Post by The Hannahverser on Sept 15, 2016 19:25:33 GMT
MIMENTO
(OOC NOTE: This Role-play takes place in reverse. Events happen from the ending to the beginning. Please read it accordingly, and enjoy, hopefully! Good luck!)
(OOC NOTE: This Role-play takes place in reverse. Events happen from the ending to the beginning. Please read it accordingly, and enjoy, hopefully! Good luck!)
DURING BAD MOON RISING
Through the locked glass main doors to the Pure Arena , the usher blatantly informed a soaking wet Rodney P as he stood there shivering and chattering his teeth,
“By order of the mimes, you are not allowed entry into tonight’s event.”
“Are you serious? How the hell did two MIMES even tell you that, huh?”
Inside, Rodney winces as he hears the pop of the crowd, quite possibly for the Tag Team Turmoil match Rodney is currently missing.
“They wrote it down.”
The usher shows a prepared printed picture of Rodney and Francis’ aloof faces with a NO ADMITTANCE scrawled across the paper. The camera drops to Rodney’s side out of neglect; we continue to pick up his voice.
“Of course. Forgot they were communicating now. Well, that’s just great.”
“Sorry.”
The Usher’s apology isn’t genuine, at least not to Rodney. Rodney glares as the usher stomps off to tend to whatever needs tending. Through the full-glass doors, Rodney searches inside, unable to see anything. He shakes his head in defeat and once more lifts the camera to focus on him.
“So there’s that. Done. Barred from entry. Isn’t the first time, and probably won’t be the last.”
Rodney glances around without a particular clue as to where to go from here, the cool night air making his soaked clothing that much more difficult to bear.
“Yeah… not going to lie, this chaps my ass. Basically, what this means is I’m not going to be present to watch the tag-team I HELPED BUILD take on the crème de la crème of PAW tag-teams. This title match is precisely what they’ve been working for, you know? This is what they’ve been training for; busting their asses for; putting up with all the shit Francis and I have put them through for. And here I thought we were a collective unit, that we’d made definitive progress together, and now I find out they weren’t bluffing, they ARE going into this match, gladly, without me.”
An exhausted exhale emanates from Rodney’s lips, a slight tear streaks down his cheek, the full example of his dashed passion and hopes. Another shake of his head.
“So, yeah, I’m right pissed that this is how the culmination of the past few days turn out: me and Francis on the outside looking in on two individuals whom I, personally, have devoted almost the entirety of 2016 to. This has been an entire year of preparation for the chance to bear the flagship tag-team strap of PAW. Now, I can’t speak for Francis, hell no one can, but I’m proud of them for doing what they’ve done, you know? It takes a lot of guts to go it alone like this. Just really, really, bummed I’m not going to be in there to watch them hopefully triumph.”
He bit his lip and hangs his head before looking into the cell phone camera confessedly.
“I really hope Francis made out getting inside better than I did.”
Another forlorn shake of his head.
“Fucking Mogwai. I can’t believe that shit, nor can I believe we drove through flood-soaked southern Louisiana looking for the mimes, and now we’re missing this event… sniffle So, yeah, that’s that, folks. Guess I’ll find out how Bad Moon Rising turns out on the internet… Oh yeah and Ava and Johnny Sykes are trash. I didn’t forget about you two, but by the end of the night everyone else will. I’m done.”
The Camera feed cuts.
20 MINUTES EARLIER
“I’ll start this off by saying good luck to the competitors of the PAW Tag Team Championship match.”
Rodney P moved with intensity, the back-facing camera of his cellular phone focused on his mussed and soaking hair, shaking and jostling as he purposed his way along the side of the Pure Arena and to warm himself up. Behind him many feet away was a herd of individuals clamoring around the back entrance to the arena seemingly roused and surrounding some commotion. Rodney glanced behind him knowingly; he stopped to shake his head with incredulity, and kept moving.
“That back there?”
He shook his head with newfound appreciating.
“I’m betting that’s the last I ever see of Francis Ford Cuppola. At least for tonight, and you wanna know something?”
Rodney stops and glares into the camera, his Cockney accent wavering with inexplicable heartfelt emotion.
“For the first time in my career working for that man I’ve actually developed a respect for him. It’s weird to say seeing as I’ve literally tried to destroy his empire, and subvert his machinations, and Lord knows I haven’t been the most loyal of assistants, but this episode here, all we’ve just gone through to get to this arena, all that bonding you just witnessed? I think I can freely admit I see my boss in a different light. I hope you do too.”
Rodney considered, glancing back at the maddening crowd presumably surrounding Francis near the back entrance to the Pure Arena.
“Maybe not. Hard to say what’ll happen next with that nut running around probably ruining everything.”
Rodney continued moving.
“So anyway, friends, this is it: The big one. Bad Moon Rising. Where titles are decided, others will change hands, or perhaps not at all, and a lot of people are sent back to the proverbial drawing board to wonder at what went wrong, or perhaps never to return again. Now, let me tell you something between us: I, for one, have already gone through a damn-near metric shit-tonne just to get to this point. And that was just todayI can only imagine what kind of shit you actual competitors have had to wade through. But you wanna know what?”
Rodney stopped once more and considered before looking resignedly into the camera with a glimpse of that same serenity still lurking in his expression.
“Isn’t that what it’s all about? Developing our character? Finding our strengths, pinpointing our weaknesses, and working through all of that to be better versions of ourselves? That’s what I’m doing this for, you know? I want to be the best damn Rodney P I can be, no matter what it costs me. And, I mean, here I am having just gone through floodwaters, thwarted a suicide attempt and lost the respect of two men I’ve sacrificed my life to help train and somehow Francis and I improved our relationship. That’s saying something, folks.
So let me break it down for you wrestlers who may be watching me pre-match, though, for the life of me, I don’t why you would, but here goes, regardless: Never mind what the Mimes might mime at you, or write about you, no matter how vitriolic or angry it may seem. Truthfully, it hurt me to read some of that anger knowing I’ve had a hand in developing it. Just like it seems to have woken Francis up to the true meaning of why we wrestlers and wrestling promoters, slash managers, are really doing this whole thing. The mimes just taught Francis and I a valuable lesson, one I’m grateful for. I’m just hoping that lesson doesn’t turn over-the-top deadly when they get into the ring with the rest of you.”
Rodney stopped and gripped his chin thoughtfully, a smirk steadily appearing on his mouth, the shivering momentarily abated.
“Who am I kidding, for the sake of their potential victory, and the chance of putting a feather in my proverbial cap if they succeed, I am hoping that lesson turns into one hell of a bad night for the rest of you tag-teams.”
The smile hangs as Rodney nods appreciatively at the thought of a mime victory before the smile fades, the shiver returns and Rodney resumes striding diligently.
“So, yeah, I can’t blame the mimes for going down this path. I mean, you read what they wrote, back at Francis’ house, right? And while I am concerned for what may happen in this match, and the lengths they’re prepared to go to to win this thing, I just want to say, from myself to each of you tag-teams...”
Rodney stops and looks seriously into the camera.
“You have my respect, for whatever it’s worth. It takes a lot of guts to go into that ring each show and compete at the level you all compete at.
Each of you.
“Straike”, Johnny Raike and Strick Plissken? The least plausible tag-team in a field of cartoon characters, the proverbial two kids left in a pick-up game of softball left to make your own team, you two guys have my deepest respect, man. Wearing those skirts and shit? That takes guts, dudes. I couldn’t do it. And, in all honesty, I had no idea the Mimes were gay, so I guess that makes this a little more personal, at least for you, Johnny. I can’t wait to see you trailblazers take the stage tonight, if I manage to get inside the arena. It would be sad to miss out on the Mimes following through on their plan for the both of you and watch them work.”
Rodney rounds a corner and walks in a hurry for the main entrance.
“And Mercy ‘n Sin? The fact that you two take yourselves even remotely seriously is definitely something I admire and respect, you know? The letter the Mimes wrote definitely helped me see you two in a different light. And, hey, what the Bombtraxx said to you two at Wicked? Forget those two, mamas, cause what do they know, right? If they were paying any attention to you two they’d realize that Mercy and Sin are NOTHING like the Bombtraxx. You two got tits. How could Press and Youth be so blind, you know? So, Girl Power… and I will definitely be there to congratulate you both if you manage to win this thing after successfully copping the Bombtraxx’s tag-team finishing maneuver, and hoping someone says your names three times.”
Rodney makes it to the main doors and attempts to gain entry, but instead finds them locked. Rodney peeks in through the full glass to see an usher notice him from down the hallway and approaches.
“Yeah, here we go. He sees me.
Oh yeah, before I forget. Mikael and Wolfe? You two are impressive. I honestly can’t wait to see if the guy who needs to wear a mask to be a dangerous wrestler and the guy that’s so obviously not sinister or menacing in anyway won’t get stomped under a stampede of actual talent. But, seriously? No joke, you two BFW alum are strong competitors that I’d be honored to stand behind and promote if I wasn’t convinced you were both hiding important information during your medical screenings, thanks now to the Mimes’ letter.
For making it this far, each of you, all of you tag-team competitors, no matter what happens next: you all deserve a kudos. Hope I didn't forget anyone...”
The cell phone camera turns around to see the usher inspecting Rodney through the glass.
“Yo, let me in. I’m the manager for the mimes.”
The smug shake of the usher’s head brings the camera back around to focus on Rodney’s disappointed expression.
“Are you fucking kidding me?! Why not?”
40 MINUTES EARLIER
Francis Ford Cuppola: Hello my children.
Francis gracefully opened his arms wide invitingly to the large crowd waiting at the back entrance guarded by two surly security guards. Rodney slammed the back door of the “Francis-Mobile” and shook his head at the sheer difficulty he was having believing all of what had already went down. He wrung out his soaked jacket and watched the swarm of people envelope Francis.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Hey, you folks wanna see a real live Mogwai?
The enchanted crowd all gave a resounding ‘yes’, in response to which Francis reached into the front passenger seat, unbuckled the seatbelt, and carefully balanced his beloved pet Mogwai out on his forearm and pleasantly allowed the little creature to delight the onlookers with a hip new dance.
Francis Ford Cuppola: So this is… uhhh… his name is… uhhh. Damn. Forgot the little buggers name. Cool, huh?
“Francis!”
Francis Ford Cuppola: No, no that’s not it. It’s, uhhh..
“I NEED TO FIND A WAY INSIDE TO GET TO THE MIMES!”
Francis poked his head above the crowd to see Rodney, once more, shaking his head at him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I know! I’m distracting everyone so you have a clean break for the main entrance, partner.
‘Partner’. Rodney couldn’t believe it’d come to this. He smiled with pride at their newly redeveloping friendship.
“Thanks, Francis.”
With his free arm, Francis extended an encouraging thumb up.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Now go! I got this! Only the mimes matter.
Rodney nodded even if Francis had been swallowed up by the crowd of PAW faithful, and promptly took off walking, pulling out his cell phone preparing to make yet another video blog entry.
Inside the crowd, Francis smirked conspiratorially to everyone gathered around him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Truth be told, I’m not actually here for the mimes. If all of you are willing to help, I’ve actually got a foolproof plan to give Sergio Lione a taste of his own medicine, once and for all. You guys want to help?
The crowd was easily enthused. Even security looked willing. Francis’ grin widened.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Excellent. For Sergio must die for making me want to die. Now, it’s imperative you don’t tell Rodney, all right? And if any of are afraid of spiders, tell me now because this plan MAY involve a giant spider…
The crowd gathered in tighter to hear Francis’ new diabolical plan.
TWO HOURS EARLIER
The convertible sped along through torrential rain. Francis wore his blast goggles as the wind blew through his hair. He shouted back to Rodney in the backseat as the car’s motor roared. Francis Ford Cuppola: I’m really sorry for losing sight of what mattered, Rodney. All on account of that POINTLESS grudge with Sergio. I guess it all just compounded, you know? Trust me. I’m over it. This ridiculous two-day trek through deluged Louisiana has helped me recognize the value of my life, especially since common sense dictated we just check at the Pure Arena for the Mimes in the first place. I guess that's what happens when you're drunk on Canadian maple syrup...
A beat.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Come to think of it, this whole experience has hit me like I were Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Bukowski's famous Victorian era novel The Hunger Games, Rodney...
As Francis looked skyward philosophically, in the backseat, Rodney gripped his arms tightly and shivered, his teeth chattering. He was soaked. Francis looked past his shoulder at him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You okay back there?
Rodney nodded with an intense shiver.
“Francis,” Rodney shouted. “Why am I in the backseat?”
Francis guffawed.
Francis Ford Cuppola: It’s like I told you, guy, I needed the front seat for my Mogwai.
Rodney’s teeth continued to chatter.
“Okay… so, that said, tell me again why there’s a Mogwai in the front seat of the.. erm..”
Francis Ford Cuppola: Just say it.
Francis grinned as Rodney rolled his eyes.
“Why is there a Mogwai in the front seat of the Francis-Mobile?”
Francis’ grin grew.
Francis Ford Cuppola: We’ve been over this, remember? I collect Mogwai, and riding in the front seat of the Francis-Mobile is one of the rules. You always follow the rules with Mogwai, Rodney.
The Francis-Mobile sped along.
“Okay, and—“
Francis Ford Cuppola: Yes, same with the convertible top. Little… uhhh… damn, forget this one’s name… either way, my little friend here looooooves the wind in his fur, don’t you little buddy?
Francis petted his Mogwai lovingly before looking back sincerely to Rodney.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney, you have to believe I had no idea the Mimes were so disgruntled due to my negligence. I’m actually really scared for what they might do to their opponents tonight.
“So am I. I’m really glad you’re head’s finally focused on the important stuff.”
Francis Ford Cuppola: I know. I feel horrible I’ve been so distracted with Sergio.
His teeth, unseen by Rodney in the backseat, gritted angrily at the mere mention of Sergio’s name.
“It’s all good, Francis. Just promise me it’ll never happen again, okay?”
Francis Ford Cuppola: I promise. I’ve made a lot of mistakes lately, Rodney. I’ve let a lot fall by the wayside. I started pre-production for that Muppet Burlesque Remake of the Passion of the Christ so that took a lot of my time, and Sergio’s reemergence really knocked me on my ass. Did you realize he stole my Mail-Order Bride??? That asshole. But that’s all in the past. I’m keeping my head on what matters, like you said.
Rodney looked at Francis with shades of disbelief, changing into burgeoning appreciation in spite of the cold air and stinging rain.
Francis Ford Cuppola: In fact, this whole debacle has really made me recognize the need to do right by everyone, including you. I think that little exercise earlier with Mister Mississaugi and the grave-digging finally put me in a position to spot my true friends, Rodney. You and Mister Mississaugi. I think I’m finally ready to start calling you both my partners.
Rodney was speechless.
“I—I’m honoured, Francis…”
Francis Ford Cuppola: Think nothing of it, big guy. We’re partners now. I only expect you, from now on, to stop me from doing stupid things, okay? Like, seriously? Next time I attempt to kill myself you should try suggesting funeral pyre, or something more dramatic, and potentially faster, okay?
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Francis Ford Cuppola: I can’t wait.
Francis looked to the clock and grew concerned.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Damn, Bad Moon Rising is starting any minute! We better hurry!
Without further discussion, Francis floored it on the Francis-Mobile and they raced into the night for the Pure Arena.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
The shovel scooped into the mound of dirt and lay it in heaps on top of the semi-unbuttoned Armani dress shirt worn by one Francis Ford Cuppola.
“Francis, why are you doing this?”
Rodney P stood off to the side watching Francis’ freshly appointed head trainer and maple syrup creator, Mister Mississaugi, bury the wallowing elderly man in a gaping hole in the dirt with bemused solemnity. In Rodney’s hands, clutched in front of him at the waist, was a letter he’d yet to find the opportunity to relate to Francis.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Auuuuuuuuuugh.
Francis had starfished into the hole like he’d been spit there and looked used up and demolished. His clothes were in disarray, his beard disheveled, and his mouth gaped open languidly as he stared into the sky as if asking the eternal “why”. In one he hole gripped a near empty jug of Mississaugi’s maple syrup, some of the last remnants of which coated Francis’ beard.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I don’t deserve to live any longer.
More dirt fell as the tall native man fulfilled his duty with stoic dignity. Rodney remained passively interested.
“Is this about the mimes? Cause--”
Francis Ford Cuppola: The who?! Rodney, get a hold of yourself! This is about my loss to Sergio! Now for God’s sakes help Mr. Mississaugi bury me!
Francis angrily chucked a handful of dirt at Rodney who let it spray harmlessly across his pant legs and the back of the letter. Francis adjusted his position in his hole like he were tossing and turning in bed.
“…What loss?”
Francis Ford Cuppola: You were there!! None of my plans work. NONE! Those wasps were USELESS! My giant spider experiments have failed and you told me my super catapult isn’t even a catapult!!!
“That’s right, it’s just a giant mace designed to look like a catapult.”
Francis groaned loudly.
Francis Ford Cuppola: OOOOOOOOOOOOOH. It’s over. Game over. He won. He beat me, Rodney. I can go no further. I have fallen.
Francis lifted the jug of syrup above his mouth and let what was left ooze onto the lower half of his face.
“Does this have something to do with the fact that there’s already been two reports of authorities finding paralyzed humans with unhatched wasp eggs inside of their skulls?”
Francis Ford Cuppola: Casualties of war, Rodney! My misery shall be spread through yet another of my failed attempts at success! I cannot go on! Losing power.
The dirt continued to be heaped onto him even as Francis rolled onto his back. A soft drizzle of rain set in. Rodney looked skywards at it, frowned and looked back at Francis.
“Okay, so I’m going inside now, Francis.”
Francis Ford Cuppola: NO! Stay for my funeral, you ingrate.
“What, stay here and watch Mr. Mississaugi bury you alive? That’s going to take a really long time, Francis.”
Francis groaned in defeat as Rodney turned to leave. Like gripping the lip of a bathtub, Francis shifted and called innocently to Rodney.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney, Rodney… I wish to be buried with my most prized and valuable possessions. Would you bring them to me? Bring me the syrup?
Rodney glanced back at him with a roll of his eyes.
“Sure, why not. There’s only one jug left.”
Francis cried in agony, gripping his hands to his chest, heartbroken, as Rodney continued toward the stately plantation house that would soon enough house Francis’ grave. Rodney couldn’t help but be hopeful that this, of all his schemes, would be successful.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney! Rodney!
Rodney sighed loudly, stopped and turned to glare at him.
“WHAT?!”
Francis rested his chin on his hand, and peeked out over the lip of the dirt hole to eye Rodney with depressed longing.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Would you bring me my Mogwai collection?
As one does when one hears ridiculous information, Rodney stuttered and blinked rapidly trying to process.
“Your what collection?”
Francis Ford Cuppola: My Mogwai collection. I collect Mogwai.
Rodney still hadn’t, evidently, prepared himself for every surprise Francis was capable of. Francis continued.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I got a whole family during my travels through Kathmandu’s Wu Tang region. Let’s see, there’s Gizmo, GZA, RZA, Raekwon, Ol’ Dirty, Inspectah Deck, Ghostface Killah, and a few more, but I forget their names. I call them my Wu Tang Clan. They’re awesome. Sing real nice, too. Will you bring them to me? I wish to be buried with them as well as the syrup.
Francis nodded approvingly at Mister Missassaugi as he continued to fill Francis in to his proposed grave.
“Okay…”
Rodney could feel his eyelid twitching unwittingly as he gripped the letter a little tighter in his hand, gritted his teeth and let it out in a torrent as the rain remained a drizzle.
“FRANCIS, WHAT. ABOUT. THE MIMES?!”
Francis Ford Cuppola: The who?
“The tag team you brought over from France to wrestle for you?”
Francis rolled onto his back, upsetting Mississaugi’s dirt pile. The large man continued without fuss. Francis considered.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Oh yeah. My other, other most prized possession. Bring them to me, as well. I wish to be buried like the pharaohs of old. Today, Sergio gets his wish.
“You bloody idiot, the mimes are gone!”
Francis sat up and looked incredulously at Rodney, causing Mr. Mississaugi to stop shoveling.
Francis Ford Cuppola: What?
“Yeah. This letter you’ve been too busy being buried alive to let me show you says it all.”
Francis roused himself from the dirt with a frown and rushed over to Rodney to pluck the letter from his hands.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Let me see that!
Francis read:
To the Overly Self-Important,
Too long have we stood in your shadow. In that lack of depth, you have stolen our sunlight; our freedom; our reason for being. A contract was signed without our express consent, and this alone has bound us to you. You know yourselves as Francis Ford Cuppola, and Rodney P.
We know you as dueling morons.
You have consistently put your own interests ahead of our own.
You have used us as pawns in your feuds against one another as well as others.
You have taken credit for our hard work.
You have directed us against your enemies in battles we have not chosen.
You have put your name above ours.
You are not us, you do not represent us, you know nothing about us.
It is we who wrestle, who compete, who put our bodies on the line.
Not you.
Your consistent assumptions about our silence and inability to speak for ourselves has encouraged all others to hold the same assumption.
This will change.
At Bad Moon Rising, it is our hard work, our talent, our goals, and desires that will be showcased.
You will not be present.
As the fat maw of Double F C jabbers on absent of any thought or logic, the mouthpiece of Rodney P has never asked us for our opinions, or our perspectives on anything.
This match at Bad Moon Rising is ours to own.
The success or failure that comes out of this night will also be ours.
You spout opinions of our opponents we do not share.
How well do you know the French Mime Assassins?
You come from a position that lacks humility. It will not do to assume our insight as though it were your own.
No one speaks for us but us.
And each moment, there have been many, when we have attempted to speak, no one has listened or granted us agency to enact what we will.
All this time spent with you we’ve been called clowns, comedic relief, and made to seem like anything other than the legitimate competitors we truly are.
This is the presumed plight of so many in this match, and yet ours more than any other.
We stand ready to assume our rightful place as kings atop a mountain of abused, misunderstood, and overlooked competitors not sitting in their rightful place.
Had anyone realized that we two mimes stand as openly homosexual competitors, forced to, once more, listen to Johnny Raike presume to speak for, and represent the likes of us?
Do you notice a trend here?
This attention grabbing “fuckboi” does not speak for us. He was not duly elected to represent a specific strata of a deviant community of which we are a part, and he has claimed his accolades and representation without true qualification or merit. Whereas we, the freaks, “fuckbois” and fairies formerly claimed he was ‘good enough’ to represent us, he is now no longer good enough.
There are those in the stands and watching at home who shout and cheer for him.
We do not.
Johnny Raike?
Think: Thin-skin. Punch hard. Make bleed. Block kicks.
Bring the suffering he so appreciates until it comes in a manner he doesn’t welcome.
This is what those of us he claims to empower have decided.
For too long, we’ve been held back. Chained and misused and overlooked and misunderstood.
The very items Johnny Raike lists and assumes about himself are true of us as well, only we are capable of holding our tongue when necessary and not playing our theme music meaninglessly whenever the camera hits record.
Up till now our fists have done the talking.
It is high time we pull out this “hellcat’s” tongue to forbid him from using it needlessly any further.
His partner is a tougher customer.
Strick Plissken.
As we stood silent and stoic, we watched with interest as a homeless beggar was plucked from the gutter and brought into the light by a man who is, also, underappreciated.
The theme continues, while at the same time opening up a conversation about the treatment of veterans of war in your United States.
That said, we don’t care for Tony Chu. And we care even less for this man who bases his fight on scars left hidden and an overreliance on his opponent’s misunderstandings and superficial attacks.
Here is a man who’s gripe is with his perceived rightful place in this federation, a place currently held by those lucky enough to not be in the ensuing bloodbath we’re about to create out of Tag Team Turmoil. Like the rest of us this man believes that he is not where he should be.
We, the overlooked, have no sympathy for this man’s consistent complaints.
While he whines about taking Nova Wonder’s place in facing Johnny Raike for his singles title, Strick teams with this man in a presumed mutual cause.
One that is our specialty, and our strength.
All of the reasons these men have for being in this match are ours as well.
Only we do it better.
We, the overlooked, as always are overlooked in favor of others, like these two, deemed the favorites by sheer force of volume and opinion.
Not even our own manager wants to bet on us in our matches.
We, the overlooked, and undervalued, when they see us they see clowns, and mock Mime as though it weren’t one of the foundational practices of all performance art. At best they realize our French heritage, but no one emphasizes the third word in our title:
Assassins.
We have watched, and we have waited. Precision and planning are our allies.
And now, at Bad Moon Rising, we will strike.
Whatever they call themselves, Strick and Raike, this tag-team is taped together and weak at the seams. A man whose wounds are exploitable can find himself easily steered in the opposite direction than where he was originally intending.
For proof refer to his life up till this point.
Perhaps Strick could be coaxed into eschewing loyalty and right into fighting his own partner if the right carrot were dangled before him?
We have no intention of overlooking our place in this battle, but we will utilize the knowledge that the wisest fight is the one you don’t need to fight until it is absolutely necessary.
Unlike “Mercy” and “Sin”, who have entered this wrestling federation with guns blazing, as if their ship were sinking, and they needed to make a quick splash.
They have failed, and they will continue to fail.
The fat one’s slow, and the thin one’s stupid.
And that’s just touching the surface.
A more perfect combination couldn’t be brought to bear in a match of individuals all resembling one another as though looking through a funhouse mirror, staring in the wrong direction, and finding the wrong people to point at.
We, alone, stand out.
Why attack Kelsey Spencer and Annabel Lee?
Of all the tag teams these two could have attacked, they chose the most innocent, naïve, and least likely to retaliate competitors on the entire roster.
There was no message sent other than the most superficial of warnings, and therefore the message received was one of due notice of these mindlessly wasteful wrestlers who leave too many tracks to follow right to where they are weakest.
These two wish to be seen as wolves amongst sheep. Instead they resemble carrion birds picking at defenseless scraps.
This is not a case of being overlooked with these two, but rather a constant, and highly annoying, cry for attention.
S & M need to be noticed?
Pity, for their egos won’t be Spared, and they’ll receive no more Mention once the dust settles and two French Mime Assassins stand tall over them.
The time of restraint is over.
Unless your name is Wolfe who is not only contending with Dissociative Identity Disorder which has gone, apparently, overlooked by all medical testing since he began in BFW, but also Mikael, who has yet to illustrate even so much as an inkling of being “the Devil”, let alone legitimately intelligent aside from the most oft-used epithets of war: “don’t underestimate your enemy”, he claims.
How clever of him.
We, the overlooked, officially dare you both to prove everything you claim about yourselves at Bad Moon Rising.
For we see you for what you are.
The faults are many with two men who believe themselves to have a chance, whose sleeves bear every story they have to tell, and whose every appearance in any capacity leaves nothing to the imagination.
Are we two, whose team is a complete unification of thought, body and mind, to be afraid of two men relying on one another to make up for each other’s shortcomings?
The memo that has consistently failed to send from our pointless handlers will now be sent loud and clear to these two and everyone else.
With the French Mime Assassins:
There are no shortcomings.
We are both technical wrestlers with the same flexibility and strength.
We are both High-Flying impresarios.
We are both studied in various martial arts and hard-hitting striking techniques.
When you fight one of us, you fight both of us.
Rodney, you have failed to make this clear. And we have chosen to expect very little from your employer, so he receives an exemption from judgment only due to incessant failure and idiocy.
Like Ava and Johnny Sykes.
Never before has innovation been so easily disguised as luck.
Here lies a tag-team whose skill is, similarly, overlooked in favor of their antics.
Finally, the true comedic relief rears its ugly head now that you and Francis will not be allowed at ringside.
The only problem is: these two aren’t funny.
Misreading of an opponent’s name for some competitive edge is not only ignorant but illustrates a resigned lack of competence?
We know this well.
Hence this letter, hence our rage.
To be lumped in with the likes of these two, more mouths that never stop opening needlessly only confirms our purpose in this match.
We will shut them all up.
Perhaps, in fairness, to you both, placing us in the shadows while you prattle on relentlessly and Francis invents something useless has done us a service in providing the perfect level of anger and frustration with which to enter this match ready to claim our rightful place among the upper echelons of Pure Amusement Wrestling, and decimate our competition.
The only ounce of credit you and Francis will receive is that together, you drove us to the point beyond caring, to the point of absolute freedom.
This letter is your one reward.
The carnage that comes next is on us.
From the Chronically Overlooked,
Francis Ford Cuppola: All this time who knew those mimes had such incredible penmanship?
Rodney rolled his eyes once more.
“Yeah. Well, I’ve checked the entire house and they’re no where to be found.”
Rodney eyed Francis with an inkling of surprise at the sudden sense of urgency and serious understanding of the magnitude of this development.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I can’t believe my beloved French Mimes flew the coop like this.
“Well, believe it. I haven’t even had a chance to work with them on some training drills.”
Francis nodded.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re right. We need to find them.
“But how, they could be anywhere by now?”
Francis considered.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I’m not sure. We'll traipse all over Louisiana if we have to.
"Francis, isn't there severe flooding in parts of Louisiana, right now?"
Francis Ford Cuppola: We have to try. We’ll take the Francismobile. It's the fastest car in my fleet. Come on.
“The what-mobile? …Know what? Never mind. I’m just glad you’re finally focusing on something other than this Lione guy.”
Francis glared at him as he straightened his shirt collar.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney, I may be a lot of things, but one thing I am not is a quitter. Mister Missassugi?
Francis called to the large man leaning on the end of the shovel.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Fill in that hole.
The burly tall man silently nodded and went about his work. Francis shook his head with a smile as he ushered Rodney towards the garage.
Francis Ford Cuppola: What was I thinking? Digging a hole. But I love it when they don’t talk, though. And, hey, since when could the mimes talk, huh? Did you know about this? I seriously need to change from here on out...
Thus galvanized, they were off to, hopefully, stand at the Mimes side a complete, and utter unified whole….
Francis Ford Cuppola: I'm telling you Rodney, this experience has definitely changed me. From now on things are going to be different. I'm a whole new man.