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Post by Osh Vaughan on May 31, 2021 14:01:39 GMT
vs Ryan McCann and Jack Hill lock horns in what will potentially be a big clash of styles
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Post by The Country Doctor on Jun 1, 2021 20:06:00 GMT
Jack Hill walks down the sidewalk along a busy street in downtown Manchester with a singular purpose. He is dressed as usual in his crisply-pressed button down shirt and tan jacket. The well-worn wooden handles of his medical bag dig into the calloused skin of his fingers, while the fraying tag on the collar of his shirt lightly abrades the back of his neck with every step he takes. Neither of these sensations is out of the ordinary for the good doctor, nor is the recognition that both are bothering him far more than they ought to. He knows what’s really bothering him, though - what’s really digging into his skin and gnawing on his nerves.
He turns the corner, finally spotting the sign he was told to look for when he asked around his new place of employment to try and figure out where he might find some place to rid himself of this bothersome itch. Well, it was never really gone, if he was being honest with himself, but there were times when he could almost forget about it entirely. Other times it was like a roiling, angry tide filling his brain with a deafening, unending cacophony only he could hear, drowning out all other thought until he could find some way to quiet it once again. When he first landed in the UK a few days ago, he did so taking great comfort in the thought that he might never again have to seek out this peace of mind. Of course, this just made his current situation all the more irritating.
The painted metal sign a few buildings down is simple and worn, much like the stonework exterior of the building to which it is attached. A few trails of rust run down from the two chains which suspend it, partially obscuring a simple line drawing of some boxing gloves next to the words “Bash’s Prizefighting” in big bold letters. Jack presses on through the foot traffic to make his way there as quickly as he can, each step being tormented by the slight shift of his collar, the gentle bouncing of his bag. He thinks, for a moment, that the door is too far. That one of these… obstacles in his way would suffice to relieve him of this torture, but… but no. He knows how that story ends in general, and can guess that this specific retelling would involve a swift nullification of his newly-signed contract with IIW.
He manages to step through the heavy double doors at the front of the building without incident, taking a moment to gather himself now that he is alone. He switches his bag from one hand to the other, runs a finger along the back of his collar to try and smooth down that damnable tag, takes a deep breath, and puts on the warmest smile he can muster.
He walks up to a disinterested-looking 20-something woman sitting at the check-in area, absentmindedly sipping away at a large beverage while her eyes are glued to a computer screen just off to the side. A laminated badge hanging off a lanyard has the word “STAFF” written in bold font, with the name “STEPHANIE” in much larger bold print below.
Jack Hill: Hello there, I’s tol’ that this’s the bes’ place ‘round Manchester fer a feller what’s lookin’ t’get a good scrap in. Y’all think y’might be able t’help a feller out?
Stephanie glances over at him for a moment before lowering her drink for a moment and murmuring a response.
Stephanie: Uhh… are you here to train?
Jack has to force himself to exhale slowly and quietly so as to maintain his genial exterior.
Jack Hill: Y’might say that, yes, I - Stephanie: Who’s your trainer? Jack Hill: Well, I ain’t got no trainer, but I’s told - Stephanie: We don’t do walk-ins. Give us a call and schedule a tryout with one of our coa-
In spite of himself, Jack slams his fist on the desk, sending a “bang” throughout the building so loudly that the faint sounds of sparring in the background quiet for a moment. Stephanie jumps slightly, barely stopping herself from spilling her drink.
Jack Hill: I -
Jack stops, hearing the edge in his voice, and takes a small breath to gather himself once again. He forces another smile onto his face and begins again.
Jack Hill: I’s sent here by mah new friends at IIW, here’n town. They jus’ signed me t’a contract. Now they tol’ me that it ain’t unheard of fer a feller with mah credentials t’come down here and fin’ hisself another feller what’s willin’ t’tussle. S’you tell me, am I fightin’ somebody here, or’m I goin’ back t’the ‘rena and ringin’ necks ‘til I fin’ out why some pitiable fool thought it wise t’mislead yours truly?
He widens his smile as much as the quiet rage building in his gut will allow, but he can tell from the alarmed expression on Stephanie’s face that his usual facade is failing him. She mutters something about checking with someone as she slowly backs away from the desk, never breaking eye contact with Jack until she reaches a corner and scurries out of sight. As soon as she does, the smile slides right off of Jack’s face, replaced by a sour scowl as he switches his bag back to the other hand. He then reaches up with his free hand and rips the tag off of his collar.
************
The cameras fade in on Jack Hill, shirtless and drenched in sweat, seated in the corner of a dimly-lit ring situated in something akin to a warehouse. His head is tilted back and resting on the second turnbuckle as he draws several deep, rhythmic breaths. There are several bright red splotches across his exposed skin - the tell-tale sign of a bruise-to-be - and his bottom lip is both swollen and wet with blood. Even so, his eyes are peacefully closed, and his mouth, though open as he greedily sucks in air, is unmistakably bent into a satisfied smile.
The camera pans out a bit to reveal another man, face down on the mat, motionless save for his own gasping breaths. A trainer or some such figure is down on all fours checking on him, lightly slapping a cheek and prying open an eye until it stays open on its own, though they are clearly struggling to focus on anything. The trainer looks up at someone off camera and shakes his head curtly before motioning more people into the ring. A small team of people come into the ring and start giving the downed fighter a more thorough examination as a square-jawed man with a pot-belly and light gray hair walks into the shot behind Jack, standing just outside the ring.
Gray-haired Man: Where’d you say you trained, again?
He speaks to Jack in a calm, even tone with a gravelly voice. Jack responds with his head still tilted back and his eyes closed.
Jack Hill: Oh, I done trained ever’where I been, Mr. Bash. Bush People in New Zealand, soldier folk in Africa, secluded monk types ‘cross Asia. Anyone could give me a proper whoppin’ became mah teacher.
Jack then opens his eyes slightly to look down at the eponymous “Bash” of “Bash’s Prizefighting”.
Jack Hill: Course, I like t’think I bring a certain je ne c’est quoi jus’ on account o’mah nat’ral flair fer fightin’.
He chuckles slightly as he closes his eyes once more. Bash lets out a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt, and is then quiet for a moment.
Bash: Well, I hope you had fun, lad. But this ain’t a fight club. This is a legitimate gym for training legitimate fighters. What you do… well, I think you should stick to IIW while you’re in Manchester. We won’t be having you back.
Jack lets out a long sigh. He shakes his head for a moment, then grabs the middle ropes on either side of his head and pulls himself up to his feet in one fluid motion. He looks down at Bash, who has already turned and walked away. Jack sucks his teeth for a moment before looking back at the camera.
Jack Hill: Well don’ that jus’ beat all. I fin’lly fin’ a place I like in this godforsaken town and here I hafta go’n git thrown out.
He shakes his head again before hopping over the top rope onto the apron and then dropping down onto the concrete floor outside.
Jack Hill: Though, hopefully I won’ have much use fer this place after today.
Jack grabs his bag and his shirt, reaching into the former to pull out a handkerchief that he then uses to dry his brow.
Jack Hill: See, they tol’ me t’fly over here ‘n’ sign mah contract ‘n’ - while I’s here - get’n a good tussle with another feller on their “Combat” show. Now I done made it plenty clear that I come t'IIW t’continue mah good work o’curin’ folk what’s in need o’fixin’, but I’d be lyin’ if I said that I don’ git a special kind o’excited at the prospect of a proper fight with a feller what knows how t’handle hisself when fists is thrown about. Well, I don’ know if’n’s somebody’s underestimatin’ y’all’s good friend Jack Hill or jus’ tryin’ to rile ‘im up, but the feller they done put me in the ring with couldn’ gimme that kinda fight, and that leaves a feller feelin’ mighty unsatisfied.
As he speaks the last line, his smile disappears, replaced by an angry scowl. It is only a momentary lapse, however, and he is soon back to his usual broad grin.
Jack Hill: So, fer now, I’s left seekin’ out mah own satisfaction. But that won’ be the case come next Mayhem. See, I musta either impressed or scared the right person ‘round the office this past week, ‘cause next week I ain’t booked on no Combat show. Ain’t gon’ be facin’ no Lance Strong-type, neither. Naw, I’m graduatin’ up t’the big leagues. Got me a match ‘gainst a feller by the name o’ Ryan McCann - a feller what done put another member o’the IIW roster on th’shelf back’t Worlds Collide.
Jack’s smile broadens even further as he pauses.
Jack Hill: I tell ya, I’m jus’ tickled pink thinkin’ ‘bout bein’ in a ring with a feller like that. Not jus’ because even after these here extracurric’lars I’m still itchin’ fer a good fight, but because Mr. McCann presents a perfect opportunity fer me t’practice mah good work. See, Mr. McCann, you’s a sick, sick man. Far be it from me t’tell a feller off fer layin’ into ‘nother feller s’hard that he reconsiders ‘is current line o’work - hell, that’s mah whole purpose in this sorry world - but I do what I do out of compassion. When I break a man down, it’s so’s he can build hisself back up properly, ‘thout all those delusions what fill his head fulla misplaced rage. He don’ go ‘round n’more tryin’a... swing ‘is dick about thinkin’ that he’s some kinda perfect specimen o’the masculine ideal. Naw, he done felt his limits after I treat ‘im. He knows now where he stands among ‘is fellow man, and he don’ go lookin’ down on ‘em no more.
Though still smiling, Jack eyes the camera hungrily.
Jack Hill: You, Mr. McCann? All you do’s look down on people. You didn’ try’n break that Samoan feller fer his own benefit. You did it ‘cause he didn’ fit your concept o’purity.
Jack sucks his teeth and shakes his head slowly.
Jack Hill: ‘Assa dangerous idea, purity. I seen the wors’ kinda atrocities committed in th’name o’protectin’ some such version of it or ‘nother. Fer some folks it’s purity o’thought. Fer others it’s purity o’blood. Hell - I seen people reduced t’cattle on the grounds o’what side of a river they’s born on. But no matter what the specifics, it always comes back t’the same root cause - the sickness. See, it can present’n many ways, but by far the mos’ common is a firmly held belief that you and you alone stand above th’rest o’humanity, and that that gives y’dominion over ‘em. You work your way backwards from that conclusion t’find the justification what works for ya.
Jack chuckles dryly.
Jack Hill: You, Mr. McCann, have built your partic’lar justification on your ‘ccomplishments in the ring - and they are impressive, t’be sure. You can take a feller apart with a deftness what about brings a tear t’mah eye. Were things differ’nt, I could see you’n I even bein’ somethin’ approachin’ friendly.
The smile evaporates off of Jack’s face.
Jack Hill: But things is what they is, Mr. McCann, and you’n I fin’ ourselves diametric’ly opposed. Jus’ as you can’ stand the thought of another feller what ain’t jus’ like yourself findin’ any sorta success, I can’ stand the thought of a feller as sick as you goin’ ‘thout the necess’ry treatment.
He stares into the camera with a slight scowl.
Jack Hill: It’s gon’ be a war ‘etween us, come Mayhem. Ain’t jus’ two men steppin’ ‘etween the ropes t’fin’ out who’s better - it's two righteous warriors, each fightin’ fer the purpose o’helpin’ t’bring forth the world they’d like t’see afore they move on t’the next’n. Each of us is gon’ lay inta th’other like our lives depended on it, ‘n’ neither one of us truly knows yet what th’other is capable of. Only real differ’nce ‘etween us is that I ain’t doin’ this fer mah own aggrandization. I ain’t lookin’ t’build a world with me’t the top - jus’ a world where the wicked is cured o’their sick depravity. And you, sir? You been mighty wicked.
With that, Jack throws his shirt over his shoulder and picks up his medical bag. He turns to face the camera once more, winning smile plastered across his face anew.
Jack Hill: But I wouldn’ worry ‘bout it too awful much. You got yourself an appointment with The Country Doctor. We’ll get you set right.
He winks at the camera and walks out of frame as the camera slowly pans in close on the man still lying in the ring before fading to black.
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Post by Ryan McCann on Jun 4, 2021 11:54:03 GMT
Ryan McCann is sat down gobsmacked as the camera pans onto him, he’s just watched the debut promo of Jack Hill and we’re waiting for him to come back round, the camera pans round Ryan’s locker room as it shows a few laid out plans and documents on a table before panning back to Ryan
Ryan McCann: Now what the hell did I just see?
Ryan is as usual not impressed with what he’s seen come out the mouths of other IIW Talents, usually Ryan is very quick to get to the point and put them down and in their place but in this instance, Ryan is baffled, you can tell from the look on his face
Ryan McCann: I’m baffled
He also said it, so I guess there’s that too.
Ryan McCann: Honestly, I thought this was bad enough when Osh was involved, the type of eejits he used to bring into this federation! But atleast…atleast they could talk! I’m gonna need a god damn translator now.
Ryan rewinds the clip and tries to play it in slow motion, once again he looks befuzzled as he watches Jack Hill go on about something, this time he really looks bewildered
Ryan McCann: I’m bewildered
Ooops sorry, we’ve done this joke already.
Ryan McCann: Heelllooooo Jaaackkkkk Hiiillllll thiiiisssss issss foooooorrrrr yooooourrrr beeennnnnnn a fiiiiittt asssss youuuuu aarrreeee obbbbviiiouussss leeee a lit ell slooowwww
You know what fuck it I can’t be arsed with that, if he can’t understand me so be it, but yes Bob Mitchell has decided you, you are someone he would like to sign to the Intense International Wrestling federation…. Ah By Gum! Osh Vaughan must’ve had some pure pulling power when it came to talent if this is what we’re left of with Bob in charge, and then ofcourse…ofcourse I’m the guy who he’s put against, yes I know I came up short against Venom in what has already been described as the IIW Shock of the century, but to put me against his newcomer as a punishment? This genetic throw back, my god I don’t deserve this.
What about all the victories I had, do they count for nothing? The men I’ve defeated so bad they’ve never shown their face again, they couldn’t handle the pure wrestling that Ryan McCann brought to the ring so they did a runner, never to be seen again! I didn’t get nothing for that NOTHING, no championship title chances, I just have to face idiots and reprobates like Venom and Jack Hill!
I mean I’d love to dissect what Jack Hill said but I really haven’t a clue what he just said.
Ryan pokes his head outside the locker room and shouts
CAN ANYONE GET ME A TRANSLATOR?
I can only guess you’re just like the rest you’ve come in and said how you’re going to make adifference, the wrestling world has never seen someone as edgy as you, it’s pathetic! You’re nothing special I can tell you that, don’t believe me ask the rest of the bastards in the back that are afraid to give me a title shot!
I’m in the mood for revenge Jack Hill, and yes ofcourse it’s not against you, you just happen to be the unlucky soul that is going to be in my way at Mayhem, the old say is , form is temporary and class is permanent, well I’m a little bit out of form as you can see from my los to Venom but I’m about to prove that class is permanent!
I will be beating you at Mayhem and sending you back to whatever backwards place you came from!
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Post by The Country Doctor on Jun 8, 2021 12:25:05 GMT
Michael Morrison: Are we rolling?
There is no video for a few seconds, just the familiar voice of Michael Morrison with the unmistakable sounds of audio equipment being shifted around.
Voice: Mics are hot, and…
With that, the video feed kicks in, showing a zoomed-too-far-in shot of Michael’s torso, his chin just barely in frame.
Voice: Cameras are rolling.
The video rapidly zooms out, pans slightly, and zooms back in on a medium shot of Michael - head included this time. He is walking through what looks like a large garage door into the dimly lit interior of a building. There are several lockers along one gray concrete wall, and beyond those we can see a large bin full of soiled towels.
Voice: Why are we rolling, again?
Michael: It’s good for B-roll, establishing shots - that kind of stuff.
As they walk farther into the building, a rhythmic thudding can be heard - faintly at first, but getting louder with each passing step. After a few moments, the pair round a corner and come into a large area full of exercise equipment: wrought-iron free weights, treadmills, speed bags, punching bags, and various others. It is at one of the punching bags that we find the source of the thudding noise.
Michael: Oh, there he is! Come on.
Standing in front of the punching bag, wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts as he rears back for massive blow after massive blow, is “The Country Doctor” Jack Hill. The bruises we saw the beginnings of in his last appearance have matured into full-fledged purple, yellow, and green splotches on his torso and arms, and his lip - while no longer swollen - is similarly discolored. But, appearances aside, he seems no worse for wear as he continues to lay into the punching bag.
Michael approaches, but Jack doesn’t turn to face him.
Michael: Jack! Uh, Mr. Hill? We’re here for your scheduled interview.
Jack: Ain’t gon’ be no in’erview today, boys. Bes’ y’all head out.
Jack keeps his eyes firmly planted on the punching bag, punctuating his statement with another huge shot that sends a loud THUD throughout the room.
Michael: You, uh… you requested we meet you here so you could-
Jack: That was afore. I told ya, ain’t gon’ be no in’erview today.
Michael looks back at the camera, confused.
Michael: I- I’m sorry, I don’t understand, you-
Jack lets out a frustrated yell as he slams his fist into the bag once again before taking a deep breath and backing away from it. He finally turns to face Michael, an unconvincing smile now resting on his face.
Jack: I requested y’all come out here. I know. I’m also painfully aware o’how many folks in this sorry world ain’t seem t’have two brain cells what could rub against one another, but b’lieve it or not, I am capable o’rememberin’ the events o’the pas' week.
He turns behind him and grabs a towel off of a nearby stool and starts to wipe the sweat off of his head and face.
Jack: I asked y’all out here t’Mr. Bash’s gym fer two reasons. Firs' was t’tell ever’body the good news 'at Mr. Bash’n I had a nice friendly sit-down after mah las’ visit here, ‘n’ he agreed t’let me back in’o ‘is gym so long’s I promised not t’lay a finger on none o’his students from here on out. Second was t’say a few more words t’Mr. McCann, assumin’ that by now he’d’ve heard what I had t’say las’ time an’ started some form o’dialogue.
Jack gives his head one more wipe before suddenly throwing the towel against the nearby wall and turning back to the camera, smile gone.
Jack: But now? Well, now I come t’suspect that the only reason Mr. Bash’s lettin’ me hang aroun’ here is so’s he can bring in a ringer t’whip me some’n fierce as recompense fer what I done t’his boy las’ week, so that partic’lar news ain’t quite s'good no more. Not that I’m afeared o’any man what he might bring in, but it does hurt a gen’leman like mahself t’see someone so callously abuse the power o’hospitality in such manner.
He pauses for a moment, his eyes falling down to the floor for a moment as he sucks his teeth and shakes his head.
Jack: An’ as fer Mr. McCann? Well, he made it plenty clear that there ain’t gon’ be no dialogue ‘etween us.
He seems to consider something for a moment, then turns once more and throws another hard right into the bag. He then takes a moment before bringing up a hand to stop its haphazard swinging. He continues to face it, but glances over at Michael momentarily as he begins to speak again.
Jack: Mr. Morrison, I been about ever’where in this world, an’ no matter where I gone, I always been able t’fin’ a way t’talk t’the people I encounter. Not always easily, not always efficiently... but I always been able t’git across the basic ideas I needed to with people what’s jus’ willin’ t’listen. But I’s also encountered more fellers’n I care t’count what jus'… ain’t. An’ y’know, Mr. Morrison, no matter what they looked like or where they’s from, these folks always had two things in common. First, ever’ single one of ‘em thought they's the firs' feller what ever had the wit t’think t’poke fun at the way I talk. Some of ‘em did their level-best t’parrot mah own words back t’me like I’s some kinda deaf child, some of ‘em just... pretended like they couldn’ understand a single word I said t’begin with. But n’matter what it was they done, they’d look around at all o’their friends an’ jus’ wait fer the laughs t’start rollin’ in, thinkin’ they was a reg’lar Oscar Wilde.
He pauses for a moment.
Jack: The second thing they all had in common?
He turns, slowly, staring a hole through Michael.
Jack: Ever’ single one of ‘em could understand me jus’ fine when they’s beggin’ me t’stop hurtin’ ‘em.
He then turns back to the bag and lets out a quick flurry of blows that send the bag rattling on its chain once again, waiting a moment for it to stop before taking another deep breath.
Jack: So there’s really only two possibilities here, Mr. Morrison. Either Mr. McCann is as he says - which is t’say, too stupid t’understand the English I’m speakin’ - or he’s jus’ another one o’these sorry men what’s so consumed by ‘is sickness ‘at he can’ even be bothered t’talk t’another feller. An’ in either case, what’s the point o’sayin’ another word to ‘im? We done said ever’thing we can with words; Mr. McCann made sure o’that. From here on out, we’s only gon’ be speakin’ one way, in the one language ever’body understands.
He faces the camera one more time, a devious glint in his eye.
Jack: The language o’violence.
With that, a smile spreads across his face, this one much closer to his usual wide, warm grin.
Jack: Now, as I said afore. Ain’t gon’ be no in’erview today. An’ that’s the las’ time I’m gon’ say it'n English, if’ns y'catch mah drift.
Michael takes a small step back, looks back at the camera nervously, and frantically motions for them to back away.
Michael: Y-yes, Uh, of course. Thanks - thank you for, uh, your time, Mr. Hi- Uh, Dr. Hill.
As he stammers, the pictures starts to jump around as the crew leaves the area as quickly as they can, leaving only the fading rhythmic thudding of Jack laying into the punching bag as the image fades out to black.
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