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TrevorLord · (02-16-2014)

The Age of Enlightenment...

We fade in on bronze-kissed hills in the interior of California; the sun rises over the eastern horizon, the light spilling over the hills. A huge house, probably about 4,000 sq. ft. in size or better, sits perched on one of these hills like a sentry standing guard against the hills beyond. The sound of waves crashing onto the shore can be heard in the near distance behind it. It's morning, and we are about to meet an odd and eccentric man at his humble abode; a new XWF star looking to bring a new sensibility to the squared circle. A purple, yes, a purple Pinto(of all things ungodly gaudy) cruises up the driveway to the house.

Time: 7:13 AM

Moments later...

The camera tracks to the ornate wooden doors at the front of the home. Floyd Huddle, a man of leisure, a man of the arts, a man of -- well, a man of anything but a "real" job -- enters the frame. He's a heavyset man in his early-to-mid 30's with a beer gut hanging prodigiously over his belt loop, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with "It's still real to me, dammit!", a mohawk haircut and bizarrely, Elvis-style "chops" or sideburns. He glances nervously back over his shoulder at the camera, visibly gulps, then nods.

Well, um... the last text I got was very specific. This is the place. You, uh...are you ready?

Our POV moves up and down, whoever is behind the camera obviously consenting approval.

He said for us to be here right after the sun was up. This is my first time meeting him in person, you know. I've got a feeling this is gonna be a lot sweeter gig than my last job.

We hear something off camera but can't quite make out what is said. Floyd does a double take then frowns defensively.

Yeah, I told you that wasn't my fault, bucko. (cracks knuckles, smiles) Now, it's time to meet my new (makes air quotes) "client".

Floyd presses the door bell, which emits a familiar tune that you can't quite identify in your mind. Floyd tilts his head. He turns around to say something else to the cameraman but before he can open his mouth to speak one of the doors swings open, nearly knocking him over. Trevor Lord stands in the doorway: a tall, muscular man with long hair and a brillo-like beard...dressed in padded armor. Lord looks Floyd up and down, suppressing a smirk.

I was under the impression the ad I took out was for a wrestling manager and not a Fat Elvis impersonator. (cuts off Floyd before he can answer) Come in, gentlemen.

Floyd, who has begun to self-consciously stroke his right sideburn, draws back the hand from his face and motions for the cameraman to follow him inside.

So, what's with the outfit? You some sort of stuntman, too?

This? (motions) I want to get in a competitive frame of mind now in preparation for my debut. That's part of why I wanted you to arrive so early in the day; you're going to practice my sword fighting with me, Floyd. You can consider it the final interview for this job.

Say what!?

Relax! I've got a padded outfit for you, too. I know what you're thinking now, "what kind of wackadoodle is this?". Right? I'm hiring you for a reason, my friend. You have a specific job laid out in front of you as my new manager in the ring. I don't need a manager, I don't need handlers; see, I manage myself in the ring pretty well to be honest with you, Floyd. Your job is gonna be all about communication. Connection. If I'm going to dominate in the XWF I need not only to be dominant physically. I have to be dominant mentally. I have to connect with these mental midgets on both sides of the barricade, Floyd. These other "rasslers" and these fans just aren't quite on my level. Not yet.

Trevor walks over to the wood and glass case on the far wall, and retrieves a rapier.

But we're gonna bring them up to speed. In order to bring them to my level...I have to go down to there's. I need an everyman, a Tom Twelve-pack like you by my side. You're kind of like my official translator more than my manager, really.

Translator of what?

Mouth breather. Inbredanese. Mindless, soulless robot...ish. Do you speak it?

Floyd is perplexed. He hesitates to answer, the gears inside his head -- badly in need of WD40 -- creaking and squeaking to life as he thinks about his answer. Floyd is at a loss, and before he can answer we finally hear the man behind the camera distinctly blurt out:

I speak jive!

Floyd looks back at the camera, sharply at first then hides a chuckle behind his best attempt at looking professional.

Hey, for the right amount of money I'll speak trailer trash, valley girl, ebonics -- s$&^, I'll speak Kling-on and Pig Latin.

Then let's get you suited up. Look, I know you're probably thinking I'm eccentric, hell, maybe even a little crazy. I just have certain goals and aspirations in life. I'm not that different from anyone else deep down. Come on, follow me out back. (charming smile)

Floyd nods, steels himself, and follows Trevor toward the back of the house. The camera stops, turns toward the wall on the left and zooms up toward a print of a painting hung high on the wall: it's Napolean Bonaparte. Except a cut-out of Trevor's head from a photograph, blown up, has been glued over Napolean's face.

Hmmmm.

The camera fades to black.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode The Age of Enlightenment (Part 1 of 2)
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