View Full Version : Alone, again.

07-29-06, 12:34 PM
(OOC: All 4 Of these havealready been posted in the original roleplay thread. As now that thread is 5 pages long, and might be dificult to keep track off. So in efforts to make sure my story doesn't fall COMPLETLY on deaf ears ... I moved it all out of there and to here. Sorry if this creates a problem for anyone.)

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

After nearly twenty years in professional wrestling, Kevin Watson finds himself right back where he started.

Alone … again.

Kevin ascended to the height of his success in the MWC nearly six years ago. He even broke into the ranks of, arguably, the most prestigious wrestling promotion in the United States, CSWA. Though it eluded his in the CSWA, championship gold was no stranger to the waist of the “Innovator of Insanity” as he was known. The glory days had come and gone for Kevin.

His new reality had become north and south east regional promotions on a hundred/a match basis. Where they booked him as “CSWA’s own, ‘K-9‘,” a title he felt unbefitting considering his short tenure in the promotion, coupled with his untimely termination and subsequent ban. Yet, it put people in the seats, all four hundred of them, and granted Kevin fifty dollars more than the regional talent. So how could he complain, CSWA doesn’t pay the bills anymore … but for Kevin … those four letters help.

The North American regional money floats Kevin from week to week, but to keep the lights on … it was back to Japan!

Cut to: A shaky camera takes in a wide shot of a dingy wrestling ring set dead in the middle of a crowed arena. Blue ropes and turnbuckles run the length of the squared circle where two men lay belly up next to a referee. The first of the two is wearing black tights and black boots marked “JJ”. The other is Kevin Watson bleeding from the four head and clutching his face.

Stepping into the ring, an Asian ring announcer screams aloud in Japanese.

“…and your winner, Jack Johnson!”

Jack Johnson slowly stumbles to his feet tapping his brow to check for blood. The referee holds his hand up to signify he is the victor. Kevin rolls out the ring and with head hung low heads to the back stage area. The winners’ celebration continues in the ring as the shot fades away.

Kevin has never been afraid to loose, but as all competitors he’d prefer to have things go his way, especially at a time when his career is slipping more and more, day by day.

None the less, his name still rings a bell in Japan, so the pay is good … but not steady, Even the Japanese are beginning to see he is all washed up, and only use him on occasion… so it’s back to the states.

Cut to: Kevin exits a high school locker room, adjacent to the gym he’s just worked for a regional. His money is already collected, and his small bag packed … it’s to the next town, the next city; gym, armory, hall, parlor, arena …

Kevin is walking slowly down an empty hall way headed toward the parking lot to leave. A tall man approaches from a room just ahead on the right. The man steps out in brown slacks and coat, attempting to talk to Kevin, yet he keeps walking. Although showing no interest in a conversation, the man relentlessly follows Kevin, dodging cargo cases and different equipment that riddles the floor of the hall, attempting to talk to him.

“Kev’, ahhh … come on man! I know its been awhile … ok two years, but I promise you, just give me a second of you time! I got BIG news!”

Kevin continues to ignore the man’s pleading, brushing his hair back up out of his face; he shoots a short glance at the man, and keeps walking.

“Kevin, damn man… comes on!”

Kevin stops hard in his tracks. His head snaps back to reply, “CSWA?!”

“Well … not exactly, but …”

Kevin picks right back up where he left off, a few second later hitting the door empting out in the parking lot.

“Kevin, it’s not a full time CSWA spot, but it’s a shot toward a spot in the CSWA.”

Kevin stops again briefly, and with a look of disgust fires back, “That’s what you said about Emp…”

Kevin is interrupted by the incessant pleading of the man following him.

“It’s completely different from that! You went from jail, to the matt, not a GOOD transition. Now your back, you’ve shaken off that ring rust, and you’re ready for the big times again! And this is the perfect, all you got to do is throw you name into the hat for this Gold Rush thing-y, show up in August, WIN a title and they got to let you stay!”

Kevin takes a few more steps; he opens the door to the silver rental car in front of him, and gets in. The man following, still talking as Kevin slams the door.

“Kev … come on, if nothing else it’s another Japan check!”

The car cranks, and Kevin rolls down the window. He thinks for a second and then speaks.

“Alright, what’s the deal?”

The man is taken back for a second, and quickly regains his composure and the camera fades as he eagerly explains the Gold Rush to Kevin.

07-29-06, 12:35 PM
The scene opens slowly to a damp downtown street; lined with newspaper machines, cigarette butts, and public trash cans. The dark skies loom over the area daring to let the clouds again pound the concrete and asphalt below. Cars drive by in the hustle bustle of everyday life, splashing threw small puddles collecting where the street meets the curb.

A white taxi glides into view and as quickly as it can stop the back door pops open, throwing small droplets of water that instantly blend in with the already saturated side walk.

Kevin Watson emerges from the taxi with his long knotted hair swinging in front of his face just inches above his dingy t-shirt. Faded, dull, and tattered blue jeans cover his legs down to his black leather boots; untied and cracking from age. He pauses only for a moment; digging deep down in his right pocket to produce a few crumbled up bills. He hands them over to the unseen taxi driver, and turns around to momentarily survey the environment, and continues on his way.

The scene changes to the inside of a small, but professional office space. The door swings open and an electronic notification signal rings threw the office. Kevin lumbers in with his usual lackluster stride, and near limp. Years of competition have battered his knees and though still mobile, he is certainly not a young man anymore. He takes a few steps inside the office toward the reception desk where a young conservatively dressed woman sits attending to normal office duties. At the sight of this rag tag man she pops out of her seat to greet him.

“Mr. Watson, very glad to see you … Mr. Klein is waiting in his office; you can go right on in!”

Kevin gives her no more than a slight nod, never slowing and continues his walk toward the back.

The scene quickly cuts to the inside of a normal office. The walls are lined with diplomas, plaques of achievement, and decorative pictures and objects. A modest desk, cluttered with various office supplies, sits in the center of the room just in front of a prestigious bookcase filled with an assortment of leather bound books, and decoration. Kevin enters though the open door to see the office seemingly empty.


The sudden outburst and clutter of plastic DVD cases tumbling to the floor draws Kevin’s attention to the far side of the room.

On the floor, just below a television and DVD set up resting on one knee, is a familiar figure who appears to be Klein. He fumbles with the aforementioned cases in attempt to stack them back up in the proper place. He catches a glance of Kevin standing near the door, hopping to his feet he sets a few cases down, next to the rest of the massive collection.

“Kevin, good … to … see you, my friend! How is life treating you?”

Kevin responds as he takes a seat, “You to tell me.”

Klein laughs of the comment, and quickly fires back, “Not too bad, my friend … not … too … bad!”

“Cats are coming out the wood work like there is no tomorrow! It’s crazy. No more than two full days after the press conference and there are already over twenty confirmed participants … and that’s not even including the four champions …”

Klein pauses briefly, “… and they’re burning up the airwaves! At least fifteen spots in the past two days. Most of all, Troy Windham, but we’ll get to that later! Cats like Kevin Powers have yet to even speak! It’s getting very interesting.”

Kevin pulls a pack of nearly crushed pack of cigarettes and lighter from his jeans’ pocket. He flicks his lighter and puts flame to a single cigarette from the roughed up pack.

Klein continues on, “This is going … Kevin you can’t sm … forget it!” Excited “This is building up to be one of the, no … no … no … THE biggest professional wrestling event in the history of the business! And yours truly, Jackson Klein has secured YOU … Kevin … K-9 Watson, a spot on this very show!”

Kevin questions Klein, “Wasn’t it announced as an open contract?”

“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin … that’s neither here nor there! It’s not important!” Klein quickly retorts. “What is important, is you cut a promo! You need to make your presence known!”

“Incessant rambling, and mindless ****-talking you mean …” mumbles Kevin.

Klein thinks for a moment and fires back, “No, no … well yes! To an extent. You’ve got to make it exciting! It’s got to be entertaining, and all that jive. You know the game, Kevin the spots put the asses in the seats!” Thinking, “You know? … You could do a compelling third person narrative or some overdone descriptive bull****!”

Kevin confused, “… huh?”

Moving on, “I, I don’t know, I’m just saying you can do anything you want! I’ve got already to go; Cindy out front can give you the specifics, you just have to hit the studio and let the magic happen!” a slightly befuddled Klein answers. “Now for the discerning news … I can’t in all good consciousness send you into a cut a promotional spot without SOME knowledge of what has been going on, and what has been said. So … there …” Pointing at the large stack of cases, “that stack of DVD’s compiles every piece of footage shot in the CSWA since the announcement on Sunday; these should bring you up to par!”

Klein pauses for a moment as if to think up a witty comment to lighten the blow after dealing Kevin such a heavy load, “You can start with what I like to call … the Troy Series.”

“Not very tactful, but entertaining none the less. So …” a little apprehensive to what Kevin’s reaction may be, “I’ll leave you to your ‘work’.”

Jackson Klein cuts the television on and hits the lights as he slips out of the room. Kevin reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small silver flask. He spins, then pops the top and begins to sip. When not sipping he holds the flask close to his face with his elbow propped up on the arm of the chair as his face and upper body flicker and shine from the flow of the television. He brushes his long hair up out of his face, and takes another sip of his flask.

Fade to Black.

07-29-06, 12:36 PM
Open to: A small dimly lit room. A single light bulb swings from the low ceiling. The light dances back and forth across the cracked cement floor every so often throwing a shining light across a bleak image of the scarred and aging face of Kevin Watson slumped low into the corner. An abusive lifestyle has clearly taken a toll on Kevin’s appearance, from alcohol and drugs to Miso’s fire balls, and japans barbwire.

A black t-shirt stretches across his broad chest and stomach. His tattooed and scarred biceps show where sleeves would normally hang. A mural stretches from his shoulder down to his elbow ending in random offset places. His hair hangs low shadowing the majority of his face from cameras’ view.

His movement is slow and emotionless as he lifts his silver flask to lips. He draws a long sip before he speaks.

“It’s been a long time … a long time.”

He pauses to throwback another sip from the flask, and continues on.

“The Iceman himself … along with CSWA staff … sent me on a long walk of shame. The age old classic … loser leaves town. And more specifically … in my unfortunate, yet self-inflicted case … loser leaves, CSWA.

So for six, nearly seven years … I’ve walked a long hard road, a shameful and intolerable path for “has-beens’” … and “never-where’s’.”

From sold out arenas, and cruise ships … to high school gyms, and National Guard armories.

The lumbering decent of a champion …

Some would argue I never made it quite far enough, to have suffered such a great fall.

To them, I say …

I made a name for myself in the MWC and EWI… and more importantly …”

Kevin leans forward into the light to punctuate his forthcoming statements.

“I made it to the CSWA!”


“Before the open contracts and over promoted battle royals … I made it to the DANCE! … on sheer ability and raw talent.”

Kevin takes yet another sip from the flask, and while leaning back into the darkness, almost as a nervous tick; brushing his hair out of his face only for it to slowly fall right back into place.

“Unfortunately, my run in CSWA would fall short and confirm what most analysts had thought to be comparative to a musician’s sophomore slump.

They were right … with out the whole team; I couldn’t create the same magic in CSWA as I had in MWC.”

Kevin stops for a second as if to think about his next words. He sips the flask once again, and continues.

“Some would say it was the lack of Manifest Destiny, and my brother… Some would say Erik Zieba already had me pegged before I left the EWI …

“It could be this, it could be that … it could have been the booze, it could have been the drugs … Either way it cost me both of my brothers, and a career in the CSWA.

No real point in trying to figure it all out now, sevens years later.”

Now the time has come … CSWA … Ultimate Gold Rush. A second chance. Troy Windham has said his peace, or at the very least, apparently, a piece of it. Eli Flair commented on my come back with the lack of respect I’d expect from someone who witnessed the ‘M.D.’ days… And a lot of others just rambled until they felt they left their mark …

I’ve already left … my mark.

Most hate it, some wish to forget it … But the fact remains, at the very least …

They remember the name.”

Kevin leans back toward the light and takes seemingly the last sip from the flask.

“I’ve had an endless itch for this opportunity for SEVEN years, the time has come! … the mistakes of old will not be repeated …

And so my destiny is written, and so it shall come to pass …”

He tips it upside down to be sure, and one single drop falls to the floor. The camera zooms in tight, and watches in slows motion as it pounds the concrete floor and almost bounces back before settling into nothing more than a darker shaded spot and blends in.

07-29-06, 12:36 PM
The scene opens to Jackson Klein sitting behind his desk in his small office in downtown Charleston, South Carolina. His attention is focused on the television just across the room. The dull roar of the program he is watching abruptly stops and goes to the irritating sound of a static filled screen. He picks up a remote control off the desk and clicks the power button. The television falls silent as Kevin Watson walks threw the door, briefly nodding to Klein and sitting down in a chair just in front of Klein’s desk.

Klein sits in silence for a second or two thinking over either; what he has just watched or what he has to go over with Kevin concerning the upcoming event and hopeful grand reentrance to the CSWA and Pro Wrestling in general. He flips threw a few papers and seems to have his thoughts together.

“… ok, well … I’m not sure where to start. Ahhh, I guess my first question would be about the drinking. Number one, I thought you quit … and number two I can only hope that it was a prop for dramatic affect.”

Kevin find the statement slightly humorous only showing a hint of a smirk which quickly fades away and blends back into his usual cold and detached demeanor.

“Yeah … that’s it Jackson, it was a prop. Yeah, a prop, I like that.” Kevin replies with a rare glimpse of sarcasm.

Klein, knowing better, brushes it off and gets down to business. “Any how, I reviewed your promo, not you sharpest work to date …. but understandable. It’s been awhile since you’ve done television … but this is a trend that cannot continue.”

“CSWA … wants STARS! … They don’t want average Joe’s off the corner. And as it stands right now, you’re walking into this thing on an open contract.

Due to the extenuating circumstances of CSWA’s financial situation and place in the current popular culture … this ‘Gold Rush,’ as they call it, is allowing you a loop hole of sorts. Granting you ‘one night only ‘immunity’’ … if you will, from the consequences of your actions during you former tenure, and subsequent ban from CSWA.”

Kevin interjects, “Jackson, get to the point …”

Klein, frustrated, continues on, “Well, the point is quite frankly you HAVE TO SECURE a title at this thing. I don’t care if your thrown out of the final ring SECONDS after the bell … you have to secure either a title, or the open title shot to stay on! After the ‘Gold Rush’ you loose your ‘immunity’ so to speak … your LOOP HOLE runs dry! No gold, no more Kevin Watson … “

Kevin, confused, butts in once again, “That doesn’t make any sense…”

Klein fires back quickly, “It makes PERFECT sense … This out of the ordinary match during times of the same measure grants you amnesty, absolution … a washing away of your CSWA sins … for one night! This is your magic freaking pumpkin ride to the DANCE! But when the final bell rings, when it’s all said and done … the STROKE of MIDNIGHT if you will … If you don’t have the glass slippers … IT’S back to the CIRCUIT!

If you have a title, or title shot … they can’t let you walk out and leave with the title, nor can they strip you with out probable cause. If you have a title … or at the very least a contractually promised title SHOT at the future event … They’re stuck with you, at least until you loose the title or second opportunity at the title.

Every dog has it’s …”

Kevin interrupts with some force behind his voice, “Don’t … don’t finish that sentence.”

Klein realizes that Kevin is not to keen on his unfinished pun, he quickly moves on.

“Alright, so … Next up, we await the announcement of the ring assignments. Who will be in what ring, and possibly what title, or shot. So my advice to you aside from cutting more promotional material …”

Kevin butts in yet again, this time with flask in hand, “Save it.”

Kevin takes a long hard sip of the flask and slips it back into jacket. He stands up from his chair and heads toward the door. With almost a smirk, more emotion than we’ve seen in years, he comments …

“Someone call Russell Crowe, I guess I’m the new Cinderella Man …”


07-29-06, 02:25 PM
(CUT TO: "The Big Man On Campus" JJ DeVille, holding his trigonometry textbook as he walks down the corridor of a classroom building. He's wearing his NC State varsity jacket.)

JJ: Hello there, Mr. Watson. I'm not sure if we've been introduced formally. My name is JJ DeVille, and I'm not sure if you know me, but I'm an entrant in this Gold Rush event, just like you. But I certainly know who you are. I've seen you wrestle several times... Japan, the various other promtions, heck, I even remember your brief tenure here in the CSWA, as the CSWA's own K-9.

You see, Kevin Watson... IF THAT IS INDEED YOUR REAL NAME... I just want to give you a little bit of background about myself. And I can do it without wasting five hours out of everyone's life, which is something I don't think you know how to do.

I grew up in Greensboro, Kevin. I was a geek, a nerd, a spaz. My braces were big, my hair was permed and I was the laughingstock of my entire school. But I had a dream, just like everyone else here, to make it some day in the CSWA. Try as I might, I was routinely denied the chance until one day, I got lucky. I was absolutely pathetic, wearing my hot pants and carrying my nunchucks, but at least I had a side job -- working for Eddy Love and Troy Windham as their personal assistant, doing whatever little chore they felt beneath them, which was every single little chore. I went from being the laughingstock of my school to becoming the laughingstock of professional wrestling.

But something happened along the way, Kev. I grew up. I realized how I was being treated, how the world looked at me... and I was intent on making that change. I mopped up everything Troy Windham taught me... and then I learned even more. And then, Kev, I did something that only one other competitor in this thing can boast about.

I pinned Troy Windham. One, two, three.

Kev, I'm sure you're like everyone else in the Gold Rush -- overlooking me, not thinking that I'm a threat to you to win this event. In fact, I KNOW you haven't paid any attention to me whatsoever, because if you did, you'd already learn that I'm the Gold Rush's Ultimate Cinderalla Story.

It's fine that you're stealing my gimmick, Kev. I'm not an angry person.

But what I am, my man, is the ultimate underdog, the Greensboro boy who has come into his own and is ready to shock the entire wrestling world by winning this thing.

And what I am certainly not is someone who blew his previous chance at the CSWA, someone who has had a mid-tier career in the lesser leagues of professional wrestling.

I hope to see you at Gold Rush, K-9. Because you don't know who I am yet. But you will when you're sitting back in the dressing room and the crowd is chanting my name.

And one more thing, Kev.

Cinderella Man sucked.


07-29-06, 11:20 PM
Kevin sits on the cracked sidewalks of downtown Charleston, South Carolina. His back is resting against a brick wall dating back to the 18th century … now home to Jackson Klein’s apartment and ground level office.

Kevin’s apparel is similar to what most have come accustom to him wearing; t-shirt, jeans, and boots. His hair pulled back in a half assed pony tail, the majority still hanging down in his eyes.

The sound of mid day traffic can be heard from all around. Horns are honking and cars glide up and down the one way streets. The Percheron Draft horses clunk up and down asphalt and cobble stone streets alike; pulling carriage drawn tours around the area. The trolley styled shuttles and public transportation ring their bells up and down the narrow streets of old.

Kevin begins to speak; almost as if to himself, yet directed outwardly, “The more things change, the more they seem to stay the same.”

Kevin scratches his rough five o’clock shadow and continues on, “No matter where you go, they’re always seems to be the same type of people everywhere... Especially in this business, where any chump with a few hundred bucks and a willing desire to sleep in his car can become a skilled ‘worker.’

It’s always the same, isn’t it? ... Always.”

He pauses for a moment; almost to grasp his point before continuing on.

“J.J. Deville, first off … I don’t care to meet you formally, or your trig teacher; your ballet coach, your orthodontist, or anyone else who you may have dealt with on a personal or professional level. This ain’t collage kid, and I’m not here to meet new people or learn new things.

I’m a nearly thirty year old man with bad knees and a sore back looking for a permanent gig, and more importantly … a pay check.

I’m truly passed the point where going toe to toe with you … or anyone else … in a battle of wits would in any way excite or inspire me.

Yet I suppose, since you feel so overlooked and underrated … I can humor you this once.

I don’t care to hear your back story, your biography, or watch you highlight reel, whether it lasts five minutes or five hours. I don’t care what you’ve done to and/or with Troy Windham and Eddy Love. I’ve been up and down the roads with the likes of the both of them before, more specifically … with Eddy Love during my ‘mid-tier career in the lesser leagues of professional wrestling.’

As far as ‘your gimmick’ … you can have it; far be it for me to take away a young boys dream to be Cinderella.”

Kevin stops for a second making sure to cover all his bases before wrapping up, and then continues on, “I believe what Jackson meant was more a long the lines of my one night only status… the fact that come the final bell, “K-9” Kevin Watson … if that is my real name … has a CSWA ban that becomes as official as the day it was sent down from the mountain top. Not so much of your desire to be a fairy tale character or a poor girl in a pretty dress.

To each its own … It takes all kinds … and any other applicable clichés.

Deville … at ‘Gold Rush’ if you and I just so happen to be in the same ring, wonderful lets go blow for blow, instead of tit for tat … if not, maybe I’ll see you in the middle…

If not that … then shut the **** up … Cinderella."