too. Jake walks over to the toilet, flips up the seat, unzips his pants, and sits down, without the camera catching anything inappropriate. A loud fart rips through the sound barriers before Jake shakes his head.
Jake Eaton: “Sorry; stomach bug... Anyway, I have friends in this business who’ve defeated Classy J before in other parts of the wrestling world, and I’ve beaten them all. Use the transitive property, and I have already managed to defeat Classy J before. Hell; the closest he ever got to defeating me was a handicap match in which his little bitch did all the work. Simply speaking, J Callahan, let this thought sink into your head; going into a match with me is going to be suicide for your career; back out while you still can and just hand me the championship. Otherwise, I’ll beat you so badly, it’ll look like I just took a shit on your career. Surrender your chance at this title to me now if you ever want to see gold in your lifetime, J; who knows? Perhaps if I feel generous, I’ll vacate the piece of junk you and I are fighting for when I am in fact given my World Championship match.
But honestly, what are the odds of that happening? I’m not generous, and I’d never fork over this belt for your sake. You’d have a better chance of actually winning your match against me at Triple X, to be honest; I’m not going to be a nice guy and give you anything except the cold, hard truth, J, and that truth is that you’re going to lose. You’re going to suffer at my hands and see just why I’m the Next Big Thing; you’ll see why I’m supposed to be the top dog in this company when I pin you in the middle of that ring and get my hands raised in victory. Honestly, that’ll be more than I’d actually have to raise to beat you if I really felt like making you look like the joke you are; but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and actually give you a chance to fight against me; it’ll make victory that much sweeter because it won’t be just the flip of a finger and the raising of an arm. I’m going to raise hell against you and make you see that I’m the best damn wrestler this world will ever witness in the ring anywhere at any time; you should consider it a privilege to face me, Classy J, because it’s the closest you’ll ever come to true glory in that wrestling ring. I’m going to show you just what’s in store when you’re up against someone who was born for the sole purpose of becoming a World Champion. You’ll see just what you’re up against, but it will be too late, because I’m coming for that Rush Hour Championship to rub it in the face of everyone who doubts me, especially Ryan Blake, and you’re the victim that lays in my way. See you out there, Classy J, and good luck; you’re gonna need it.
Now, if you don’t mind, camera guy, I’m trying to take a shit; could you please just get out of my bathroom before I have to call the cops on you? Thanks!”
Fade to black.
Jake Eaton: ”Just look at the rain coming down out there. I do believe it parallels the Triple X Pay-Per-View quite well, actually. I mean, it’s not like it is any old rain; it’s a thunderstorm. Like with the UWA; when it rains, it pours. And unluckily enough for one self-centered little bastard, he’s been booked in a match against UWA’s own American Monsoon, Jake Eaton.”
The camera pans around to show Jake Eaton. He’s sitting on his black leather couch, toward his right, next to a table with a lamp. The lamp is on, and is the only source of internal light visible; it was this lamp that made the reflection on the window pane. Jake has his arm around the shoulders of his girlfriend, Lindsey Ferncliff; her hair is noticeably frizzy due to the humidity, and she has an expression that shows almost a disapproval of being on camera, likely due to the way her hair looks. Nonetheless, a smile still exists on her face in moderation, and has her arms around his waist and her feet up on the couch, hugging closely to his upper body.
Jake Eaton: “It’s such a disappointment, isn’t it? After all, Ryan Blake is booking me in match after match trying to make me suffer and make me lose just because I came into this company and showed him that I am, without a doubt in my mind, better than everyone else in this company. I stepped into the ring for my debut at iNew Year, and I made Andy Star bleed; I ripped open his flesh and made blood gush from the wound. Anyone else on this roster would’ve been given a title match then and there, but I was held back from my potential because everyone else thinks that I lack the time to focus on in-ring competition because of my baby right here. But she knows better than anyone that I’m not going to give anyone any leeway to protect myself for her. She knows how dangerous this business can be, and as a matter of fact she’s come down to the ring with me before to support me; she knows that I risk a lot to do what I love; ain’t that right baby?”
Lindsey looks up at Jake and smiles.
Lindsey Ferncliff: “It sure is. But I wouldn’t let you go down to that ring every week if I didn’t know you’d do everything you could to make sure you came out okay, and preferably the victor.”
Jake Eaton: “Indeed I do. But going back to focus on what I was saying, anyone else would’ve been given a title match then and there after the sheer dominance I displayed against Star. But no, Ryan Blake had the audacity to book me in a triple threat nontitle matchup against the World Champion, and against the guy who lost in a World Championship match just one week earlier. I’d have been fine kicking their asses in a title match; surely, it would’ve drawn bigger ratings than the clinic I put on out there. Ryan Blake, however, chose to ignore ratings to hold me back from the World Championship, when he knows as well as anyone that giving me the belt would’ve created instant ratings for the show that, without me, would be more like Dancing with the Stars than professional wrestling. I made my anger at him over that mistake clear when I took a chair to Joanne Canelli’s head.”
Lindsey Ferncliff: “Even if you had gotten your World Championship, you still needed to let that little bitch know who’s boss!”
Jake Eaton: “Exactly, Lindsey. Exactly. Joanne Canelli doesn’t run this company; I run this company. Although, it isn’t apparent, judging by the ineptitude with which Ryan Blake does booking. News flash, Ry-Ry: You don’t host a pay-per-view without a single title match if you want any sales! It’s like trying to teach a cow to fly; it doesn’t work. But see, here, that’s not even the worst part; Ryan Blake first showed signs of his hatred for me then and there; he threw me into a steel cage tag team match that turned into a complete three against one beat down, because my partner, of course, was the World Champion, the very same one I should’ve taken the title from then and there, and he despises me as much as Joanne, and as much as her little chump boyfriend with the faggot-y looking hat who just so happens to be my opponent tonight. Now, what I find to be the most entertaining part of this entire thing is that I’ve fought in one match since that last pay-per-view, and it was a handicap match against Joanne Canelli and Classless J Callahan. I have sensed bias against me since day one in this company from Ryan Blake, and it isn’t a shocker at all to me that I still am not getting my World Championship match, like I should’ve gotten months ago. No; I’m stuck in the fucking mid-card against none other than Joanne’s bitch boyfriend, with a chance to capture... No, I don’t get the World Championship. That imbecile gave me a match for the Rush Hour Championship.
Did I hear about his booking strategy correctly? Does he think Jake Eaton will be happy playing mid-carder, or that I’ll be satisfied with allowing anybody above me? Honestly, if he does, he’s a fool. I said once that he’s an imbecile, and I’ll say it again; Ryan Blake does not understand the concept of booking a card. I’ll tell you another thing; when I beat Samuel Silas and Manabu Fujiwara in that triple threat nontitle match a month and a half ago, I was informed by an employee of the company that I was the number one contender. What the fuck happened to that, Ryan? Do you think I forgot that I was granted a World Championship match? Did you just expect me to move on and be satisfied with this dinky little belt you call the Rush Hour Championship, when I’m supposed to be in the position the self-proclaimed ‘Jersey Devil Diva’ is in right now? Think again, tough guy. I’m in the position of a rookie who has never proven himself in the ring before; I’m sitting here as the hottest commodity you have, Blake, and I’m being given a mid-card title as compensation because you realized that I’m better than anyone else on your roster, and you’re trying to put me down so I don’t even realize it. How sad; how fucking sad.”
Lindsey removes her arms and slides over onto her own half of the couch as Jake stands up, and he proceeds to walk down the hallway, a slight smirk on his face.
Jake Eaton: “But, moving on, I’m not going to let the chump I’m facing have the Rush Hour Championship belt. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t even deserve to be a part of this company, unless you were to make him Joanne Canelli’s manager or send him to a developmental territory or- oh, wait, I forgot. The United Wrestling Alliance is too pathetic to have a developmental territory. It’s not like we’re supposed to consider this place the premier company anymore; after all, there’s a biased owner, a lack of talent, and about as many different flaws in the scheduling process as most doctors’ offices.
Dammit, I’m getting off topic again, aren’t I? Well, let me put it this way. I’m facing ‘Classy’ J Callahan, whose nickname is about as far from the truth as possible; it’s almost ironic to think that, of all the people that could be called ‘Classy’, it was this guy who’s barely anything more than a bum. He’s the average joe, when you think about it; he’s weak, slow, about as incompetent as a cardboard box, unaware of the danger he’s getting himself into, and quite frankly, too stupid to know when to shut up and face the fact that he’s not getting a victory over Jake Eaton.”
Jake opens a door to his right and steps inside. We see that it is a bathroom, with the toilet against the back wall, a combination bathtub and shower to the right, and then a sink to the left; it’s of decent size, and there’s plenty of space for the cameraman to enter the room too. Jake walks over to the toilet, flips up the seat, unzips his pants, and sits down, without the camera catching anything inappropriate. A loud fart rips through the sound barriers before Jake shakes his head.
Jake Eaton: “Sorry; stomach bug... Anyway, I have friends in this business who’ve defeated Classy J before in other parts of the wrestling world, and I’ve beaten them all. Use the transitive property, and I have already managed to defeat Classy J before. Hell; the closest he ever got to defeating me was a handicap match in which his little bitch did all the work. Simply speaking, J Callahan, let this thought sink into your head; going into a match with me is going to be suicide for your career; back out while you still can and just hand me the championship. Otherwise, I’ll beat you so badly, it’ll look like I just took a shit on your career. Surrender your chance at this title to me now if you ever want to see gold in your lifetime, J; who knows? Perhaps if I feel generous, I’ll vacate the piece of junk you and I are fighting for when I am in fact given my World Championship match.
But honestly, what are the odds of that happening? I’m not generous, and I’d never fork over this belt for your sake. You’d have a better chance of actually winning your match against me at Triple X, to be honest; I’m not going to be a nice guy and give you anything except the cold, hard truth, J, and that truth is that you’re going to lose. You’re going to suffer at my hands and see just why I’m the Next Big Thing; you’ll see why I’m supposed to be the top dog in this company when I pin you in the middle of that ring and get my hands raised in victory. Honestly, that’ll be more than I’d actually have to raise to beat you if I really felt like making you look like the joke you are; but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and actually give you a chance to fight against me; it’ll make victory that much sweeter because it won’t be just the flip of a finger and the raising of an arm. I’m going to raise hell against you and make you see that I’m the best damn wrestler this world will ever witness in the ring anywhere at any time; you should consider it a privilege to face me, Classy J, because it’s the closest you’ll ever come to true glory in that wrestling ring. I’m going to show you just what’s in store when you’re up against someone who was born for the sole purpose of becoming a World Champion. You’ll see just what you’re up against, but it will be too late, because I’m coming for that Rush Hour Championship to rub it in the face of everyone who doubts me, especially Ryan Blake, and you’re the victim that lays in my way. See you out there, Classy J, and good luck; you’re gonna need it.
Now, if you don’t mind, camera guy, I’m trying to take a shit; could you please just get out of my bathroom before I have to call the cops on you? Thanks!”
Fade to black.