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Me Chamo Larry
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Topic Started: Feb 22 2015, 05:56 PM (104 Views)
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Lucky Larry
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Feb 22 2015, 05:56 PM
Post #1
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Rookie
- Posts:
- 66
- Group:
- Superstars
- Member
- #1,880
- Joined:
- February 9, 2015
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The tape is getting tight on his hands. Nice and tight. When Larry looks close, he can see the blood separating into the peripheries of his palms. The vivacious liquid is pulsating expediently throughout his body.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Asks one of the PRW trainers, standing a safe distance from Larry. The slightly plump man comes a little closer, his shoes squeaking modestly.
A quick glance is all Larry can muster for the man. He leans over to lace his boots.
“I have no skepticism about what I’m going to do now,” Larry says. “Did you really think I would?”
The boots flex tightly against the concrete floor as Larry stands. He approaches the trainer with a lunge, who steps back tepidly. A breath of air briefly traverses his throat before escaping.
“I’m not-“
“Good,” Larry interrupts. “Because if you did, you’d be one sorry sack of potatoes.”
Larry gets real close to the PRW worker. A deep breath pervades his nose, causing the nostrils to stretch and round with every inhalation. The bald, shirt-tucked specimen holds the stare for a second, but inevitably looks down to the floor. He kicks weakly at the concrete crack his foot found, as if a placeholder.
A half-smile graces Larry’s face. He breathes out a small laugh, then leaves the room. His shoulders sway rhythmically as he walks.
A grimace is generally present on the cumulative face of the crowd in Ginásio do Ibirapuera in Sao Paulo.
So when the music hits, it doesn’t get any better.
Lucky Larry bursts through the curtain like a wrecking ball. As quick as he came, he stops and stares at the crowd. Then, as if showcasing a prize on a game show, he gestures his hands down his chest and abdomen. The crowd’s disdain grows louder, as if speaker boxes were surgically implanted into their larynxes.
Brunswick: This guy is insatiable. He just can’t get enough hatred.
Smith: I don’t even know if Larry expected this when he came to PRW! His ego is probably so big, he thought everyone was going to love him … Despite the arrogance!
Brunswick: Well he certainly has settled in nicely as the bad guy.
Larry surveys the crowd from the outside edge of the turnbuckle. He points two fingers at the crowd, one from each hand, and shouts indistinguishable words. The veins in his neck straighten stiffly like prison bars. He points toward his chest with his thumbs above closed fists, like the Fonz but with a calculating glare, and a prolonged pose. Leaping into the ring, he sees a microphone being offered to him. He tears it away like a tender chicken leg.
“Hello Sao Paulo!” he says, which prompts a whistling cheer from the crowd. Larry’s smile flips. His eyebrows furrow as he stomps toward one edge of the ring.
“Oh, shut up!” Larry says. “Shut the hell up right now!” The brief cheer reverts back to a blood-curdling revolt.
“How easily you people are swayed,” he says, turning his attention from one side of the Ginásio to the other “One moment you hate me. Then, I give you a single obligatory greeting, and you all want to kiss my ass. What kind of weak-minded acolytes are you?”
Brunswick: Here we go …
Larry’s frown is intense, as if he has taken a swig of sour milk.
“I mean, look, I know every damn one of you are in this gymnasio, or whatever it’s called, because of me,” Larry says with a bouncy walk toward the thickest part of the crowd, then turns to the side and directs his eyes toward the front row.
“You wanted to see me, because you know just from the handful of times I’ve been out here… that when I got this microphone in my hand, I’m the best. And I can mold the emotion of an audience like melted rubber, baby. When it comes to talkin’, nobody can touch me!”
He jabs a self-righteous finger into his own chest. Larry’s face then relaxes from anger into the calmness he’s so accustomed to wearing. His eyes scan the mass of humanity, which is packed up to the rooftop.
“But the hilarious part about it, is that you all make it so easy. When you’re this good, well, it can act as a curse. Because although I can leave every wrestler here in the dust with my words… I have to waste them on you imbeciles,” Larry says.
The crowd bursts into a fury. Beer flies across the audience and showers a dozen people. Signs are shaken furiously in the air, one painted in red that reads, “You’re Lucky, Not Great!” Larry’s eyes shift back and forth across the arena. The chaos is overflowing around him. A smile bursts onto his face.
“Oh, does that make you angry?” He points his face up and laughs. “Because it seems to me that I’m making you angry!”
Brunswick: You’re damn right it does! Insulting our fine fans like that!
Smith: Calm down, Bruns. He may hear you.
“I’ll tell you what,” Larry says, his eyes beginning to burn. With the waft of his arm, his hand stretches out as if to settle the storm he created. “If I make you so mad, why don’t one of you get into this ring and shut me up?”
The crowd immediately bellows a roar so loud they can hear it in Argentina. As the camera pans across the audience, the broadcast can see closed fists pumping the air like fireworks. Larry looks into the most dense part of the crowd again, gripping the ring rope and stomping his foot.
“Huh?! How about it! How about I take on a resident idiot right here, right now!” Larry shouts. “Let’s see what you’re all about, Sao Paulo! Who’s it going to be?”
Brunswick: Larry better hope he doesn’t get a hidden wrestling gem in the audience, or some sort of brutalizing force. On the other hand, I’m hoping for it.
Smith: You’re a sick man, Bruns.
Brunswick: I’m sick?! Are we watching the same show?
His eyes sweep over the audience. The security guards fan their arms out to shield the crowd from rushing the ring.
“You!” Larry shouts, jutting his finger out like catching a fish. “I pick you. Get your ass in here.”
The cameras pan in on the cluster of people to which Larry refers, a pocket by the corner of the ring beside the ramp. From about three rows back, a collared Brazilian man without a single wrinkle or white hair separates himself from his peers. He points his finger toward himself and stares blankly into the ring.
“Yeah, you. What, am I talking to myself? Get into the ring. That is, if you got the stones,” Larry says before strutting toward the other corner of the squared-circle. His eyes drift along the crowd, which is roaring and thumping with a steady buzz.
A security guard escorts the man out from behind the barricade. The worker clears a way for the boy into the place where he would otherwise be barred. The fan turns around. He sees the short door closing behind him. A few heavy breaths visit and leave him, his head turning like a panorama to see his people cheering and raucous. He begins to nod his head and snarl.
Brunswick: Who wouldn’t get fired up for this? He’s on a grand stage in front of his people, and getting the chance to punch that jerk right in the mouth. What an opportunity!
Smith: What’s the old adage? Be careful what you wish for. What’s about to happen could serve as a warning for anyone standing in Larry’s way.
The Brazilian walks up the steel stairs with a few savoring steps. On the apron, he observes the crowd one more time. Then, he takes his first heroic step into the ring, popping up with a flash of charisma. He stares across at Larry, who’s giving him a look: A close-lipped smile with narrowed eyes. Maintaining this grin, the Lucky one approaches the man, microphone tightly welded in his fingers.
“Welcome to my ring,” Larry says whilst his head jiggles from side to side, like an amused bobblehead. “What’s your name, kid?”
Larry flips the microphone toward him like a switch.
“Me chamo Adriano,” he says, a shuttering breath tickling his throat, “Adriano Reinas.”
“Okay, Adriano,” Larry quickly pulls the microphone back to his chest. “Where ya from?”
“Eu sou de Sao Paulo,” he says. “E adoro o Brazil!”
The crowd is overcome with a bomb-like blast. Fans are jumping up and down to the extent that their feet can be heard pounding the concrete. Larry’s eyes dart around the Ginásio rapidly. He storms to the turnbuckle and climbs to the second rope, surveying the chaotic scene with furrowed brow.
Brunswick: This crowd is going bonkers!
Smith: Apparently, declaring you love Brazil is grounds for knighthood.
Brunswick: It’s gotten this crowd so fired up, they are singing Brazil’s national anthem!
“Ouviram do Ipiranga as margens plácidas
De um povo heroico o brado retumbante-“
“Cala boca vadias!” Larry’s voice thunders into the microphone, bringing the noise to a screeching stop. “Shut your Portuguese mouths right now!”
Brunswick: Looks like Larry knows some Portuguese too.
Smith: Just enough to piss off a few thousand Brazilians!
The crowd begins to boo incessantly, as if a kid that Larry had just taken candy from. His eyes look over the crowd. A smile invades his lips, his body reverberating with a cackle. He turns back to the loyal latino, who is staring back with parted lips.
Smith: This kid looks like he just got the rug pulled out from under him. Nobody’s behind ya anymore, sonny boy!
Brunswick: Show some empathy, Dougie. The kid’s probably never had a fight in his life!
“I don’t know if you know me,” Larry says, sauntering toward his hand-picked opponent. “But I come from a little place known as America. You ever heard of it?”
The rhetorical question falls in front of Adriano, and washes away. He is seemingly unable to move. Larry smoothly wafts the microphone back toward his lips, and shrugs.
“Well, in America, there is this one actor named Jack Nicholson. I am privy to him. You see, in one of his movies he uttered a line that goes a little something like this,” Larry clears his throat pretentiously and takes a gentle step closer. “I’m not gonna hurt ya, Adriano.”
Adriano’s shoulders rest. His lungs decompress. He looks into the crowd a moment, a tired smile embracing his face. He sticks an open hand out to Larry, to which Larry looks for awhile. A smile stretches one side of his mouth, and an eyebrow raises.
Brunswick: A sign of respect from the hometown kid. Brazil can shower pride on this young man tonight.
Smith: Come on, Brunswick, this crowd is smart. They aren’t going to prematurely cheer for anything Larry does.
When the cameras pan the crowd, a boy is pawing at his hands hard enough to turn them white. A woman with black, greying hair peaks through her fingers, clasped tightly to her cheeks. The crowd is quiet.
“I’m not gonna hurt ya at all,” Larry says, eyes rising to meet his spiky-haired counterpart. “I’m just gonna bash your brains in.”
CRACK!
The microphone collides with Adriano’s head, sending him cascading to the mat. The crowd sucks the air out of the arena. The malicious figure leaps atop the innocent Adriano. Grabbing a fistful of the boy’s hair, Larry unloads right hands into his face.
Brunswick: Oh god! Larry is just hammering on him! Even Larry couldn’t be so cruel as to pummel the poor kid like this!
Smith: I can see on the monitor here that the boy’s face is swelling profusely. He needs medical attention right now…
Brunswick: Come on Larry get off him! That’s enough!
Adriano’s face is puffed up like a balloon. Larry lifts the disoriented body, grips the boy by the seat of his pants, and catapults him over the rope and onto the floor. Adriano’s body crumples below the ring like metal waste. Larry removes his coat violently and tosses it to the mat. He then whips through the ropes and stands over his enemy. He pulls Adriano's head up by a handful of hair. Larry then leans over and takes a close look at Adriano, who is trying to crawl away feverishly.
Brunswick: Larry making an example out of the boy, now. This just isn’t right. If you’re going to beat someone up, how about someone that stands a chance?
Smith: He’s serving notice, Bruns. Larry isn’t messin’ around. He’s here to kill or be killed.
A grin is stained to Larry’s face. He winks at the audience, but those winking eyes snap to ringside. Sitting in the front row is the closest fan stealing his attention. With a wrinkled nose and a blood-curdling yell, the fat patron bangs the barricade. He extends a hand and gestures for Larry to come closer. Larry obliges, taking a step just within the man’s reach while still holding the fistful of hair. When the fan swipes for Larry’s throat, the controversial wrestler pulls away. He laughs with an exaggerated amusement. The crowd growls with displeasure.
Brunswick: This guy is an absolute pr-
Smith: Hey! Mind your language.
With the crowd seething in their futility, Larry gets down on one knee and returns to his victim. He’s still gripping Adriano’s head, displaying his coma-like face. He lifts both knees under the amateur fighter’s arms, pulls back on the chin to extend the neck muscles, and locks in the camel clutch. Larry grits his teeth, and squeezes his eyes shut with force. Sweat begins to ooze down his forehead.
Brunswick: Camel clutch! Larry’s got the camel clutch cinched in on the floor!
Smith: And Adriano taps immediately, not that it matters. This isn’t a match, this is a bloodbath.
Larry continues the hold, his grip getting tighter and tighter. Adriano’s screams get weaker, as if his voice box is disintegrating. Finally, Larry collapses Adriano’s face to the floor. It smashes down. A trickle of blood seeps from his lip.
Brunswick: I hope Larry’s proud of himself! Beating up an underage kid who can’t even defend himself. He must feel like a real man.
Smith: I’ll tell you one thing. I wouldn’t want to mess with that guy, real man or not. He is a man without conscience.
Larry climbs back into the ring and picks up the mic. He swivels his body like a top.
“Is there anyone else?!” Larry says, then immediately: “Didn’t think so!”
Larry lets the microphone fall. It pounds the mat and booms. Larry quickly slides out of the ring, as the shouting crowd pushes in strongly like an angry whirlpool. He walks quickly up the ramp, feigning a backhand slap to an aisle-side onlooker.
Brunswick: Lucky Larry hasn’t been here long, but I’ve had enough of him. Best for someone to get him out of here before something irreparable happens to our company.
Smith: I assure you, he isn’t the most welcome sight for the boys in the back. He just sent a message. A very, very terrifying one.
Larry disappears behind the curtain, leaving the crowd to wish he were never there. But the way the dismantled crowd slumps in their seats, how the bludgeoned martyr is frozen in blood, and how the awe-struck announcers speak so lethargically, suggests an unprecedented impact.
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