Post by "Perfection" Evan Cartwright on Feb 3, 2006 21:57:25 GMT -5
-=The opportunity has been earned and is now presenting itself... the Provincial Championship of Alberta, a prestigious prize that provides credibility and leads eventually to the brass ring that is the NAPW Heavyweight Championship. Evan would be a fool to deny the pressure and anticipation that came with this shot, but he sure as hell would not be showing said reservations. In this business, appearances were everything. You look strong, chances are you'll be perceived as such. You look weak, and the opposite. Evan did not want to show weakness, but he cannot lie to his own mind. He has seen The Minstrel in action, firsthand, and he knew the task ahead of him was one of rather monumental proportions. Evan might be somewhat nervous, but he will not fold in the face of this challenge. In fact, facing Minstrel and coming out with the win would be the highest honour of them all. The shimmering gold would only serve as a reminder to that fact--a fact Evan would wear proudly upon his coat lapel.=-
[We open to a darkened theatre, the stage being the only thing illuminated. A lone figure--obviously a player of some sort--in a mask emerges like the Phantom of the Opera, moving with purpose and in rather dramatic fashion. He whips back his cape with a flourish and reveals a knife stuffed into his belt.]
Player: Silencio... no hay banda! It's all... an illusion. A recording.
[The masked man moves to the center of the stage and removes the knife from his belt. He raises it like a chalice and the light reflects off the blade with a glimmer.]
Player: ... and now... just as Canio in Pagliacci did.
[The player looks around him, searching for Nedda. With no wife in sight, the player is crestfallen. The player raises the knife once again and bellows a primal scream of heartache, sadness, and hopelessness.]
Player: My wife... already long dead. But how now, brown cow? Am I to take the only life left that matters? Tis better to endure the slings and arrows of adversity than to take up arms against a sea of sorrow? Until that day... as if some feat of clay... the mudslide will persist for me and mine.
[The player turns the knife and stabs himself in the stomach, twisting the blade and pulling upward. He groans in pain as blood and entrails freely flow from his wound. He removes the knife and a spray of blood bursts free.]
Player: I am dead, Horatio.
[The player falls to his knees and perfectly mimics the glazed look of death overtaking him. He drops the knife with a sigh.]
Player: The comedy is ended.
[The player falls face forward, dead. Two attendants rush in and pull the body away by its feet, leaving an ominous trail of dark blood across the middle of the stage. The next person to emerge from the darkened wings is Evan Cartwright, taking center stage, careful not to step on the blood. He is dressed in a similar priestly robe as was seen earlier on The Minstrel, only Evan wears a half mask that covers the top half of his face, leaving his mouth and jaw free to speak.]
Evan: A truly sad state of affairs in the province of Alberta these days. Truly, it pains me to be forced to face a man I have admired since I joined NAPW. The Minstrel is one of the greatest players in the federation, and it is little surprise that he holds the Provincial title. It surprises me even more that a man of his ilk is not competing for the big belt. Perhaps, when this is all said and done, he will see the Provincial title for what it really is... a dead end. Sure, it can be a catapult to the real prize, but once you get too used to being the number two champion in NAPW, it is much like being a lame duck. You have power, but limited. You have prestige, but only among the middle tier. And we all know that The Minstrel is better than that... he should not have to settle for second best. In a sense, I would be doing him a favor by freeing him of the burden that is the Provincial title. He may not realize it now, claiming that the shimmer of the gold makes him smile, but those are merely the ramblings of the madman in him. A man like Marcus Trapier would be more apt to see the potential for this.
[Evan paces back and forth as he speaks, pausing occasionally to avoid the blood. He lifts the blade by the handle and inspects the craftsmanship.]
Evan: But alas, we will be forced to battle in the ring, Minstrel and I. I take it as an honor and a privilege to face the greatest Provincial Champion in NAPW's short history, and it will be my pleasure to show him that Evan Cartwright is more than a mere lackey in Chris Casino's shadow. I am, in fact, the latest true player in NAPW... a veritable Hamlet if you will. Some play the madman, and some live the lifestyle... I deftly walk the fine line between the worlds of sanity and madness and I have learned to avoid being swallowed by either. I like to think of myself as a student of psychology, and I realize that the mind is the first battlefield to traverse. I will not be intimidated by your tricks or slight of hand, Minstrel, nor will I be intimidated by Marcus Trapier's money/influence or even Jack's rotting teeth. Your performances on NAPW TV remind me of a David Lynch film, only slightly less bizarre.
[Evan removes the robe with one hand and reveals his bare chest. He uses the knife to carve into his skin and his own blood begins trickling down his chest and stomach.]
Evan: The comedy is dead and ended, and I am ready to help you to the next level--by force if necessary. Now begins the drama, and I suggest you trade your mask in for its matching antithesis. As far as my unyielding desire to become the Provincial Champion... it is not as burning or pressing a concern as you may believe it to be within me. I could simply choose to wait if I wanted... but I feel the time is right to put on a grand performance. The gold will find its way into my possession, and I will smirk in rather confident fashion.
[Evan has finished carving into himself and drops the knife. The outline The Minstrel's mask is what Evan has reproduced on his chest, with streaks of blood flowing at the edge of the eyes like tears.]
Evan: I doubt you will take this personally, because I have more faith in your mind than that, Sir Minstrel. As Mr. Trapier very well knows, it's only business.
[Evan bows with a flourish and exits stage left. Fade to a commercial for Brion's House of Baboons and Thai Massage.]
[We open to a darkened theatre, the stage being the only thing illuminated. A lone figure--obviously a player of some sort--in a mask emerges like the Phantom of the Opera, moving with purpose and in rather dramatic fashion. He whips back his cape with a flourish and reveals a knife stuffed into his belt.]
Player: Silencio... no hay banda! It's all... an illusion. A recording.
[The masked man moves to the center of the stage and removes the knife from his belt. He raises it like a chalice and the light reflects off the blade with a glimmer.]
Player: ... and now... just as Canio in Pagliacci did.
[The player looks around him, searching for Nedda. With no wife in sight, the player is crestfallen. The player raises the knife once again and bellows a primal scream of heartache, sadness, and hopelessness.]
Player: My wife... already long dead. But how now, brown cow? Am I to take the only life left that matters? Tis better to endure the slings and arrows of adversity than to take up arms against a sea of sorrow? Until that day... as if some feat of clay... the mudslide will persist for me and mine.
[The player turns the knife and stabs himself in the stomach, twisting the blade and pulling upward. He groans in pain as blood and entrails freely flow from his wound. He removes the knife and a spray of blood bursts free.]
Player: I am dead, Horatio.
[The player falls to his knees and perfectly mimics the glazed look of death overtaking him. He drops the knife with a sigh.]
Player: The comedy is ended.
[The player falls face forward, dead. Two attendants rush in and pull the body away by its feet, leaving an ominous trail of dark blood across the middle of the stage. The next person to emerge from the darkened wings is Evan Cartwright, taking center stage, careful not to step on the blood. He is dressed in a similar priestly robe as was seen earlier on The Minstrel, only Evan wears a half mask that covers the top half of his face, leaving his mouth and jaw free to speak.]
Evan: A truly sad state of affairs in the province of Alberta these days. Truly, it pains me to be forced to face a man I have admired since I joined NAPW. The Minstrel is one of the greatest players in the federation, and it is little surprise that he holds the Provincial title. It surprises me even more that a man of his ilk is not competing for the big belt. Perhaps, when this is all said and done, he will see the Provincial title for what it really is... a dead end. Sure, it can be a catapult to the real prize, but once you get too used to being the number two champion in NAPW, it is much like being a lame duck. You have power, but limited. You have prestige, but only among the middle tier. And we all know that The Minstrel is better than that... he should not have to settle for second best. In a sense, I would be doing him a favor by freeing him of the burden that is the Provincial title. He may not realize it now, claiming that the shimmer of the gold makes him smile, but those are merely the ramblings of the madman in him. A man like Marcus Trapier would be more apt to see the potential for this.
[Evan paces back and forth as he speaks, pausing occasionally to avoid the blood. He lifts the blade by the handle and inspects the craftsmanship.]
Evan: But alas, we will be forced to battle in the ring, Minstrel and I. I take it as an honor and a privilege to face the greatest Provincial Champion in NAPW's short history, and it will be my pleasure to show him that Evan Cartwright is more than a mere lackey in Chris Casino's shadow. I am, in fact, the latest true player in NAPW... a veritable Hamlet if you will. Some play the madman, and some live the lifestyle... I deftly walk the fine line between the worlds of sanity and madness and I have learned to avoid being swallowed by either. I like to think of myself as a student of psychology, and I realize that the mind is the first battlefield to traverse. I will not be intimidated by your tricks or slight of hand, Minstrel, nor will I be intimidated by Marcus Trapier's money/influence or even Jack's rotting teeth. Your performances on NAPW TV remind me of a David Lynch film, only slightly less bizarre.
[Evan removes the robe with one hand and reveals his bare chest. He uses the knife to carve into his skin and his own blood begins trickling down his chest and stomach.]
Evan: The comedy is dead and ended, and I am ready to help you to the next level--by force if necessary. Now begins the drama, and I suggest you trade your mask in for its matching antithesis. As far as my unyielding desire to become the Provincial Champion... it is not as burning or pressing a concern as you may believe it to be within me. I could simply choose to wait if I wanted... but I feel the time is right to put on a grand performance. The gold will find its way into my possession, and I will smirk in rather confident fashion.
[Evan has finished carving into himself and drops the knife. The outline The Minstrel's mask is what Evan has reproduced on his chest, with streaks of blood flowing at the edge of the eyes like tears.]
Evan: I doubt you will take this personally, because I have more faith in your mind than that, Sir Minstrel. As Mr. Trapier very well knows, it's only business.
[Evan bows with a flourish and exits stage left. Fade to a commercial for Brion's House of Baboons and Thai Massage.]