Post by Joe Stanton on Sept 7, 2018 23:18:11 GMT
>PLAY
Somewhere deep within the bowels of the arena is a dark, intimate little nook that's far away from the bright lights and the noisy cameras, from even the rabid fans that have packed in the building tonight to see some violence in the form of the art known as professional wrestling. It is here, nestled away from everyone that a man sits alone in near pitch black and collects his thoughts. Little by little pushing away the mundane, his everyday life slipping out of his mind and he pulls inwards something that he usually keeps at the recesses of his brain. A side of him he keeps under lock and key in his casual life because of societal standards and norms, a side he only ever lets come out to play in the moments leading up to what he's about to do. It's a side that's always been there, that he figures most have in them, a primal and savage side that relishes what's to come, that's pacing inside of him impatiently for what's to follow.
The Fight.
"My name is Joe Stanton."
A slow pan up the seated athlete shows that he's dressed for combat already. His right hand twitching with anticipation. It used to be unbearable, this sensation, this overwhelming need he felt emanating from his hand. He used to hate it, rail against it. But somewhere along the way in the fifteen years that reaction was burned out of him. He began to ride the feeling rather than fight it, embrace it, let it be apart of who he was. Who he is.
The thunderous yet distant chant stirs him from his introspection, they're calling for him. He's booked tonight against some local wrestler, seems talented enough, seems nice enough. Whatever happens in the ring is nothing personal. It's for the ascent he can feel starting, that caged feeling is soon going to be replaced with an exhilaration that's indescribable to him. The test of wills. The communication that only two people like him can ever properly do to express themselves to another human being. Through their fists. Their determination.
"My name is Joe Stanton, and I'm a professional wrestler."
His eyes open, the green in them looks radioactive with the way they sparkle and reflect the small streams of light that try to penetrate his oasis. It feels like what he imagines an out of body experience to feel like when he stands up and he starts walking, heading more and more into the light. Leaving the shadows and all the quiet things that no one ever says behind him.
"I've wrestled on nearly every continent.""
The camera stays behind Joe Stanton, filming his back as he walks through the backstage area. There's several hard cuts in rapid succession to speed up the process, showing just how far into the depths of the arena Stanton had slinked away to. Little by little the hallways are more populated, staff greeting him and he slows to shake a few hands. Talent is starting to show up in the hallways too as he gets closer to the gorilla position, some high fives and quick words are exchanged as Joe and they pass each other like ships in the night.
"All fifty states of the U.S."
Some of the higher-ups for the promotion spot Joe walking to gorilla and look relieved, their words muted though it's evident they had feared he had skipped out on them. He pats them on the shoulder reassuringly as he continues on his trek.
"Sixty two countries."
The production team is a modest two-man operation, in part why they pay Joe no mind as he marches over to the steps near the end of the gorilla position. He stops just short of the first step, bouncing from one foot to the other and doing some last minute stretches. Making sure his body is nice and limber for what's ahead of him. The chants calling for him to murder the man already in the ring are louder now. Even with the muted effect on the audio from the camera they break through. They sound like they're under water, or near dream like.
"Numerous championship reigns, several world championships, and a couple tournaments are my accolades after fifteen years in this business. I've been blessed in my career, having wrestled some of the best in the world current and past, having wrestled for many of the top promotions in the world, and having had few in the way of injuries. I've proven time and time again that I can wrestle any style that I feel like, and I've gained a reputation over one specific maneuver in that time."
Taking a deep breath, Stanton brings his taped up right hand to his chest and he squeezes the wrist of it with his left hand. He cracks his knuckles and stretches his fingers, making sure they're all in working order.
"My right hand."
A jarring glimpse of the Shoryuken being connected in black and white flashes over the picture momentarily before it returns to the laser focused look in Joe's eyes. With the hard close-up on them it's unclear what he's doing initially until his signature sunglasses come into frame. He slips his shades on, covering his eyes and he starts his slow climb up the steps. With every step that he takes the lights of ringside and the packed house of fans become more visible in the reflective surface of his sunglasses.
"Sunday, September ninth eight unique talents will gather for a one night tournament at Miami Beach, Florida. Names from across the industry, from multiple promotions, in various stages of our careers will be there. No championship, no contendership, no prize at the end of the night beyond the thrill of the fight and bragging rights of being the one to outlast seven incredible athletes. Being the one to be able to look back at that night and say, yeah, I was the better fighter that night."
Stanton finds himself behind the curtain, standing there just on the cusp of the entry way. The desire to hear his music hit and to see him walk out is palpable in the air, the look on the fans' faces is at the breaking point to see him. The lights breaching the curtains show his eyes locked on the ring, locked on the man waiting for him on the other side of the entry way.
"Some would call it an insurmountable challenge."
The voice-over says in time with the lights dimming and a shark toothed grin forming on Joe's features. Neon lights burst into life from the other side of the curtain in time with Sunglasses at Night by The Megas, his entrance music. The fans slap the guardrail in time with the music too in anticipation. It's as the vocals start up in the song that Stanton steps through the curtain, being enveloped in the neon lights and the roar of the crowd that causes a gradual white out.
STOP
Somewhere deep within the bowels of the arena is a dark, intimate little nook that's far away from the bright lights and the noisy cameras, from even the rabid fans that have packed in the building tonight to see some violence in the form of the art known as professional wrestling. It is here, nestled away from everyone that a man sits alone in near pitch black and collects his thoughts. Little by little pushing away the mundane, his everyday life slipping out of his mind and he pulls inwards something that he usually keeps at the recesses of his brain. A side of him he keeps under lock and key in his casual life because of societal standards and norms, a side he only ever lets come out to play in the moments leading up to what he's about to do. It's a side that's always been there, that he figures most have in them, a primal and savage side that relishes what's to come, that's pacing inside of him impatiently for what's to follow.
The Fight.
"My name is Joe Stanton."
A slow pan up the seated athlete shows that he's dressed for combat already. His right hand twitching with anticipation. It used to be unbearable, this sensation, this overwhelming need he felt emanating from his hand. He used to hate it, rail against it. But somewhere along the way in the fifteen years that reaction was burned out of him. He began to ride the feeling rather than fight it, embrace it, let it be apart of who he was. Who he is.
"JOE'S GONNA KILL YOU! JOE'S GONNA KILL YOU! JOE'S GONNA KILL YOU!"
The thunderous yet distant chant stirs him from his introspection, they're calling for him. He's booked tonight against some local wrestler, seems talented enough, seems nice enough. Whatever happens in the ring is nothing personal. It's for the ascent he can feel starting, that caged feeling is soon going to be replaced with an exhilaration that's indescribable to him. The test of wills. The communication that only two people like him can ever properly do to express themselves to another human being. Through their fists. Their determination.
"My name is Joe Stanton, and I'm a professional wrestler."
His eyes open, the green in them looks radioactive with the way they sparkle and reflect the small streams of light that try to penetrate his oasis. It feels like what he imagines an out of body experience to feel like when he stands up and he starts walking, heading more and more into the light. Leaving the shadows and all the quiet things that no one ever says behind him.
"I've wrestled on nearly every continent.""
The camera stays behind Joe Stanton, filming his back as he walks through the backstage area. There's several hard cuts in rapid succession to speed up the process, showing just how far into the depths of the arena Stanton had slinked away to. Little by little the hallways are more populated, staff greeting him and he slows to shake a few hands. Talent is starting to show up in the hallways too as he gets closer to the gorilla position, some high fives and quick words are exchanged as Joe and they pass each other like ships in the night.
"All fifty states of the U.S."
Some of the higher-ups for the promotion spot Joe walking to gorilla and look relieved, their words muted though it's evident they had feared he had skipped out on them. He pats them on the shoulder reassuringly as he continues on his trek.
"Sixty two countries."
The production team is a modest two-man operation, in part why they pay Joe no mind as he marches over to the steps near the end of the gorilla position. He stops just short of the first step, bouncing from one foot to the other and doing some last minute stretches. Making sure his body is nice and limber for what's ahead of him. The chants calling for him to murder the man already in the ring are louder now. Even with the muted effect on the audio from the camera they break through. They sound like they're under water, or near dream like.
"Numerous championship reigns, several world championships, and a couple tournaments are my accolades after fifteen years in this business. I've been blessed in my career, having wrestled some of the best in the world current and past, having wrestled for many of the top promotions in the world, and having had few in the way of injuries. I've proven time and time again that I can wrestle any style that I feel like, and I've gained a reputation over one specific maneuver in that time."
Taking a deep breath, Stanton brings his taped up right hand to his chest and he squeezes the wrist of it with his left hand. He cracks his knuckles and stretches his fingers, making sure they're all in working order.
"My right hand."
A jarring glimpse of the Shoryuken being connected in black and white flashes over the picture momentarily before it returns to the laser focused look in Joe's eyes. With the hard close-up on them it's unclear what he's doing initially until his signature sunglasses come into frame. He slips his shades on, covering his eyes and he starts his slow climb up the steps. With every step that he takes the lights of ringside and the packed house of fans become more visible in the reflective surface of his sunglasses.
"Sunday, September ninth eight unique talents will gather for a one night tournament at Miami Beach, Florida. Names from across the industry, from multiple promotions, in various stages of our careers will be there. No championship, no contendership, no prize at the end of the night beyond the thrill of the fight and bragging rights of being the one to outlast seven incredible athletes. Being the one to be able to look back at that night and say, yeah, I was the better fighter that night."
Stanton finds himself behind the curtain, standing there just on the cusp of the entry way. The desire to hear his music hit and to see him walk out is palpable in the air, the look on the fans' faces is at the breaking point to see him. The lights breaching the curtains show his eyes locked on the ring, locked on the man waiting for him on the other side of the entry way.
"Some would call it an insurmountable challenge."
The voice-over says in time with the lights dimming and a shark toothed grin forming on Joe's features. Neon lights burst into life from the other side of the curtain in time with Sunglasses at Night by The Megas, his entrance music. The fans slap the guardrail in time with the music too in anticipation. It's as the vocals start up in the song that Stanton steps through the curtain, being enveloped in the neon lights and the roar of the crowd that causes a gradual white out.
MARK STORM'S SURGICAL SUMMER
NIGHT 2'S ONE NIGHT TOURNAMENT
JOE STANTON
9.9.18.
NIGHT 2'S ONE NIGHT TOURNAMENT
JOE STANTON
9.9.18.
STOP
