War is the science of destruction.
Mar 11, 2022 17:29:52 GMT -5
via mobile
CJ Phoenix, Gerard Angelo, and 2 more like this
Post by Holden Ross on Mar 11, 2022 17:29:52 GMT -5
Cameras opens on what appears to be an old shield. Not a prop, like one you would buy off of the internet but, rather, a genuine iron shield. Patches of rust have grown like mold across the surface along with countless gouges, pits, and scratch marks that decorate it as well. Suddenly, the head of a mallet, a mini sledge, careens into the shot and slams against the shields surface. And the again. And again. Some of the rust is scraped clean and a few more scratches are added to the surface but it remains.
Holden’s voice is heard as the hammer begins it’s assault again. ”We are GRINDHOUSE. An unrelenting, brutal duo that even the Devil himself never imagined pairing up. We will be the Sword that breaks the Shield.” The camera switches to a different angle, showing Holden in the scrapyard he has shot so many other promotions in. His Throne made of scrap iron and car parts is just off camera while the shield he was hammering on is clamped in a vice, mounted to an old, thick, wooden table. It appears as if it was made from old, heavy railroad ties.
Holden blasts the shield several more times before tossing it aside. The cameras shot tightens on his face, a scowl and narrowed eyes burn a hole through the lens. ”As a kid, I ran the streets in San Luis Obispo, and I was in as much trouble as you could get in without landing in juvie. Part of that was luck, I never got caught, and the other was the fear, and intimidation my crew had over the neighborhood. When shit was about to go down, or they needed to send a message, they came and got me. ‘Every good toolbox needs a hammer’ is what I was told. ‘You, mijo, are my hammer!’ he told me as he slipped a wad of cash wrapped in a note with an address.
I went to that address, with two members of my crew, and we put the fear of….of God, Buddha, Jehovah….who ever they prayed to, you bet your ass they did. Me and my boys, we left with what we came for. We got the money and goods, and made sure they wouldn’t snitch. The ‘Hammer’ got it’s job done then and, well, not much has changed.”
Holden wanders over and takes a seat on his Throne. He pops a blunt into his mouth and fires it up. He pulls deeply from it and then stops to admire the cherry, twin jets of smoke rocket out of his nostrils. Only after taking another hit and exhaling the plume of smoke does he continue.
”Lets take a look at Vanguard, the former Tag Team Champions, shall we. One guy has a Russel Crowe fetish…or maybe it’s a D&D fetish? The guy loves to cosplay as a Gladiator. No shame in that, is there? And, he’s a Ginger to boot. Dude can throw a mean punch, though, I’ll give him that.
And then we have his partner, Downfall. From everything I have been able to gather about the man, he and I have a lot in common. Neither of us had a Dad in our lives. We both spent out whole lives ‘proving’ ourselves to anyone and everyone in their lives, except the one who mattered. Sadly, while he knew his Father the man didn’t give a shit about him. Me? I never met my Father till I was a little older. He was never my Dad, more like a good friend and, eventually, mentor. I don’t know who had it better….”
He takes another long pull from the blunt and exhales the plume into the soft breeze of the night. It sweeps the smoke away and Holden watches, his mind elsewhere, briefly before turning his attention back to the camera.
”You ever heard the song, ‘What’s the Difference?’ It’s a song by Dr. Dre, featuring a bunch of his homies, rapping about the difference between them and whomever they had a beef with at the time. I heard it earlier today and it got me thinking about the difference between us. Now, me and Dion got pretty much nothin in common aside from our love of this sport.
Me and you though, Downfall, got quite a bit in common. Aside from absentee Dad’s, we both want to be the biggest name on the Marquee. Not all that different than any other guy stepping into the ring. But, you and I are willing to go that extra mile to do whatever it takes to win.”
He takes another long pull from the blunt before flicking it off camera. He exhales the plume and rises from the Throne. He makes his way back over to the table holding the shield and runs a hand across it.
”Where we differ, though, is key; I have no qualms being the dirtiest scumbag in the ring to get my arm raised. While you yearn for the adulation of the fans I could care less whether they like me or hate me. To be perfectly honest, I prefer the fans want to see me dead. There are fewer things that I love more than pissing them off.
I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, looking at my heritage and place in this industry. My Father, Frank Merritt, was a true Monster in the ring. He was like the second coming of Bruiser Brody. My destiny is to take up his mantle, to become the One Man Army like he was before me. This isn’t going to be a wrestling match, let’s be honest, it’s going to be a war.
Me and Joey, we’re on the same page, with the same goals while you two have set the Tag straps down by the wayside on your quest for singles glory. You both want that belt that one of you held so briefly. You want it so bad you were willing to fight each other for it. You have your own goals. Your own dreams that you want to make a reality.
GRINDHOUSE has had one goal since it’s inception. One goal since Joey and I teamed up and that was to lay waste to anyone in our way to the Gold. We did just that. Whether it was in singles competition or Tag Team matches, we beat our opponents into dust. I have yet to be pinned, or submitted, in a singles .match since I joined Action Wrestling five months ago. Can either of you say that?”
Holden suddenly turns and in doing so, drive his right elbow into the shield, snapping it off and knocking it down onto the table top
”We have only added to our ranks, bringing Gerard Angelo into the fold and, with his vast knowledge of the industry, he is mentoring the two of us, molding us into more dangerous weapons. I am the Hammer. Joey is the Sword. And GRINDHOUSE will be the one to break Vanguard!”
Holden roars the last line and, while doing so, pivots on his right foot. At the same time, he swings his right hand in a high arching hammerfist and it lands in the center of the shield on the table. The blow causes the shield to break into three pieces. Holden then knocks the pieces to the floor in one, big, sweeping motion where they clatter on the asphalt covered earth. The camera tightens on just his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. His voice is a whispered growl.
”We are GRINDHOUSE. Beat us….if you can….”
The shot fades to black with only the sound of gravel crunching underfoot.
Zingo’s parking lot. 4:22 am. Friday, March 11th 2022
Holden leans against the rented Honda Accord in the parking lot of “Zingo’s Café,” a restaurant on the edge of the industrial part of town, just down the road from two of the three strip clubs in town and just off of the Highway Ninety-Nine. It is popular with the locals and truck drivers and even has a full bar in the back of you had the want. Holden has barely finished his meal; chicken fried steak, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast and has lit a blunt while waiting for his friend who stopped at the can.
He has barely taken three puffs when a bright light is directed at him. He sighs and turns his head to discover one of Bakersfield’s finest has pin-pointed him with the spotlight on his car as he pulls in to the lot. He stops the patrol car several feet away from Holden and, much to our “Hero’s” dismay, a second squad car pulls in behind the first.
You can probably guess where this is headed. Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Holden is headed for lock-up for public intoxication and consuming marijuana in public. If you look up his mugshot, Holden is sneering in the head on picture and slightly sticking his tongue out in the profile shot. Bail was handled relatively swiftly and by seven in the morning, he was a free man again.
When he checked his messages after getting his phone back, the only one that mattered was from Serenity; a pic of her, in a hoodie, blowing him a kiss while getting ready for sleep. He smiles to himself and thinks “She’s too good for me” as he pulls into the airport. He drops the car at the rental agency, boards his plane, and as it lifts off he gives the city the finger.
Holden’s voice is heard as the hammer begins it’s assault again. ”We are GRINDHOUSE. An unrelenting, brutal duo that even the Devil himself never imagined pairing up. We will be the Sword that breaks the Shield.” The camera switches to a different angle, showing Holden in the scrapyard he has shot so many other promotions in. His Throne made of scrap iron and car parts is just off camera while the shield he was hammering on is clamped in a vice, mounted to an old, thick, wooden table. It appears as if it was made from old, heavy railroad ties.
Holden blasts the shield several more times before tossing it aside. The cameras shot tightens on his face, a scowl and narrowed eyes burn a hole through the lens. ”As a kid, I ran the streets in San Luis Obispo, and I was in as much trouble as you could get in without landing in juvie. Part of that was luck, I never got caught, and the other was the fear, and intimidation my crew had over the neighborhood. When shit was about to go down, or they needed to send a message, they came and got me. ‘Every good toolbox needs a hammer’ is what I was told. ‘You, mijo, are my hammer!’ he told me as he slipped a wad of cash wrapped in a note with an address.
I went to that address, with two members of my crew, and we put the fear of….of God, Buddha, Jehovah….who ever they prayed to, you bet your ass they did. Me and my boys, we left with what we came for. We got the money and goods, and made sure they wouldn’t snitch. The ‘Hammer’ got it’s job done then and, well, not much has changed.”
Holden wanders over and takes a seat on his Throne. He pops a blunt into his mouth and fires it up. He pulls deeply from it and then stops to admire the cherry, twin jets of smoke rocket out of his nostrils. Only after taking another hit and exhaling the plume of smoke does he continue.
”Lets take a look at Vanguard, the former Tag Team Champions, shall we. One guy has a Russel Crowe fetish…or maybe it’s a D&D fetish? The guy loves to cosplay as a Gladiator. No shame in that, is there? And, he’s a Ginger to boot. Dude can throw a mean punch, though, I’ll give him that.
And then we have his partner, Downfall. From everything I have been able to gather about the man, he and I have a lot in common. Neither of us had a Dad in our lives. We both spent out whole lives ‘proving’ ourselves to anyone and everyone in their lives, except the one who mattered. Sadly, while he knew his Father the man didn’t give a shit about him. Me? I never met my Father till I was a little older. He was never my Dad, more like a good friend and, eventually, mentor. I don’t know who had it better….”
He takes another long pull from the blunt and exhales the plume into the soft breeze of the night. It sweeps the smoke away and Holden watches, his mind elsewhere, briefly before turning his attention back to the camera.
”You ever heard the song, ‘What’s the Difference?’ It’s a song by Dr. Dre, featuring a bunch of his homies, rapping about the difference between them and whomever they had a beef with at the time. I heard it earlier today and it got me thinking about the difference between us. Now, me and Dion got pretty much nothin in common aside from our love of this sport.
Me and you though, Downfall, got quite a bit in common. Aside from absentee Dad’s, we both want to be the biggest name on the Marquee. Not all that different than any other guy stepping into the ring. But, you and I are willing to go that extra mile to do whatever it takes to win.”
He takes another long pull from the blunt before flicking it off camera. He exhales the plume and rises from the Throne. He makes his way back over to the table holding the shield and runs a hand across it.
”Where we differ, though, is key; I have no qualms being the dirtiest scumbag in the ring to get my arm raised. While you yearn for the adulation of the fans I could care less whether they like me or hate me. To be perfectly honest, I prefer the fans want to see me dead. There are fewer things that I love more than pissing them off.
I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, looking at my heritage and place in this industry. My Father, Frank Merritt, was a true Monster in the ring. He was like the second coming of Bruiser Brody. My destiny is to take up his mantle, to become the One Man Army like he was before me. This isn’t going to be a wrestling match, let’s be honest, it’s going to be a war.
Me and Joey, we’re on the same page, with the same goals while you two have set the Tag straps down by the wayside on your quest for singles glory. You both want that belt that one of you held so briefly. You want it so bad you were willing to fight each other for it. You have your own goals. Your own dreams that you want to make a reality.
GRINDHOUSE has had one goal since it’s inception. One goal since Joey and I teamed up and that was to lay waste to anyone in our way to the Gold. We did just that. Whether it was in singles competition or Tag Team matches, we beat our opponents into dust. I have yet to be pinned, or submitted, in a singles .match since I joined Action Wrestling five months ago. Can either of you say that?”
Holden suddenly turns and in doing so, drive his right elbow into the shield, snapping it off and knocking it down onto the table top
”We have only added to our ranks, bringing Gerard Angelo into the fold and, with his vast knowledge of the industry, he is mentoring the two of us, molding us into more dangerous weapons. I am the Hammer. Joey is the Sword. And GRINDHOUSE will be the one to break Vanguard!”
Holden roars the last line and, while doing so, pivots on his right foot. At the same time, he swings his right hand in a high arching hammerfist and it lands in the center of the shield on the table. The blow causes the shield to break into three pieces. Holden then knocks the pieces to the floor in one, big, sweeping motion where they clatter on the asphalt covered earth. The camera tightens on just his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. His voice is a whispered growl.
”We are GRINDHOUSE. Beat us….if you can….”
The shot fades to black with only the sound of gravel crunching underfoot.
Zingo’s parking lot. 4:22 am. Friday, March 11th 2022
Holden leans against the rented Honda Accord in the parking lot of “Zingo’s Café,” a restaurant on the edge of the industrial part of town, just down the road from two of the three strip clubs in town and just off of the Highway Ninety-Nine. It is popular with the locals and truck drivers and even has a full bar in the back of you had the want. Holden has barely finished his meal; chicken fried steak, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast and has lit a blunt while waiting for his friend who stopped at the can.
He has barely taken three puffs when a bright light is directed at him. He sighs and turns his head to discover one of Bakersfield’s finest has pin-pointed him with the spotlight on his car as he pulls in to the lot. He stops the patrol car several feet away from Holden and, much to our “Hero’s” dismay, a second squad car pulls in behind the first.
You can probably guess where this is headed. Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Holden is headed for lock-up for public intoxication and consuming marijuana in public. If you look up his mugshot, Holden is sneering in the head on picture and slightly sticking his tongue out in the profile shot. Bail was handled relatively swiftly and by seven in the morning, he was a free man again.
When he checked his messages after getting his phone back, the only one that mattered was from Serenity; a pic of her, in a hoodie, blowing him a kiss while getting ready for sleep. He smiles to himself and thinks “She’s too good for me” as he pulls into the airport. He drops the car at the rental agency, boards his plane, and as it lifts off he gives the city the finger.