Post by revenge on May 16, 2008 3:10:27 GMT -6
Friday, May 16th, 2008 - 4:00am -Cape Cod, Massachusetts
The scene opens up on a rocky, Massachusetts beach. Sand and water reaches out and on for miles and miles, and a row of large, wind-worn houses lines the sand opposite the ocean. The occasional car passes by, but by and large its silent and empty, save the soft crashing of waves on sand.
The camera pans down, following a soft, wisp of smoke. a The smoke thickens up, and it is now evident that the smoke rises from the lit tip of a Fonseca cigar. The camera pans down, following the length of the cigar to a shadowed, silhouette of a face. The prominent chin and crew-cut hair are the only things readily visible, but even they are fairly shrouded in darkness.
The man sucks in deep from the cigar, and the end flares into a hot existence. The hot-end provides enough light for a moment to make out a few details of Damon Synn's face: the deep, gnarled scars, the crew-cut black hair, the smoldering, tired eyes. But then darkness consumes these features again. He opens his mouth, and a grizzled, deep tone shatter the silence, though he is almost whispering:
SYNN: "War. That's what it really is, you know. Wrestling is just a label for a two man war. No matter who steps into the ring, there will be winners and losers. There will be casualties, there will be pain, there will be blood."
Synn pauses, and takes another drag on the cigar. He holds a beer up as he finishes, the dimly-lit label reading 'Rolling Rock.' He takes a big gulp, polishing off the rest of the bottle. He lodges it in the sand at his feet, and opens another with his bare hands.
SYNN: "I know, quite often, I've been portrayed as a bad guy. Ever since the incident with Rob Gristle four years ago, I've had that stigma attached to me. No longer was I simply somebody with a problem, with a condition... I was a monster. A murderer. This Friday, all that changes. This is the first time I've stepped in the ring since I've gotten out of prison. The first time I get to fight without being put in solitary for a weekend. I have something to prove... I need to prove that my short run of success in 2003 wasn't a fluke. I need to pro-"
Synn is cut off, as a sharp pain bangs into his head. He hears a loud pop and then, a dark, sinister laughter that echo's off the walls of his skull. To the rest of the world, the silent night remains intact. But to Synn, a whole new level of pain and sound had detonated, like a bomb, in his head. The Voice speaks now, and each syllable triggers a new pang of pain.
VOICE: "Oh-ho-ho, boy! Who are you to judge yourself?"
Synn blinks away the dizziness and greyness floating at the periphery of his vision, and he growls angrily at the figment of his imagination.
SYNN: "The doc says you don't exist. You are just signals misfiring in my brain.
A whole new level of blinding, white pain hits Synn in the head, and he's brought to his knees. He grinds his teeth viciously, trying to shut it out, but its no use.
VOICE: "You can try to pretend away all you want, but it's pretty useless boy. Listen up: you have a pretty golden opportunity here. You have the chance to break into an open challenge and destroy some punk who things he runs this federation. You need to break him. A simple win wont do, though; you need to make him bleed, beat him to within an inch of his life. It wont be hard... you've stepped over that boundary before."
This insinuation (if it isn't true) angers Synn to an extent that allows him to shrug off the pain, if not momentarily.
SYNN: "I DID NOT KILL HIM!"
POP
Synn is on his feet, both fists raised in the air. His loud, angry voice echo's off the houses and the empty roads, and a squirrel skitters away. Other then that, he is alone again. His mind is empty, but his head still pounds with pain. He stumbles into the house, a little drunk and on the verge of passing out from stress.
As he slumps into a deep black leather couch, Synn's mind races on a single track, and burns a motto deep into his unconscious mind:
SYNN: "I must destroy... Travis..."
Are the last words he murmers before he fades off into the sweet release of dark. The pain goes away. The message, does not.
END
The scene opens up on a rocky, Massachusetts beach. Sand and water reaches out and on for miles and miles, and a row of large, wind-worn houses lines the sand opposite the ocean. The occasional car passes by, but by and large its silent and empty, save the soft crashing of waves on sand.
The camera pans down, following a soft, wisp of smoke. a The smoke thickens up, and it is now evident that the smoke rises from the lit tip of a Fonseca cigar. The camera pans down, following the length of the cigar to a shadowed, silhouette of a face. The prominent chin and crew-cut hair are the only things readily visible, but even they are fairly shrouded in darkness.
The man sucks in deep from the cigar, and the end flares into a hot existence. The hot-end provides enough light for a moment to make out a few details of Damon Synn's face: the deep, gnarled scars, the crew-cut black hair, the smoldering, tired eyes. But then darkness consumes these features again. He opens his mouth, and a grizzled, deep tone shatter the silence, though he is almost whispering:
SYNN: "War. That's what it really is, you know. Wrestling is just a label for a two man war. No matter who steps into the ring, there will be winners and losers. There will be casualties, there will be pain, there will be blood."
Synn pauses, and takes another drag on the cigar. He holds a beer up as he finishes, the dimly-lit label reading 'Rolling Rock.' He takes a big gulp, polishing off the rest of the bottle. He lodges it in the sand at his feet, and opens another with his bare hands.
SYNN: "I know, quite often, I've been portrayed as a bad guy. Ever since the incident with Rob Gristle four years ago, I've had that stigma attached to me. No longer was I simply somebody with a problem, with a condition... I was a monster. A murderer. This Friday, all that changes. This is the first time I've stepped in the ring since I've gotten out of prison. The first time I get to fight without being put in solitary for a weekend. I have something to prove... I need to prove that my short run of success in 2003 wasn't a fluke. I need to pro-"
Synn is cut off, as a sharp pain bangs into his head. He hears a loud pop and then, a dark, sinister laughter that echo's off the walls of his skull. To the rest of the world, the silent night remains intact. But to Synn, a whole new level of pain and sound had detonated, like a bomb, in his head. The Voice speaks now, and each syllable triggers a new pang of pain.
VOICE: "Oh-ho-ho, boy! Who are you to judge yourself?"
Synn blinks away the dizziness and greyness floating at the periphery of his vision, and he growls angrily at the figment of his imagination.
SYNN: "The doc says you don't exist. You are just signals misfiring in my brain.
A whole new level of blinding, white pain hits Synn in the head, and he's brought to his knees. He grinds his teeth viciously, trying to shut it out, but its no use.
VOICE: "You can try to pretend away all you want, but it's pretty useless boy. Listen up: you have a pretty golden opportunity here. You have the chance to break into an open challenge and destroy some punk who things he runs this federation. You need to break him. A simple win wont do, though; you need to make him bleed, beat him to within an inch of his life. It wont be hard... you've stepped over that boundary before."
This insinuation (if it isn't true) angers Synn to an extent that allows him to shrug off the pain, if not momentarily.
SYNN: "I DID NOT KILL HIM!"
POP
Synn is on his feet, both fists raised in the air. His loud, angry voice echo's off the houses and the empty roads, and a squirrel skitters away. Other then that, he is alone again. His mind is empty, but his head still pounds with pain. He stumbles into the house, a little drunk and on the verge of passing out from stress.
As he slumps into a deep black leather couch, Synn's mind races on a single track, and burns a motto deep into his unconscious mind:
SYNN: "I must destroy... Travis..."
Are the last words he murmers before he fades off into the sweet release of dark. The pain goes away. The message, does not.
END