Post by CM Poor on Jun 19, 2006 20:12:20 GMT -5
Low Profile
A warm summer's sun has just risen over the horizon. In the city of Toronto, the morning commute has just begun as the blinding rays of the morning sun peer over the Air Canada Centre. Down the road, the bright beams of light just barely peer through the shut curtains in a single occupant hotel room. The bed sheets are crips and clean, unchanged from their state of condition upon the arrival of the room's occupant. Beside the bed, a small wheeled suitcase and a black gym bag lie just as they were thrown the evening before. In the far corner of the room, a small pile of cans and cardboard has formed beside the desk seated beside the window overlooking the city of Toronto. Seated at the desk, slumped over it in a deep slumber, is Jason Vieiera. A five o'clock shadow has grown to compliment his goatee, his state of dress indicates a lack of sleep, self attention, or both. The same Red Sox championship shirt he sported three days earlier is untucked, hanging over the same straight leg blue jeans, which, in turn, cover the same black work boots. He lies amid more empy cans - Natural Ice - the first, cheapest beer he could find in a pinch. Thorwn askew over the desk is a series of newspaper clippings: VIEIRA GUILTY ON ALL CHARGES, COLD BLOODED CONCORD KILLER SENTENCED INDEFINITELY, VIEIRA RELEASED. All of them dated several years, all of them front page material. The last paper on the desk is just a day old, purchased just before he crossed the border from New Hampshire to Canada: SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT SCOUT ASSAULTED - NO SUSPECT IDENTIFIED. The headline is accompanied by a profile picture of WFWF talent scout Chris Avalon. As the sun begins to break between the curtain, putting a significant glare on Vieira's unkempt face, he begins to stir awake, sitting up and retaining his bounds before knocking a set of cans aside, his attention refocused once more on the papers in front of him. Almost in a daze, he picks up the previous days paper, and begins to almost inaudibly re-read the article to himself.
A warm summer's sun has just risen over the horizon. In the city of Toronto, the morning commute has just begun as the blinding rays of the morning sun peer over the Air Canada Centre. Down the road, the bright beams of light just barely peer through the shut curtains in a single occupant hotel room. The bed sheets are crips and clean, unchanged from their state of condition upon the arrival of the room's occupant. Beside the bed, a small wheeled suitcase and a black gym bag lie just as they were thrown the evening before. In the far corner of the room, a small pile of cans and cardboard has formed beside the desk seated beside the window overlooking the city of Toronto. Seated at the desk, slumped over it in a deep slumber, is Jason Vieiera. A five o'clock shadow has grown to compliment his goatee, his state of dress indicates a lack of sleep, self attention, or both. The same Red Sox championship shirt he sported three days earlier is untucked, hanging over the same straight leg blue jeans, which, in turn, cover the same black work boots. He lies amid more empy cans - Natural Ice - the first, cheapest beer he could find in a pinch. Thorwn askew over the desk is a series of newspaper clippings: VIEIRA GUILTY ON ALL CHARGES, COLD BLOODED CONCORD KILLER SENTENCED INDEFINITELY, VIEIRA RELEASED. All of them dated several years, all of them front page material. The last paper on the desk is just a day old, purchased just before he crossed the border from New Hampshire to Canada: SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT SCOUT ASSAULTED - NO SUSPECT IDENTIFIED. The headline is accompanied by a profile picture of WFWF talent scout Chris Avalon. As the sun begins to break between the curtain, putting a significant glare on Vieira's unkempt face, he begins to stir awake, sitting up and retaining his bounds before knocking a set of cans aside, his attention refocused once more on the papers in front of him. Almost in a daze, he picks up the previous days paper, and begins to almost inaudibly re-read the article to himself.
Jason Vieira: "Manchester native Chris Avalon, former professional wrestler currently acting as a talent scout for the WFWF, was assaulted Thursday afternoon while leaving the Concord State & Federal Courthouses. While no witnesses were able to account for the assault, Avalon has stated that his assailant sported a full beard and shoulder length black hair...shoulder length black hair?"
Vieira re-reads the description to himself several times, almost questioningly, before springing up, tossing aside the newspaper, and storming into the middle of the room.
Vieira: "Full beard and shoulder length hair"?!?!
Regaining his bearings as the news settles on him, Vieira cups his forehead in his left hand, shaking his head, as almost if to fight off an oncoming illness of headache. Racing back toward the window, he tosses open the curtains, pulling the window open to let the warm morning air breeze over him. Resting his arms on the windowcill, he scans out over the visible portion of the city, his eyes coming to rest several times on the arena down the road, as if he were expecting to spot Avalon from so high up.
Vieira: The son of a bitch covered for me....what's he playing at, covering for me? By all right I should be back in jail. I've clearly violated parole - sure I've kept a job, but by all right, the match would be called off. Me behind bars, and ZMaster with a bye to the next ro...
As if what he's just taken in a most foul scent, Vieira doubles back from the window in a dizzy manner, falling to a seat on the corner of the unoccupid bed in the center of the room, his hand back to his forehead, this time nursing a truly sick feeling.
Vieira: Avalon....Avalon, you son of a bitch. "You'll be brought in to work a few dark matches, sub for guys when they can't make it in. It's a pretty high paying gig with a pretty low profile." A pretty low profile, you son of a bitch, YOU KNEW I WANTED TO MAINTAIN A LOW PROFILE!!! How do you maintain a low profile against the Grand Slam champion in a tournament for a shot at the World Title?!?!
Flopping backward onto the bed, his legs still dangling over the edge, Vieira stares blankly up at the ceiling, a small smirk on his face as he comes to terms with the reality of the situation. Almost laughing as it dawns on him, Vieira takes a deep breath as he brings his hand back under his head for slight support, his gaze still fixed upon the ceiling.
Vieira: Simple. You lose. Just like you're going to. You're Jason Vieira, the cold blooded criminal who's been at the game for an entire week. He's ZMaster, lord knows how many time multi-champion of everything under the god damned sun. You go in, lay in a few jabs, lie down, and accept defeat. Bumped back down to middle-card. No one will remember you even shwed up.
Pleased with his spin on events, Jason's face relaxes, as he shuts his eyes, his smile still present, as he nearly drifts off into a deep sleep. Nearly a minute passes before, Vieira springs back up to a full stting position, a look of astonished bewilderment on his face, completely taken aback by the idea just planted in his head.
Vieira: But what if they do?! What if Jason Vieira is the next big thing - the kid with enough punch to take down someone as revered as ZMaster? The cold blooded killer can take down the champ, now his eyes are focused on two things - the gold, and any punk stupid enough to stand in his way! No...that's what they'd want...the judges, the jury, the prosecution, the wardens, Chris Avalon....that's what they'd want the world to see. A maniac who fought his way to the top and took out anyone he needed to along the way. But prove them all wrong...fight a fair fight and take down your opponents in the ring. What if this push to the top is just what you need to show the world who you really are? Not a cold blooded killer, an innoncent man in a poor set of circumstances ready to put the past behind and start over fresh!
Glancing over at the desk filled with black and white proclamations of his guilt and the threat he poses to society, Jason hurries over to the desk, and in a clean sweep, clears the desk clean of the papers and clippings, dumping them into a nearby garbage bin. Stepping over once more toward the window, glancing toward the Air Canada Centre in the distance, he makes his way toward his luggage, and begins rooting in his suitcase for his razor and toiletries.
Vieira: It's just crazy enough to work.
Flipping on a lightswitch as he enters the bathroom, Vieira slams the door behind himself as he gears up in preparation for the premier of Odium and a potentially brighter future.
I dont know good luck 
