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The Creative Process
Topic Started: Feb 1 2009, 02:30 PM (106 Views)
Spann
Member Avatar
I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy.
[ *  *  * ]
He's back. The biggest man in the midcard has returned, and he's currently making his way through the maze-like interior of FIW's head offices. He's dressed well, in a suit, but noticeably tieless. The top button is undone, exposing a thick gold chain round his neck. Looking once again at the back of an envelope, he stops and traces his steps back mentally, before looking round the corner of the next intersection, his eyes widening in surprised pleasure as he finds the door to the room he's looking for.

A small sign on the door reads 'FIW creative', and a large hand on the handle opens the door. The scene that greets Nick is not a surprising one: 8 sharp suited individuals with notepads and PDAs in front of them.


Creative Team#1: Ah, Mister Allen. You're a little late...

NA: Yeah, sorry about that. This building's a bit of a maze.

CC#2: Don't worry about it. Just take a seat, and we can...

CC#3: Brainstorm a few ideas...

CC#4: Throw some thoughts about...

CC#2: See what floats your boat, see what we can run up your flagpole.

Marketing speak is lost on Nick. As a rule, the most complex thing Nick generally discusses with people is whethere Millwall should be using a 4-4-2 or a more offensive 3-5-2 this weekend. This talk about the pretty brunette running things up his flagpole doesn't sound too bad, however...

CC#2: So, Nick.

CC#6: Nicky.

CC#1: Nicholas.

CC#8: Nickety-Nick-Nick.

CC#7: Quite. Now, I'm sure you know why we're here...

NA: Because, to quote the letter you sent to me: "I'm less marketable than heated ice skates".

The incredulous look on Nick's face illustrates his opinion on how this meeting is currently going rather well.

CC#5: Yes, that's right. Mister Allen, at the moment our target age range is your eighteen to thirties, generally male. Now, market research shows that your lack of understanding of the hobbies, lifestyle and culture of this age group does nothing to help your popularity, and your popularity is our popularity, after all.

NA: So what're you saying?

CC#1: Basically, Mister Allen, we need to get you...

CC#5: Down with the kids.

CC#2: Hip.

CC#6: Cool.

A sense of dread slowly begins to creep over Nick. Whatever they want him to do, it surely can't be good...

NA: So...

CC#7: Well, Mister Allen. Consider the most popular stars in wrestling today. Now, who is the most popular star with their younger fans?

Oh, shit.

NA: You don't fucking mean...

Nick stops. Eight faces stare back at him, smiling and nodding...

He closes his eyes tight, desperately trying to wish it away...
[align=center]
I'm a helmet.
[/align]
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Spann
Member Avatar
I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy.
[ *  *  * ]
Blackness prevails. A slow, lazy drumbeat seeps into the ears of the collective viewers, and slowly light begins to illuminate the scene. The source of the light is a single fourty watt bulb which hangs from an unseen ceiling in a dark, rundown room, the walls made of bare brick and rubble littering the floor.Stood in the middle of the scene is a man who does not want to be there. The look on his face is one of menace, complete with snarl; but a look in his eyes betrays his true feelings - he feels like an 18 year old runaway in her first casting couch session with a greasy man in a wifebeater and shorts.

As the beat continues, Nick bobs his head in time, the thick gold chains around his neck glinting as he does so. He is topless (showing off the best shape he has been in in years), and on his bottom half he wears black boxer shorts and extremely low slung jeans, which only reach just below his buttocks. On his head is a backwards New Era cap, and his hands and wrists are covered in diamonds and gold.

The bassline bounces, and an unseen horn section blasts menacing staccato chords into the air as a voice begins flowing over the top of the music. Now, it's worth pointing out that although Nick's mouth is moving in time with the music, the voice is obviously not his, and he is rather obviously miming. It's more Ashlee Simpson than Jennifer Simpson...


NA: Yo, my name's Nicky A
And I'm back to say
That all o'y'all bitches, well it's time to pay
Don't carry a gat, that's not where I'm at, but these guns are known from here to Bombay*

See my muscles flex with every suplex
I've got pecs, just like Lex, but I'm gettin' mo' sex
And I don't know what I'd rather: Bodyslam or a jam
over a beat, in the street, keepin' it real, keepin' elite
'Coz I'm N-I to the C-K, turn away it's not your day
Else Sledgehammer and Steamroller are comin' out to play
with your face, like a mace, about face 'n' take a pace
or maybe two, or maybe three, four or maybe more
I'd just do what it takes to get yo' ass thru that door!

Yo, my name's Nicky A
And I'm back to say
That all o'y'all bitches, well it's time to pay
Don't carry a gat, that's not where I'm at, but these guns are known from here to Bombay*


It should be pointed out that Nick has now been joined by a line of scantily clad women, their clothes consisting solely of the colours red, white and blue. They begin an energetic dance routine as Nick continues to mime the second chorus, which is followed by a half-time instrumental break.

Clumsily, Nick joins in with the dancing. He's never been particularly agile (As his first wife will testify to, if you can find her), and due to some frankly over the top choreography, he can't keep up. Jumping into the air and attempting to land with his feet crossed is too much though, and as he makes contact with the floor, he pitches forward violently, crushing a camera in the process.

Somewhere, someone screams 'CUT!', and the music suddenly stops; suddenly the commotion is audible. People swarm round the fallen man, a camera operator voices his concerns for the new lens filters he was using, accountants mumble about the cost and 'does he know we're in the middle of a damned recession?', lawyers try to decide who's getting sued...

All goes quiet as Nick pulls himself to his feet, brushing off bits of broken camera, and clears his throat...


NA: Fuck this for a game of soldiers. If anyone wants me... Then they can fuck off.

And with that, Nick throws down his hat, and storms off set, grumbling to himself about kids, and how they take themselves far too seriously...

[align=center]Big Nicky A - R.I.P.[/align]

[size0]*Nick points at his biceps every time this line is uttered.
[align=center]
I'm a helmet.
[/align]
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Spann
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I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy.
[ *  *  * ]
CC#4: So, I think it's fair to say that 'Nicky A' was a bad idea...

Nick takes this opportunity to point to a large graze on his arm, and a lump on his head.

NA: Yes. I think 'a bad idea' could be one way in which you'd choose to describe the events leading up to my receiving my... battle scars here. However, I don't think those three words adequately sum up the situation I found myself in not forty-eight hours ago, dressed like Kenan and Kel and trying to dance like Darcy fucking Bussel. 'Really fucking stupid' is possibly more succinct; or maybe even just 'Duuuuuuuh'.

CC#1: Am I getting some negative feedback from you, Nick?

CC#3: We can't have that, Mr. Allen.

CC#6: No, we can't.

CC#2: It's not... not...

CC#6: ...not exactly blue sky thinking, Mr Allen.

NA: No, you're right, it's fucking not. It's grey sky thinking of the very fucking highest order, or as I like to call it: talking fucking sense.

CC#7: Okaaay. Well, I can see that you aren't a fan of the rapper idea, so howabout we try plan B?

NA: No.

CC#5: But-

NA: No. No no no no no. Absolutely, categorically, most definitely, NO.

CC#8: There's a crate of Sake in it for you...

Somebody knows how to change Nick's mind...

NA: Let's 'ave a look then. Never one to judge rashly, me...

Nick swipes up a large document from the desk, flicking through the first few pages. He stops, reads a few lines, then looks up:

NA: You gotta be fucking kidding me...

Fade.
[align=center]
I'm a helmet.
[/align]
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Spann
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I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy.
[ *  *  * ]
Blackness, once again. A voice. Whether it's vocalised or just a thought we'll never know, but ww know who's monolgue it is, inner or outer:

NA: Lesbiana's gonna have a frigging field day with this...

And, here comes the picture now...

.

.

.

...

Oh, dear God.

Well, Nick's on screen. Things aren't really getting any better from him though; he's decked out in white greasepaint, complete with huge black painted on eyebrows, ruby red lips, blushed cheeks and a tiny blue hat with a tiny flower attached to it.

As the camera pans down, the rest of Nick's costume becomes apparent: Red Nose, a voluminous yellow flowery shirt, complete with enormous buttons and flowers, green braces attached to absolutely gigantic trousers, and bright red shoes that are easily twice as long as any man's feet. He is currently stood in a grey backroom somewhere, staring with disdain at a tiny tricycle, the miniscule wheels of which spell certain misery to anyone over six feet tall, nevermind a man the size and shape of Nick.


"Whenever you're ready, Allenzo" comes a voice from the other side of the door, "Just knock before you come through."

Nick takes a deep breath, then shouts back to the unseen man:

NA: Yeah, alright then.

Gingerly, The Firm lowers himself on to the tiny trike, then slowly, clumsily, and shakily, pushes himself to the door, and knocks.

Fucik's 'Entrance of the Gladiators' begins to play on the other side of the door, and as the opening bars prepare to yield to that infectious theme, Nick breathes heavily once more...


NA: Think of the money, Nick...

And with that, Allenzo the clown is born. He bursts through the door, whooping and grinning as a huge crowd of sugar crazed, hyperactive, six year old children scream and cheer in return. Allenzo places a foot on each pedal, and begins to propel the (frankly ludicrously geared) vehicle towards his performance area.

After what feels like an age, he reaches the rag-tag collection of props, boxes and chests that make up his stage, a large semi circle of children waiting for him. According to the script, he hops off the trike and slips on the banana peel, but slightly less according to the script, his head connects with one of the wheels. This raises huge laughter from the kids, but only serves to infuriate him more. Still, he ploughs on:


AtC Hey, kids! How are you today?

Yet more fevered yelling thunders forward from the children, and their rapture only grows as the clown pulls three juggling pins and tossing them gracefully into the air. The kids are less impressed as each and every pin hits him squarely in the lump that is growing on Allenzo's forehead, the giant clown letting slip a few quiet swearwords with each heavy thunk.

He looks round: there must be something that can't hurt him here somewhere...

Pogo Stick? Nope.

Flaming torch? Nuh-uh.

Cannon? Get bent.

Balloons? Yeah, what can go wrong with balloons?


AtC: So, where's the birthday boy? I bet he wants a balloon elephant...

Shyly, a young boy is ushered out by his (slightly worried) father, and is sat on Allenzo's knee. The world's worst clown then proceeds to begin inflating the balloon, all the time grinning at the child in a desperate attempt to 1: Mask his own terror, and; 2: Allay any doubts this child might have about this clown with the huge lump on his forehead and breath like Daddy's special cupboard. Unfortunately, it does neither, and in his lack of concentration, Allenzo forces that one extra breath into the rubber sheath in his mouth, and with an almost depressing inevitability for everyone except him, it explodes loudly, the terror sending the clown wheeling backwards, catapulting the child off his knee and into the grass behind him.

All is silent.

Until the crying.

The wailing.

The banshee-like screeching.

Allenzo looks up, sheepishly. The exploding rubber has taken a large swathe of the greasepaint of his face, his skin puckering and turning a tanned pink. His gaze is met by a consortium of angry grownups and a mob of horrified child.

The general mood is not a good one.

He takes another look at the child, his face reddening as the screams if pain, embarrasment and rage begin to reach boiling point...


AtC: Fuck this, I'm orf.

And, with noticeably less fanfare than when he arrived, Allenzo runs.

He runs,

and runs,

and runs, until he is just a speck on the horizon. The crowd look on mystified as he stops, turns, realises he's left his whiskey, but then thinks better of it and bolts for the other side of the sunset.


[align=center]Allenzo the Clown - R.I.P.[/align]
[align=center]
I'm a helmet.
[/align]
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Spann
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I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy.
[ *  *  * ]
CC#4: Mister Allen, are you aware how much we had to pay Mr Bingley in damages after you dropped his son on his head?

The eight now familiar faces are no longer smiling. No, they look angry. Very angry indeed.

NA: Guys, c'mon. I had no training, and I had drunk 'alf a bottle of Bells.

CC#6: You...

CC#3: ...were...

CC#1: ...drunk!?

NA: You guys are a little bit behind behind the times, aren't you?

CC#7: YOU MEAN WE SENT A DRUNK MAN IN A CLOWNS OUTFIT TO A CHILDREN'S PARTY!?

CC#8: We may as well have sent Ian bloody Huntley!

NA: Well I told you I thought it was a fucking bad idea, didn't I!? I never wanted to be Allenzo the pissing Clown, or Big Nicky A, did I? I didn't want a great big lump on my head, a twisted arm, rubber burns and near concussion! I wanted to do some reps, drink some beers and relax before the match this Sunday!

CC#2: Mister Allen, we have a job to do...

NA: And so do I! I'm supposed to be a frigging wrestler, not some damned sideshow freak, jumping up and down like a performing shitting monkey!

Silence.

Which is expected really; if a near seven foot man shouted at you like Nick just did, you'd be hard pressed for words too.


NA: Now, you see; you've made me shout. I don't like shouting. Not any more. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with a Famous Grouse and a Wild Turkey.

And with that, Nick makes his exit; leaving eight very stunned people stood in a room, stunned.
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[/align]
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