Post by Storm on Jul 24, 2010 14:28:23 GMT -5
Silence. The sound of nothingness is what we are greeted with as the shot fades in to reveal a small but well furnished Tennessee gym. The camera pans around the gym to reveal that, despite the bright of day revealed through the windows at the front of the building, the gym seems completely bare of any human occupants. The cardio machines – treadmills, ellipitcals, exercise bikes, stair masters – all stand unmoving and powered down. Likewise, the free weights remain racked and unused. The camera pans across the weight racks, working from the small 10-pounders on the right end across the rows and rows of them ultimately working up to the 100-pound free weights. It is now that we see two are missing from the far end.
As this registers in the viewers’ minds, a loud and animalistic grunt breaks the silence. The camera spins around, almost as if the cameraman is startled that someone else is in the otherwise abandoned gym. As a second, louder grunt rings out the camera quickly comes into focus again, the previously blurred image revealing that there is in fact someone in the gym: Storm.
The near-300-pound man’s chest is heaving up and down as beads of sweat drip down his forehead and across his bare upper body, his arms and back shaking as he pulls 100 pound barbells up with each arm in a full “fly,” bringing his arms and the weights parallel to his shoulders before lowering the weights back to the ground. A glance along his black, mesh gym shorts and down to his black and white sneakers show that he is literally grinding his feet into the ground as he similarly pushes himself into the back of the weight lifting bench as he continues to bring the 100 pound weights up to either side, causing the muscles along his side, upper back and arms to ripple in all of their impressive glory. He looks into the camera as he lifts and snarls before grunting out in strain again, continuing to stare a hole in the camera as he continues his work out.
As Storm continues to push his body to its limits a chime is picked up by the camera’s built in microphone, not unlike one you might here in a store. Storm’s eyes glance to the side as he checks out the newcomer for an instant before he looks forward again and continues to torture his muscles as he lifts the weights again.
The camera pans as pounding of boots on the floor grow louder, revealing Daniel Boneham Stanton, Storm’s manager and best friend of almost 15 years. The Floridian-turned-Texan and the self-proclaimed “Last Real American Hero” approaches Storm with a swagger, his khaki Dockers and red Polo shirt swishing through the air as he does so. Coming to a stop, he tips his brown cowboy hat at Storm. However, his client does not acknowledge him and simply pulls up on the weights yet again.
Stanton: Hey, earth-to-hoss! You read me, hoss?
Once against Stanton pauses for an acknowledgement, and he is once again ignored as Storm’s arms drop and the spiky-haired man shakes his head to get sweat out of his eyes.
Stanton: Ya know, when you told me to rent this gym out for you to have it for yourself I didn’t reckon you’d be in here all day. You’ve been in this damned weight room for over 3 hours, you’re gonna hurt yourself.
Storm narrows his eyes and shifts his focus over to Stanton, but rather than responding defiantly begins to lift the weights again, despite the obvious strain his shaking arms are showing they’re under.
Stanton: Damn it, Storm! I know you’re pissed as a horned toad over the loss to Kaard last week, but if your body gives out you won’t be winnin’ this week either.
As Stanton’s words register in Storm’s head his eyes widen mid-repetition. Momentarily having his lost his focus, his muscles finally give out and his palms shoot open as he can no longer maintain the lift. The weights crash to the ground with a loud and torturous clang as Storm’s arms drop to his side and he slumps into the bench.
Stanton: Yeah, exactly.
Silence falls over the gym once more as Stanton looks at Storm expectantly. Storm, however, simply continues to lean back into the bench as his burning and exhausted muscles relax. Stanton gives his friend a few moments to recover, but when Storm continues to simply sit there Stanton takes a step forward and leans in to check on him, a concerned expression playing across the former wrestler’s face. At this point, however, Storm bolts to an upright sitting position and lets out a low growl.
Storm: Back off, I’m fine.
Stanton:Could’ve fooled me!
Storm: This is my normal routine, Dan. How the hell do you think I’ve gotten in this shape?
Stanton: I wasn’t worried about the weight lifting, ya kook! I was worried about the whole “hide in solitude” thing you’ve had going since last week and your…
Storm: Go ahead, Dan, say it again. Remind me I lost to Kaard.
Stanton: I’m just saying, I know…
With a sudden and unexpected quickness, Storm bolts up to a standing position and pushes himself up over Stanton. Storm’s arms are still hanging gingerly by his sides, but he seems to be recovering judging by the tension evident in his clenched fists.
Storm: I know exactly what you’re saying, Dan! I lost. I blew it. The man I made a fool out of for two months, the man who couldn’t touch me and that I embarrassed and destroyed TWICE on national Pay-Per-View made me look like a laughing stock in my debut match here in Tennessee and Kingdom of Pride. The little high-flier that could took down the monster you see before me, the man who was just weeks ago considered the most dangerous man in all of professional wrestling, and now I look like a joke. Is that what you were saying, Dan!?
Stanton seems taken back, but to his credit is not intimidated by the raging behemoth in front of him. Instead, he adjusts his hat so he can better look up through the 4-inch differential between him and Storm and responds cautiously but assertively.
Stanton: Well, not in so many words…but yes. But hey, don’t worry about it. You need to calm your ass down and focus on Rage Rodriguez this week. If you can put him down like a crippled derby horse like you have so many others, I can take care of the rest.
Storm’s bulging and bloodshot eyes seem to recede a bit as his features similarly soften as he’s overcome with intrigue toward Stanton’s statement. Taking a small step back while being careful not trip over the now-discarded free weight behind him, Storm winces as he raises his still-sore arms and crosses them across his chest.
Storm: The rest? Now what the hell does that mean?
Stanton: What that means is that if you can just keep doing what you do best and taking the chumps in front of ya out like you have since our ol’ football days in high school, I’ll do what I’ve done since I was the quarterback – find the openings and strike to bring home the wins for both of us.
Storm glares at Stanton, not satisfied with his answer. Stanton catches the look and reads his friend perfectly.
Stanton: All I’m saying is I’m doin’ my best to find you another way into that title gauntlet thing, and I can’t promise anything but what I can tell you is that it’ll be a lot easier for me to get you where you want to be if you stay focused and healthy and tear up that Kingdom of Pride ring, starting this week with Senor Rodriguez.
Storm rolls his eyes at Stanton’s blatant racism and mockery of Rage’s ethnicity, but otherwise seems to have calmed down, the eyes revealing the wheels in his head turning.
Stanton: So yeah, just send Pedro back over the border and...
Storm lets out a light chuckle but can’t keep his mouth shut.
Storm: I don’t think he’s actually from Mexico, Dan.
Stanton: ….well, then send him back to Spain or Ecuador or Miami or wherever! The point is you just gotta take the yellow-bellied, bean-eatin’ son of a bitch out and then do the same to whoever you get next week and the week after that – you know, what you usually do anyway – and let me work my magic. If I can’t get you another chance, my middle name ain’t Boneham!
Storm opens his mouth to point out to Dan that that’s not actually his middle name, but decides to let it slide and focus on the task at hand. He nods his head and looks past Stanton toward the exit from the gym before glancing back at the weights laying on the ground.
Storm: Fine. And if the owners of this place complain about the scuffs on the ground, It’s your problem…I was doing fine with them until you started bothering me.
Storm begins to walk past Stanton and toward the doors to the outside, and as he does so Stanton grins and offers a playful slap onto the back of Storm’s right shoulder blade. Storm’s knees buckle as he winces in pain before he straightens up and fixes Stanton with a death stare. DBS, acting oblivious to what he just did, offers a smug smile.
Stanton: Go get ‘em, boy!
As this registers in the viewers’ minds, a loud and animalistic grunt breaks the silence. The camera spins around, almost as if the cameraman is startled that someone else is in the otherwise abandoned gym. As a second, louder grunt rings out the camera quickly comes into focus again, the previously blurred image revealing that there is in fact someone in the gym: Storm.
The near-300-pound man’s chest is heaving up and down as beads of sweat drip down his forehead and across his bare upper body, his arms and back shaking as he pulls 100 pound barbells up with each arm in a full “fly,” bringing his arms and the weights parallel to his shoulders before lowering the weights back to the ground. A glance along his black, mesh gym shorts and down to his black and white sneakers show that he is literally grinding his feet into the ground as he similarly pushes himself into the back of the weight lifting bench as he continues to bring the 100 pound weights up to either side, causing the muscles along his side, upper back and arms to ripple in all of their impressive glory. He looks into the camera as he lifts and snarls before grunting out in strain again, continuing to stare a hole in the camera as he continues his work out.
As Storm continues to push his body to its limits a chime is picked up by the camera’s built in microphone, not unlike one you might here in a store. Storm’s eyes glance to the side as he checks out the newcomer for an instant before he looks forward again and continues to torture his muscles as he lifts the weights again.
The camera pans as pounding of boots on the floor grow louder, revealing Daniel Boneham Stanton, Storm’s manager and best friend of almost 15 years. The Floridian-turned-Texan and the self-proclaimed “Last Real American Hero” approaches Storm with a swagger, his khaki Dockers and red Polo shirt swishing through the air as he does so. Coming to a stop, he tips his brown cowboy hat at Storm. However, his client does not acknowledge him and simply pulls up on the weights yet again.
Stanton: Hey, earth-to-hoss! You read me, hoss?
Once against Stanton pauses for an acknowledgement, and he is once again ignored as Storm’s arms drop and the spiky-haired man shakes his head to get sweat out of his eyes.
Stanton: Ya know, when you told me to rent this gym out for you to have it for yourself I didn’t reckon you’d be in here all day. You’ve been in this damned weight room for over 3 hours, you’re gonna hurt yourself.
Storm narrows his eyes and shifts his focus over to Stanton, but rather than responding defiantly begins to lift the weights again, despite the obvious strain his shaking arms are showing they’re under.
Stanton: Damn it, Storm! I know you’re pissed as a horned toad over the loss to Kaard last week, but if your body gives out you won’t be winnin’ this week either.
As Stanton’s words register in Storm’s head his eyes widen mid-repetition. Momentarily having his lost his focus, his muscles finally give out and his palms shoot open as he can no longer maintain the lift. The weights crash to the ground with a loud and torturous clang as Storm’s arms drop to his side and he slumps into the bench.
Stanton: Yeah, exactly.
Silence falls over the gym once more as Stanton looks at Storm expectantly. Storm, however, simply continues to lean back into the bench as his burning and exhausted muscles relax. Stanton gives his friend a few moments to recover, but when Storm continues to simply sit there Stanton takes a step forward and leans in to check on him, a concerned expression playing across the former wrestler’s face. At this point, however, Storm bolts to an upright sitting position and lets out a low growl.
Storm: Back off, I’m fine.
Stanton:Could’ve fooled me!
Storm: This is my normal routine, Dan. How the hell do you think I’ve gotten in this shape?
Stanton: I wasn’t worried about the weight lifting, ya kook! I was worried about the whole “hide in solitude” thing you’ve had going since last week and your…
Storm: Go ahead, Dan, say it again. Remind me I lost to Kaard.
Stanton: I’m just saying, I know…
With a sudden and unexpected quickness, Storm bolts up to a standing position and pushes himself up over Stanton. Storm’s arms are still hanging gingerly by his sides, but he seems to be recovering judging by the tension evident in his clenched fists.
Storm: I know exactly what you’re saying, Dan! I lost. I blew it. The man I made a fool out of for two months, the man who couldn’t touch me and that I embarrassed and destroyed TWICE on national Pay-Per-View made me look like a laughing stock in my debut match here in Tennessee and Kingdom of Pride. The little high-flier that could took down the monster you see before me, the man who was just weeks ago considered the most dangerous man in all of professional wrestling, and now I look like a joke. Is that what you were saying, Dan!?
Stanton seems taken back, but to his credit is not intimidated by the raging behemoth in front of him. Instead, he adjusts his hat so he can better look up through the 4-inch differential between him and Storm and responds cautiously but assertively.
Stanton: Well, not in so many words…but yes. But hey, don’t worry about it. You need to calm your ass down and focus on Rage Rodriguez this week. If you can put him down like a crippled derby horse like you have so many others, I can take care of the rest.
Storm’s bulging and bloodshot eyes seem to recede a bit as his features similarly soften as he’s overcome with intrigue toward Stanton’s statement. Taking a small step back while being careful not trip over the now-discarded free weight behind him, Storm winces as he raises his still-sore arms and crosses them across his chest.
Storm: The rest? Now what the hell does that mean?
Stanton: What that means is that if you can just keep doing what you do best and taking the chumps in front of ya out like you have since our ol’ football days in high school, I’ll do what I’ve done since I was the quarterback – find the openings and strike to bring home the wins for both of us.
Storm glares at Stanton, not satisfied with his answer. Stanton catches the look and reads his friend perfectly.
Stanton: All I’m saying is I’m doin’ my best to find you another way into that title gauntlet thing, and I can’t promise anything but what I can tell you is that it’ll be a lot easier for me to get you where you want to be if you stay focused and healthy and tear up that Kingdom of Pride ring, starting this week with Senor Rodriguez.
Storm rolls his eyes at Stanton’s blatant racism and mockery of Rage’s ethnicity, but otherwise seems to have calmed down, the eyes revealing the wheels in his head turning.
Stanton: So yeah, just send Pedro back over the border and...
Storm lets out a light chuckle but can’t keep his mouth shut.
Storm: I don’t think he’s actually from Mexico, Dan.
Stanton: ….well, then send him back to Spain or Ecuador or Miami or wherever! The point is you just gotta take the yellow-bellied, bean-eatin’ son of a bitch out and then do the same to whoever you get next week and the week after that – you know, what you usually do anyway – and let me work my magic. If I can’t get you another chance, my middle name ain’t Boneham!
Storm opens his mouth to point out to Dan that that’s not actually his middle name, but decides to let it slide and focus on the task at hand. He nods his head and looks past Stanton toward the exit from the gym before glancing back at the weights laying on the ground.
Storm: Fine. And if the owners of this place complain about the scuffs on the ground, It’s your problem…I was doing fine with them until you started bothering me.
Storm begins to walk past Stanton and toward the doors to the outside, and as he does so Stanton grins and offers a playful slap onto the back of Storm’s right shoulder blade. Storm’s knees buckle as he winces in pain before he straightens up and fixes Stanton with a death stare. DBS, acting oblivious to what he just did, offers a smug smile.
Stanton: Go get ‘em, boy!