View Full Version : [EPW vs. NAPW] Dan Ryan vs. Patrick Bickle

08-30-06, 10:06 PM
One fall to a finish. No time limit.

RP deadline is Wednesday, September 6th, 11:59:59 PM.

09-03-06, 12:02 PM
“And at that moment I knew I needed to stop…funny that I’ve said that three times just talking here.”

[The screen cuts in an a man, who looks very average, stands before us with a inexpensive looking fold up chair behind him. He has an average shirt that conveys nothing about him on it, he hasn’t shaven in maybe one day; nothing out of the ordinary. The bags under his eyes show something a bit more than what he wears. We don’t know his name…we wouldn’t know it. On both sides of him we can just manage to see people sitting and looking up towards him as he speaks. Sometimes they look towards their hands clasped together. They, again, are not people that we would know the names of. Ironically enough, they all have name tags on. The camera does not take the time to focus on them.]

Man: But…it just can’t keep going on like this. I need to be able to sleep at night. I need to be able to have a choice, and I couldn’t choose. I don’t want to drink anymore…and I think that’s something that I’ve lied to myself about before. But…I’m sober right now. And hopefully now will be long. Um…I don’t…I don’t think I have more to add right now.

Voice: (off) Thank you for sharing, Julian.

[Oh…there’s a name. It isn’t important to remember…none of these people will remember, and none of those watching will remember either.]

Voice: (off) And we have somebody new here today! (shuffle of papers) Patrick Bickle! Welcome, Patrick, to our little circle of trust here.

[The camera pans away from the man that has already taken a seat, and looks a little more disheartened than when he first stood, as if he was looking for something that didn’t come in his speech. The camera stops panning at Patrick Bickle, eyes looking just below where anybody’s eyes could be trying to meet his, and he sits. He sits for some time and then rises, though his head does not rise with him.]

Bickle: My name is, according to the highest form of Parliament, Patrick Bickle. It was not the name I was born with, but that doesn’t effect you in any way, and it is not known by many people though I haven’t intended on keeping it a secret. However, the name remains to be Patrick Bickle if you seek it on any form of paper. You will not remember it tomorrow, and I do not wish you to.

I am not an alcoholic.

[A murmur begins in the room around, and one voice can be heard to say “but if you aren’t..” before it cuts off. A voice off shushes the group, the voice, which we can assume to be the group leader, and the murmur tones down.]

Voice: (off) Now, Patrick, that’s alright. But in this circle you can trust us around you. We will remember you, Patrick. And denying your alcoholism won’t get us closer to the final goal. Please, you can open up to us! Just try to tell us your story first.

[Bickle continues staring forwards, and whether or not he is looking towards the voice speaking is completely unknown.]

Bickle: As I have stated, I do not wish to be remembered by this group of people who have failed at the most passive activity, that activity being life in general. This circle of people have taken something so simple that it becomes ambient, and have made it a marathon for themselves.

[The murmur picks up again, and one sob can be heard off to the side, but Patrick continues unfazed.]

Bickle: I have consumed very minor amounts of this liquid at very spaced out moments in time. Inebriation hasn’t followed, and that in no way has brought me upon this endeavour of finding a spectacle of humanity worth my attention. You are the spectacle. This veritable zoo without walls, without cages save for those you’ve placed around your poor-willed selves with a mindset. I arrive for free, receive a poor glass of a different drink with a different addiction for the same people, irony at its absolute best, and I watch.

[The murmur is no longer apparent at all, and a silence has fallen. There is a clearing of a throat and one word seems to start, but before they continue the camera pans to the sound of a chair skidding backward from a quick stand-up.

The man in front of the camera looks depressed, he is small and mousey, his hair is in no way styled, and he is clearly not yet on the road to success. He is now standing though, and his eyes look, though dreary, intent on speaking.]

Man: Look Deborah, don’t stop me here ‘cause **** your passive method. This man doesn’t need a ****ing reason to stop talking. He needs to leave.

[The camera cuts back to Bickle, where there is no smile, and there is no frown. His expression hasn’t even flickered. There he stands.]

Man: You come in here when we’re doing our best. Sure you say we’re low and we know it! We know we’re low! But at least we are ****ing here trying, not back in the bars, not looking for teeth on the sidewalk that we just lost. So **** you when you come here when I’m at my lowest, ‘cause you’ve taken one step below us you freak. You’re below me and Daniel here, and Louise. Go shoot some ****ing heroin or beat your children or something else.

[The man looks directly at Bickle, then his eyes snap to a watery gaze and he slowly sits down as if he doesn’t know exactly what happened.]

Bickle: I don’t suppose you’re aware of my general daily habits. For a living I walk between four walls made of rope, merely to keep men from fleeing when I throw them hard in a direction. A wall of ropes to keep men from fleeing. I work upon a canvas with give so that when those who wish to exchange with the concept that I am fall, they will not fall to a death. When their necks lead toward the ground, the canvas gives them a sliver of a chance of walking moments earlier than they would otherwise. I work in an environment created solely for the purpose of keeping men alive when they would find themselves in a world of darkness were we to exchange in a different location.

This is in no way a speech of intimidation for you, for I am confident that if you were to engage in a battle with me, I would be the man left with feet in the aftermath. This is to display that I am able to succeed in the basics of life; survival, battle, consciousness. You are all in a battle which you are losing, on your way to an accelerated death, often without a clue of where you are or what you’ve done or why you cannot refrain. I am a step below? You are the gladiators to my social status. Fight for my entertainment, beasts.

[The room has become absolutely silent. Not a word is spoken.

Suddenly one woman rushes forwards, apparently having had enough of Bickle’s speech, and looks as if she’s prepared to make it a physical dispute, but happens to lose her footing before making it to the concept of a man in front of her. She hits the floor hard.]


[Bickle stands over this woman as he has just finished laying a kick into the top of her shoulder and part of her neck. The woman is moving but very little and motions comparable to that of a worm.]

Bickle: I’ll try my best to return next week, as I’ve been the only successful force in stopping you from focusing on inebriation, and I’ve deterred your hate from yourself towards me, being the manifestation of your hate, for some moments. For now, I have to leave a man, much like you, in the centre of a ring. Goodnight.

09-05-06, 12:59 PM

We see a wrestling ring, plain in it's appearance save for the markings of the Dupree Cup along the skirt. Dan Ryan sits on the apron, leaning back against and into the ropes and lightly bouncing off of them.

Ryan stretches his arms out to the side and holds the ropes.

Ryan: "Week one in the Dupree Cup was far too easy for Team Empire. Ice Cold it seems was so far out of his league he embarrassed himself more by showing up than he would have if he hadn't shown up."

"In week two, I get someone's sociology project. Someone I keep receiving cute little home movies of, but who is entirely uninterested in the prospect of actually having a wrestling match. And you know what? Felix Red does this better. You need more coke, Patrick."

"Fascinating. All of this insight into your psyche and your ramblings that could pass for an opening paper in your abstract psychology class Freshman year is truly fascinating, Patrick. While sleeping through the second half I started to dream that I enjoyed it, that it was meaningful. Then Cameron Cruise in a Chuck E. Cheese suit came bounding by and the absurdity of it all made sense to me again. Then, within my dream - even there - I fell asleep."

"It's all so convenient for you though, Patrick. You don't want to be remembered and honestly I don't think that will ever be an issue. I, along with the rest of the wrestling world am so interested in everything you've said and done that were I so inclined to do so I would simply put in my time with one short word or two to help put you over and then call it a week. It seemed to work fine for MWG last week, after all."

"But no Patrick, I do enjoy my work."

"I'm a workaholic to an extent - to the extent that this has been and always will be my life. I know that the droll inanities of it all must be mind numbingly dull to such an enlightened spiritual being such as yourself, but I'll do you the courtesy of at least participating."

"I've always liked your type. You know, the kind who is so purposefully distant and evolved and yet has found his most productive outlet to be....professional wrestling. And by 'liked your type' I clearly mean 'roll my eyes at and think is full of bulls**t'."

"And while you and the self help scene from Austin Powers are fascinating as all hell - and by 'fascinating as all hell' I mean 'a complete waste of time' - what I have more interest in is honoring the hell of a man who was my best friend in life and who if here, would chuckle at the idea of someone like you being taken seriously anywhere in the world, much less in a contest bearing his name."

"So Patrick Bickle, no matter what you want and no matter who you are, important or not - you'll remember my name. That's for damn sure. And while you're happily so obscure and unimportant that the FBI keeps it's top secret documents on your MySpace page, I'll give you a firsthand lesson in the only truth and the only therapeutic technique that matters...."

"A hard spike on your head on the concrete."

"Congrats on your big win over the drunk chick at meeting."

"Pontificate for me just a little more. That never gets old."


09-05-06, 04:50 PM
[The scene opens with a sharp crack of wood, and we open to an empty training facility save for Patrick Bickle within the ring. He currently is laying off to one side between the remnants of a table, which he seems to have just propelled himself through off of the centre of the top rope on one side of the ring. There is a chair laying bent on a far turnbuckle, and a garbage can right beside it. Within the middle of the ring there is a large black circle drawn in, what looks like, wet paint. It becomes more evident that it is paint when Bickle pulls himself slowly to his feet and, indeed, his right arm has remnants of the black colouring. He looks upwards and takes a deep breath in, when the door to the far side of the facility bursts open.

Mr. Maps, Bickle’s physician, rushes in with a bunch of stapled together papers and his breath far behind him.]

Mr. Maps: Bickle!!! (takes a moment with his hands on his knees to breathe). Patrick, Patrick. (He breathes for some moments more) There was word…from your opponent finally.

Bickle: I wasn’t aware that they had officially named a man to step between the ropes with me.

Mr. Maps: Patrick! This isn’t a joke! (He takes the last breaths that he might need to speak fluidly) I have what he’s put out, Patrick! I think you’ll be interested in reading it.

[Bickle immediately takes a running start off one set of ropes, bounces hard back against another, and then takes an angle off his last bounce on the rope heading straight for the rubble of a chair and garbage can in the corner, and Bickle flies into a spear right into the pile. A deafening crash reverberates off the walls. Maps doesn’t move an inch and stares in awe. Slowly from the corner, a hand rises, and a shoulder. Bickle rises to his feet, takes a breath in, and stands.]

Mr. Maps: You aren’t even against an opponent yet! Stop that kind of conduct! Just listen for one moment without killing yourself. Look!

[Maps takes some time reading through the paper in his hands with his finger along the paper and then stops tapping one spot.]

Mr. Maps: Yeah look! He says right here that…um…look, he says “then, within my dream – even there – I feel asleep.” Huh, Patrick? C’mon, you need to take this guy seriously!

Bickle: Did he mention anything about where he’ll fall in the ring, or how he may be able to avoid a spear into turnbuckles? Did he reflect on how he’ll stand when each of his legs lay broken on the canvas, and when he takes the time to look at his own marrow, he finds himself beneath my shoulder once more, face down?

Mr. Maps: Well…no, not that specifically. But he…well, no he didn’t mention anything about him and you wrestling at all actually…but look! He said…

[Maps begins to slide his finger along the page again, and while he is doing this, Bickle slides his way out of the ring, and reaches under the frame where he finds a table. With some effort, Bickle slides it within the ring.]

Mr. Maps: Yeah! Here, he says "I've always liked your type. You know, the kind who is so purposefully distant and evolved and yet has found his most productive outlet to be...professional wrestling. And by 'liked your type' I clearly mean 'roll my eyes at and think is full of bulls**t'."

Bickle: I assume he is claiming that in the most recent endeavours which he’s tracked me involved in, I’ve claimed to be above those excuses for humanity that I’ve had said involvement with? Yes, I find myself to be above alcoholics, though he seems to infer that he is above even my class.

Mr. Maps: You’re damn right he does! C’mon, Patrick, think about this! You’ve got to check out his stuff, we’ve got to work on your game if you’re going to stand a chance!

Bickle: And so he is above even me…and chooses wrestling as an outlet for himself. Odd that he would directly condescend his exact position, but I suppose it must’ve been logical in the sense he said it initially, for such idiocy couldn’t have been intentional.

And the term “outlet” seems to be made inappropriate, due to the absolute fact that the only thought other than running my own physical self until absolute punishment has arrived, and then taking one more flight, is putting that exact agony in another man who thinks they can avoid it.

[Bickle takes the time in the ring to set up the table in the very centre of the ring, and then reaches back out below the canvas to where a duffle bag, which is clearly his own possession, sits. He brings it up to the ring level and pulls a sledgehammer from within. The sledgehammer is placed directly in the centre of the table.]

Mr. Maps: I think he was talking about how wrestling is second to your spiritual crap…hey…hey wait…Patrick, I didn’t know you were a spiritual being.

Bickle: I do not believe in any force dictating or even being a participating factor in my existence other than myself and my physical nature. Why would you attempt to put any sort of fright into me with this character…it doesn’t seem as though you’ve handed me any veritable concerns.

Mr. Maps: Well…um…look Patrick, I wasn’t done! He also said he’d drop your head into concrete, and that you’re getting old! Are you telling me that doesn’t worry you?!

[At this point Maps is pulling at his hair and still sounding somewhat frazzled. His finger is desperately going over the paper to find something of content, but soon gives up and tosses it to the ground.]

Bickle: So he did not mention anything about his wrestling, the wrestling match in which he has to face the absolute boundary of pain (being myself), nor about my wrestling style as its own entity? Other, of course, than the fact that he wishes to slam my head into concrete? Oh what a heinous sin it would be for that to be the apex of a match, for mere skull and concrete to decide a win. It will take much more of my will and his for one of us to stand.

Perhaps I am not a fresh concept to him, Mr. Maps. Perhaps he is, as he’s said, indeed bored of what I could possibly say, but I have never requested him to watch my daily happenings; that meeting was my own business. I hardly have any inclination to hear a word of his further than what you’ve already dredged through with me.

[Bickle climbes to the top of the turnbuckle to one side and prepares himself with his arms at his side, with absolutely no motions to entertain an audience.]

Mr. Maps: Well…I still say you should be worried! His name is –

Bickle: I will never know his name. He will crumble.

[With that Bickle jumps leading with his shoulder directly towards the table. Cut to black.]

09-06-06, 08:11 AM

Dan Ryan, sitting behind his desk in the EPW home offices - eating a breakfast taco. He finishes, then wipes his mouth and waves his secretary from the room.

Ryan: "Sorry 'bout that. But hey, we all have to eat."

"Bickle, you seem to have a problem with basic comprehension. But - it's okay. Because what you're doing is a trick that I've seen over and over. Back in 1997 and around that time, this was the sort of little game that people used to get over in this business."

"But since then, we all got just a little bit smarter Patty my boy. We're not teenagers and rookies trying to make our way in the wrestling world. And in the case of myself, I've seen just about all there is to see personality-wise and skill-set wise."

"Trick number one? You not talking at all about wrestling or this sport in any way, shape or form - then attempting to call me out for the same. BZZZZZ - Sorry but that's a violation, chief. And I see through you like used Nutrogena."

"Open your eyes and your ears, Bickle. Wrestling is not my outlet. Wrestling is my life. From the age of fourteen it has been my chosen life. It's not a side effect and it's not a hobby. It is my life. I have no need for your stupid theatrics and if you think that you backyard garbage wrestling yourself for a camera is something will have me sitting here in awe, then truly....truly....you don't know who the f**k you're dealing with."

"Trick number two, Bickle. Showing the whole godda** world your little encounter with Dr. Phil and his lonely group of alchies, then pretending that 'oh my God? what do you mean? I never did that!! you must have been spying on me!!!' "

"Don't break the wall and expect me to play that game with you, dips**t. This isn't the NAPW, although it is growing increasingly obvious that the first three letters in your home company are a description for what the fans do when you come on the screen."

"You are unnecessarily verbose and half of what you say, you don't even know what you're saying yourself. Your logic reeks of a child in way over his head and I guarantee you don't want to talk actual wrestling with me."

"Trash cans and turnbuckles? I've thrown people from balconies and roofs for being less retarded than you are."

"Continue to annoy me, Bickle. Please."

"Because a spike on your head on the concrete is the easy way."

"You don't wanna know what the hard way is. Although, I bet Mr. Maps could make you a map to a stash of video if you really want it. There's about a ten year pile of it, so maybe you can spear it and then hit a swanton into the remnants."

"Meanwhile, I've seen your tapes - I'm as ready as I always am, and nobody...and I mean NOBODY has any doubt that I will toss your stupid ass around the ring like a rag doll if I so choose, and pin you as soon as I'm ready to - just like Ice Cold last week and just like any of the rest of your band of nobodies if they stick their noses anywhere near my business."

"You don't believe in any force dictating or being a participating factor in your existence?"

"It's time to believe - cuz you just met one."