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Post by The BombTrax on Jul 9, 2016 3:20:33 GMT
One (1) Role Play Max
Final Role Play Deadline: Wednesday July 20th, 2016 @ 10:59 PM CST
Segment Deadline: Tuesday, July 19th, 2016 @ 11:59 PM CST
Tag Match (The losing teams manager will have to serve as the Assistant to the manager of the winning team) The French Mime Assassins (w/Double FC) versus The Living Legends (w/Rodney P) |
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Post by Double F C on Jul 12, 2016 18:22:23 GMT
A Mime Divided Against Itself...
The ninety foot Hatteras luxury motor yacht rocked soothingly from side to side. Inside the crew cabin, gathered around a large table with a small stack of building schematics, shooting schedules, and half-full cups of coffee atop it was Francis Ford Cuppola, his assistant Tim, or Greg depending on who you ask, as well as a slew of unrecognizable faces all listening as Francis had his arms raised, his fingers formed into a rectangle simulating a movie screen held up at the interior of the yacht.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Black and White. Night. You can hear the piano playing softly in the moonlight. It hearkens back to that heart-tugging tune that connects the lovers in an embrace. Fog drifts up along the airport runway.
The listeners imagine along with the scene Francis conjures seemingly through his finger/screen. Everyone is rapt in the lull and rocking of the boat.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Through the misty silver-screen, Captain Renault approaches. The propellers start on the plane as Elsa is just torn on whether to board or stay with her one true love when Comme Çi, or Comme Ça, doesn’t matter which, tells her, ‘Elsa… you’ve got to get on that plane. For me. For--
Greg Larson: Hold it!
Francis Ford Cuppola rolls his eyes and glares at Greg like interruptions like these have been occurring regularly.
Francis Ford Cuppola: What is it this time, Tim?
The group look to Tim. Again, his name’s Greg, but try telling Francis that.
Greg Larson: Well, for starters, as nice an image as all this is, isn’t it just Casablanca with one of the Mimes subbed in for Rick?
A collective gasp of shock emanates from every set of lungs in the room. All eyes fall on Francis to see his response.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Tim--
Greg Larson: Greg, actually.
Francis Ford Cuppola: That’s what I said. Did you realize that the cornerstone of creativity is the liberal theft of other people’s ideas?
Francis leisurely rests his hand on the table as he turns to face Greg, his hand accidentally spills a cup of hot coffee onto his hand.
Francis Ford Cuppola: YEOW--Did you know that, Tim?
Without missing a beat, he remains conversational as he pulls his hand away, the others around the table quickly wipe up the spill. Francis doesn’t miss a beat, placing his painfully burned hand in through the breast of his button-up shirt like her were Napoleon.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Because, as everybody knows, Tim, it was Canadian Olympic Sprinting legend Ben Johnson who said ‘Good artists borrow, great artists steal’.
There are a few glances in the room towards the ceiling trying to rationalize Francis’ quote misattribution.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I’m simply a great artist drawing from obscure sources, Tim. Who even knows what Casablanca is anymore, anyway?
Greg Larson: *innocently* uhhhh… well it’s an easy google search, and it’s revered as one of the greatest films of all--
Francis Ford Cuppola: Why must you always put the brakes on my genius?
Francis fatherly pats the back of his hand accusingly into Tim’s chest.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Huh?
Of course it’s the burned hand, Francis winces and once more hides it back into his shirt with a concealed wince of agony.
Greg Larson: I… I, didn’t mean it like that.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, you seem to just dish your negativity out all willy-nilly, these days Tim. Ever since Rodney showed up to incite revolt against me, you’ve all had no shortage of disparaging comments to send my way about everything under the sun that I say and do, haven’t you, my thankfully non-unionized crew? *mockingly imitates Tim* “blah, My name’s Tim. Blah. This isn’t Coke it’s Pepsi. Your shoes are on the wrong feet. You’re only hiring illegal immigrants for your film crew. Blah. For the last time call me Greg”.
Francis stops imitating and shakes his head in frustration. Tim/Greg Larson is defensive as Francis lists the offenses that have been evidently dogging him for the past week.
Greg Larson: I didn’t mean to offend you, Mister Cuppola, I--
Francis Ford Cuppola: All right, Tim. Since you’re so smart, why don’t you tell everyone what’s wrong with my promo. Come on. Tell us.
All eyes land once more on Tim for answers. Tim, as per usual since making his way to Francis’ Louisiana mansion, finds himself forced onto the defensive.
Greg Larson: Uhhh… well… aside from the fact it has nothing to do with their match at Wicked 15, how exactly are you going to make Comme Çi, or Comme Ça say those lines?
Silence. Everyone waits on Francis’ response with baited breath. The boat slowly shifts from side to side.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Why are you always so negative, Tim? Why wouldn’t he say the lines?
Entire Group in Unison: BECAUSE HE’S A MIME!It suddenly dawns on Francis after a moment of deep thought.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Dammit. I keep forgetting that they’re mimes.
Everyone watches with increased confusion as to how he could possibly forget that one integral detail when it comes to core details about the identity of the French Mime Assassins. With peak frustration mounting, Francis removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, the stress and tension obviously getting to him now with the stakes so high, it all runs through his mind.
Sure, he may be fairly, or unfairly accused of mistreating Rodney at some points since the brash young highly intelligent upstart who reminded him nothing of himself had entered into his life as his personal assistant. Francis stood there remembering the moment fondly like it were the day he got his first puppy.
Rodney on his doorstep with a resume. Francis shaking his head disapprovingly and remarking how he’s not used to hiring people who aren’t… Francis searched good and long for a rationale that didn’t seem fraught with a potential racial downside. And so he hired him and quickly discovered how indispensable Rodney P really was, almost to the point of that fact being beyond troubling.
“This kid could replace me,” Francis worried at night as he tossed and turned. Like all of Francis’ worries it didn’t last. Rodney’s high level of competency was an asset, and it just so happened he knew the wrestling business far better than Francis ever could; Rodney had been trained, and knew his way through most of it, and so Francis’ new wrestling venture instantly relied heavily on Rodney P.
Until it failed. And now Rodney really COULD replace him, or worse.
And you know the rest. Rodney couldn’t stand the weight of Francis’ shadow. “That must be it,” Francis determined as he stood there in the gently rocking boat feeling his stomach growing nauseous.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney is jelly of my mimes. He’s jelly of my greatness. You’re all jelly of my greatness.
Francis mumbled to himself, his eyes started scanning the room. His unburned hand clutched his tummy as he woozily wobbled while others moved away from the table and looked ready to spot Francis in case he tumbled over.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Get away from me! And what the hell am I saying ‘Jelly’ for? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?! WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS MEAN?! And why is everyone out to get me?! Who else wants to destroy me, huh? Is it you?
He pointed accusingly at his Director of Photography, Manuel.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Or is it you!?
He straight-arm pointed at Roderigo, his Key Grip and glared with burning paranoid rage growing embers in his eyes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney got to you too, didn’t he? He’s gotten to all of you?! He’s trying to undermine my whole operation. He's trying to destroy me from within. You don’t think I’m a real man, do you!? I got a gun I will SHOW you muthafuckas how badass I am!
Greg Larson: Calm down, Mister Cuppola. No one’s waiting in the wings to kill you. We’re all here to help.
Pedro, one of Francis’ film crew members looked to Paco, one of his other film crew members.
Pedro: He’s going to vomit again.
Francis’ head pounded with worry and concern, turning quickly ready to exit the interior of the boat for some fresh air only to be surprised by the presence of the two Mimes standing side by side immediately behind him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: GAAAAAH! You two again?! How long have you two been standing there?!
Greg Larson: They’ve always been here, Mister Cuppola.
Francis Ford Cuppola felt gripped with impending sickness, he glared at Tim/Greg.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Someone please put a bell on them. They’re trying to kill me. *With narrowed suspicious eyes at the collected group* I'm onto all of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be sick.
And Francis spilled from the crew cabin out onto the main deck moving right to the side of the boat, cast his face overboard and vomited.
In the backyard of Francis’ Louisiana mansion, in a sea of green grass, on wooden struts, rocked his yacht. Production assistants stood along the sides of the boat using wooden two by fours propped against the hull to simulate the rocking motion. Francis had luckily missed one with his vomit. From the back patio door strode Tony Chu with two beautiful women hanging off either of his arms.
Tony Chu: Awwww, Frankie. Looks like you got carsick on your boat.
Francis Ford Cuppola: awwwwwggghhh.
Francis wiped his mouth and looked bleary eyed at Tony who held up a hand with a DVD case in it.
Tony Chu: Just came for you. Promotional Material from that guy who’s tag-team is going to beat you.
Francis looked to Tony with abysmal gloom falling over him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney already cut a promo?
Tony Chu, with his two buxom beauties, quickly climbs up the steps to the yacht and boards. Francis straightens, still looking sick, and watches as Tony slaps him playfully on the chest with the DVD case without further words and leads his entourage into the crew quarters as Francis looks on.
Tony Chu: *from inside* Come on, Frankie. HEY! Welcome aboard, Star Trek.
Francis stumbles inside just as Tony is doing some sort of hip and cool handshake with Tim/Greg and looking bewildered and lost about him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You changed your hair, Tony…?
Francis asked jealously as he stumbled into the cabin and sat on one of the cushions. Tony winked at him as he inserted the promotional DVD into the player, the crew gathered around the big screen television.
Greg Larson: You smell great, Tony. That new haircut's made you seem more dynamic and compelling all of a sudden.
Tony Chu: Thanks, Star Trek.
Everyone agrees. Tony’s female companions agreed wholeheartedly. Francis clutched his tummy.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I’m going to be sick.
Greg Larson: Mister Cuppola, if the rocking of the boat is bothering you, why don’t you get your Production Assistants to stop?
Tony Chu: He says the rocking helps him think.
Some eyes divert with sympathy to Francis who is clearly not having a good time on the false open sea he’s created. He bites back more bile.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Plus I have to justify my budget on the mime promo and all the assistants I hired by getting them to perform miscellaneous tasks.
Tony Chu: Well, don’t you worry, Frankie. We’ll watch this promo and it’ll give you plenty of ideas on how to compete in a lost cause.
Francis is about to say something amidst choking on his own nervousness before the screen turns on. And Rodney’s Living Legend’s promo begins….
“Hello, Francis.”
It’s Rodney’s voice. The camera slowly pulls out from blackness to reveal a muscled arm doing curls. It is one half of the living legends, Terry Hero. Nearby, doing an obscene bench press max weight is Kris Angel. Between them, overseeing both Living Legends, is the well-dressed Rodney staring into the camera lens.
“I didn’t bother sending this to PAW. They don’t have a network deal to speak of, so it isn’t like anything any of these self-described competitors tapes for promotional material and sends along will actually hit any sort of airwave short of YouTube to be lost in a literal sea of obscurity. That’s on you, Francis. Where’s the network deals you’ve promised them. Where’s the big mover and shaker you make yourself out to be?
Is it possible the ‘new clothes’ are being revealed for what they are, Francis?”
Rodney nods slowly into the camera.
“That’s what I thought. So I’m sending it to you, old man. You’re probably out on your yacht, wasting millions of dollars of money you haven’t earned preparing some gaudy, over-produced trite that won’t be released to the masses for months anyway, and I’m thinking that you know when your number’s been punched. Don’t you?”
Tony Chu: Hey, this guy’s pretty good.
“I know, Francis. You’re lamenting the fact that you got into the wrestling business not because you knew something about it and wanted to change it for better or worse, but because you thought it’d be easy money. And at every step of the way you have made every wrong decision you could ever possibly make up to and including agreeing to this match. You want the plain and simple truth, Francis?
You may have selected the tag-team.
But I did all the work.
I trained them.
I conditioned them.
I know their strengths, and their weaknesses.
I know their real names, Francis, do you?
Of course you don’t.
It’s Claude and Pierre. On the circuit they come from they’re big fish, capable of being bigger fish if one knows how to adequately prepare them for their matches.
I know how to do that, Francis.
Like the lodestone, I know the right parts of their defenses to demolish and weaken.
Like a stringed instrument, I know the right strings to pluck in which sequence to make the perfect chord resound, old man.
I know what those mimes are going to do better than you do.
While you, admittedly, know only how to exploit them for your own financial misadventures, I spent a month learning what makes them tick, I spent still further months understanding how to motivate them to be more than what they already were.
You, old friend, have completely squandered that.
You haven’t even brought them to the gym for training yet, have you?
How are you hoping your mimes will stand a chance against seasoned ring generals and heavy-hitters the likes of what I’ve brought to the table in a constant state of preparation?
Because I have a newsflash for you, Francie. Everything I’ve learned about your French Mime Assassins I’ve imparted to these two men right here.”
At this, Terry Hero and Kris Angel come to stand imposingly on either side of Rodney. His smile widens.
“I haven’t looked ahead to the PAW Tag tournament they’re gearing up for. I’m training my men to see only what’s right in front of them.
Mimes. This is nothing personal. I have nothing but respect for what the both of you bring to this upcoming contest.
But it won’t be enough. It can’t be enough. Tell them, Kris.”
The smirking visage of the overpowering presence that is “The Burning Man” Kris Angel steps forward with an arrogant smirk at the mimes.
“Comme Ci… Comme Ca… ‘So-So’... that’s what you two are when you set foot into a ring yet to fully be christened by the Living Legends. Do you know who we are? Do you know who the man beside me is?”
Terry Hero begins to pump and flex those pythons of his impressively as Kris Angel draws attention to him.
“Standing right here is the man on whose back this sport was carried from the DARK AGES, Mimes. A literal Living… Legend. Half the kids in this pathetic PAW federation would be NOWHERE today if not for him. I’m talking about Terry… Hero. 25 time World Heavyweight champion, 15 time intercontinental champion, and 6 time hardcore champion, and 6 time Tag Team champion, you may as well just call him THE MAN, kids.
And then you got me… “The Burning Man”, Kris Angel. I’ve seen and done everything you could ever think of doing in this business. I’ve toppled the biggest names, and struck down the largest champions. I have risked my body, my life, on every single trip down to the ring. And that’s why they call me the Burning Man, children. There wouldn’t be the words risk-taker combined together if it weren’t for me. So the ultimate question is, what do two MIMES have to say about two MEN, huh?
NOTHING”
He laughs, stepping back behind Rodney. Terry Hero rolls his neck and steps forward.
“For the first time ever, Mimes, Kris Angel and Terry Hero will put aside their differences to do battle with the likes of you while stakes are sure to change the landscape in PAW forever. It’s not that you don’t stand a chance, brothers, it’s that your foolhardy ‘manager’ made the biggest mistake of his life putting the idea of having a chance into your head in the first place.
Look around you in PAW, Mimes. The Lost. The Bombtrax. The Lost Boys… any of these tag teams will turn you into swiss cheese, and none of them have even halfway accomplished what myself and Kris have in every corner of the globe. If you do march yourselves down to the ring at Wicked, be prepared to leave town and watch from a safe distance as the LIVING LEGENDS… RUN WILD ON PAWWWWWW!”
Terry Hero tears off his t-shirt showing off his incredibly muscled chest. He moves behind Rodney who stands stoic and serene still eyeing the camera.
“I’m not going to taunt you anymore than I need to, Francis. Because we both know that you lack the depth to go toe-to-toe with me verbally, mentally, physically, emotionally or metaphysically. There is literally no reason for you to hold a place of any esteem not only in this company, but neither managing that underutilized and misunderstood tag-team you’re wasting your grossly exaggerated talent on.
So, here’s what I’m going to do, Francis.
I know your sense of pride will compel you to proceed with this match regardless of the overwhelming odds you know are stacked against you. But I’m going to make sure my Living Legends don’t wreck your mimes too badly, just enough to run them out of town and put you in your proper place… behind me…
Watching the true master work.
See you soon, Francis.”
The DVD cuts out. The crew reluctantly applauds. Tony Chu nods his approval, even Greg Larson is wowed by the presentation. Slowly but surely all the eyes of those present drift towards where Francis is seated, only he’s not there.
On the main deck of the boat, over the side railing leans Francis throwing up once more. Greg Larson gives a fretfully reassuring look to Tony Chu.
Greg Larson: I’m sure he’ll be fine.
Tony Chu eyes Greg Larson with a metaphorically bitten tongue and watches Francis spew the contents of his stomach onto his back lawn.
Tony Chu: You ever see Dead Man Walking, Star Trek…? |
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