Post by managermike99 on Jul 29, 2014 15:33:19 GMT -5
The Wrestling Show [animated] [30 min]
~episode guide~
1.01 - Pilot airtime 1:30am
Welcome to the year 2030 in America. The continued skirmishes with terrorists, the number of patriot groups who wish to close the borders, the political powerhouse groups such as the Carlyle Group, and three successive terms by a Republican government had undermined the basic freedoms that America once held so dear.
One minor example of this has been the outlawing of professional wrestling. The real reason that the government doesn't like Pro Wrestling is that it fell under a monopoly and was run as a very degrading product with subculture overtones. The law enacted by congress was actually deemed to outlaw any event which mislead the consumer into thinking it was an athletic contest when in fact the outcome was predetermined. Wrestling tried to alter its product, first cleaning it up, then advertising tht the results were predetermined and that it was entertainment, not sports. But it was no use, the government plowed ahead.
The glory days were still relived via internet streaming technology, sharing what had been kept on microfiles, as well as older media like DVD's. But the government used their intrusion ability in the matrix to shut down most of that traffic as well. Too bad, as underground wrestling feds had begun to pop up again all over the nation, and fans were sharing the action via the matrix. The underground cards still existed but sharing the action had become problematic.
And that is why Jarrett Sawyer found himself on the back of a snowmobile entering into the "Snowdown Bar & Grill" in the middle of nowhere Minnesota.
Sawyer, who looked more then just a bit like a teenage Kevin Bacon, thanked the local for the lift, brushed the snow off, and entered below the crackling and fading neon sign.
Four men patrolled the rooftops with shotguns and Sawyer knew that if it were not for his lift from the yokeal that he would be eating lead right now.
The smell of stale beer and the roar of the crowd greeted him as he removed his sunglasses and nudged his way towards the ring. Set a few feet high off the ground, like a pedestal, stood an octagon shaped ring with a steel cage wrapped around it. Sawyer was a bit disapointed to see this set-up instead of a squared circle, but he understood that wrestling rings were hard to come by these days. Inside though it was pure pro wrestling. A big Texan who went by the very imaginative name "Big Tex" was landing successsive elbow smashes to the bridge of the nose of the local hero "Bonesaw Charlie" who appeared to be giving away about 50 pounds and a few inches. Sawyer settled in, ordered a beer from a lonely waitress excited to see a young out of towner with all of his original teeth, and watched the ring with earnest. There were a few suplexes and a Boston crab ,but in general this was a match of punches, kicks, elbows, and headbutts. With the lack of footage and lack of trainers the quality of pro wrestling had already gone down in the last 10 years since the law had been passed.
Up in the rafters he finally caught a glimpse of the man he had come to see. Perched up top like a Raven, looking like a cross between Jake "the Snake" Roberts and Sting. As the match was coming to the finish and the local underdog was making his comeback Sawyer looked in vain for a way to the top floor where his contact stood, but came up empty.
The roar of the crowd brought him back to reality, back to the ring, as Bonesaw Charlie's hand was raised in victory. The fans saluted him by throwing beer bottles against the wire mesh, and the air was filled with a beer and glass shower.
But wait, that villian Big Tex reached into his trunks and pulled out a set of brass knuckles. The fans shouted at Bonesaw to turn around, but of course he was oblivious.
The sneak attack never came, as the night was suddenly interrupted by the blast from a shotgun above. Pandemonium broke out with fans fleeing for the exits, and the wrestlers breaking kayfab and helping each other out of the ring.
The authorities had been spotted.
Judging by the speed in which the local sheriff was headed out back to his snowmobile from his front row seat, this was obviously the feds.
Sawyer hesitated, scanning the dark recesses of the second level for his contact, but with no luck. He looked at the back door, but instead headed straight for the ring. On the way he ran into a local going the other way (as in out) and a paper bag fell out of Sawyer's pocket dropping to the baroom floor. A black videotape cassette poked its nose out of the bag just in time to be stepped on by a pair of snowmobile boots. A sick crunching noise filled the air making Sawyer's heart drop.
He scooped up the package none the less, sticking it into the folds of his jacket and began to climb the outside of the cage. Up and up he went, like Jack climbing the beanstalk. From the top of the cage he made a precarious jump and grabbed onto the bottom of the balcony rail to the second floor. It was slippery though and his hand fell off, his body twisting, his eyes now focusing straight down 20 feet to the hard bar room floor. Fingers of his remaining hand began to lose their grip, one then another.
A strong hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him up to the second level. It was his contact in his long black sheepherder jacket. "Do you have it" is all he said. Sawyer nooded, forgetting its condition until he pulled it out.
"Someone stepped on it, the darn it thing is broken."
The figure looked it over and shook his head.
"I can fix this". With that he handed a similar looking cassette over to Sawyer and gave him a nod.
"Up there" someone shouted from the floor below. Looking down Sawyer could see 3 federal agents raising their shotguns. The contact pulled Sawyer deeper into the second floor out of their sight and then gave him a boost through a trap door to the rooftop.
The cold chill of a Minnesotan January midnight broke up whatever excitement Sawyer had been feeling. Looking down the two wrestling fans could see snowmobile lights in the distance as the locals fled, and a couple being apprehended below by the feds.
"What the hell do we do now" said a panic filled Sawyer.
The contact pulled out a baseball bat from inside his jacket and pushed Sawyer off the roof backward. As he fell he looked up at his contact, perched on the rooftop and wondered if that would be the last thing he ever..
Swooshh...he landed in a light fluffy snowpile and struggled to escape. A snowmobile pulled up and the dishpan hands of a cougar waitress pulled him free of the frosty snow. Without a word Sawyer jumped on the back and she revved the machine out of dodge.
As Sawyer looked back at the bar he saw the contact leap from the rooftop landing silently behind a federal agent who was presently apprehending a patron. The snowmobile though took a sudden turn and that was the last Sawyer saw of the "Snowdown Bar & Grill"
Rainy New York City night. Dark. Sirens are the background music. Only the unfortunate and the unfortunate victims are on the street at this time of night. A large LED light proclaims it is 3:00am. Sony, America's favorite brand name. Did anybody even remember it was Japanese? A long sleek black limousine ignores the lights and speeds through the red, leaving a fine mist of rain in its wake.
Francis the driver looks through his rear view mirror in vain, as the shield is up. Blackness stares back. The blackness of the shield however, and not the soft, liquidy blackness of the latex catsuit the back occupant had been wearing. Sexy, "umm..hummm" Francis told himself.
He pulled up to the penthouse and let the occupant out. He watched in lust as she glided out, the form fitting suit showing only the general outline of her curves. darn it the rain he thought as he frowned when the view from the back was obsucred by her black leather rainslick. All he knew for sure was that she was caucasian. Her eyes had been hidden behind sunglasses, her hair under her c owel.
Inside the pentouse the rich, old, man was pouring himself a drink and one for the Cat. She was everthing he had been told she would be. $2000 for the visit was a bargain, especially since he was allowed to videotape it. He adjusted his tripod in the corner of the room. She counted out her money, always paid in advance and stuck it into her cleavage. The Cat's adversary sat quiet, obidiently in the corner of the room in some darn it lotus position. Her own outfit for the encounter picked out by her sugar daddy industrialist was a retro red leather and lace combo made popular over 25 years ago by a show called "Hellfire".
The two women came together in the middle of the penthouse, sizing each other up. Redd attacked first but it was the awkward lunge of an amateur. An armbar actually slowed down her descent to the floor which was a good thing, but without it her face hit first, which was not such a good thing. A cross face chickenwing and The Cat was told to release the hold by the event's sponsor. He needed Redd healthy, she was much more to him then just a catfighter. They circled again. This time Cat attacked first with a a legsweep that Redd never saw coming, until she was looking up at the celing. Slingshot followed, sending Redd smacking into the drywall. The paintings rattled and a cheer went up from the sponsor. Cat quickly grew bored of the encounter, but she went through the motions. She carried her opponent through 10 minutes of action never once allowing herself to be vulnerable to beginner's luck. In the end she enjoyed the satisfaction of making her opponent tap out to the Catseye, a move once called the Texas Cloverleaf, one that could do real damage to an opponent's back.
Redd retreated licking her wounds, and jealousy flared in her eyes as her sugar daddy was on his feet applauding the leather clad vixen. "Don't Touch Me" the Cat had to warn him as he drew closer. Redd stood to her feet anc the Cat approached her, running a hand down her cheek. "You did fine. Remember the moves I used on you and practice them. Hopefully we will have a rematch." With that the Cat gave Redd a quick peck on the lips and walked out the door.
In the elevator on the way down she collapsed to the floor. Sobbing. Her thoughts returned to Madison Square Gardens a little more then a decade ago. She was a young up and comer, in the world of pro wrestling. She saw herself being awarded the Women's World Title by that leath who called himself President. It was no longer a world title like big goldy. The new gimmicked title that he wrapped around her waist, innocently copping a feel of course as he did so, was more of a phallic symbol then a title belt. Then they had passed that darn it law.
The old lift grinded to a halt. Lifting herself to her feet she stumbled onto the street. The limo was there waiting and Francis was very eager to help her into the back. She turned the other way and ran down the street. Her feet splashing away the reflections of her mascara running down her face that she saw in the puddles.
One day at a time she told herself. And with $2000 she could afford to take a few days off. She deserved it.
Sirens wailed in the night.
Sawyer woke with a start. Sitting bolt upright in the motel bed. He had been dreaming of the perfect vixen. A real doll compared to the cougar from last night. Remembering the night before he looked to the spot beside him, but all that was left was the indent where she had been. The bathroom light was on, the door open a crack and he heard her move within. He called out to her and she came to him, holding the black videotape. "What's this" she asked him with an impish smile. "Old Porn?"
She handed it to him and he turned it around in his hands. No markings on the outside. "Better, much better."
End of episode 1
1.02 - Blaze
Back in his warehouse loft apartment Sawyer sits in the dark, engulfed by the overstuffed armchair. The flickering TV in front is from a by-gone age, at almost 18 inches thick it makes the apartment look like a museum. But you need A/V input jacks when you operate what they used to call a VCR. This old technology was the method thought up by "The Genius" to deal with the government's ability to infiltrate cable and even read only media of microfiles and DVD's.
Using the "remote control" Sawyer is able to fast forward through the remaining matches. The minute or two it takes is bothersome, and Sawyer for once does not miss the good old days. Finally when he sees the visage of the sponsor he stops to hear the message again.
This is the Renaissance of pro wrestling. Sawyer is to be a courier. His instructions are simple, make a copy of this tape and take it to the next...he gives the address in Manhattan. There he will receive another tape. Once he has completed that, erase this part of the message from the tape. Keep only the matches.
Sawyer stalks to the refridgerator and pours himself a juice. "Those indy guys were good, but still not as good as before the crackdown. We have a ways to go." Sawyer's cat meows at him as if to respond. He goes to pick her up but she darts away. "Typical" he mutters to himself. He puts the matches on again.
Somewhere else in NYC a vivacious looking blonde is submersed in steaming hot bath water. The water distorts and hides the curves from our views. Judging by the black catsuit that hangs behind the door, we have found our catfighting vixen. She examines the barbwire tattoo on her bicep and remembers her compatriots who all had them as a sign of allegiance to the company.
Thinking back she remembers how she left the company, as champion, just weeks before the crackdown began. She remembers the deviant President's hands groping her waist, pulling her towards him. She remembers the satisfaction of slapping him across the face. He was too strong though, and putting her in a full nelson he drove her face first into the office's aquarium. Drowning...she was sure..she was..no oxygen. He saved her. The big muscular long haired dope, who had followed her to the ends of the earth once, but now followed him, and his money. Still there was enough spark left to make this one gesture. "She's not worth it boss. You know they are looking for an excuse, don't give them one." The words, even though spoken to free her, stung harder then any superplex ever had. He escorted her to the alley door, and tried to explain, "listen..I just..." but there was nothing to be said. She slung her bag over her shoulder and left that world behind.
Sitting in front of his media screen Sawyer threw on the special router button to unscramble his end of the matrix connection, and donned his glove. Pointing in the air he opened a channel and looked to see who he knew that might have entered the matrix. His icon (a likeness of Ren McCormack, Kevin Bacon's character in Footloose) made his way into his private room. Sitting down he popped open a coke, and picked up the phone. He chatted with a friend or two, but said no to all invitations to visit. He felt like vegging tonight.
Footsteps....pounding...the door flung open (hadn't he locked it?), and a blonde vixen in a spandex outfit reminicent of Wonder Woman III from the late 10's darted into his room. Both froze looking at each other like a deer in the headlights. She stammered something about thinking no one was in here. She turned to go, but then seemed to think better of it. Her back was to him and he couldn't help but to stare at her beautiful figure. "It's okay" he said, stay. More footsteps outside and with a wave of his hand he began to throw closed several locks on the doorway. They could see two federal goons on the outside looking in. They would see only darkness, while the vixen and Sawyer could see everthing through the one way door. They began to pound on the door.
"They'll go away. Have a seat. Who are you? Better yet, who are they?"
She seemed hesitant to answer. But when locks began to unpop she began to talk in bursts. She was a catfighter who had been caught trying to set up a "date" and was now fleeing from the feds. She needs to lose them before she can exit the matrix to avoid them following her on the outside.
"You look familiar somehow" he said, ignoring the feds. She didn't think this was too practical.
"Is there another exit?"
"Only to the real world"
"darn it it"
"You Look familiar"
"I used to be the women's champion of the world"
"No,not that. I figured that out already, but something more recent." He looked at her barbwire tatoo. It was funny how somethings could not be hidden in the matrix but could be so easily hidden in the real world.
When another lock flung open it seemed to snap Sawyer out of his oblivious state. He picked up the cell phone and called a friend of his. He told the vixen to sit down beside him.
Suddenly the room began to empty in front of them. The pictures on the wall, the Coke machine, record player, everything except for them and the sofa. Everything spun, the knocking became fainter and fainter and finally disappeared all together. They sat in silence, in a dark void, on a burgundy leather couch, no walls or ceiling or floor. Just them, the couch and the occasional piece of white glowing matter floating by.
Neither said a word for a minute.
"It was nice meeting you..ummm...Mr. Bacon? But I have to go"
"Don't"
But it was too late. She stood, and groped her way forward, suddenly stepping behind some wall that neither could see and was gone from sight.
The phone rang.
"Yes thanks, it worked like a charm. Listen bud I need one more favor from you."
Europe. Rural Norway. Several small planes encircle an old arena built below ground so only the roof is visible from the surface. Inside a couple hundred fans watch as two men put on a wrestling spectacle. One looks like he is from an 80's Heavy metal band, complete with stringy long hair, mascara, and spandex pants. He is wearing an Iron Maiden shirt and is going to town on his opponent, a tall lanky Goth looking guy with white pasty skin. All is going well for "Blaze" until his macabre opponent bites him on the shoulder, drawing blood. Blaze looks over at his shoulder in disbelief and doesn't see the stiff clothesline coming which knocks him to the ground. An elbow catches him in the gut, and by the time he can catch his breath he has only a fraction of a second to kick out before the third count. In fury he grabs his oppoent's ankle and drops him to the ground. He drives a knee into the thigh, and then twists on the ankle. The crowd errupts as the fan favorite is on the verge of victory.
Blaze looks at his opponent who is begging for mercy, with the ref telling him not to do it. Blaze says "send this message to the next guy who decides to go into business for himself". And with that he twists on the ankle, leveraging it under his armpit, and it emits a loud cracking noise. The crowd goes ballistic, but when the arena is filled with the anguished cries of the Goth, and as Blaze simply walks away the crowd gets hushed instead. They stand watching..these millionaires with their private jets...in their Armani and Dival suits...in hushed tones as the medic enters the ring and tries to stop the pain as the Goth is now openly sobbing.
"Blaze, we meet again"
The victorious man looks up in surprise and sees the trenchcoat and baseball bat of the sponsor.
"It seems so. You have something for me? A date?"
"No. Not yet. All is not ready."
With that he hands over a videotape to the metal wrestling hero, who simply nods, pats the sponsor on the shoulder and walks away.
"Soon"
The Wrestling Show
1.03 Europe
Blaze errupts from the door into the parking lot, his eyes scanning the Jaguars, Limos, and planes. Nothing. Then he saw the Shelby Cobra and sprinted towards the tinted windows. The rear lights glowing red in the night.
Knocking on the window, no answer. A voice behind him, darn it he wasn't even inside the car and the sponsor had the drop on him again.
"Something wrong Blaze?"
"Yeah, somethings wrong. I can't go back to America you know that."
"Why not?"
"Because wrestling's illegal. I'm not yellow like these Americans who come over here and wrestle under a mask. I cut my ties with the fascist regime that calls itself America. If I was to return I would be charged upon entry, it doesn't matter that it was on foreign soil."
"Yes I know. If you are an American and break the law you can be charged."
"So you can keep your bloody tape"
"No. Keep it. Some of these guys are good workers. If you come we can sneak you in."
"Well maybe I'll wrestle under a mask. If they even get a whiff...I wouldn't put it past them to kidnap me from Europe and send me back."
"Take care my friend. Soon we will have a night to remember."
The sponsor crawled into his vintage sports car.
"Nice ride."
"Nothing to track me by. The technology is too old."
Revved up and gone, leaving Blaze to shiver in the cold Norweigan night.
*****************
An Icon looking a lot like Kevin Bacon walks down a street in the matrix. All around him are prostitutes. Some voluptuos with dimensions that defied reason, others were roleplaying fantasies that were highly illegal. Jarrett Sawyer just shivered in repulsion as a little boy propositioned him. Probably drives truck during the day thought Sawyer as he hurried by.
Sawyer was looking for companionship, but not the kind that was being offered. The authorites knew what went on down here, but rather then worry about it they allowed it to happen and simply filed away all the incriminating evidence for later use. Some were looking only for a "virtual" date which still held the risk of a virus to your Icon, while others were looking to transcend to the flesh. This of course was trickier as you had to hook up with someone local.
Sawyer was looking for someone local, and someone to meet flesh to flesh. But not for those reasons. The red light district was a convienient place for catfight wrestlers to ply their trade setting up dates. "She" had mentioned that was what had drawn the feds to her, so here he was, looking for the girl of his dreams.
I guess not tonight. After two trips down lonely street he gave up and headed for the sanctuary of his private room.
*****************
"Hey Blaze, talk at ya for a moment?"
"Sure Flex. What's up?" Blaze looked up from undoing his boots at the tall, muscular American.
"Was that the sponsor I saw you talking with?"
"What if it was?" He said this as flat as he could manage but his sixth sense was beginning to tingle.
"Is there something going down?"
"No. Nothing. Well there's always hope, but right now the scene is still dead. The feds are all over it stateside."
Flex seems to think this over while chewing on his bottom lip.
"If you see him again..."
"Yes?"
"Could you ask about her?"
"Oh for crying out loud Flex. After what you did to her? You blew it man..live with it..and next time..."
Flex closed the gap, angry now, his pecs flexing. Blaze stood up but from the chair in a sitting position there wasn't much room and his back was arched as he stood leaving himself very vulnerable.
"Hey Flex...what the?....your up next. Haul butt musclehead." A road hand hollered at Flex apparently not intimidated at all by the American.
"Are we through?" asked Blaze.
Flex calmed himself. He took a step back, put his mask over his head. It bore the picture of the French flag, and the Rooster.
"Just ask him about her." Pause. "Please."
"Sure Flex, just don't get your hopes up."
*****************
Knocking? He was dozing. Looking down at himself he realized that he was still Ren, his Kevin Bacon VRI. darn it that was dangerous.
Looking out his door his heart went into his throat. It was her. This time she was wearing black leather, ala Michelle Pfieffer as Catwoman. Black never showed up well though in the matrix. The edges of the suit, in this case the curves, lost against the black background. That is why it was the preferred color of the feds and other bad people in the matrix. It was a good fighting color. Right about now though he was wishing she was wearing bright red.
Knocking again. darn it was he really just sitting there. What was wrong with him. She turned to go, unable to see him inside. He rushed to the door and caught her attention as she was walking away. How did that Doors song go again?
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Do you want to come in?"
"Yeah"
They were both nervous. Why should she be nervous he wondered?
He never asked her about how she tracked him down, nor about what she wanted.
They talked about her days in the Alliance.
They talked about the crackdown.
He tried to talk about her "dates", her catfights. She tactfully changed the subject.
He thought he heard footsteps outside but when he checked for eavesdroppers he found no one.
Sawyer described for her a few of the wrestlers on the tape, but of course you can't watch a VCR tape on the matrix. That's why the medium was chosen.
Would she care to come over to his apartment to watch it?
She smiled. He whispered the address into her ear, lingering for just a second at the smell of Vanilla mixed with Latex.
*****************
Flex bore down on his opponent, a huge Norweigan going by the totally unoriginal monikor of Hammer. It was not often that the 6'6 Flex gave away height and strength, but in this case he was the smaller man. The story of the match was the champion unable to adjust his gameplan to match a bigger opponent. The fans cheered heartfully for the local product. Flex on the other hand was derided with mocking chants of "U-S-A, U-S-A" despite wearing the French insignias. The fans knew the score and in the tradition of wrestling fans let the participants know. This was no longer the circus, they were no longer marks.
Blaze watched from a gap in the backstage curtains. His eyes locked on Flex's as he stood staring from under the mask, waiting for Hammer to scoop him up from behind, place him on his shoulders, and then flapjack him down hard on the mat.
What did those eyes express? Sadness maybe. Despair probably.
Blaze turned his back to leave as the crowd counted along with the official, 1 2, 3, New Scandinavian champion.
Flex lay there selling the pain. Face down on the mat. He did not want to look up and see the belt presented to his opponent. He had done his job. It was time to move on.
End of episode 3
~episode guide~
1.01 - Pilot airtime 1:30am
Welcome to the year 2030 in America. The continued skirmishes with terrorists, the number of patriot groups who wish to close the borders, the political powerhouse groups such as the Carlyle Group, and three successive terms by a Republican government had undermined the basic freedoms that America once held so dear.
One minor example of this has been the outlawing of professional wrestling. The real reason that the government doesn't like Pro Wrestling is that it fell under a monopoly and was run as a very degrading product with subculture overtones. The law enacted by congress was actually deemed to outlaw any event which mislead the consumer into thinking it was an athletic contest when in fact the outcome was predetermined. Wrestling tried to alter its product, first cleaning it up, then advertising tht the results were predetermined and that it was entertainment, not sports. But it was no use, the government plowed ahead.
The glory days were still relived via internet streaming technology, sharing what had been kept on microfiles, as well as older media like DVD's. But the government used their intrusion ability in the matrix to shut down most of that traffic as well. Too bad, as underground wrestling feds had begun to pop up again all over the nation, and fans were sharing the action via the matrix. The underground cards still existed but sharing the action had become problematic.
And that is why Jarrett Sawyer found himself on the back of a snowmobile entering into the "Snowdown Bar & Grill" in the middle of nowhere Minnesota.
Sawyer, who looked more then just a bit like a teenage Kevin Bacon, thanked the local for the lift, brushed the snow off, and entered below the crackling and fading neon sign.
Four men patrolled the rooftops with shotguns and Sawyer knew that if it were not for his lift from the yokeal that he would be eating lead right now.
The smell of stale beer and the roar of the crowd greeted him as he removed his sunglasses and nudged his way towards the ring. Set a few feet high off the ground, like a pedestal, stood an octagon shaped ring with a steel cage wrapped around it. Sawyer was a bit disapointed to see this set-up instead of a squared circle, but he understood that wrestling rings were hard to come by these days. Inside though it was pure pro wrestling. A big Texan who went by the very imaginative name "Big Tex" was landing successsive elbow smashes to the bridge of the nose of the local hero "Bonesaw Charlie" who appeared to be giving away about 50 pounds and a few inches. Sawyer settled in, ordered a beer from a lonely waitress excited to see a young out of towner with all of his original teeth, and watched the ring with earnest. There were a few suplexes and a Boston crab ,but in general this was a match of punches, kicks, elbows, and headbutts. With the lack of footage and lack of trainers the quality of pro wrestling had already gone down in the last 10 years since the law had been passed.
Up in the rafters he finally caught a glimpse of the man he had come to see. Perched up top like a Raven, looking like a cross between Jake "the Snake" Roberts and Sting. As the match was coming to the finish and the local underdog was making his comeback Sawyer looked in vain for a way to the top floor where his contact stood, but came up empty.
The roar of the crowd brought him back to reality, back to the ring, as Bonesaw Charlie's hand was raised in victory. The fans saluted him by throwing beer bottles against the wire mesh, and the air was filled with a beer and glass shower.
But wait, that villian Big Tex reached into his trunks and pulled out a set of brass knuckles. The fans shouted at Bonesaw to turn around, but of course he was oblivious.
The sneak attack never came, as the night was suddenly interrupted by the blast from a shotgun above. Pandemonium broke out with fans fleeing for the exits, and the wrestlers breaking kayfab and helping each other out of the ring.
The authorities had been spotted.
Judging by the speed in which the local sheriff was headed out back to his snowmobile from his front row seat, this was obviously the feds.
Sawyer hesitated, scanning the dark recesses of the second level for his contact, but with no luck. He looked at the back door, but instead headed straight for the ring. On the way he ran into a local going the other way (as in out) and a paper bag fell out of Sawyer's pocket dropping to the baroom floor. A black videotape cassette poked its nose out of the bag just in time to be stepped on by a pair of snowmobile boots. A sick crunching noise filled the air making Sawyer's heart drop.
He scooped up the package none the less, sticking it into the folds of his jacket and began to climb the outside of the cage. Up and up he went, like Jack climbing the beanstalk. From the top of the cage he made a precarious jump and grabbed onto the bottom of the balcony rail to the second floor. It was slippery though and his hand fell off, his body twisting, his eyes now focusing straight down 20 feet to the hard bar room floor. Fingers of his remaining hand began to lose their grip, one then another.
A strong hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him up to the second level. It was his contact in his long black sheepherder jacket. "Do you have it" is all he said. Sawyer nooded, forgetting its condition until he pulled it out.
"Someone stepped on it, the darn it thing is broken."
The figure looked it over and shook his head.
"I can fix this". With that he handed a similar looking cassette over to Sawyer and gave him a nod.
"Up there" someone shouted from the floor below. Looking down Sawyer could see 3 federal agents raising their shotguns. The contact pulled Sawyer deeper into the second floor out of their sight and then gave him a boost through a trap door to the rooftop.
The cold chill of a Minnesotan January midnight broke up whatever excitement Sawyer had been feeling. Looking down the two wrestling fans could see snowmobile lights in the distance as the locals fled, and a couple being apprehended below by the feds.
"What the hell do we do now" said a panic filled Sawyer.
The contact pulled out a baseball bat from inside his jacket and pushed Sawyer off the roof backward. As he fell he looked up at his contact, perched on the rooftop and wondered if that would be the last thing he ever..
Swooshh...he landed in a light fluffy snowpile and struggled to escape. A snowmobile pulled up and the dishpan hands of a cougar waitress pulled him free of the frosty snow. Without a word Sawyer jumped on the back and she revved the machine out of dodge.
As Sawyer looked back at the bar he saw the contact leap from the rooftop landing silently behind a federal agent who was presently apprehending a patron. The snowmobile though took a sudden turn and that was the last Sawyer saw of the "Snowdown Bar & Grill"
Rainy New York City night. Dark. Sirens are the background music. Only the unfortunate and the unfortunate victims are on the street at this time of night. A large LED light proclaims it is 3:00am. Sony, America's favorite brand name. Did anybody even remember it was Japanese? A long sleek black limousine ignores the lights and speeds through the red, leaving a fine mist of rain in its wake.
Francis the driver looks through his rear view mirror in vain, as the shield is up. Blackness stares back. The blackness of the shield however, and not the soft, liquidy blackness of the latex catsuit the back occupant had been wearing. Sexy, "umm..hummm" Francis told himself.
He pulled up to the penthouse and let the occupant out. He watched in lust as she glided out, the form fitting suit showing only the general outline of her curves. darn it the rain he thought as he frowned when the view from the back was obsucred by her black leather rainslick. All he knew for sure was that she was caucasian. Her eyes had been hidden behind sunglasses, her hair under her c owel.
Inside the pentouse the rich, old, man was pouring himself a drink and one for the Cat. She was everthing he had been told she would be. $2000 for the visit was a bargain, especially since he was allowed to videotape it. He adjusted his tripod in the corner of the room. She counted out her money, always paid in advance and stuck it into her cleavage. The Cat's adversary sat quiet, obidiently in the corner of the room in some darn it lotus position. Her own outfit for the encounter picked out by her sugar daddy industrialist was a retro red leather and lace combo made popular over 25 years ago by a show called "Hellfire".
The two women came together in the middle of the penthouse, sizing each other up. Redd attacked first but it was the awkward lunge of an amateur. An armbar actually slowed down her descent to the floor which was a good thing, but without it her face hit first, which was not such a good thing. A cross face chickenwing and The Cat was told to release the hold by the event's sponsor. He needed Redd healthy, she was much more to him then just a catfighter. They circled again. This time Cat attacked first with a a legsweep that Redd never saw coming, until she was looking up at the celing. Slingshot followed, sending Redd smacking into the drywall. The paintings rattled and a cheer went up from the sponsor. Cat quickly grew bored of the encounter, but she went through the motions. She carried her opponent through 10 minutes of action never once allowing herself to be vulnerable to beginner's luck. In the end she enjoyed the satisfaction of making her opponent tap out to the Catseye, a move once called the Texas Cloverleaf, one that could do real damage to an opponent's back.
Redd retreated licking her wounds, and jealousy flared in her eyes as her sugar daddy was on his feet applauding the leather clad vixen. "Don't Touch Me" the Cat had to warn him as he drew closer. Redd stood to her feet anc the Cat approached her, running a hand down her cheek. "You did fine. Remember the moves I used on you and practice them. Hopefully we will have a rematch." With that the Cat gave Redd a quick peck on the lips and walked out the door.
In the elevator on the way down she collapsed to the floor. Sobbing. Her thoughts returned to Madison Square Gardens a little more then a decade ago. She was a young up and comer, in the world of pro wrestling. She saw herself being awarded the Women's World Title by that leath who called himself President. It was no longer a world title like big goldy. The new gimmicked title that he wrapped around her waist, innocently copping a feel of course as he did so, was more of a phallic symbol then a title belt. Then they had passed that darn it law.
The old lift grinded to a halt. Lifting herself to her feet she stumbled onto the street. The limo was there waiting and Francis was very eager to help her into the back. She turned the other way and ran down the street. Her feet splashing away the reflections of her mascara running down her face that she saw in the puddles.
One day at a time she told herself. And with $2000 she could afford to take a few days off. She deserved it.
Sirens wailed in the night.
Sawyer woke with a start. Sitting bolt upright in the motel bed. He had been dreaming of the perfect vixen. A real doll compared to the cougar from last night. Remembering the night before he looked to the spot beside him, but all that was left was the indent where she had been. The bathroom light was on, the door open a crack and he heard her move within. He called out to her and she came to him, holding the black videotape. "What's this" she asked him with an impish smile. "Old Porn?"
She handed it to him and he turned it around in his hands. No markings on the outside. "Better, much better."
End of episode 1
1.02 - Blaze
Back in his warehouse loft apartment Sawyer sits in the dark, engulfed by the overstuffed armchair. The flickering TV in front is from a by-gone age, at almost 18 inches thick it makes the apartment look like a museum. But you need A/V input jacks when you operate what they used to call a VCR. This old technology was the method thought up by "The Genius" to deal with the government's ability to infiltrate cable and even read only media of microfiles and DVD's.
Using the "remote control" Sawyer is able to fast forward through the remaining matches. The minute or two it takes is bothersome, and Sawyer for once does not miss the good old days. Finally when he sees the visage of the sponsor he stops to hear the message again.
This is the Renaissance of pro wrestling. Sawyer is to be a courier. His instructions are simple, make a copy of this tape and take it to the next...he gives the address in Manhattan. There he will receive another tape. Once he has completed that, erase this part of the message from the tape. Keep only the matches.
Sawyer stalks to the refridgerator and pours himself a juice. "Those indy guys were good, but still not as good as before the crackdown. We have a ways to go." Sawyer's cat meows at him as if to respond. He goes to pick her up but she darts away. "Typical" he mutters to himself. He puts the matches on again.
Somewhere else in NYC a vivacious looking blonde is submersed in steaming hot bath water. The water distorts and hides the curves from our views. Judging by the black catsuit that hangs behind the door, we have found our catfighting vixen. She examines the barbwire tattoo on her bicep and remembers her compatriots who all had them as a sign of allegiance to the company.
Thinking back she remembers how she left the company, as champion, just weeks before the crackdown began. She remembers the deviant President's hands groping her waist, pulling her towards him. She remembers the satisfaction of slapping him across the face. He was too strong though, and putting her in a full nelson he drove her face first into the office's aquarium. Drowning...she was sure..she was..no oxygen. He saved her. The big muscular long haired dope, who had followed her to the ends of the earth once, but now followed him, and his money. Still there was enough spark left to make this one gesture. "She's not worth it boss. You know they are looking for an excuse, don't give them one." The words, even though spoken to free her, stung harder then any superplex ever had. He escorted her to the alley door, and tried to explain, "listen..I just..." but there was nothing to be said. She slung her bag over her shoulder and left that world behind.
Sitting in front of his media screen Sawyer threw on the special router button to unscramble his end of the matrix connection, and donned his glove. Pointing in the air he opened a channel and looked to see who he knew that might have entered the matrix. His icon (a likeness of Ren McCormack, Kevin Bacon's character in Footloose) made his way into his private room. Sitting down he popped open a coke, and picked up the phone. He chatted with a friend or two, but said no to all invitations to visit. He felt like vegging tonight.
Footsteps....pounding...the door flung open (hadn't he locked it?), and a blonde vixen in a spandex outfit reminicent of Wonder Woman III from the late 10's darted into his room. Both froze looking at each other like a deer in the headlights. She stammered something about thinking no one was in here. She turned to go, but then seemed to think better of it. Her back was to him and he couldn't help but to stare at her beautiful figure. "It's okay" he said, stay. More footsteps outside and with a wave of his hand he began to throw closed several locks on the doorway. They could see two federal goons on the outside looking in. They would see only darkness, while the vixen and Sawyer could see everthing through the one way door. They began to pound on the door.
"They'll go away. Have a seat. Who are you? Better yet, who are they?"
She seemed hesitant to answer. But when locks began to unpop she began to talk in bursts. She was a catfighter who had been caught trying to set up a "date" and was now fleeing from the feds. She needs to lose them before she can exit the matrix to avoid them following her on the outside.
"You look familiar somehow" he said, ignoring the feds. She didn't think this was too practical.
"Is there another exit?"
"Only to the real world"
"darn it it"
"You Look familiar"
"I used to be the women's champion of the world"
"No,not that. I figured that out already, but something more recent." He looked at her barbwire tatoo. It was funny how somethings could not be hidden in the matrix but could be so easily hidden in the real world.
When another lock flung open it seemed to snap Sawyer out of his oblivious state. He picked up the cell phone and called a friend of his. He told the vixen to sit down beside him.
Suddenly the room began to empty in front of them. The pictures on the wall, the Coke machine, record player, everything except for them and the sofa. Everything spun, the knocking became fainter and fainter and finally disappeared all together. They sat in silence, in a dark void, on a burgundy leather couch, no walls or ceiling or floor. Just them, the couch and the occasional piece of white glowing matter floating by.
Neither said a word for a minute.
"It was nice meeting you..ummm...Mr. Bacon? But I have to go"
"Don't"
But it was too late. She stood, and groped her way forward, suddenly stepping behind some wall that neither could see and was gone from sight.
The phone rang.
"Yes thanks, it worked like a charm. Listen bud I need one more favor from you."
Europe. Rural Norway. Several small planes encircle an old arena built below ground so only the roof is visible from the surface. Inside a couple hundred fans watch as two men put on a wrestling spectacle. One looks like he is from an 80's Heavy metal band, complete with stringy long hair, mascara, and spandex pants. He is wearing an Iron Maiden shirt and is going to town on his opponent, a tall lanky Goth looking guy with white pasty skin. All is going well for "Blaze" until his macabre opponent bites him on the shoulder, drawing blood. Blaze looks over at his shoulder in disbelief and doesn't see the stiff clothesline coming which knocks him to the ground. An elbow catches him in the gut, and by the time he can catch his breath he has only a fraction of a second to kick out before the third count. In fury he grabs his oppoent's ankle and drops him to the ground. He drives a knee into the thigh, and then twists on the ankle. The crowd errupts as the fan favorite is on the verge of victory.
Blaze looks at his opponent who is begging for mercy, with the ref telling him not to do it. Blaze says "send this message to the next guy who decides to go into business for himself". And with that he twists on the ankle, leveraging it under his armpit, and it emits a loud cracking noise. The crowd goes ballistic, but when the arena is filled with the anguished cries of the Goth, and as Blaze simply walks away the crowd gets hushed instead. They stand watching..these millionaires with their private jets...in their Armani and Dival suits...in hushed tones as the medic enters the ring and tries to stop the pain as the Goth is now openly sobbing.
"Blaze, we meet again"
The victorious man looks up in surprise and sees the trenchcoat and baseball bat of the sponsor.
"It seems so. You have something for me? A date?"
"No. Not yet. All is not ready."
With that he hands over a videotape to the metal wrestling hero, who simply nods, pats the sponsor on the shoulder and walks away.
"Soon"
The Wrestling Show
1.03 Europe
Blaze errupts from the door into the parking lot, his eyes scanning the Jaguars, Limos, and planes. Nothing. Then he saw the Shelby Cobra and sprinted towards the tinted windows. The rear lights glowing red in the night.
Knocking on the window, no answer. A voice behind him, darn it he wasn't even inside the car and the sponsor had the drop on him again.
"Something wrong Blaze?"
"Yeah, somethings wrong. I can't go back to America you know that."
"Why not?"
"Because wrestling's illegal. I'm not yellow like these Americans who come over here and wrestle under a mask. I cut my ties with the fascist regime that calls itself America. If I was to return I would be charged upon entry, it doesn't matter that it was on foreign soil."
"Yes I know. If you are an American and break the law you can be charged."
"So you can keep your bloody tape"
"No. Keep it. Some of these guys are good workers. If you come we can sneak you in."
"Well maybe I'll wrestle under a mask. If they even get a whiff...I wouldn't put it past them to kidnap me from Europe and send me back."
"Take care my friend. Soon we will have a night to remember."
The sponsor crawled into his vintage sports car.
"Nice ride."
"Nothing to track me by. The technology is too old."
Revved up and gone, leaving Blaze to shiver in the cold Norweigan night.
*****************
An Icon looking a lot like Kevin Bacon walks down a street in the matrix. All around him are prostitutes. Some voluptuos with dimensions that defied reason, others were roleplaying fantasies that were highly illegal. Jarrett Sawyer just shivered in repulsion as a little boy propositioned him. Probably drives truck during the day thought Sawyer as he hurried by.
Sawyer was looking for companionship, but not the kind that was being offered. The authorites knew what went on down here, but rather then worry about it they allowed it to happen and simply filed away all the incriminating evidence for later use. Some were looking only for a "virtual" date which still held the risk of a virus to your Icon, while others were looking to transcend to the flesh. This of course was trickier as you had to hook up with someone local.
Sawyer was looking for someone local, and someone to meet flesh to flesh. But not for those reasons. The red light district was a convienient place for catfight wrestlers to ply their trade setting up dates. "She" had mentioned that was what had drawn the feds to her, so here he was, looking for the girl of his dreams.
I guess not tonight. After two trips down lonely street he gave up and headed for the sanctuary of his private room.
*****************
"Hey Blaze, talk at ya for a moment?"
"Sure Flex. What's up?" Blaze looked up from undoing his boots at the tall, muscular American.
"Was that the sponsor I saw you talking with?"
"What if it was?" He said this as flat as he could manage but his sixth sense was beginning to tingle.
"Is there something going down?"
"No. Nothing. Well there's always hope, but right now the scene is still dead. The feds are all over it stateside."
Flex seems to think this over while chewing on his bottom lip.
"If you see him again..."
"Yes?"
"Could you ask about her?"
"Oh for crying out loud Flex. After what you did to her? You blew it man..live with it..and next time..."
Flex closed the gap, angry now, his pecs flexing. Blaze stood up but from the chair in a sitting position there wasn't much room and his back was arched as he stood leaving himself very vulnerable.
"Hey Flex...what the?....your up next. Haul butt musclehead." A road hand hollered at Flex apparently not intimidated at all by the American.
"Are we through?" asked Blaze.
Flex calmed himself. He took a step back, put his mask over his head. It bore the picture of the French flag, and the Rooster.
"Just ask him about her." Pause. "Please."
"Sure Flex, just don't get your hopes up."
*****************
Knocking? He was dozing. Looking down at himself he realized that he was still Ren, his Kevin Bacon VRI. darn it that was dangerous.
Looking out his door his heart went into his throat. It was her. This time she was wearing black leather, ala Michelle Pfieffer as Catwoman. Black never showed up well though in the matrix. The edges of the suit, in this case the curves, lost against the black background. That is why it was the preferred color of the feds and other bad people in the matrix. It was a good fighting color. Right about now though he was wishing she was wearing bright red.
Knocking again. darn it was he really just sitting there. What was wrong with him. She turned to go, unable to see him inside. He rushed to the door and caught her attention as she was walking away. How did that Doors song go again?
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Do you want to come in?"
"Yeah"
They were both nervous. Why should she be nervous he wondered?
He never asked her about how she tracked him down, nor about what she wanted.
They talked about her days in the Alliance.
They talked about the crackdown.
He tried to talk about her "dates", her catfights. She tactfully changed the subject.
He thought he heard footsteps outside but when he checked for eavesdroppers he found no one.
Sawyer described for her a few of the wrestlers on the tape, but of course you can't watch a VCR tape on the matrix. That's why the medium was chosen.
Would she care to come over to his apartment to watch it?
She smiled. He whispered the address into her ear, lingering for just a second at the smell of Vanilla mixed with Latex.
*****************
Flex bore down on his opponent, a huge Norweigan going by the totally unoriginal monikor of Hammer. It was not often that the 6'6 Flex gave away height and strength, but in this case he was the smaller man. The story of the match was the champion unable to adjust his gameplan to match a bigger opponent. The fans cheered heartfully for the local product. Flex on the other hand was derided with mocking chants of "U-S-A, U-S-A" despite wearing the French insignias. The fans knew the score and in the tradition of wrestling fans let the participants know. This was no longer the circus, they were no longer marks.
Blaze watched from a gap in the backstage curtains. His eyes locked on Flex's as he stood staring from under the mask, waiting for Hammer to scoop him up from behind, place him on his shoulders, and then flapjack him down hard on the mat.
What did those eyes express? Sadness maybe. Despair probably.
Blaze turned his back to leave as the crowd counted along with the official, 1 2, 3, New Scandinavian champion.
Flex lay there selling the pain. Face down on the mat. He did not want to look up and see the belt presented to his opponent. He had done his job. It was time to move on.
End of episode 3