Be Free

Subject: Be Free Thu Aug 16, 2012 2:02 am

The shot opens up onto a slightly open door, barely cracked. The man behind the camera pushes the door open and steps into the pitch darkness, shutting the door behind him and engages the lock. After a few moments of darkness, a beam of light cuts through the darkness, held by the cameraman. He shines the torch across the floor, revealing torn advertisements from various past-wrestling promotions, such as EHDW and UEW. As the light continues moving, it's movements become more erratic, as if searching for something in the swallowing darkness. Right when it looks as if the cameraman is panicking, the light comes to rest on a pile of ashes. The man bends down and sifts through it, pulling a scrap of paper out from the soot. He holds it up to the camera, and July 8th, 2011 can barely be read, as it was scribbled and partly burnt. The man drops it, and raises the flashlight above his waist for the first time since entering the room.

This now beat-up, run down room was obviously once owned by a fan of wrestling, as all sorts of memorabilia adorn the walls and shelves, along with numerous items strew across the floor, alongside flipped tables, smashed lamps, and broken glass. The unseen man spins the flashlight around the room, coming to rest on a smashed cabinet. It's insides cannot be seen, however, as the flashlight suddenly shorts out. After a few moments of rustling and darkness, the distinct rolling of a lighter wheel can be heard. After a few seconds, a blue flame erupts from the top of a cold steel lighter. It appears as if the side is embellished with an inscription in light, fancy letters. It reads, A.F.C. The lighter surprisingly lights the room better than the torch had, illuminating the guts of the cabinet.

It becomes evident this place didn't belong to any old wrestling fan, as the inside of the shelf is full of wrestling championships, spanning from multiple promotions. A Global Championship is surrounded by Tag-Team Titles on the middle shelf, with the one below it supporting a Hardcore Belt. Part of the cameraman's head if revealed, reflecting his image off the broken glass from the light of the lighter. Long brown hair rests just below his sleeveless shoulder, revealing his tight muscles. He walks away from the shelf, the crunch of glass on the floor breaking the uneasy silence. Suddenly, the lights snap on, finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together. This room is a locker-room, noted by the old boots and tights laying on a wooden bench nearby. The man reaches out and grabs the championships through the broken glass and pulls them out, cutting his wrist in the process. He flips his arm over and inspects the cut from behind the camera, shrugging the pain away before walking back towards the door. He stops momentarily to gaze at the picture of Phillip Phillips by the exit. It appears as if this picture once had another half, ripped apart in a violent fury. The man behind the camera snaps the light off before slipping back into the hallway, which astonishingly is kept in tip-top shape, appearing almost lavish compared to the broken down dump previously featured. The video fades to snow momentarily...

{{END OF PART 1}}

Subject: Re: Be Free Thu Aug 16, 2012 6:20 pm

The camera snaps back on, this time focused on a heavy black curtain draped across a doorway. The man behind the camera pushes it aside and steps into the short expanse of hallway before him. He walks down and makes a sharp left, hesitating for a second, focusing the camera on the metal stairs before him. The dim lighting in the hallway reflects off the steel, which in turn reflects the man's shirt. It's black, with a cigar-smoking skeleton emblazoned on the front. Just above it is a logo, which reads Social Distortion. Suddenly, the man starts up the steps, taking two at a time before stopping at the top. The view is of a long-empty arena, which is made evident when the man wipes his finger across the wall and removes it, caked in dust.

Suddenly, he makes his way down the arena. As the camera adjusts to the new setting, the logo on the apron can be read. Unstoppable Extreme Mayhem! The cameraman takes his time walking up the cool black steps, hesitating each time. Once he finally reached the apron, he ducked professionally in, coming to a stop in the middle of the ring. For a few quiet moments, he just stands there. But eventually, a thud breaks the deafening silence. The camera is lowered onto a championship belt. The art on the title is of an eagle draping a banner across Earth, which reads Global Championship. The camera zooms in on the title, and stays there for about 30 seconds before any movement is made. When is finally does happen, the man behind the camera walks over to the turnbuckle and places the camera on it, turning it around to face him. He turns and walks around to pick up the belt, his face still unseen. When he finally does turn around, his red-rimmed eyes are the only things that can be seen through the thick mess of hair covering his face.

"This is where it all started," he says, finally breaking the uneasy muteness he previously had. "This is where my career became relevant. This is where my life changed forever."

The man pauses for a few seconds, taking his time using his long, drawn out speech.

"Unstoppable Extreme Mayhem... such an inviting name for a naive young man trying to make it big. A kid trying to get his shot in the world sees that and thinks, 'Maybe that's for me.' I can certainly attest to that."

The man raises his head, and now facial hair can be seen protruding from his long locks. It appears as if the man is grimacing as he returns to speaking.

"This federation is what made me see my name in lights. This is what caused me to develop a huge ego, albeit one I earned through hard work. This company made me realize that wrestling was the thing for me... or did it? Was it all glamour and appearance... just an amour from real life?"

An audible sigh escapes from the man's mouth, making it clear he is very tired.

"I can honestly say... no. It wasn't just that. What made me want to continue preforming after the brutal match I had against Phillip Phillips was you... the audience, the fans, the people that pay my paycheck... you. The reason I did and continue to come out here each and every day, day in and day out, three hundred and sixty-five days a year to risk my life is to entertain you."

The man wipes the hair out of his face, revealing himself to be Austin Cross. A slight glow seems to radiate off of him, almost enlightenment.

"And then there were things that made me want to curl up in a ball and never return to the squared circle. Like the veterans who told me I'd amount to nothing, the boos, the people backstage who consistently bullied me because I was smaller, or younger, or newer... but that's beside the point. The feeling of gratitude you guys gave me wherever we encountered each other... Wal-Mart, the movies, anywhere... all the thank yous I got completely affected me, and convinced me to stay. And I'm glad I did."

Cross pauses for a second, pinching the corner off his eyes.

"Wrestling means so much to me. And back in EHDW I was completely destroyed when I had a career threatening injury. I didn't care about my personal health. I wanted to be here, beating up the bad guys that you love to hate. But I couldn't. That was honestly the worst thing I could ever feel. Worse than the times I've been fired, because I could always go somewhere else. The demand for me was enough that any place that could contact me snatched me up... but there's the thing. The fans, the true fans, follow us, the same group of guys in Wrestling Syndication. Guys like Phillip Phillips, Randy Reaume, Dean Wolfe, Alex Jester, and even Mike Cole..."

Austin smirks a bit, biting at the bottom of his lip before speaking.

"Yes... even Mike Cole. Despite the fact that he continuously lies and creates stories to worsen my image with you, the fans, and despite the fact that his ego continues to grow so high he's beginning to think he's better than me, even he puts his body on the line in this ring."

Cross points down at the mat, shaking his hand as he raises his head once again.

"But as previously mentioned, he's made a mistake. The mistake is that he's better than me. Unlike him, I've actually held singles championships in my career, by myself, not by cheating or leeching off of Cole Scorpio, another outstanding superstar. Cole thinks that because he got Chance Davis off guard he's going to win the championship. Ironic, because he hasn't won a singles match in... how long? Has he ever?"

Austin Cross runs his hands through his beard, smiling.

"I think that just proved my next point. He's referred to Decapitation Station numerous times, saying that it was my worst mistake. That Phillip Phillips has out-shined me in everything... but wait. I'm actually remembered as one of the greatest tag-team competitors of all time... and what are you, Mike Cole? The forgettable side-kick to The Best In The Universe and The Dark Angel? Let's face it, Mike. These stories you think up are nothing more than false confidence, which you have no lack off. Sure, I have an ego. But I've earned mine by kicking asses, taking names, and winning championships. You got yours when your mom called the school because little Sally Susan was taking your lunch money and kicking sand in your face. At that point, you realized you could run your mouth and have no consequences..."

Austin raises his head, a serious look of determination on his face.

"...well that's going to change. On Saturday, I will deliver the most sickening beating I ever have. I will destroy your whole career in this one match. You will not walk out of Rage champion... in fact, you won't walk out of Rage at all. And when I'm done, and your limbs are snapped, and every ounce of your blood is spilled in the arena, I hope you realize that Anarchy isn't something to be messed with. Because at any moment, just when you think you're on top, you can, and will, be kicked off your throne. Even if it's as non-resistant as yours... So, in closing..."

Austin Cross raises the Global Championship in the air with one hand, while flipping the camera off with the other, winking as it fades to black.

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