Post by Deleted on May 8, 2016 22:41:12 GMT -6
The scene opens in a pub comprised largely of unfinished wood and green paint. Behind the bar on the white-lit steps sits an array of liquor, with Bushmill's being the centerpiece of the arrangement. The pub itself is packed, the music almost completely inaudible over the noise generated by its patrons. As the camera pushes further in, it passes a signboard held by a standee leprechaun that appears to be hand-painted and cartoonish, the sign written in chalk reading, "We like our beer like we like our violence - Domestic." Amidst all the rabble-rousing, cheering, and laughter sits a man a few stools in from the left end of the bar with shaggy red hair and a full, lengthy, untreated beard. His garb is made up of a Ensiferum t-shirt, tan cargo shorts, and black and grey tennis shoes. A loud, bellowing laugh fires from him as he makes haste chugging a pint filled with a dark lager, chased by a shot glass filled with whiskey. The bartender laughs with the man while he throws his arms around another red-headed and bearded individual of seemingly equal height and of a chubbier build and the other, a man with long, dark hair and a chinstrap. He slaps them both on the back before sliding off his stool and heads toward the camera, using his fingers to gesture to the door. As he passes, the camera follows out of the pub with him.
Bill Bashem: Place is fuckin' crazy tonight, huh?
He laughs, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of menthol Maverick 100s. With a quick flip of the top, he pulls a lighter out of the half-empty pack and puts a cigarette to his lips. A two-second touch to the lit Bic and the cigarette glows red with a cherry. Off screen, a man can be heard mumbling, and it catches the attention of the cigarette smoker.
Bill Bashem: Take it easy with the "f-bombs"? Fuck off, you came to me, I didn't come to you.
The cherry glows bright red as he takes a drag and the camera pulls back to reveal the pub's name - Hannah Flannigan's - located on what would look like the picturesque main street of any smaller American town. Even in the dark of the night, the street lights still shine enough to make out the outlines of mountains in the distant background.
Bill Bashem: So this is it, the place you'd typically find me on a Monday night. The wings are great here, man. Seriously. It's a real shame I won't be able to come as often as I'd like to, especially since I've got me a job on Monday Night Brawl, Extreme Wrestling Corporation's premier brand.
Another quick drag is followed by a quick flick of the fingers to knock the ash off of the cherry,
Bill Bashem: Well, premier now that they've got themselves a real heavy hitter. That's right, ladies and gents! Bill Bashem will be gracing your screen every Monday from now till my heart stops beating! I know you've heard this all before - the whole routine about "shaking the company up" and "I'm gonna be champion tomorrow" - but that ain't me. What is me, me at my very best, is promising that everyone from five year old Jimmy to ninety-four year old Grandma Gertrude will be out of their seats and losing their minds and whoever the unlucky fu- I mean, Bastard?
Bill shrugs, looking at the man who'd spoken to him previously while he continues to drag on his menthol. The man speaks inaudibly in return, which almost enforces Bill to roll his eyes.
Bill Bashem: Yeah, bastard. Bastard who stepped into the ring with me that night, win or lose, will look like the poster child for an abuse case. Y'know, the kind even Tina Turner would flinch at; but hey, you really don't have to take my word for it. You can just sit back and watch as I smash and bash through the very best that EWC has to offer. If you want "entertainment" from "entertainers", go watch some other promotion. If you want excitement, blood, bruises, and broken bones, look no further than your boy, Bill Bashem.
He flicks the cigarette from his two-finger grasp and with an arrogant smirk, turns his back and heads inside the pub as the scene fades out.
Bill Bashem: Place is fuckin' crazy tonight, huh?
He laughs, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of menthol Maverick 100s. With a quick flip of the top, he pulls a lighter out of the half-empty pack and puts a cigarette to his lips. A two-second touch to the lit Bic and the cigarette glows red with a cherry. Off screen, a man can be heard mumbling, and it catches the attention of the cigarette smoker.
Bill Bashem: Take it easy with the "f-bombs"? Fuck off, you came to me, I didn't come to you.
The cherry glows bright red as he takes a drag and the camera pulls back to reveal the pub's name - Hannah Flannigan's - located on what would look like the picturesque main street of any smaller American town. Even in the dark of the night, the street lights still shine enough to make out the outlines of mountains in the distant background.
Bill Bashem: So this is it, the place you'd typically find me on a Monday night. The wings are great here, man. Seriously. It's a real shame I won't be able to come as often as I'd like to, especially since I've got me a job on Monday Night Brawl, Extreme Wrestling Corporation's premier brand.
Another quick drag is followed by a quick flick of the fingers to knock the ash off of the cherry,
Bill Bashem: Well, premier now that they've got themselves a real heavy hitter. That's right, ladies and gents! Bill Bashem will be gracing your screen every Monday from now till my heart stops beating! I know you've heard this all before - the whole routine about "shaking the company up" and "I'm gonna be champion tomorrow" - but that ain't me. What is me, me at my very best, is promising that everyone from five year old Jimmy to ninety-four year old Grandma Gertrude will be out of their seats and losing their minds and whoever the unlucky fu- I mean, Bastard?
Bill shrugs, looking at the man who'd spoken to him previously while he continues to drag on his menthol. The man speaks inaudibly in return, which almost enforces Bill to roll his eyes.
Bill Bashem: Yeah, bastard. Bastard who stepped into the ring with me that night, win or lose, will look like the poster child for an abuse case. Y'know, the kind even Tina Turner would flinch at; but hey, you really don't have to take my word for it. You can just sit back and watch as I smash and bash through the very best that EWC has to offer. If you want "entertainment" from "entertainers", go watch some other promotion. If you want excitement, blood, bruises, and broken bones, look no further than your boy, Bill Bashem.
He flicks the cigarette from his two-finger grasp and with an arrogant smirk, turns his back and heads inside the pub as the scene fades out.