Post by shooter landell on Mar 15, 2022 14:36:56 GMT -5
In small town Iowa, Shooter Landell occupies his usual space at Floyd’s, a local bar that he has frequented for the better part of two decades. The usual weekday crowd is in, most solitarily minding their own business, attention to their drinks. The people that frequent this bar on any given Tuesday aren’t necessarily social butterflies, to say the least.
His callused fingers, warped and swollen from years of grappling, wrap around a rocks glass, lifting it into the air before dropping it down with two firm taps agains the bar counter. After a few seconds, the longtime proprietor of the establishment—Floyd Severson—made his way over and topped off the glass with a fresh round of bourbon.
Landell scratched lazily at his face, his fingers scraping against the salt and pepper stubble. His face was weathered, giving the illusion of a man much older than he actually was. At 51 years old (officially as of today, matter of fact), Shooter Landell looked every second of that and several years past it.
For the last 30 years, Landell had traveled across the country and indeed the world as a professional wrestler. He had the proverbial “cup of coffee” in many of the top promotions, though never really finding a home. Over the course of his career he developed a reputation for being notoriously difficult to get along with backstage and a real terror inside of it: a combination that made him paradoxically popular with fans and the pariah of many locker rooms.
His most recent run in DEFIANCE had been marred by his continuous battles with sobriety and substance abuse. As he was gearing up for a real singles run, a recurrent knee injury sidelined him and sent him down the path of pain bills and booze once again, ending his longest-ever streak of sobriety.
Floyd eyed Landell for several moments, watching him drain another bourbon. He had hoped he wouldn’t be seeing him again after his last visit and, for several months, it seemed like his wish had come true. Floyd removed the towel over his shoulder and wiped some sweat off his brow. He frowned and motioned toward the now-empty glass.
“Another, boss?” he asked.
Landell kept his glossy eyes toward the glass and replied with a deep grunt and a finger tap on the glass.
Floyd hesitated. After several seconds, Landell looked up, his cold eyes making direct contact with Floyd’s. He again tapped the glass, with more force. After an additional moment of hesitation, Floyd sighed and poured the journeyman another.
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An abrupt burst of static takes over the screen, flickering on and off several times before the feed cuts away from the show. The black and white screen comes into resolution with a close-up frame on a pair of heavily callused hands, fingers swollen and warped from years of innumerable breaks, sprains, and trauma. Between the forefinger and middle finger of the right hand rests an unlit cigar, the end chewed extensively.
The screen fills with static once again, cutting to a momentary glance at what appears to be a dimly lit basement gym. A second flicker reveals dirty and tattered mats and two men circling one another, the darkness making it difficult to see who they are. A quick cut, followed by the sounds of pure agony as one of the men is bent and twisted, their body contorting to the whims of their assailant. The screen flickers again, cutting back to the callused hands.
Another quick cut back to the tattered gym, more unrelenting screams. The shot follows the hands as they move up toward the lower half of a face. With a flick, the Zippo comes to life, producing a flame that lights the end of the cigar. As a pull is taken, the amber red tip illuminates the otherwise black and white screen, revealing a ragged face covered in prominent salt and pepper stubble. The shot pans back slowly, exposing cold eyes that pierce through the screen, accented by heavily cauliflowered ears. The man’s face contorts into a snarl and an exhale of smoke fills the screen.
Two words appear over the smoke:
His callused fingers, warped and swollen from years of grappling, wrap around a rocks glass, lifting it into the air before dropping it down with two firm taps agains the bar counter. After a few seconds, the longtime proprietor of the establishment—Floyd Severson—made his way over and topped off the glass with a fresh round of bourbon.
Landell scratched lazily at his face, his fingers scraping against the salt and pepper stubble. His face was weathered, giving the illusion of a man much older than he actually was. At 51 years old (officially as of today, matter of fact), Shooter Landell looked every second of that and several years past it.
For the last 30 years, Landell had traveled across the country and indeed the world as a professional wrestler. He had the proverbial “cup of coffee” in many of the top promotions, though never really finding a home. Over the course of his career he developed a reputation for being notoriously difficult to get along with backstage and a real terror inside of it: a combination that made him paradoxically popular with fans and the pariah of many locker rooms.
His most recent run in DEFIANCE had been marred by his continuous battles with sobriety and substance abuse. As he was gearing up for a real singles run, a recurrent knee injury sidelined him and sent him down the path of pain bills and booze once again, ending his longest-ever streak of sobriety.
Floyd eyed Landell for several moments, watching him drain another bourbon. He had hoped he wouldn’t be seeing him again after his last visit and, for several months, it seemed like his wish had come true. Floyd removed the towel over his shoulder and wiped some sweat off his brow. He frowned and motioned toward the now-empty glass.
“Another, boss?” he asked.
Landell kept his glossy eyes toward the glass and replied with a deep grunt and a finger tap on the glass.
Floyd hesitated. After several seconds, Landell looked up, his cold eyes making direct contact with Floyd’s. He again tapped the glass, with more force. After an additional moment of hesitation, Floyd sighed and poured the journeyman another.
-------------
An abrupt burst of static takes over the screen, flickering on and off several times before the feed cuts away from the show. The black and white screen comes into resolution with a close-up frame on a pair of heavily callused hands, fingers swollen and warped from years of innumerable breaks, sprains, and trauma. Between the forefinger and middle finger of the right hand rests an unlit cigar, the end chewed extensively.
The screen fills with static once again, cutting to a momentary glance at what appears to be a dimly lit basement gym. A second flicker reveals dirty and tattered mats and two men circling one another, the darkness making it difficult to see who they are. A quick cut, followed by the sounds of pure agony as one of the men is bent and twisted, their body contorting to the whims of their assailant. The screen flickers again, cutting back to the callused hands.
Another quick cut back to the tattered gym, more unrelenting screams. The shot follows the hands as they move up toward the lower half of a face. With a flick, the Zippo comes to life, producing a flame that lights the end of the cigar. As a pull is taken, the amber red tip illuminates the otherwise black and white screen, revealing a ragged face covered in prominent salt and pepper stubble. The shot pans back slowly, exposing cold eyes that pierce through the screen, accented by heavily cauliflowered ears. The man’s face contorts into a snarl and an exhale of smoke fills the screen.
Two words appear over the smoke:
Shooter Landell
