Post by irobin on Mar 21, 2011 20:53:59 GMT -5
The scene opens in a dingy bar in downtown Detroit. The walls have never been decorated, so the bare brick walls are visible for all to see, whilst the floors have been covered with an ancient carpet that no-one remembers the original colour of any more. It’s the same carpet that was laid some forty years ago when this place first opened and has since been coloured by blood stains, beer spills, cigar burns and piss. Perhaps “dingy” is an understatement, this bar is downright filthy, but that suits its clientele who generally match the décor.
It’s mid-morning on a cold Tuesday in March and whilst most people would steer clear of this place, many of its regulars are present. Some have just arrived for their first of the day; others look as if they never left the evening before. To look at them, most would say they looked like truck drivers, manual labourers and the perennially unemployed and most would be right. One man, sat at the bar staring deep into a pint of cold beer was John Blain, neither a truck driver nor a manual labourer in the typical sense, but no-one could be blamed for thinking otherwise. He was, in fact, a professional wrestler, currently struggling to make ends meet on the independent circuit, which begged the question of why he was here in this bar, drinking away what precious small little money he had.
“You got any work this week, Blain?” Asked the owner.
“No, nothing this week, I’m starting to think it might be time to get out of the game and find a normal job instead.” Blain said, still staring into his pint, “It’s been fun, but if it isn’t going to pay the bills then it’s not enough.”
“So that’s why you’re here then? Instead of looking for work?”
“Fuck you.” Blain snapped, looking up and locking eyes with the owner. “I’m here because it’s cold and there’s no damn heating to my apartment and you already know that.” He then took a sip from the beer and concluded, “Besides, I pay for this beer, same as anyone else, so what’s it to you?”
The owner shook his head and moved further down the bar, he started wiping at the wooden surface with a rag, mostly just pushing the dirt around. Blain sighed and returned to staring into his beer. Supposedly, this is what he had always wanted from life; ever since he was child he had wanted to be a professional wrestler and, for the last twelve or so years, he had been, but he was now on the wrong side of thirty and he had to start thinking about the future. He knew that, at best, he only had a few good years left in him and so far, he hadn’t made enough money to pay for heating in his apartment on a cold day, much less to have anything set aside for the future. He didn’t have much choice now, he had wrestled for some tri-state show the Saturday before, but had no bookings since and, given how infrequent the bookings had been of late, that was unlikely to change any time soon. Once the cheque cleared, he would then have to set about finding a job as a labourer somewhere. He fancied the idea of moving north and getting a job as a logger, it would give him plenty of time in the outdoors and paid surprisingly well, due to the inherent dangers of the job.
Sighing, Blain looked up from his beer around at the bar. This place was a dump, but it was more of a home to him than his apartment and whilst these faces were far from friendly, he had no desire to leave them behind any time soon. Gazing around at the unused wine bottles on the back wall, Blain felt a certain sympathy with them, they, like he, had potential that had never been tested. These bottles had never been opened and their wine could well be the best wine in the world, but no-one would ever know this because no-one would give them a chance. Instead, they were destined to remain upon this shelf until they were eventually discarded. Blain couldn’t help but feel the same way. The rest of the bar was half-heartedly following the television at the end of the bar, which, as it was the off season, had to make do with sports from other countries that never managed to capture the attention of the regulars in the same way. Currently, the bar was loosely following a sport known to the British as “football”, but to the rest of the world as “soccer”, because football was a man’s game and this game was played by a bunch of girls instead. Lots of aimless running, showmanship, long hair and low, low scores had always put Blain off of it as a sport, but with little choice, he was forced to watch it for as long as it was on.
Time passed slowly in this place and conversation was a rarity, but the room was warm enough and the prices were pretty reasonable, so Blain couldn’t complain too much about it. He had been coming here for years and was a part of the furniture. In fact, he had been here longer than the majority of the furniture in this particular joint, because it often ended up being broken whenever a fight broke out and it was usually up to Blain and his partner, Eric Anderson, to stub out any such problems before they drew any police attention. This usually involved Blain and Anderson taking the troublemakers out back and beating the crap out of them, but sometimes they needed a bit of “necessary” force, so a bar stool or pool cue would become an unwilling participant in their own particular brand of rough justice. In truth, Blain came here exclusively for his role as occasional bouncer, but it wasn’t a paid position and money was becoming a more and more pressing issue for him.
“Give me another one” Said Blain, passing the empty glass back to the owner, who diligently filled it up and returned it as Blain slid some coins across the bar to him in exchange. Before Blain can take a sip, the door to the bar opens and natural light pours in, illuminating the dank room, some of its recipients recoiling from the brightness of it, others withdrawing to the sides of the room, away from the gust of wind now blowing into the place, scattering cigarette butts and rubbish across the floor. A man enters, slamming the door behind him and approaching the bar, requesting two large bourbons. He sets one down on the counter next to Blain, then slaps him across the back and sits on the stool next to him.
“Good news, buddy!” The man says, holding the bourbon up towards Blain.
Blain stares at the drink and grunts, “Has your ex-wife finally died?”
“Better than that,” the other man replied, smiling, “I’ve found us some work.”
Blain blinks and finally turns to face the man sat next to him. This man is Eric Anderson, his long-time tag partner, drinking buddy and occasional friend.
“Work? Proper work, or is this like that time you got us jobs at that homeless shelter?”
“Man, will you let that go already, John boy?” Anderson shakes his head, “I make one mistake and you complain about it forever. Of course this is proper work, with contracts and money and everything. It’s the real deal, man; this is exactly what we have been looking for.”
Blain nods, “Alright then, tell me about it.”
“Well, it’s this big company, totally legit, man. They’re called Extreme United Wrestling and they’ve been going for a few years. Had some rough spots but they’re going good now, from strength to strength or something. Anyway, they brought in some tag team titles at the start of the year, but they’re lacking in experience tag teams and that’s where we come in.”
“Right, so what’s the deal with this place? ‘Extreme’ United Wrestling? Is it really extreme or is that just the name?”
“Hard to say, really, they’ve got this PPV coming up in a fortnight and they’ve got a few extreme matches there. Some hardcore battle royal, a five man ladder match and a hell in a cell among a few normal matches on the card for the event, so they’re at least a bit extreme. Not exactly flaming scaffold matches, but this isn’t Japan, so of course it’s going to be a bit tame.”
“More’s the pity.”
“Hell yeah. Still, it’s work and if their tag division’s just getting going then we want to be in there early before it fills up. From what I’ve seen, they’ve got plenty of guys there that like a good fight even if it’s just standard rules. It should be fun!”
Blain nods, he raises the glass of bourbon towards Anderson and the two chink glasses, knocking back the dark liquor and slamming the empty glasses back down onto the counter.
“Alright,” Said Blain, “It sounds good, looks like we might need to put in some practice first, and we’ll need a new name, too.”
“A new name? You can’t be serious.” Anderson said, “What’s wrong with our current name? It suits us perfectly!”
“Yeah, but that shit won’t fly here in the states, no-one’s going to care about ‘The unorthodox tag team stylings of Eric Anderson and John Blain’. Hell, most American commentators wouldn’t be able to spit out that mouthful without tripping over themselves at least twice and the fans sure won’t take to it.”
Anderson sighed, he has originally suggested the name and it had been well-received so far, but he understood what Blain was saying well enough. They both needed the work and, more importantly, the money, and if that meant that they had to change a few things to suit the circumstances, then so be it. Anderson was a flexible man that easily adapted to new and bizarre situations; this was just another one he would have to overcome.
“So, what do you suggest then, John boy?”
“I suggest you stop calling me that before I break your face.” Blain said, he had always been the most volatile member of the team, prone to outbursts such as this. He also hated being called “John boy”, but Anderson took no such notice.
“Noted.” Anderson said. “Do you have any ideas for a team name then? ‘Anderson and Blain’ is too dull and merging them together gives us… ‘Blanderson’… Which says that we’re as bland as plain white bread. Hey… How about ‘Plain White Bread’ as a name?”
“You’re a fucking idiot, Eric. You know that?”
“You tell me at least once a day, but I choose to hear ‘I love you Eric, you’re my bro’ because that’s what you should be saying.”
“Fuck, man, you have issues.”
“I’m not the one that has to strive to be a loner, instead of opening up to those closest to him.”
“Gentlemen,” began the owner, staring intently at Anderson and Blain, “This bar ain’t for queer folk, so either knock that off, or I’ll be asking you to leave.”
“God damn it, Eric. Look what you’ve done!”
“What I’ve done? I’ve found us work and this is how you react? Why do I even waste my time with you?”
Blain instantly jumps up, ready to fight when another patron pats him on the shoulder, “Easy there John, no need to get all riled up. Little Eric’s just doing his best, same as you.”
Blain sighs and sits back down, the pair sitting quietly, staring at their drink for a few moments before Blain interrupts the silence. “So we need a new name. You got any good ideas?”
Eric leant back, thinking. “How about… ‘Forty Proof’?”
“You’re just reading that off of that bottle of rum.”
“Alright, how about… ‘Broken Bottles’ then? Or ‘The Bar Stools’?”
“Those are both crap. Are you just looking at shit in this bar and trying to use it as a name? You have to think a little. You can’t just look at the carpet and decide to call us ‘Piss stains and vomit’, because, frankly, that’s a fucking stupid name.”
“I wouldn’t have suggested ‘Piss stains and vomit’ because it’s a terrible name.”
Eric was going to suggest that next. He would be henceforth known as ‘vomit’ and Blain would be the illustrious ‘piss stains’.
Blain sighed, “This stuff isn’t easy. I need another drink.”
As the bar owner sorted Blain out with a refill, Anderson continued to stare around the bar, looking for inspiration. “No Smoking” was as bad a name for a tag team as “Sticky Table” or “Ceiling Fan”, but Anderson wasn’t that creative really. He sighed and gulped down the remainder of his beer, gesticulation towards the television. “So what’s this rubbish, then?”
“Well, old bean,” Blain responded in a posh, upper class British accent, “This is the noble English game of football, watched by prince and peasant alike.”
“Soccer, I knew it.”
“It’s actually from Australia, not England” the owner chimed in.
“Whatever,” replied Anderson, “It’s still soccer.”
“Tell me about it,” began Blain, speaking in his normal accent, “They run around for an hour or two, kick the ball and then everyone goes home a loser. Even if some of the little shits manage to win, then they’re still losers. It’s a crappy game for girls.”
Anderson shakes his head, clearly disapproving of this supposed “sport” being shown on television, but both he and Blain are watching it anyway. As they were watching, one player slid in with a terrible tackle on another, almost breaking his leg, sending the entire bar up in waves of disgust, recoiling in horror. Perhaps this wasn’t such a girly game any more, with tackles like these.
“That was brutal,” Blain said, staring at the repeats. “That’s fucking assault.”
Anderson nods, still watching, “How about ‘Violent Conduct’ for a name?”
“What? ‘Violent Conduct’… I like it. Where did you get that from?”
“The soccer. They said something about that guy getting suspended for violent conduct or something… Sounds like an ideal name for us.”
“Hell yeah. That’ll do nicely.” Blain stood up, raising his drink in the air, “The EUW had best get ready then, because Violent Conduct are coming to town!”
Anderson stood up next to him, raising his glass to the sky, “I’ll drink to that!”
It’s mid-morning on a cold Tuesday in March and whilst most people would steer clear of this place, many of its regulars are present. Some have just arrived for their first of the day; others look as if they never left the evening before. To look at them, most would say they looked like truck drivers, manual labourers and the perennially unemployed and most would be right. One man, sat at the bar staring deep into a pint of cold beer was John Blain, neither a truck driver nor a manual labourer in the typical sense, but no-one could be blamed for thinking otherwise. He was, in fact, a professional wrestler, currently struggling to make ends meet on the independent circuit, which begged the question of why he was here in this bar, drinking away what precious small little money he had.
“You got any work this week, Blain?” Asked the owner.
“No, nothing this week, I’m starting to think it might be time to get out of the game and find a normal job instead.” Blain said, still staring into his pint, “It’s been fun, but if it isn’t going to pay the bills then it’s not enough.”
“So that’s why you’re here then? Instead of looking for work?”
“Fuck you.” Blain snapped, looking up and locking eyes with the owner. “I’m here because it’s cold and there’s no damn heating to my apartment and you already know that.” He then took a sip from the beer and concluded, “Besides, I pay for this beer, same as anyone else, so what’s it to you?”
The owner shook his head and moved further down the bar, he started wiping at the wooden surface with a rag, mostly just pushing the dirt around. Blain sighed and returned to staring into his beer. Supposedly, this is what he had always wanted from life; ever since he was child he had wanted to be a professional wrestler and, for the last twelve or so years, he had been, but he was now on the wrong side of thirty and he had to start thinking about the future. He knew that, at best, he only had a few good years left in him and so far, he hadn’t made enough money to pay for heating in his apartment on a cold day, much less to have anything set aside for the future. He didn’t have much choice now, he had wrestled for some tri-state show the Saturday before, but had no bookings since and, given how infrequent the bookings had been of late, that was unlikely to change any time soon. Once the cheque cleared, he would then have to set about finding a job as a labourer somewhere. He fancied the idea of moving north and getting a job as a logger, it would give him plenty of time in the outdoors and paid surprisingly well, due to the inherent dangers of the job.
Sighing, Blain looked up from his beer around at the bar. This place was a dump, but it was more of a home to him than his apartment and whilst these faces were far from friendly, he had no desire to leave them behind any time soon. Gazing around at the unused wine bottles on the back wall, Blain felt a certain sympathy with them, they, like he, had potential that had never been tested. These bottles had never been opened and their wine could well be the best wine in the world, but no-one would ever know this because no-one would give them a chance. Instead, they were destined to remain upon this shelf until they were eventually discarded. Blain couldn’t help but feel the same way. The rest of the bar was half-heartedly following the television at the end of the bar, which, as it was the off season, had to make do with sports from other countries that never managed to capture the attention of the regulars in the same way. Currently, the bar was loosely following a sport known to the British as “football”, but to the rest of the world as “soccer”, because football was a man’s game and this game was played by a bunch of girls instead. Lots of aimless running, showmanship, long hair and low, low scores had always put Blain off of it as a sport, but with little choice, he was forced to watch it for as long as it was on.
Time passed slowly in this place and conversation was a rarity, but the room was warm enough and the prices were pretty reasonable, so Blain couldn’t complain too much about it. He had been coming here for years and was a part of the furniture. In fact, he had been here longer than the majority of the furniture in this particular joint, because it often ended up being broken whenever a fight broke out and it was usually up to Blain and his partner, Eric Anderson, to stub out any such problems before they drew any police attention. This usually involved Blain and Anderson taking the troublemakers out back and beating the crap out of them, but sometimes they needed a bit of “necessary” force, so a bar stool or pool cue would become an unwilling participant in their own particular brand of rough justice. In truth, Blain came here exclusively for his role as occasional bouncer, but it wasn’t a paid position and money was becoming a more and more pressing issue for him.
“Give me another one” Said Blain, passing the empty glass back to the owner, who diligently filled it up and returned it as Blain slid some coins across the bar to him in exchange. Before Blain can take a sip, the door to the bar opens and natural light pours in, illuminating the dank room, some of its recipients recoiling from the brightness of it, others withdrawing to the sides of the room, away from the gust of wind now blowing into the place, scattering cigarette butts and rubbish across the floor. A man enters, slamming the door behind him and approaching the bar, requesting two large bourbons. He sets one down on the counter next to Blain, then slaps him across the back and sits on the stool next to him.
“Good news, buddy!” The man says, holding the bourbon up towards Blain.
Blain stares at the drink and grunts, “Has your ex-wife finally died?”
“Better than that,” the other man replied, smiling, “I’ve found us some work.”
Blain blinks and finally turns to face the man sat next to him. This man is Eric Anderson, his long-time tag partner, drinking buddy and occasional friend.
“Work? Proper work, or is this like that time you got us jobs at that homeless shelter?”
“Man, will you let that go already, John boy?” Anderson shakes his head, “I make one mistake and you complain about it forever. Of course this is proper work, with contracts and money and everything. It’s the real deal, man; this is exactly what we have been looking for.”
Blain nods, “Alright then, tell me about it.”
“Well, it’s this big company, totally legit, man. They’re called Extreme United Wrestling and they’ve been going for a few years. Had some rough spots but they’re going good now, from strength to strength or something. Anyway, they brought in some tag team titles at the start of the year, but they’re lacking in experience tag teams and that’s where we come in.”
“Right, so what’s the deal with this place? ‘Extreme’ United Wrestling? Is it really extreme or is that just the name?”
“Hard to say, really, they’ve got this PPV coming up in a fortnight and they’ve got a few extreme matches there. Some hardcore battle royal, a five man ladder match and a hell in a cell among a few normal matches on the card for the event, so they’re at least a bit extreme. Not exactly flaming scaffold matches, but this isn’t Japan, so of course it’s going to be a bit tame.”
“More’s the pity.”
“Hell yeah. Still, it’s work and if their tag division’s just getting going then we want to be in there early before it fills up. From what I’ve seen, they’ve got plenty of guys there that like a good fight even if it’s just standard rules. It should be fun!”
Blain nods, he raises the glass of bourbon towards Anderson and the two chink glasses, knocking back the dark liquor and slamming the empty glasses back down onto the counter.
“Alright,” Said Blain, “It sounds good, looks like we might need to put in some practice first, and we’ll need a new name, too.”
“A new name? You can’t be serious.” Anderson said, “What’s wrong with our current name? It suits us perfectly!”
“Yeah, but that shit won’t fly here in the states, no-one’s going to care about ‘The unorthodox tag team stylings of Eric Anderson and John Blain’. Hell, most American commentators wouldn’t be able to spit out that mouthful without tripping over themselves at least twice and the fans sure won’t take to it.”
Anderson sighed, he has originally suggested the name and it had been well-received so far, but he understood what Blain was saying well enough. They both needed the work and, more importantly, the money, and if that meant that they had to change a few things to suit the circumstances, then so be it. Anderson was a flexible man that easily adapted to new and bizarre situations; this was just another one he would have to overcome.
“So, what do you suggest then, John boy?”
“I suggest you stop calling me that before I break your face.” Blain said, he had always been the most volatile member of the team, prone to outbursts such as this. He also hated being called “John boy”, but Anderson took no such notice.
“Noted.” Anderson said. “Do you have any ideas for a team name then? ‘Anderson and Blain’ is too dull and merging them together gives us… ‘Blanderson’… Which says that we’re as bland as plain white bread. Hey… How about ‘Plain White Bread’ as a name?”
“You’re a fucking idiot, Eric. You know that?”
“You tell me at least once a day, but I choose to hear ‘I love you Eric, you’re my bro’ because that’s what you should be saying.”
“Fuck, man, you have issues.”
“I’m not the one that has to strive to be a loner, instead of opening up to those closest to him.”
“Gentlemen,” began the owner, staring intently at Anderson and Blain, “This bar ain’t for queer folk, so either knock that off, or I’ll be asking you to leave.”
“God damn it, Eric. Look what you’ve done!”
“What I’ve done? I’ve found us work and this is how you react? Why do I even waste my time with you?”
Blain instantly jumps up, ready to fight when another patron pats him on the shoulder, “Easy there John, no need to get all riled up. Little Eric’s just doing his best, same as you.”
Blain sighs and sits back down, the pair sitting quietly, staring at their drink for a few moments before Blain interrupts the silence. “So we need a new name. You got any good ideas?”
Eric leant back, thinking. “How about… ‘Forty Proof’?”
“You’re just reading that off of that bottle of rum.”
“Alright, how about… ‘Broken Bottles’ then? Or ‘The Bar Stools’?”
“Those are both crap. Are you just looking at shit in this bar and trying to use it as a name? You have to think a little. You can’t just look at the carpet and decide to call us ‘Piss stains and vomit’, because, frankly, that’s a fucking stupid name.”
“I wouldn’t have suggested ‘Piss stains and vomit’ because it’s a terrible name.”
Eric was going to suggest that next. He would be henceforth known as ‘vomit’ and Blain would be the illustrious ‘piss stains’.
Blain sighed, “This stuff isn’t easy. I need another drink.”
As the bar owner sorted Blain out with a refill, Anderson continued to stare around the bar, looking for inspiration. “No Smoking” was as bad a name for a tag team as “Sticky Table” or “Ceiling Fan”, but Anderson wasn’t that creative really. He sighed and gulped down the remainder of his beer, gesticulation towards the television. “So what’s this rubbish, then?”
“Well, old bean,” Blain responded in a posh, upper class British accent, “This is the noble English game of football, watched by prince and peasant alike.”
“Soccer, I knew it.”
“It’s actually from Australia, not England” the owner chimed in.
“Whatever,” replied Anderson, “It’s still soccer.”
“Tell me about it,” began Blain, speaking in his normal accent, “They run around for an hour or two, kick the ball and then everyone goes home a loser. Even if some of the little shits manage to win, then they’re still losers. It’s a crappy game for girls.”
Anderson shakes his head, clearly disapproving of this supposed “sport” being shown on television, but both he and Blain are watching it anyway. As they were watching, one player slid in with a terrible tackle on another, almost breaking his leg, sending the entire bar up in waves of disgust, recoiling in horror. Perhaps this wasn’t such a girly game any more, with tackles like these.
“That was brutal,” Blain said, staring at the repeats. “That’s fucking assault.”
Anderson nods, still watching, “How about ‘Violent Conduct’ for a name?”
“What? ‘Violent Conduct’… I like it. Where did you get that from?”
“The soccer. They said something about that guy getting suspended for violent conduct or something… Sounds like an ideal name for us.”
“Hell yeah. That’ll do nicely.” Blain stood up, raising his drink in the air, “The EUW had best get ready then, because Violent Conduct are coming to town!”
Anderson stood up next to him, raising his glass to the sky, “I’ll drink to that!”