Post by The Commissioner on Aug 12, 2020 12:32:44 GMT -5
The sounds of rain come before the shot.
Loud are the drops as we fade in slowly to watch how they fall: endlessly in havoc, carried by the wind where their grouping is not too strong to be swayed.
It is a freeway in the middle of Europe -- in Hungary, for particulars. We see it from the side, as if we were stalkers from the woods, both routes of the highway seen.
Empty.
Nothing but the paved roads of man,
And the undeniable, undefiable cries of god.
Then the streak.
A fast black *WHIP* through the downpour.
In sight and out, just like that.
Thunder, now. And the freeway struck down where the car drove past with lightning.
CROSS DISSOLVE
The tire of a black vehicle turns right onto a dirt road. This is the only available shot up until it reaches a fork in the road.
Panning from the tire, the camera urges towards the right side of the fork before craning upwards.
There it is: a twelve-story hotel that has seen better days, with balconies of apparent disarray attached to nearly each of its windows. Through the pouring not much else can be made out, but that does not stop the roof of the black car from being seen in the corner of the screen, driving past and down that side of the fork.
CROSS DISSOLVE TO INSIDE THE HOTEL
A powwow of Alberta Wrestling Federation stars in the lobby of this decrepit hotel, everyone from World’s Champion Priscilla Kelly to Provincial Champion Rockstar Spud has made a presence here in some way. The lighting here is as dismal as the 1890s carpeting, the sixty year old fixtures and decorations, and the general state of the mood in the room.
Center of it all is one man: Paul “Triple H” Levesque in a slate grey suit with his cyan blue tie for an accent, the lead producer for AWF. Only one movement of the arms and call for attention is enough, and all in attendance turn to listen to the man’s announcement.
Just as he’s about to begin, a teenaged bellhop mindlessly cuts between the group to get wherever he needs to, nearly pushing back Triple H in the process. Levesque chooses professionalism in his reaction, only offering a face of displeasure but remaining silent as the asshat continues on.
Triple H
Alright, listen ups folks, listen well. I know you don’t wanna be here, I don’t wanna be here either, but let's look at the facts: we don’t have much of a choice. This storm is going nowhere fast, not a single airport on the continent is running, and there’s not a bus company in this country that’s going that far in these conditions. Worst part is, this is the best place we could afford to put you all.
Rumblings return but Triple H re-commands the attention.
Triple H
Bret wants us all at our best. Let’s not disappoint him. Let’s not disappoint me. These people are nice enough to have by far the least mentally efficient professional wrestling roster taking up all their rooms in the middle of a continent-wide hurricane from Hell. You’re all about good to go, but there’s one more thing we need to tell you all.
Triple H bites down on his own teeth, his hands begin to scramble. Decides it’s better to take it like a Bandaid.
Triple H
Nathan “Raging Dead” Gust is dead.
First silence. Then rumblings.
Triple H
Usually there’s something special about these things, with the big gimmick matches and the super stipulations. I know, I’ve been there. But…
He bites his lip, scratches his palm. Looking around the sea of faces surrounding him, Triple H realizes then and there he’s supposed to be the guide for this situation, where he doesn’t know how to be.
Triple H
We’ll remember him for his best moments. For how he helped get this place off this ground. How he made everyone he stepped into the ring with a better wrestler. We’ll remember and welcome his wife, his family.
Fighting back, internally.
Triple H
Rest in peace, Nate.
With that, Triple H takes his leave with Joey Styles (aka Tazz) following behind, the rest left in the eerie air of the tribute.
TBC - Anyone
Loud are the drops as we fade in slowly to watch how they fall: endlessly in havoc, carried by the wind where their grouping is not too strong to be swayed.
It is a freeway in the middle of Europe -- in Hungary, for particulars. We see it from the side, as if we were stalkers from the woods, both routes of the highway seen.
Empty.
Nothing but the paved roads of man,
And the undeniable, undefiable cries of god.
Then the streak.
A fast black *WHIP* through the downpour.
In sight and out, just like that.
Thunder, now. And the freeway struck down where the car drove past with lightning.
CROSS DISSOLVE
The tire of a black vehicle turns right onto a dirt road. This is the only available shot up until it reaches a fork in the road.
Panning from the tire, the camera urges towards the right side of the fork before craning upwards.
There it is: a twelve-story hotel that has seen better days, with balconies of apparent disarray attached to nearly each of its windows. Through the pouring not much else can be made out, but that does not stop the roof of the black car from being seen in the corner of the screen, driving past and down that side of the fork.
CROSS DISSOLVE TO INSIDE THE HOTEL
A powwow of Alberta Wrestling Federation stars in the lobby of this decrepit hotel, everyone from World’s Champion Priscilla Kelly to Provincial Champion Rockstar Spud has made a presence here in some way. The lighting here is as dismal as the 1890s carpeting, the sixty year old fixtures and decorations, and the general state of the mood in the room.
Center of it all is one man: Paul “Triple H” Levesque in a slate grey suit with his cyan blue tie for an accent, the lead producer for AWF. Only one movement of the arms and call for attention is enough, and all in attendance turn to listen to the man’s announcement.
Just as he’s about to begin, a teenaged bellhop mindlessly cuts between the group to get wherever he needs to, nearly pushing back Triple H in the process. Levesque chooses professionalism in his reaction, only offering a face of displeasure but remaining silent as the asshat continues on.
Triple H
Alright, listen ups folks, listen well. I know you don’t wanna be here, I don’t wanna be here either, but let's look at the facts: we don’t have much of a choice. This storm is going nowhere fast, not a single airport on the continent is running, and there’s not a bus company in this country that’s going that far in these conditions. Worst part is, this is the best place we could afford to put you all.
Rumblings return but Triple H re-commands the attention.
Triple H
Bret wants us all at our best. Let’s not disappoint him. Let’s not disappoint me. These people are nice enough to have by far the least mentally efficient professional wrestling roster taking up all their rooms in the middle of a continent-wide hurricane from Hell. You’re all about good to go, but there’s one more thing we need to tell you all.
Triple H bites down on his own teeth, his hands begin to scramble. Decides it’s better to take it like a Bandaid.
Triple H
Nathan “Raging Dead” Gust is dead.
First silence. Then rumblings.
Triple H
Usually there’s something special about these things, with the big gimmick matches and the super stipulations. I know, I’ve been there. But…
He bites his lip, scratches his palm. Looking around the sea of faces surrounding him, Triple H realizes then and there he’s supposed to be the guide for this situation, where he doesn’t know how to be.
Triple H
We’ll remember him for his best moments. For how he helped get this place off this ground. How he made everyone he stepped into the ring with a better wrestler. We’ll remember and welcome his wife, his family.
Fighting back, internally.
Triple H
Rest in peace, Nate.
With that, Triple H takes his leave with Joey Styles (aka Tazz) following behind, the rest left in the eerie air of the tribute.
TBC - Anyone