Description: "Here you go, just beat the deadline, can I compete? Can't wait to drop the gloves after so many years! Signed, *spoilers*" (...it actually says 'spoilers,' even with the asterisks. Someone is trying to be cute.)
It is a nice day outside today, out in a forested area where all the trees have had their annual falling out with the leaves they used to be tight with. The ground is decorated in those earthy tones, with a smattering of faded product wrappers for ill measure (and for a mess that someone else needs to clean up).
A camera follows a heavy-set man with jet black hair, wearing the top half of a mechanic's jumpsuit with a white undershirt, blue jeans, pretty crappy-looking white tennis shoes... and a very, very old toolbelt filled to the brim with a variety of tools.
"If this is what I think it is, I'd better have parked far away enough." Asks someone with a camera. It's an American accent. "Last time you did something like this--"
"Don't worry! This is different." The large guy turns around, his own accent indicative of being from up further north than the guy holding the camera. Huh, he has braids going down the front of his fat, clean-shaven face. Actually, that face doesn't look like it's had any hair grow on it from, like, ever. "I wanted to show those talent scouts something for my big comeback!"
"Oh, right. They're doing video entries for that next big one." The cameraman exposits. "So why are we going all the way out here?"
"Because of this!" The heavy-set man abruptly stops, excitedly pointing to something low, off the screen. "Beauty, eh?"
"I don't see--"
"No no no. Down. Look down."
The heavy-set man crouches down before an odd fixture that seems to be sticking up out of the dirt. It is partially obscured in leaves, and covered entirely in rust.
"Beauty, eh?"
The camera guy starts to turn around with a barely recorded groan. Leaves rustle loudly as the heavy set guy charges after him.
"Aw, wait. I told you it was gonna be good! Please, look back over he--"
"Why are you excited about a busted post?" The cameraman doesn't turn around. "What makes you think they're gonna want to see--"
The heavy-set man runs in front of the camera, burying his face into it.
"Now hold on! I know what I'm talking about. You see, that thing right there..."
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A sudden transition to some poorly dubbed-over instrumental music, as this same heavy-set man stands in a poorly-lit gym. He appears to be holding a weapon but it is obscured by posts and ropes. He raises the index and middle fingers together, the ring and pinky fingers curled, thumb extended as he leans down low.
The video quality is terrible.
"It's been a while since the world's seen any of this," comes a fresh narration by the heavy-set man, "they've been waiting a long time for my return to the ring!"
He proceeds to get kicked in the face by a Thai kickboxer and sent over the ropes.
"They've been begging since the last week. I even bought a video camera made after 1995 for this!"
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Back to the woods. The heavy-set man kneels before the odd protrusion.
"The stories have it," he waves his hands around in an entirely goofy manner as he speaks up as though telling a ghost story, "that this is a thing... of legend."
"Looks like some vandal broke off the top part of a birdbat--"
"LEGEND." The heavy-set man raises his voice. "I can vouch! I did the Wikipedia entry and all. You see, long ago, this thing," he taps the side of it with a finger, "was used by some kind of amazing guy!"
"To give birdbaths." Camera guy chimes in.
"Ah! Ah. No, this is important to everything, see..."
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"Check out my moves! I mean mine. Not the other guy's, that's not the point, but if I don't show the other guy the clip's going to end bef--"
There is a quick shot of this heavy-set man - notably now with his hair styled in pigtails - swinging something in an advancing uppercut against some 1950's-era United States greaser in a leather jacket, whom recovers from his head being knocked back by launching it forward and butting him in the face.
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Back to the woods, the heavy-set man rests both hands atop the protrusion of entirely mysterious make.
"This wasn't always here," he explains as he runs his hand down it, "nobody knows when it came from--"
"It's at least a mile off the path," the cameraman interrupts, "are you just making this up as you go along?"
The heavy-set man seems at a loss for an answer. "Uhh. Sort of."
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For whatever reason, now there's footage of this guy messing around in a bounce house that he is obviously far too heavy for - and same goes for a far larger wrestler-type kind of guy who just keep bouncing all over the place.
"This one's one of my favorites, watch where I kick this guy twice--"
The heavy-set guy, whose nair now seems to be very long and tied down the back in a ponytail, swings both legs out, one in a wide sweeping kick, one with a straight front kick. The wrestler he hits with this proceeds to bounce off the side and body splash him, causing the whole thing to deflate.
"Ouch. I felt for that guy." Comes the voice-over. "I mean, that guy, not me. He had to pay for that."
"Then I did, because the States really likes to take your money over something like x-rays."
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"Is this going anywhere?" The camera guy is losing his patience. "I took a day off to help you with your entry."
"Thanks for that." The heavy-set man raises a hand. "Great guy, right there. Still got a whole day though, eh?"
"I don't want to spend a whole day listening to you rant about a... what that is..."
"You want to skip to the good part, then?" The heavy-set guy frowns. "I mean, I took all of the last few minutes making this up as I went, there's a lot of twists, turns, setup... yeah, all right."
"This thing," he says as he points to it again.
"Now you're just starting over at the beginning."
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Somewhere in a Japanese sumo ring that has decided to forego the sacred rules of who may actually enter a ring, the view is from behind the heavy-set man, who now appears to have his hair up in buns. He moves forward to try and lift a sumo wrestler up by some means - not directly with his hands? He flops over on his back and is once again crushed.
"Why did I pick this? Oh, yeah, I liked that dot matrix display up there of the cake. What was I doing in this one again? Uhh. Oh. Ouch."
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Back to the woods, the heavy-set man is starting to pull at the pipe. "Like the sword in the stone, this thing is--"
"Probably part of a plumbing system running through here, we, I mean YOU shouldn't--"
The heavy-set man keeps trying regardless. Pushing it, lifting it, it doesn't quite go anywhere. He slumps over, tired.
"If this is some kind of Arthurian legend thing, we could just get a prop sword--"
"It's gotta be this one!" The heavy-set guy insists.
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A paintball field, with multiple participants not at all wearing proper paintball gear. It's like someone who hasn't ever played paintball is attempting to portray this. The heavy-set guy's hair now has a bang covering one of his eyes.
People shoot paintballs at him. He thrusts with his open palm, which they all splash against. He suddenly screams in pain and rolls on the floor.
"...I'm a tough guy and can take hits, as you can see!" So the heavy-set guy's voice cheerfully declares.
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Now the heavy-set man is trying to pry it out with a crowbar. He does not seem to be having much luck.
The cameraman has set the camera down and is helping too, holding the man by the waist (though he is all but unable to be seen in the shot).
They both flop over.
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More fighting footage. For some reason the heavy-set man and someone else seem to be standing on a particularly dangerous-looking battleship. Why on earth would he even be there? With a quick swipe of both hands between his toolbelt, the heavy-set man kneels down and holds screwdrivers between his fingers. He throws them all at the other guy.
"Ohhhh yeah, this is the good one! Quick, smooth, cool. Essence of my best days. You're seeing it, right here, li--"
Except for one screwdriver, which falls out of his hand and stabs him through the shoe. He hops around on one foot in agony.
"You were. Uh. Now you're... watching me hop around." His voice takes an upturn. "I got mad hops. That's what you guys say down there, right?"
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It has escalated very quickly. Somehow, they have managed to get some construction equipment through the thin path of trees that should make this part of the forest completely inaccessible to them.
The cameraman is visible now, another caucasian male with brown hair, his back turned to the camera, wearing a blue button-up shirt.
The camera is placed precariously on a younger tree, balanced between two thick branches. The heavy-set man looks out the driver side of a digging machine, incorrectly wearing a safety helmet.
The scoop is thrust into the dirt.
The machine suddenly stalls once it makes contact with the protrusion. Smoke billows out of the engines.
"Why'd you convince me to pool for the deposit?" The cameraman asks, incredulously.
"Pool?" Asks the heavy-set man. "I thought you said you were going to front--"
"Son of a--"
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Suddenly the heavy-set man is in the middle of some kid's birthday party with a bow in his hair, being beset by men in cheap Halloween ninja costumes. The heavy-set man skillfully sways backwards with a kick, throws himself through a knifehand strike... he's holding something, but the camera juts downward to hide what it is as a third ninja's sword is caught with something.
"Oh, man. I wish I could use this. I did this for one of my kids' birthday parties," comes the guy's voice, "but I don't think they'd be able to tell the difference."
The heavy-set man trips and buries his face into the cake, knocking over the entire table full of birthday presents.
"That! That was a real fall. I handled that like a pro. Yeah, I can use this."
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The cameraman is back behind the camera again. His grip is especially unsteady now. "Do you even have a permit for this?"
The heavy-set man gives a wide grin as he holds onto a single button device, a white plastic grip with a red button just awaiting his thumb.
"I got a patent," the heavy-set man says reassuringly, which is to say not at all, "close enough. Just relax, I'd never have it fly in our faces or anything like that."
He presses the button, and the cameraman steps back. The heavy-set man instead steps forward, and the camera tilts to reveal some sort of corkscrewing rocket-like items around a tight circular clamp.
"With enough lift, these things oughtta pull it right out," the heavy-set man continues to explain.
"You don't think it'll just carry it away with it, don't you?"
The heavy-set man stares, his mouth agape. "Aw, crap, who knows where it'll end up! Ah--"
He's too late to approach it (which is dumb). Too late to save the clamp, anyway, which flies right off the protrusion and into the sky.
"Well, I'm disappointed that didn't work," the heavy-set man says all too cheerfully, "but at least this is still here--"
"WHAT ABOUT THE ROCKETS?!" The cameraman yells. "THEY'RE GOING TO SET THIS WHOLE FUCKING PLACE ABLAZE!"
"Eh? I didn't think about that--"
"DO YOU EVER?!"
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The scene cuts to that of a pool. It's very blurry. It shows three children of varying ages all splashing around with the heavy-set guy, who can be identified pretty much specifically by his build and just fuzzy shape of his hair.
"I'm pretty good at splash fighting, as you can see with my kids," he says, "like in case we get one of those silly gimmick matches where we just stand in a wading pool and splash one another with water."
A woman - his wife? - comes up behind him and kicks him in the back, yelling about something or another.
"Okay okay I admit it, someone accidentally put one of my home videos in this mix but we're almost out of time and we can't replace it, so... splash fighter. You should put that on my trading card."
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"Okay. Talent people for that next big fighting thing," the heavy-set man looks into the camera, "local authorities, and those good folks who work in the fire hall... I got good news."
"The good news," he backs away, "we didn't set the place on fire." He gestures broadly outward. It does seem like that the place, indeed, hasn't quite caught on fire.
"The better news," he says, "uhhh."
There is screaming in the background. It's the camera man's voice. He is not happy.
"The better news is that it wasn't my car that got blown up. That's... in comparison." The heavy-set guy frowns, rubbing the side of his head. "All I wanted to do was show you guys something really cool... still there."
Yes, the protrusion is still there. It has not moved an inch.
"So, guys, here's my pitch, I know I didn't... show anything remotely cool, or anything, but I'd like to buy my friend his new car. To do that, I need the prize money," he counts on his fingers, "so you need to let me in on your big, uh... Bout of the... Billioneum."
"My friend and I are just going to go down a six-pack." There is more swearing down there. "Away from one another." Even more anger. "Maybe in different counties."
The cameraman stomps back in. "Get over here," he demands, hands outstretched, "I'm going to strangle you."
There's a bit of a chase. It ends on the cameraman trying to pull out the protrusion out of sheer frustration and anger. It doesn't work.
The heavy-set man, politely, hands him the crowbar with a cautious smile. He is rewarded for this careful, thoughtful deed by having his face beat in with said crowbar.
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"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," comes a clear voice, as the heavy-set man walks down a stadium walkway with a shiny green robe on, and a towel on his head - presumably because his hairstyling wasn't quite done, but he puts on good cheer all the same.
"HAILING FROM... uh... er..."
As the heavy-set man passes by the announcer, the announcer signals to him. He comes by.
"Hey, can you read this for me? Where's it say you're from?"
"Canada," the heavy-set man smiles and nods, "I get that a lot."
"Is that in Nevada?" The announcer seems confused.
"Ehh, close enough," he doesn't show his annoyance, if any, as he continues down the walkway, "don't worry about it."
"WEIGHING IN AT 243 POUNDS, STANDING AT 5 FEET, 10 INCHES...."
The heavy-set man is helped into the ring. The robe is removed from him, at which point he raises something into the air.
"INTRODUCING... SOME TITLES I REFUSE TO READ ON PROFESSIONAL GROUNDS..."
What is it? A stick? A sword? A pole? A two-by-four? A... wrench?
"HOWARRRRD RUSSSST...."
The heavy-set man holds it up high for the world to see - a length of pipe.
"...JUN.... IORRRRRRR....!"
The camera pans to reveal there are exactly ten people in the audience, total, including three children sitting close to one another and their mother. One of them claps. The others don't look too interested.
He soaks it all in anyway, throwing up his arms to a crowd that really doesn't exist.
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Paragraphs represent an application in development, and a really sad man's overactive imagination.
Character depiction is subject to alteration before actual on-grid play begins.
(C) Mkslghslgkhsadglkhsgkhsgklgjrfjgh, 2014, all rights reserved for left turns
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Later that evening, footsteps are heard approaching this strange, immovable object. The viewer is incapable of seeing much of anything, other than old leather boots and a very nice, shiny pair of purple laces and (extremely) faded jeans of an exceptionally odd color.
A grunt almost goes unheard as a hand rests atop it, adorned in an old work glove. The forearm is well-muscled, but ravaged by age. The skin is peppered with liver spots, a bit of sag.
"So, that's... that's where you went," they mumble in a gravelly, tired voice that terminates in a cough.
The hand clasps around it like one were grasping the hilt of a sword. There is the screech of rusted metal against stone. Compared to who came before, the draw is effortless. It is entirely as though this were someone completely familiar with the weight, the grip...
Faint hues of fiery red, sunny yellow, brilliant white, and some indeterminate flickery, washed-out color seem to shine in its wake, however faint, as it starts to leave its mysterious indentation...
It stops.
"Y'know," the mysterious visitor narrates to a complete lack of people who clearly do not know, as he unclenches his grip on the pipe and instead palms the top of it. It is gently pushed back down to its original submerged depth with as little effort expended as was pulling it.
"I'd say," he stammers slightly, thanks to a cough, "'scuse me." Who is this voice excusing himself to? There is the sound of something being pat.
"I'd say it's... it's your turn, now." Cryptically, the man's feet turn around. "If you're... ah, up for it."
They walk off, leaving the rusted pipe back to its rest, with only these parting words.
"Nothin' wrong with, uh, what you got goin'... now. But... never too late to, ahh... give it a go."
There is silence, and a lonesome pipe.
Log created on 00:03:08 10/22/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 00:06:07 10/22/2014.