Post by Will Riley on Jun 22, 2021 9:34:24 GMT -5
Bombastic brass bellows before calming to slow rising.
Art Deco industrial lines begin to materialize out of the darkness, gilded and opulent in a tonal color of burnished gold instead of sepia as would be expected in this type of imagery. It resolves into a cityscape of similarly glorious buildings, all reaching towards the gilded sky.
As more symphonic elements, descending out of the clouds, in a font to match the glory of the buildings
Small bi-planes begin to circle the skyscrapers of gold
“Is this really necessary?”
The voice seems mildly annoyed. Everything pulls back to reveal the screen two people are looking at a flatscreen. One is the eponymous Will Riley, sitting uncomfortably in a comfortably padded chair. He is fidgeting as much at the screen as the room he is in. He looks out of place, wearing a black hoodie, and blue denim cut-off shorts, wool socks, and black low-top Chuck Taylors.
More importantly, is the smartly dressed woman in the pantsuit next to him. Grey pinstripes and honey-colored hair pulled into a smart bun. Her horn-rimmed glasses have an older school but strikingly modern glasses keeper that draped casually against her neck.
“That doesn’t.. Seem like me. You know. At ALL.”
Riley’s discomfort now seems mixed with some frustration.
“Like why are we using my ENTIRE name... What even is that font?!”
He gestures somewhat helplessly at the screen. The look on his face mirrors the consternation in his gestures. The woman sitting next to him, simply looks at her notes, ignoring the gesturing. Tapping a pen on her notes she regards him coolly.
The video resumes as Will crosses his arms and huffs audibly. More imagery passes. None of which notably are of him, or of his wrestling.
“Mr. Riley, today’s wrestling fan is expecting to see more excitement and visceral action in their bouts. You hired me because you didn’t want to fall into the morass that so many
“Wrestlers”
Fall into.”
Her finger quotes are felt as much as heard, she didn’t even bother to look at Riley, She instead nods as the video ends.
“My job is to make you appealing to both fans, and those, like Project: Honor who would sign your paychecks. So as to whether or not you like, or dislike this kind of promotional work, it will make people care about more than…”
She looks at her notes.
“..How many fingers you manipulate in a wristlock.”
His face creases as his eyes squint.
“Okay, but that... Isn’t me.”
“No, that is quite interesting to watch.”
Flabbergasted, a long sigh escapes from his mouth.
“I’d just prefer, if it was at least somewhat in line with who I am.. as wrestler, you know?”
“Oh, and what would that be exactly?”
She raises a hand without looking forestalling his next objection.
“Running and own a catch-fighting center, eating Pizza two times a month, or perhaps that you don’t own or use kneepads.
Even more interesting, excuse my sarcasm, that you own and have read many books by Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, and Robert Jordan. Whoever that last one is…”
“Well you see, Robert Jordan wrote…”
Cutting him off sharply.
“I frankly don’t care. If I don’t care. I can assure you that no one who is in charge of how much money you are making cares.
So which of these motifs should we lead with?”
He puts his hands behind his head.
“Hey, I think the Snake Pit Fighting Club is pretty neat. Mixed Martial Arts is kind of a big deal. Catch as Catch Can Wrestling is the foundation..”
She again raises her hand, the first twinges of visible annoyance on her face.
“And if your discipline had any of that puncher’s chance interest, don’t you think that we would be running that? Just because you seem to think…”
Looking at her notes again. She frowns.
“Frankly, I haven’t heard of any of these people. Did any of them live to this century? Do you think that the crowd is going to have heard of any of these people?”
Riley’s eyes narrow.
“So if you want to put together a video package that highlights you were born an entire century too late or happens to be in Japanese, or any OTHER nonsense, feel free. Just don’t waste my time with it.
Here, I had the team put this together as well.”
She hands some visuals to Riley, who looks at them. His lips purse and his brow furrowed.
“I think.. Yeah that’s not gonna happen.”
The images of Riley superimposed over the Art Deco-styled background, with an air of metropolis about him. Other images have him airbrushed, wearing a suit, and generally looking a whole lot less dude from Portland, Oregon.
"I don't.. own. That suit."
“See, what we’ve done here is we are going to take some of the things you like. Mainly obtuse and slightly out of date concepts, but we’re going to make sure that they breathe into the modern era. Everyone knows you can go in the ring, but your brand.. Your brand needs to be centered around luxury, paradigm shifts.
It’s about finding the balance Will.
Also, have you considered going by Billy?”
Had he been drinking liquid it would’ve sprayed everywhere.
“Have. I. Considered.”
“Yes, it would grow your brand with a younger segment of the audience. We could also spell it with an i e at the end, then you would get tagged in certain internet searches by proxy.”
He looked at her. Trying to determine if this was a rib. Her face was as cold and emotionless as it had been previously.
“I am an adult man. We can agree on that very basic point?”
She nods. Though that does the efficiency of the maneuver as performed by her. There are zero wasted movements. There is a typewriter level of economy of motion in all that she does.
“And while I think I can appreciate trying to tie me to Billie Eilish, to grow the brand.”
Finger quotes.
“That doesn’t change the fact that people are going to see what they are going to see. An excellent ring technician, I don’t need to wear full-length airbrushed tights. I don’t NEED to do anything more than walk down to that ring at Proving Grounds with Ulf Hednir, and wipe my boots on the apron and go to work.”
She visibly rolls her eyes.
“Great, Meanwhile, I’m sure that narrative is going to put butts in the seats.”
She takes back the images she handed him previously.
“You know who Cadillac Jackson and Valkyrie are.”
He frowns and nods affirmatively.
“You even know who your partner is…”
She puts a hand up stopping him from leaning in to make a point.
“I know you’ve been watching videos of ALL the wrestlers on proving ground. That is not what this is about. You chose to try out for Project Honor because you knew what it was.”
Another affirmative nod. He rubs a bearded chin, considering this.
“And Project Honor had me hire you because no one is going to bother to find the matches I wrestled in the past!”
A coy smile traces her features.
“It’s too bad that sounds like a bunch of horseshit to me. What I think needs to happen is we need to emphasize, I am a professional. Wrestler. Not that I am some anachronistic relic from a time when you weren’t even allowed to climb the ropes…”
“So you’ve considered changing that?”
“Absolutely not. Here is what I want to see, get rid of this stirring brass nonsense, if you need music to accompany hyping me up to the ticket buyers…”
“We are not going to use any of the ridiculous nineteen-seventies-inspired garage rock you seem fond of.”
“.. I’ll give you a list of songs. Don’t worry, I’ll find something someone you know has heard of.
Next, I can bend, we can use the font, but I don’t want all of this much-a-do of graphics. Black and White, me grappling in the snake pit, me grappling in japan. Throw in some footage of my Olympic tryout matches.
I don’t need My partner, Caddy Jackson, or Valkyrie thinking because I got signed to Project Honor I am putting on airs. I want them to know exactly.”
He thumps the folder.
“Who.”
He thumps the folder again.
“I”
Again.
“Am.”
His eyes focus, intensify, the color seeming to glow absorbing light.
“I want the fans. I want Ulf Hednir to know exactly who I am.
When I step out on the ramp, whatever music I WANT playing. It’s not going to be about who has the freshest looking hype package, it’s not going to be about the slickest visuals, because at some point, we’re all gonna have to get in the ring.
At that point, it’s not going to matter how many people you managed to bring if your trending or you got the hot social media hand.
No. No, it won’t. It’s gonna come down to guts. Who wants it the most, who can handle the pain the longest, who can be stretched, and then stretch in turn.
It’s about Excellence.
It’s about Execution.
It's about being the best technical wrestler in the world.”
He leans in close. The video of art deco magnificence playing on a loop. Almost glitchy swells of rising horns at this point.
“So that is how you are going to market me for Project Honor. I am
The.
Professional.
Wrestler.”
Art Deco industrial lines begin to materialize out of the darkness, gilded and opulent in a tonal color of burnished gold instead of sepia as would be expected in this type of imagery. It resolves into a cityscape of similarly glorious buildings, all reaching towards the gilded sky.
As more symphonic elements, descending out of the clouds, in a font to match the glory of the buildings
Small bi-planes begin to circle the skyscrapers of gold
“Is this really necessary?”
The voice seems mildly annoyed. Everything pulls back to reveal the screen two people are looking at a flatscreen. One is the eponymous Will Riley, sitting uncomfortably in a comfortably padded chair. He is fidgeting as much at the screen as the room he is in. He looks out of place, wearing a black hoodie, and blue denim cut-off shorts, wool socks, and black low-top Chuck Taylors.
More importantly, is the smartly dressed woman in the pantsuit next to him. Grey pinstripes and honey-colored hair pulled into a smart bun. Her horn-rimmed glasses have an older school but strikingly modern glasses keeper that draped casually against her neck.
“That doesn’t.. Seem like me. You know. At ALL.”
Riley’s discomfort now seems mixed with some frustration.
“Like why are we using my ENTIRE name... What even is that font?!”
He gestures somewhat helplessly at the screen. The look on his face mirrors the consternation in his gestures. The woman sitting next to him, simply looks at her notes, ignoring the gesturing. Tapping a pen on her notes she regards him coolly.
The video resumes as Will crosses his arms and huffs audibly. More imagery passes. None of which notably are of him, or of his wrestling.
“Mr. Riley, today’s wrestling fan is expecting to see more excitement and visceral action in their bouts. You hired me because you didn’t want to fall into the morass that so many
“Wrestlers”
Fall into.”
Her finger quotes are felt as much as heard, she didn’t even bother to look at Riley, She instead nods as the video ends.
“My job is to make you appealing to both fans, and those, like Project: Honor who would sign your paychecks. So as to whether or not you like, or dislike this kind of promotional work, it will make people care about more than…”
She looks at her notes.
“..How many fingers you manipulate in a wristlock.”
His face creases as his eyes squint.
“Okay, but that... Isn’t me.”
“No, that is quite interesting to watch.”
Flabbergasted, a long sigh escapes from his mouth.
“I’d just prefer, if it was at least somewhat in line with who I am.. as wrestler, you know?”
“Oh, and what would that be exactly?”
She raises a hand without looking forestalling his next objection.
“Running and own a catch-fighting center, eating Pizza two times a month, or perhaps that you don’t own or use kneepads.
Even more interesting, excuse my sarcasm, that you own and have read many books by Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, and Robert Jordan. Whoever that last one is…”
“Well you see, Robert Jordan wrote…”
Cutting him off sharply.
“I frankly don’t care. If I don’t care. I can assure you that no one who is in charge of how much money you are making cares.
So which of these motifs should we lead with?”
He puts his hands behind his head.
“Hey, I think the Snake Pit Fighting Club is pretty neat. Mixed Martial Arts is kind of a big deal. Catch as Catch Can Wrestling is the foundation..”
She again raises her hand, the first twinges of visible annoyance on her face.
“And if your discipline had any of that puncher’s chance interest, don’t you think that we would be running that? Just because you seem to think…”
Looking at her notes again. She frowns.
“Frankly, I haven’t heard of any of these people. Did any of them live to this century? Do you think that the crowd is going to have heard of any of these people?”
Riley’s eyes narrow.
“So if you want to put together a video package that highlights you were born an entire century too late or happens to be in Japanese, or any OTHER nonsense, feel free. Just don’t waste my time with it.
Here, I had the team put this together as well.”
She hands some visuals to Riley, who looks at them. His lips purse and his brow furrowed.
“I think.. Yeah that’s not gonna happen.”
The images of Riley superimposed over the Art Deco-styled background, with an air of metropolis about him. Other images have him airbrushed, wearing a suit, and generally looking a whole lot less dude from Portland, Oregon.
"I don't.. own. That suit."
“See, what we’ve done here is we are going to take some of the things you like. Mainly obtuse and slightly out of date concepts, but we’re going to make sure that they breathe into the modern era. Everyone knows you can go in the ring, but your brand.. Your brand needs to be centered around luxury, paradigm shifts.
It’s about finding the balance Will.
Also, have you considered going by Billy?”
Had he been drinking liquid it would’ve sprayed everywhere.
“Have. I. Considered.”
“Yes, it would grow your brand with a younger segment of the audience. We could also spell it with an i e at the end, then you would get tagged in certain internet searches by proxy.”
He looked at her. Trying to determine if this was a rib. Her face was as cold and emotionless as it had been previously.
“I am an adult man. We can agree on that very basic point?”
She nods. Though that does the efficiency of the maneuver as performed by her. There are zero wasted movements. There is a typewriter level of economy of motion in all that she does.
“And while I think I can appreciate trying to tie me to Billie Eilish, to grow the brand.”
Finger quotes.
“That doesn’t change the fact that people are going to see what they are going to see. An excellent ring technician, I don’t need to wear full-length airbrushed tights. I don’t NEED to do anything more than walk down to that ring at Proving Grounds with Ulf Hednir, and wipe my boots on the apron and go to work.”
She visibly rolls her eyes.
“Great, Meanwhile, I’m sure that narrative is going to put butts in the seats.”
She takes back the images she handed him previously.
“You know who Cadillac Jackson and Valkyrie are.”
He frowns and nods affirmatively.
“You even know who your partner is…”
She puts a hand up stopping him from leaning in to make a point.
“I know you’ve been watching videos of ALL the wrestlers on proving ground. That is not what this is about. You chose to try out for Project Honor because you knew what it was.”
Another affirmative nod. He rubs a bearded chin, considering this.
“And Project Honor had me hire you because no one is going to bother to find the matches I wrestled in the past!”
A coy smile traces her features.
“It’s too bad that sounds like a bunch of horseshit to me. What I think needs to happen is we need to emphasize, I am a professional. Wrestler. Not that I am some anachronistic relic from a time when you weren’t even allowed to climb the ropes…”
“So you’ve considered changing that?”
“Absolutely not. Here is what I want to see, get rid of this stirring brass nonsense, if you need music to accompany hyping me up to the ticket buyers…”
“We are not going to use any of the ridiculous nineteen-seventies-inspired garage rock you seem fond of.”
“.. I’ll give you a list of songs. Don’t worry, I’ll find something someone you know has heard of.
Next, I can bend, we can use the font, but I don’t want all of this much-a-do of graphics. Black and White, me grappling in the snake pit, me grappling in japan. Throw in some footage of my Olympic tryout matches.
I don’t need My partner, Caddy Jackson, or Valkyrie thinking because I got signed to Project Honor I am putting on airs. I want them to know exactly.”
He thumps the folder.
“Who.”
He thumps the folder again.
“I”
Again.
“Am.”
His eyes focus, intensify, the color seeming to glow absorbing light.
“I want the fans. I want Ulf Hednir to know exactly who I am.
When I step out on the ramp, whatever music I WANT playing. It’s not going to be about who has the freshest looking hype package, it’s not going to be about the slickest visuals, because at some point, we’re all gonna have to get in the ring.
At that point, it’s not going to matter how many people you managed to bring if your trending or you got the hot social media hand.
No. No, it won’t. It’s gonna come down to guts. Who wants it the most, who can handle the pain the longest, who can be stretched, and then stretch in turn.
It’s about Excellence.
It’s about Execution.
It's about being the best technical wrestler in the world.”
He leans in close. The video of art deco magnificence playing on a loop. Almost glitchy swells of rising horns at this point.
“So that is how you are going to market me for Project Honor. I am
The.
Professional.
Wrestler.”
