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~~Wallace Witasick~~ · (02-22-2013)

{Scene Opens…

…We are met with a corridor, it appears aged and war torn, it’s walls a thirty year old white are plastered with frames of an array of size. They plague the wall indiscriminately placed yet each with a meaning, they stand firm in their place, belligerent and stoic against their only fight in life.

The sun stained light that pushes it’s way with a force through the circular windows that pierce the doors at the top of the corridor illuminates the enemy, an abundance of dust plumes it’s way from ceiling to floor, sparkling as the light refracts off it’s surface, it swarms to and fro, pressing up against the wearisome frames, constantly settling as if there is a wanton need to force them from the wall they strive so hard to cling to.

The plume is swept, the illumination grows heavier flooding the corridor with a fresh feeling, a dank paint peeled radiator glows with a joy, it’s 1950’s brass attachments come to life, dancing amber against the squalid bland of the dusky whiteness. The corridor doors have been thrown open and the lifelessness and still of the corridor is about to be interjected with a passing presence.

He stands at the doorway, an image of black as the day’s myriad of sunlight ploughs through him casting him into silhouette. Although absent from detailing, it’s immediately apparent the man filling the doorway is of a strong and firm stature, standing a shade over average height he looms into the corridor with his muscular framework, dominating the environment he has entered. The door creaks closed behind him, and the light flitters and fails back to it’s moribund blandness, and with it the lights retreat sucks the silhouette from the chest, shoulders and face of the man allowing us to gain an image at last.

His body is muscular, not freakishly so, but a cut above the athletic average, his biceps and triceps stretch the short sleeves of the Fred Perry Polo he’s tried in vain to fit him. His hair is cropped short, a week old grade two shave short and the beginnings of a beard covers his jaw line and cheeks. His face appears fatigued, some mild scarification train-lining it’s way across his burrow and tree-rooting it’s way under his bottom lip down toward his chin before cutting short into a two tined fork. He should be older than he is, but one thing gives his youth away, they are deep and rich, burning a russet brown, fine splinters of emerald green fleck in and out of the depths of each iris. They are not the eyes of a middle nor old aged man; they are the eyes of a man with a life still to be lived, a man with a road to be travelled. Yet the eyes sit uncomfortably placed amid a battle blazoned visage. His lips part, and as he sucks in the decaying air his chest fills, stretching that size too small polo shirt even more, as his deep breath in ends his eyes close, hiding the truth of his age as his body steadies before letting out a gratifying and soul soothing sigh…}

Man: “… … been too long.”

{He rolls his shoulders and arcs his neck to one side before settling his stance forward and walking down the corridor…

Scene Cuts…

…The deadbeat ambience that flooded the corridor continues, the stark white settles like a film of age. Although this environment is different, there is a movement and a purpose to the large room, crash mats lay strewn populating corners, weight machines grace the right of the room, their metallic nature adding to the cold and stark feeling of the gymnasium, they are old, decrepit, rust covered and look retired from any use, but this is not where our true focus lies. To the left of the gymnasium we see a ring, a wrestling ring, a poor excuse for one by any means, but a ring it is. Loose, sagging ropes, uncovered bolts for turnbuckles, no apron allowing the exposé of the framework underneath and a mat held together with Duct Tape and parcel string stitch work, but this abhorrent structure that should be scrapped and laid to waste is the most vigorous and alive aspect we have seen so far, for it has occupants.

Two boys, no more than early teens if that clamber at one another, their reach aimed at leg parts, flailing arms or spaces to drive forward and trip or more-so trap. There is a pureness to the boys, so full of life in a lifeless surround, their eagerness to take down and feel the canvas against them to hold and to force bone on bone, to hyper-extend, to feel or hear the satisfying tap of their opponent ring out three or more times and to hear what holds most important to them at this time, the praise, reward and acceptance of the old man sat at ringside.

He has passed the age of seventy and looks it, dark grey in hair colour and grizzled in facial expression, he sits fervent on a rickety wooden chair, his large paw-like hands grasping at the arm of the chair and at the handle of a walking stick, clenching with every attempt of a take down the boys make. His frame arks forward, his head ducks and pulses from side to side with a rhythm resonating from the ring’s movements, his voice is croaky, authoritative but on it’s way out, struggling to find the wind that once forced it and allowed it to holler…}

Old Man: “Hook the leg Adam, Hook it! Hook it! Shoot for the bloody leg Adam … HOOK THE LEG AND ROLL THROUGH!”

{One of the two boys begins to steady himself, a breath of composure is sucked into his prepubescent body, his right arm spins out and grasps the thigh of the other boy, he springs on his feet, full force forward taking both boys to the mat once more, all grip and grasp is lost and both boys resort to the clamouring for waistlines to try and find that advantage so vitally important…}

Old Man: “I say leg, and you think thigh area? Am I getting this picture right? THIGH AREA? Jesus, Mary, Mother of God do you not actually listen? I say leg you think knee or ankle, how are you going to put bone on bone in the thigh area? You boys are beyond incompetent; you boys are a failing and an embarrassment to this here Slaughter House. A simple hold boys …”

{From out of shot the old man’s flow is interrupted…}

Man: “But always remember the hold not taken, that’s what you were thinking right Adam? The hold NOT taken, he gave you that leg to take, why? Always think that boys, that’s why you forced the collapse, right Adam?”

{The man from the corridor walks into shot, a wry smile adorning his face as he walks over to the old man and places a reassuring hand on his back, the old man’s face wants to smile, but it holds it’s reserve as his eyes roll around their sockets…}

Old Man: “Answer the man Adam”

{The boys break their fight and rise slowly to their feet, dusting themselves off as they do so, one of the boys has uncomfortable written all over him, he scratches at his neck and shoulder whilst grimacing a response…}

Adam: “No sir, I just shot for the wrong body part sir”

{A big smile dons the face of the young man, as he lets out a small chuckle and turns to face the old man, perching himself against the ring’s edge…}

Man: “Then I guess you were right Lucas you old dog, they’re incompetent, how long they been with you?”

Lucas (Old Man): “Only the three weeks, they’re actually half decent, hear that boys? Now go shower up, that’ll do for the week, we’ll push on next time and get you actually doing something other than rolling around like ferrets in a Yorkshire Man’s gusset. I got to talk with this annoying man here about something serious. Owen, my office and take that silly little smirk from your face, you should’ve outgrown that smug little look years ago”

Owen (Man): “Yes Boss, here let me help you…”

{With that he hops to his feet and offers a solid arm for the Old Man to grasp as he pulls himself to his feet, he smacks the back of the Young Man welcomingly before righting his stick and leading the pair off screen…

Scene Cuts…

…We are met at last with something other than stagnant white, a warm and welcoming glow. The Office is a clutter, papers everywhere, the walls full of posters and pictures, all framed and positioned like those in the corridor, clearer here, all relating to wrestling, some look to be dating back to the 60s, the majority of photographs black and white, the posters are bore of two-tone only also. The glow of the office radiates from the four lamps dotted around the room, their low pulse of light enough for everything to be seen, especially as is reflects so beautifully off the deep mahogany furniture that it sits on. The reflected light emits an ochre and tawny feeling, a feeling you wish to settle into and soak up as your own. At the centre of the room is a desk, to either side green leather lounger chairs. The pair of men enter the room, their gnarled features softened with the light, Lucas sits himself gracefully in one chair and motions to Owen to do the same…}

Lucas: “Sit, I have something to show you…”

{…Owen makes his way to the second chair and takes a seat, positioning himself away from the stuffing that is spewing forth from the one side of it. Lucas is bent forward, rifling his way through an open draw in the desk they are sat at, the movement and rustling of papers is more than clear to hear, he finally grasps at what he requires, sits back up bolt upright and hurls what appears to be a magazine at Owen…}

Lucas: “Here, page eleven, half way down, right hand column … it true?”

{Owen quickly flicks his way to the page, worry immersing his whole being, the magazine’s front is visible “BRITTISH WRESTLING PRESS”. Owen stops at a page, and scans it with his finger and eye, before slumping in the seat, no longer interested nor caring for the mank of the stuffing of the seat…}

Owen: “Lucas, that’s why I’m here, I wanted to tell you face to face, I didn’t know such news would get printed in magazines like this”

Lucas: “So, explain to me the deal here, you’re going to the States to earn a small fortune and gain fame beyond recognition?”

Owen: “Within reason, yes, I suppose that is the case”

Lucas: “Then you’re as naïve as those two young lads out there”

Owen: “Now wait…”

Lucas: “No I shall not, you hold your horses and listen in, when you walked through those doors all those years ago, it was for a reason, I saw a skinny young boy walking the streets, fighting his way through life and invited him in here, why?”

Owen: “To learn to wrestle”

Lucas: “NO! I got you in here to better yourself, to take that raw anger and motivate it, allow you to gain a focus and a direction”

Owen: “Yeah, well my focus and direction is fighting…”

Lucas: “Oh will you please stop and listen to yourself, fighting, boy that’s all you’ve been doing your whole life, from the moment your dad picked up his first glass of Jameson’s your life was going to be a fight, you have the ability and drive in you more than anyone now to step away from all that. Why are you so fixated? Why couldn’t you be like your brother?”

Owen: “Aah Robert, the blue-eyed b…”

Lucas: “Do not start with that crap Owen, I can not be doing with petty rivalries or immature jealousy, I took the pair of you in here and gave you the tools to not only survive in life but go on and excel in it, what have you been doing the last two years of your life? You disappeared on all of us to go fight around the country right? Oh I’ve read about it in magazines Owen, what’s Robert done? He’s running the Midlands branch of a nationwide architecture firm, and making a life for himself, his wife and his children, hell he’s even keeping this place afloat by paying the mortgage payments for me … but fighting’s where the real money is at right Owen?”

Owen: “Look Lucas, you know why I vanished for that time, and it wasn’t about fighting, but look at me, you took me and Rob in and gave us a life, I’ll admit that Lucas, you saved two young boys lives. You say you wanted to better me, to give my life a direction, well you did. I delved into the world you truly love Lucas, the life of wrestling, I went away, not to hide from the world, but to embrace what was out there, out there away from here, away from the squalid West Midlands. I went out there to learn, to absorb everything I possibly could, new styles, new techniques, new concepts of fighting. I fought in front of all sorts, crowds of ten, crowds of one thousand. I fought in small rings, larger rings, boxing rings, hell I even fought in caged octagonal shaped rings for one main purpose. To truly learn my craft, and you know what I found? I already learnt it.

I learnt EVERYTHING I need to know in this building, every single in ring skill and as you put on me, every life skill. And that’s why I’m doing this…”

{He holds the magazine up to Lucas and points to the page with his finger, the camera catches what he is highlighting “CROOKS SIGNS WITH XWF”…}

Owen Crooks: “You think it’s going to be easy for me? You think it has been for the last two years? Being away from what little family I have left? Being away from this dump of a place that I truly hold dear to my heart? Being away from you, the man I wish was my father? You put me in that ring out there Lucas, you did, you taught me to lock up and shoot on an opponent, and Lucas, you taught me well. Robert delved into books, he surrounded his life with school work, I’m different, I don’t have the scholastic capabilities of Rob, I live for this building Lucas, I delved into tapes of Johnny Saint, Jim Breaks and Billy Robinson as well as Karl Gotch and Japanese stuff, I surrounded my life with Catch-As-Catch-Can Wrestling, I learnt to hook and shoot, and Lucas I’m bloody good at it.

XWF, they’re no joke company Lucas, they are THE company to work for, one of their talent scouts or what not saw me wrestling in Doncaster last June, and they’ve kept their eye on me and want me on their Pro Wrestling shows…”

Lucas: “Pro Wrestling? Jesus Owen you’re a Hooker not a Pro Wrestler, you seen their shows, it’s a small cascade of celebrity wannabes, not FIGHTERS!”

Owen Crooks: “And that’s what makes it all the sweeter Lucas, I’m not sure they’re going to know what’s hit them. You taught me to be a nonstop whirlwind in that ring, and that’s what I’m going to be. Owen Crooks, trained in the Slaughter House, Wolverhampton, England. Straight-laced and hard hitting, I’ll catch more of them with the Leg Hook DDT whilst they’re waving and playing to the crowd than I will in actual combat, and I’ll earn money whilst doing it, I’ll be able to live properly Lucas, properly whilst doing what I do best … fighting. You said it yourself; I’ve been doing it my whole life, isn’t about time it paid me back and gave me a life worth living?”

{Lucas sighs a deep thoughtful sigh}

Lucas: “I just worry about you Owen, look at the scars on your head, you left here full of the joys, you’ve aged. America will age you, the XWF will tire you out, the constant need to be on top, to please fickle fans and politic driven owners will devour you Owen, I’m worried.”

Owen Crooks: “Well don’t, these last two years, I’ve had rat faced owners of bush league companies to deal with, I’ve lived on floors or in cars, I’ve earned my place in XWF, now I want to run with it, to use your words, excel at it, and earn my place in history, earn a place that this battered gymnasium warrants, to be the best and to have trained the best wrestler on the face of the planet. I deserve it, this gym deserves it, and for every one of the hundreds of boys that you’ve placed in that ring Lucas, you deserve that recognition. I want to make you proud of me, I want you to feel the way I do about you, the way I crave that you were my actual father in life…”

{Crooks, buckles at the stomach and places his head in his hands, Lucas hauls himself to his feet and walks over to the sombre Crooks, he wraps his arms around his muscular frame…}

Lucas: “I already am proud of you Owen, and I always will be … son!”

{The pair remain in embrace as the scene fades to black…}

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