Round 1: Umpiro vs. Troy Douglas

[Chad]

Roleplay goes here. 2 RP limit for this round.

 

[CuseTroy]

FADE IN...

Over the years, Troy Douglas has converted most of his basement into a fairly expansive gym. He's not using it right now. With the start of the ULTRATITLE tournament looming, Troy has -- rather appropriately, for the man who once broke into pro wrestling as "The Throwback" -- gone old school. The same old boxing gym his father once took him to, the same heavy bag he's unloaded countless thousands of kicks and punches on. Firing one last roundhouse kick to the swinging bag with a massive *THWACK*, Troy steps away from the bag and leans on the apron of the empty ring. A few deep breaths, a wipe of sweat from his brow, and he's ready.

DOUGLAS: Y'know, that gets really repetitive after a while. But, time-tested training and all that ... right?

It's pretty strange to believe that this day is really here, and for a few reasons.

First, there's an ULTRATITLE again. I'm sure there are a lot of people who thought that Nova would be the last man to ever lift that famous trophy and, honestly, I was one of them.

Second, and not to blatantly plagiarize our old friend George Costanza, but ... I'm back, baby. When I pulled my little disappearing act, I'm sure there were some people who were disappointed, more than a few who were more than happy to be rid of me and some others who didn't even turn their heads at one more washed-up wrestler fading from the spotlight.

And third? Well, in a group full of legends, newcomers and straight-up big balls of mystery ... I'm facing a Mexican vampire umpire -- er, umpire vampire.

A VUMPIRE?

What are the odds, right? A tournament with me, 125 other humans, a Vumpire and Cameron Cruise ... and I get the Vumpire. It's like the folks drawing up the brackets had a window into my subconscious and saw my 11-year-old nightmares of being called out on strikes to end Game 7 of the World Series before having the ump rip off his mask to reveal his fangs bracing to suck out my blood and transform me into one of his undead coven.

Yeah, more than a few lost nights of sleep from that one.

But, you know what they say. Gotta face your fears head on, right? So, I guess we start with Vumpires.

And Umpiro, that means that you're a very, very unlucky undead part-human. Because I'm not an 11-year-old kid dealing with some pesky nightmares. I'm pushing 37, I've dealt with far worse than a few bad dreams and when it comes to the ULTRATITLE, I'm on a mission.

Because my greatest fear isn't vampires, or umpires, or even vampire umpires. It's the idea that my career inside the squared circle -- for all the passion, for all the blood, sweat and tears I dumped into this sport for my than a decade -- doesn't amount to a hill of beans in the end.

I'm scared that my legacy in the world of professional wrestling is to always be the guy that came up short in the clutch, that never really backed up the promise of my resume or my words.

I'm scared, Umpiro, that I was a failure.

And at the end of the day, for all my aspirations of winning the same tournament I watched as a kid, for all my yearning to stretch my legs inside the ring after more than a year on the sidelines, I'm really here for one reason.

In a few months, my first child will be born. And they won't grow up hearing about what a failure Dad was. Not if I have anything to say about it.

The words hang in the air for a moment as Troy's eyes drop to the floor. After a moment, he starts to speak, but quickly stops himself, gathering another deep breath before speaking again, still not looking at the camera.

DOUGLAS: That's why I'm here. That's why the ULTRATITLE means so much to me. Because this tournament ... well ...

It just might be my last chance to make my career mean more than a handful of "almosts" and "not quites."

Of course, there are 127 others with the exact same goal, right? Making this tournament the defining moment of a legendary career, or stamping yourself as a future first-ballot hall of famer. One hundred twenty-seven others, and because that ULTRATITLE name is attached, it's the cream of the crop.

But, here's the rub, folks. I don't have to beat 127 other people. I don't have to run the gauntlet and beat them one-by-one. The way I see it -- and I've done the math, so I'm pretty certain on this -- I've got seven matches to win.

Seven-for-seven, and the ULTRATITLE's mine.

Sounds simple, huh?

Y'all have seen the brackets by now. You know what my road could entail. Cameron Cruise. Dan Ryan. Zerp. Blaine Hollywood. Doctor Curiosity. "Jester" Chad Allen. Kin Hiroshi. Joey FREAKING Melton. And that's just my own minefield of a bracket. That's not even getting to Sean Stevens, Deacon, Troy Windham, Eli Flair, Orphan, Karl Brown, Doc Silver, Anarky, Joe the Plumber or another hundred more.

But right now, none of them matter to me. What matters is the name next to mine in the bracket, and right now, that's you, Umpiro. Right now, you're the most important wrestler in the world.

So congratulations ... and I'm very, very sorry for you.

Because the time may come that the name UMPIRO is up their with Hornet, Windham, Melton, Flair, Ryan and all the greats. The time may come that our friendly neighborhood Vumpire is considered the greatest professional wrestler that's ever not-quite lived.

But right now, you're the first of seven roadblocks on my path to the ULTRATITLE, and if I have to lariat your undead noggin off your shoulders and knock it all the way back south of the border, I will.

When you step into the ring with me, Umpiro, it'll be one ... two ... three strikes, you're out.

And I'll see you at the end of the road.

FADE OUT

 

[TH]

The scene is a soundstage with a crude baseball stadium CGI in the background. Umpiro, the undead wrestling umpire, stands in the foreground dressed in his ring gear, covered in an umpire's chest protector.

Translated from Spanish

UMPIRO: The time has arrived. The ULTRATITLE is ready to be contested, and the greatest vampire turned umpire turned professional wrestler, Umpiro, is ready to make his name known to the white men up here in the United States! After many years of judging which side of the foul pole the balls traveled, now, I must stake a claim for myself at the plate. Will my first strike hit the pole, or will it sail just to the left? That is up to two people, myself and my opponent, Troy Douglas.

Douglas' name has a certain cache around here. People know him for being a Champion and a stalwart competitor. However, I've also heard he is known for being, so to speak, a slap hitter. He hits the dribblers through the middle. Very unexciting, very much without the pizzazz. Where are the breathtaking home runs? Where are the stolen bases? Where I say are the plays at the plate? As a wrestler, he may be competent, but every time he slides into home, he is always tagged out. He is, as you white men say, a utility player. I know them when I see them. They frustrate me, mainly because I have to clean up after their broken bats, but also because they do not lend excitement to the game.

That being said, Umpiro is here to bring flair! Panache! EXCITEMENT! I will throw the curveballs. I will beat the tags! I will not only be on the right side of the foul pole, but I will use it to perform moves with GREAT exuberance! Troy Douglas, your time is over here. The time of Umpiro, well, it is just beginning. Well, given that I am immortal, it's kind of eternal, but what can I say? I was turned at a good age, no?

Finito!

 

[CuseTroy]

FADE IN...

Troy Douglas takes another trip down his personal Memory Lane, as today he leans against the box office of the CSWA Auditorium. On the wall behind him, scraps of shoddily-removed posters from the last 24 years still cling to the wall. Troy brushes his hand on the old, brushed-aluminum ticket counter and smiles as he looks at the camera.

DOUGLAS: Excitement?

You want some excitement, Umpiro? You want to see me bring some of that flash, that sizzle, that panache, that certain je ne sais quoi? Well, I know this line's a little played out by now, but be careful what you wish for ... 'cause you just might get it.

You want to talk about moves of great exuberance? Well, my Vumpire pal, I don't know what you'll have in your bag of undead tricks, but when I jam my right boot so far inside your skull the doctors won't know where the leather ends and your brain begins, that'll be plenty exuberant.

When I hit you with a lariat so hard it causes your head to dull the full Exorcist three-sixty, that'll have plenty of flair.

When I bring you up to the second rope, hook the arms and drive you into the canvas with the End of the Road, it'll have plenty of panache behind it.

And when I hook the legs and turn you over into the Scorpion Deathlock and you hear that crowd roar louder than you've ever possibly imagined? Well that ... that's EXCITEMENT personified.

I may not hop around the ring like a honey badger on a six-can Red Bull bender, but believe me, Umpiro, I am PLENTY exciting. There might've been one day when I still had it in me to head to the top rope and bust out the old shooting star press, but with my back and my knees, that time has passed me by. But, just listen to that sold-out crowd when my music hits, let that moment wash over you, and you'll know what excitement in this sport really is.

It's that crowd living and dying with every moment you're in the ring because they truly believe in you.

So trust me, Umpiro, when that bell rings and the chase for the ULTRATITLE begins, it'll be more than exciting. It'll be absolutely ELECTRIC.

Troy pauses for a moment, tapping on the ticket counter as he gathers himself.

DOUGLAS: But, that's not what I really want to talk about, my good Vumpire.

See, you want to call me boring -- a "utility player," as you put it? That's fine. Like I said, you want excitement, you'll get excitement.

But for your scrawny little undead ass to call me washed up, to mock a decade-plus of pain and sacrifice inside that ring when you've accomplished a grand sum of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING in this sport, well, I just can't abide that, son. And you know, there's something pretty funny about that.

Because a few weeks ago, I'd have agreed with you. Until I got word of the ULTRATITLE, my time was up. My mind couldn't have been further from the squared circle. I was done, and frankly, I was happy to be done. But, something's happened since I've started training. For the first time in a long, long time, I'm feeling good when I wake up the morning after a long day of work inside the ring.

When I started this, I didn't know how my body would even take the training? Today, I feel better than I have in YEARS. Honestly, after a year-plus off, I'm in better physical condition than I was at just about any point of my active career. So as far as I see it, my time ain't up, Umpiro. This is my fresh start ... my new beginning ... my REBIRTH.

Still, what really gets me, what really stuck in my craw about what you said was that little "tagged out at the plate" jab.

I know that last time I came on these here airwaves, I talked about the bulk of my career as a failure. But that's by MY standards, Umpiro. Not yours.

See, I never lived up to the lofty dreams I had for myself. I never main evented this here legendary building right in my backyard -- the building where I fell in love with pro wrestling -- with my hometown fans screaming my name. I never collected enough world championships to need an entire new wing of my house just to store them in. I never became the UNIFIED World Champion.

There were a lot of things I never did ... but there were a lot of things I did accomplish as well, and I'd like to think that inside those ropes, I was always -- ALWAYS -- damn good at my job.

That's opposed to you, little buddy, who in between calling guys out on strike three and being turned into an undead creature of the night with a certain aversion to garlic and wooden stakes has a list of accomplishments inside a wrestling ring that amount to exactly SQUAT.

I already had a fire lit under me for this tournament, Umpiro. This is my legacy, my chance to make up for lost time, my chance to silence all my doubters once and for all and, most importantly, prove to myself that twelve years of struggling to get out of bed in the morning really did amount to something of significance in my eyes.

I already had the motivation, Umpiro. But you? You just rattled my cage, son. And when you do that, you do it at your own risk.

You're playing with fire now, and just remember, little Vumpire, that those who play with fire...

They tend to get burned.

Get it?

Got it?

GOOD.

See you at the end of the road.

...FADE OUT

 

[TH]

The scene is an anonymous baseball diamond somewhere in the USA. Umpiro stands behind home plate in his entrance gear, black spandex tights with "Usted está fuera!" written in gray inside periwinkle explosion enclosure, stylized umpire's lucha mask, pewter boots and an umpire's chest protector covering his bare chest.

Translated from Spanish.

UMPIRO:Geez, look at who I riled up. You have the tone and fire of the man who got me kicked out of umpiring forever. You know I still taste the iron-tinged flavor of his blood every time I feed on an animalian substitute or when I'm feeling like treating myself, a death row inmate. You'd be surprised at how easily prison guards look the other way, especially for the serial killers. Regardless, I don't regret those men and sometimes women the way I regret that poor manager. Thankfully, a year of therapy and kilograms upon kilograms of remorse have quelled the bloodlust for those who have enraged me.

Now? I have learned to use my wrestling moves as a proxy for that anger. But the truth, Mr. Douglas? You do not anger me. No, you amuse me, like the fans who call for my head because I call a questionable pitch a ball instead of a strike. They call me names like swine and blind as a bat and Robert Pattinson. They really do lose their head. It seems I made you mad. Well, good, there's nothing more undisciplined than a man who is angry, especially the veterans, the veteran utility players who had a shining moment once or twice. You call them out on their mediocrity and boring nature, and boom, they end up hacking at anything in the strike zone.

That's what you're doing right now, Troy Douglas. You are hacking outside the strike zone. The pitcher, he is throwing the 12-6 slider that breaks too early, and you're biting like Tony Gwynn at an all-you-can-eat huevos rancheros buffet. And me? I am happy to stand there and call the punch out every time.

Actually, I am in the different position now. I don't have to be the one calling the action, I am the one driving the action. I am like the American comic hero Judge Dredd, no? Judge, jury and executioner, or in this case, pitcher, fielder and umpire. I get to throw the high cheese, take the balls in play and call you out as you feebly slide into second, thinking you can still beat the throw from right field. Then, when you argue the call, like all the washed-up has-beens do, I can forcibly throw you out of the ring with great zeal and vigor.

Then, here's what you will do. You will go to the sports bar and say the same things that you have said to me. Basically, you'll regale everyone about the time you almost hit the home run that won the game, that you almost won the big Championship, but by whatever reason, you didn't. Then, when someone laughs at you, you'll remind them they haven't accomplished as much as you. But what is it you accomplished? You flamed out of the National Football League, and then won a bunch of secondary Championships? That doesn't say anything that would make you better than me, someone relatively untested in your gringo wrestling. That only says you have wasted your potential.

So here you are, primed at the plate, ready to go. You think you're Josh Hamilton, when you're really Juan Pierre. You will take a swing for the fences, and by God, you will get a hold of one. It'll roll into the corner, and then you'll round second, the coach waving you around to score. Inside the park home run, the most exciting play. The ball will rocket in from the outfield, miss the cutoff man and get to the catcher right in time. You'll slide under, hoping to avoid the tag, but when the dust clears? It'll be me, punching you out at the plate, literally.

The only solace you'll have? Unlike that poor manager in Guadalajara, you'll still have your blood and your life.

Scene