Post by Tommy Knox on Oct 31, 2016 4:11:08 GMT
OCTOBER 10TH, 2016
LONG BEACH, CA
A haze of smoke hovers just below the outdated popcorn texture covering a ceiling. Rays of light pierce through the cloud, illuminating a living quarters. In front of a leather sofa, a duffle bag and drawstring backpack rest atop a coffee table. To the right, shelves hang on the wall, all holding various photos, some containing recognizable faces from the wrestling profession along with one in particular found in the majority of photos.
Below the shelves, an end table holds a lamp with a familiar championship belt surrounding it at the base. A thick layer of dust is caked across the face plate. It's been resting there for a while, unused and now defunct. Beneath the dust, the letters 'NJFC' come into focus, consuming the majority of the center as the words 'Tag Team Championship' are etched along the bottom.
A vibration is heard throughout the room. On the coffee table, a cell phone vibrates against the glass. A text message has come through as the screen lights up. "When are you coming?"
Walking into the room, Tommy Knox approaches the sofa before grabbing the cell phone and taking a seat. Getting comfortable, he leans his head against the top of the backrest before raising a half burnt joint to his lips and taking a pull. The cherry glows a fiery orange before he removes it from his lips and rests his hand upon his knee. Raising his other hand, he holds it in front of his face before his lips move, reading the words across the screen.
Exhaling while standing up, the smoke escapes his nostrils before cracking a smile. "After you."
Placing the phone in his pocket, he then grabs the drawstring backpack and places it over his shoulder before grabbing the duffle bag, clenching it tightly in his grip. "Fuck it, it's time to hit the road. I've wasted enough time this mornin'."
Taking another long, slow drag from the joint, he engulfs his lungs with the potent smoke. Exhaling, he then proceeds towards the front door. He then places his hand on the handle with the joint held between his fingers. As he opens the door, a blinding light from outside breaches the confines. Holding his hand over his eyes, he shields them from the light momentarily before placing the joint between his lips.
Loosening the drawstrings, he opens the backpack and searches its contents briefly before pulling out a pair of sunglass. Unfolding the sides, he places it over his eyes and then tightens the drawstrings once more. Pinching the joint with his index finger and thumb, he takes one last hit before stepping out into the open world.
"Vegas, here I come." He says, closing the door, leaving it all behind him. The deadbolt then echoes throughout the room as he locks it from the outside, leaving the residence in its uninhabited state, which has been quite a bit over the last few months.
LONG BEACH, CA
A haze of smoke hovers just below the outdated popcorn texture covering a ceiling. Rays of light pierce through the cloud, illuminating a living quarters. In front of a leather sofa, a duffle bag and drawstring backpack rest atop a coffee table. To the right, shelves hang on the wall, all holding various photos, some containing recognizable faces from the wrestling profession along with one in particular found in the majority of photos.
Below the shelves, an end table holds a lamp with a familiar championship belt surrounding it at the base. A thick layer of dust is caked across the face plate. It's been resting there for a while, unused and now defunct. Beneath the dust, the letters 'NJFC' come into focus, consuming the majority of the center as the words 'Tag Team Championship' are etched along the bottom.
A vibration is heard throughout the room. On the coffee table, a cell phone vibrates against the glass. A text message has come through as the screen lights up. "When are you coming?"
Walking into the room, Tommy Knox approaches the sofa before grabbing the cell phone and taking a seat. Getting comfortable, he leans his head against the top of the backrest before raising a half burnt joint to his lips and taking a pull. The cherry glows a fiery orange before he removes it from his lips and rests his hand upon his knee. Raising his other hand, he holds it in front of his face before his lips move, reading the words across the screen.
Exhaling while standing up, the smoke escapes his nostrils before cracking a smile. "After you."
Placing the phone in his pocket, he then grabs the drawstring backpack and places it over his shoulder before grabbing the duffle bag, clenching it tightly in his grip. "Fuck it, it's time to hit the road. I've wasted enough time this mornin'."
Taking another long, slow drag from the joint, he engulfs his lungs with the potent smoke. Exhaling, he then proceeds towards the front door. He then places his hand on the handle with the joint held between his fingers. As he opens the door, a blinding light from outside breaches the confines. Holding his hand over his eyes, he shields them from the light momentarily before placing the joint between his lips.
Loosening the drawstrings, he opens the backpack and searches its contents briefly before pulling out a pair of sunglass. Unfolding the sides, he places it over his eyes and then tightens the drawstrings once more. Pinching the joint with his index finger and thumb, he takes one last hit before stepping out into the open world.
"Vegas, here I come." He says, closing the door, leaving it all behind him. The deadbolt then echoes throughout the room as he locks it from the outside, leaving the residence in its uninhabited state, which has been quite a bit over the last few months.
OCTOBER 30TH, 2016
LONG BEACH, CA
[•REC]
LONG BEACH, CA
[•REC]
That feeling of déjà vu comes to mind as we open in the midst of a familiar setting. This time around, the room has cleared from the smoke that lingered just beneath the ceiling. A single overhead light illuminates the room, casting shadows throughout the living quarters. Sitting behind the coffee table on the sofa, a dark figure leans into the light from above, revealing himself.
A laptop sits upon the coffee table, along with a half empty bottle of whisky. On the surface of the glass, droplets of the substance sparkle from the light above reflecting upon them. Taking the bottle in hand, he grabs an empty shot glass and fills it to the brim before placing it back down.
He then reaches for the laptop and after a few keystrokes, his face and everything behind him appear on the screen. "Let's do this." He says before running his hand over his head, removing the hair that hangs over his face. With the cursor hovering over the word 'record', he presses enter.
"More and more it seems that I'm findin' myself in these situations, bouncin' around from place to place for one-off gigs. Like that guy who can't hold a steady job to save his life, that's me. It's not for a lack of tryin', though. I just haven't found anything worth stickin' around for, let alone show up when booked."
Shrugging his shoulders, he cracks an innocent smile while looking into the camera.
"My bad. I'm sorry to let you fine folks over in Honor down, but at least my opponents didn't bother to show up either.
Since twenty-fourteen I've bounced around from place to place. From reunion shows to international tournaments, it's been a long haul with few stops far and in between. There's no doubt about it, my best days are far behind me. You could go as far as to say that these one-offs have just been a way to show that I still have it. Given the outcome of my most recent time in Japan, I'd say that I do."
Turning his head, he glances towards the dusty championship belt resting at the base of the lamp on the end table not far away. Turning back towards the laptop, he holds his hand up and points his index finger in its direction.
"D-P-G... I see you!"
Grabbing the shot glass, he raises it to his lips before tilting his head back and downing the contents. Slamming the glass down to the coffee table, he then grabs the bottle and pours himself another one while looking upward into the camera.
"Just because my better days are behind me doesn't mean that I'm content with these one-off appearances stretched across this fucked up land. I still have a lot in me. I've been doin' this for over ten years. I've been there, travelin' from city to city and leavin' it all in the ring for the people who spend their hard earned money to watch people like me rough each other up for a paycheck.
At the end of the day, no matter how good you are or what you claim to do this for, it always comes down to that bankroll. Aside from that, yes, we all want to prove that we're better than the person standin' across that ring from us.
For the first time in over two years, I actually found something that has grabbed my attention for more than a one time appearance. This is where RSW comes into the picture."
Downing the contents of the shot glass, he wipes the excess from the corner of his mouth before lowering his hand and placing it upon the coffee table..
"At Screamfest, there's a certain match that involves some brief cases, a ladder, and fourteen people. Guess what, I just happen to be one of those fourteen. You have my attention RSW. Now it's time to grab yours while I show everyone that this old dog can still fight."
Grinning, he then reaches for the laptop, hovering his hand above the keyboard. Extending his index finger, he then presses the enter key, cutting the live feed.
A laptop sits upon the coffee table, along with a half empty bottle of whisky. On the surface of the glass, droplets of the substance sparkle from the light above reflecting upon them. Taking the bottle in hand, he grabs an empty shot glass and fills it to the brim before placing it back down.
He then reaches for the laptop and after a few keystrokes, his face and everything behind him appear on the screen. "Let's do this." He says before running his hand over his head, removing the hair that hangs over his face. With the cursor hovering over the word 'record', he presses enter.
"More and more it seems that I'm findin' myself in these situations, bouncin' around from place to place for one-off gigs. Like that guy who can't hold a steady job to save his life, that's me. It's not for a lack of tryin', though. I just haven't found anything worth stickin' around for, let alone show up when booked."
Shrugging his shoulders, he cracks an innocent smile while looking into the camera.
"My bad. I'm sorry to let you fine folks over in Honor down, but at least my opponents didn't bother to show up either.
Since twenty-fourteen I've bounced around from place to place. From reunion shows to international tournaments, it's been a long haul with few stops far and in between. There's no doubt about it, my best days are far behind me. You could go as far as to say that these one-offs have just been a way to show that I still have it. Given the outcome of my most recent time in Japan, I'd say that I do."
Turning his head, he glances towards the dusty championship belt resting at the base of the lamp on the end table not far away. Turning back towards the laptop, he holds his hand up and points his index finger in its direction.
"D-P-G... I see you!"
Grabbing the shot glass, he raises it to his lips before tilting his head back and downing the contents. Slamming the glass down to the coffee table, he then grabs the bottle and pours himself another one while looking upward into the camera.
"Just because my better days are behind me doesn't mean that I'm content with these one-off appearances stretched across this fucked up land. I still have a lot in me. I've been doin' this for over ten years. I've been there, travelin' from city to city and leavin' it all in the ring for the people who spend their hard earned money to watch people like me rough each other up for a paycheck.
At the end of the day, no matter how good you are or what you claim to do this for, it always comes down to that bankroll. Aside from that, yes, we all want to prove that we're better than the person standin' across that ring from us.
For the first time in over two years, I actually found something that has grabbed my attention for more than a one time appearance. This is where RSW comes into the picture."
Downing the contents of the shot glass, he wipes the excess from the corner of his mouth before lowering his hand and placing it upon the coffee table..
"At Screamfest, there's a certain match that involves some brief cases, a ladder, and fourteen people. Guess what, I just happen to be one of those fourteen. You have my attention RSW. Now it's time to grab yours while I show everyone that this old dog can still fight."
Grinning, he then reaches for the laptop, hovering his hand above the keyboard. Extending his index finger, he then presses the enter key, cutting the live feed.
