| JM | Date: Tuesday, 2011/05/31, 0:33 AM | Message # 1 |
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Jobber
Group: Champion
Messages: 23
Status: Offline
| We Shall Dine In Hell...Tonight!
Justin Marsham v. Jakob Mayhem
Fifteen Minutes Ago.
“What?!” shouts the boisterous voice of Justin Marsham – welcoming EWA audiences to another segment. He shouts with undeniable vehemence. his voice dripping with angst.
Cameras fade in – introducing the fans to a disheveled setting – where Justin Marsham stands at the epicenter of. When the Colosseum was built, it allowed its vast roster to have their own locker rooms. Marsham was first on board with that idea, always loving his own privacy. Unfortunately, there are negative aspects to having your own locker room. For instance, everyone always knows where it is and suspects you will be there. Also, when someone comes into your locker room and trashes it – when you share with several other wrestlers – at least one of them will have seen the perpetrator. In this case, there are no witnesses and there is no evidence. There are only broken bottles, upturned furniture and scattered papers.
“Papers?!?” Marsham roars, sifting through what appears to be endless torn notepads.
Papers. His countenance is overtaken by a bewildered look, not knowing where any of these papers could have come from. He cannot even remember owning a notepad in recent years, let alone having them accessible to shred and toss about his locker room.
Enemies have done a lot of things to Marsham in the past. He has suffered injuries at the hands of his opponents. He has witnessed his comrades and loved ones brutalized. He has had some of his most precious awards and prizes stolen from him. However, he has never had his locker room trashed like it has been now. Yet – that is not what is peculiar about this situation. Those who have chronicled Marsham's career instantly see the immediate difference. In all of those past incidents, Marsham never appeared so upset. Even when his girlfriend at the time, Selene, was being threatened back in 2007 by Scott Blackwell, Marsham was untouched. But now, when someone has thrown papers over the floors and turned his furniture on its sides, he is upset? It seems quite odd.
“Wow. Looks like you had quite a party,” remarks Marsham's friend, Steven Slade, as he enters the locker room.
Now is not the time for jokes; or, at least, in Marsham's mind.
“–and where the Hell were you? Weren't you supposed to be here?” Marsham questions when the camera snaps back to Slade, watching him simply standing in the doorway with a Subway sandwich in his right hand.
Slade shrugs. “I got hungry.”
“Look! We're fuckin' two weeks from that damn Supercard and I need to make CERTAIN I'll have the upper-hand headed into that match. Set aside your hunger and look at the big fuckin' picture. Right now, the world is shiftin'. There are specific junctures we have worked towards for months now. Everything we have done, all of the minute little details I have worked out are going to come to a head soon; and the last thing that I need is you and your hunger FUCKIN' IT UP!”
To say that Marsham is displeased is an understatement. He violently kicks a crumpled stack of papers across the room amid his stride, moving towards the remnants of his television monitor. Shattered glass and broken plastic lay scattered across the floor. He kneels down beside the monitor and pushes it aside.
“How was I supposed to know this would happen?” Slade asks.
“Good question,” Marsham answers as he reaches under the television stand. “You didn't. But, I don't suppose you happen to take Hank with you to Subway did you?”
Slade quietly shakes his head.
Shortly thereafter, Marsham stands – bringing with him a small camcorder. He smirks as he examines the damage-free device. He had used the camera to watch Hank and left it on for long periods of time. Marsham was always sure to have a back-up plan and oh how he loves to safeguard his investments. But, Marsham suffers the same backlash that many who feel they are smarter than their enemies do. His smirk vanishes and a sneer soon takes its place as he opens the camera. While the camcorder itself is not damaged, the tape is missing.
“What do you need me to do?” Slade asks.
Marsham shakes his head then slams the camcorder down against the ground. The papers act as a cushion, softening the camera's landing; however, it does not prevent the device from breaking into about five pieces.
“You can clean this room up. I'm going to go find that fat son-of-a-bitch!”
With an arched brow, Slade asks, “Do you know who did this?”
“I can't say for sure, but put together the pieces. Hank is missing. Check. The room looks like an episode of Hoarders. Check. Who the Hell do you think would be responsible for such Mayhem?”
Slade shrugs while quickly eating his sandwich.
“Every time you get a new tattoo you lose brain cells don't you? Are you fuckin' jokin' me right now? Who the Hell would be responsible for this Mayhem? Buzzsaw. Buzzsaw's friend? Mayhem? Do I have to spell it out for you? Even if it wasn't him, I'll place the blame. He seems so dead set on becoming a roadblock between myself and Buzz, so...it only makes sense.”
With a mouthful of food, Slade retorts all-while chewing, “–I really...I just don't think...think it is him. Mayhem's the kind of guy who'd stick around to make sure... you knew it was him. Maybe Hank...Hank did it when he escaped. He knew about the...the recorder. He could've done it.”
Marsham shakes his head. “It doesn't matter at this point! We just need to get him back!”
Then, without further warning, Marsham disappears – vanishing into the hall and in search for Hank. His feet strike against the concrete with undeniable rhythm, echoing down the hall like the opening beat of a dubstep song. The Colosseum is immense. He has not even seen most of it and now he would be forced to explore every inch. But, he remains hopeful. Hopeful to find the overweight, Cheetos addicted mama's boy down the next hall, cowering in a corner like a coward. If Jakob Mayhem had been responsible for leaving his locker room in disarray, he would not have to wait until Shatter Point to tango with Technical Finesse. Marsham's still not certain what to expect. Will he find Total Mayhem guarding Hank? Will Buzzsaw have saved Hank from further torture? These questions rush through his mind as his feet carry him down several corridors.
He rounds a corner sharply and—BLAM!
A paper plate, laced with pasta salad and lunch meat, is thrown into the air; having lost the grip on his plate as well as his balance, EWA match official, Chris Young, is laid out over the floor. Miraculously, Young still has hold of his orange drink – most likely Fanta – as he struggles to regain a vertical base. An irritated Marsham offers no assistance as the referee gets to a knee, examining his spilled meal.
“You haven't happened to see a portly little fellow running around here have you?”Marsham inquires.
Young arches a brow and looks up at the Epitome of Technical Finesse. “Like...a midget?”
“No, no. He's just some fan. Looks kind of like Buzzsaw. He was probably running.”
“No. The only person I've seen running today here is you.”
“Well, keep an eye out.”
Young shrugs. “I guess, but I still don't really know who you're looking for.”
Marsham despises having to explain himself. He sighs deeply and then explains, “He's about the size of Buzzsaw...just fat. He's wearing an old white t-shirt. Unshaven face. Smells like Hindenburg's ass. He'll probably be hiding. He's...well...listen! If you see a damn fool running around that looks like he should be playing Magic: the Gathering, just come find me.”
“Oh!” chuckles Young. “Actually, I did see a guy earlier. It was about a half hour ago. He was headed down there and I couldn't figure out why.”
“What's down there?” Marsham asks with a quirked brow, glancing down another corridor, though this one much darker than the usual.
“That's the Boiler Room.”
Another heavy sigh escapes Marsham's lips when he mutters to himself. “Oh Christ.”
- - - - - - - - -
REWIND
One Hour Earlier.
What exactly had happened in between the time Marsham had left Steven Slade responsible for watching Hank and when he discovered his locker room a mess?
EWA
Blue letters are written across a tan banner – it stretching across a wall as a makeshift backdrop. Various lighting posts have been erected, banishing all shadows from the set. A single cameraman stands poised and waiting direction. Ryan Lewis, EWA interviewer, stands to the right of the set. He takes a microphone in hand and steps in front of the camera.
“Welcome EWA fans, we are just days before an exciting Shatter Point where Jakob Mayhem will go one-on-one with Justin Marsham. It is being billed as Hardcore Mayhem versus Technical Finesse and tonight we are being joined by the Epitome of Technical Finesse, Justin Marsham.”
Appearing beside Lewis is Marsham ala 1980s promo. Marsham has broken from his usual trend, scheduling a promotional spot and preparing to discuss the match he is booked in this week. Black and blues collide. Marsham is dressed to perfection. An exquisite blue button-down shirt is only partially hidden beneath a black suit jacket. Light rolls over the sheen of his black shoes, refracting and offering distorted images; images that resemble the souls of those Marsham has beaten, their success cut short by the hand of Technical Finesse. From beneath Black Rayban New Wayfarers, Marsham's azure eyes peer out, cold calculation concealed beyond the tint of the sunglasses.
“In just two weeks, you will be facing Buzzsaw for the EWA Heavyweight Championship. Yet, before we get to that, this week you will be facing Buzzsaw's comrade, Jakob Mayhem. He is a powerhouse and one half of the world renown tag team Total Mayhem. What are your thoughts going into this match?” inquires Lewis before moving the microphone towards Marsham.
With a disgusted look crossing his countenance, Marsham reacts, “–are you serious right now? How long have you been doing this?”
“For a whi–“Lewis begins to respond, but Marsham is quick to rudely interrupt.
It is a display of authority – an opportunity to exert his power over the meek – when he interrupts another. He berates the interviewer although he has truly done nothing wrong. However, to Marsham, Lewis would be able to do no right.
“–I don't need an answer! It was rhetorical. We all know how long you've been pointing out obvious facts, trying to act professional standing here with your cheap suit and your microphone. Listen, I don't need a history lesson on Total Mayhem. I don't need you to paint a picture of how powerful or threatening they are. Why? ...because I don't care. Total Mayhem. Jakob and Ezra. I don't even know which one I'm facing this weekend. Why? ...because it doesn't matter. There is only one man that I have my sights on and that's the piece of trash that's holding MY championship belt.”
In an attempt to do his job, Lewis pulls the microphone to his own lips and remarks, “Fans, he would be referring to our current Heavyweight Champion, Buzzsaw.”
Bewildered, Marsham just stares at Lewis. Moments of silence settle over the interview before Marsham breaks,“Did you? What? Didn't you already say that BEFORE I started talking? OH! Oh, never mind! I get it now. You need to reiterate things you just said in order to remind these fans watching at home who I am referring; and, of course, that would be because everyone watching at home are a bunch of idiots. Things make sense to me now. The universe is at peace. Thanks. Now, if you wouldn't mind...”
Snatching the microphone from Lewis' clutches, Marsham assumes a menacing pose. Lewis is forced to evade danger and leaves the set. Now, it is only Marsham who is shown on camera. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, reverting back to a more docile demeanor.
“Alright Buzzsaw! You and I are at different ends of the spectrum. This has long been chronicled. But, it is coming to an end. Savor these days. Relish every moment you still have that belt around your waist because – when the Supercard is over – and I'm standing over your broken, beaten, battered, bruised, brutalized body, I will be ushering in a new age for EWA.”
Marsham smirks, hearing his confidence saturate the words departing his lips.
“You really have done nothing as champion. You've managed to defend your championship ONCE against Tim Timmons. You managed to beat me ONCE. Then, you proceeded to take beat down after beat down after beat down. You have had your ass handed to you so many times that you did the only thing you possibly could. You called for help. Enter Total Mayhem. I suppose EWA is a rough place...far too rough for even a Hardcore enthusiast as yourself, right? So, that brings me to this week. You get a week to rest and prepare for our match...and I get to wrestle one-on-one with Jakob Mayhem. That's fine. Some say it isn't fair – but I really don't give a damn. I see it simply as practice; and practice makes perfect, right?”
Hostility looms in the air – so thick that it weighs heavy upon those near. Many do not dare enter its reach, fearful of what dangerous side effects it produces. But, one man unafraid or perhaps too ignorant to realize this is Jakob Mayhem. Marsham has not forgotten about him and – as his lips regain the sinister smirk – he begins to speak once again.
“–which, of course, brings me to Jakob Mayhem, one half of the self-proclaimed best tag teams in the world. Yes, Jakob Mayhem. Big. Bad. Whatever. It really doesn't matter to me. For a while, I had one question and it was just something I couldn't seem to wrap my head around. What in the Hell are you doing here in EWA? I'd figure by now you'd be off lounging around in your double-wide, living off the money you got from CZW that you haven't already pissed away on hookers and booze. When EWA debuted, I was under the impression they were looking for talent and an ushering in of a new age of wrestling. I just couldn't figure out why EWA would offer you a contract. But then, it hit me. I answered my own question...because I'm a genius. With all of these amazing athletes in EWA like Ryan Shane and myself...and like Ryan Shane and...well...myself, EWA must've figured, 'We need to get someone they can whoop on.' It'd have to be someone other than Buzzsaw because – quiet frankly – beatin' his ass is getting a little stale. So, whabam! Here you are.”
Overly enthusiastic about the opportunity to 'whoop on' Jakob Mayhem, Marsham chuckles. Moments of laughter taint his words as he continues, basically degrading Jakob on every level he can muster. To Marsham, it is all a game. He shall take his match against Jakob seriously – like all others he competes in. However, he will offer another image. He forces a short pause and then continues:
“You got a taste last week of Technical Finesse. This week, you get the whole meal. I don't care if Buzzsaw's in your corner this week. You can bring him, your brother and the whole damn locker room down to that ring with you. There ain't no changing the future; and the future ain't lookin' very bright for you.”
He concludes his promo and steps off screen, allowing Ryan Lewis to sneak back into view. Lewis shakes his head, uncertain whether or not Marsham would make another abrupt interruption. But, such things would not happen.
“Well, this'll be one exciting match. Tune into Shatter Point to see Justin Marsham take on Jakob Mayhem one-on-one,”states Lewis just before the screen fades to black.
- - - - - - - - -
FAST FORWARD.
The Present.
Once again, cameras roll in the backstage area of the Colosseum, following the unmerciful stride of Marsham. He is cold and calculated in the squared circle; and that also translates outside the ring as well. He returns to his locker room to find Slade still busy cleaning. Black garbage bags are lined against the far wall, full of papers and broken electronics. For as short of a time that Marsham has been gone, it is very impressive how quickly Slade has brought the room back together.
“Good, it's real good to see you're almost done,” greets Marsham as he enters.
“Yea,” mutters Slade whilst setting aside a relatively large stack of towels.
Marsham's treatment of Slade has always been peculiar. The duo have known each other for over a decade and it has always been the same. While there have been times in the past when they have been at each other's throats, they have always forgiven each other. Even now, as Slade serves as Marsham's errand boy, he does not seem to mind. He is a dedicated friend and can be counted upon in great times of need.
One of those times is now.
“I found the bugger, but I'm gonna need you to go and make sure his fat ass doesn't escape this building.”
Slade nods, unobjectionable. “Can do.”
“Damn, I can't believe you've got this place cleaned us as far as you have.”
“Thanks,” replies Slade – a quirked brow evident as he grows curious by Marsham's words of appreciation.
Shaking his head, Marsham returns, “No, thank you. You know this is all driving me apeshit crazy, right?”
“What...Buzzsaw or...what?”
“It is just frustrating to me. EWA could be put on the map. It would be an organization that could rival some of the biggest Japanese promotions. What makes an organization stand out? Its champion. Who do we have? Exactly!”
“You act like you care,” Slade retorts with a smug grin.
Marsham laughs, obviously having calmed down from the initial shock of his locker room and losing Hank. “Cut aside all the bullshit. Cut aside my cockiness and how God damn greedy I am – and you're damn right I care. I make money. Money is good. Championship gold equals more money. EWA being a success equals even more money. Right now, I feel like I'm a passenger in a car driven by some dumb shit who doesn't know where the Hell we're going. So, you can bet your ass I'm gonna do whatever it takes to bump that bastard out of the driver's seat and get behind the wheel.”
Collecting what little is left of the mess, Slade swiftly moves to the exit. “Dude, you've done some crazy stuff to get where you are right now. Buzzsaw's no slouch and you know it. This'll be a battle. You've got a war ahead of you at the next Supercard, but you really need to focus on Jakob this week.”
With a shrug followed by a nod, Marsham answers, “Oh, I am.”
The usual dominant Marsham and submissive Slade conversation is absent. For these few brief benevolent minutes, audiences are left perplexed. Compliments shed light onto the genuine friendship between this duo; and the true Justin Marsham – unconcealed by his veil of avarice and malignity – is shown. With vicious determination, Marsham has professed his intentions for the Supercard. But, it does seem as though he is taking his match against Jakob Mayhem lightly.
Just before leaving the room, Slade shouts out with a chuckle, “–then make it look like it!”
“Make it look like it?” questions Marsham, muttering the words to himself while proceeding across the room to his duffel bag. “Make it look like it.”
He pauses, just staring down at the bag on the floor. The camera roams the room before zooming to Marsham's countenance. Something sparks within his eye. An idea. Lips curl upward into a soft grin as this idea issues through his mind, ebbing with schemes he has done in the past. Technical Finesse knows no limits and if rehashing a concept that worked in the past works now...then it shall be redone.
Now, with a smile, Marsham whispers to himself, his words barely audible. “Make it look like it. Damn, you are brilliant.”
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