| JM | Date: Monday, 2011/06/13, 11:32 AM | Message # 1 |
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Jobber
Group: Champion
Messages: 23
Status: Offline
| Our Life is a Movie - Part One
Justin Marsham v. Buzzsaw, EWA Heavyweight Championship Match, Stairway to Death Match
- - Prologue: Questions - -
To what lengths would the Epitome of Technical Finesse be willing to go on his mission to acquire the EWA Heavyweight Championship?
Audiences – world-wide – rush to their wrestling blogs, impatiently waiting for the answers to this question. With the introduction of the Colosseum, EWA has gathered more attention from the world of wrestling. New fans are acquainted with the EWA roster; and, furthermore, the bitter rivalry between Buzzsaw and Justin Marsham. Snide remarks and under-handed tactics have sought to irritate the current Heavyweight Champion. Marsham has belittled Buzzsaw's fans. Even Buzzsaw's number one fan, Hank, was not safe – utilized by the Epitome of Technical Finesse as a weapon to fulfill his personal agenda against the champion.
One such scheme was enacted at the last Shatter Point, utilizing a captive Ryan Lewis as a decoy to lure Buzzsaw from ringside so that Marsham could gain the upper hand over Jakob Mayhem. Steven Slade has proven his worth, aiding the Epitome of Technical Finesse in his mind games, but will he be able to save Marsham from what horrors await him ahead at Retaliation?
A Stairway to Death match. It is a peculiar name, comprised of words familiar to the world of wrestling. Stairway matches always seem to involve something dangling above the squared circle; and, most often times, it is a championship belt. In this case, it would be the prize Marsham covets the most. On the other end of the spectrum, you have your typical death match: barbed wires, foreign objects, and buckets of cruel and unadulterated ill will ready to wish upon your opponent.
Marsham's countenance remained void of concern despite Buzzsaw's announcement at Shatter Point. Did Buzzsaw purposely announce the nature of their championship match just before Marsham was to take on Jakob Mayhem? Was it an attempt to unsettle the Epitome of Technical Finesse? Was it a ploy to keep Marsham preoccupied which would distract him from Mayhem which would cause Marsham to receive the beating he deserves? The mere possibility forces a smile to take shape over Marsham's face. Those are tactics straight from the pages of Marsham's own personal Holy Bible – a book of manipulation and mind games.
EWA fans will have to wait for answers – but not for too long. Days count down towards what could be referred to as Armageddon for the EWA Heavyweight Championship. With the squared circle set as the battle grounds, Justin Marsham and Buzzsaw will face off as if it were the epic battle between Lucifer, the Morningstar, and Michael, the Archangel. The ring will be rendered a war zone. Blood will stain the canvas and torn flesh will inevitably hang from the barbs. These two men will do whatever is in their power to climb the rungs of a ladder and secure the EWA Heavyweight Championship from above the ring. People will watch on in awe and disgust, cheering on whichever bloodied warrior they want to win. Indeed, all of these things will come to pass. But, they fail to answer the question:
Who will win?
- - Act One: The Hangover - -
“–grrr-what the Hell?!” grumbles an exasperated Justin Marsham.
Maddening is the sound of the alarm when it awakens The Epitome of Technical Finesse. He is torn from his slumber – the shrill, rhythmic blare of the alarm forcing him to react. He slaps a hand down over the clock – failing to turn it off – but hitting the snooze and at least eliminating the sound for the time being. While he opts to rest for a moment, Marsham knows he must start this day early. He rubs his eyes and smothers a yawn now beginning to stir from his bed. Blankets – of pale blue and yellow design – are tossed aside; and he sets his feet upon the floor. The carpet fibers are coarse and uncomfortable under foot, so he slips his feet into a pair of brown Sonoma sandals that reside nearby.
A woman remains still nestled beneath the sheets beside Marsham, completely undisturbed by the bothersome alarm clock. Marsham heeds no attention to her and shifts forward to stand, allowing the movement of bed-springs to potentially awaken her. His right hand descends to the bedside table and snatches up the alarm clock. When his azure eyes finally focus, he glances to the clock.
7:15 A.M.
After setting the clock aside, he walks to the window and pauses. Light peeks in through beige drapery and – with one fluid motion – is allowed full access to the room, allaying the darkness that hides in every corner. Orange hues paint the skies and the sun is just dawning, reaching across the heavens with beautiful brilliance. For those who sleep, this light is blinding and forces them to awaken.
Catching sight of himself in a mirror, Marsham poses. He is – for the most part – naked, clothed only by a pair of navy blue boxer briefs. It is as if he is in a Hanes commercial. However, the moment is short-lived and he is no Michael Jordan. He slips on a pair of black slacks and a tan, silk button-down. He does not take the time to button the shirt up and leaves it open, noticing an odd, new scar across the right side of his abdomen. At first, it appears to be a shadow; yet, after further studying blemish, discovers it to be a fresh burn mark. It is sensitive to the touch and remains still red and swollen. If only he could remember how he got such a burn.
The woman in the bed stirs, tugging the covers up and over her head to shield her eyes from the light. Still, no attention is paid to her and Marsham leaves the bedroom, proceeding into an adjacent room. Several individuals are laid across the room. It appears that Marsham recently hosted a party of some sort; and, as the moments pass, it becomes certain that this is not a house – but a hotel suite. The bland colors and bolted down appliances are a dead give away.
Chris Young, EWA referee, sleeping awkwardly upon a small loveseat, snores loudly. He hangs off the edge of the seat with an empty bottle of Butterscotch Schnaps at his side. A brunette sleeps near him, slouched over at the end of the loveseat. Her black dress heels are held in her clutches and had most likely been placed there after she had fallen asleep.
When Marsham passes Chris, he nudges the loveseat in an attempt to stop his incessant snoring. Chris mumbles a few incoherent words and rolls over, somehow finding more room beside the brunette. Marsham takes another moment to rub his eyes, only now spotting his comrade Steven Slade reading across the room – a Rolling Stone magazine in his hand and iPod headphones in his ears. The large plush cushions on the couch he sits upon try to convince Slade to lay down and sleep, but he resists. He is comfortable just listening to his music and reading up on the Monster Goddess that is Lady Gaga.
But, just like that, snoring begins to resound once more. The abrasive sound escaping Chris' lips drives Marsham to the edge...and it is so early in the morning for that.
“Wake up!” shouts Marsham – his voice loud and piercing.
Chris wakes. He sits up, dropping the bottle of Butterscotch Schnapps on the floor. This – too – awakens the brunette beside him, that bottle resounding with a definite thud. But, Chris is not the only one surprised by the shout. Slade quickly throws his headphones off and rolls the magazine up to use as a weapon.
“Dear God Justin, it’s too early for that,” a startled Slade remarks, now returning to his magazine.
Cameras capture all that occur from a position high upon the walls – as if it were recorded from security cameras. The picture remains colored and clear which separates it from the typical surveillance camera footage. There is no delay and there is nothing concealed. It would appear that all inside the hotel room are oblivious that they are being broadcast.
Withdrawing a small bottle of Dragonfruit vitamin water from the refrigerator, Marsham looks over to his guest – Chris Young. He looks a bit shaken. His hair and clothes are in dismay and alcohol lingers on his breath. It looks as though he had a really good time last night or a really terrible time. The smile that develops across his face, though, would answer that question.
“Man, how long was I out?”asks Chris.
“Since before you got here,” jokes Slade, not even looking up from his magazine.
After taking a quick sip of his vitamin water, Marsham questions, “So, did you sleep well?”
Chris nods. “Yeah.”
“He’d be the only one,” remarks Slade.“You snore like a freight train.”
“Sorry about that. I get like that sometimes. But, hey, I don't have the faintest clue where I am or how I got here.”
“Sounds to me like you had a great time,” Marsham remarks.
“I-I guess. I'm just a little...well...yeah,” Chris stammers while wiping the sleep-crud from the corners of his eyes.
“I know, but hey! Good! I was hoping that we could show you a good time,” Marsham proclaims. He approaches Chris slow and continues to speak. His tone is soft, yet eloquent. “–and to be perfectly honest, I don't remember a whole Hell of a lot that happened last night either.”
“Chris at least has an excuse,” Slade remarks, motioning to the bottle of liquor, “Marsham doesn't drink, so he really doesn't have an excuse.”
“Call it old age then,” Marsham chuckles just before taking another sip of his flavored water.
“But, just from what I'm seeing, I like where I am,” Chris smiles, noticing the attractive brunette waking up beside him.
“Why do you think I put up with him?”Slade jokes, now glancing up from his magazine.
“To be serious, Chris, we’ve enjoyed your company. The girls have enjoyed your companionship. You’re a great ring official and a bit under-appreciated. Believe me, I have seen it a thousand times in every organization I've worked for. You’ve got talent and I’ll tell you right now that that is the only reason I’ve extended you my friendship,” Marsham states. “If you were bad at what you do, don’t think for a moment I’d waste my time with you. You don’t see me shaking hands with Buck Evans or throwing a high-five to Crimson Blaze do you?”
Chris shakes his head whilst leaning back into the cushions of the loveseat.
“Precisely my point. I befriend those who have actual net worth, so think yourself amongst the fortunate.”
Slithering across the side of the loveseat, the brunette near Chris curls up beside him. Her soft locks fall upon Chris' chest as she cuddles. It appears she is attempting to go back to sleep, but Marsham is making it very difficult. The Epitome of Technical Finesse proceeds into the great room and takes a seat upon the arm of the couch where Slade is seated.
As Marsham makes his way across the room, Slade laughs, “Then I think myself to be very fortunate. Marsham has never done bad by me. Well, except for that time you double foot stomped that steel chair wrapped around my leg. That was a little uncalled for.”
“You know, Chris. I’ve played the game before. It takes time build your chips. Then, you run the table. I get that whole analogy. I've managed to gain a pretty commanding alliance with Ryan Shane. I've earned my shot at the Heavyweight Championship DESPITE the current champ simply getting it for signing up. I've wrecked opponent after opponent these past few weeks, building a reputation for myself,”Marsham proclaims. “–but what I'd really like is to gain you in my corner.”
Chris' left brow arches. “Well, that's a bit tricky because–“
Marsham promptly interrupts, “–no, no. I'm not asking for much. I'm, more or less, looking for a friend. Consider it a relationship with mutual benefits. I receive your friendship...and you receive my hospitality.”
“O-kay,” a perplexed Chris replies.
“Look. No tricks. No politics. You're a referee in an organization that is hardcore driven. What power do you really have that I can benefit from? You can't disqualify people or turn a blind eye to some foreign object, so take what I'm saying for what it is,” Marsham explains – his voice placid and extremely convincing. He motions to the brunette in Chris' lap and countless empty bottles of liquor that clutter the floor on the opposite side of the room, a portion of the room previously unseen. “My hospitality is vast.”
With a large smile developing over his lips, Chris answers,“A'right man! I guess you've got a point.”
“Awesome!” Marsham shouts excitedly, then proceeds towards his bedroom.
“That's good because when you came to me yesterday, I really thought you were gonna try and get me to pull something on Buzzsaw this week at Retaliation. As soon as I saw you walking up, I would've put money on it! Heck, even Manning warned me to steer clear just in case.” states Chris while brushing his fingertips through the brunette's hair absently.
Marsham is stopped dead in his tracks.
No smirk. No humor. Only contempt.
“Manning?! Manning doesn't know what is best for this damn company. When – not if – but WHEN I win that Heavyweight Championship, he will thank me. He is going to THANK ME because I will not just idly stand by and wear that belt like its made of tin as Buzzsaw has. I am going to make damn certain that everyone recognizes the true worth of the belt. I am going to put EWA on the map and represent it like a true champion. If he wants ratings, oh I'll bring him ratings. Hell, look at what lengths I'll go to make my presence heard! Look at the different angles I've came at Buzzsaw from! If Buzzsaw were a true champ, he would have done the same. He would have done anything he could to keep that belt. But, what does he do instead? He takes it in the ass for weeks and then makes our match some ridiculous Stairway to Death match!”
“I—well–I really didn't need to hear all that, but I was just saying I was glad that I'm not just some angle to get at Buzzsaw,”remarks Chris, a bit relieved.
“Oh,” Marsham smiles deviously,“no. I'm not going to use you to get at Buzzsaw. I assure you that.”
“Good because I'm not even involved with that match,” Chris chuckles.
Crrreeeaak.
The door to Marsham's bedroom opens and a pair of sultry eyes peer out between the crack, the door barely ajar. Marsham twists his attention around and glances to the door – only now hearing the sensual voice of his lady-friend beckon him from beyond. “It's so early. Are you coming back to bed?”
“Shhh...no, I've got a long day ahead of me,” Marsham answers – his voice unruffled while a soft grin emerges.“–go back to sleep. You'll need your rest because you've got a long walk home today.”
Slade laughs upon hearing Marsham's response, noting the kind way in which he just told the woman she would not be receiving a ride home. Unsurprising, she is nothing but another conquest on Marsham's ascension to power. He has sat silent for some time as Chris and Justin talk, but with Marsham preoccupied with the dame in his bed room, Slade nudges Chris with his foot.
Redirecting his attention to Slade, Chris reacts, “Uh—what?”
“Remember what we discussed last night? Well, Marsham's got a job for you.”
“No, actually I don't. Everything is pretty fuzzy.”
“Well, hey, go back to the Colosseum and find Hank. He's somewhere down in the basement, down in that Boiler Room. Go look for him. When you find him, call me. I'll be the one who retrieves him; and you've got a deadline. We need to find him before Marsham's match at Retaliation. Understood?”
Chris nods despite his face being marred by confusion. “Yeah...but really? What the Hell happened last night?”
- - Act Two: Be Kind, Rewind - -
To answer Chris Young's question, EWA television returns with a close-up of a pair of black-and-white Lugz. Of course, it is not the shoes that answer his question but the scene that shall follow.
The shoes are worn upon feet crossed at the ankles. When the camera zooms out, the familiar face of Justin Marsham is brought into view. He leans back in a plush, cerulean chair. A small cocktail class of cranberry juice is held loosely in his right hand; and his left hand drums against the arm of his chair in a steady rhythm. A clock can be seen on the wall behind Marsham. It clearly reads:
8:11 P.M.
Arrogance resonates from Marsham – contaminating the room. He sits as if he owns the room, showing no respect to the other individual seated across from him. The Epitome of Technical Finesse showboats like this only outside the ring and only in times when he controls the situation. To do so inside the squared circle would be disastrous. He knows very well if he were to allow himself to become overtaken by superciliousness it would be his ultimate downfall.
The camera circles the room and reveals the other occupant. Chris Young.
“All documents are signed and notarized,” Chris remarks. “The second set describe when your certification expires and the rights you have towards recertification. Keep those in the file. They are good until 2013. But, that’s everything. You took the tests and the scores are all included. All the training documents are in the back.”
“Great!”cries Marsham in excitement, taking a manilla folder from Chris.
“Congrats Justin, you've just officially become certified to be a referee! Now, remember, this doesn't mean you get to officiate matches in EWA. Manning still has to approve and assign you to a match. You don't get paid otherwise. But, this isn't just a one-time thing. Your certification doesn't expire until – like I said – 2013,” Chris explains.
Dragging his feet up off the desk, Marsham smirks, “That's exactly what I needed.”
“Now, don't make me pay for helping you Justin. We don't need you running around thinking you can just slap the canvas anytime you want.”
“I know.”
Marsham stands and holds a hand out to Chris. The EWA official accepts the hand and the two shake. However, as Chris goes to pull away, Marsham tightens his grip. With a tug, Chris is brought close to him, causing the referee to awkwardly balance on one foot over his desk.
“Thank you. Now how about you, me and Stevie go out and celebrate?”
“Well, I've got some things to attend—”
Tightening his grip and pulling Chris further off balance, Marsham growls – speaking through clenched teeth, “I insist.”
As if completely convinced and trying to avoid physical confrontation, Chris nods,“Sounds great!”
The scene cuts and fast forwards to another setting. No longer are Chris and Marsham in the EWA offices. In fact, they are not even near the Colosseum. The flashing of strobes cast eerie blue light across the dance floor. An endless ocean of heads bob up and down across the building, bodies writhing and sweat pouring onto the floor. The loud, heavy bass of Skrillex excites the masses. The mellifluous voice of La Roux is heard just before the heavy bass hits. The song goes from sounding like a typical dance mix of La Roux's 'In For the Kill' to sounding like the band itself is being murdered by Decepticons.
Cameras soon cut to a table where Marsham, Slade and Chris are seated. Two ladies are also with them: one blonde and one brunette. The women do not have the best looking faces, but their bodies make up for what personality and beauty they lack. Each looks like a clone of the other: intoxicated, busty and barely clothed. Not that Chris really cares either way. He, too, is heavily intoxicated. Several empty shot glasses are stacked up to his right and a large highball glass of Long Island Ice Tea resides in his left hand.
“You guysssss'rr greeat!”Chris states, slurring his speech.
Marsham nods, holding up his glass to toast. Before he gets a word in, Chris downs half of his liquor. It should be clearly noted that Marsham does not appear drunk. In fact, he is not. He does not drink. Instead of liquor in his glass, it is water with a slice of lime floating just below the ice. Just as Hank was a tool to get at Buzzsaw, Marsham has used alcohol and women – two very common vices – to manipulate Chris Young.
“So, what's the deal this week?” Slade asks.
“Find Hank. I can't do much without him. We did what we could last week, but it ain't going to work again. Buzzsaw is too smart to fall for it twice.”
“You're giving him a lot of credit.”
“I'd rather do that than underestimate him again. Last time I did that, he hit me with a Singapore Cane and pinned me.”
“Good point.”
“I'll need you to watch my back. With Total Mayhem running around, I'm not about to go out there blind. If you look at the progression of things, I've never actually ever beaten Buzzsaw. Our first encounter? He tossed me over the ropes and eliminated me from the battle royal. Our second? He hit me with a cane and pinned me. Our third? He disqualified himself and gave me a win. The tag team match? It wasn't just me in that match. I have yet to actually beat him...and it kills me. But I know that at Retaliation, the time is mine. I feel it in my gut. I've never been so confident; and what sweet justice it will be! ...to beat him at his own game.”
Slade winces, afraid of what he says next and whether or not it will upset the Epitome of Technical Finesse. “You know, after this shot, it's over if you lose? You won't get another shot at the Heavyweight Championship for a while.”
“I know.”
“You keep talking about how you want to revolutionize that championship and take it to new heights. You know it might not happen, right? Don't fool yourself Justin.”
Marsham nods. “Oh, I know, but I'm not going to focus on that. I'm going to focus on becoming the champion that Buzzsaw never could be. That's enough to drive me to win that belt. Deathmatch or not – Buzzsaw is not going to be able to keep me down! He'll have to break my legs to keep me from climbing that ladder. Even then, I'll pull myself up rung by rung and balance on my broken nubs. Don't think for a second that I'm going to let him steam roll me. I've done far too much to get here.”
“I've done far tooooooooo mooch heeeeeee-ARE!” proclaims Chris just before embracing the brunette beside him.
Slade laughs at Chris. “Take a look at this guy. Hey, Chris. Tomorrow, we're gonna need you to go into the Boiler Room and find Hank. Find him and call me.”
“Hanky? Bless you,”retorts Chris in between playful tickling of the brunette.
“Good Lord, you bought him too much,”Slade proclaims.
Marsham's foot taps against the floor to the rhythm of the song. After taking a small sip of his water, he continues, “Tonight, we'll need to set something up downtown. People need to not forget that I held onto a World Xtreme Championship before. If I were not well reversed in hardcore wrestling, why the Hell would I come to a place that is predominantly extreme? I'm hoping this misconception is what bites Buzzsaw in the ass. Hey, I'll give credit where it is due and he is one tough son'bitch when weapons are involved. So, it's about time I get the advantage.”
“What do you have in mind?”a curious Slade questions.
“Get Chris and old green eyes over there back to the suite. Then, meet me down at Avenue Crossing. It's about time I start training for my trip to Hell.”
“What about the blonde?” questions Slade, motioning towards the second woman who is not far off, her body gyrating to the music.
Cameras close in on the Epitome of Technical Finesse, nearly appressed to his face. Cameras capture Marsham's wicked grin as he flashes a response. “She'll come with me.”
- - Conclusion: Training Day - -
The scene concludes and new questions are given birth to. Why has Marsham coerced Chris Young into assisting him get certified in ring officiating? What more plans does Marsham have for Hank? What does he have planned for Avenue Crossing? These questions will be answered in time. Perhaps even tomorrow as more is revealed about Marsham's days leading to Retaliation. Will he be properly prepared to face one of his toughest opponents to date?
One thing is for certain. Marsham's entire demeanor has taken on a new form. He enacts his devious plans with no remorse; however, he has proclaimed he has positive intentions for the EWA Heavyweight Championship. It appears as an oxymoron. Or, is it a necessary evil? Marsham does honestly believe he is the better man and that Buzzsaw is dragging down the status of the Heavyweight Championship. It is up to Marsham to be its savior.
But, at Retaliation, will that championship be there to save Justin Marsham?
Tune in to find out.
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