. Reset
.
SMACK!
The hard sound of flesh crashing hard onto flesh echoes loudly
through the area rapidly followed by a loud wail of pain.
SMACK!
The sounds repeat again. One would think this was a WALTER match,
but as the video fades in, the viewer sees that they’re in a
training gym for either boxing, wrestling, perhaps both.
It’s early morning and the lights are dimmed down, with only
sunlight filtering in through dirty, dingy windows. It’s a scene
straight out of all the scrappy underdog boxing movies you’ve seen
in the past with a central ring that’s cast in the illuminating
light as if providing some sort of sanctity to the proceedings.
Inside the ring, one figure is surrounded by three others, and soon
those three figures drop one by one with the loud SMACK!
With a squinting glint, the viewer would make out the figures in the
ring are female, the central one rather well-built. Any mystery as
to who is laying down the hard chops is removed when Drake Maverick
walks in front of the view, smartphone in hand.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
Honey… honey! Please! I know
you’re hurting! I’m sorry I had to leave your side, but I’ve got ta
make sure the money is still comin’ in! You Yanks and your bloody
private healthcare! That bill for services after your match with
Miss Jamie was bollocks! I could have bought a Jag, an Aston Martin,
and a Rolls for—
Drake winces in pain while clearly getting screamed at through the
phone.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
D-Darling… p-please… you’ll
hurt your throat on top of your neck and other injuries. I know it
was my fault that you didn’t have medical insurance! I forgot to
e-mail in the signed contract before your match because I was so
focused on getting Miss Jamie’s affairs in ord—
And more wincing as Drake is screamed at more and louder that the
viewer can even hear the piercing shrieks. Immediately the Brit
looks practically heartbroken as his bottom lip quivers.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
T-There’s no need ta get
nasty luv… I’m bleedin’ doin’ my best ‘ere…
More screaming and as Drake’s berated more before the call is
sharply ended. With a heavy sigh, he puts the phone away… only for
it to ring again.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
Luv!
I—Oh… hello Booker! Calling me about my offer of best friendship?!
I’m so glad that you’re—No! I don’t care if you got Troy Palomalu on
your Twitter feed! The shampoo commercial is Miss Jamie’s! Well…
Drake looks around and carefully whispers into the phone.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
I’m tryin’ ta convince Miss
Jamie on the Shampoo in a Tub match but she’s a tough nut to crack
bloke! It’s certainly not as easy as a ‘jar of Mista Peanuts’ as ya
told me!
Before Drake can comment further, he’s hard shoulder checked by the
three sparring partners who are limping their way past the Brit and
toward the exit. One of them exclaiming how the “pissant pay” isn’t
worth the beatdown they’re receiving.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
Oi! We had a gentleman’s… err
gentlewoman’s agreement! Don’t you Yanks believe in honoring your
word?!
Middle fingers serve as the answer as the women depart. Winching,
Drake anxiously turns around the way one would when faced with a
great danger behind them. Leaning her front forward, with an arm
crossed on the ropes is Jamie Hayter. Her normally long hair
currently tied up in braids for this workout as rivulets of sweat
pours down her form.
JAMIE
HAYTER:
Gonna get me a proper set of
sparring partners to prepare for the next match eh? Maybe I should
go track that wife of yours down and drag her ass to this ring for a
rematch!
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
N-Now, no need to go there,
Miss Jamie! I mean, you were a bit rough on those girls.
KERPLUNK!
Is the sound of the water bottle that Hayter had in her free hand
that goes crashing direct into the center of Drake’s forehead.
Stumbling and eventually bobbling and falling on his arse.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
*rubbing his forehead* Ye
said ye weren’t gonna hit me anymore today!
JAMIE
HAYTER:
And you said I’d have some
fuckin’ opponents to help get me ready for smashin’ Kimber Lee’s
face!
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
I’m tryin’ me best here!
JAMIE
HAYTER: That the same sorry
sack excuse you use in bed for your wife?!
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
*lip quivers* N-No need to be
abusive…
Rolling her eyes, Jamie seems to get more serious as she stares at
her ‘advocate’.
JAMIE
HAYTER: Maybe this is fun and
games for you, but for me? This is my fuckin’ life! You think it was
a joy being drilled onto that bloody floor and taken out of the
match at Vengeance? That I’m just fuckin’ jolly that Momo and that
cheerleader cunt are sittin’ on their arses waitin’ for the Queen of
the Mountain Match?
Drake looks as if deep in thought, dramatically making an awkward
pause as he really tries to think hard on this, before finally
squeaking out his reply…
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
…no?
JAMIE
HAYTER: *large eyeroll* Real
fuckin’ sharp there, Sherlock!
Pulling himself up, Drake rubs his forehead with one hand and his
arse with the other as he carefully approaches the ringside.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
Look, I know it’s not an
optimal path but it could be an ideal one! After your… “exhibition”
against me wife? You beat this Kimber Lee lass and all chaps will be
talkin’
about Miss Jamie Hayter’s win
streak!
Jamie looks
less than impressed as she continues to stare down the smaller man.
JAMIE
HAYTER:
That’s the grand master plan
you promised when you started stalkin’ me and beggin’ to be my
‘advocate’ or whatever nonsense?
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
…I wasn’t stalkin’—
JAMIE
HAYTER: Shut. Up.
Sighing, Jamie paces back and forth, clearly agitated but trying to
keep herself calm. As her green eyes drift over Drake, she’s clearly
pondering whether she wants to fire him, smash his face in, or both.
Eventually, ‘logic’ wins for the moment.
JAMIE
HAYTER: Let’s work on
somethin’ useful. What did you find out about Kimber Lee?
Drake’s face goes pale white as his eyes rapidly dart back and forth
as he desperately tries to think of an answer… or excuse in reality.
JAMIE
HAYTER: Fuckin’ tosser!
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
W-Wait! I know that she’s
part of some strange family sort! They’re all of sorts of
ethnicities like the Dudleys and they also all share one bed… which…
is right strange if you ask—
JAMIE
HAYTER:
I’ll make you fuckin’ ‘right
strange’ if you don’t give me anythin’ useful!
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
C’mon Miss Jamie! I’m bleedin’
doin’ my best ‘ere!
JAMIE
HAYTER:
“Bleedin’ doin’ my best
‘ere!” – Ya a fuckin’ parrot wit’ that bullshit? Should we call
those Wingmen dipshits and ‘ave you all give me a Monty Python show?
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
Cheer up, luv! You know,
chicken salad from chicken soup!
JAMIE
HAYTER:
That’s ‘Chicken salad from
chicken shit’ you daffy jizz mop!
Drake lowers his head in shame, scrambling to think how he can
salvage the situation. Pacing back and forth at a clipped trot that
threatens to etch out grooves in the concrete slab. Jamie watches
with dour expression as her eyes trace the diminutive man’s
movements to and fro.
To Jamie’s assumption, eventually that small spark seems to reach
the flickering, broken bulb that’s Drake’s brain must have occurred
as he held his index finger up and became more animated.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
We’re a team luv! We have to
build each other up! Think about it! Comin’ out o’ Storm, you’ll be
set for the Queen of the Mountain match and I’ll be on me way to a
World Title match! We just… need to adjust your perspective! Give
ya’self a reset! You’re a big bruiser an’ all, but the mean girl
won’t get ya the t-shirts, commercials and endorsements! People love
their Brock Lesnars sure but it’s the John Cenas that are the lucky
ducks that get the international movie deals and red carpets in
China!
Jamie looks at him with a disbelieving gaze.
JAMIE
HAYTER:
…what did you just say?
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
That… ya need to be nicer and
less cranky? Ya know, be like Booker’s gal Rok-C more! The fans eat
up the sugar sweet babyface!
Jamie shakes her head fervently, still in massively disbelief.
JAMIE
HAYTER:
No, no, the bullshite before
that.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
That you’ll be set for the Queen of the Mountain?
JAMIE
HAYTER:
No, the bollocks after that.
DRAKE
MAVERICK:
…that I’ll be on me way to a
World Title match?
Immediately Jamie bursts into laughter, falling onto her sides,
clutching them as she roars at what she just heard. Drake opens his
mouth to protest but is silenced as she points at him and laughs
even more, tears streaking down her cheeks.
Tears also streak down Drake’s cheek… as he walks away humiliated.
001 | 001
| 000 |
