Hop, Skip, and a Jump
Aug 11, 2023 20:46:40 GMT
Post by SuperUnknownnn on Aug 11, 2023 20:46:40 GMT
The sun beams through the purple cloud cover of twilight desperately, slipping further and further into the Pacific. Darkness creeps over the junkyard like a storm of dread, its shadowy tendrils suffocating any glimmer of luminescence. The city lights are a distant twinkle out here; nothing to see but piles of refuse; nothing to hear but the gentle lapping of green waves against the warehouse docks.
Beyond the waning chain-link fence, a television flickers through the window of a run-down mobile home. The footage is grainy…old…and cuts in and out to frothing white static. Outside a pair of evil-eyed pitbulls menace low and slow, stalking around a junked bathtub regardless of whether there are actually any trespassers to ward off. Inside the mobile home, a glass of whiskey clinks as it’s placed on a TV dinner stand, half-full.
The voice from the television set sounds familiar. A RAZOR Wrestling logo gleams in the corner of the screen.
Voice: Some of you might know me. Most of you probably don’t. My name is Reid Ashford. I’ve been some places. Done some things.
When the glass clinks on the table again, it’s empty. A guttural growl rumbles through the air in disapproval. On the 80s tiled floor, a duffel bag sits haphazardly filled with miscellaneous items…a kendo stick. Some light tubes. A spool of barbwire. A scattering of cheap thumb tacks. The voice from the television continues.
Voice: Most recently I was signed to CARNAGE PRO in Tokyo before it up and died. It was there that I won THIS…
A can of gasoline drops into the bag, splashing. A hammer. A crowbar. The mysterious figure stoops down to zip the bag up, then walks over to the fridge. Even his footsteps sound dangerous. When he opens it, shelves of old expired maggoty food greet him, but he pays no mind to the mess. He grabs a 12 pack of SAPPORO BLACK instead, shutting the door with a grunt.
Reid Ashford: When I won it, it meant something. Now? It doesn’t mean shit.
On the television, Reid Ashford lobs a championship belt into the arena audience. A baseball bat suddenly SHATTERS our view of the old box TV set.
Where once was Reid Ashford is now a jagged mess of glass and sparking circuits. The baseball bat clatters on the floor.
The figure heaves the bag up over his shoulder and heads out the front door of the mobile home, two vicious, slobbering beasts following at his heels.
We get a glimpse of him from above as the camera zooms out; a massive figure, barrel-chested, with a mess of wild black hair. He plods down a pier outside the junkyard, the duffel bag swinging over one of his gargantuan tattooed shoulders, until he and his two animal companions come upon an ancient, moldy boat.
There is a thump from the duffel bag hitting the deck, then the scrambling of paws from pier to boat. We hear the crisp pressurized unsealing of a beer can and ensuing gulping. Glug glug glug glug.
One of the dogs barks at its master, as if it’s asking for one for himself. The crazy-haired giant complies, pouring the rest of his aluminum beverage over the dog’s heads. Then we hear the rusty motor of a boat-seen-better days sputter up, and see the cherry of a freshly lit cigarette twinkle in the shroud of darkness.
The boat whines off, leaving only a crushed empty beer can in its wake…off into the super unknown of the Pacific Ocean.