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...PROUDLY PRESENTS...
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APPEARING IN THIS ISSUE:
1 - "All Action" Denny Latimer
2 - Donovan O'Reilly
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1 - "ALL ACTION" DENNY LATIMER
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[Scene up on what looks like a man sat at a computer in some sort of production
office somewhere filmed via webcam. He’s slightly bedraggled, with a widow’s
peak and English teeth. Small amount of stubble, broken nose. He’s wearing a
plain black t-shirt and appears to be talking to someone off camera.]
MAN: So, what’s this thing called right here? A webcam? And I just talk into it
and it’ll record everything I say? This is safe, right? It ain’t gonna steal my
credit card details or what have you? Right, right. I dunno, the level of
bullshit we put up with in wrestling these days to cut a promo..
[Turns to webcam, flashes a half smile/half-sneer at it.]
MAN: Alright lads, let’s get the basics over and done with. The name’s Denny
Latimer. "All Action" Denny Latimer. The bio? Every day of my life, from the
moment I shot out of my mother’s womb to the very moment I sat down in this
chair, I’ve been fighting. And I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.
[Stops to grab a can of beer from under the desk. As he cracks it open, a voice
from the side starts to say "You can’t drink it." before thinking better of it.]
DL: You want some history, a bit of background? Lemme see... I come from a city
in England called "Bradford"... Actually, before I get ahead of myselves, let me
say one thing. I come over to this country, come over to America, and every
single promoter, every single agent, every single... whatever... they say to me
the same thing. "You’re English? Where’s the top hat? Where’s the monocle? Why
don’t you talk like the butler in Batman??
And you wanna know why I don’t? Because in the town I come from, 30 years ago,
you’d go to school at 4, leave at 12, spend the next 50 years of your life stuck
down a pit and then you’d die of black lung. If you had any spare time or money,
you’d go down the pub, drink 15 pints and get into a tear-up with some for no
real reason. A pint and a fight, a great British night. That’s what they used to
say.
[Takes a swig from his can, hiccups.]
Anyway, bit of history for you, then this lass called Margaret Thatcher came and
shut the pits down, the stupid cow. So we didn’t have work anymore in Bradford.
We didn’t have structure. All we had was a lot of anger and a lot of energy. Lot
of the Asian lads turned to Islamic fundamentalism, four of them blew up the
tube trains in London. Lot of the white lads turned to nationalism, racism,
white supremacy. Couple of lads I went to school with are doing 20 years now for
an arson attack on a mosque. Those were the roads laid out for me.
[Pauses for a second, lost in thought. Shakes his heads, gets back on with it.]
The old man, my dad, God bless him, he saw that I was probably heading down one
of those roads. So he sent me to the Snake Pits. And for you lads who haven’t
done your reading on the history of British wrestling, the Snake Pits are these
training dungeons for dumb young lads who have no hope in life other than a
career of fighting. And you go in there, and on day one they break your fucking
little finger. And you go away, and you heel, and on your first day back they
break your fucking ankle. And you go away, and you heel, and on your first day
back they break your fucking pride. And then, and only then, do they start
training you.
They taught me how to hook, how to punch, how to grapple. How many ways you can
bend a man’s arm. How to knock a man out with as little effort as possible. How
to knock a man out with as much effort as possible. And so I do my classes, and
I graduate, and there I am. Wrestling every night. Up and down every single inch
of that fair isle. Glasgow. London. Manchester. Liverpool. Places you guys ain’t
ever heard of in America. You ever heard of Didcott? Won a three-way dance there
in 2005. You ever heard of King’s Lynn? Won a handicap match, put one of the
guys in hospital with a cracked sternum. I’m not an arrogant man but I earned a
good living back in the UK. Earned enough to pay for my beer, my gambling slips
and a few floozies, put it that way.
[Smile.]
Anyways, why am I here? Because, you know, I ain’t too keen on things not going
my own way. The promoter tells me not to use any chairs tonight? I use a chair.
My agent calls me up and tells me don’t swear on the microphone? I curse up a
fucking storm, making sure I’m staring any kids in the audience dead in the eye.
The mayor of the town’s in the audience? I get my dick out and start
helicoptering it at him. Eventually, the word gets out... "Don’t use Denny. He’s
dangerous. He’s a liability. He’s trouble."
So I come over to America. And I wrestle. And, it’s OK. Make enough to pay for
the occasional hotel and that fizzy piss you call beer over here. Spent a few
months in the south, thought I had a job for the year there.. place shuts down.
Come up to New England, get told there’s work there... Doesn’t materialize. So
that’s why I’m in Pittsburgh. This Delaney guy tells me there’s work... well,
I’m a worker. I wanna collect a pay check just like everybody else.
[Rubs his nose, scratches his chin, pauses for a few seconds before thinking
what else to say.]
So that’s why I’m here. I dunno, son, I like Pittsburgh so far. Seems like my
kinda place, where a guy can get three sheets and have a good old fashioned
barney on a street corner. And look at the guys we’ve got in DERP. We’ve got
nerds. We’ve got nonces. Cows, chickens, clowns... we’ve got a damn homeless
guy. Donovan O’Reillly’s his name. And that’s who I’ve got in my first match
here, that’s who I get 5, 10, 15 minutes against to win this DERP crowd over
with before they start throwing bottles at me. So I’m prepared, Donovan. Have I
watched your tapes? No. Have I done my reading up on you? No. Do I know how to
make a 6’6", 282lb brick shithouse tap like Savion fucking Glover? You’re damn
sure I do, and you’re about to find out how this coming Friday.
[Latimer gets up from his chair and leaves, downing the rest of his can as he
does. An unnamed, barely visible guy from the office comes up to the computer
and turns the camera off. Cut to black.]
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2 - DONOVAN O'REILLY
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So I've spent the past several days here in Pittsburgh, PA gearing up for the
big show...
[That gravelly voice? That would belong to one Donovan O'Reily, wrestling's
resident bum and perhaps the filthiest grappler you've ever laid eyes on.]
Just hanging out, getting blitzed on cheap hooch and doing my sloppy best to
avoid the Steel City's notoriously trigger-happy boys in blue. But it's not been
all fun and games. See, I've been doing a little research. Everywhere I go, I
keep asking the people I run into... "Just who the fuck is Delaney?".
[He shrugs his shoulders, clothed as they are in a sleeveless black T-shirt
featuring the Black Flag logo. His bared arms wear the collected artwork of the
prison system's best tattoo artists, every inch literally covered in rudimentary
ink.]
Hell, the guy runs a wrestling school in the area and has an entire goddamned
promotion named after himself. I figure he should at least be a small-time local
celebrity, right? Funny thing is, nobody seems to know a friggen thing about
this "Delaney". I mention his name and I'm met with blank stares and an
overwhelming sense that the person I'm talking to just wishes I'd go away.
[Of course, that's probably due to the fact that Donovan looks completely
unhinged. A monstrously thick and full mountain man beard graces his ugly mug.
Greasy, reddish-brown hair hangs down into his eyes. And his blue jeans? Well
they're infested with holes and stained with crimson.]
Delusions of granduer aside, Delaney may as well be a ghost in this town. But
name value isn't why I signed on to work for this two-bit circus in the first
place. The simple fact is, DERP caught my attention by virtue of its lax
ruleset. No DQ and no count-out? Hell, sign me up, son. See, I been throwin'
caution to the wind, breaking the law and pissing in the face of authority all
my life and I ain't about to get all prim and congenial at this stage of the
game. At the rate I'm going, I've got precious few years left in this sport...
hell, on this planet. And I intend to make 'em count. It's time to raise some
hell and shed some blood!
[Seated on a bench on the outskirts of Pittsburgh's Schenley Park, Donovan
emphasizes this point by lifting a tall boy of Steel Reserve to his cracked
lips, chugging the unholy swill for what seems like forever. Finally finished
imbibing, he uses the back of his grimy hand to wipe some stray suds from his
beard.]
And I intend to do just that on the evening of July 23rd. See, I'll be stepping
into the ring for the first time in several years to face one Denny Latimer.
[Behind him, picnicing families and sporty folk playing frisbee golf make for
quite the stark contrast to O'Reily's seedy presence.]
Now, other than the fact that you're a two-time loser from across the pond,
Denny, I can't claim to know much about you. Not that it matters. At the end of
the day, I don't really care much about your credentials. Hell, you could be the
baddest man walking Dog's green Earth for all I care; a bonafide one man army
leaving a trail of destruction and tears in your unholy wake. It's not going to
change my "preparation" any.
[Chug.
Finished with his beer, Donovan simply tosses the empty can behind him. It
bounces off the others with a clang and he quickly retrieves a fresh one from a
12-pack resting beneath the bench. It cracks open with a refreshing "tschk".]
See, here's what I like to do before heading to the ring...
I like to get myself a six-pack of cheap swill, a pint of rotgut and a handful
of the best pain-numbing pills money can buy.
[Guzzle.]
And then I like to consume them all in as quick a fashion as possible, ensuring
that I don't feel a damn thing while I'm out there doing my whole nihilist
death-trip thing.
[There's a momentary pause as Donovan stares off into the distance, his eyes
narrowing. There's something different in his demeanor when he starts back up.
Something slightly off-kilter. Something vaguely sinister. An inherent lack of
humanity that just... makes your skin want to crawl.]
You see, I been doing this a _long_ time, Denny. A _long_ time. And in that time
I've done things you wouldn't believe. I've committed acts so heinus and
barbaric that you'd struggle to call me human.
[Beat.]
Now, I don't intend to rattle off the rap sheet in an attempt to impress you,
Denny. Fact is, I don't care whether you take me seriously or not. Simply put,
you don't matter. Not in my ring. You're a mere toy; a plaything.
[Pulling a pouch of tobacco and pack of wraps from his pocket, Donovan sets
about rolling a cigarette as he continues.]
They say that I'm a nihilist. That I've got no regard for my own well-being and
even less for the poor souls I step into the ring with.
[Beat.]
And they're right, Denny. I don't care if one or the both of us ends up spending
the night in the ICU. I really don't give a damn if you've got a family at home
to take care of and I sure as hell wouldn't take it easy on you if you did. A
date with me ain't no vacation, son. As far as I'm concerned, it's a death match
whether it says so on the marquee or not. If someone's not bleeding or half-
crippled at the end of the night, then I'm a failure at my job. And that's been
my twisted mindset heading into each and every battle I've ever been in.
[Finished rolling the cigarette, Donovan presses it between his lips and lights
up.]
Now I may be a physical and mental wreck because of said mindset; a prematurely
aged young man of 30 years... but you can't do what I do, live the life that I
live and come out the other side sound of mind and body.
[Puff.]
Shit, my knees are busted all to hell, my hip is completely shot, and I've got a
shoulder that's got a nasty habit of popping loose at the most inopportune
times. I've been boozing, drugging and smoking for more than half my life now
and I damn near hack up a lung every morning before breakfast... which more
often than not happens to be a nip of scotch. My memory is shit, and my shit is
a foul, stinking memory.
[Beat.]
But you know what? I'll still beat your sorry ass from pillar to post, Denny.
And I'll do it... as I always do...
On the nails, motherfucker.
On the nails!
[fade.]
