t r e
New member
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2006
- Messages
- 234
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 44
- Location
- saratoga springs, new york
- Website
- www.paulbrisbin.com
He stepped from his car with a grimace and an ache in his bones he'd endured so long he barely knew to acknowledge it. Sheilding his eyes from the glaring sun with one withered hand and deftly maneuvering onto the curb with a cane in the other, he supressed a weary groan.
Groaning - much like whining and moaning - had never been his style.
Slowly working his way down the sidewalk and up the paved pathway to a flat, blocky, warehouse-like building nestled between two patches of lush green trees, he silently wondered what time it was just before forgetting the question. The weather-beaten sign hanging high above the double doors before him read, simply enough
"The Vin Zachary School of Wrestling, est. 1973"
The old man smiled, having been close to a year -- far too long, he knew -- since he'd last passed under this weathered sign. For probably the millionth time.
The doors themselves appeared heavy, and likely were, but you wouldn't know it by watching him almost effortlessly breeze through. The rush of exitting air rustled his thin gray hair - the noise hit him nearly as hard.
Even still, after over 30 years of operation; though the faces would change, even the styles - the sound of his school at work, in action, seemed ever-reliable. Always sounding just as it had the day the doors first opened.
Stepping into the main gym, Vin Zachary could see there was action in both rings. No way could he conjure up the name of even one of the "trainees". (He often had to remind himself that, damn it, this "just isn't my business anymore".) His eyes swept the complex, resting just for a moment on the dusty display case to his right. Inside were the relics of his career, long since past. He moved to take a closer look at them before thinking better of it.
"Meh... doubt they've changed any," he muttered to himself.
His eyes focused now across the gym where the School's Head Trainer held court with a trio of young, eager students in the center of one of the rings. Vin took his time moving toward them, craning his head, straining to hear the teacher's words.
"...to what I'm trying to tell you. This is not an exact science. There is no one, singular, perfect way to execute a Suplex. No one way to apply a Crossface," the Head Trainer slowly paced in the ring, thinking the words through as he went -- he was clearly having a difficult time imparting today's lesson.
"You're got to learn how to add your own ... flavor to the move, or the hold. Put your own stamp on it ... without recreating or decimating it altogether."
The tallest, lankiest student chimed in.
"... you're talking about creating your own style," the young man said with confidence.
"That's right," the Trainer replied. "Defining your 'quote-unquote' finishing move is ALL ABOUT style! I'm looking for you guys to seperate yourselves. Find an established move ... and tweak it. Make it your own."
"Can we tweak the Havoc-Bomb?" the same student asked to a pair of chuckles from his cohorts. The Head Trainer just levelled a finger at the students face with a grin, snickering under his own breathe.
"Careful, Jenson! Real careful!" he replied. "I hope you guys are taking this seriously, because I --"
"Mason!" an unmistakable voice called out. "How long has that light been out?"
Mason Xavier, once known to the wrestling world as Havoc and now Head Trainer of The VZ, spun on his heels. "Vin?"
Indeed.
"Vin! No sh!t," Mason said with an unavoidable grin. "If I had known you were coming I would have had the kids ready for a little exhibition for you!"
Vin dismissed that notion as unnecessary with a shrug of his bony shoulders. "You gonna answer my question?" he croaked.
Mason just stared back at him blankly before Vin gestured up, at the ceiling, where one of probably twenty five florescent bulbs rested dark and unlit. "You waiting for me to change it, or what?"
Mason shook his head, then pointed towards the students in both rings who had by now all stopped what they'd been doing to enjoy this odd exchange between their teacher and whom some saw as some crazy old man.
"Kids?" Mason announced. "This is Vin Zachary."
That same vocal student from earlier, Jenson, looked to Mason in disbelief. "THE Vin Zachary?"
Vin smiled. "The," he assured him.
Mason stepped between the ropes and hopped down to the gym floor beside Vin. He rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "This is the man that inspired me, and countless others, to become a professional wrestler." Mason met eyes with the now-tiny man who had once seemed larger than life and had always been a father to him, if not temporarily in law. "And to become a better person."
Vin smiled. "He's just trying to get out of changing that bulb," he said, elicitting a chorus of laughs from his attentive young audience. "Listen to what this man says, kids. If anybody knows how to get it done in that ring using this--"
Vin taps his chest.
"And this--"
Taps his temple.
"It's this guy," Vin told them. "If you'll excuse us a moment."
Vin turned, and Mason with him, before pointing down the far hall leading to the office.
"Is Cassidy in? Didn't see his car," Vin inquired.
Mason frowned. He loathed even saying the mans name. "Stewart's in the office, yeah. Just got in from Tuscon."
Vin's brow twisted. "Tuscon? Arizona?"
Mason nodded.
"What the hell brought him there?" Vin asked, clearly trying to mask his confusion.
"His other business. His agency. His, uh ... client had a match in Tuscon," Mason said. "He won, too ... which is a shock in and of itself."
Vin vehemently nodded his head. "That's right. I think Rebecca told me about him. Ice Box, is it?"
"Tre," Mason shot back, tersely. "Ice Tre."
Mason's eyes now laid trained down the hallway, where inside that office -- covering a full wall -- a series of photographs were on display. Photographs of EVERY graduating class this school had seen. Every student to ever "survive The VZ", as it's said.
Vin's eyes lit up for a moment. "Ice Tre! Right! ... He any good?" Vin asked.
Mason had silently hoped it wouldn't come to this. He knew he was about to stir everything up. But it had to be done; for Tre's sake and for his own conscience.
"You tell me, Vin."
- -- --- ---- ----- ---- --- -- -
TO BE CONTINUED!!!
- -- --- ---- ----- ---- --- -- -
(ooc: stay with me people. i swear this is going somewhere.
)
Groaning - much like whining and moaning - had never been his style.
Slowly working his way down the sidewalk and up the paved pathway to a flat, blocky, warehouse-like building nestled between two patches of lush green trees, he silently wondered what time it was just before forgetting the question. The weather-beaten sign hanging high above the double doors before him read, simply enough
"The Vin Zachary School of Wrestling, est. 1973"
The old man smiled, having been close to a year -- far too long, he knew -- since he'd last passed under this weathered sign. For probably the millionth time.
The doors themselves appeared heavy, and likely were, but you wouldn't know it by watching him almost effortlessly breeze through. The rush of exitting air rustled his thin gray hair - the noise hit him nearly as hard.
Even still, after over 30 years of operation; though the faces would change, even the styles - the sound of his school at work, in action, seemed ever-reliable. Always sounding just as it had the day the doors first opened.
Stepping into the main gym, Vin Zachary could see there was action in both rings. No way could he conjure up the name of even one of the "trainees". (He often had to remind himself that, damn it, this "just isn't my business anymore".) His eyes swept the complex, resting just for a moment on the dusty display case to his right. Inside were the relics of his career, long since past. He moved to take a closer look at them before thinking better of it.
"Meh... doubt they've changed any," he muttered to himself.
His eyes focused now across the gym where the School's Head Trainer held court with a trio of young, eager students in the center of one of the rings. Vin took his time moving toward them, craning his head, straining to hear the teacher's words.
"...to what I'm trying to tell you. This is not an exact science. There is no one, singular, perfect way to execute a Suplex. No one way to apply a Crossface," the Head Trainer slowly paced in the ring, thinking the words through as he went -- he was clearly having a difficult time imparting today's lesson.
"You're got to learn how to add your own ... flavor to the move, or the hold. Put your own stamp on it ... without recreating or decimating it altogether."
The tallest, lankiest student chimed in.
"... you're talking about creating your own style," the young man said with confidence.
"That's right," the Trainer replied. "Defining your 'quote-unquote' finishing move is ALL ABOUT style! I'm looking for you guys to seperate yourselves. Find an established move ... and tweak it. Make it your own."
"Can we tweak the Havoc-Bomb?" the same student asked to a pair of chuckles from his cohorts. The Head Trainer just levelled a finger at the students face with a grin, snickering under his own breathe.
"Careful, Jenson! Real careful!" he replied. "I hope you guys are taking this seriously, because I --"
"Mason!" an unmistakable voice called out. "How long has that light been out?"
Mason Xavier, once known to the wrestling world as Havoc and now Head Trainer of The VZ, spun on his heels. "Vin?"
Indeed.
"Vin! No sh!t," Mason said with an unavoidable grin. "If I had known you were coming I would have had the kids ready for a little exhibition for you!"
Vin dismissed that notion as unnecessary with a shrug of his bony shoulders. "You gonna answer my question?" he croaked.
Mason just stared back at him blankly before Vin gestured up, at the ceiling, where one of probably twenty five florescent bulbs rested dark and unlit. "You waiting for me to change it, or what?"
Mason shook his head, then pointed towards the students in both rings who had by now all stopped what they'd been doing to enjoy this odd exchange between their teacher and whom some saw as some crazy old man.
"Kids?" Mason announced. "This is Vin Zachary."
That same vocal student from earlier, Jenson, looked to Mason in disbelief. "THE Vin Zachary?"
Vin smiled. "The," he assured him.
Mason stepped between the ropes and hopped down to the gym floor beside Vin. He rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "This is the man that inspired me, and countless others, to become a professional wrestler." Mason met eyes with the now-tiny man who had once seemed larger than life and had always been a father to him, if not temporarily in law. "And to become a better person."
Vin smiled. "He's just trying to get out of changing that bulb," he said, elicitting a chorus of laughs from his attentive young audience. "Listen to what this man says, kids. If anybody knows how to get it done in that ring using this--"
Vin taps his chest.
"And this--"
Taps his temple.
"It's this guy," Vin told them. "If you'll excuse us a moment."
Vin turned, and Mason with him, before pointing down the far hall leading to the office.
"Is Cassidy in? Didn't see his car," Vin inquired.
Mason frowned. He loathed even saying the mans name. "Stewart's in the office, yeah. Just got in from Tuscon."
Vin's brow twisted. "Tuscon? Arizona?"
Mason nodded.
"What the hell brought him there?" Vin asked, clearly trying to mask his confusion.
"His other business. His agency. His, uh ... client had a match in Tuscon," Mason said. "He won, too ... which is a shock in and of itself."
Vin vehemently nodded his head. "That's right. I think Rebecca told me about him. Ice Box, is it?"
"Tre," Mason shot back, tersely. "Ice Tre."
Mason's eyes now laid trained down the hallway, where inside that office -- covering a full wall -- a series of photographs were on display. Photographs of EVERY graduating class this school had seen. Every student to ever "survive The VZ", as it's said.
Vin's eyes lit up for a moment. "Ice Tre! Right! ... He any good?" Vin asked.
Mason had silently hoped it wouldn't come to this. He knew he was about to stir everything up. But it had to be done; for Tre's sake and for his own conscience.
"You tell me, Vin."
- -- --- ---- ----- ---- --- -- -
TO BE CONTINUED!!!
- -- --- ---- ----- ---- --- -- -
(ooc: stay with me people. i swear this is going somewhere.
)