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Nick Allen: Equal Opportunity Beatdowns.; Or: The RP with the shit title.
Topic Started: Dec 19 2007, 10:11 PM (38 Views)
Spann
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I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy.
[ *  *  * ]
Scene opens to show the outside of a small, rundown gym in an urban area of Nagoya. As the camera travels round the corner, we see a long queue, snaking out of the gym. Either side of the entrance is a large poster, most of which is in Japanese, and therefore, to the majority of our viewers, unreadable. However, the words 'NICK ALLEN' are clearly visible, as is a picture of the 6 foot 8 man mountain.

The crowd is predominantly made up of musclebound guys in tight fitting tanktops, small, athletic looking men, and stocky men with boxing gloves tied together and draped over their shoulders.

After working it's way down the line of people, the camera then travels inside the gym. After traversing a few dingy corridors, we happen upon a large, open room, containing a boxing ring. The queue of people stops approximately ten yards from the ring, the rowdy but reasonably orderly mob kept in check by several large men in FIW: STAFF shirts.

The camera hangs on this scene for a few moments, until the low throb of crossed conversations suddenly builds to a sudden crescendo of cheers, jeers, threats and admiration.

Nick Allen has entered the room.

He walks alongside the line of men, stopping to mock those he finds particularly funny, and to stare down those who he thinks are a little too big for their boots. Allen approaches the ring, before slowly climbing the steps and slipping between the ropes. He then turns, leaning over the ropes, goading the throng.


NA: OI! SHUT UP!

The noise in the room soon drops to silence.

NA: That's better.

Allen surveys the room, his trademark cheesy grin oozing over his cheeks.

Right, I presume you all know about this lil' soiree that's going on here today, but for those of you who don't, the idea is as follows: Each of you in turn will step into the ring, and go one on one with me, bareknuckle boxing style. However, the moment either one of us hits the floor, we're out. No knockouts, no TKO's, no nothin'. You hit the deck, you lose. I hit the deck, I lose. Easy-peasy, huh?

Allen takes his top off, showing a torso that his clearly been worked on since his loss at Violence Fetish. His pecs are well defined, and his 22 inch biceps look ready to burst. This is a man in his prime.

NA: Right then, let's go.

After seeing Allen's imposing physical prescence in the flesh for the first time, the snarling, rabid looking man at the front of the queue suddenly looks alot more nervous. In fact, he even offers to let the man behind him go first, but is declined.

After a sharp intake of breath, the contender reprises his animalistic manner. He charges to the ring, leaps over the ropes and charges towards Allen.

And ends up on the floor in a shower of teeth, blood and sweat.

Groaning softly, he is hauled from the ring by two FIW minders, as Allen motions for the next contender, who calmly paces to the ring. After stepping to through the ropes and raising his fists, he begins to circle Allen, looking for weak points in this giant's armour.

KER-ACK!

As he stares at the gym's ceiling, the recently fallen challenger realises that he should've probably watched for Allen's hands.

The camera now focuses on Allen's face again, who is chuckling heartily to himself.

NA: You lot are taking yourself faaar too seriously. I tell you what, how about we have a little fun?

We are now well into a montage. Rocky style music is playing now, as we see a selection of Allen's duels against the allcomers. We see:

Allen bouncing a basketball while flooring a man with his other hand.

Allen taking out two hulking beasts of men with a single right hook.

Allen sat on a stool, examining his nails while his opponent displays his best fancy footwork, before dancing his way into a sweaty Londoner's fist.

Allen participating in an interview for an unnamed local radio station, all the time weaving past a succession of quick jabs, before a vicious, raptor-quick body blow folds his opponent in half.

A tired, sweaty Allen pouring a bottle of water over his head, while almost knocking the head of a sneaky would-be-attacker of his shoulders as he sneaks up behind him.

Nick Allen, with an arm tied behind his back nearly flooring himself after missing with a wild swinging fist, before spinning into a vicious uppercut that lifts the other man off his feet.

A quick succession of various snapshots of Allen flooring man after man after man, getting faster and faster, until it is simply a blur.

As the music draws to a close, the montage fades, before Allen's face appears again, his cheeky, toothless grin filling the screen. As the shot draws back, we can see that both the ring and it's surroundings are littered with motionless bodies, the FIW staff slumped in a corner, sweating from the exertion of removing so much dead weight from the ring. Allen is sweating quite heavily, but he still looks healthy, and ready to go for a few more rounds. As he chuckles to himself and turns, light floods into the room.

Jay Bain stands sillhouetted in the doorway. He slowly ambles into the room, carefully stepping over the unmoving bodies around the room. Allen watches him reach the ring, and extend a hand. Allen semi-cautiously extends his, and the two share a respectful, but wary handshake. Allen is aware that Bain could pull him over the ropes at any second should he wish, and Bain is reasonably sure that Allen knows a few ways to break an arm in this position (he knows six, to be precise), and there is a moment where the two are both expecting to be ambushed.

But it doesn't happen. The two release their grip on each others hands, and stare each other out, grinning. The following conversation has a competitive, yet reverential tone, and any threats or jibes made aren't said maliciously.


JB: So, you've assaulted a whole room full of untrained japanese wrestling fans. I'm sure that'll do attendance wonders.

NA: Pah, they signed the waiver forms. Aaaaaand, they all get a free pack of 'You were put on your Arse by Nick 'The Firm' Allen' Painkillers in the bargain too.

He turns, raising a pack to the camera, while giving a thumbs up and grinning.

Bain interrupts this shot.


JB: You really will do anything for a paycheck, won't you?

NA: You'll understand when you have kids, man. I will do absolutely anything to look after those three little souls, and all respect to you, I don't think anyone gets that fully until they've got children of their own.

JB: Christ, I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I actually quite like you, you know. Even after having to drive you to the fucking hospital, and bailing you out from jail, or watching you stealing and breaking my stuff, I can't bring myself to dislike you.

NA: Haha, that's funny. Most people find it pretty easy to dislike me. Must just be 'cuz you're a poof.

Bain's eyes shoot open, shocked.

JB: You what?

NA: Oh, for fucks sake, lad, leave it alone! I don't fucking mean it! You take yourself...

Bain glares at Allen, as he knows damned well what the big guy is going to say, and, frankly, doesn't want to hear it.

NA *Defeated*: Christ, alright, I won't say it. Now, I'm off for a shower. Are you going to sod off and actually get ready for this match instead of taking pictures of yourself in shellsuits, or would you like to climb into the hot steamy waters with your big daddy?

Bain's lack of response is a clear indication as to what his answer is, and him turning and walking off is the exclamation mark to it. As he reaches the door, Allen calls after him:

NA: BAIN!

Jay turns, expecting another insult.

NA: Seriously though, I'm looking forward to our match. Should be some good competition. Good Luck.

JB: Yeah, good luck mate.

Bain walks out, closing the fire escape behind him. The camera slowly tracks back to Allen, who sniggers.

NA: Won't be me who needs the luck, sonny-jim. heh, heh heh....

On Nick's crescendo of guffaws, the scene fades.
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