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| The Scout | |
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| Topic Started: Jul 22 2010, 11:13 PM (123 Views) | |
| Alexander Slate | Jul 22 2010, 11:13 PM Post #1 |
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The camera fades in to a green Toyota Celica pulling into moderately-sized parking lot. A gymnasium can be seen in the distance. Slate (Voiceover): If there's one message I can force through your atrophied minds today, let it be this: Brian Blaze is a womanizer. The Celica finds a place to park, notably away from most of the rest of the cars, and comes to a stop. Slate (V.O.): He's a misogynist. He's a slimeball. And what's worse, he actively cultivates this way of thinking. He takes the concept of sleaze and wears it so proudly you'd believe it was a platinum medallion. Sure, he makes the ladies swoon, but only because they're seemingly oblivious to the fact that he'll stick his dick in any crevice provided it appears sufficiently deep. Or perhaps they're not oblivious, and that's exactly why they swoon. The driver gets out of the car. Naturally, it is Alexander Slate, clad in a maroon muscle shirt and khaki-colored jeans. He begins to walk toward the gymnasium. Slate (V.O.): But none of that really explains why I'm here, does it? So I guess I'm going to have to enlighten you then. The way CZW uses women wrestlers is a joke, and not even the funny, satirical kind of joke. Hell, it's not even a bad pun. There isn't even a women's division; that belt's been not only retired, but desecrated at the hands of Tim Timmons, whom the fans apparently now cheer and appreciate for reasons I can't fully discern. But now I'm getting off-track. Of course, CZW still has women on the roster. Only they're not wrestlers. They're not even "divas." No; they're valets. Designated arm ornaments and nothing more. Sure, they have names, but you could just as easily call them "Monroe's bitch" or "Pablo's bitch" or "Buzzsaw's bitch" and the point would come across all the same. Oh, and of course, Jenna Cyde, nothing more or less than a deliberate strawman parody of women who can actually fight. Slate now enters the building, pulling a ticket out of his pocket and being let through the turnstile. Slate (V.O.): But what's all this have to do with Brian? Everything. Misogynist sleaze like Brian Blaze is the very reason this mindset is not only allowed, but encouraged. The cheers he receives for being a ladies' man who couldn't care less about any one individual lady are the fuel for this standard's vicious cycle. Therefore, if I'm going to assert myself as The Paragon, the pursuit of wrestling perfection, I may as well try to identify such glaring imperfections and have them purged. Slate now walks down the aisle and finds his seat. Slate (V.O.): That's why I'm here. But I'm not here for the main event, though I'm sure it will be a fine match. I'm here for the midcard. I'm here to scout a match between two women who are actually billed to take a punch. And depending on the outcome, well... we shall soon see. The scene cuts to the match in question, already in progress. While the match is decent enough, one fighter seems more firmly in control, and Alex is impressed at her repertoire. A fisherman suplex, a cloverleaf, a swinging neckbreaker, even a triangle choke. Her habits of stomping and ground-pounding as well as utilizing every millisecond of the five-count the ref was forced to allow her didn't do her any favors with the crowd, but Alex didn't seem to mind. The finale came as the woman in question was slapped across the face. Hardly fliching, she responded with a toe kick, circling around and lifting her into an argentine rack. The hold was pulled a few times before the victim was thrown off her shoulders, her face and chest slamming into the mat. From here, the pin was academic. Announcer: The winner of the match... Lydia May! As the crowd boos, Alex chooses not to follow suit, and instead to smile, nod, and slowly clap. Slate: That's her all right. The camera fades out, then back in to backstage. Alex is patiently waiting outside the women's locker room but it isn't long before Lydia comes out. She looks Alex up and down. ![]() Lydia: They said you wanted to see me. You a scout or something? Slate: Something like that. I imagine you're familiar with Combat Z- Lydia: Hold on. I don't wanna discuss matters like this out in the open. Let's find an office or something to sit down in. Slate: Understandable. Let's. After a bit of searching, they do manage to find an unlocked and unoccupied office. Likely someone who wanted to see the event. They sit down, Lydia behind the desk and Alex in front. Lydia: Now then. What were you about to say. Slate: Well, I assume you're familiar with Combat Zone Wrestling. Lydia sighed and glared a bit before answering.[/color] Lydia: I am. Slate: Well, here's the deal. I am Alexander Slate, and I am very impressed with your ability. You show every quality a true wrestler should have. As such, I would like you to accompany me in my upcoming match against Bri- Alex had to cease his speech, as he was more concerned about dodging the desk lamp currently being thrown at him. It just barely missed, smashing into tiny pieces on the wall behind him. Alex looked back at the lamp, then back at Lydia. Lydia: Are you shitting me? You want to me to be a fucking valet? Slate: I- It- Absolutely not. Lydia: Then what do you want? Slate: I want you to show all those misogynist fools that women can fight. Lydia: Alright, I'm listening. But I got more stuff I can throw over here if I don't like your tone. Lydia grabs onto a potted plant as Alex begins. Slate: Brian Blaze is, at best, a sleazy ladies' man, and at worst, a figurehead for everything that is wrong with the double-standard involved in wrestling today, especially in CZW. No one cares how well a woman can wrestle; they only care if they're hot. I'm sure you've felt that yourself. Lydia: Are you saying I'm not attractive? Lydia grips the plant tighter as Alex looks nervous. Lydia then smiles.[/color] Lydia: Nah, I'm just kidding with you. Of course I'm attractive. But you're right. I'm sick of girls moving up the ranks 'cause they're hot and not 'cause they win. I'm sick of guys only caring about what we look like in our underwear instead of what we can do in the ring. And I'm damn sick of idiots saying I'm too fat 'cause my ribs aren't visible. So yeah, of course I want to show them all what's what. But I'm not being your goddamn valet. Slate: I didn't say that. I want you to accompany me to the ring. That's very different from being a valet. Lydia: How the hell so? Slate: You know about CZW's rules, don't you? Specifically, no disqualifications? Now, I have enough honor about myself to not want you to enter the ring, as I'd like that at least to remain one-on-one, but if that sleazeball leaves the ring, for any reason, well, you can put your considerable ability to use and there isn't a damn thing anyone can do to stop you. Do you understand now? Lydia: Yeah, I think I do. But let's get one thing straight. I ain't your valet, and I damn sure ain't your girlfriend. But if this is about beating down a guy who deserves his nuts in a vice with every trashy pickup line, yeah. I think we can come to an agreement. Slate: Fantastic. I knew you would be intelligent enough to see reason. Suddenly, the owner of the office, a portly, balding man enters through the door. Man: What the hell is going on in here? Who the hell are you? And what did you do to my lamp? Lydia: I improved it. It was ugly. By the way, your plant's ugly too. Lydia smashes the terra cotta to the ground as she gets up, walking back around the desk. Lydia: Come on, Alex. Let's get out of here and leave this guy to his redecorating. Alex: Of course. Lydia and Alex leave as the camera zooms out on the office room, with the man looking around, stunned. |
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