View Full Version : [NAPW vs. NEW] Patrick Bickle vs. Larry Tact: Lumberjack Match

08-18-06, 04:06 PM
One fall to a finish. No time limit.

Your lumberjacks are...

Jericoholic Anonymous
Benoitholic Anonymous
Yokoholic Anonymous
Chavoholic Anonymous
Captain Suleimon
Joey Baggadonuts
Kenny Hardwood
Monsieur Fantastic (the original French one!)
The Phantom Republican
"Cowboy" Jimmy Donovan
Der Braumeister
Jake McCody
Hoss Garrison

Deadline for RP is Friday, August 25th, 11:59:59 PM

08-18-06, 08:07 PM
[The scene opens to an empty locker room save for that which is necessary and unchanging. There are lockers on the wall, chairs folded leaning upon the lockers, and nothing leaning upon the chairs. It is blank and nameless, without a flavour of personality or a possessive touch that a wrestler would put their signature beside.

With a swing of the door Patrick Bickle pounds into the room. The door flies to the wall and hits hard, followed by Bickle immediately catching the door of its bounce on the concrete and swinging it back closed.

Bickle stands less than six feet in height, and hardly becomes a figure that threatens to break the doorframe with his size. He wears his generic wrestling attire, and only a tensor bandage covering his entire right shoulder and arm down to the elbow. His hair hands low into his face, his face look untouched for weeks, untouched from everything except that which lands in the ring.

Bickle looks up to the lights and reaches his hand out where the lights would be. His hand touches nothing but concrete. The hand feels the wall, no longer in search of a light, but in search of the feel itself. His hand slides across the brick to the wires, where it almost seems some of the wires are seen through his hands as they flush into the scars behind the wrestlers palm. He follows the wires, follows the scars, follows to the ceiling where it leads nowhere. The camera swings from its central position to face Bickle as he, himself, faces the wall. His eyes appear white, appear to not appear at all. It is hard to distinguish where he is looking, or if he is looking at all. It is all disregard in that face. The only direction that can be told from his eyes are down, where his hand wouldn’t go. The wires, stapled to the wall when it was made, had been manufactured to a switch outside the door.]

Bickle: Here I am. This is not a place I’ve been before. My hand grazes a structure that hasn’t housed me. I don’t see anything familiar…and yet nothing important has changed. I still sit in a room waiting to fall. I sit here with my door closed, leaving what I can out until I can put myself in. Until I can enter the ring again. Until I can hit the canvas, hit my opponent, hit and hit.

[Bickle feels the wall once more, makes an attempt to hit the switch that isn’t there to leave him in the dark, but it will amount to nothing. He opens a folding chair and takes a seat below the lights. Bickle begins to remove the tensor bandage from his shoulder. Each piece that unravels shows a scar behind, but not one seems entirely fresh.]

Bickle: Here I sit. I await that crumpling fall. That fall where I can break in order to break. To break a bone in order to leave the opponent with two that won’t hold him up. To even break to leave the opponent with the same disadvantage. And yet, hardly a disadvantage to fight with just the will to continue the fight.

[The bandage is completely removed, and no scars, and no bruising are revealed below the wraps.]

Bickle: Here it is. I’ve sat idle for some time, hardly in motion between four ropes. I haven’t landed into a plain of teeth with this shoulder for days and it grows healthy. Health is a sin. I haven’t piled into a wall of bone, turned a wall to shambles, in a longer frame in the entire time that I’ve sat within the square of the federation I’ve found myself at. And my ribs grow healthy, my knees hold me up with ease, my senses are unphazed. I am incomplete in this state of completeness.

[A knock comes from the door, a hard dull knock, and from outside voices start up.]

Kyle Roberts: (off) Bickle! C’mon in there. I know that there isn’t a lady in there entertaining you, and we’ve got to cover some items real soon.

[Unphazed by the noise, and as if untouched by the noise, Bickle continues on.]

Bickle: And here I wait. The wait cannot be long anymore. A clock ticks further, and a moon comes and goes again, and the omens are around. Surrounding, engulfing. I get the chance to leave myself in a state of complete searing pain, inches from complete disarray. And yet I will lie in that state, that absolutely enticing proposition, above what was an opponent. Above a collection of limbs attached in a heap. What was once a wrestler will become a pile for my amusement. Amusement doesn’t come cheap. Amusement isn’t an emotion, but a feeling, a physical feeling. A feeling that will be bashed into each limb of my own, destruction through induction. And you will fall, opponent. Run.

[A mumble of voices come from outside the door, and more thuds come through, with quickening pace.]

Rex Caliber: (off) Bickle! We’re waiting out here so lets go. Enough of your voodoo ****.

Kyle Roberts: (off) He’s gotta be in there, but god knows what’s going on in Bickle’s head.

Rex Caliber:(off) For all I know we’ve never met Bickle, and this idiot caught him on the way to his first fight. Real Bickle is in this guys basement rotting into the walls. He gives me shivers.

Bickle: So come forward, bring everything possible to the ring, go every step you can will yourself to attain. Take one further. Take one further. I’ll stand on shattered marrow, I will rise. I will stand.

And yet, they don’t give me a television in this room. My mind dulls at the concept. My kingdom for a television.

[The screen fades to the dull rapping on the door.]

08-20-06, 08:26 PM
[The reel begins, and yet no picture has come to us. Every so often small bits of the completely black screen appear to move, but it is difficult to tell if it is actual movement, or your eyes expecting something that is not there. The sounds of plastic setting down on metal can be heard, scrapping of plastic, more plastic on metal. Small noises, small motions. A grunting noise and two steps are heard separately now, and a quick flick illuminates the room with neon glow of static. Patrick Bickle is standing in front of a television that can hardly be seen in the dark, and the warm glow of the static is embracing Bickle’s small frame. The glow reveals some scattered and random screwdrivers on top of the television, and also a DVD player below the screen. It is the same room that Bickle was left in previously, but dark.

The room becomes exponentially lighter quickly, as the door swings open and light floods in, leaving the room at an acceptable dim rather than the painful dark. Ravager, as I’m sure the fans should remember and recognize, stands at the door, and lets himself in. Patrick Bickle’s gaze does not leave his television, and after he swiftly puts in a disc, he takes a seat in the fold-up chair that had been sitting awaiting his arrival. His gaze faces only the screen. Ravager takes his position in front of the playing DVD.]

Ravager: At least somebody on this team is taking time to study their opponents.

Bickle: This door that you’ve come through was not left open for you, nor for any. Entrance was not a given.

Ravager: I’ve learned some tricks concerning that problem.

Bickle: Knocking is a sign of courtesy.

Ravager: Would you have opened the door?

Bickle: Just as I am not watching film of my opponent, I would have in no way made a motion to aid your entrance to this space. A space for myself, not those who represent no effect on my upcoming future.

[Ravager takes a quick look over his shoulder to see the screen, which seems to have a congregation of excited people in a church, facing a chalkboard with the word “eXistenZ” written in white.]

Ravager: You’re wasting your time and mine. I expect you haven’t taken a moment to look into your upcoming match?

Bickle: As you’ve said, that would indeed be a burden upon my time, a waste of it to say the least. You yourself are wasting time in being here, and in any reading of my upcoming matches. It is insignificant information, as the result will be the same no matter how my opponent happens to remain immobile.

Ravager: Are you even aware that it isn’t a standard match? You’re taking part in a lumberjack match with a man named Larry Tact.

Bickle: A name that won’t retain in memory.

Ravager: Ugh. I’ll give you the details at our meeting. You’ll be there in twenty minutes, I left a piece of paper under your door with details but I bet it got lost in the mail. You’ll be there.

[Ravager remains staring at Bickle for some time, and Bickle remains staring through Ravager’s chest to the television behind him. Ravager finally turns his gaze and begins to leave.]

Ravager: And somebody will do something about these lights…

[As Ravager looks to the side of the door on his way out his eyes stop for a moment. Beside the door there is a large kitchen knife sticking out of the wall, right between some wires that lead out the door to the light switch. He turns his gaze again to see Bickle in the dark, his left hand with a tinge of purple and shaking slightly. Ravager continues out the door and closes it behind him, leaving the dark figure sitting by the light of the screen.]

Bickle: And so I’ve been dealt a name of who soon comes to face me with four ropes holding them in close. I’ve been given this title of some man who may or may not have many accomplishments to his name. He could be speaking of me constantly, or perhaps speaking of his tactics and confidence, or perhaps not speaking at all. All of it is inconsequential. His name has already slipped from under me, and soon he will slip right along, just as low.

And so I’ve been dealt a list of names of men who will accompany myself and this nameless…thing, that will end up unconscious, this thing that will stumble without a clear thought in its head for some days following. This list of men will sit outside the square of canvas, outside the ropes, beyond a moment’s care. A body to break a fall should I care to follow my opponent headfirst towards the ground. This list of men is possibly the only thing of less consequence than the name of the man who is soon to feel every bit of pain that I will endure. His nerves will be tested to the point of mine, his bones will stress to the point of mine. Will his limit, his border of physical endurance, his mental distance willing to strive for, be enough?

Your battle is futile. Fruitless. Lie bleeding on the floor, fall without your legs below you. Fall further than the ground allows. Fall. As I Freefall.

[The camera curves off the image of Bickle in his chair, staring blankly forward, and begins to be absorbed by eXistenZ on the television in front of the wrestler. “You’ve changed my life” says Willem Dafoe. Oh Willem, you’re so cute.]

08-23-06, 08:07 AM

Due to computer problems, Jeff Pena (Tact's handler) cannot RP in this round. Because he had not RPed yet, I am allowing NEW to make a substitution with MWG here. MWG will stay on Team NEW as an alternate.

I will state this now. You can NOT substitute an alternate just because your guy is not RPing. There has to be a valid reason (computer problems, bereavement, sickness). I didn't anticipate this when posting rules, but here you go.

Also, Patrick Bickle may put up another RP now without any stacking penalty (although I think he's out of the 48 hour safe period anyway, so it wouldn't matter)

08-23-06, 09:12 PM
[Patrick Bickle is the focal point of the camera as the fade opens in the middle of a hallway, the camera mounted on the ground. Bickle has a few fresh but extremely minor cuts horizontally up and down his arms and shoulders, with a few in the area of his rib cage. He has a large scrape to the side of his face, but it is nothing that would prevent even one of the wrestlers at the Dupree Cup from competing, or even effecting their performance. Bickle also wears a red bandana, folded into a rectangle, folded to look like a blindfold, folded to be a blindfold. Bickle doesn’t touch the cuts on his arms, and to look at his hands none would guess the amount of red marks he seems to have acquired just recently. There is not a mark of blood, unlike “The Man With Blood on His Hands”, Kyle Roberts.

Bickle strides forwards, his foot lands somewhere beside the camera, and he continues forward as the camera flips completely vertically and is now following Bickle, who appears to be walking on the ceiling. A small taste of standing in Bickle’s shoes is to watch him through a day completely inverted. A laughable nuance it would be compared to his mindset. Bickle stops, turns to his door to the side of him, and opens it up. He pulls back just slightly as light comes into the hallway as well as a murmur of voices, and then follows the noise right inside. The camera cuts to a better view.

We join Bickle in the room, which is a full house (minus Danny Tanner). There are a handful, probably just more than ten, of men wearing transparent green visors and banker shirts just out of the 40’s running back and forth around the room, putting up post it notes and tacking up papers under headshots of men. Some take the time to crunch a number or two before putting up another paper at another spot in the room. In the very centre of the room stands a man with a plain button-up tucked into his jeans. He is balding and grey. His name is Mr. Maps; Bickle’s physician and ring accompaniment.]

Mr. Maps: Patrick! Oh god, where have you been? I’ve been hitting your cell phone for over an hour now… Are you bleeding? I mean…

[Bickle walks over to the corner of the room without making a head motion towards Maps or the men in the room. He finds a chair which has been folded and pushed to the side. He slides the television he’d set up back to the centre of the room, which had been moved out of the way of the men. With a push of a button the screen lights up once more and his eyes focus as much as they can, which doesn’t seem like much, on the neon glow.]

Mr. Maps: Ugh. Just for once…I mean I know you hear me, but let me know with a head nod…or a wave…or a grunt…or something. You didn’t even tell me you had a match upcoming this week! A stipulation match, no doubt.

Bickle: I had sent a letter with the details of place and time. It would arrived and found itself in your possession by Thursday, or Friday morning at latest.

Mr. Maps: And you think that’s enough time?! I bet you haven’t looked for a minute at who the lumberjacks are, much less your new opponent. Did you even know your opponent changed? And you are bleeding. You better not have been doing your tree dodging stunt again.

[Maps waddles over to Bickle’s spot sitting, where he pulls out some wipes from his fanny pack and begins to tend to the mild cuts. Bickle’s face is unchanged, and his gaze doesn’t move.]

Bickle: I was testing will, desire, pain, sanity. A fight against self, a fight against senses and that which grows but is unmoving. For that which cannot fight back, I must drive in that much harder to create a battle.

Mr. Maps: *******it, Patrick. Stop watching Intacto so often. And can you at least turn off that Space Odyssey flick when I’m trying to talk to you for one minute?

Bickle: No.

[The pause rings louder than any of the scuttling and mashing of calculators and tacking of papers could ever amount to. The pause lasts some seconds, Maps’ eyes on Bickle’s, Bickle’s on the screen.]

Mr. Maps: Well on the walls is every picture of your lumberjacks, though some of their information was practically impossible to come across. Otherwise the big picture over th…

Bickle: No to your previous question as well. I did not know my opponent changed, nor was I aware of my initial opponent, and I feel no regret at this honesty. I did not study who he was, I did not equate myself to him, or relate to his ability, or inform myself. I did not know his name, nor do I now, nor will I tomorrow. I will do the same with this wrestler’s name. I will not read that paper, or the twenty surrounding it. They are inconsequential.

You are a physician, Maps, as we’ve been over. I’ve given the distance between of a cellular option, and yet you’ve flooded it to the extent that a ring tone became a larger nuisance than your attempts at being a manager. I will fly, and men will break. You will pick up what pieces of him are left upon my shoulders. You will reattach whatever dismemberment I inflict upon myself. You will sit, you will watch, you will heal.

[Maps flinches back after being berated with the punches out of Bickle’s mouth. He catches himself before falling completely off his feet, and puts on a look of complete astonishment on his face.]

Mr. Maps: But you don’t even know who…

Bickle: No. I am not aware of any “who’s” that will be involved in the upcoming days of my career between ropes, upon canvas, wet in blood.

[Bickle’s tone is unchanging from the moment he sat down. His tone is monotonous to the point that the audience could easily become uncomfortable with the lack of emotion he is putting out. His voice is not bored, or tired, but just unaffected.]

Bickle: I will not know one name save for my own, which doesn’t feel exactly like a skin I wear itself. I will not remember the look on the man’s face that I drive downward. Nobody will remember the name of any opponent to the side of the ring, standing indifferently together, indifferent in my mind. These men will arrive, and that is all of note that they will accomplish. Were a goblet within grasp, I would not drip any to these fallen men. They will fall, and they will slip far past honour. They will fall below recognition. Their names may perhaps fall past themselves, as they reach to find anything through their searing pain and fight to retain consciousness. It will be a fight.

I will stand the day after whether your hand applies a brace to my leg or no. You will sit by the ring, and that is all. And yet, that is more of an opportunity than every other man that will be involved on that night. Your name will stay, but you will step no further than that.

Mr. Maps: But…All this work..

Bickle: Why are these lights dimming my eyes, causing to squint, causing to bleed.

Mr. Maps: Well we figured…I mean…we fixed them first thing when…

Bickle: Must my hand surge again to stop the flow?

Mr. Maps: There’s still a switch, Patrick.

Bickle: Then off to the switch. Take the power out.

[Maps looks at Patrick attempting to get every emotion of his being forward, everything surging in him that he feels needs to be said, but nothing comes out. He stares for moments more, and then he motions to those that have stopped for the conversation to leave with him. Those who weren’t paying attention are swiftly tapped on the shoulder, and fingers pointed in the direction of the door. Papers hang still in the room as the men all leave. The door shuts. The lights go off.]

08-25-06, 01:54 AM
(CUEUP: “Crooked Teeth” by Death Cab For Cutie)
(CUTTO: A lanky, lean, somewhat muscular chap is standing in front of an NEW logo banner, wearing a pink boa around his shoulders, in super-short cutoff jeans, with the word “Faggot” tattooed around his stomach in tribal lettering…Our subject has sheepishly piercing eyes, upon which there are giant fake lashes attached, with black eyeliner under and purple lipstick adding a bit of pizzazz to the rest of his head…Nearby, a mallcore chick wearing a two sizes two small “FAG POWER” T-shirt and tight black leather pants, with blue hair, looks bored smoking a clove cigarette…This, my darling audience, is Larry Tact’s replacement. This is the artist formerly known as Madonna W. Grossard, currently responding only to the acronym…M…W….G…Oh, and Krist Blue. She’s the cute trendy broad. Word.)

“the IT boy”
“The American Idol”
“the surreal…”

EM DUBBAYA GEE:…..(stares blankly at the camera)…..Ugh, (shakes his head) I’m sorry. This is just silly.

KRIST BLUE: Just cut a promo, Em…

MWG: No. Y’know what? I say no thank you, sir…I don’t wanna talk about this match. It upsets me.

KRIST: Just…cut…a promo…We…need…the money….

MWG: Look, I know I signed a contract, I know it says I gotta do a promotional seg or else I don’t get paid for the entire kitten caboodle, but this is so very very absurd. I’ve been in this business for what? A decade? I’ve been champion how many times? Like, a bah-zillion? And, regardless, I’m doing a J-O-B on Cable T-V ‘cuz (groans) Larry Tact of all people got hurt? The man has the personality of an plain bagel, untoasted, with no cream cheese, from Funkin Doughnuts. And I’m his understudy, for getting beat up by some Taxi Driver obsessed meathead, who makes references to matches and opponents he’s had that no one besides people who watch his show could POSSIBLY care about, then tells me he doesn’t care who I AM, ALL THE WHILE sounding like the Ultimate frickin’ Warrior? I’m a STAR, damnit. I’m a trail blazing, glass ceiling shattering role model for cross dressing, sexually ambiguous wrestlers everywhere. F(bleep) that. Cross dressing, sexually ambiguous PEOPLE everywhere…

KRIST: We’ve been over this, Em. You’re not a role model or inspiration for the gay community. You’re actually an ugly stereotype. Remember when you debuted? You were marketed as some deranged, violent, drug addicted, sex retarded sub-human creature.
Think it’s easy to convince people in Nebraska that people like YOU should be able to get married? Or adopt children? Someday, people are gonna think of you the same way they think of minstrel shows now....

MWG: I can’t help how I’m marketed, darling. And I like, transcended all that. I showed that, no matter who you are, it’s your ability as an athlete that proves your true mantel…. Right?….RIGHT?!

KRIST: No, it just so happens you ARE a deranged, violent, drug addicted, sex retarded creature.

MWG:….Heh. Yeah. (lights a cigarette)

KRIST: And that’s why I love you.

MWG: I love you, too, honey.

KRIST: And you’re right. Your opponent is a total d-bag.

MWG: Yeah. He talks like dialogue from a really bad anime. I don’t find it very sexy at all.

KRIST: You know, strangely, I don’t want to f(bleep) him either…

MWG: Yeah. Weird. Maybe showing up to S.A. wasn’t such a bad idea after all….So uh, (turns to the camera) I guess, uh, that’s about all I have to say about Travis Bickle.

KRIST: I think his name’s actually David Bickle.

MWG: Yeah. He’s pretty uncool. Not too foxy. Pretty much the “I’m obsessed with destroying my opponents ‘cuz I’m all into pain and victory via combat ‘n proving to myself I’m a big tough brute man ‘cuz daddy didn’t love me, ‘n all” archetype. It’s pretty f(bleep)king boring, don’t you think?

KRIST: I do. You should totally beat this dood. And then pee on him.

MWG: Oh, totally! That would be SOOOO funny if I peed all over his head.

KRIST: Although the Phantom Republican’s presence as a lumberjack is troubling.

MWG: Quite.

KRIST: He doesn’t like you.

MWG: No, I suppose not.

KRIST: And I won’t be able to help you by making out with people and waving my boobies around, like I usually do.

MWG: (sigh) No, no you shall not.

KRIST: So this is gonna be a toughie.

MWG: I suppose it is.

KRIST: So is that enough? Can we go do drugs and have sex with some people?

MWG: Yes…Yes we can.