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Shooter Syn · (04-13-2020)

If you could smell through your screen your nostrils would be contracting at the aura of manure and damp hay. The field of vision shows a wall made of wood, knots have fallen from the timber used, and wear is showing through the sides of the treated, mottled slats. The snick of metal sliding against metal is the only sound.

The Camera pans round to see an older man sitting on a stump, long dark curled hair, tied back to his nape, protecting it from the sparks as a file runs over and over the already keen edge of a butcher’s blade.

Upon closer inspection the man isn’t so old after all, mid-30’s, but wearing a lifetime of physicality on every wrinkle and toughened leather of his skin. His brunette goatee the same shade as his hair. Belying some vanity through the obvious dying of already greying strands

Shooter Syn looks up from his task, directly into the camera. His hands never stop moving, sparks still flying, continuing to make the blade sharper as he smirks from the left side of his lips and begins to speak

Syn: Everyone in this world needs a reason to be. You could be a real-estate mogul who dreams of bein’ president. Or happy at home with your husband and a kid. Could be your reason is jus’ to keep bein’. Could be, like me, the reason is to keep fightin’

He turns back to his task, flipping the huge blade and starting to work the other side, the file never losing rhythm, the edge becoming finer under a practiced hand.

Syn: They call me shooter. I never really got why, could be for many reasons. Could be cause I’ll draw my fists quicker than any man can draw his gun. Could be cause I’ll talk shit about anyone to provoke a reaction. Could be my ex-wife says I come too quick. Could be..

He looks up again, flipping the knife as he does so, never losing that hypnotic tempo

Syn: … all I know is they call me shooter. I been here and there over the years, had to. I got myself in a heap of trouble when I was young, cause my mouth was fast and my hands were faster. I realised after my fifth stint in that pokey county shithole they call a jail that I aint never gonna change. So I got in to wrestlin’. It gave me what I needed. The ability to call someone down, beat someone down, and not end up in no shit-ass eight by eight with nothin’ but the four walls and a piss bucket as my constant companions. But look at me…

The smile is wide now and knocks 10 years from his withering face, almost making him look the age he actually is

Syn: …Blabbin on about myself …where was i? Oh yeah… a reason to be. I been lookin’ at my upcoming match, Lookin’ at all the people in this rumble. Lookin’ for someone I could feel at home sharing a beatin’ rink with. An I stumble upon this Russian Rose fella’. Now at first, At first I figured you were a kindred spirit. A man that likes to hurt, maybe needs to hurt. Till I looked in on you, only to find that you ain’t like me at all. Instead you’re a crying little child, tryin’ desperately to win back something you lost.

The snick of the file on the knife stops, ears so accustomed now to the constant unwavering noise are left deaf, until the silence itself is almost audible, only broken by the sound of Syn’s voice

Syn: See I know what I am, I aint a fighter, I’m a breaker. I like to break things. Spirit’, minds, bones. And I thought you were too, thought you were as keen as this here blade. But no, you’re as dull as a sky in February. Oh you talk a good game. You win Championships, you train, work hard, follow the almighty buck, provin’ yourself along the way. Hey Russian Rose… is your daddy proud yet?

Syn turns the knife until it’s edge on to the camera, disappearing to the faintest sliver in it’s sharpness, his smile wider than ever

Syn: You aint a breaker. You’re a kid who’s daddy got beaten in the land of the risin’ sun, who came home defeated and forgotten. You’re a kid who’s daddy tried to make something in Mother Russia, until the same company that tore down his legacy came back and bought his pride. You think I don’t see you? You’re just an angry little boy, going to right the wrong’s that you see as happened to your pops, going to trample everyone and everything to bring that glory back to your family. You’re gonna make daddy proud.

Syn stands up, letting his hand, still holding the blade, fall to his side

Syn: I thought you were my kind of people, turns out you’re my kind of victim. I don’t care about winning this match, I don’t care about all the other competitors, I don’t care about the belt. I got my reason for going out there this week, and it’s you. Not you though, you care about the accolades. You measure your worth in gold and contracts. That’s why you're at this here Federation, why you’ve involved yourself in every show. Snuck attacked for that there HMW Championship, why you’ve entered this rumble, to get your shot at holding up another shiny trophy screaming “ARE YOU PROUD OF ME YET DADDY?!” Well son, at this here rumble you ain’t gonna be daddy’s boy, you’re gonna be Shooters bitch!

Shooter violently swings the knife down on to the stump he had been sitting on. Biting deep into the wood without a quiver, solidly staying as if metal and wood had always been one. The camera slowly zooms in on the blade as Shooter walks off shot, the warped reflection of the camera the last thing seen before fading to black

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