Glory, Glory Hallelujah [PrimeTime VII, #2]
Jun 30, 2020 22:04:32 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Jun 30, 2020 22:04:32 GMT -5
A wrestling ring is shown, ropes hanging a little loose on one side, the bottom drooping so it's a bit of a trip hazard. The canvas is discolored. Stained in places in a way that's best not to dwell on too much. The floor is cracked, old hardwood boards that are warped with age and look like they might crackle like fall leaves on a sidewalk under your feet.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside thinks his humble beginnings in a place like this entitle him to respect.
The view pulls back slightly, showing derelict gym equipment that looks halfway broken and rusty, unused for quite some time.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside thinks that hard work beats talent, so much so in fact, that he used to have that very statement in his Twitter header.
Panning across, we can see trash all over the floor and the walls are covered in vulgar graffiti.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside is a slap in the face of the wrestling industry. He's a middle finger waving out a car window in rush hours traffic after some absolute psycho cuts you off when there's nobody else on the road for miles and there's a stoplight up ahead – what's the point other than to be an annoying little shit?! [clears throat loudly]
In the corner is a broken TV, a brick thrown through the old cathode-ray tube screen. There's glass everywhere and a pile of discarded VHS tapes with peeling handwritten labels like OVER THE EDGE 1999 and WCW SIN 2001. A further pan out shows tapes stacked up to the ceiling, all wrestling-related, all from the mid-90's to early 2000's.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside believes by studying all the greats that he can emulate them. He thinks he's a wrestling encyclopedia.
We pan out further, showing a dark puddle in the middle of that mangled floor. It glitters, dark and reddish as it seems to spread.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside doesn't belong in the Alberta Wrestling Federation. Max Ironside is a joke. He doesn't belong in the business. Period. End of statement.
Lightning flashes. The view goes dark as blue electricity crackles across the view. When the lights come back on, the wrestling ring is back to being the central focus. Blood is dripping down the apron, flowing across the floor. There's a body in the ring that looks a lot like the Handicapped Hero, zebra-printed trunks and knee pads visible although his face isn't in frame. The light strobes, flashes to white and goes dark again before coming back, the glittering golden visage of Priscilla Kelly front-and-center, that decapitated head sitting in the middle of that ring, a pool of blood expanding exponentially around it as the view swings to an aerial shot, showing the destroyed surroundings, showing as the blood spreads and the room grows more and more decayed until everything is black and rotten. The Battle Hymn of the Republic kicks in subtly, playing as that view changes and morphs into something dark and twisted and disgusting. The blood is so red, the golden idol so bright as the voice speaks one last time, full of reverence.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside is a joke. Max Ironside will never be the World's Champion. Long live the Queen. All hail to Priscilla Kelly, the greatest wrestler of our time.
Fade.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside thinks his humble beginnings in a place like this entitle him to respect.
The view pulls back slightly, showing derelict gym equipment that looks halfway broken and rusty, unused for quite some time.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside thinks that hard work beats talent, so much so in fact, that he used to have that very statement in his Twitter header.
Panning across, we can see trash all over the floor and the walls are covered in vulgar graffiti.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside is a slap in the face of the wrestling industry. He's a middle finger waving out a car window in rush hours traffic after some absolute psycho cuts you off when there's nobody else on the road for miles and there's a stoplight up ahead – what's the point other than to be an annoying little shit?! [clears throat loudly]
In the corner is a broken TV, a brick thrown through the old cathode-ray tube screen. There's glass everywhere and a pile of discarded VHS tapes with peeling handwritten labels like OVER THE EDGE 1999 and WCW SIN 2001. A further pan out shows tapes stacked up to the ceiling, all wrestling-related, all from the mid-90's to early 2000's.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside believes by studying all the greats that he can emulate them. He thinks he's a wrestling encyclopedia.
We pan out further, showing a dark puddle in the middle of that mangled floor. It glitters, dark and reddish as it seems to spread.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside doesn't belong in the Alberta Wrestling Federation. Max Ironside is a joke. He doesn't belong in the business. Period. End of statement.
Lightning flashes. The view goes dark as blue electricity crackles across the view. When the lights come back on, the wrestling ring is back to being the central focus. Blood is dripping down the apron, flowing across the floor. There's a body in the ring that looks a lot like the Handicapped Hero, zebra-printed trunks and knee pads visible although his face isn't in frame. The light strobes, flashes to white and goes dark again before coming back, the glittering golden visage of Priscilla Kelly front-and-center, that decapitated head sitting in the middle of that ring, a pool of blood expanding exponentially around it as the view swings to an aerial shot, showing the destroyed surroundings, showing as the blood spreads and the room grows more and more decayed until everything is black and rotten. The Battle Hymn of the Republic kicks in subtly, playing as that view changes and morphs into something dark and twisted and disgusting. The blood is so red, the golden idol so bright as the voice speaks one last time, full of reverence.
VOICE-OVER:
Max Ironside is a joke. Max Ironside will never be the World's Champion. Long live the Queen. All hail to Priscilla Kelly, the greatest wrestler of our time.
Fade.
