{Scene Opens…

The startling difference hits us immediately, the omission of colour to proceedings and the blindingly sharp tones of the black and white picture strike out from the screen, what minimal audio is getting picked up seems somewhat warped and out of synch with what should be reality.

The camera looks out into the black and white world and we see a hallway, poorly decorated with wallpaper peeling from the plaster, or blistering with a swell of air pressure from underneath. What little amount of ornamental decoration that near enough litters the hallway seems desperate, a last gasp effort to console the shabbiness and bring a shade of homeliness to proceedings, when in reality the chintzy and cheap pieces help highlight the decaying corpse that this room has become.

The camera begins to move down the hallway, dredging it’s way down the threadbare archaic carpet that lies underfoot, it slows as it approaches a door, lying open but barely so, a shade more than ajar. Light and sound dances from within, sharp flickers pulsating their way to the doorway and entice us in. A small childlike hand stretches out from behind the camera and tenderly places the youthful pads of his fingers against the unvarnished and splintering finish of the door. The camera lurches forward in time with the tip of the hands fingers turning white as pressure is applied, the door skulks open and the camera moves through into a darkened room. Void of much except an empty old sofa, a layer of bottles and food wrappers and three more things, three vital things, one imposing itself on the scene with a vulgarity. First the TV, the source of the evil dance of light and sound, it illuminates for seconds, flickers and casts it’s net of light at another angle and repeats, continuously seeking out a prey to suck into it’s small boxed frame with glaring solo glass eye. Second, an armchair, hackneyed and frayed like the carpet underfoot, it sits there seemingly gluttonous and idle, proud of it’s main purpose in life, proud to throne the third and final piece.

He sprawls there barely conscious, large and imposing, dressed in nothing more than a stringed vest and his underwear. His hair a birds nest state, his beard roughshod and unkempt, his eyes unmoving and focussed on whatever his favourite box of magic sparkles in front of him, he seems at rest, nearly hypnotised or mesmerised by the television’s screen. It highlights him as slovenly from whatever angle, colour or intensity of light it throws down his throat, and the heap of a man appears content with that as his right arm, laboriously, drags itself from the side of the armchair and up into view. It clutches a bottle that the television finds great glee in spearing with light, half empty from it’s previous state of temptingly full it’s contents slosh and swill around it’s glass captor. The oaf tenses with the only effort he seems happy with, drawing the bottle up to his mouth and glugging back at the contents, before relaxing back to laze, the arm unravels to the side of the armchair once more and with it stores away the poison till it once again needs to be snorted at. The remnants of the booze run weary down the bearded chin of the vagabond evaporating as it travels. Through the matt of hair a heady breath forces itself through chapped lips, as it leaks out into the atmosphere it spews out residue of intoxicant and spittle.

From behind the camera a voice breaks the white noise of the bellowing television, it’s young and chimes out with an innocence:

Child’s Voice: “D..D..Daddy!? It’s getting late and we haven’t been called in for tea ye…”

Dishevelled Man: “Shut it!”

Child’s Voice: “But we’re hungr…”

Dishevelled Man: “You want food? Find your mum, and tell her to get my grub on too, now get the f*beep* out”

The camera flinches at the tone of the heaps voice and turns back through the door whence it came, back it retreats into the hallway, glancing sporadically left and right it’s focus eventually settles at the foot of the hall’s stairway, it make’s an advance.

The stairs seem a breeze to climb, racing up them with a needy expectancy that may only come from a child’s desire to be by their mother. The landing is a blur to us as a recognisable noise can be heard, the running of water from the bathroom, and with that noise the camera makes it’s decision, bolting for the second door of it’s journey that is ajar.

The image hits us with a car crash impact. She’s slumped over the edge of the bath, fully clothed in a floating yellow floral dress, her feet are bare and give away the result, they appear pale and motionless. It is not our only clue, the walls are awash with a darkness, a harrowing contrast against the shrill white of the bathrooms tiling, even in the two toned imagery put in front of us we know, we ashamedly and worryingly know that it is her blood, and that dull colour that devours the walls and bath should be a violent shade of crimson.

The taps are still running…

Child’s Voice: “Mummy?”

…And still they run, pumping a fresh wad of water into the now stained flesh coloured vat below them, and the vat keeps rising. It gathers at the height of the bath, bulges for a fraction and then splays it’s way onto the tiling of the bathroom floor with an unnerving energy to be anywhere other than the room it currently populates. The energy however does the unthinkable, the water grasps at her body, it raises her arms to the surface and the pour sweeps her over the baths edging.

Her body crumples to a unnatural bundle, her face devoid of life, starring out at us, eyes open yet empty, mouth aghast yet expelling no breath or no amount of air …

… she is dead!

The landing is…

Child’s Voice: “DAAAAAAAAAD!!!!”

…a frantic blur as the stairway is…

Child’s Voice: “HEEEEELP”

descended with a hysterical fashion, the hallway is

Child’s Voice: “PLEEEASE DAAAD HEEEELP!”

an afterthought as the camera crashes back with purpose this time through that initial doorway

Child’s Voice: “Dad it’s Mu…”

Through the doorway we meet him, he’s upright now and more of a monstrous figure than we first imagined, he looms over us right hand raised and clenched, our focus drawn to the white of the knuckles and cracking of the skin. It begins it’s journey forward with a force

Dishevelled Man: “I SAID SHUT THE F*BEEEEP* …”

The fist is millimetres from the camera

Dishevelled Man: “UP!!!”

***FLASH OF WHITE***

Crooks: “Aargh!”

He sits bolt upright, the sweat pouring forth from his forehead, the cropped hair on his head sprinkled with perspiration…

Man: “Whoa there soldier, first time flyer eh? Got a bit of the ‘mile high nerves’?”

Crooks: “No, no, nothing like that, just a vivid dream”

Crooks looks around, trying frantically to recall exactly where he is as soon as he can, for himself and to not draw attention on himself from the horrendously dressed moustached man that sits next to him. The deep and constant drone in the air, the hustling of many voices, the smell of overcooked rehydrated chicken and his nerves settle on his second intake of breath.

He grips the armrests of his tight and cramped ‘coach class’ airline seat before strumming his fingers rhythmically on the highly inexpensive vinyl type plastic that upholsters his base. His third breath is deep and reassuring and his demeanour relaxes…

Passenger: “Vivid is NOT the word there partner, I damned thought you may piss yourself with fear!”

Crooks’ eyes roll, he knows he’s done it, sat by the one, the one that has the ability to annoy you just by thinking of them. He clothes are well pressed and ironed, too much so however, just implying he takes pleasure in that sort of thing, a man who likes starch, the fact they are colour clash of orange and brown speaks volumes. He’s thin and balding, attempting to make up for it with a face growth he may call a moustache, it’s thinner than pencil thin, and serves only to soak up the condensation that seemingly has an inclination to manifest itself along his top lip. His American accent is a whiny shrill too, piercing and overbearing … he’s what his countrymen would no doubt describe as a ‘Douche’

Passenger: “You know what you need? A small little touch of the good stuff?”

He reaches in his bag and produces a few bottles of Vodka miniatures, and proceeds to jangle them together in Crooks’ face

Passenger: “I got enough for us both … for free mind, oh yeah that’s how I work I lay a small amount of my charm on the airline broads and they fall over themselves to give me what I want, if you see one slip me a wink later and point to the back, I may disappear for good ten minutes to give her what SHE wants, get my drift? Of course you do you’re a grown adult, and I’m sure your charm offensive is just as productive.

And hey, don’t worry about me leaving you, I told the stewardesses I’m too tired for that sort of thing this flight, I was up all last night with some beautiful London dancers no less. Now here take one …”

He motions the bottles once again to Crooks, who raises a hand immediately

Crooks: “I don’t drink”

The annoyance, smirks and lets out a hellish chuckle

Passenger: “*Guffaw* Don’t drink eh? Wow, why is it you always seem to sit next to a loser on these long distance flights?

I jest, I jest … I’m cool with that big man, way cool with the no drinking, I went 18 months without a drop passing between my lips a few years ago. Damned wife caught me in the midst of a threesome with two models from Brazil and the messy divorce drove me back to my good pals Vodka and Tonic, you understand right? Of course you do, you seem a good old man of this world, guess you don’t do Coke either? Of course not silly of me to ask.”

A small group of young schoolgirls seem to be gathering at the curtain that separates coach from the better and more esteemed classes, a stewardess floats through the curtain and quickly sits them back down

Crooks: “What’s happening down there?”

Passenger: ”Aah, well, interesting you should ask, appears we have a celebrity aboard! ”

Crooks: ”Anyone I’d know?”

Passenger: ”Not managed to wrangle a name from the staff yet, but I will, I always do. You get to rub shoulders with the hoy paloi quite often flying long haul as much as we do, only last week on my flight to England Ryan Seacrest was aboard the plane”

Crooks: ”Who?”

Passenger: ”Well I don’t know him myself, but I hear he’s someone quite big in television, friends with Simon Cowell?”

Crooks: ”I don’t really watch TV”

Passenger: ”Of course you don’t, anyways, I happened to work my charm on the staff and ‘weasel’ a photograph on my cell phone”

Crooks: ”They let you in first class?”

Passenger: ”No, the hostess took my phone through to the front and took a snap, it’s at a distance and near enough just the back of his head, but it’s a good shot I think, wanna see?”

Crooks: ”No you’re fine as you are”

Passenger: ”No worries, it’s what I love about Transatlantic travel more than anything, the high brow attitude of it all, one day you can be sat by an actor, a singer, a director, a novelist…”

Crooks: ”A wrestler?”

Passenger: ”Sure that’d work, imagine sitting next to a Pro Wrestler? My kids would love that, but I’m sure they’ll adore my Seacrest shot too.

Hey don’t mind me, but all this talk of Vodka, I gotta go piss … hey imagine it though … being … famous!”

The annoyance gets up out his seat and makes his way creepily down the gangway of the planes aisles, those stewardesses that see him make a be-line for the curtain and snap it back quickly lest he see them or bother them. Crooks takes a long drawn out breath and settles in to his seat a little bit more, struggling to find any sort of comfort in the sardine tin-esque seating. He squashes his arm against the window and spot welds his cheek to his fist, planting his head askew to attempt to rest, his eyes grow heavy once more and he begins to slumber as the scene fades to black, before we leave the scene he utters a few more choice words

Crooks: ”Hmm, imagine it, being famous”

And his drifting sigh fades the scene to a nothing

The scene after seconds sparkles back into a life, and we are once more met with the two tone ambience of black and white.

The camera’s direction and focus seems strange, a construction of metal lies in front of us, twenty or so feet in front, it sparkles and fluctuates light straight at us, it’s blurry yet it slowly drags itself back into a clear field of sight.

It’s rigging, the metal is stage rigging, and the sparkles are lights from that rigging, and beyond that rigging is a ceiling, a ceiling, it’s not in front of us, it’s above us, twenty or so feet above us, then we’re looking up toward the heavens, why?

The forearm and partial part of a chest slump themselves over the view, driving bone deep into a sight and it becomes clearer than ever, the confirmation then comes

*THUD* “ONE”

*THUD* “TWO”

…

*THUD* “THREE … ring the bell!”

A bell rings and the forearm and chest rile off us, standing, towering over us now. A referee’s shirt comes to view and raises the hand of the winner, who then snaps his hand away from the grasp and looks right toward our direction, pointing and gnarling some words

Winner of Fight: “Eat crap and die you eternal loser”

And with that he hocks up and spits at the camera before exiting sharply, we sit up and look out. The crowd is feeble, a few kids at the front overreacting to the match they just saw, a few older folks wondering what’s happened to the wrestling they used to watch, the general feeling of the blatant church hall being an anti-climatic experience.

Hands come up to wipe away the spewed forth spit, they press hard to the camera and wipe away, and as they peel away we see something else, not saliva but plasma, our own irony tasting blood, our hands are covered in a smudged veil of cruor as we make our way out of the ring, and down the shortest of aisles to the curtain and to the back.

The camera walks with a purpose now, it knows it’s direction. It takes a left at the end of a corridor and walks head first into a holding type room, full of tight-wearing, half naked men. The camera ignores this however, and strides up to the only fully dressed man in the place

Angered Wrestler: “That daft dolt of a boy of yours split me open, that was not part of the deal Smith”

Smith: “Just a risk of the game we’re in Crooks!”

Crooks: “Are you f*beep*ing kidding me? A risk of the game we’re in, when you ever set foot in that ring? And it was not part of the deal, a simple back and forth match, something that wouldn’t over expose your kid, something that could make him look decent, something to allow him to have the tiniest amount of credibility now he holds the strap, NOT a chair across my head and a risk to MY career, I did a job for you Smith, I lay down for a tool like your son and for a tool like you, and that idiot cut me, I want double the cost now”

Smith: “You’ll have what you’re given”

The promoter belligerently goes into his pockets and produces a few notes of money and hands it across

Crooks: “THIRTY QUID?! ARE YOU F*BEEP*ING SH*BEEPING ME?”

Smith: “Twenty more than anyone else on the card, think yourself lucky”

Crooks: “And what’s the champ getting?”

Smith: “Flat rate for a belt holder in my company, One, Fifty … but Owen dear boy, blood is thicker than water, as I’m sure you’ll find out when you take a shower!”

The camera lurches forward to the Promoter Smith, he raises his hands in defense

Smith: “Back Off!!!! Touch me and you’ll never work the South of England again and you know it … you know your trouble Owen? You’re good at what you do, but you will NEVER amount to anything in this business!”

***FLASH OF WHITE***

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

Crooks bolts upright once more, what little cover he had on him hurled from his frame and down onto the bed in front of him, no need to gain his bearings he knows where he is, the over priced taxi ride and bewilderment at the lodgings the company gave him could never stray too far from his thoughts right now. The Motel reeks of clichéd Americana roadside dwellings, a hive for whores, dealers and those that wish to lie low, and apparently a keep safe for British Wrestlers who have no formal agreement of a working Visa in place … yet.

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

Voice: “Mr. Crooks it’s Mr. Haverstein, a representative of XWF, we know it’s late but could we come in?

Crooks: “On my way”

Crooks stands, and stretches his back out before walking to the door of his room and opening it. A suited man and a well dressed and spectacled lady barge their way in, the man unfolds a briefcase from his clutches and opens it, he motions for the woman to take a seat, before going back to the briefcase and sorting through an array of papers

Haverstein: “Where to begin… Aah yes Mr Crooks, the Visa issue, it will be sorted and in agreement tomorrow afternoon, you weren’t actually meant to enter the country till that time, you were told.”

Crooks: “I got the cheapest flight I could get”

Haverstein: “Hmm, yes, well cheap’s not always the best way to go here”

Crooks: “Says the representative of the company that put me up in this place?”

Haverstein: “Touché Mr Crooks, we thought it unwise to put you anywhere else in case you couldn’t afford it”

Crooks: “I’m paying for this? What the hell?”

Haverstein: “It’ll make it’s way out of your first paycheck”

Crooks: “What about the flight, and the Taxi cab?”

Haverstein: “All on you Mr Crooks, this was all explained to you by Pippa was it not?”

Pippa: “All explained Sir”

Haverstein: “As I thought, so down to brass tacks, the contract, it is all in place as Pippa put across to you, please sign, I’m very busy and need to be in Texas yesterday if you know what I mean, I have a pen if you require it?”

Crooks: “I have a question before I put pen to paper, medical plans and that sort of thing, what do you have in place?”

Haverstein: “Aah, yes, see how YOU fund your travel to shows? See how YOU fund accommodation, prey tell Mr Crooks, could you guess who foots the bill for medical purposes?”

Crooks: “I pay that too?”

Haverstein: “As a representative of the X-Treme Wrestling Federation, I feel it prudent to highlight a few things. One, travel with A. N. Other. Two, share a room with A. N. Other and finally, do not let that A. N. Other hurt you in the ring … OR hurt yourself for that matter, simple company ‘unwritten’ policies if you will? Happy? If not you’ve wasted time, energy and money on a meaningless meeting I’ll no doubt forget before that door closes shut behind me … sign”

Crooks takes a pen and scrawls a signature along the bottom of the paper

Crooks: “And I thought the company wanted to make me a star?”

Haverstein: “They do Mr Crooks, for whatever reason they do, but until that time comes when you ARE a star this is how it is. When you bring in money to the company the company may very well give out a tad bit more for expenses like this, however Mr Crooks, the company will not be funding the likes of you, someone who can be categorised as a … oh what’s the word?”

Pippa: “Curtain Jerker”

Haverstein: “In one Pippa, very good. So until you stop jerking curtains … Christ I hate ‘Carny’ talk it makes me feel so cheap … yes the curtains, until you stop jerking them, this is the predicament you’ll find yourself … guess you better knuckle down and work hard eh?

Fine, all’s in place, see you at the first show, not that I’ll be there you understand, can’t stand wrestling, just a nice turn of phrase I feel … Ooh creative gave me two names, something about your first fight, Pippa, Pippa, Pippa, help me out here”

Pippa: "Sweet Cheapshots”

Haverstein: “Pippa I knew I employed you for a reason, it’s mainly to remember all those stupid names, they are your opponents Mr Crooks, not had the pleasure of meeting them myself, I’ve been dealing with you”

Crooks: “Sweet Whatshots? I’ve never heard of him, them ... it?”

Haverstein: “He's in the same predicament as you Mr Crooks, fresh to the company, guess you’ll need to shine with this one? Now we bid you, Mr Crooks a fond farewell, see you in two years when this contracts up for renewal”

Haverstein packs the paperwork away, motions for Pippa to leave the room and quickly follows behind, snatching his pen back from Crooks’ hand as he passes by…

Crooks: “How the hell can I prepare against someone I’ve never heard of?”

Haverstein: “I don’t know Mr Crooks, but I guess there’s always YouTube”

The door closes behind him and Crooks is left alone in the room, the faint voice of the Lawyer can be heard from outside

Haverstein: “There’s always YouTube”

Crooks slumps down into the chair where Pippa was once sat, a desperate look adorning his face, he unknowingly starts shaking his head in a disbelief and the scene fades to black on his final words…

Crooks: “But Sir … I don’t have a computer…”