Post by Trent Page on Apr 25, 2011 20:28:07 GMT
A thick, exhausted tension hangs between the few wrestlers that remain in a small locker room, which is really nothing more than a section of the high school gym blocked off by curtains. Behind the tension lies the scream of fifty or so fans witnessing the end of the evenings main event. The anger is evident in their cries as they taunt the victor of the match. The curtain is momentarily thrown open as Trent Page backs in, shouting at the audience the entire way. As soon as the black flap shuts, blocking him off from his detractors, his arms drop, and his unshaven face seems to sag. Gone is the man who had the audience crying for blood not thirty seconds before. He is replaced by a broken, tired wrestler slowly moving across the polished wood floor. He nods to his remaining colleagues before taking a seat, and grabbing a black, moth eaten gym bag from behind his uncomfortable plastic chair. He digs frantically through the satchel before removing a tin container, and a small, hand held mirror. With a manic smile on his face, Trent pops open the former breath mint container, and dumps the powdery, white contents onto the reflective glass that he has managed to balance on his lap. As soon as the small trickle of powder empties, a thin, hunched over figure hobbles into the dressing area holding his head. Once he has fully entered the pitiful locker room, the grimace of pain on his face turns into the widest smile that has ever crossed the young man’s face. He immediately steps over to Trent, who is now tearing the sweat stained tape from his wrist.
Thank you so much Mr. Page! I knew we’d get a bump at the gate when we advertised you, I never imagined we’d double our usual audience!
Trent stops tearing at his wrist tape for a moment, and stares, bewildered at the young man in front of him.
You mean to tell me that this is twice the size of the crowd you guys usually draw?
More than! By ourselves we usually draw fifteen to twenty people. This is insane man!
Trent can’t help but laugh to himself, as he finishes removing his tape, and finds the razor he had hidden beneath it all. Taking the blade, he chops at the cocaine in his lap, and forms it all into a straight line.
Listen kid, I’ve wrestled a number of guys who were on their way to the top at the time, and I knew every one of ‘em was gonna be something. After every match I looked them in the eye and said ‘I see things in you.’ And kid, I never saw half of what you got in any of them. Get outta this shit hole, and you will be something someday.
When he is finished, Trent leans down, and inhales what little coke he poured from the tin. With a jerk, he sits upright, knocking the mirror off of his knees. His eyes bulge for a second as a euphoric grin creeps across his face,
You really mean it?
To be honest, no. I was trying to be nice, but you had to push it. The truth is you don’t have the build, you don’t have the look, and whoever trained you was completely useless. If I were you, I’d quit this lousy business anyway. Run, before she sinks her claws into you. Use your brain, but don’t let this fickle whore of a business get any kind of grip on you.
With that, Trent throws his items back into his war torn hockey bag, and slings it over his shoulder. He steps across the floor, and throws open the curtain to find a woman standing before him. Her jean shorts cling tightly to her slightly-too-big thighs, and reveal a bit too much of her subtle pot belly. The faded, poorly done tattoos that cover most of her cellulite ridden body, tell the tale of a few too many bad decisions, and her smile reveals her three pack a day smoking habit. Batting her eyelashes, she smiles up at Trent.
Hey there big boy. You need a place to stay while you’re in town.
With a smirk of self-pity, Page looks back at the rookie.
You stick around long enough, and this’ll be your only real paycheck kid.
Turning back towards the woman, he motions for her to follow him. The pair make their way through the empty seats scattered about the gymnasium, but Trent is stopped by the sound of hard soled shoes slapping on the wood behind him.
MR. PAGE! Mr. Page!
Slowly, Trent turns around to see a disheveled looking man in a dark grey suit. The thin man smoothes his hair back into place, and readjusts his glasses, while quickly stepping towards Trent and his companion.
Mr. Page, I think I may have something of interest to you.
It’s at this point that Trent looks down to see the manila envelope in the man’s right hand. His mood immediately shifts as a look of rage comes over his face, and he steps forward so that he is nose to nose with the suited man.
Who the hell are you? You coming to serve me papers or something little man?
No, no nothing like that Mr. Page. I am a representative of the FWF.
Trent’s hateful glare turns to one of amusement as he bursts into laughter, and shakes his head.
Tell whoever sent you that that’s a classic rib, but I’ve had it pulled on me a hundred times, and it only worked the first two.
I assure you Mr. Page, this is no prank. The Fantasy Wrestling Federation has been trying to contact you for three weeks now. If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.
The FWF rep thrusts the envelope forward, and it is reluctantly taken by Trent. Slowly, the wrestler opens it, and lets a thick packet of papers slide out into his hand. The official type lays out a contract that makes his eyes grow wider, and wider as he reads more of it. Slowly his laughter begins to echo off the walls of the now empty gym.
Have you all lost your minds? Do you know how big of a risk this is?
The woman on Trent’s arm seems to be getting restless as she stares up at the ceiling.
Trent, can we-
Shut the fuck up ring rat! Can’t you see I’m doing business? Fuck off for a while huh?
With a silent look of indignant protest, the woman slowly wanders away from the two men. She seems dumbfounded as she doesn’t say another thing until she is out of the building.
We are well aware of the risks Mr. Page-
Trent.
Trent then. We are aware of the risks, and given the possible rewards, it’s a risk we are willing to take. You don’t have to sign now. Take some time, show them to your lawyer, and if you’re interested you can sign it, and return it in the envelope we provided.
Unable to take his eyes off the small print of the contract, Trent only nods as the man smiles, and silently leaves the wrestler alone in the gym with his thoughts. A few moments pass before Page suddenly straightens, as if struck by lightning. Hastily, he shoves the papers back into their off-yellow container, and begins to sprint toward the big, metal double doors that separate the world of gym classes and wrestling shows, from the real world. A rush of cold air hits him as he bursts through the doorway into the cool night air. He doesn’t break his gate as he almost stumbles over a tree root, and catches himself on the driver side door of his rust-laden, green Jeep. He has to yank on the handle three times before the door finally opens with and unwilling groan. Trent slides across his torn up seat, and violently jams the key into the ignition of the car. Turning the key garners no response at first.
Start god damn you!
Suddenly the car sputters to life, and threatens to die, before finally settling at a low, unhealthy growl. Stomping on the gas, Trent brings the growl to a roar as he speeds over the grass median between him and the main road. He jerks the wheel to the right, and slides onto the asphalt with a deafening squeal. The wheezing vehicle fishtails for a moment, before catching, and straightening itself out. The speedometer nears ninety as the cold wind whips in through the permanently open passenger side window. The scream of rushing air doesn’t register to Trent, as his mind is singularly set on the task at hand.
Without warning, the Jeep begins to sputter again, before shutting off entirely. Trent is able to coast for quite a while, during which time he manages to use every swear word he knows while turning the key angrily with no result. As he comes to a stop, Trent, contract still clutched firmly in his right hand, jumps out of the vehicle, and begins to run down the pavement. The slap of his flat soled wrestling boots on the pavement is the only noise on the empty highway. Page’s choice of footwear is an ill choice for running outside, and it quickly begins to show as his knees holler in agony. Despite his bodies protest, Trent continues to run, his eyes peering as far down the road as he can see.
After what seems like hours, the exhausted wrestler begins to run up and entrance ramp that leads to a grouping of strip malls. The shining lights are a relief to Trent, as he hops off the road, and makes a beeline for a small store with “Blake’s” emblazoned above the door. Trent’s eyes go wide with panic as he notices a stocky man locking the front doors.
WAIT! Blake! Hold on!
The man hears Trent’s cries, and turns around. He scratches his closely shorn head for a moment, before a smile of realization crosses his face. The prim and proper north Massachusetts accent is evident in the first word the well muscled man speaks.
Oh my god… Trent? Is that you?
Page finally reaches the man, but collapses at his feet. Sweat makes small trails down his dirt covered forehead, and he can only speak between his desperate gasps for air.
Blake… contract… FWF.
Slow down. Catch your breath.
Blake crouches down, offering the fallen man a drink from his water bottle, which he shakes off, before slowly attempting to rise to his feet. It is a battle, but eventually Trent manages to balance on his rubbery legs.
FWF offered me a contract Blake! I’m gonna be a wrestler again!
I didn’t think you had stopped.
Come on Blake! I mean a REAL wrestler! This is my last chance man. I can either become a legend, or die in humiliating fashion on a national wrestling show… Blake… I need your help. I need you to fix me.
Fix you? Trent, I don’t-
Please! I can’t go out like one of those coked out has-beens from the eighties! I have so much weakness to work through Blake. You saved me once, and all I’m asking is one more chance.
Blake tilts his head to the side, and can only stare quizzically at Trent for a minute. The curious gaze turns into one of pity, and shifts to the ground.
You know I’m here for you. Training starts at six A.M. though.
Trent looks up into his old mentor’s eyes, and almost collapses onto the asphalt again as the entire progress of his coming redemption plays through his head. The image of himself standing, shiny golden belt held high above his head, is almost more than the burly wrestler can stand.
I’ll be there.
I know you will. You’re staying with me. If I’m putting my name on the line by getting behind you, I will not be letting you out of my sight. There will be no alcohol, there will be no drugs, and there will be no smoking as long as the name of Blake’s Gym rides on your success.
Trent actually does drop to his knees, but only to hide the tears that are now streaming down his dusty cheeks. Slowly, he manages to choke out a response.
Thank… thank you.
The sound of a braying alarm clock seemingly splits both Trent’s serene sleep, and his skull. Suddenly, his well muscled right arm pops out from beneath a multi-colored quilt. With malice, he wraps his fingers around the clock, and hurls it across the room, shattering the innocent timepiece against the adjacent wall. After a roughly half-second silence, Trent cringes at the sound of the door swinging open.
You’ve five minutes before I’ll be flipping the bed. I suggest you use them wisely.
The clap of the heavy, wooden door slamming closed magnifies Trent’s headache, and renders him without the ability to open his eyes for a minute or two. Slowly, he gains the needed will to pry open his eyelids, exposing his bloodshot eyes to the harsh, unforgiving sunlight of the early morning. The blinding rays pour in, illuminating the dull, beige wallpaper that covers the modestly decorated room. To bring himself to a sitting position, Trent reaches up, and grasps the oak bedpost with a shiver. Gradually, he swings his legs over the edge, and settles the bottoms of his bare feet on the cold, hardwood floor.
Jesus Christ Blake!
His trainer’s voice answers from another part of the house.
What now?
Did you ice down your fuckin’ floors last night.
The only thing that answers this time is the sound of Blake’s laughter bounding down the hallway. Trent shakes his head, and at a groggy pace, begins to slip his ripped, faded jeans on over his bare legs. Then, all at once, Page is reinvigorated as the aroma of brewing coffee wafts past his nostrils. With new energy, the wrestler yanks his grey tank top over his torso, and steps quickly through the door way. Without a thought, he makes his way past the wood paneled hallway, and into the inviting atmosphere of the kitchen. Trent is almost blinded at first as the light from outside bounces off the white walls, appliances, and furniture of Blake’s kitchen.
Jesus Christ Elton John. How the hell do you keep a place like this clean?
Blake smiles from his seat at the end of a short, rectangular table, the steam from his cup of coffee rising into the air, and disappearing into nothing.
I rarely spend any time here. To be honest, I usually sleep at the gym.
I think I got off topic. Coffee!
Oh no, you won’t be having any coffee.
Trent can only stare at Blake in befuddled anger.
You’re in some amount of pain this morning, are you not?
Yeah.
When Blake answers, it is with a maniacal joy that startles his caffeine deprived friend.
Good! You are going to fight through that pain today Trent! The next week or two won’t be about strengthening your body, it will be about strengthening your will. You’re going to go through a training regimen more painful than you’ve ever experienced, and you’ll do it in the condition you’re in, with zero chemical assistance.
Trent nods, turns, and slowly steps out the back yard door, into the overwhelming six A.M. brightness. Blake chuckles to himself as Trent’s profane screaming shoots in through the open window. Once the yelling ceases, Trent straightens himself out, and with renewed composure, walks back into the kitchen.
When do we get started then?
_
The tall, glass door at the front of the gym swings open, and Trent’s jaw drops to the floor. His eyes dart from one shiny piece of gym equipment to the next. The white walls intensify the feeling of technological perfection, and in a rare moment, Page finds himself without words. Brand new treadmills line each walls, and in the center sits three racks of chrome plated dumbbells. Scattered throughout the room are countless other weight machines, a few of which Trent lays his eyes upon for the first time.
Nice, yes?
I’m gonna feel like Ivan Drago in here.
Well don’t get used to it. Most days you’ll be training in the basement; feeling a little more like Clubber Lang. I want you up here because I want you training in the oppressive heat that fills this gym whenever the sun shines in through those big doors. I turned off the air conditioner, and today you will grow to appreciate the cooling relief offered by a sauna.
Trent can only shake his head as he steps towards one of the weight benches, his sneakers squeaking across the linoleum floor the whole way. Settling himself into the blue, vinyl padding that covers the thin metal platform. Before either of them can say anything, the front door opens again to reveal a short, overweight young man with chocolate brown hair that hangs to the middle of his back. The glasses that hang crookedly on his head, frame his pale grey eyes, and rest on the tip of his upward sloping nose..
Yo Trent! Sorry I’m late. Traffic on the interstate was a bitch!
Blake glares at Trent with a look of disapproval that can be read from a mile away. Before his trainer can begin to speak, Page holds up his right hand.
Before you get on me, this is my cousin, Vinny. He’s gonna help me film a little promo.
Blake lets out a loud, one note laugh, as the look on his face turns to one of amused astonishment.
You have got to be kidding me. What are you doing filming a promo, when you haven’t even had your first match?
Trent stands to defend himself, but doesn’t step forward. With apologetic eyes, and a stern voice, Trent explains his motives.
Look, I’m in a battle royal, at a pay per view, against some certifiable legends. I get the need to have the physical edge, but I’m gonna need the mental edge too. It won’t take long, and it’ll do me a world of good come the twenty-ninth.
With furrowed brow, Blake mulls over his friends words, and shakes his head with a sigh when he reaches his conclusion.
Fine, you’ve got ten minutes.
The image flickers on, revealing Trent Page sitting in the middle of a well kept gym. His face begins in a smile, before contorting itself into an angry smile.
I was gonna start off this little message with some worn out cliché about making an impact. I was gonna tell all of you watching that I plan to stomp into the battle royal at Genesis and eliminate every last one of my opponents. I was gonna yap on and on about how I plan to come out of Genesis victorious. The truth is, I probably won’t come out on top. The battle plan I’m bringing with me doesn’t exactly lend itself to a tally in the W column. You see, I plan to walk into the battle royal, and do everything I can to destroy The Fizz.
Trent stands to his feet, his smile gone from his face, and begins to saunter around the pristine weight room. Running his finger along the glimmering dumbbells, the gazes wistfully off into the distance. Abruptly, he seems to come to his senses, and begins speaking immediately.
Why would I spend all my energy chasing The Fizz you ask. It’s simple, come Monday, no one will be talking about Tim Vortex, no one will be talking about who won the world title, the only thing anyone will be talking about is how the new addition: Trent Page, crippled a legend. Fizz, I want you to listen to what I have to say next, because if you do, you might just back out of the match, and save yourself a world of injury, and heart break.
Trent reaches out, and lifts up one of the weights, feeling it in his hand before lowering himself onto the padded weight bench beneath him. As he curls the weight, the muscles in his right arm begin to churn, and work, squirming just beneath the surface of his skin.
Fizz, on Sunday, I am going to take great pleasure in turning your Hall of Fame induction night form the best night of your life, into the single most miserable experience you could ever imagine. I am going to break every bone in your body, one by one, until I break one that isn’t going to heal. The last moment of your career will be your total, and abject humiliation at the hands of Trent Page. Think about that, and do try to get some sleep. It won’t be easy once you’re in a full body cast.
Trent slowly sets the weight down, and grabs a white towel from the rack next to him. Once he wipes the sweat from his brow, he slings it over his shoulder, and begins to walk amongst the sophisticated exercise equipment once again. His eyes linger on each pulley as he scans the room with a new smile.
As for the rest of you, I’m not sure what to say. You probably won’t have to worry. I mean, I have a lot of ring rust on me, and I’ll probably use all of my energy on our legendary female friend anyway. The only problem is that I’m a fighter. All I’ve known how to do since the day I was born, was fight. It’s second nature to me, and sometimes, I get into a zone that I really can’t describe. What you should know is that if I can ignore the ring rust, and I can slip into that zone, you will be in the ring with an evil, vile creature.
His voice begins to get louder and louder, as he stops walking completely, and glares into the camera.
If you catch me in the zone, I will become a hateful machine bent on destruction and death. I will become something that you couldn’t even come up with in your most horrific nightmares, and the only thing you’ll be able to do to save yourself is submit, and beg for mercy, though I have my doubts you will receive it! Prepare to have hellfire rain down upon you, for you have committed the ultimate blunder: YOU HAVE CHALLENGED TRENT PAGE!
With that, Trent smacks the camera, knocking it over and leaving us with nothing but a view of the black and white checked floor.
Thank you so much Mr. Page! I knew we’d get a bump at the gate when we advertised you, I never imagined we’d double our usual audience!
Trent stops tearing at his wrist tape for a moment, and stares, bewildered at the young man in front of him.
You mean to tell me that this is twice the size of the crowd you guys usually draw?
More than! By ourselves we usually draw fifteen to twenty people. This is insane man!
Trent can’t help but laugh to himself, as he finishes removing his tape, and finds the razor he had hidden beneath it all. Taking the blade, he chops at the cocaine in his lap, and forms it all into a straight line.
Listen kid, I’ve wrestled a number of guys who were on their way to the top at the time, and I knew every one of ‘em was gonna be something. After every match I looked them in the eye and said ‘I see things in you.’ And kid, I never saw half of what you got in any of them. Get outta this shit hole, and you will be something someday.
When he is finished, Trent leans down, and inhales what little coke he poured from the tin. With a jerk, he sits upright, knocking the mirror off of his knees. His eyes bulge for a second as a euphoric grin creeps across his face,
You really mean it?
To be honest, no. I was trying to be nice, but you had to push it. The truth is you don’t have the build, you don’t have the look, and whoever trained you was completely useless. If I were you, I’d quit this lousy business anyway. Run, before she sinks her claws into you. Use your brain, but don’t let this fickle whore of a business get any kind of grip on you.
With that, Trent throws his items back into his war torn hockey bag, and slings it over his shoulder. He steps across the floor, and throws open the curtain to find a woman standing before him. Her jean shorts cling tightly to her slightly-too-big thighs, and reveal a bit too much of her subtle pot belly. The faded, poorly done tattoos that cover most of her cellulite ridden body, tell the tale of a few too many bad decisions, and her smile reveals her three pack a day smoking habit. Batting her eyelashes, she smiles up at Trent.
Hey there big boy. You need a place to stay while you’re in town.
With a smirk of self-pity, Page looks back at the rookie.
You stick around long enough, and this’ll be your only real paycheck kid.
Turning back towards the woman, he motions for her to follow him. The pair make their way through the empty seats scattered about the gymnasium, but Trent is stopped by the sound of hard soled shoes slapping on the wood behind him.
MR. PAGE! Mr. Page!
Slowly, Trent turns around to see a disheveled looking man in a dark grey suit. The thin man smoothes his hair back into place, and readjusts his glasses, while quickly stepping towards Trent and his companion.
Mr. Page, I think I may have something of interest to you.
It’s at this point that Trent looks down to see the manila envelope in the man’s right hand. His mood immediately shifts as a look of rage comes over his face, and he steps forward so that he is nose to nose with the suited man.
Who the hell are you? You coming to serve me papers or something little man?
No, no nothing like that Mr. Page. I am a representative of the FWF.
Trent’s hateful glare turns to one of amusement as he bursts into laughter, and shakes his head.
Tell whoever sent you that that’s a classic rib, but I’ve had it pulled on me a hundred times, and it only worked the first two.
I assure you Mr. Page, this is no prank. The Fantasy Wrestling Federation has been trying to contact you for three weeks now. If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.
The FWF rep thrusts the envelope forward, and it is reluctantly taken by Trent. Slowly, the wrestler opens it, and lets a thick packet of papers slide out into his hand. The official type lays out a contract that makes his eyes grow wider, and wider as he reads more of it. Slowly his laughter begins to echo off the walls of the now empty gym.
Have you all lost your minds? Do you know how big of a risk this is?
The woman on Trent’s arm seems to be getting restless as she stares up at the ceiling.
Trent, can we-
Shut the fuck up ring rat! Can’t you see I’m doing business? Fuck off for a while huh?
With a silent look of indignant protest, the woman slowly wanders away from the two men. She seems dumbfounded as she doesn’t say another thing until she is out of the building.
We are well aware of the risks Mr. Page-
Trent.
Trent then. We are aware of the risks, and given the possible rewards, it’s a risk we are willing to take. You don’t have to sign now. Take some time, show them to your lawyer, and if you’re interested you can sign it, and return it in the envelope we provided.
Unable to take his eyes off the small print of the contract, Trent only nods as the man smiles, and silently leaves the wrestler alone in the gym with his thoughts. A few moments pass before Page suddenly straightens, as if struck by lightning. Hastily, he shoves the papers back into their off-yellow container, and begins to sprint toward the big, metal double doors that separate the world of gym classes and wrestling shows, from the real world. A rush of cold air hits him as he bursts through the doorway into the cool night air. He doesn’t break his gate as he almost stumbles over a tree root, and catches himself on the driver side door of his rust-laden, green Jeep. He has to yank on the handle three times before the door finally opens with and unwilling groan. Trent slides across his torn up seat, and violently jams the key into the ignition of the car. Turning the key garners no response at first.
Start god damn you!
Suddenly the car sputters to life, and threatens to die, before finally settling at a low, unhealthy growl. Stomping on the gas, Trent brings the growl to a roar as he speeds over the grass median between him and the main road. He jerks the wheel to the right, and slides onto the asphalt with a deafening squeal. The wheezing vehicle fishtails for a moment, before catching, and straightening itself out. The speedometer nears ninety as the cold wind whips in through the permanently open passenger side window. The scream of rushing air doesn’t register to Trent, as his mind is singularly set on the task at hand.
Without warning, the Jeep begins to sputter again, before shutting off entirely. Trent is able to coast for quite a while, during which time he manages to use every swear word he knows while turning the key angrily with no result. As he comes to a stop, Trent, contract still clutched firmly in his right hand, jumps out of the vehicle, and begins to run down the pavement. The slap of his flat soled wrestling boots on the pavement is the only noise on the empty highway. Page’s choice of footwear is an ill choice for running outside, and it quickly begins to show as his knees holler in agony. Despite his bodies protest, Trent continues to run, his eyes peering as far down the road as he can see.
After what seems like hours, the exhausted wrestler begins to run up and entrance ramp that leads to a grouping of strip malls. The shining lights are a relief to Trent, as he hops off the road, and makes a beeline for a small store with “Blake’s” emblazoned above the door. Trent’s eyes go wide with panic as he notices a stocky man locking the front doors.
WAIT! Blake! Hold on!
The man hears Trent’s cries, and turns around. He scratches his closely shorn head for a moment, before a smile of realization crosses his face. The prim and proper north Massachusetts accent is evident in the first word the well muscled man speaks.
Oh my god… Trent? Is that you?
Page finally reaches the man, but collapses at his feet. Sweat makes small trails down his dirt covered forehead, and he can only speak between his desperate gasps for air.
Blake… contract… FWF.
Slow down. Catch your breath.
Blake crouches down, offering the fallen man a drink from his water bottle, which he shakes off, before slowly attempting to rise to his feet. It is a battle, but eventually Trent manages to balance on his rubbery legs.
FWF offered me a contract Blake! I’m gonna be a wrestler again!
I didn’t think you had stopped.
Come on Blake! I mean a REAL wrestler! This is my last chance man. I can either become a legend, or die in humiliating fashion on a national wrestling show… Blake… I need your help. I need you to fix me.
Fix you? Trent, I don’t-
Please! I can’t go out like one of those coked out has-beens from the eighties! I have so much weakness to work through Blake. You saved me once, and all I’m asking is one more chance.
Blake tilts his head to the side, and can only stare quizzically at Trent for a minute. The curious gaze turns into one of pity, and shifts to the ground.
You know I’m here for you. Training starts at six A.M. though.
Trent looks up into his old mentor’s eyes, and almost collapses onto the asphalt again as the entire progress of his coming redemption plays through his head. The image of himself standing, shiny golden belt held high above his head, is almost more than the burly wrestler can stand.
I’ll be there.
I know you will. You’re staying with me. If I’m putting my name on the line by getting behind you, I will not be letting you out of my sight. There will be no alcohol, there will be no drugs, and there will be no smoking as long as the name of Blake’s Gym rides on your success.
Trent actually does drop to his knees, but only to hide the tears that are now streaming down his dusty cheeks. Slowly, he manages to choke out a response.
Thank… thank you.
The sound of a braying alarm clock seemingly splits both Trent’s serene sleep, and his skull. Suddenly, his well muscled right arm pops out from beneath a multi-colored quilt. With malice, he wraps his fingers around the clock, and hurls it across the room, shattering the innocent timepiece against the adjacent wall. After a roughly half-second silence, Trent cringes at the sound of the door swinging open.
You’ve five minutes before I’ll be flipping the bed. I suggest you use them wisely.
The clap of the heavy, wooden door slamming closed magnifies Trent’s headache, and renders him without the ability to open his eyes for a minute or two. Slowly, he gains the needed will to pry open his eyelids, exposing his bloodshot eyes to the harsh, unforgiving sunlight of the early morning. The blinding rays pour in, illuminating the dull, beige wallpaper that covers the modestly decorated room. To bring himself to a sitting position, Trent reaches up, and grasps the oak bedpost with a shiver. Gradually, he swings his legs over the edge, and settles the bottoms of his bare feet on the cold, hardwood floor.
Jesus Christ Blake!
His trainer’s voice answers from another part of the house.
What now?
Did you ice down your fuckin’ floors last night.
The only thing that answers this time is the sound of Blake’s laughter bounding down the hallway. Trent shakes his head, and at a groggy pace, begins to slip his ripped, faded jeans on over his bare legs. Then, all at once, Page is reinvigorated as the aroma of brewing coffee wafts past his nostrils. With new energy, the wrestler yanks his grey tank top over his torso, and steps quickly through the door way. Without a thought, he makes his way past the wood paneled hallway, and into the inviting atmosphere of the kitchen. Trent is almost blinded at first as the light from outside bounces off the white walls, appliances, and furniture of Blake’s kitchen.
Jesus Christ Elton John. How the hell do you keep a place like this clean?
Blake smiles from his seat at the end of a short, rectangular table, the steam from his cup of coffee rising into the air, and disappearing into nothing.
I rarely spend any time here. To be honest, I usually sleep at the gym.
I think I got off topic. Coffee!
Oh no, you won’t be having any coffee.
Trent can only stare at Blake in befuddled anger.
You’re in some amount of pain this morning, are you not?
Yeah.
When Blake answers, it is with a maniacal joy that startles his caffeine deprived friend.
Good! You are going to fight through that pain today Trent! The next week or two won’t be about strengthening your body, it will be about strengthening your will. You’re going to go through a training regimen more painful than you’ve ever experienced, and you’ll do it in the condition you’re in, with zero chemical assistance.
Trent nods, turns, and slowly steps out the back yard door, into the overwhelming six A.M. brightness. Blake chuckles to himself as Trent’s profane screaming shoots in through the open window. Once the yelling ceases, Trent straightens himself out, and with renewed composure, walks back into the kitchen.
When do we get started then?
_
The tall, glass door at the front of the gym swings open, and Trent’s jaw drops to the floor. His eyes dart from one shiny piece of gym equipment to the next. The white walls intensify the feeling of technological perfection, and in a rare moment, Page finds himself without words. Brand new treadmills line each walls, and in the center sits three racks of chrome plated dumbbells. Scattered throughout the room are countless other weight machines, a few of which Trent lays his eyes upon for the first time.
Nice, yes?
I’m gonna feel like Ivan Drago in here.
Well don’t get used to it. Most days you’ll be training in the basement; feeling a little more like Clubber Lang. I want you up here because I want you training in the oppressive heat that fills this gym whenever the sun shines in through those big doors. I turned off the air conditioner, and today you will grow to appreciate the cooling relief offered by a sauna.
Trent can only shake his head as he steps towards one of the weight benches, his sneakers squeaking across the linoleum floor the whole way. Settling himself into the blue, vinyl padding that covers the thin metal platform. Before either of them can say anything, the front door opens again to reveal a short, overweight young man with chocolate brown hair that hangs to the middle of his back. The glasses that hang crookedly on his head, frame his pale grey eyes, and rest on the tip of his upward sloping nose..
Yo Trent! Sorry I’m late. Traffic on the interstate was a bitch!
Blake glares at Trent with a look of disapproval that can be read from a mile away. Before his trainer can begin to speak, Page holds up his right hand.
Before you get on me, this is my cousin, Vinny. He’s gonna help me film a little promo.
Blake lets out a loud, one note laugh, as the look on his face turns to one of amused astonishment.
You have got to be kidding me. What are you doing filming a promo, when you haven’t even had your first match?
Trent stands to defend himself, but doesn’t step forward. With apologetic eyes, and a stern voice, Trent explains his motives.
Look, I’m in a battle royal, at a pay per view, against some certifiable legends. I get the need to have the physical edge, but I’m gonna need the mental edge too. It won’t take long, and it’ll do me a world of good come the twenty-ninth.
With furrowed brow, Blake mulls over his friends words, and shakes his head with a sigh when he reaches his conclusion.
Fine, you’ve got ten minutes.
The image flickers on, revealing Trent Page sitting in the middle of a well kept gym. His face begins in a smile, before contorting itself into an angry smile.
I was gonna start off this little message with some worn out cliché about making an impact. I was gonna tell all of you watching that I plan to stomp into the battle royal at Genesis and eliminate every last one of my opponents. I was gonna yap on and on about how I plan to come out of Genesis victorious. The truth is, I probably won’t come out on top. The battle plan I’m bringing with me doesn’t exactly lend itself to a tally in the W column. You see, I plan to walk into the battle royal, and do everything I can to destroy The Fizz.
Trent stands to his feet, his smile gone from his face, and begins to saunter around the pristine weight room. Running his finger along the glimmering dumbbells, the gazes wistfully off into the distance. Abruptly, he seems to come to his senses, and begins speaking immediately.
Why would I spend all my energy chasing The Fizz you ask. It’s simple, come Monday, no one will be talking about Tim Vortex, no one will be talking about who won the world title, the only thing anyone will be talking about is how the new addition: Trent Page, crippled a legend. Fizz, I want you to listen to what I have to say next, because if you do, you might just back out of the match, and save yourself a world of injury, and heart break.
Trent reaches out, and lifts up one of the weights, feeling it in his hand before lowering himself onto the padded weight bench beneath him. As he curls the weight, the muscles in his right arm begin to churn, and work, squirming just beneath the surface of his skin.
Fizz, on Sunday, I am going to take great pleasure in turning your Hall of Fame induction night form the best night of your life, into the single most miserable experience you could ever imagine. I am going to break every bone in your body, one by one, until I break one that isn’t going to heal. The last moment of your career will be your total, and abject humiliation at the hands of Trent Page. Think about that, and do try to get some sleep. It won’t be easy once you’re in a full body cast.
Trent slowly sets the weight down, and grabs a white towel from the rack next to him. Once he wipes the sweat from his brow, he slings it over his shoulder, and begins to walk amongst the sophisticated exercise equipment once again. His eyes linger on each pulley as he scans the room with a new smile.
As for the rest of you, I’m not sure what to say. You probably won’t have to worry. I mean, I have a lot of ring rust on me, and I’ll probably use all of my energy on our legendary female friend anyway. The only problem is that I’m a fighter. All I’ve known how to do since the day I was born, was fight. It’s second nature to me, and sometimes, I get into a zone that I really can’t describe. What you should know is that if I can ignore the ring rust, and I can slip into that zone, you will be in the ring with an evil, vile creature.
His voice begins to get louder and louder, as he stops walking completely, and glares into the camera.
If you catch me in the zone, I will become a hateful machine bent on destruction and death. I will become something that you couldn’t even come up with in your most horrific nightmares, and the only thing you’ll be able to do to save yourself is submit, and beg for mercy, though I have my doubts you will receive it! Prepare to have hellfire rain down upon you, for you have committed the ultimate blunder: YOU HAVE CHALLENGED TRENT PAGE!
With that, Trent smacks the camera, knocking it over and leaving us with nothing but a view of the black and white checked floor.
