[The outside of a moderately sized gym comes into view, it is in surprisingly good shape. A couple of vehicles are seen in the parking lot, we switch cameras to the front of the building showing a sign that reads, "Vision Quest." We switch cameras one more time to inside of the building we see, "The Native" Maurice Thompsan sitting in a chair wearing a white, "Vision Quest" shirt along with the rest of his wrestling attire, across from him is his trainer, "Storm Warrior" Michael Navarro wearing his training tights and his face paint. Navarro has a smirk on his face as does Thompsan. The two have beads of sweat dripping from their foreheads.]
Navarro: I'm glad you picked up your first win, and still come back to train. That was a good session today, you're going to have to keep working hard if you want to find a good rhythm in the ring. Dennis Cyr took you to the limits and you were still able to come out on top..for that I'm proud of you.
[Navarro pauses for a moment, a look of concern comes over his face.]
Navarro: You just have to make sure you are prepared for what you are getting into. You've only had three matches, and while I appreciate you calling out Bane and challenging Derrick Ford, you have to make sure you are ready. I'm positive that you can defeat Ford, after the match you had with Cyr, there's no doubt in my mind.
[Thompsan interjects.]
Thompsan: Was the first win of my carrear...
Navarro: That it was, Ford is someone I'm positive you can defeat...He was a flash in the pan Dangerous Champion and just enjoys running his mouth. _If_ you get past Ford you will be set up perfectly for the Grand Championship. Just run through the gameplan we set up and you'll be fine, I wish I could be at the match, but I'll be in Italy for a couple of weeks wrestling.
[Thompsan nods his head.]
Thompsan: I wish you could be there too, I know you're worried about me calling out Bane, and saying what I said...He just....He's.....
[Thompsan runs his hand through his hair, his face looks upset.]
Thompsan: He's just the problem with this country, all the bigots, all the racism, all the ignorance. It's just pathetic, I can't wait until I get to see him face to face and say to him, "Well how is Obama doing for you?"
[Thompsan smiles, as does Navarro.]
Navarro: Yeah, I hear you. The guy is sad...We just have to get you ready for when you do face Bane. I think you're more than prepared for Derrick Ford, he doesn't have the mental toughess to defeat you Maurice. Just stay focused and you will get another victory.
Thompsan: That's not going to be a problem, I have a lot of goals I want to achieve. It's not time for me to lose, especially to someone like Derrick Ford. To me he's nothing more than a joke, that has no respect for this sport.
[Navarro stands up.]
Navarro: I wouldn't go that far...But, I have to get home and packed. My plane leaves tomorrow for Rome...
Thompsan: Alright...Thanks for the session.
Navarro: It's the first one you got for free.
[The two laugh for a few seconds as the scene fades.]
~~~D~C~W~L~~~
[Fade into the Houston, Texas office of Derrick L. Ford, EX-Dangerous champion. Unlike previous looks into Ford's office, the scene laid out from beyond the windows is night. Houston's skyline is lit in the background, easily visible thanks to the lack of any indoor lighting.
The lights from outside illuminate shapes and shadows inside. Papers appear strewn throughout the office, We see what appears to be a straight backed chair with its legs pointing up in the air. The walls appear to be missing a plaque or two.
In the middle of this mess is some pile of mess with Ford's cowboy hat seated on top and a bottle of some unknown liquor (Whiskey? Scotch? Rum?) just next to it. The camera focuses on this pile until the bottle...moves? Yes, the pile of mess is in fact your first ever Dangerous Champion. He takes a swig from the bottle.]
FORD: B.A. Jive.
[He takes another, swallowing with an audible gulp.]
FORD: B.A. Fuckin Jive. How fast does a three count have to be to give B.A. Fuckin Jive a win over me in ANY match, let alone a title match? I'd appeal, but let's face it - I'm not getting a fair hearing in this company. Keep the belt, Jive. It'll be the greatest thing you accomplish in your life. Enjoy it. I'm fuckin done with it. I've got better things to do, like annoy the piss out of Kyle Hayden for fun and profit..
[Another swig. Some may or may not have missed his mouth entirely.]
FORD: Kyle, did you not like your gift? Is that why you had the ref fast count? Is that why you hand picked the man I made to look like a BITCH on television only a year ago as the man to take my title away? Poor Dan Clear. Never saw that cup coming. Henry thought you'd like that, too, now that you have the big ape to bring you coffee.
[For the first time, he picks his head up. We can just barely make out his face, which appears expressionless.]
FORD: Is this how you imagined it a year ago, when you went to take over the reins of the DCWL from its most successful Commissioner ever? Abusing employees? Hand picking champions? Holding down talent? Well congratulations, because that's what you have.
[A wicked smile crosses his lips.]
FORD: And what do I have? Apparently a lot of time on my hands. So I'll spend it how you would if our roles were reversed - I'll be the undermining pain in the ass that you were to our mutual friend not too long ago. You think I've been an asshole before? Man, you ain't seen nothing yet.
[Another swig. We can definitely see some of it dribbling down Ford's chin now.]
FORD: And Maurice Thompson, don't think I've forgotten about you. Look, I want you to know I don't take anything you've said personally. You're a young kid and you want to take on the man who was champ. Great. Super. Go right for the top. Just don't be surprised when you see you still have a long way to go to get there. You may be here for a while, spilling blood as you said before, but I will be right here, spilling your blood as well.
[His eyes lose focus for a moment.]
FORD: I love this company, I do. It's just Kyle Fucking Hayden and his fucking chimp I can't stand. Sue me. You want to stand with them? Fine. None of my business. Just ask Jackson Hunter where that gets you...if he's not a complete fucking hermit by now.
[A smirk.]
FORD: Thompson, I look forward to seeing you across the ring in Boise. I'll prove once and for all that I am still THE force to be reckoned with in the DCWL. That title or no title, this is STILL the ERA of DERRICK! L! FORD!
[He puts his head down, possibly passed out. We don't find out before we fade to black.]
~~~D~C~W~L~~~
[Fade in to a woman sitting in her car (a red Corvette, for those who care), talking on her cell phone. The woman is pale, beautiful (even without makeup) with black hair and shiny blue eyes. Why, who is this good lady...]
Lady: I told you, damnit! If this guy fucks with me he'd better run like the wind, or else he'll be shitting teeth for a week.
[So much for the "good lady" at any rate.]
Lady: Ugh, of course I know I can't swear like that at the show, but fuck them for not doing their research! My name's EYRE! Mina EYRE! Rhymes with HAIR, for chrissakes. It's not...
[A pause, where Mina gives no one in particular a whithering look.]
Mina: I know they're going for the clever joke. Mina "The Vamp" Ire. I get it. You should know as well as anyone how old that gets. Besides, if they're going to promote us, the least they can do is pronounce our names right.
[A pause, followed by a disgruntled sigh.]
Mina: Yes, I know we need him to join us first. I just wish it were a straight tag. Then you and I could get started without...ALRIGHT. Geez. You made your point. I know the tag division in the old league was pathetic.
[A frustrated Mina runs a hand through her long hair. We see a silver streak in her hair as she does so.]
Mina: Look, let's drop it. As soon as we get him on our side the division is ours for the taking. Wait, I gotta go. He's coming this way. Okay, bye.
[She quickly hangs up the phone, then starts rooting through her purse. Mina casts a surreptitious glance out through her windshield, where we see someone walking towards a club. The camera focuses in on Wolf Masterson, who is quickly ushered inside. Fade out.]
~~~D~C~W~L~~~
(Fade in.)
(We open up to a poorly lit, narrow hallway. A single light bulb without any covering hangs from the ceiling emitting a sickly yellowish glow. From this light we can see that the once blue carpet has faded over time and is littered with brownish water stains. The dirty, white, cracked plaster walls and ceiling of this hallway do very little to keep any noise from escaping them. A baby is crying further down the hall while we hear a TV turned up entirely too loud blasting from a room off to our right. Wooden doors align the hallway but none of them are open.)
(At the end of the hall, a man appears walking out of the shadows towards us. His head is bent down and covered by a black hoodie so we can’t make out his face. He is also wearing a pair of blue jeans and black boots and a tan plastic bag is slid over his right arm while his right hand appears to be clutching something. As he draws nearer, we notice the intimidating size of the man as we can feeling the hallway floor creek and slowly start to buckle under his weight. He has come close enough that we can make out that it is Julian Beckson, otherwise known as Bane in the wrestling world. We can also see that what he is clutching in his hand is a bunch mail in with envelopes in various colors and shapes. The tan plastic bag over his arm has the word “Kroger’s” in blue lettering, a grocery chain based out of Cincinnati. We can’t see what’s in the bag but it can’t be more than one or two items as it appears to be fairly empty from the outside.)
(As Beckson reaches us, he turns to the door on his right, our left, and reaches into the front pocket of his blue jeans. After digging for a couple of seconds, we hear the jingling of his keychain being pulled out of his pocket. We notice that there aren’t but three keys on the key chain, a larger one obviously for a car, a small one for either a locker or mailbox, and a medium size one that is meant for his apartment door. There are no other decorations hanging from the key chain, just a simple ring and 3 keys. Beckson takes the apartment key and slides it into the doorknob and turns. The door numbered 618 swings open pretty silently, at most accompanied by a soft squeak that you would expect to hear with just about any door.)
(With the door open, Beckson steps inside and places his foot at the bottom of the door while he pulls his keys from the lock. After pulling his keys from the door, he takes another step inside to his apartment and we follow him. Once inside, he swings the door without bothering to watch to see if it closes or not and tosses is keys on a small wooden dinner table that only has one chair at it.)
(We take our first look around the apartment that we entered. The opposite wall across from the door, which is the color of smashed peas mixed in with milk, is aligned with 2 plane glass windows. While not taking a good look out of the windows, we do notice the black metal structure of a fire escape going down the side of the building and that it appears to be night out. On the puke green wall to the left of the windows we see where Beckson sleeps at night. We can’t help but to wonder how a twin sized bed with one stained white pillow and blue sheets can hold up to Bane’s massive frame or how he could possibly sleep comfortably on it. Fortunately for him, there is neither a head nor foot board to prevent him from hanging off the side at either end. Slightly in if front of the bed a little more towards the center of the room is a small brown wooden nightstand where a small TV sits. The TV can’t be more than 13 inches in screen size and it is highly doubtful that it is even color. A pair of the old, silver “rabbit ears” antennas sticks up from the back of the television, not that it would even matter as we don’t see a digital convertor box anywhere in the room. Above the bed appears to be the only decoration in the apartment; an old red Iron Cross Nazi Germany flag with a swastika in the middle hangs from three pins, one on each upper corner and one right in upper middle. Where there are no pins, the flag droops slightly.)
(On the complete opposite side of the room is the kitchen. The kitchen consists of a greasy oven range with beige cabinets above it, a sink that is full of dirty dishes with another set of cabinets underneath it, and an old mother of pearl white style refrigerator and freezer, the kind your mother used to warn you not to play in for fear that you would get locked inside. The only way to identify where the kitchen ends and the rest of the apartment begins is the fact that the hardwood floors that cover the rest of the apartment changes to a floral tile design in the kitchen. Otherwise, it appears to be just one medium size room. The wooden table that Beckson tossed his keys on stands halfway between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment, half of it on the hardwood floor, the other half on the tile. Sharing the same wall as the fridge are two doors adorned with chipping yellow paint.)
(Beckson has made his way over to the fridge and opened the door, sliding the plastic bag off of his arm and into the fridge, not removing the contents. Looking over Beckson’s shoulder into the fridge, we see that that with the addition of the plastic bag, the total contents of the fridge has gone up to 5 items. Other than the bag, there is a gallon of fat free milk which is virtually gone, a closed carton of eggs, a bucket of cottage cheese, and a clear plastic bag of lettuce.)
(Beckson shuts the fridge door and turns back towards the table where his keys are. Without looking down at any of the mail in his hand, he discards it on the table with a red envelope topping off the stack. Reaching up to his chest, he unzips his black hoodie and pulls the thick cotton fabric off of his body and places it on the back of the single chair. Without his hoodie covering his head, we see a deep purple bruise on the back of Beckson’s bald head, a memory of where Kid Way Cool kicked him.)
(He turns towards the door furthest from the fridge and walks over to open the door. He swings the door open to blackness as no lights illuminate this new room but he fixes this problem by reaching up to the ceiling in the room and pulling the string. With the weak light allowing us to see the room, now we can see that the room that Beckson has entered is a tiny bathroom. A porcelain sink with a rusted faucet and knobs is closest to the door with a yellow stained toilet right behind that. In the very back of the bathroom is a white bathtub and shower combo that is missing a shower curtain. The weak light makes the walls in the room look a sickly yellow color but we aren’t sure exactly of what the color really is.)
(Beckson stands in front of the sink and turns on the hot water faucet. He cups his hands under the running water and splashes it on his face and bald head. He stands there with both hands gripping the sink leaning against it. Steam starts to creep up from the sink as the water gains more heat after a few seconds. He places his hands under the water again and splashes it in his face and over his head. In the light, we can see a thin steam coming off of Beckson’s head as the water drips down his face. After standing there for a few more seconds, he reaches forward and turns off the steaming hot water and follows this up by switching off the light hanging from the ceiling.)
(Beckson then leaves the bathroom shutting the door behind him and reaching down to the sliver belt buckle on his on the black belt around his waist. He unstraps it while walking back over to the fridge and pulls it through the loops as he reaches for the fridge door. Beckson drapes the belt over his neck like a snake before he opens the fridge door, reaching into the tan plastic bag that he placed in there a few moments earlier. Withdrawing his hand from the bag, he pulls out a large piece of red meat that looks like it might be slightly turning green. Ripping off the plastic covering the cheap steak, he discards the white Styrofoam tray that it came on and presses it against the back of his head. Then, taking the belt from his neck with the other hand, he wraps it around his head two times and buckles it. The steak stays in place against Beckson’s head, giving him some relief from the bruise he is suffering from after that kick.)
(He then returns back to the kitchen table looking down at the mail laying there. He picks up the stack and walks over to his bed. When he sits on the bed, the springs groan in protest of this monster putting all of his weight on them. Beckson leans his back against the wall underneath the flag and leaves his legs hanging over the side of the bed. He starts shifting through his mail, tossing the junk mail and offers of credit cards to the foot of the bed. Beckson then stops at a white envelope and examines it for a few seconds. While he is doing this, a look of curiosity crosses his face as he tosses the rest of the mail to the foot of the bed. He reaches underneath the flap of the envelope with one of his dirty index fingers and tears it open, pulling out the letter in the process.)
(He pulls out a single sheet of folded notebook paper and unfolds it to begin reading. While he reads the letter, his look of curiosity quickly changes to one of anger. He stops leaning against the wall and leans forward, continuing to read with his head looking down. His eyes scan from left to right, left to right, from the top of the letter to the bottom. By the time his eyes reach the bottom of the letter, his nostrils are flaring with the amount of anger that this letter has caused him.)
(Suddenly there is a knock on the door which causes Beckson to jump ever so slightly but not startle him enough to lessen his anger any. If anything, after the initial slight shock, the anger has only grown in his eyes. He slams the letter to his bed and quickly stands to his feet causing the bed that once groaned while he sat on it to scream in agony. In two large steps, Beckson reaches the door and flings it open.)
(Standing there is a small African-American boy. Due to the child’s extremely small stature, we can’t really make out how old he is. His hair is almost shaved to his scalp but a light fuzz still covers his head. Dark brown eyes look up from an equally dark face that is a direct contrast to the white surrounding his irises. The young boy’s smile is just as bright due to the almost blinding white teeth in his mouth. He stands there staring nervously up at Beckson while the monster looks down at the boy, scanning him over curiously with his eyes. While Beckson looks the child over, we take the chance to take in the clothing that the boy is wearing. Ratty old Nike sneakers cover the boy’s feet but it appears that he isn’t wearing any socks. Faded blue jean shorts cover the boys legs but appear slightly too large for the kid. They hang loosely right below his waist and we can make out the band of “tighty whitey” underwear. However, it’s the boy’s shirt that stands out most drastically to us. He is wearing an old black shirt that has a few holes on the front and through the graphic on it. However, we can still easily make out what the graphic shows. He is wearing an old OWC “Bane” shirt with the graphic of the Ouroboros snake on it. An image of a slightly younger Bane is in the background behind the lettering and serpent.)
(The child is the first one to break the silence but speaking in barely a whisper with a slight lisp.)
Boy:
Mithter Bane?
(Beckson responds with an edge in his voice.)
Bane:
What do you want, kid?
(The kid overcomes his shyness.)
Boy:
I thought it with you! I’d then you walking through my building and I knew it had to be you. You’re my favorite writher of all time! What happened to you? Where did you go? Are you thtill writhing?
(Beckson starts to grow impatient.)
Bane:
Apparently you didn’t hear me, kid. What. Do. You. Want?
(Beckson’s growing anger doesn’t intimidate the boy at all. In fact, his smile just continues to grow bigger and bigger.)
Boy:
Mithter Bane, can I have your autograph pleathe?
(Beckson frowns down at the kid, a slight scowl crossing his face.)
Bane:
You want an autograph, eh?
(The young boy nods excitedly.)
Bane:
Well, kid, do you have twenty bucks?
(The child’s smile falters a bit.)
Boy:
Ekthcuse me Mithter Bane?
Bane:
Twenty bucks, do you have it? Does your kind understand proper English or should I try to translate it into ebonics for you?
(The child’s smile has all but disappeared.)
Boy:
No Mithter Bane, I don’t have any money.
Bane:
No money, eh? That’s typical. Your mother probably spent all of the welfare check on the crack pipe again. I don’t know why they don’t drug test for that shit. Most working people I know have to take a drug test to get a job yet you people get money handed to them by spitting out babies and do whatever illegal activities you feel like.
You see kid; I have to work for my money. And one of the jobs I do is signing autographs at conventions for twenty bucks a pop. So, unfortunately for you, you’re not getting any freebies from me like you might get from the president. Why don’t you ask that illegal president of yours for an autograph? I’m sure he’ll hand it out free to you like he does with everything else.
(The boy is flat out frowning up at Bane now, but he still doesn’t move away from the door.)
Bane:
If you go home and take some of your momma’s crack money and bring it back to me, then I might consider giving you an autograph.
(Not understanding the hurtful nature behind Beckson’s words, the smile returns to the boy’s face.)
Boy:
Okay Mithter Bane! I’ll come back ath thoon ath I get the money! Thankth Mithter Bane!
(With that, the boy turns away from the door and runs down the hallway. We can now read the back of the boy’s shirt. At the top near the collar, we can see the classic green logo of the OWC and underneath it; it reads “Your mind is not yours to waste.” It was Bane’s old slogan. Bane looks at the kid running down the hall and shakes his head and mutters under his breath.)
Bane:
Dumb niglet doesn’t even know when I am being mean to him.
(With that, Beckson shuts the door and turns back to his bed. He once again sits down on the protesting bed, puts one leg up on his knee, and removes one of his shoes. He does this again with the other foot and then swings his legs up on the bed and lays his head down on the pillow. Sure enough, Beckson’s pale feet hang far off the bed. He pulls the single cover up to his shoulder and closes his eyes. In a final act before he falls asleep, he kicks all of the mail off of his bed with the opened letter falling open on top.)
(Fade to black.)
~~~D~C~W~L~~~
Voice: It's been a long time coming.
[Fade in to the DCWL logo. In front stands one of the new young stars of this federation, "Something Better" Wolf Masterson. Leather jacket, Ed Hardy T-shirt and aviator sunglasses frame the scraggy hair and five o'clock shadow. He's facing in the general direction of the camera, even if we can't see exactly where he's looking.]
Masterson: I went through league after league, pigheaded boss after pigheaded boss, crappy gimmick after crappy gimmick, all to get a chance to be here in North America. To put everyone on notice that Wolf Masterson was here. To make them realize that my presence GUARANTEES a damn show, each and every night.
[He stops for a moment, briefly pressing a knuckle to his lips. He continues.]
Masterson: I might have lost the Dangerous Championship to that pathetic Ford guy, but it's hard to argue that I stole the show. So Hayden, put anyone in front of me when we get to Boise. I don't care who it is because I'm the only one in the ring who matters. I am talented. I am charismatic. I am...something better.
[Fade out.]
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