Post by George Duke on Apr 24, 2007 8:40:12 GMT -6
Duke has finally found a bar. The interior is dark and wooden, and mostly devoid of sports paraphernalia. However, the framed picture of W.C. Fields on the wall made this place perfect. The walls are decorated with mostly classic film stars and music personalities. The old jukebox glows brightly against the far wall, pouring out John Lee Hooker tunes. Next to it, a rickety old piano gives home to dust and cobwebs - nobody's played it in years, but it's atmosphere. No sports items, so he'll have no fights in that department. No naked women, so no one can complain. However, up on the wall, next to the pinball machine is an autographed photo of Harley Race putting the boots to Terry Funk. It's signed by bothThat's class...
George walks into the bar, wearing a heavy black coat and his tweed cap. His boots thud with each heavy step across the creaky floor. He carries a burlap sack, seemingly very heavy, across his shoulder. He is sweating as he orders a drink and has a seat at an empty table.The pale light from a street lamp shines in through a few slivers of the blinds. He garners a fair amount of stairs - these people recognize him. It turns out, they watch POW events every week and hold parties for the Big Shows. The few faces in the bar seem awed and happy to have him there, but they seem a bit nervous to come near. Duke shrugs it off and scratches his beard. He looks into the camera with a look of confusion.
"Take it easy, son - don't want to blow a fuse. You need to calm down, because you're not scaring anybody. Your Hot Topic attitude is only going to get you killed, Lee. You say you didn't come here to talk, but you dribbled at the mouth forever. Had it not been for the good laugh it gave me, I would've turned it off. Maybe watched the Three Stooges or something. You say you want to go right now? Ha! My sides still hurt from that. Just calm your little ass down and wait your time like everyone else. You have plenty of time to stare at the wall and hurt yourself on vending machines in the mean time."
The bartender quietly hands him a glass of beer. He's an older man, maybe in around George's age. His face is like boiled meat. He's rough to look at and his voice has more gravel than George's. George takes a gulp and continues.
"I'm sorry, have I missed something? It doesn't matter what I've done in the past? Your official fact sheet doesn't mean anything? What the Hell are you talking about? Brian Lee, what I've done in the past is what people measure me by. Taking on all comers and holding various titles - it means something. Maybe you think I'm just gloating, but it's useful information. You don't seem to realize that people are legends for a reason. Simply being around for a long time doesn't make you a legend. I have a plethora of accomplishments under my belt - and they're still growing. In fact, in the regional circuits - that would make me a living legend. Even Reck Maverick acknowledges this. But you're sort of like the new face around here, so you don't know. That's fine. That's swell - you'll learn real quick."
Duke finishes off the glass and wipes his face with his sleeve. He reaches down under the table and unties the ropes around the bag while he speaks.
"In a Hardcore Match, it's about control. Without rules, anything can happen. There are wide variety of things that can happen. Closed fists, chokeholds, lowblows, battling all over the arena... Oh! And then there's weapons. Chairs, steps, cameras, monitors, microphones, pencils - all sorts of furniture and stationary. I think I'll even bring my own perennial favorite with me..."
George reaches into the bag and pulls out a length of chain. The links are thick and browned with age. He pulls it tight and shows that the years haven't hurt it a bit. Like it's owner, it's still strong. He pulls it fully from the bag and reveals it to be about 8-feet in length. He sets it down on the table and it makes a hell of a racket.
"This chain has seen a lot of bloodshed - hell, it's caused most of it. I've been carrying this around since I was in in carnivals. I used to pose with it - and when I started wrestling in the real rings, it helped me win a few times. It's been the subject of gimmick matches and DQ's - it's been a real helper. I haven't brought it out since I beat the Hell outta that Viking up in Canada - but I think it's about time it meets Brian Lee. Nowadays, I've been using for exercise, carrying it around town with me. I think I should bring with me everywhere. Like I said, kid - control. Do you think you have what it takes to control a Hardcore Match with me? From the looks of it, you can't even control yourself. You stream off on tangents and headbutt things - you're goofy in the head, alright - and despite what you've heard, it doesn't help in this business. Of course, maybe you're not really crazy. Maybe you're just a liar. I mean, you're right - not a lot has changed in this business when you look past the specifics. Just the same as Italian guys used to put on headdresses and pretend to be Apaches - you headbutt some shit and pretend to be crazy. You're a long way from the backyard, Lee. You're in over your head and you're drowning. I don't like posers, kid - my job has always been to run them outta town. I don't like the younger generation of wrestlers, because a lot of them are posers. Just the same as this chain has choked out plenty of fake Indians, it's going to beat you sane again, until you decide to go back to school. Maybe you have a bright future as a doctor or a lawyer - but a wrestler you ain't, kiddo. You'll have to hold on and wait until we meet in the ring. Once the bell rings, you'll get your fight. You went ahead and pissed me off with your smart-ass mouth, and now you'll pay the price..."
George stuffs the chain back into the bag amid some suspicious looks. No one dare say a word, though. George hoists the bag back onto his shoulder and goes to the counter.
"No charge, sir."
Duke winks and drops a $5 bill on the bar anyway. He hauls the chain back home for a night of well-deserved rest. This place is great - George has finished setting up his operations in Kansas City. Now he moves full speed ahead.
George walks into the bar, wearing a heavy black coat and his tweed cap. His boots thud with each heavy step across the creaky floor. He carries a burlap sack, seemingly very heavy, across his shoulder. He is sweating as he orders a drink and has a seat at an empty table.The pale light from a street lamp shines in through a few slivers of the blinds. He garners a fair amount of stairs - these people recognize him. It turns out, they watch POW events every week and hold parties for the Big Shows. The few faces in the bar seem awed and happy to have him there, but they seem a bit nervous to come near. Duke shrugs it off and scratches his beard. He looks into the camera with a look of confusion.
"Take it easy, son - don't want to blow a fuse. You need to calm down, because you're not scaring anybody. Your Hot Topic attitude is only going to get you killed, Lee. You say you didn't come here to talk, but you dribbled at the mouth forever. Had it not been for the good laugh it gave me, I would've turned it off. Maybe watched the Three Stooges or something. You say you want to go right now? Ha! My sides still hurt from that. Just calm your little ass down and wait your time like everyone else. You have plenty of time to stare at the wall and hurt yourself on vending machines in the mean time."
The bartender quietly hands him a glass of beer. He's an older man, maybe in around George's age. His face is like boiled meat. He's rough to look at and his voice has more gravel than George's. George takes a gulp and continues.
"I'm sorry, have I missed something? It doesn't matter what I've done in the past? Your official fact sheet doesn't mean anything? What the Hell are you talking about? Brian Lee, what I've done in the past is what people measure me by. Taking on all comers and holding various titles - it means something. Maybe you think I'm just gloating, but it's useful information. You don't seem to realize that people are legends for a reason. Simply being around for a long time doesn't make you a legend. I have a plethora of accomplishments under my belt - and they're still growing. In fact, in the regional circuits - that would make me a living legend. Even Reck Maverick acknowledges this. But you're sort of like the new face around here, so you don't know. That's fine. That's swell - you'll learn real quick."
Duke finishes off the glass and wipes his face with his sleeve. He reaches down under the table and unties the ropes around the bag while he speaks.
"In a Hardcore Match, it's about control. Without rules, anything can happen. There are wide variety of things that can happen. Closed fists, chokeholds, lowblows, battling all over the arena... Oh! And then there's weapons. Chairs, steps, cameras, monitors, microphones, pencils - all sorts of furniture and stationary. I think I'll even bring my own perennial favorite with me..."
George reaches into the bag and pulls out a length of chain. The links are thick and browned with age. He pulls it tight and shows that the years haven't hurt it a bit. Like it's owner, it's still strong. He pulls it fully from the bag and reveals it to be about 8-feet in length. He sets it down on the table and it makes a hell of a racket.
"This chain has seen a lot of bloodshed - hell, it's caused most of it. I've been carrying this around since I was in in carnivals. I used to pose with it - and when I started wrestling in the real rings, it helped me win a few times. It's been the subject of gimmick matches and DQ's - it's been a real helper. I haven't brought it out since I beat the Hell outta that Viking up in Canada - but I think it's about time it meets Brian Lee. Nowadays, I've been using for exercise, carrying it around town with me. I think I should bring with me everywhere. Like I said, kid - control. Do you think you have what it takes to control a Hardcore Match with me? From the looks of it, you can't even control yourself. You stream off on tangents and headbutt things - you're goofy in the head, alright - and despite what you've heard, it doesn't help in this business. Of course, maybe you're not really crazy. Maybe you're just a liar. I mean, you're right - not a lot has changed in this business when you look past the specifics. Just the same as Italian guys used to put on headdresses and pretend to be Apaches - you headbutt some shit and pretend to be crazy. You're a long way from the backyard, Lee. You're in over your head and you're drowning. I don't like posers, kid - my job has always been to run them outta town. I don't like the younger generation of wrestlers, because a lot of them are posers. Just the same as this chain has choked out plenty of fake Indians, it's going to beat you sane again, until you decide to go back to school. Maybe you have a bright future as a doctor or a lawyer - but a wrestler you ain't, kiddo. You'll have to hold on and wait until we meet in the ring. Once the bell rings, you'll get your fight. You went ahead and pissed me off with your smart-ass mouth, and now you'll pay the price..."
George stuffs the chain back into the bag amid some suspicious looks. No one dare say a word, though. George hoists the bag back onto his shoulder and goes to the counter.
"No charge, sir."
Duke winks and drops a $5 bill on the bar anyway. He hauls the chain back home for a night of well-deserved rest. This place is great - George has finished setting up his operations in Kansas City. Now he moves full speed ahead.
