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Life at the Slaughterhouse; Update on Owens, Introduction to Cross
Topic Started: Jan 11 2018, 03:33 PM (85 Views)
MrBiscut
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Do Your Worst,I've Heard All The Brokeback Cracks
With a skeleton camera crew from PRW.com not far away, Alexander Owens can be seen firing off a rapid fire set of Hindu squats as he works up a sweat. Somewhere out of range of a camera; loud thuds and pops that sound like a mixture of firecrackers and leather cracking can be heard. This crew is in the Slaughterhouse, the personal training area of Owens, and from the look and sound of it; it's booming with activity.

Pausing to grab a towel, it is easy to see now that when he's not pumping up and down that, Owens’s left arm is not longer in a sling. Instead it is packed into a bulky hard cast which limits it motion but at least allows for a little shoulder movement; something Owens has not been able to do without terrible pain since the surgery. Looking up at the camera as he cleans his face off, Owens sports a million watt grin.

Owens: Welcome to my world the last few days.

Walking along, the camera follows Owens as he ducks under a doorway and into what looks like a rudimentary kitchen. Reaching into an old fridge, he pulls out a large pitcher of greenish brown liquid. Pouring himself a large glass; Owens knocks it back in one large pull. Slamming the glass down; he flicks his tongue in and out as he exhales.

Owens: This stuff is awful. It’s a soy based lean protein shake with spinach,cabbage, broccoli,cucumber,lemon juice with an additional calcium supplement to boot. It goes down like chewed cud ; smells like horse shit and taste like old grass clippings. But you're not here to talk about my diet are you? No you’re here to check in on me.

Reaching into the fridge again, Owens pulls a tall boy of High Life and sits in one of about half a dozen old faded cow skin chairs that occupy this room. Cracking it open, he takes a hard pull; letting out a satisfied exhale as he does.

Owens: *pointing to the beer* This is much better. *Another swig* My recovery is going great. I’m out of the sling and as you can see I’m sporting this bulky plaster mess now but only for about another two weeks. After that, if the doctor like what he sees, I’ll be in a soft one and hopefully by mid February I’ll be clear to compete and to get back to full on training. Till then it all about healing my wounds; getting myself in the best shape I can and trying not to go stir crazy.

A loud banging noise followed by a series of deep rumbles emits in a muffled arch from above; accompanied by a raining of dust from the creaky wooden rafters. Looking up, Owens smiles a little and take another swig from his beer.

Owens: Though to be honest it gonna be hard for me to get too bored around here. Follow me.

Walking up a set of stairs; Owens and the crew emerge in a brightly lit room. As the camera gets a chance to focus, a woman dressed in joggers and s muscle top complete with kick and elbows pads is working her way around a trio of wooden fighting dummies. She is firing off rapid fire kicks and elbows; the dummies mobile section and arms spinning like propellers. Owens continues to walk; taking a quick swig from his beer and stands there transfixed looking at the woman.

Just behind her and to the right is a full sized ring. Inside the ropes a large bald man is on the defensive as a much smaller competitor flies around and peppers him with kicks and the occasional head-scissors take-down. From a distance the bigger man looks to be capable but a little flustered while smaller man moves with a fluid movement; showing little to no waste movement in his attack. Suddenly, while still abusing the wooden dummies, the woman shouts, directing it towards Owens as she fires a stunning hook kick that looks to threaten to send the poor hunk of wood into the wall behind it.

Shira: Alexander Martell Owens; you better not be drinking a beer dammit.

With a sheepish grin, Owens takes a quick swig and hides the can behind his back.

Owens: Wouldn’t dream of it dear.

Owens steps aside for a moment, putting the open can on the table close to the door as he grab a duo of towels. Walking forward. Owens talks as he nears the ring.

As you can see there is plenty of activity around here to keep me busy. My wife is currently training for her upcoming role in Sex & Violence. I’ll be honest. I was a little reluctant with her participating when the invite came in the mail. I’ve watched and heard what kinda hijinks a Tsukishima Shadow created spectacle can be and I was nervous for her. But after some coaxing, I knew it be wrong to advise her against it. Save for the time she was on the road with me recently; she’s been breaking her neck getting ready to break some skulls and hearts come February. I honestly feel bad for whoever ends up across from her in the ring.

Walking on a little further, Owens stops close to the edge of the ring and turns around. The bald man is on the offense now. He has the smaller man, who can now be identified as Owens’s old tag partner Steven Cunningham, in a tight sleeper-hold. With a pop of the hips that seems to mimic the buckling of a in its prime bull; he takes Steve in a spinning arch and slams him to the mat. Taking the hard bump, Steve puts up the X. He gets helped to his feet by the bald guy and the two have a quick talk.

Owens: Speaking of training; I’ve taken on a pet project from my old buddy Bane. He comes to me a little less than a week ago and tell me I have got to see this guy he found wrestling in some high school gym and punching some bulls at the local rodeo arena. Lo and behold not only am I impressed by the guy but it turns out he’s a cousin to me through his maternal grandmother. Not only that but he used to spend his summer here working on the farm and training in bull riding with my older brother Robert. So long story short, we both see potential in him, I agree to train him a bit and get him a little less green and I’m petitioning to get him a tryout sometime later this month.

Steve walks over and fist bumps Owens. They exchange a few words and he hands him two towel...and the rest of the beer. Steve takes the items with gusto; killing the beer and tossing a towel to his “trainee”.

Owens: I would love to be testing him out myself but by doctor’s orders I’m not allowed to do so much as run the ropes till I get put into a soft cast. Even then I supposed to take it slow. Luckily I’ve got a crack team around me; Shira for striking and ground defense, Steven for stamina and speed training. And I’m working with him on psychology and presence. He’s raw but he’s got the gift of grapple. Must be in his genes.

Owens laughs a little as the yet to be identified man walks over.

Crewman: This guy got a name?

Sliding out the ring, the sweated drench fellow steps in front of Owens and fields the question.

Cross: The name Frank Cross. Born and breed Texas boy, former Marine and future standout in the PRW. You might wanna get on the train now, cause once this Desperado rolls out the station; ain’t nobody gonna be able to catch me. I guarantee that.

Turning around he and Owens give each other a good brother forearm bump. Cross walks to over to Shira; joining her in hitting the dummies; largely focusing on blocking the incoming arms as Shira sends them vortexing around.

Owens: There you have it. I’m on the mend for now, my beau Shira is on the warpath, and the Slaughterhouse has got a fresh piece of meat to turn a raw hunk of potential into a prime piece of wrestling success. And I couldn’t be feeling better about it all. Now if you excuse me; I gotta go take jog round the compound then have a cup of cud.

Owens walks off, leaving the crew to focus in on Cross; who is currently getting worked over by Shira with a couple of precise looking joint locks.
Edited by MrBiscut, Jan 12 2018, 11:15 AM.
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