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| Roots; The Life and Hell of El Lobo Loco | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 3 2005, 07:02 AM (66 Views) | |
| BobPalindrome | Feb 3 2005, 07:02 AM Post #1 |
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[The opening shot is that of a barren, arid landscape at night – a desolate desert area plain and reddish brown, rolling hills and rock formations across the horizon. Cacti line the ground as tumbleweeds and small creatures scurry across the sand. Soft rock music plays in the background as an unfamiliar man’s smooth voice speaks.] Voice-Over: Little exists in these harsh lands. Survival is not easy, and life ends daily with no fanfare. There are no laws but those of nature, and one must be ruthless, cold and hardhearted to stay alive. God is very far from this place. [The scene switches from the wilderness to the exact opposite – a developed and populated city brimming with people and activity. It is Mexico City to be exact, and we get various shots from around the old metropolis -- the main central square, with its churches and government buildings; the Plaza of the Three Cultures; proletariatian murals by Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. We ultimately depart from these tourist attractions and settle on the huge urban slum of Nezahualcoyotl, where street children roam like hungry dogs and the homeless scrimp and save every piece of half-useful trash they come across. The heat is oppressive and everything seems covered in filth – be it dirt, grime or human waste.] Voice-Over: Nezahualcoyotl… One of the most cruel and unforgiving barrios in all of Mexico. Like the rough country, it is a wasteland all it’s own. Here, you must also learn how to fight and scrounge, to take a beating and be prepared to give them as well. Those souls fortunate enough to leave here are unlike most people you will ever meet… Callous. Distrustful. Unfeeling. They too are far from God, and are a breed apart from the rest of the human race. That is why it makes a fitting birthplace for a man who has been disconnected from both sanity and humanity… A crazed, animalistic predator… Known as… [We cut suddenly to a video clip of El Lobo Loco, bloodied and bruised, standing in victory over an opponent who appears in even worse shape. They are in a ring that is littered with chairs, sledgehammers, barbed wire, exploded bombs and other weapons and debris. El Lobo raises his hands and shouts, but no sound is heard.] Voice-Over: …El Lobo Loco. [The scene cuts again, this time to a gritty photograph of a young boy who looks like he is eight or seven years old. But there is a thousand yard stare in his eyes, suggesting he has seen more hardship than even the most grizzled adult would never want to see. He wears rags for clothes, wrapping around an already lean and compact frame.] Voice-Over: He came from poverty. One of the downtrodden and oppressed. He had not committed any sin save to be born where he was, but had been sentenced to a life in Hell. By all reasoning, there was no reason to assume that the young El Lobo would not eventually end up like most boys… In a gang, selling drugs and killing rivals, or as a victim of one the gangs. Unfortunately for El Lobo, he did not get along well with others. [A clip of a boy from the photograph plays, showing him thrashing another child in a playground.] Voice-Over: Unwilling to enter into the suicidal spiral of the crime world, El Lobo learned to use his fists and feet. Through experience, including many wins and losses, the boy became a feral killer. Still, he was one child and no match for the dangers of his environment. That he would still be alive tomorrow was no guarantee. He had to find a way out. [Old clips of lucha libre are shown, showing such legends as El Santo and Blue Demon Jr. As the wrestlers perform acrobatic moves and take painful-looking spots, the crowds roar and cheer in amazement.] Voice-Over: Lucha libre. Mexico’s own unique version of professional wrestling. Unlike other styles, lucha libre emphasizes devastating aerial attacks combined with refined technical ability. These combine to create some of the most entertaining matches in the industry, with masked rudos and technicos facing off in the squared circle, engaged in classic battles of good versus evil. Getting paid to put on tights and risk personal health by fighting desperately? It was the perfect place for a roughneck punk kid like El Lobo to go. [A poster in Spanish showing El Lobo Loco wearing a crude, cheap version of his current silver-and-black mask. He stands in a familiar pose – arms folded, jaw held high, eyes burning with a passionate desire to break some bones.] Voice-Over: El Lobo proved to be a quick learner, and his trainers were impressed with his natural physical prowess. What’s the more, the young protégé seemed to lack any idea of self-preservation, attempting hazardous maneuvers with no hesitation. Despite the injuries that followed, El Lobo’s suicidal tendencies attested to his will and determination. Before long, he was one of the best young high-fliers in all of Mexico. [Highlights from some of El Lobo’s earliest matches play. We see him performing his first shooting star press with Neglecto Caos; a springboard dropkick on Mascara Eagle Jr.; a flying legdrop on Azteca Dragon.] Voice-Over: As El Lobo’s star began to rise, the Powers That Be began to take notice. American pro wrestling at the time was dominated by powerful, muscular heavyweights, so luchadors like El Lobo had few prospects. However, in Japan it was a different story. Like in Mexico, there was a stress on aptitude over size. Still fresh and quickly moving into his prime, El Lobo headed to the Land of the Rising Sun. It was there, with New Independent World Wrestling, where he was first introduced into the brand of matches that would become his trademark… death matches. [Yet another montage, this time of El Lobo’s Japanese death matches. We see him scrapping barbed wire in the face of Winning Kamemura; being knocked off a turnbuckle by Tetsuhiko Muroda into electrified light bulbs; doing a botched moonsault onto an exploding time bomb from his famous series with Masahiko Hatanaka.] Voice-Over: Fans flocked to see the masked daredevil who acted as insane as his name implied. It is said that he received more stitches than any other wrestler on the roster and that he lost so much blood in such a short period of time that he should have, by all accounts, died. But El Lobo has apparently made a career out of cheating death, always prepared to go back into the fray, to resume the long, hard road into the Hell a death match can be… [As the clips fade to blackness slowly, we see the outline of a man walking purposefully, menacingly, moving up the stairs of an arena’s backstage. We get a close up of his boots as they clang against the metal steps. The camera moves upward, past his tights to his thick torso to the scars across his chest, back and arms. His hands crunch, the knuckles popping them as he raises the palms to his face. He covers it just as the camera reaches it, and there is a long pause as the camera stares unblinkingly at his obscured face. Suddenly, he takes the hands away, and El Lobo’s dried lips are locked in a sneer. You can almost see the blood vessels popping on his neck as he grimaces hard, practically burning a hole into the camera lens.] El Lobo Loco: Kuriyama, take a look at my life… And tell me that you’re prepared to face me at Deja Vu. Just because I haven’t been in the FIW very long doesn’t mean anything. You may strut around and wear your pretty little outfits, my friend, but when you face off against me, you will be stepping into Hell. And you will just be a visitor… I’ve lived here all my life… Victory and the title... They will both be mine, vato. [He lowers his head, and the camera pulls away, showing him standing on the ceiling beams above the Wachovia arena, the ring below him. The soft rock music from earlier begins playing again, and as we leave El Lobo standing alone amidst the shadowy rafters, we hear the barely audible howl of a wild wolf…] |
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| Minister Wighty | Feb 3 2005, 04:47 PM Post #2 |
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Opossum Queen of FIW
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The image suddenly blips off like a TV, 'cuz it is. Bill is pretty much done watching that business. BK: That was fun. Interesting, really. I liked it. Bill leans forward in his steel chair, relaxing his elbows on his knees and his chin on his folded knuckles. He's wearing his ADIDAS training pants and his soft, black shoes. His hair is up. BK: I like you, Lobo. I do. You come from a world a lot like me, though you made different decisions. Maybe they were better decisions, but if I had made them, then I'd be you. Hell, we could be a tag team. I can see it now... Lobo and Kuriyama. All the best wrestling ethnicities in one tag team. The black dude who grew up thug life, but left it all behind him, the asian wrestler who trained in Japan against some of the greatest athletes of our time, and the Mexican ese who grew up in the barrio. We'd be huge. Tag titles left and right. Bill smiles and leans back. BK: But we're not partners, Lobo. We're rivals. You want somethin' from me, and I want someone to fight. We happen to fit each others' bills reeeeeeal nice. And you know what makes it all the more interesting? Bill reaches below him into his bag and pulls out that blue and gold belt. BK: This. The Fighting Spirit Championship. The title I said I was going to take when I came into this federation. No shit. Day one, Bill Kuriyama walked through those doors, sat down with Gary Steele and said "Gary, the FSC is mine." A few months later, after trouncing the likes of Elrick, Chris Stevens, Brad Johnson, and even Sammie, here it is. Mine. Bill sets the title back down and leans forward again, this time his folded hands are in-between his legs. BK: I'm sayin' somethin' else here today, Lobo. Today. Right now. This very moment. Bill Kuriyama says that he's gonna walk out of this arena Sunday with a title belt over his shoulder. Bill nods and sits up straight. He looks to the blank TV screen, then back to the camera. BK: Y'know... after a promo like that, you'd think I'd try to one-up you. Tell my story and give everyone a little more insight as to who Bill Kuriyama is. Sorry 'bout your luck, but not today. I'm not Shelton Benjamin, I'm not Booker T. Bill Kuriyama doesn't DO blacksploitation. Or Mexploitation, for that matter. Bill nods once, very swift, very frank. BK: It doesn't matter where you came from, Lobo. Doesn't matter where you've been, who you've been around, who trained you, where they trained you, where you toured, how long you toured, NOTHIN'. Nothin'. Bill got rather impassioned with that last rant. He calms down a bit and his face softens. BK: Sunday's not about that. Sunday's not about my tenure overseas, not about your rough life on the mean streets. Sunday is about your body and my feet. Your planchas and my suplexes. Your air... and my ring. Bill stands, collecting his bag, and the camera follows him upward. BK: Can you fancy that? The Sex Machine Gun walks away, the scene fading slowly to black. |
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