Post by Immanuel Taylor on Dec 28, 2010 15:07:05 GMT -5
- As Immanuel Taylor.
It is what it is. A Trial Match. Immanuel Taylor, a 42 year-old EUW hopeful whose application is still in the process of being reviewed by EUW headquarters after a disastrous interview with Chad Kennedy, had spent the last remainder of days wandering the Mission District of San Francisco. He often slept in the alcoves, sheltered from the pouring rain, and spent most of his time in the little obscure café behind the Mission San Francisco De Asis, eating his edible eggs and always-freshly brewed coffee served to him by Nadine the waitress who may or may not be an aspiring actress in disguise. She certainly does have the body for acting, Immanuel noticed. Perhaps even a ballerina. Or maybe she’s just a waitress.
Only on the night before the trial match did Immanuel seek proper shelter. He used the remainder of his money to book a room at The Hotel Tropicana at the Mission Dolores on Valencia Street. The room was pitiful but sufficient. Immanuel got some proper sleep, showered and even bathed in the morning, shaved and mentally prepared himself. Here he was, Immanuel Taylor, in San Francisco just as he had once been in Kuwait during the Gulf War or in Baltimore during his childhood. And now here he was, standing in front of the expensive yet soulless EUW Headquarters on 1337 Mission Street. It was there, looming in presence and obnoxious in how goddamn of a strain it must have put on the city to build it. Immanuel found it to be banal.
Entering the EUW Headquarters, you would find yourself with exactly what you would expect. A wide reception area with the stereotypically attractive female secretary, a clan of well-dressed white men scuffling around and, oddly, a small number of tourists. It’s wide and spacious and that’s it.
“I don’t recall seeing someone your age coming here for a Trial match” The secretary was trying to be kind and conservationist. Immanuel mistook her tone for hostility and refuted from vocally communicating with her. Unfortunately, Immanuel’s lack of a social life left him absolutely retarded when it came to social situations. Combat in Kuwait was easier for Immanuel than holding a conversation with an attractive woman. 10 minutes of mobility followed with Immanuel taking the stairs up to the 8th floor and then taking one of the elevators there, isolated from the rest, to 9th floor. This elevator was the only way you could access the 9th floor.
“Name?”
“Immanuel Taylor”
“Date of application sent in?”
“Sent it at…uh…around August”
“I need a specific date”
“Late August to Early September.”
“I need a specific day, otherwise I can’t run you through the database.”
“Ok” Immanuel paused. No eye contact thus far. “The Ninth”
“Of August or September?”
“September”
The verbal chess game between Immanuel Taylor and a physically fit male administrator took a pause as the administrator vigorously thumped at his keyboard. Immanuel took a look around him. The vestibule wasn’t much, especially compared to the extravagance of the headquarter reception area. Then again, not many tourists would want to access this area. They wouldn’t even know how.
“Ok. Yeah, I got you here. Immanuel Taylor. Mr. Kennedy put you in at the last minute. Ok. Second door on the right. Locker-room will be to your right just as you go in. You’ll find some standard wrestling attire there. After that, go join the others. You’re early so you can spare some minutes ”
Whether the person in charge of running names in databases was a full-time secretary or not wasn’t clear to Immanuel. His body is clearly an antithesis to something you would expect to find in a person with a sedentary profession. Immanuel noticed how his eyes were circling all around Immanuel, most likely due to his age. 42 years old. Not something you would expect in a novice. Immanuel could smell the stench of judgment and bewilderment off the physically fit male secretary, much younger than himself. He made his way to the second door in the right, took the right-hand path immediately after entering and barged into the general locker room. 5 other novice wrestlers getting ready All young and naïve enough to entertain the possibility of “making” it in the EUW. Immanuel, by a sharp contrast, had a sober and weary look on him, in addition to his loner visage.
All the lockers were fastened shut and Immanuel had to hide his small Puma bag under the bench. His passport was in it along with other items including a loaf of bread and a carton of milk and his cherished copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Alas, Immanuel would have to accept the fact that he can leave them all here without a worry of them getting stolen. He quickly slipped into one of the generic black classic wrestling attires prevalent here, more attires than wrestlers, and piled his clothes over his bag to conceal it. Immanuel was an army man so he is able to be both resourceful and quick and thus finished all the customary prerequisites before heading out of the locker-room via an adjoining wooden door to the gymnasium area.
If you took one look at what the EUW had for the purposes of testing EUW hopefuls, then you would conclude that EUW had the money to test as much as EUW hopefuls as it would deem necessary. The vastness of this place took you by surprise, especially compared to the relating pitiful vestibule. The gymnasium area had the stereotypical look of a rundown gym but had several modern additions to it, such as a 50 inch LCD that projected what occurred in the ring due to connectivity to a camera overlooking the ring. Other than its vastness, it did not have much to comment on. Immanuel, keeping to himself and not making eye contact, made his way to the cluster of hopeful EUW applicants.
The chosen few that were present weren’t that much in number. An even Ten standing present plus the five still getting dressed plus the awkwardly squeezed in Immanuel Taylor. Every year, EUW hand-picks the fifteen best applications it gets. The fifteen applicants then come here and go through trial matches, individually. Of these fifteen applicants, at most two would get signed and their corresponding applications green-lit. The EUW is notorious for its rigid entrance regulations. This year, however, there were sixteen applicants. The hands of fate somehow threw Immanuel Taylor in there.
The supervising coaches and trainers, six in total, were just as startled by the 42-year old Immanuel as the ten present applicants. Their faces young and handsome, his is rugged and ugly. Their bodies tough and well-rounded, his tough but hard-wired and razor sharp like a rusty knife. Their faces full of their ambition, his full of ambiguity and also has a tinge of obvious sadness to it. These kids were young and hopeful of what life has to offer them, Immanuel on the other hand was middle-aged and had a very strong aroma of experience that we tend to associate with older and wiser people.
Ten minutes. Exactly ten minutes before the leader instructor or teacher made his way into the ring and, without any amplifier or instrument, made his voice resonate.
“Ok kids” He had a scruffy mustache that went well with his toned body. “Now you’ve all been approved for a trial match here and I’m sure all of you know how goddamned difficult it is. In the next two hours, all of you are going to be subjected to a series of what we like to call Observational Physicality Testing.” The OVT label, unlike his moustache, didn’t go well with his image. Too posh and fancy for him but he nonetheless continued on. “All of you are going to be put in a real-life wrestling environment that would be dependent on your wrestling style. There are five instructors here, each representing a distinct wrestling style. Six instructors for five wrestling styles. Submission and Technicality, Powerhouse, High-Flying, Hardcore, Traditional and Ground and Pound, and finally the showman and dirty style of professional wrestling.”
Another instructor, with an equal mustache and muscle tone, took to speaking now. All attention diverted to him. “Now as you all now, with the nature of Professional Wrestling being more attentive to the entertainment aspect, a greater emphasis will be put upon the final wrestling style. The one thing people hate more than a jackass is an uncharismatic jackass. We’re going to start with that before moving on to the next instructor and the next wrestling style.”
Out of the fifteen applicants plus the unusual Immanuel Taylor, 7 were high-flyers and fittingly young, 3 were showmen, 1 was an obvious powerhouse, and 2 were in the Hardcore domain. Immanuel was the only one who applied to either Submission and Technicality or Traditional and Ground and Pound. 70 minutes had passed on like clockwork. The 3 showmen did fairly poorly. Two were obviously not charismatic or incendiary enough to be on national television and the last one was notable at best. The exercises for this type of wrestling style baffled Immanuel Taylor, a dinosaur in this class of young EUW studs. Wrestling wasn’t enough here, you had to carry yourself an extra mile. You had to have that cocky look on you, the occasional smug here and there, and the contagious self-confidence. Immanuel watched completely baffled.
The two hardcore junkies and one powerhouse were predictable except for the instance where one of the hardcore junkies actually shied away from getting physically involved with a steel chair. After his trial match, he along with everyone else here knew he wasn’t making it in. Neither was the other hardcore junkie nor the powerhouse who held his own but didn’t awe or wow anyone. Immanuel watched fascinated, as if he had stumbled upon a new species. The 7 high flyers all took turns and, in fairness, one of them was very impressive compared to the average-ness of the rest. He was quick and prone to a quick response when called for one and, most important of all, he had the looks you would need in order to succeed on national television. The other pupils were jealous of him.
Except Immanuel. Weird, old, creepy Immanuel Taylor whose turn came up with the odd mention of words such as “Traditional” and “Ground and Pound”. Everyone, those who did good, those who flunked, those who were unsure and the one guy who did great, looked on with a mixture of trepidation and interest at this thing that made its way to the ring. Immanuel walked funny when compared to how a normal human being usually walks. The lack of eye contact is rigid and prevalent, the shoulders are hunched defensively and he tends to speed up for no reason at certain intervals. Immanuel eventually made his way into the ring and stood face-to-face with the trainer. From the corner of his eye, Immanuel could see that the other pupils had lost interest in him. Especially the ones who knew they weren’t going to have their applications green-lit.
“Ok….Immanuel.” The Traditional and Ground and Pound trainer began, mispronouncing ‘Immanuel’ “We’re going to begin with a Hammerlock and you’ll lead from there. Give me all you’ve got and I’ll act accordingly to whatever you do. The object here is to pin me to the ground and lock in a submission hold and keep it locked in for twenty seconds. I’ll do everything I can to block and reverse. If I get a submission on you and hold it for 20 seconds then you’re out. Ropebreaks are permissible.”
With a nod from Immanuel, both men took their positions. Each put their strong leg backwards and leaned on the other one. The trainer, again with the moustache present, taunted by appearing to move forward in an attempt to get Immanuel off-balance. Immanuel held his ground but the second he paid the faintest attention to the other pupils, hungrily watching the creepy old man get his ass handed to him, the nameless trainer capitalized and went for the right arm, twisting it and locking in a hammerlock. Sharp, cringe-worthy pain in Immanuel’s shoulder. Immanuel’s been in this position a countless number of times in a countless number of local gyms. What to do? Elbow the guy in the face? No. Go for something more stylish.
Immanuel dropped down to his bottom and, channeling the strength in this rigid body while taking advantage of the trainer’s resulting imbalance, flung him over his shoulder and onto the ground in front. The trainer, quicker and younger, rolling backwards and placing his legs around Immanuel’s neck before converting it into a head scissors. Brief images of Kuwait flashed through Immanuel’s mind. 5 seconds so far the submission has been locked in. Sharp reaction by Immanuel, pushing forward and getting the trainer on his back while the head scissors is still locked in. Immanuel twists sideways and locks in a disfigured Cloverleaf with his knees pressed on the trainer’s back. The 20 second time ceiling restarts, this time in Immanuel’s favor. The trainer, expecting a submission hold of this kind, lets go of the head scissors but quickly grabs Immanuel’s ankle and, wedging himself out from under Immanuel’s pressed knee, pulls Immanuel’s forward and locks in an ankle lock.
Immanuel grabs the rope. The trainer lets go. Both men back up, face to face. The trainer now taking the lead again, challenging Immanuel to a test of strength. Immanuel walking into it. The instructor obtains control by pushing backwards, targeting both Immanuel’s wrists and lower back. Immanuel’s chest protracts, Immanuel down on his knees but the instructor lets go and grabs his head before locking in a grounded headlock. The submission time ceiling flicks on. 1 second. Immanuel attempting to get out. 2 seconds. The instructor converts it into a crippler crossface with impressive speed. Immanuel’s neck now being bridged, pulled backwards awkwardly. Veins appearing in his neck. The submission time limit at 11 seconds now.
Immanuel’s comparatively thin arm is able to slip out from in-between the instructor’s legs. Immanuel being able to get both hands around the instructor’s side and intersecting at the opposite side. 13 seconds. The instructor holds on but Immanuel gets his legs over his body. 15 seconds. Immanuel, with all his impetus, breaks free of the crippler and locks in a Kimura Reverse Key-Lock. The instructor unfamiliar with this maneuver and begins panicking. His mouth is pressed under Immanuel’s chest and he begins biting into Immanuel. Immanuel takes it for a defensive maneuver rather than a cry for help and instead puts more pressure, affecting both the shoulder and elbow of the instructor.
The other instructors now getting suspicious. The instructor begins thrashing around attempting to get Immanuel from off him and escape this eccentric submission maneuver. Immanuel, blissfully ignorant, holding resilient. The instructor thrashing and biting harder and harder into Immanuel’s chest, blood appearing. Flashes of a past life emerge in Immanuel’s mind, stronger and stronger with the pain from the perpetual bite. The instructor now attempting to do whatever it takes to get out of the hold. Thrashing around, nudging Immanuel’s still body. Immanuel, in response, pushes harder and harder on the maneuver. Harder and harder. Harder and harder. Harder and harder. Visions in Immanuel’s head stronger than ever.
The other instructors catch a glimpse of the blood and leap into the ring, screaming at Immanuel. All of them mispronouncing “Immanuel”. Immanuel doubles over and lets go. The instructor’s teeth ripped off from Immanuel’s chest as the instructor screams, screams, screams, and screams endlessly. Immanuel, confused, looks on as the other pupils enter the ring. The very same instructor yelling out to his god, breathing heavily with tears pouring down his eyes and blood, Immanuel’s blood, from his mouth and teeth. The other instructors attempting to salvage the situation as the pupils attempt to vainly help. Immanuel ,sitting on his bottom in one of the corners, continues to stare on confused. Everything is like one of those “out-of-body” experiences for Immanuel, just until he snapped back to reality and understood what he had done.
He had dislocated both the elbow and the shoulder of the instructor.
Trial Match
It is what it is. A Trial Match. Immanuel Taylor, a 42 year-old EUW hopeful whose application is still in the process of being reviewed by EUW headquarters after a disastrous interview with Chad Kennedy, had spent the last remainder of days wandering the Mission District of San Francisco. He often slept in the alcoves, sheltered from the pouring rain, and spent most of his time in the little obscure café behind the Mission San Francisco De Asis, eating his edible eggs and always-freshly brewed coffee served to him by Nadine the waitress who may or may not be an aspiring actress in disguise. She certainly does have the body for acting, Immanuel noticed. Perhaps even a ballerina. Or maybe she’s just a waitress.
Only on the night before the trial match did Immanuel seek proper shelter. He used the remainder of his money to book a room at The Hotel Tropicana at the Mission Dolores on Valencia Street. The room was pitiful but sufficient. Immanuel got some proper sleep, showered and even bathed in the morning, shaved and mentally prepared himself. Here he was, Immanuel Taylor, in San Francisco just as he had once been in Kuwait during the Gulf War or in Baltimore during his childhood. And now here he was, standing in front of the expensive yet soulless EUW Headquarters on 1337 Mission Street. It was there, looming in presence and obnoxious in how goddamn of a strain it must have put on the city to build it. Immanuel found it to be banal.
Entering the EUW Headquarters, you would find yourself with exactly what you would expect. A wide reception area with the stereotypically attractive female secretary, a clan of well-dressed white men scuffling around and, oddly, a small number of tourists. It’s wide and spacious and that’s it.
“I don’t recall seeing someone your age coming here for a Trial match” The secretary was trying to be kind and conservationist. Immanuel mistook her tone for hostility and refuted from vocally communicating with her. Unfortunately, Immanuel’s lack of a social life left him absolutely retarded when it came to social situations. Combat in Kuwait was easier for Immanuel than holding a conversation with an attractive woman. 10 minutes of mobility followed with Immanuel taking the stairs up to the 8th floor and then taking one of the elevators there, isolated from the rest, to 9th floor. This elevator was the only way you could access the 9th floor.
“Name?”
“Immanuel Taylor”
“Date of application sent in?”
“Sent it at…uh…around August”
“I need a specific date”
“Late August to Early September.”
“I need a specific day, otherwise I can’t run you through the database.”
“Ok” Immanuel paused. No eye contact thus far. “The Ninth”
“Of August or September?”
“September”
The verbal chess game between Immanuel Taylor and a physically fit male administrator took a pause as the administrator vigorously thumped at his keyboard. Immanuel took a look around him. The vestibule wasn’t much, especially compared to the extravagance of the headquarter reception area. Then again, not many tourists would want to access this area. They wouldn’t even know how.
“Ok. Yeah, I got you here. Immanuel Taylor. Mr. Kennedy put you in at the last minute. Ok. Second door on the right. Locker-room will be to your right just as you go in. You’ll find some standard wrestling attire there. After that, go join the others. You’re early so you can spare some minutes ”
Whether the person in charge of running names in databases was a full-time secretary or not wasn’t clear to Immanuel. His body is clearly an antithesis to something you would expect to find in a person with a sedentary profession. Immanuel noticed how his eyes were circling all around Immanuel, most likely due to his age. 42 years old. Not something you would expect in a novice. Immanuel could smell the stench of judgment and bewilderment off the physically fit male secretary, much younger than himself. He made his way to the second door in the right, took the right-hand path immediately after entering and barged into the general locker room. 5 other novice wrestlers getting ready All young and naïve enough to entertain the possibility of “making” it in the EUW. Immanuel, by a sharp contrast, had a sober and weary look on him, in addition to his loner visage.
All the lockers were fastened shut and Immanuel had to hide his small Puma bag under the bench. His passport was in it along with other items including a loaf of bread and a carton of milk and his cherished copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Alas, Immanuel would have to accept the fact that he can leave them all here without a worry of them getting stolen. He quickly slipped into one of the generic black classic wrestling attires prevalent here, more attires than wrestlers, and piled his clothes over his bag to conceal it. Immanuel was an army man so he is able to be both resourceful and quick and thus finished all the customary prerequisites before heading out of the locker-room via an adjoining wooden door to the gymnasium area.
If you took one look at what the EUW had for the purposes of testing EUW hopefuls, then you would conclude that EUW had the money to test as much as EUW hopefuls as it would deem necessary. The vastness of this place took you by surprise, especially compared to the relating pitiful vestibule. The gymnasium area had the stereotypical look of a rundown gym but had several modern additions to it, such as a 50 inch LCD that projected what occurred in the ring due to connectivity to a camera overlooking the ring. Other than its vastness, it did not have much to comment on. Immanuel, keeping to himself and not making eye contact, made his way to the cluster of hopeful EUW applicants.
The chosen few that were present weren’t that much in number. An even Ten standing present plus the five still getting dressed plus the awkwardly squeezed in Immanuel Taylor. Every year, EUW hand-picks the fifteen best applications it gets. The fifteen applicants then come here and go through trial matches, individually. Of these fifteen applicants, at most two would get signed and their corresponding applications green-lit. The EUW is notorious for its rigid entrance regulations. This year, however, there were sixteen applicants. The hands of fate somehow threw Immanuel Taylor in there.
The supervising coaches and trainers, six in total, were just as startled by the 42-year old Immanuel as the ten present applicants. Their faces young and handsome, his is rugged and ugly. Their bodies tough and well-rounded, his tough but hard-wired and razor sharp like a rusty knife. Their faces full of their ambition, his full of ambiguity and also has a tinge of obvious sadness to it. These kids were young and hopeful of what life has to offer them, Immanuel on the other hand was middle-aged and had a very strong aroma of experience that we tend to associate with older and wiser people.
Ten minutes. Exactly ten minutes before the leader instructor or teacher made his way into the ring and, without any amplifier or instrument, made his voice resonate.
“Ok kids” He had a scruffy mustache that went well with his toned body. “Now you’ve all been approved for a trial match here and I’m sure all of you know how goddamned difficult it is. In the next two hours, all of you are going to be subjected to a series of what we like to call Observational Physicality Testing.” The OVT label, unlike his moustache, didn’t go well with his image. Too posh and fancy for him but he nonetheless continued on. “All of you are going to be put in a real-life wrestling environment that would be dependent on your wrestling style. There are five instructors here, each representing a distinct wrestling style. Six instructors for five wrestling styles. Submission and Technicality, Powerhouse, High-Flying, Hardcore, Traditional and Ground and Pound, and finally the showman and dirty style of professional wrestling.”
Another instructor, with an equal mustache and muscle tone, took to speaking now. All attention diverted to him. “Now as you all now, with the nature of Professional Wrestling being more attentive to the entertainment aspect, a greater emphasis will be put upon the final wrestling style. The one thing people hate more than a jackass is an uncharismatic jackass. We’re going to start with that before moving on to the next instructor and the next wrestling style.”
Out of the fifteen applicants plus the unusual Immanuel Taylor, 7 were high-flyers and fittingly young, 3 were showmen, 1 was an obvious powerhouse, and 2 were in the Hardcore domain. Immanuel was the only one who applied to either Submission and Technicality or Traditional and Ground and Pound. 70 minutes had passed on like clockwork. The 3 showmen did fairly poorly. Two were obviously not charismatic or incendiary enough to be on national television and the last one was notable at best. The exercises for this type of wrestling style baffled Immanuel Taylor, a dinosaur in this class of young EUW studs. Wrestling wasn’t enough here, you had to carry yourself an extra mile. You had to have that cocky look on you, the occasional smug here and there, and the contagious self-confidence. Immanuel watched completely baffled.
The two hardcore junkies and one powerhouse were predictable except for the instance where one of the hardcore junkies actually shied away from getting physically involved with a steel chair. After his trial match, he along with everyone else here knew he wasn’t making it in. Neither was the other hardcore junkie nor the powerhouse who held his own but didn’t awe or wow anyone. Immanuel watched fascinated, as if he had stumbled upon a new species. The 7 high flyers all took turns and, in fairness, one of them was very impressive compared to the average-ness of the rest. He was quick and prone to a quick response when called for one and, most important of all, he had the looks you would need in order to succeed on national television. The other pupils were jealous of him.
Except Immanuel. Weird, old, creepy Immanuel Taylor whose turn came up with the odd mention of words such as “Traditional” and “Ground and Pound”. Everyone, those who did good, those who flunked, those who were unsure and the one guy who did great, looked on with a mixture of trepidation and interest at this thing that made its way to the ring. Immanuel walked funny when compared to how a normal human being usually walks. The lack of eye contact is rigid and prevalent, the shoulders are hunched defensively and he tends to speed up for no reason at certain intervals. Immanuel eventually made his way into the ring and stood face-to-face with the trainer. From the corner of his eye, Immanuel could see that the other pupils had lost interest in him. Especially the ones who knew they weren’t going to have their applications green-lit.
“Ok….Immanuel.” The Traditional and Ground and Pound trainer began, mispronouncing ‘Immanuel’ “We’re going to begin with a Hammerlock and you’ll lead from there. Give me all you’ve got and I’ll act accordingly to whatever you do. The object here is to pin me to the ground and lock in a submission hold and keep it locked in for twenty seconds. I’ll do everything I can to block and reverse. If I get a submission on you and hold it for 20 seconds then you’re out. Ropebreaks are permissible.”
With a nod from Immanuel, both men took their positions. Each put their strong leg backwards and leaned on the other one. The trainer, again with the moustache present, taunted by appearing to move forward in an attempt to get Immanuel off-balance. Immanuel held his ground but the second he paid the faintest attention to the other pupils, hungrily watching the creepy old man get his ass handed to him, the nameless trainer capitalized and went for the right arm, twisting it and locking in a hammerlock. Sharp, cringe-worthy pain in Immanuel’s shoulder. Immanuel’s been in this position a countless number of times in a countless number of local gyms. What to do? Elbow the guy in the face? No. Go for something more stylish.
Immanuel dropped down to his bottom and, channeling the strength in this rigid body while taking advantage of the trainer’s resulting imbalance, flung him over his shoulder and onto the ground in front. The trainer, quicker and younger, rolling backwards and placing his legs around Immanuel’s neck before converting it into a head scissors. Brief images of Kuwait flashed through Immanuel’s mind. 5 seconds so far the submission has been locked in. Sharp reaction by Immanuel, pushing forward and getting the trainer on his back while the head scissors is still locked in. Immanuel twists sideways and locks in a disfigured Cloverleaf with his knees pressed on the trainer’s back. The 20 second time ceiling restarts, this time in Immanuel’s favor. The trainer, expecting a submission hold of this kind, lets go of the head scissors but quickly grabs Immanuel’s ankle and, wedging himself out from under Immanuel’s pressed knee, pulls Immanuel’s forward and locks in an ankle lock.
Immanuel grabs the rope. The trainer lets go. Both men back up, face to face. The trainer now taking the lead again, challenging Immanuel to a test of strength. Immanuel walking into it. The instructor obtains control by pushing backwards, targeting both Immanuel’s wrists and lower back. Immanuel’s chest protracts, Immanuel down on his knees but the instructor lets go and grabs his head before locking in a grounded headlock. The submission time ceiling flicks on. 1 second. Immanuel attempting to get out. 2 seconds. The instructor converts it into a crippler crossface with impressive speed. Immanuel’s neck now being bridged, pulled backwards awkwardly. Veins appearing in his neck. The submission time limit at 11 seconds now.
Immanuel’s comparatively thin arm is able to slip out from in-between the instructor’s legs. Immanuel being able to get both hands around the instructor’s side and intersecting at the opposite side. 13 seconds. The instructor holds on but Immanuel gets his legs over his body. 15 seconds. Immanuel, with all his impetus, breaks free of the crippler and locks in a Kimura Reverse Key-Lock. The instructor unfamiliar with this maneuver and begins panicking. His mouth is pressed under Immanuel’s chest and he begins biting into Immanuel. Immanuel takes it for a defensive maneuver rather than a cry for help and instead puts more pressure, affecting both the shoulder and elbow of the instructor.
The other instructors now getting suspicious. The instructor begins thrashing around attempting to get Immanuel from off him and escape this eccentric submission maneuver. Immanuel, blissfully ignorant, holding resilient. The instructor thrashing and biting harder and harder into Immanuel’s chest, blood appearing. Flashes of a past life emerge in Immanuel’s mind, stronger and stronger with the pain from the perpetual bite. The instructor now attempting to do whatever it takes to get out of the hold. Thrashing around, nudging Immanuel’s still body. Immanuel, in response, pushes harder and harder on the maneuver. Harder and harder. Harder and harder. Harder and harder. Visions in Immanuel’s head stronger than ever.
The other instructors catch a glimpse of the blood and leap into the ring, screaming at Immanuel. All of them mispronouncing “Immanuel”. Immanuel doubles over and lets go. The instructor’s teeth ripped off from Immanuel’s chest as the instructor screams, screams, screams, and screams endlessly. Immanuel, confused, looks on as the other pupils enter the ring. The very same instructor yelling out to his god, breathing heavily with tears pouring down his eyes and blood, Immanuel’s blood, from his mouth and teeth. The other instructors attempting to salvage the situation as the pupils attempt to vainly help. Immanuel ,sitting on his bottom in one of the corners, continues to stare on confused. Everything is like one of those “out-of-body” experiences for Immanuel, just until he snapped back to reality and understood what he had done.
He had dislocated both the elbow and the shoulder of the instructor.
