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Post by Ben Jacobs on Aug 21, 2009 7:36:38 GMT -6
Post RPs below.
2 point early rp bonus for each wrestler's first rp which scores above 10 and is posted prior to Tuesday, August 25th @ 3:30 PM CST. (Board time)
RP deadline is Tuesday, Sep. 1st @ 11:59 PM CST (board time)
Match & segment deadline is Wednesday, Sep.2nd @ 10AM CST. (board time)
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Post by High Society on Sept 1, 2009 12:25:20 GMT -6
“This is one of the most shameful cases ever to come before this bench.”
The judge took a moment to look through his notes one last time, kneading his brow with thumb and forefinger and gently shaking his head. “In all my years as a magistrate I have seldom heard a tale of such heinous iniquity.”
“Ughh…ah…ah…” the defendant stuttered in a feeble attempt to rescue the situation.
“Be quiet!” The judge roared. “This parasite can think of no better way to end an evening’s hooliganism… and on the night of the university boat race. I am afraid I have no other option than to fine you £250.”
The defendant let out a moan like a wounded animal.
---
At around midnight Jonathan Page staggered through the door of his Mayfair flat. Throwing his hat onto the coat stand in the hallway and placing his gloves on the counter in the kitchen, Page moved sluggishly towards the bedroom, a trail of clothes left in his wake. Perched precariously on the edge of his bed he struggled with the laces of his shoes before giving up and submitting to sleep.
After several hours had passed he was awoken by a strange ringing in his ears. Instinctively he reached for the alarm clock, knocking it into the cabinet by his bed without even opening his eyes. Still, the ringing persisted in shrill sharp bursts. When he finally opened his eyes Page found that he was still in his shirt and braces. He tried to lift himself but a searing pain surged through his brain and halted his progress. The ringing ceased momentarily, allowing him a brief moment of respite before it recommenced, this time accompanied by a steady thudding. Again Page attempted to find his footing and this time he was successful.
Once on his feet Page found that the source of the noise was coming from the door. Lurching through the flat he fell upon the door handle and opened it just a couple of inches. Looking through the crack in the door he saw a tall, imposing figure impeccably dressed in bowler hat and formal suit. Intrigued, he opened the door fully so as to scrutinise the stranger further. Unabashed the mysterious figure spoke first, tipping his hat as he did so.
“I was sent by the agency, sir. I was given to understand you required a valet.”
Page opened his mouth to speak but found himself unable to do so, a ghastly croak sounding as he tried to form his words.
“Very good sir.” The stranger said, replacing his hat and brushing past an astounded Page who stood at the door for a moment, still speechless. Reluctantly he closed the door and pursued the intruder.
“A late night last night sir?” The stranger inquired pleasantly.
“ahh… umm…”
“hmm.” The man crouched down and picked up the scarf Page had discarded only the night before. Gliding through the apartment he proceeded to pick up the various other items of clothing left lying on the floor. Mouth agape, Page moved towards the bedroom where he was shocked to find that his bed had been made up. Not knowing quite what to do Page stepped back into the living room where he fell into a leather armchair, head in hands. Massaging his temples he looked up and was greeted by an outstretched arm holding a silver tray with a crystal tumbler placed upon it.
“If you’d be so kind as to drink this sir. It is a concoction of my own making.”
Reluctantly Page took the glass, eyeing the brown mixture contained within suspiciously.
“I assure you it is quite invigorating after a late evening.”
Raising the glass to his mouth with a shaky hand Page poured the potion down his neck and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It tasted like nothing he had experienced before, a strange mixture of aniseed and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. After a few seconds he felt a strange burning in the back of his throat and after handing the glass back the sensation moved on to his stomach. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks until eventually it felt like his whole body was engulfed in flames.
“wa..wa…wat… water. Water. I need water!”
Jumping up from his chair Page rushed to the bathroom where he placed his head in the sink and turned the faucet, submerging his head in icy cold water. Gradually the pain subsided. Lifting his head he examined himself in the mirror above the sink.
“I say…”
The stranger poked his head round the open door.
“Feeling suitably refreshed sir?”
“I say!” Placing the back of his hand on his forehead Page checked his temperature. “My headache. It’s… it’s… well it’s gone.”
“I thought as much sir.”
“What on earth was in that concoction of yours?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say sir. An old family recipe you see?”
“Well I’ll be damned. What an extraordinary talent.” Page beamed.
“Thank you sir.”
Page’s face adopted a solemn expression all of a sudden. “Now who the hell are you?”
---
Fat and fucked. He’d rested on his laurels and suffered the consequences. Living in the shadow of past glories and faded memories had cost him dearly. Everybody knew he was finished. A drunken Brit with an ego - hardly a recipe for success. And yet he’d been given another chance. One last shot.
The Pure Tournament. A symbol of everything that wrestling was supposed to be. Athleticism, courage, pride. An embodiment of everything he was not. Or at least not anymore. Could he find a way to silence his critics, to restore his rapidly diminishing reputation? Only time would tell. One thing even the braggadocios Page could attest to… this was last chance saloon.
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