Post by MorningStar on Feb 5, 2007 14:53:38 GMT -5
Another bright, beautiful day in London. The mist hangs thick and cloying, chilling to the bone, while moisture drips from every surface its pleading tendrils touch. The clouds overhead are iron-bound, looming ominously, threatening rain with every shift and roll. British weather at it's finest. A chattering of teeth and a shiver, and the legendary cameraman Eddie "The Lens" Sullivan tosses his damp rollup to the floor, grinding it beneath his heel. He stamps his feet, and sneezes, wiping his fingers on his trousers and stuffing them in his pockets for warmth...
:: The Lens ::
For christs sake, if he's going to drag us halfway across the world, he could at least be on bloody time!
His partner in crime, Duncan Halloway – professional alcoholic and part time boom-man – Just rolls his eyes, sick again of Eddies constant whinging, whining, complaining and cursing.
:: Halloway ::
Oh give it a rest, Edd. Look at it as a free holiday!
Eddie gives Duncan a look of complete disbelief, with a bit of disgust and just a hint of outrage tinged in there. He shakes is head, as if Duncan had spoken words of Heresy…
:: The Lens ::
A HOLIDAY?! Holidays get sun, sea and skirt...all this place has got is bloody rain! Dublin is warmer than this! Hell, CANADA is warmer than this!!!
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You get used to it…
Eddie jumps - thank god for dark pants - and whirls around to fine the blank, expressionless face of Johnny Mental boring into him. One day, thinks Eddie, I’m going to sodding Mexico for the midget wrestling…then these bastards won’t be bigger than me! Sharp words quickly swallowed, The Lens attempts a reconciliation;
:: The Lens ::
Uh... Johnny, uh, I was only -
Mental just raises a hand, beckoning for silence, and smiles a sad, wan little smile.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Don’t worry about it Eddie, I’m not like that anymore. I’m not going to cut you open just for a smart mouthed comment. And I’ve learned to respect my elders…
The last said with a cheeky grin and a sly wink to Duncan, and in that grin we see a reflection of the Johnny Mental of old. Eddie blusters and flusters; even though it’s true, There are two sore spots with The Lens. One is his Baldspot (IE, his head), the other is his age. Luckily, before a full fledged Irish rant can ensue (and believe me, they can go on for HOURS), Mental tactfully cuts him off…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Right then guys, you’re gonna have to take me by the hand on this, it’s been a… long while… since I did a proper vignette. Lets take this from step one, eh?
Whilst Eddie continues to bluster, Duncan puts a restraining hand on his shoulder and nods at Mental.
:: Holloway ::
Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it kiddo, we’ll make ya look good!
* * * * * * * * * *
Dusk has fallen across the bustling city, and once more the symphony of the night strikes its ghostly chorus. Dogs bark idiotically at nothing, car horns and sirens fill the darkness and the night air is almost seared by the loud voices and coarse language from the drunken louts beneath. High upon a two storey building, a lone figure leans out over the precipice, staring over the edge of the roof. Leaning far out with one hand grasped firmly onto a length of steel pipe, he watches the people below scurry in their poison fuelled revelry.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
I’ve always found it strange... confusing, even, what people do in the name of fun. Why do you find the idea of getting addled on drink or drugs, and starting a fight with others an amusing pastime? Does it make you feel superior? Does it make you feel invincible, or immortal? Well I’ve been there, and trust me… It’s not worth the price. Inevitably, nothing is… but that’s the wrecklessness of youth, I suppose.
With a graceful heave, Mental fluidly pulls himself back from the abyss, leaning against the pole thoughtfully. In this light, he almost fades into the surrounding shadows.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Fortunately, I’ve never had that sort’ve trouble. I’ve never gone on a bender spoiling for a fight, I’ve never done anything unless it has a purpose. Every action has a reaction, and I’ve developed the knack of weighing risk versus reward in a heartbeat, and acting upon it by the next. Maybe it’s a talent, maybe it’s a skill, maybe it’s something you get with experience. Heh, I can’t believe I say this at the ripe old age of twenty four, but the youth of today never consider this; they believe the old adage of “bones heal, glory lasts forever”. Like our young David Calaz, for example. Oh yes, David. I saw you fly valiantly from ropes to ladder. I saw you teeter for a split second on that ladder – looking for a brief second that you’d come tumbling to your demise - before soaring gracefully through the air. We all watch tapes, maybe even live matches of our opponents, try to get under their skin, inside their head, find out what makes us tick… But trust me, David. You’ve failed this time.
You see David, contrary to what you believe and contrary to what you say, this is NOT my first time in a XVI ring. Maybe you were too busy enjoying your revelry with your friends, maybe you were being attended to by the medics after Lifty hit you with those lethal shots… who knows? But either way you seem to have missed my own match. You seem to have missed the debut of the most devastating, bewildering move in existence. Omarion fell beneath the might of The Ravens Call… and if you fail to do your homework, you’ll follow the same path.
Tugging at the riveted pocket of his baggy combats, Mental produces a worn out disposable lighter and a packet of cigarettes. Swiftly lighting the one remaining cylinder and throwing the empty packet over the wall, he sits on the line of brickwork edging the bitumen roof. A puff on the cigarette, a glowing tip like a tiny supernova and a waft of blue grey smoke.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Don’t event think of calling me a relic from an ancient past, David. We’re only seven years apart, y’know. Most people in this business are pushing thirty, whilst my prime has yet to come. Now I know you’re impatient – hell, you’re still a teenager… but don’t rush into these things, David. Lets run down the list, shall we? You fly high, but your balance is off. You brag about being the next big thing, but have no titles. You talk big on the camera, but get your facts wrong… you know what this says to me? It says you’re not ready to run with the big boys. Go back, start afresh, hone your skills in mat wrestling and reversals, this sport isn’t about taking stupid risks and hitting each other with lumps of metal. Build your confidence and earn your stripes before you EVER think of stepping foot into the ring with me. Because if you don’t, young David, I’m going to have to knock you all the way back to square one. Whether you do it gracefully or painfully is a choice I leave to you…
Try and Run, You won’t get far…
You can’t escape The MorningStar…
With a throaty chuckle, and a final drag on his cigarette, Mental rises fluidly and resumes his vigil, watching the world, looking for some semblance or reason within the chaos. Slowly the camera fades, until darkness – TRUE darkness, is all that remains…
:: The Lens ::
For christs sake, if he's going to drag us halfway across the world, he could at least be on bloody time!
His partner in crime, Duncan Halloway – professional alcoholic and part time boom-man – Just rolls his eyes, sick again of Eddies constant whinging, whining, complaining and cursing.
:: Halloway ::
Oh give it a rest, Edd. Look at it as a free holiday!
Eddie gives Duncan a look of complete disbelief, with a bit of disgust and just a hint of outrage tinged in there. He shakes is head, as if Duncan had spoken words of Heresy…
:: The Lens ::
A HOLIDAY?! Holidays get sun, sea and skirt...all this place has got is bloody rain! Dublin is warmer than this! Hell, CANADA is warmer than this!!!
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You get used to it…
Eddie jumps - thank god for dark pants - and whirls around to fine the blank, expressionless face of Johnny Mental boring into him. One day, thinks Eddie, I’m going to sodding Mexico for the midget wrestling…then these bastards won’t be bigger than me! Sharp words quickly swallowed, The Lens attempts a reconciliation;
:: The Lens ::
Uh... Johnny, uh, I was only -
Mental just raises a hand, beckoning for silence, and smiles a sad, wan little smile.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Don’t worry about it Eddie, I’m not like that anymore. I’m not going to cut you open just for a smart mouthed comment. And I’ve learned to respect my elders…
The last said with a cheeky grin and a sly wink to Duncan, and in that grin we see a reflection of the Johnny Mental of old. Eddie blusters and flusters; even though it’s true, There are two sore spots with The Lens. One is his Baldspot (IE, his head), the other is his age. Luckily, before a full fledged Irish rant can ensue (and believe me, they can go on for HOURS), Mental tactfully cuts him off…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Right then guys, you’re gonna have to take me by the hand on this, it’s been a… long while… since I did a proper vignette. Lets take this from step one, eh?
Whilst Eddie continues to bluster, Duncan puts a restraining hand on his shoulder and nods at Mental.
:: Holloway ::
Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it kiddo, we’ll make ya look good!
* * * * * * * * * *
Dusk has fallen across the bustling city, and once more the symphony of the night strikes its ghostly chorus. Dogs bark idiotically at nothing, car horns and sirens fill the darkness and the night air is almost seared by the loud voices and coarse language from the drunken louts beneath. High upon a two storey building, a lone figure leans out over the precipice, staring over the edge of the roof. Leaning far out with one hand grasped firmly onto a length of steel pipe, he watches the people below scurry in their poison fuelled revelry.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
I’ve always found it strange... confusing, even, what people do in the name of fun. Why do you find the idea of getting addled on drink or drugs, and starting a fight with others an amusing pastime? Does it make you feel superior? Does it make you feel invincible, or immortal? Well I’ve been there, and trust me… It’s not worth the price. Inevitably, nothing is… but that’s the wrecklessness of youth, I suppose.
With a graceful heave, Mental fluidly pulls himself back from the abyss, leaning against the pole thoughtfully. In this light, he almost fades into the surrounding shadows.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Fortunately, I’ve never had that sort’ve trouble. I’ve never gone on a bender spoiling for a fight, I’ve never done anything unless it has a purpose. Every action has a reaction, and I’ve developed the knack of weighing risk versus reward in a heartbeat, and acting upon it by the next. Maybe it’s a talent, maybe it’s a skill, maybe it’s something you get with experience. Heh, I can’t believe I say this at the ripe old age of twenty four, but the youth of today never consider this; they believe the old adage of “bones heal, glory lasts forever”. Like our young David Calaz, for example. Oh yes, David. I saw you fly valiantly from ropes to ladder. I saw you teeter for a split second on that ladder – looking for a brief second that you’d come tumbling to your demise - before soaring gracefully through the air. We all watch tapes, maybe even live matches of our opponents, try to get under their skin, inside their head, find out what makes us tick… But trust me, David. You’ve failed this time.
You see David, contrary to what you believe and contrary to what you say, this is NOT my first time in a XVI ring. Maybe you were too busy enjoying your revelry with your friends, maybe you were being attended to by the medics after Lifty hit you with those lethal shots… who knows? But either way you seem to have missed my own match. You seem to have missed the debut of the most devastating, bewildering move in existence. Omarion fell beneath the might of The Ravens Call… and if you fail to do your homework, you’ll follow the same path.
Tugging at the riveted pocket of his baggy combats, Mental produces a worn out disposable lighter and a packet of cigarettes. Swiftly lighting the one remaining cylinder and throwing the empty packet over the wall, he sits on the line of brickwork edging the bitumen roof. A puff on the cigarette, a glowing tip like a tiny supernova and a waft of blue grey smoke.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Don’t event think of calling me a relic from an ancient past, David. We’re only seven years apart, y’know. Most people in this business are pushing thirty, whilst my prime has yet to come. Now I know you’re impatient – hell, you’re still a teenager… but don’t rush into these things, David. Lets run down the list, shall we? You fly high, but your balance is off. You brag about being the next big thing, but have no titles. You talk big on the camera, but get your facts wrong… you know what this says to me? It says you’re not ready to run with the big boys. Go back, start afresh, hone your skills in mat wrestling and reversals, this sport isn’t about taking stupid risks and hitting each other with lumps of metal. Build your confidence and earn your stripes before you EVER think of stepping foot into the ring with me. Because if you don’t, young David, I’m going to have to knock you all the way back to square one. Whether you do it gracefully or painfully is a choice I leave to you…
Try and Run, You won’t get far…
You can’t escape The MorningStar…
With a throaty chuckle, and a final drag on his cigarette, Mental rises fluidly and resumes his vigil, watching the world, looking for some semblance or reason within the chaos. Slowly the camera fades, until darkness – TRUE darkness, is all that remains…