Post by Anthony on Jan 19, 2022 20:45:19 GMT
(OOC: Won't lie. This is terrible, and quite honestly the product of a COVID sick mind. But it's what I got. Something made me want to produce something dramatic for Drake and instead this, well, just... whatever lol Good luck to those actually trying to win the Battle Royale 
)
)-------
Laughter.
That’s all that echoed in his ears as he stood in the middle of the ring. The lights were shut off and dimmed to the single hanging light above his head. As he stood in its cone of light, he watched as the illuminating field swung back and forth softly, despite the lack of breeze or gust in the building. It was as if an ethereal hand was pushing the metal cover back and forth just to taunt him more.
Laughter.
It continued to be all he heard despite the complete emptiness of the building. Thousands of voices, laughing, mocking, taunting him. He thought after decades of enduring such abuse that he had gotten accustomed to it. Become numb to the derisive jeers and chiding tones.
Yet he hadn’t.
Each rumbling laughter felt like another knife in the back… or worse, a kick in the crotch.
“You think YOU’LL be World Champion?!”
He could hear Miss Jamie’s sneering inquiry, ripping open an existing wound and feeling as raw and fresh as it had in the moment hours before.
It didn’t matter if it had been her voice, or some musclebound lunkhead, or some wrestling promoter, or worst of all… his own wife.
Sticky, tear-stained cheeks lightly shimmer from the moving light as he tries being a proper Brit and maintain a ‘stiff upper lip’. Though said lip looks to be trembling as he tries to keep from the usual quiver and more tears falling.
??: Bloody hell of a thin’ innit? You work so hard, bust your bleedin’ bollocks off to make a name and livin’ fer ya’self and your family and how do they treat you? Like a bloody clown.
The patter of footsteps on what must be puddles of water gathered on the concrete echo and drown out the laughter as if they were stomping each one out. Emerging from the darkness is… Drake Maverick?!
Well, it appears Drake’s lost in his mind again, or this is one of those dual motivation videos he’s shot… who knows. Either way, this Drake is dressed in a black leather jacket with a “Mr. 24/7” shirt underneath, jeans and sneakers. While the sorrowful Drake keeps his head downcast, the leather jacket Drake hops up the stairs, wiping his feet on the ring apron in respect, before hopping into the ring. Circling around his other self, this Shade of Drake slowly circles around the ring.
Drake Shade: Hell o’ a bloody thin’ ain’ it? You’ve busted your arse off, stood in this very ring across from giant monsters like WALTER and didn’ flinch once! And what thanks do they give you? Laughter! Laughter for doin’ somethin’ that they themselves keep failin’ ta do… BELIEVE.
The Shade gets close to Drake, practically yelling in his ear as he continues.
Drake Shade: Believing that you got as right as any one ta go for that World Title! Believing that on any given night you damn well can be the best entertainin’ and competitive bastard that these Yanks or anyone else in the world has ever seen!
The Shade keeps circling around, pumping his fist and giving his best “Clint Eastwood” scowl at his primary self.
Drake Shade: Well bollocks to them! What’s Miss Jamie’s favorite words? Wanker? Tosser? Well I say bollocks to each an’ ev’ry one o’ that thing that Drake bleedin’ Maverick ain’t worthy of a World Title shot!
The Shade tilts his head up at the ceiling as if in great contemplation.
Drake Shade: Think about it bloke. Instead of mewling and sniveling at the scraps Jamie Hayter gives ya, ya go win that Battle Royale! That alone makes your name a hot commodity! THEN! You win the bleedin’ title and become the first WLCW World Champion!
The Shade grabs Drake’s shoulders, shaking him vigorously as he forces the Brit to look him in the eye.
Drake Shade: But that’s only if you stop this sorry sack pity party! Pick that jaw up the floor, stop mopin’, stop pissin’ your pants, stand up straight, get some ire and be ready to punch blokes in the mouth!
The look in Drake’s eyes is one of a forlorn hopelessness. Even as his shade berates him, the spark of determination and vitality appears to have been hollowed out of him. Blank, vacant stares are all the shade gets as it tries to get through to the man.
??: You know, I’d almost forgotten what your eyes looked like. They’re still the same. Pissholes in the snow.
As this mental breakdown continues, emerging from the shadows is… Michael Caine?! Yup. Or rather Michael Caine as he looked 50 years ago in Get Carter. This, however, seems to get Drake’s attention as his eyes go wide and he looks at the actor? Shade? Figment of his broken psyche? Well either way, he looks at the actor in awe.
Drake Maverick: M-Michael Caine?!
Michael Caine: Appears so.
The actor looks at himself.
Michael Caine: Not bad chap. Rather appreciate that you put me in a more serious role than some silly sod. But let’s focus on you…
Caine gets in the ring circling the real Drake while the Shade steps back respectfully. As he circles around Drake’s front, WHAM!, and slammed fist into Drake’s gut that drops the pint-sized Brit to his knees.
Drake Shade: What the hell?!
Michael Caine just looks at Drake scornfully before turning and giving the Shade the same withering look.
Michael Caine: What? You expected me to coddle and comfort this ninny? If that’s the case, whichever one of you summoned me, should have gotten me to show up as Alfred Pennyworth. I don’t have time or interest to waste on a pissant.
Ruthlessly, Caine drives his polished dress shoe into Drake’s ribs, forcing the smaller man to fall over.
Michael Caine: That’ all you got?!
Another brutal kick to the ribs that drives the wind from Drake’s body rapidly.
Michael Caine: Going to just lay there like a cheap Bangkok whore and take it?! Fine!
Caine lays in repeated kicks before transitioning to hard stomps that threaten to do serious damage to Drake’s ribs and then head as Caine moves his head upward.
Michael Caine: Fight or die! Make your choice!
The stomps continue and the Shade looks increasingly concerned, starting to reach out to try and intercede until angry wail and the real Drake launches from the mat, pinning down Michael Caine and raining down blows. Wails of anger, frustration, and hate come from the man as he spews built up venom.
Drake Maverick: To bloody hell with the lot of you! I give it my all! I bust my arse harder than anyone in this business! I deserve some proper bloody respect and I’m gonna get it! Whether that’s punchin’ R-Truth, John Cena, Roman Reigns, or even bloody Brock Lesnar in the mouth! I’ll show you! I’LL SHOW ALL OF YOU!!!
SMACK!
As Drake slams his fist down again… it’s just the mat.
No “Shade of Drake Maverick”. No "Michael Caine". No phantoms of his deluded, overwhelmed psyche.
Just Drake Maverick in the middle of an empty ring as he’s soaked in sweat as if he’d just had a P90x workout or had just had massive fever. The sweat runs down his forehead in rivulets, with salty drops falling into his eyes and providing a small sting as he winces.
Rising to his feet, he becomes aware that his breathing is incredibly labored, desperately gasping in gulpfuls as he tries to calm down the rapid shaking and quaking of his entire nervous system.
??: Yo Dawg, why you wrestlin’ wit’ yo’self?
Booker T emerges from the shadows this time, but this seems to be the legit deal as he looks at Drake like he’s a broken mental defect. Staying at ringside, he just crosses his arms as he tries to figure out what’s going on.
Booker T: You lookin’ like them VietCong done dropped napalm on ya dawg. I ever tell you about the time Charlie…
Drake Maverick: Booker… not now.
Booker T just continues rambling until something finally catches up to him.
Booker T: That remind me! We gots ta be talkin’ ‘bout this shampoo commercial! Time is money sucka!
Fade.
That’s all that echoed in his ears as he stood in the middle of the ring. The lights were shut off and dimmed to the single hanging light above his head. As he stood in its cone of light, he watched as the illuminating field swung back and forth softly, despite the lack of breeze or gust in the building. It was as if an ethereal hand was pushing the metal cover back and forth just to taunt him more.
Laughter.
It continued to be all he heard despite the complete emptiness of the building. Thousands of voices, laughing, mocking, taunting him. He thought after decades of enduring such abuse that he had gotten accustomed to it. Become numb to the derisive jeers and chiding tones.
Yet he hadn’t.
Each rumbling laughter felt like another knife in the back… or worse, a kick in the crotch.
“You think YOU’LL be World Champion?!”
He could hear Miss Jamie’s sneering inquiry, ripping open an existing wound and feeling as raw and fresh as it had in the moment hours before.
It didn’t matter if it had been her voice, or some musclebound lunkhead, or some wrestling promoter, or worst of all… his own wife.
Sticky, tear-stained cheeks lightly shimmer from the moving light as he tries being a proper Brit and maintain a ‘stiff upper lip’. Though said lip looks to be trembling as he tries to keep from the usual quiver and more tears falling.
??: Bloody hell of a thin’ innit? You work so hard, bust your bleedin’ bollocks off to make a name and livin’ fer ya’self and your family and how do they treat you? Like a bloody clown.
The patter of footsteps on what must be puddles of water gathered on the concrete echo and drown out the laughter as if they were stomping each one out. Emerging from the darkness is… Drake Maverick?!
Well, it appears Drake’s lost in his mind again, or this is one of those dual motivation videos he’s shot… who knows. Either way, this Drake is dressed in a black leather jacket with a “Mr. 24/7” shirt underneath, jeans and sneakers. While the sorrowful Drake keeps his head downcast, the leather jacket Drake hops up the stairs, wiping his feet on the ring apron in respect, before hopping into the ring. Circling around his other self, this Shade of Drake slowly circles around the ring.
Drake Shade: Hell o’ a bloody thin’ ain’ it? You’ve busted your arse off, stood in this very ring across from giant monsters like WALTER and didn’ flinch once! And what thanks do they give you? Laughter! Laughter for doin’ somethin’ that they themselves keep failin’ ta do… BELIEVE.
The Shade gets close to Drake, practically yelling in his ear as he continues.
Drake Shade: Believing that you got as right as any one ta go for that World Title! Believing that on any given night you damn well can be the best entertainin’ and competitive bastard that these Yanks or anyone else in the world has ever seen!
The Shade keeps circling around, pumping his fist and giving his best “Clint Eastwood” scowl at his primary self.
Drake Shade: Well bollocks to them! What’s Miss Jamie’s favorite words? Wanker? Tosser? Well I say bollocks to each an’ ev’ry one o’ that thing that Drake bleedin’ Maverick ain’t worthy of a World Title shot!
The Shade tilts his head up at the ceiling as if in great contemplation.
Drake Shade: Think about it bloke. Instead of mewling and sniveling at the scraps Jamie Hayter gives ya, ya go win that Battle Royale! That alone makes your name a hot commodity! THEN! You win the bleedin’ title and become the first WLCW World Champion!
The Shade grabs Drake’s shoulders, shaking him vigorously as he forces the Brit to look him in the eye.
Drake Shade: But that’s only if you stop this sorry sack pity party! Pick that jaw up the floor, stop mopin’, stop pissin’ your pants, stand up straight, get some ire and be ready to punch blokes in the mouth!
The look in Drake’s eyes is one of a forlorn hopelessness. Even as his shade berates him, the spark of determination and vitality appears to have been hollowed out of him. Blank, vacant stares are all the shade gets as it tries to get through to the man.
??: You know, I’d almost forgotten what your eyes looked like. They’re still the same. Pissholes in the snow.
As this mental breakdown continues, emerging from the shadows is… Michael Caine?! Yup. Or rather Michael Caine as he looked 50 years ago in Get Carter. This, however, seems to get Drake’s attention as his eyes go wide and he looks at the actor? Shade? Figment of his broken psyche? Well either way, he looks at the actor in awe.
Drake Maverick: M-Michael Caine?!
Michael Caine: Appears so.
The actor looks at himself.
Michael Caine: Not bad chap. Rather appreciate that you put me in a more serious role than some silly sod. But let’s focus on you…
Caine gets in the ring circling the real Drake while the Shade steps back respectfully. As he circles around Drake’s front, WHAM!, and slammed fist into Drake’s gut that drops the pint-sized Brit to his knees.
Drake Shade: What the hell?!
Michael Caine just looks at Drake scornfully before turning and giving the Shade the same withering look.
Michael Caine: What? You expected me to coddle and comfort this ninny? If that’s the case, whichever one of you summoned me, should have gotten me to show up as Alfred Pennyworth. I don’t have time or interest to waste on a pissant.
Ruthlessly, Caine drives his polished dress shoe into Drake’s ribs, forcing the smaller man to fall over.
Michael Caine: That’ all you got?!
Another brutal kick to the ribs that drives the wind from Drake’s body rapidly.
Michael Caine: Going to just lay there like a cheap Bangkok whore and take it?! Fine!
Caine lays in repeated kicks before transitioning to hard stomps that threaten to do serious damage to Drake’s ribs and then head as Caine moves his head upward.
Michael Caine: Fight or die! Make your choice!
The stomps continue and the Shade looks increasingly concerned, starting to reach out to try and intercede until angry wail and the real Drake launches from the mat, pinning down Michael Caine and raining down blows. Wails of anger, frustration, and hate come from the man as he spews built up venom.
Drake Maverick: To bloody hell with the lot of you! I give it my all! I bust my arse harder than anyone in this business! I deserve some proper bloody respect and I’m gonna get it! Whether that’s punchin’ R-Truth, John Cena, Roman Reigns, or even bloody Brock Lesnar in the mouth! I’ll show you! I’LL SHOW ALL OF YOU!!!
SMACK!
As Drake slams his fist down again… it’s just the mat.
No “Shade of Drake Maverick”. No "Michael Caine". No phantoms of his deluded, overwhelmed psyche.
Just Drake Maverick in the middle of an empty ring as he’s soaked in sweat as if he’d just had a P90x workout or had just had massive fever. The sweat runs down his forehead in rivulets, with salty drops falling into his eyes and providing a small sting as he winces.
Rising to his feet, he becomes aware that his breathing is incredibly labored, desperately gasping in gulpfuls as he tries to calm down the rapid shaking and quaking of his entire nervous system.
??: Yo Dawg, why you wrestlin’ wit’ yo’self?
Booker T emerges from the shadows this time, but this seems to be the legit deal as he looks at Drake like he’s a broken mental defect. Staying at ringside, he just crosses his arms as he tries to figure out what’s going on.
Booker T: You lookin’ like them VietCong done dropped napalm on ya dawg. I ever tell you about the time Charlie…
Drake Maverick: Booker… not now.
Booker T just continues rambling until something finally catches up to him.
Booker T: That remind me! We gots ta be talkin’ ‘bout this shampoo commercial! Time is money sucka!
Fade.