Post by Steve Sinclair on Dec 14, 2018 21:30:41 GMT
Scene opens up inside of a very posh and very modern hotel room. In fact, it’s the master suite inside the Bad Ass Hotel in Los Vegas, which bares the name of the owner of this fine establishment, The Bad Ass James Kelloggs! What? Did you think he made his money from wrestling? Don’t be silly. He’s a hotel tycoon on the Strip in Sin City.
Cuddled up in the middle of his California King bed in a white down comforter is James Kelloggs. Sound asleep like a baby with a smile on his face. Must have been a fantastic night last night.
James rolls onto his right side, takes a hold of the pillow and punches it a few times, balling up the one corner of the pillow and stuffing it under his head.
“Bae….” James softly whispers to himself as he drifts further and further into deep sleep as one very happy camper.
Switching scenes, We now find ourselves somewhere in the bowels of the Bad Ass Hotel, in a part of the basement only a lucky few, only a very select special ladies get to visit. James calls it the Fun Room and while this room lives up to that name for him, for the ladies who enter this room, I’m not so sure they would call this room, fun. Yeah sure, their is some who call it fun as this is their sort of thing, but not everyone goes willingly….
The 1920’s era glass door knob slowly turns on the solid panel wood door with it’s chipping and peeling lead paint, “mist green” color which looks like baby puke. The door slowly opens inwards to reveal the Fun Room, which we can’t see a thing as it’s pitch black inside. The dank hallway outside isn’t much revealing either as a single 40 watt light bulb being the only source of lighting that we can see. A hand reaches out and takes a hold of the beat up door jam, in a place that you can clearly tell several hands over the years have touched and used the same spot on the molding of the door jam for leverage as the lead base paint has been worn away over the years. Soon a face reveals itself. The face of Who’re. Who looks rough for wear. Sporting a fat bloody bottom lip and the look of revenge in her eyes. Her hair is a messy mop that at one time used to be pulled back in a ponytail. As she slowly emerges from the Fun room, she’s sporting only a dirty tee shirt, a long one. It looks like it’s been dragged through the desert for a year and the Los Vegas Raiders logo on this black tee is half worn off with parts of it missing. She found one of her shoes and is holding the other one as she leans up against the wall, breathing hard, pissed off and is vowing to get even.
“Now now miss.” A voice calls out towards her. Who’re is trying to see who is there but there isn’t much light. Then a large round figure emerges, a older lady in a long black dress with a white apron, her graying hair up in a bun and her black rim glasses slowly sliding down her nose. She is a much older women, in a her early 60’s and looks like she has lived a hard life.
“It’ll be okay now. I’ll take you up to your room, get you something to eat. Fresh clothes, a nice bath, some wine. You’ll be just fine.” This lady says as she takes Who’re hand.
“Where is he?” Who’re says glaring at the lady who has come to help her recover.
“Don’t you worry about that right now.”
“No! Where is that little fucker!”
“Miss. This is you first time in the fun room I take it? I know it was a lot to take in.”
“No shit…” Runs through Who’re mind.
“But it’s over with, for now. Sometimes, Master would like to indulge in round two, and in that case, we must get you ready.”
“Round? Round two?”
The older women, a grandma like figure, starts to lead Who’re away by the hand, with her other arm around Who’re shoulder. “You didn’t think you were done did you? Why master is just getting started.”
“I’ll fucking kill him.”
The older laugh lets a laugh slip. She catches her self and smiles. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. But I will tell you, that they all say that between rounds.”
Who’re looks at this lady with a WTF look on her face as she is lead away back into the darkness…………
OGDA lives a simple life. He is a man of simple needs. Simple wants. Simple desires. No wife. No Children making his life complicated, difficult. It’s just him and his cat. A white 1978 Honda CVCC wagon is mode of transportation. No need for a new huge ugly gas guzzling SUV or some sort of sports car. Basic. Clean. Simple.
His apartment, now that he has unloaded his home in San Francisco and is no longer burdened by a house payment, is a one bedroom deal, last remodeled in the 1960s. Cherry hardwood floors, metal kitchen cabinets, a bathroom with white subway tiles. He found a older couch from the early 80’s at a Goodwill store. A random coffee table found at the same Goodwill store. A floor lamp, non matching end table and no TV makes up his living room. Where a TV stand would go, is a older stereo cabinet. Tape deck, radio, record player is all he needs. Next to that is a chrome wire rack holding his records, most of which he picked up over the years at garage sales, second hand shops and ebay. His kitchen table, is also second hand, maybe third or fourth hand at this point. From the 50’s, with his yellow laminate top, chrome legs and 1 match chair. On the table, is a orange and white salt and pepper shaker with matching napkin holder, from the 70’s would be my guess. It’s at this table whereBester, err I mean OGDA spends a bulk of his time when at home, working on his scrapbook, flipping through old magazines he finds here and there and everywhere, at estate sales, Goodwill, etc. 9 out of 10 times he gets them for next to or nothing. He clips out the articles and pictures he wants, recycles the rest. Then he carefully sorts and places them in his scrapbook for flipping through later on.
Like today.
With his back to the camera. OGDA has his mask off, on the table top next to him, next to one of his 5 scrap books he has thoughtfully and carefully pieced together. A coffee mug is on the table on the other side of the book, a mug that has a two kittens on it and reads: Show me your kittens! It sits on a folded over napkin.
OGDA is looking at his creation. Then slowly flips the page to the next page.
“Mister Welsh.” OGDA says as he flips the page.
“I went out there and I was going to do what I said I was going to do. I was going to set the time to beat. What I didn’t count on was Mister Losem, not wanting to get hurt. It never dawned on me that Mister Losem was listening to me and saying to himself, that I don’t want to get hurt. When that bell rang and he just threw himself on the mat and told me to cover him.”
Flip a page.
“I was thinking that this was a dream or something. I was thinking, that’s not how this is suppose to work. I was wanting to say to Mister Losem, that we need to stare each other down. That we need to threaten to punch each other and then we go to lock up, but I reach out and touch you with my index finger and you fall to the mat. Hit you with the dreaded, and deadly, outlawed in 140 countries world wide, the finger of death!”
OGDA holds up his index finger on his right hand.
“Many don’t know this, but I possess what many in the industry have called the most deadliest death finger in the history of wrestling. Each and every week, every time I step in that ring, I tell myself to keep my finger to my self, I keep it under lock and keep. I show an enormous amount of self control not to use this finger every chance I get. I was ready to unleash it on Mister Losem and set the time to beat.”
OGDA balls up his fist.
“Either way Mister Welsh. I did set the time to beat. I did beat the clock. I beat the time that everyone set. I was the winner. I did my team a solid by beating the clock and it should be Team OGDA and Team Mack who should be kicking off Death March.”
OGDA lowers his fist placing it on the table top.
“But you couldn’t have that could you Mister Welsh? You knew that would be bad for you. You knew that if Team OGDA had the most time to recover and get ready for the next round, we would dominate and win the whole thing, thus making Mister Zybala the new General Manager of OCW.”
OGDA flips the page in his scrapbook.
“So you had to make sure that wouldn’t happen didn’t ya? You had to come out and make sure that I didn’t beat the clock. Now.”
OGDA places his hands on his lap, looking down at the scrapbook.
“We’re coming out third.”
OGDA sits completely still. We can hear the sound of his kitchen clock as OGDA sits at the table letting it burn inside of him that he was screwed at Massacre, or at least in his mind, worked over “hard”. As the weeks have gone by leading up to Death March, as it became more clear that Marcus Welsh wasn’t going to play fair, especially towards OGDA, who he considered Marcus a friend, was looking to sabotage him to gain a edge in winning Death March and retaining his seat as the General Manager, this has left OGDA, crossed.
He starts to rock ever so slightly in the chair. He’s looking at the page of his scrapbook, but clearly he isn’t looking at it. Rather staring past it.
“At Death March. I won’t need the power of my Rainbow Warriors. I won’t need help and guidance from my Shining Stars. While I appreciate their help, the strength I will get from them as they cheer me on. I will not need it. At Death March. Several death warrants will be issued. By my hand. Not to knock Team Mack. Nothing against Mister Vargas, Mister Grenier, Mister PerZag and even though I can’t stand him, Mister O’Connor. You four gentlemen are going head to head against an individual who is going to bulldoze his way through Death March and personally make sure that Mister Zybala win and becomes the new General Manager of OCW. I am the tank that is launching missiles and blowing holes in the countryside, laying waste to everything I see. No one will be left standing come Monday!”
OGDA glances over his shoulder towards the camera, allowing us to see a side profile of his face for a second.
“The last man standing at Death March, is the one man wrecking crew. The man who is going to snap all who oppose me in two. I will not be denied! I will not be stopped!”
OGDA reach for his mask.
“I don’t care about the contract for the OCW title. Keep it.”
He holds the mask in his hand and looks at it.
“Running through everyone that stands across from me in that ring.”
He flips the mask over and holds it upsides down.
“Getting my hand raises as the sole survivor is the only thing I care about. That is my only goal.”
OGDA slides the mask over his head and adjusts it.
“Anything less than that, will not work for me. And god help you if someone cheats and bends the rules to knock me out of the tournament.”
OGDA stands up and turns towards the camera.
“This is personal for me.”
OGDA crack his knuckles and walks past the camera…..
Back in the hallway, The Bad Ass James Kelloggs sporting a nice suit walks up to the door to his Fun room. The older lady is standing next to it, almost like she’s on guard or something. She looks down at James with the biggest smile on her face.
“Master.” She says in that grandma tone.
“I take everything was taken care of?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Good. Cuz round two.” James says with the biggest shit eating grin on his face. “Is going to be off the chains.”
“Have fun sweety.” She says and pats James on the top of his little bald head and walks away. James opens the door and steps inside his Fun room. We see nothing, no one, but James stands in the doorway.
“BAE! Hope you’re ready bitch! Shits about to get real!”
James closes the door behind.
I wonder what is going on?
Cuddled up in the middle of his California King bed in a white down comforter is James Kelloggs. Sound asleep like a baby with a smile on his face. Must have been a fantastic night last night.
James rolls onto his right side, takes a hold of the pillow and punches it a few times, balling up the one corner of the pillow and stuffing it under his head.
“Bae….” James softly whispers to himself as he drifts further and further into deep sleep as one very happy camper.
Switching scenes, We now find ourselves somewhere in the bowels of the Bad Ass Hotel, in a part of the basement only a lucky few, only a very select special ladies get to visit. James calls it the Fun Room and while this room lives up to that name for him, for the ladies who enter this room, I’m not so sure they would call this room, fun. Yeah sure, their is some who call it fun as this is their sort of thing, but not everyone goes willingly….
The 1920’s era glass door knob slowly turns on the solid panel wood door with it’s chipping and peeling lead paint, “mist green” color which looks like baby puke. The door slowly opens inwards to reveal the Fun Room, which we can’t see a thing as it’s pitch black inside. The dank hallway outside isn’t much revealing either as a single 40 watt light bulb being the only source of lighting that we can see. A hand reaches out and takes a hold of the beat up door jam, in a place that you can clearly tell several hands over the years have touched and used the same spot on the molding of the door jam for leverage as the lead base paint has been worn away over the years. Soon a face reveals itself. The face of Who’re. Who looks rough for wear. Sporting a fat bloody bottom lip and the look of revenge in her eyes. Her hair is a messy mop that at one time used to be pulled back in a ponytail. As she slowly emerges from the Fun room, she’s sporting only a dirty tee shirt, a long one. It looks like it’s been dragged through the desert for a year and the Los Vegas Raiders logo on this black tee is half worn off with parts of it missing. She found one of her shoes and is holding the other one as she leans up against the wall, breathing hard, pissed off and is vowing to get even.
“Now now miss.” A voice calls out towards her. Who’re is trying to see who is there but there isn’t much light. Then a large round figure emerges, a older lady in a long black dress with a white apron, her graying hair up in a bun and her black rim glasses slowly sliding down her nose. She is a much older women, in a her early 60’s and looks like she has lived a hard life.
“It’ll be okay now. I’ll take you up to your room, get you something to eat. Fresh clothes, a nice bath, some wine. You’ll be just fine.” This lady says as she takes Who’re hand.
“Where is he?” Who’re says glaring at the lady who has come to help her recover.
“Don’t you worry about that right now.”
“No! Where is that little fucker!”
“Miss. This is you first time in the fun room I take it? I know it was a lot to take in.”
“No shit…” Runs through Who’re mind.
“But it’s over with, for now. Sometimes, Master would like to indulge in round two, and in that case, we must get you ready.”
“Round? Round two?”
The older women, a grandma like figure, starts to lead Who’re away by the hand, with her other arm around Who’re shoulder. “You didn’t think you were done did you? Why master is just getting started.”
“I’ll fucking kill him.”
The older laugh lets a laugh slip. She catches her self and smiles. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. But I will tell you, that they all say that between rounds.”
Who’re looks at this lady with a WTF look on her face as she is lead away back into the darkness…………
OGDA lives a simple life. He is a man of simple needs. Simple wants. Simple desires. No wife. No Children making his life complicated, difficult. It’s just him and his cat. A white 1978 Honda CVCC wagon is mode of transportation. No need for a new huge ugly gas guzzling SUV or some sort of sports car. Basic. Clean. Simple.
His apartment, now that he has unloaded his home in San Francisco and is no longer burdened by a house payment, is a one bedroom deal, last remodeled in the 1960s. Cherry hardwood floors, metal kitchen cabinets, a bathroom with white subway tiles. He found a older couch from the early 80’s at a Goodwill store. A random coffee table found at the same Goodwill store. A floor lamp, non matching end table and no TV makes up his living room. Where a TV stand would go, is a older stereo cabinet. Tape deck, radio, record player is all he needs. Next to that is a chrome wire rack holding his records, most of which he picked up over the years at garage sales, second hand shops and ebay. His kitchen table, is also second hand, maybe third or fourth hand at this point. From the 50’s, with his yellow laminate top, chrome legs and 1 match chair. On the table, is a orange and white salt and pepper shaker with matching napkin holder, from the 70’s would be my guess. It’s at this table where
Like today.
With his back to the camera. OGDA has his mask off, on the table top next to him, next to one of his 5 scrap books he has thoughtfully and carefully pieced together. A coffee mug is on the table on the other side of the book, a mug that has a two kittens on it and reads: Show me your kittens! It sits on a folded over napkin.
OGDA is looking at his creation. Then slowly flips the page to the next page.
“Mister Welsh.” OGDA says as he flips the page.
“I went out there and I was going to do what I said I was going to do. I was going to set the time to beat. What I didn’t count on was Mister Losem, not wanting to get hurt. It never dawned on me that Mister Losem was listening to me and saying to himself, that I don’t want to get hurt. When that bell rang and he just threw himself on the mat and told me to cover him.”
Flip a page.
“I was thinking that this was a dream or something. I was thinking, that’s not how this is suppose to work. I was wanting to say to Mister Losem, that we need to stare each other down. That we need to threaten to punch each other and then we go to lock up, but I reach out and touch you with my index finger and you fall to the mat. Hit you with the dreaded, and deadly, outlawed in 140 countries world wide, the finger of death!”
OGDA holds up his index finger on his right hand.
“Many don’t know this, but I possess what many in the industry have called the most deadliest death finger in the history of wrestling. Each and every week, every time I step in that ring, I tell myself to keep my finger to my self, I keep it under lock and keep. I show an enormous amount of self control not to use this finger every chance I get. I was ready to unleash it on Mister Losem and set the time to beat.”
OGDA balls up his fist.
“Either way Mister Welsh. I did set the time to beat. I did beat the clock. I beat the time that everyone set. I was the winner. I did my team a solid by beating the clock and it should be Team OGDA and Team Mack who should be kicking off Death March.”
OGDA lowers his fist placing it on the table top.
“But you couldn’t have that could you Mister Welsh? You knew that would be bad for you. You knew that if Team OGDA had the most time to recover and get ready for the next round, we would dominate and win the whole thing, thus making Mister Zybala the new General Manager of OCW.”
OGDA flips the page in his scrapbook.
“So you had to make sure that wouldn’t happen didn’t ya? You had to come out and make sure that I didn’t beat the clock. Now.”
OGDA places his hands on his lap, looking down at the scrapbook.
“We’re coming out third.”
OGDA sits completely still. We can hear the sound of his kitchen clock as OGDA sits at the table letting it burn inside of him that he was screwed at Massacre, or at least in his mind, worked over “hard”. As the weeks have gone by leading up to Death March, as it became more clear that Marcus Welsh wasn’t going to play fair, especially towards OGDA, who he considered Marcus a friend, was looking to sabotage him to gain a edge in winning Death March and retaining his seat as the General Manager, this has left OGDA, crossed.
He starts to rock ever so slightly in the chair. He’s looking at the page of his scrapbook, but clearly he isn’t looking at it. Rather staring past it.
“At Death March. I won’t need the power of my Rainbow Warriors. I won’t need help and guidance from my Shining Stars. While I appreciate their help, the strength I will get from them as they cheer me on. I will not need it. At Death March. Several death warrants will be issued. By my hand. Not to knock Team Mack. Nothing against Mister Vargas, Mister Grenier, Mister PerZag and even though I can’t stand him, Mister O’Connor. You four gentlemen are going head to head against an individual who is going to bulldoze his way through Death March and personally make sure that Mister Zybala win and becomes the new General Manager of OCW. I am the tank that is launching missiles and blowing holes in the countryside, laying waste to everything I see. No one will be left standing come Monday!”
OGDA glances over his shoulder towards the camera, allowing us to see a side profile of his face for a second.
“The last man standing at Death March, is the one man wrecking crew. The man who is going to snap all who oppose me in two. I will not be denied! I will not be stopped!”
OGDA reach for his mask.
“I don’t care about the contract for the OCW title. Keep it.”
He holds the mask in his hand and looks at it.
“Running through everyone that stands across from me in that ring.”
He flips the mask over and holds it upsides down.
“Getting my hand raises as the sole survivor is the only thing I care about. That is my only goal.”
OGDA slides the mask over his head and adjusts it.
“Anything less than that, will not work for me. And god help you if someone cheats and bends the rules to knock me out of the tournament.”
OGDA stands up and turns towards the camera.
“This is personal for me.”
OGDA crack his knuckles and walks past the camera…..
Back in the hallway, The Bad Ass James Kelloggs sporting a nice suit walks up to the door to his Fun room. The older lady is standing next to it, almost like she’s on guard or something. She looks down at James with the biggest smile on her face.
“Master.” She says in that grandma tone.
“I take everything was taken care of?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Good. Cuz round two.” James says with the biggest shit eating grin on his face. “Is going to be off the chains.”
“Have fun sweety.” She says and pats James on the top of his little bald head and walks away. James opens the door and steps inside his Fun room. We see nothing, no one, but James stands in the doorway.
“BAE! Hope you’re ready bitch! Shits about to get real!”
James closes the door behind.
I wonder what is going on?