Post by Deleted on Apr 27, 2020 19:00:23 GMT -8
We're greeted with a video feed, which glitches a few times before we close in on our desired image. A curtain, the back of a denim jacket with a flaming skull emblazoned upon it. A voice speaks, usually amplified by loudspeaker.
"AND THE CHAMPION..."
The jacketed figure pulls their collar up, carrying with them in each clip a different championship. Some, around the waist. Some, on the shoulders. Some, around the neck. The figure shakes their arms out as they approach the curtain.
"FIGHTING OUT OF PHILADELPHIA PENNSYLVANIA..."
They say a quick prayer and cross themselves.
"WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY POUNDS..."
They approach the curtain, brushing their feet off.
"HE IS THE AVIATOR, GRAHAM BAKER!"
We see Baker explode through the curtain with a wave of force, different clips from the entrance ramps of different arenas, different championships adorning his waist. In some, he looks determined, pulling his shades off and throwing his jacket to the ground. In others, he looks excited, slamming his hands onto the cement entrance ramp before holding two finger guns up and slapping hands with the fans. We see Baker approach the ring, sliding in under the bottom rope, followed up with highlights of his moves. In one clip, Baker catches a man off of a running lariat into a Pumphandle Spinning Tombstone. In another, he ducks a superkick and rebounds into a wicked decapitating lariat. In a third, we see Baker set a man up on the ropes before he drives his knee into their skull.
The clips show Baker securing victory after victory, holding championships high, before it begins to fizzle out, static, a voice speaking-
"But none of that matters here, does it?"
-before we cut to black.
-
Silence. An image of Graham Baker, sitting in a steel folding chair. He's surrounded by his varying accolades from his whole career, championships hung up on models and ring gear stationed on mannequins. Baker glances around it, before crossing his legs in his lap. He sighs.
"Yeah, nah. Not really the image you'd expect a newcomer to show off, right? Because all of this shit, all the belts in the world that I've won, the trophies I've collected, the gear I've worn, it don't matter to y'all in NFW. I can call myself what I am-a five time world champ-and there'll always be some greenhorn to spit in my face and tell me I don't mean shit because I didn't earn it here. Understandable, of course-minds like that tend to be a little narrow, but there ain't a damn thing I can do about i, so I might as well run with it, right?"
Baker chuckles again. He cracks his neck.
"For those of you unfamiliar, unaware, or just plain uncaring, my name is Graham Baker. I'd like to consider myself one of the fastest-rising in-ring performers of the last five years. I've been wrestling for a long-ass time-more'n ten years, to be exact-but my pro debut's still firmly in the rear view. Two years ago, I stepped foot into a televised wrestling ring for the first time in my life.
Now, the indies are, in fact all that an' a bag of chips, but nothing compares to the eyes on ya' in a packed area, knowing there are a couple thousand more at home watchin'. I never forgot where I came from, of course, especially seeing as I was on the receiving end of some bad luck-"
We see Baker driven into the canvas by a large man with a Gutwrench Powerbomb, before another hits a Moonsault onto him and pins him. We see a bloodied Baker rolled up from behind, and another man throw him into a corner and land a massive Big Boot to his skull before a second suplexes him into the center and pins him.
"-but that's just what it was, bad luck. I got disheartened-as you're wont to do-but then I pushed on through it. I started taking what I deserved, I started running through motherfuckers instead of getting run through. I started carrying my weight, carving my name into the history books where there was any space available-I wasn't giving up, nor was I gonna give in-I was in for a fight, no matter what it fuckin' took. My perseverence got noticed, my attitude imprinted on the minds of many, and I got my shot. The big one. The doubleyou-haitch-see, y'know.
And I won."
We see Graham Baker in the ring with another man, both staring down before they launch into combat. We see stiff strikes exchanged, Baker repeatedly going for an armbar, and then for a Death Valley Bomb, but the man keeps shifting. They trade stiffer and stiffer blows, getting closer and closer, before Baker catches the man's moonsault into a Cross Armbreaker. The man taps, and we see Graham Baker in the crowd, a world championship on his shoulder.
"But like I said, that particular accolade don't matter too much, especially not the name. There's a reason I haven't given the name, though, kids, and if you haven't guessed it yet, it's because I've played that exact game almost too many times to count. I come in, I eat shit, someone calls me a fuckin' loser, and a month down the line I'm battering them from pitch to fuckin' post and slapping them like they owe me something-which they fuckin' do, their respect. The hardware, and I've got a lot of it, it couldn't mean less in the face of putting on a contest, pushing people to their limit, breaking every rule to keep them moving. I'm the benchmark of this fucking industry-I came in like a bat out of hell two years ago, and I've racked up accolades like you wouldn't believe. I've fought some of the biggest names, and you can bet your ass I've put some of 'em in the fuckin' dirt, too. I could live a lifestyle off my paycheck from any company, anywhere in the world, and yet, here I am. Here I'm sitting, in a promoion that I've never set foot in, a place that my name doesn't mean shit in.
So why, after all this time, have I come to NFW? Why, you might ask, is a man who considers himself at the top of this industry bringing himself to a new and unfamiliar land? Why wouldn't he just stay in his lane?"
Baker chuckles.
"It's like I said-they don't know my name here. Hell, I know most of the people on this roster from watchin' from a distance. Arley Kirk, RISA, Griffin Hawkins, Angel Kusanagi, and I know for a fact that every person on either roster, Trauma or Collision, is worth a fight. I'm lookin' for matchups I've never had before, to mix it up with people who could give a rat's ass about Graham Baker, and to keep it moving. To keep running, to stay hungry, to chase that high of a fresh debut once again. It gets boring being top dog, but here?
Here, I can start fresh. I can hone my skills. I can face new challenges."
Baker breathes, and cracks his neck. He strikes a match and holds it in his hand.
"It's like I said-all the hardware, all the accolades, they don't mean shit. My name holds no weight here."
Baker chuckles, and tosses the match behind him. A fire starts.
"All that shit can burn away, for all you care. You don't know me."
He stands as the fire rises, and he glances back to the championships, the trophies, the gear. He looks back to the camera once more.
"But as soon as I get in that ring, as soon as I come face to face with ya? You'll know me pretty fuckin' well."
Baker cracks a smile, and points a finger gun at the camera.
"Lookin' forward to it. Cheers."
He rushes off camera as the trophy room continues to burn, before we cut to black...
