Post by D! on Nov 20, 2005 3:35:17 GMT -5
(Lights up. Late Friday night. We see the corner everybody knows bt nobody remembers--Whyte and 104th SE, where an old brick building holds . . . nothing. For the past five years, minor coffee chains have tried to set their toehold in this building, and have failed. Right now, with the exception of apartments on its second and topmost floor, the large glass storefront windows offer a faint promise of a Timothy's and Death by Chocolate--haven't these signs been up forever? Why has there been no activity there for months?)
(Just having crossed, the intrepid D! and the enigmatic Ravager briskly stroll south. Ravager is the one leading the charge.)
RAVAGER: --Static, on the other hand, shouldn't be a problem for you. He's fast, I'll give him that, but he relies on his eccentric behaviour too much. Technical people like Lobo . . . or myself . . . can easily get thrown off by his clown routine. You, on the other hand . . .
D!: I've already got the Bugs Bunny routine down pat. I follow ya.
(Ravager turns sharply into the alley that runs behind the building. Cautiously, D! follows.)
D!: Wait a minute. Where are we going?
(Ravager stops in front of a back door that sits in the alley. He knocks purposefully on the door, tilting his head to listen.)
D!: You know someone here?
(The question doesn't elicit a response. Instead, Ravager snaps a fierce mule kick into the handle of the door. It busts open.)
D!: Sweet Jesus!
RAVAGER: (Manipulating door tumblers.) Keep it down. I don't enjoy fighting cops.
(Ravager pulls the door open and heads inside. D!, seeing the coast is clear, hops in after him. They walk up a stairwell.)
D!: What if there was an alarm?
RAVAGER: Please. I know a vacant property when I see one.
D!: So what's going on here? Another one of your "jobs"?
RAVAGER: I guess you could say that.
(They get to the top of the stairwell. There's a short landing there, and another plain door. Ravager sizes it up, draws his leg into position--)
D!: Dude!
(D! pushes his way past the bewildered Ravager, and gives the doorknob a twist. It opens. He holds the door open, grinning. Peevishly, Ravager steps out into the night. D! follows.)
(Both men are on the wide, flat roof of the brick building, standing amidst pipes and chimneys, under a clear midnight sky.)
D!: What gives? Why are we here?
RAVAGER: There's something here I need you to see.
D!: (Smirking.) There's nothing here.
RAVAGER: Isn't there? (Points back to the intersection.) Go. Look.
(D! looks at Ravager, and smiles hesitantly . . . but Ravager has the same implacable look on his face he's had for three weeks straight. Cautiously, he walks towards the corner of the roof facing the intersection. He looks out, scans the intersection for anything of interest . . . but nothing jumps out at him. He turns back to face Ravager, who's still standing by the door.)
D!: What am I looking for?
RAVAGER: I didn't say "Look for something." I said "Look."
(D! turns back to the intersection, scans the street again, then . . . relaxes his face. He takes another step forward, and another, right up to the architectural trim that surrounds them. Stunned, he takes a deep breath.)
(Spread out before him bright lights against black, is Old Strathcona. Colours spread out as far as he can see, moving, dancing, revving and singing. Crowds of students are laughing in all directions. Buildings built every year since Edmonton became a city stand at different angles and heights. D! stands in awe of this sight, a cool breeze hitting him straight in the chest.)
D!: Oh, God. It's . . .
RAVAGER: You always talk so fondly of this place, D. I only thought it would be fitting to show you its heart.
D!: (To Ravager.) But . . . but how did . . . you said you've never been here.
RAVAGER: It's the truth. I haven't. But I have a flair for location, D. The right place. The right time.
D!: I . . . (Turns back to the view.) Thank you. I've never seen this place this way before.
RAVAGER: It's a gift. (He strolls out from the doorway.) I told you this was to be a . . . profitable alliance, didn't I? (Chuckles.) This is a down-payment.
(Pause. Both men stand silent in tableau.)
RAVAGER: Of course, it's no observation deck of the Empire State . . .
D!: Why do you do it, Rav? What makes a guy like you act like you do?
RAVAGER: I was caught in a huge radioactive explosion--
D!: Screw you. Why do you hire yourself out? Why do you take money to do your "jobs"? You're a wrestler. A damned good one, too.
RAVAGER: I've already told you, D, none of those people were innocent. They owe money to loansharks! Or they're trained wrestlers! Or they're Bill Fleming!
D!: We've covered that already. My question is, why do you take the jobs?
(Ravager stops walking.)
RAVAGER: You know, kid, you may be supreme in your own little kingdom . . .
(D! looks out into the view of Whyte Ave. again.)
RAVAGER: . . . but you now nothing. NOTHING! About the real world, do you?
D!: I guess you're the one to educate me, huh?
RAVAGER: You want to know about me? You want to know about what it's like to not rely on popularity and catchphrases and still earn the fans' respect? Do you know what it's like to just taste the prize you were after . . . only to have it snatched away by some slacker idiot? To have people who don't deserve squat try to ruin your chances by sending live, human ammunition at you?
What kind of world is this, D? What kind of world lets people like Static call the shots? What kind of world lets Plague hospitalize you? What kind of world sends us wave after wave of young snots who think the most impressive thing they can do is bench-press large objects?
You know how I say it's "never personal"? Try, just try to imagine if I let everything get personal.
(Ravager resumes walking.)
RAVAGER: When you look out at your precious neighbourhood, remind yourself you're not me. Remind yourself that you share the NAPW title with every fan that chants One Letter. I really think you believe it, too. So do it for them.
I'm fighting for the same person I've always fought for--me. And if people pay me respect, then more power to them.
Who knows . . . you might retain your NAPW title. I might regain my Provincial title. And we'll move on to face newer and better foes. One by one they'll come for our gold. One by one, we'll beat them all. And then who would be left to face?
D!: (Smiles.) Just us.
RAVAGER: And that match will be legendary. We'd be Austin and The Rock.
D!: (Turning around.) Or Flair and Rogers.
(D! turns around to have Ravager slap his hand around his throat and force him back to the edge.)
RAVAGER: Or Taker and Mankind.
(Pause. D! is too stunned to react.)
RAVAGER: Listen to me carefully. You say one (BLEEP)ed word, I toss you. You struggle, I toss you. Shift your weight, I toss you. Touch my arm, I toss you. It's only a twenty-five foot drop. You might survive it, but I wouldn't recommend it.
(Ravager squeezes D!'s throat tighter.)
RAVAGER: I am not you. I couldn't care less about a cult of personality. I don't care about making friends. I care about alliances. I care about results. I'm telling you the same damn thing that I told Lobo. The same damn thing I told Fleming. If you do anything. ANYTHING! to deny me victory on Monday . . .
(Ravager squeezes tighter. D!'s face is a deep scarlet colour.)
RAVAGER: . . . I will spend as much time as I deem necessary to make you regret it.
(Ravager releases his grip and steps back. D! drops to his knees and breathes frantically.)
RAVAGER: That's for slamming me against the dumpster, you little bitch.
(Ravager casually strolls to the doorway, stops in it, then turns around.)
RAVAGER: I'll see you on Monday, partner. Just remember . . . (as he exits) . . . it's nothing personal.
(The door clicks shut. D! quickly regains his breath, staring a hole through the doorway. Lights down.)
----------
With permission from Ravager.
(Just having crossed, the intrepid D! and the enigmatic Ravager briskly stroll south. Ravager is the one leading the charge.)
RAVAGER: --Static, on the other hand, shouldn't be a problem for you. He's fast, I'll give him that, but he relies on his eccentric behaviour too much. Technical people like Lobo . . . or myself . . . can easily get thrown off by his clown routine. You, on the other hand . . .
D!: I've already got the Bugs Bunny routine down pat. I follow ya.
(Ravager turns sharply into the alley that runs behind the building. Cautiously, D! follows.)
D!: Wait a minute. Where are we going?
(Ravager stops in front of a back door that sits in the alley. He knocks purposefully on the door, tilting his head to listen.)
D!: You know someone here?
(The question doesn't elicit a response. Instead, Ravager snaps a fierce mule kick into the handle of the door. It busts open.)
D!: Sweet Jesus!
RAVAGER: (Manipulating door tumblers.) Keep it down. I don't enjoy fighting cops.
(Ravager pulls the door open and heads inside. D!, seeing the coast is clear, hops in after him. They walk up a stairwell.)
D!: What if there was an alarm?
RAVAGER: Please. I know a vacant property when I see one.
D!: So what's going on here? Another one of your "jobs"?
RAVAGER: I guess you could say that.
(They get to the top of the stairwell. There's a short landing there, and another plain door. Ravager sizes it up, draws his leg into position--)
D!: Dude!
(D! pushes his way past the bewildered Ravager, and gives the doorknob a twist. It opens. He holds the door open, grinning. Peevishly, Ravager steps out into the night. D! follows.)
(Both men are on the wide, flat roof of the brick building, standing amidst pipes and chimneys, under a clear midnight sky.)
D!: What gives? Why are we here?
RAVAGER: There's something here I need you to see.
D!: (Smirking.) There's nothing here.
RAVAGER: Isn't there? (Points back to the intersection.) Go. Look.
(D! looks at Ravager, and smiles hesitantly . . . but Ravager has the same implacable look on his face he's had for three weeks straight. Cautiously, he walks towards the corner of the roof facing the intersection. He looks out, scans the intersection for anything of interest . . . but nothing jumps out at him. He turns back to face Ravager, who's still standing by the door.)
D!: What am I looking for?
RAVAGER: I didn't say "Look for something." I said "Look."
(D! turns back to the intersection, scans the street again, then . . . relaxes his face. He takes another step forward, and another, right up to the architectural trim that surrounds them. Stunned, he takes a deep breath.)
(Spread out before him bright lights against black, is Old Strathcona. Colours spread out as far as he can see, moving, dancing, revving and singing. Crowds of students are laughing in all directions. Buildings built every year since Edmonton became a city stand at different angles and heights. D! stands in awe of this sight, a cool breeze hitting him straight in the chest.)
D!: Oh, God. It's . . .
RAVAGER: You always talk so fondly of this place, D. I only thought it would be fitting to show you its heart.
D!: (To Ravager.) But . . . but how did . . . you said you've never been here.
RAVAGER: It's the truth. I haven't. But I have a flair for location, D. The right place. The right time.
D!: I . . . (Turns back to the view.) Thank you. I've never seen this place this way before.
RAVAGER: It's a gift. (He strolls out from the doorway.) I told you this was to be a . . . profitable alliance, didn't I? (Chuckles.) This is a down-payment.
(Pause. Both men stand silent in tableau.)
RAVAGER: Of course, it's no observation deck of the Empire State . . .
D!: Why do you do it, Rav? What makes a guy like you act like you do?
RAVAGER: I was caught in a huge radioactive explosion--
D!: Screw you. Why do you hire yourself out? Why do you take money to do your "jobs"? You're a wrestler. A damned good one, too.
RAVAGER: I've already told you, D, none of those people were innocent. They owe money to loansharks! Or they're trained wrestlers! Or they're Bill Fleming!
D!: We've covered that already. My question is, why do you take the jobs?
(Ravager stops walking.)
RAVAGER: You know, kid, you may be supreme in your own little kingdom . . .
(D! looks out into the view of Whyte Ave. again.)
RAVAGER: . . . but you now nothing. NOTHING! About the real world, do you?
D!: I guess you're the one to educate me, huh?
RAVAGER: You want to know about me? You want to know about what it's like to not rely on popularity and catchphrases and still earn the fans' respect? Do you know what it's like to just taste the prize you were after . . . only to have it snatched away by some slacker idiot? To have people who don't deserve squat try to ruin your chances by sending live, human ammunition at you?
What kind of world is this, D? What kind of world lets people like Static call the shots? What kind of world lets Plague hospitalize you? What kind of world sends us wave after wave of young snots who think the most impressive thing they can do is bench-press large objects?
You know how I say it's "never personal"? Try, just try to imagine if I let everything get personal.
(Ravager resumes walking.)
RAVAGER: When you look out at your precious neighbourhood, remind yourself you're not me. Remind yourself that you share the NAPW title with every fan that chants One Letter. I really think you believe it, too. So do it for them.
I'm fighting for the same person I've always fought for--me. And if people pay me respect, then more power to them.
Who knows . . . you might retain your NAPW title. I might regain my Provincial title. And we'll move on to face newer and better foes. One by one they'll come for our gold. One by one, we'll beat them all. And then who would be left to face?
D!: (Smiles.) Just us.
RAVAGER: And that match will be legendary. We'd be Austin and The Rock.
D!: (Turning around.) Or Flair and Rogers.
(D! turns around to have Ravager slap his hand around his throat and force him back to the edge.)
RAVAGER: Or Taker and Mankind.
(Pause. D! is too stunned to react.)
RAVAGER: Listen to me carefully. You say one (BLEEP)ed word, I toss you. You struggle, I toss you. Shift your weight, I toss you. Touch my arm, I toss you. It's only a twenty-five foot drop. You might survive it, but I wouldn't recommend it.
(Ravager squeezes D!'s throat tighter.)
RAVAGER: I am not you. I couldn't care less about a cult of personality. I don't care about making friends. I care about alliances. I care about results. I'm telling you the same damn thing that I told Lobo. The same damn thing I told Fleming. If you do anything. ANYTHING! to deny me victory on Monday . . .
(Ravager squeezes tighter. D!'s face is a deep scarlet colour.)
RAVAGER: . . . I will spend as much time as I deem necessary to make you regret it.
(Ravager releases his grip and steps back. D! drops to his knees and breathes frantically.)
RAVAGER: That's for slamming me against the dumpster, you little bitch.
(Ravager casually strolls to the doorway, stops in it, then turns around.)
RAVAGER: I'll see you on Monday, partner. Just remember . . . (as he exits) . . . it's nothing personal.
(The door clicks shut. D! quickly regains his breath, staring a hole through the doorway. Lights down.)
----------
With permission from Ravager.