[EAST 1st Round] 1. Tyler Rayne vs. 8. The Spaniard

[CuseTroy]

Match to be held at the Comcast Center in College Park, Md.

RP Deadline: Sunday, April 19 at 11:59:59 p.m. EST

 

[CaptCongaLine]

“It’s pretty f[BEEP]king clear what’s about to happen.”<o>
</o><u4></u4>
(CUTTO: SPANIARD’s blazing azul eyeball. Open. The shot is so tight, we’re not sure which side it is on but we know it is underneath his glorious red and white shiny leather mask. It’s so sweet.)<o></o>
<u4></u4>
SPANIARD: “Que? (doing some weird shimmy and shake) Okay, recognize me now?”<o>

</o> (CLOSEUP: Full facial shot. SPANIARD winks. It’s flawless.)<o>

</o> SPANIARD: That. Was. Gross.

MIKE SHINODA: Y’all ready? Here it is!<o>

</o> (CUE: “Remember the Name” by Fort Minor.)
(CUTTO: A flashy and dazzling montage fades over the image of the SPANIARD. It is replaced with footage of The SPANIARD tearing Masked Violator II a new orifice during the TEAM Invitational Tournament Play-In match. SPANIARD wrenches on MV2with a kneebar, causing the masked weakling to tippy tap his hopes of a championship away. CUTTO: SPANIARD, backstage, doing the very same shimmy and shake.)

SPANIARD V/O: “Of course, by now you must have noticed my striking resemblance to that uncanny creature. In fact...”
<o></o>
(CUTTO: SPANIARD, in ring attire, standing next to a TEAM Invitational Tournament backdrop.)
<o></o>
SPANIARD: “I am that sex-filled, mojo-spewing mountain of a man! I am… (looks into the distance) de SPANIARD!”
<o></o>
(He looks to the camera for a few silent, curious seconds.)
<o></o>
SPANIARD: "Oh? (turning around slightly, noticing his off-positioning) CAJONES!"
<o></o>
(A smaller, much more American – Central, that is – man runs to his side.)
<o></o>
MAN: “Si senor? Cerveza?”
<o></o>
(SPANIARD stares down at the man, puzzled by his presence. Snapping his fingers, he keeps his gaze upon the small mystery while frantically perfecting the art of finger-snapping.)
<o></o>
SPANIARD: “James! James! What is this man doing next to me? (looking off camera) And can de SPANIARD have a beverage on camera? He is very parched-”
<o></o>
(A large, black man comes stomping into the scene wearing an ‘LVW SECURITY’ 5XL t-shirt. He stops just before the duo on camera, crossing his arms over his massive, Gorilla-sized chest.)
<o></o>
JAMES: “Dats Big J, Spanish. (looking down) Aww sh[BEEP]t, Mista Pepe! You know da boss don’t want yo ass on cam’ra! (turning to SPANIARD) You know, for legal reasons? (looking back to PEPE, throws his hands up and pouts) He gon’ kill me!”
<o></o>
(SPANIARD stares blankly at the camera and shrugs at his surrounding situation. CUTTO: PEPE flies out of the arena, airborne, and head first into a dumpster. SFX: Tsssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!)<o>
</o>(SFX: Jim Varney as ERNEST P. WORRELL: "Eeeewwwww!!!")


(CUTTO: SPANIARD in front of the TEAM backdrop, once again. He perches his left foot on a chair while posing to the camera.)

SPANIARD: "See that, Senor Rayne? (turns to his left) Gracias, James."

JAMES (off camera): "Dat's BIG! J!"

SPANIARD: "Que? (nodding and gesturing of camera) Of course we will smoke a 'Big J.' But right now I can't I have a very important interview to conduct. If you will excuse me... (faces the camera, smiling) Thank you, James."

(SFX: Deep sigh and stomping feet.)

SPANIARD: "Now, Senor Rayne... (turning back to the camera) Perhaps that will be you. Perhaps it will be one of your family members. Maybe even your favorite stuffed animal from when you were a child. Perhaps not? (twirls finger) All I know is that you probably are looking at your television - assuming you own one and have yet to devour that whole - and thinking that you have a walk in the park."

(SPANIARD is holding a glass of brandy now.)

SPANIARD: "And you would be correct. (takes a swig) You have a walk in Spanish Park, my friend. A park you never want to be walking through late at night. It's a dangerous, treacherous, and sometimes magical place. Another way you won't want to go through there is alone. By yourself... singular... as in... somebody who might be considered... Numero Uno... perhaps... you think?"
<o></o>
(CUTTO: SPANIARD enjoys a cigar atop the Comcast Center. Dressed in his complimentary Double Tree white bath robe, he looks into the city’s night sky. Oh, look at that. He’s got some classy Brandy in a classy Brandy glass, too. What a guy.)
<o></o>
SPANIARD: “Do you see that? (gestures toward civilization) Whatever the name of this city is, I believe I will make it my home when I am Stateside. Why? Well, (takes a pull on his mighty Cuban) it only seems fit. After all, this will be the site of de SPANIARD’s rise to the top of the East Regional. (once more, pulls on cigar) Once that happens, I have a feeling de people of this good city will be crowning de SPANIARD the wrestling world’s newest... (shoots a plume of smoke into the sky) freshest... (dramatic pose) SEXIEST (end dramatic pose) contender in this whole rigamarole. And you know what de best part is, my soon-to-be-best friends?”
<o></o>
(CUTTO: SPANIARD, still atop the Comcast Center, stands in the Karate Kid pose.)
<o></o>
SPANIARD: Us Spanish know rigamaroles!
<o></o>
(FADE. TO. NEGRO.)

 

[QueenOfTheRing]

(OOC Note: Posting this for Shane. He still can't post to the forums. JAMES VARGA NOTE: I did not write this RP. This was written by Shane. Not me. I =/= (do not equal) Shane)

-------------

“Could you please stop struggling for five f*ckin’ seconds?”

He pleads to the rustling body bag as if it were a tantrum child. Not with anger or even frustration. An actual plea. As if he knows common sense and good reason will not suffice. Something inherent… something deeper… must be called upon to cease these futile efforts. Kinship. Humanity. A level of instinctual emotion shared between the man who asks the question and the bag to which he directed the query.

The black cocoon responds with a feverish thrashing.

Tyler Rayne sighs. His face is smeared with soot and blood. A fresh and particularly nasty gash splits his right cheek damn near in half. His naked torso is similarly dirtied and disheveled. Scars from wars long over faded even further behind the bright crimson of new lacerations. There is still a single fish hook pierced through his left pectoral. A thick length of rope is wrapped from just below the elbow all the way down his right arm. The rope scratches at him. Friction rubs the skin raw. His arm aches. His fingers bleed. Crimson rivulets absorbed into the threaded fibers of the rope. Mixing with the other dark red patches. Adding a patchwork of pain to the coarse tether. His blood soaks the threads. The rope is heavy with the added weight of his and others’. Human hair. Torn skin. The rope is as unforgiving as those who have used it to bind their victims. As the man using it now. He raises one booted foot high in the air and drops a vicious and violent stomp on the wiggling mass of black.

“STOP!”

Stomp.

“F*CKING!”

Stomp.

“MOVING!”

This time the bag responds as requested. The movements stop. Whether due to an actual adherence to the command… or more likely the severe possibility of unconsciousness… either way, the gods d*mned thing stopped moving. A deep breath heaves the Golden Boy’s chest. He steels himself for the final pull. Tug after tug drags the lifeless carcass across the hardwood floor inches at a time. Taut muscles and bulging veins work against dead weight and gravity. He pulls the black bag until his back bumps flush against the wall. A few feet away from an open door and a rickety wooden staircase that descends into an unknown darkness. Tyler drops the rope, relief rushing through his battered face. He moves up behind the body bag, puts the toe of his boot against the lifeless bulge within… and shoves. The bag tumbles down the wooden staircase.

thump thump

thump thump

Tyler collapses to the ground. Exhaustion washes over him in tsunami waves. He leans against the corner for support. Sits with legs outstretched along the hardwood floor. Busted fingers dive into his pockets to recover a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. He sifts through the broken remnants for the only survivor. Three-quarters of a cigarette left unharmed.

thump thump

thump thump

A match strikes against the polished wood floor. Flame to paper and the sweet taste of burning tobacco soothes his weariness. A smile creases his swollen, cracked lips.

THUD

“There was supposed to be an allegory here. Or a metaphor. Whatever the f*ck it is. A correlation between dragging Emo’s useless f*cking buddy through this hall… and dragging your lame, talentless *ss through a decent match. I had this whole big spiel planned out. Then I actually watched your prom and realized you’re too stupid to understand the sh*t anyway. Wouldn’t be worth my time. Like all these ridiculous f*cking TEAM tournaments I keep signing up for. Hoyt knows why.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette. So good. Such a bad idea. Now there’s just not much left.

“See, Spaniard, what you’re looking at here is the most recent TEAM Tournament of Champions… uh… champion. Now I can understand if that doesn’t inspire a sense of awe and fear because, well… I don’t know where those f*cks won their so-called championships from… but it certainly couldn’t have been anywhere credible. I could have found a more viable opponent in Mrs. Leary’s fourth grade tiddlywinks champion. Still, though, I thought maybe that was just a fluke. That maybe out of a field of sixty-four hungry and anxious contenders… maybe the competition would be a bit more up to par. Alas, my hopes have been dashed by the appearance of you, my seedy Spanish friend.”

The chuckle that erupts from his lips is amused. Not joyous. More mocking. Disappointed. As if he chuckles at his own unfortunate lot in life.

“I would have been impressed had you mentioned Ordesa National Park. That one’s in the Pyrenees. There’s also a rather lovely park in Valdemoro. Borough of sorts in Madrid. If you were going for the intimidation factor, I would have chosen La Alameda in Mexico City. After all, it is relatively common knowledge that Mexico City… sh*t, Mexico in general… is some place you straight don’t wanna f*ck with. Those are just off the top of my head. You could have pulled a dozen parks from your *ss. Any one of them located in Spain or Mexico, since, honestly… I can’t tell for the life of me which one you’re supposed to be. No. You pick Spanish Park. Spanish Park. As if your contrived f*cking gimmick weren’t insulting enough. The Spaniard. As in… and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong… one who hails from Spain. So you show up in a luchadore mask with an obviously Hispanic associate of some sort offering you a cerveza. You’re kidding me. You have got to be f*cking kidding me. Now I came into this expecting some stupid sh*t. Some really f*cking stupid gimmicks. Some half-assed, cliché f*ckin’ smack. The kind of sh*t talk that lacks any actual talk. It’s just sh*t. All of that I expected. Even more. But you… you have somehow managed to surpass every single one of my lowest expectations and drive the soiled name of TEAM even further into a murk of relentless rubbish.”

The cigarette is wasted. Burned to the filter. He flicks it across the hall and turns to address the camera with more focus. With a bright passion flaming in those brown eyes.

“Spanish Park. I … I can’t even wrap my head around the concept of anyone thinking that is a good line. Varga would come up with something more clever than that. Dusk… butt loving f*cking Sunshine could come up with better smack than Spanish Park. Do you even know where Spanish Park is? Is it on the corner of Know Your Role Boulevard and Jabroni Drive? Are you f*cking kidding me? I Google mapped this sh*t and the only Spanish Park I could find is in the middle of Bumf*ck, Missouri. Which makes absolute perfect sense when you stop to think about it. Considering the ignorant and entirely unoriginal, stereotypical … downright insulting excuse of a Spaniard that you’re trying to portray… I wouldn’t even be surprised if you’re really just some corn fed inbred from Bumf*ck, Missouri. You’re right about one thing, though, you ignorant sack of sh*t. This will be a walk in the park.”

It isn’t the easiest thing he’s done tonight. Stand. Palms flat against the wall, it’s more of an effort than it should be to pull himself vertical.

“Caucasian Park.”

His hand wraps around the doorknob. His body swings around the door. Foot on the steps.

“My cock in a hot Asian to celebrate the inevitable victory that will be my first round of yet another worthless TEAM tournament. Woopty-f*ckin-doo.”

Tyler Rayne descends. The door pulls behind him. Not quite shut. No. A crack is left between the wood and frame. Just enough to hear the last sentence as he trails into the depths of darkness.

“Might as well be wrestlin’ f*ckin’ Bonafide.”