Post by Luis Carrillo on Nov 17, 2021 21:38:09 GMT -5
It’s impossible to recognize the location at first. A cloying mist obfuscates the vision, rendering the looming, twisted shapes in the background into something unknowable. Eventually, though, as the camera zooms forward, and upward, above the low hanging fog, the setting is revealed:
A swamp’s shoreline as viewed from the water, but the environs still seem off, as if through the trick of the lens an already ominous southern bayou has been warped into a gothic nightmare. In this Burtonesque landscape the moss draping down from the trees’ ranging branches seem to undulate with a hive-mind sentience and the roots that jut from the oily shallows glisten like poisoned spear tips.
The ambient sounds of the swamps- the chirps, croaks, and hums- are drowned out by a prim, earnest voice: our unseen narrator.
Woman: There’s a saying about wrestling: in Canada, it’s a tradition.
There’s movement on the beachhead. A cervine-looking creature, dainty and small, it’s coat as bright as a newly minted copper penny, pushes through the sedge grass. Cautious now that it is fully exposed, it nervously steps to the water. After a thorough scanning of the surroundings, it lowers its muzzle to drink.
Woman: In Japan: a sport.
The animal should have been more careful.
It is not alone.
Woman: In Mexico: a religion.
The long, tapered snout noiselessly rises from the water, Yellow eyes set deep into the recesses of a reptilian skull peer out covetously at the oblivious ungulate.
The beast drifts closer to the shore.
Woman: And while those observations are open to scrutiny, there is another that cannot be disputed-
The fawn (?), finally sensing danger, lifts its head. The eyes of prey and predator meet.
The former freezes.
The latter lunges.
Woman: In THE TUGLEY WOOD, wrestling is LIFE or DEATH.
Suddenly, Two hands grab the breaching attacker’s tail, yanking it back into the water. A kaleidoscopic cacophony of quick cut closeups follow. A maw filled peg-like incisors snaps shut. The long body of the reptile thrashes violently. The upright figure stumbles. Fingers dig into the armored grooves of the animal’s hide. Arms wrap around the monster and ram its head into the wooden spires piercing the water. The ungulate’s white tuft of a tail flares up as it bounds away from the battle. The glimpse of a scaled mask. Whorls of vines tattooed on tanned skin, a lattice of ink punctuated by blood red roses. Sinewy biceps bulging with effort as man (?) lifts beast and sets it across broad shoulders, and rends it bodily.
Woman: This is the environment that has molded him. And the lessons learned there carry beyond the WABE. In every match, against every foe- he wrestles for his very survival.
As she speaks the camera pulls back so the struggle can only be seen in silhouette. The reptile hisses and lashes its tail. Jaws open and snap shut with bone-crushing force, but with its neck pinned they are vain gestures. The violent flailing slows to mere spasms, and after one last deep, defiant cough the creature becomes still.
Splash. Its corpse is dropped into the water.
Woman: BIG FRUM is COMING to Action Wrestling.
Our victor bends over, palms on knees, and briefly catches his breath. Then, reaching down and back, he takes hold of the body. and walks deeper into the swamp with it.
Woman: And that, America, is NO JOKE.
A swamp’s shoreline as viewed from the water, but the environs still seem off, as if through the trick of the lens an already ominous southern bayou has been warped into a gothic nightmare. In this Burtonesque landscape the moss draping down from the trees’ ranging branches seem to undulate with a hive-mind sentience and the roots that jut from the oily shallows glisten like poisoned spear tips.
The ambient sounds of the swamps- the chirps, croaks, and hums- are drowned out by a prim, earnest voice: our unseen narrator.
Woman: There’s a saying about wrestling: in Canada, it’s a tradition.
There’s movement on the beachhead. A cervine-looking creature, dainty and small, it’s coat as bright as a newly minted copper penny, pushes through the sedge grass. Cautious now that it is fully exposed, it nervously steps to the water. After a thorough scanning of the surroundings, it lowers its muzzle to drink.
Woman: In Japan: a sport.
The animal should have been more careful.
It is not alone.
Woman: In Mexico: a religion.
The long, tapered snout noiselessly rises from the water, Yellow eyes set deep into the recesses of a reptilian skull peer out covetously at the oblivious ungulate.
The beast drifts closer to the shore.
Woman: And while those observations are open to scrutiny, there is another that cannot be disputed-
The fawn (?), finally sensing danger, lifts its head. The eyes of prey and predator meet.
The former freezes.
The latter lunges.
Woman: In THE TUGLEY WOOD, wrestling is LIFE or DEATH.
Suddenly, Two hands grab the breaching attacker’s tail, yanking it back into the water. A kaleidoscopic cacophony of quick cut closeups follow. A maw filled peg-like incisors snaps shut. The long body of the reptile thrashes violently. The upright figure stumbles. Fingers dig into the armored grooves of the animal’s hide. Arms wrap around the monster and ram its head into the wooden spires piercing the water. The ungulate’s white tuft of a tail flares up as it bounds away from the battle. The glimpse of a scaled mask. Whorls of vines tattooed on tanned skin, a lattice of ink punctuated by blood red roses. Sinewy biceps bulging with effort as man (?) lifts beast and sets it across broad shoulders, and rends it bodily.
Woman: This is the environment that has molded him. And the lessons learned there carry beyond the WABE. In every match, against every foe- he wrestles for his very survival.
As she speaks the camera pulls back so the struggle can only be seen in silhouette. The reptile hisses and lashes its tail. Jaws open and snap shut with bone-crushing force, but with its neck pinned they are vain gestures. The violent flailing slows to mere spasms, and after one last deep, defiant cough the creature becomes still.
Splash. Its corpse is dropped into the water.
Woman: BIG FRUM is COMING to Action Wrestling.
Our victor bends over, palms on knees, and briefly catches his breath. Then, reaching down and back, he takes hold of the body. and walks deeper into the swamp with it.
Woman: And that, America, is NO JOKE.