Means To A Beginning [vs. JD Driftwood]
Mar 23, 2022 2:01:27 GMT
Casanova English and Lissie Hope like this
Post by OWEN GONSALVES on Mar 23, 2022 2:01:27 GMT
- REC
The clattering of leaves and branches is the first sound heard, as wind blows through the frame of a large oak tree. The tree is full of life and thick with greenery, the bark on the trunk is dark in colour but rough in appearance, the sign of a tree that has been here for quite some time. A body can be seen laid down on the lush grass underneath the tree, the chest of the man rising and falling as he lays, feet planted into the thick lawn and knees pointed up to the sky.
Upon closer inspection, the man, laid on his back staring up at the hypnotic swaying of the branches above him, is none other than Owen Gonsalves. His IJPW Strong Crown Championship draped over abdomen as the golden sunlight peeks through the leaves, showering over him.
“You know, I’m wrestling out in California a fair bit these days.”
A smile forms on his face at the thought of travel.
“I get to spend some time with Cass English again. It’s been a few years, but you remember him from VoW, right? He’s still kicking about, doing great work in name promotions, the creepy bastard.” Gonsalves tucks his hand under his head, reminiscing, “Actually wrestling for his new promotion.”
The sounds of birds squawking in the far distance creep into the patch of silence before the Australian continues.
“Combat Unlimited: Lethal Trials. I know, the name’s a mouthful, I don’t really know what it means, but I’m guessin’ he must have been on something psychedelic when he came up with it… but it spells out ‘cult’ which I suppose is what he’s after.”
Gonsalves turns his head off camera, as if he’s looking at someone, but just for a brief second before he returns his gaze back up to the tree hanging over him.
“He’s got me in a title match on his first show, which is nice of him. March 29th, CULT presents…Manson Family Values.” Gonsalves throws his arms out above him, making a grandiose gesture as he calls out the name of the show. His hands drop back down.
“You remember Charles Manson, right? Infamous murderer, cult figure who likely inspired generations of equally terrifying cult figures?” He smirks, clearing his throat for a moment, “Uh… ‘Believe me… if I started killing, there’d be none of you left.’”
An element of malice hangs in his delivery of the quote, as his grin slowly fades down. The quote lingers for a moment, as Gonsalves clutches his championship to his chest. The gesture sparks a thought.
“...But yeah, I don’t quite fit the whole cult leader, murderer theme he’s got going on for this show, but that title match he’s got me in is for the CULT Classic Championship. Nifty little championship from what I’ve seen, he wants to make it a throwback belt, all about the art of wrestling and what not, that’s much more up my alley.”
Owen lightly taps the center plate of his championship as he speaks.
"I'll be wrestling Cutter Driftwood's kid for it. Yeah, he's a wrestler too. I've seen a bit of his work and he's just as good if not better than his old man. Real slugger, you know? Hits hard, bleeds often…" He pauses with a wry smirk on his face, "A straight razor if you get close to him."
Suddenly, he pushes himself up off the grass, sitting up for a moment as he gazes down at the green.
"I remember we'd sit up late at night, Oscar, Oli and I, and we'd slide in this shotty tape that Oscar had traded for, and usually it'd have the grimiest, low budget wrestling on it but it's the shit we loved. It's the shit I loved."
A beat.
"I didn't realize what I was watching was the territories and I didn't realize that the aesthetic I enjoyed would influence the independents I'd wrestle on. Regardless, these tapes usually had one or two car crash deathmatches, but every now and then we'd get a southern wrestling gem on it - and there was one particular instance where I remember watching Cutter Driftwood for the first time."
Gonsalves cracks a smile as he plucks at the grass, in an almost child-like manner.
"I dunno if his boy knows it, but Cutter was usually on those tapes, a big, bad, burly motherfucker who threw hands with the best of them. Almost always got opened up. But would swing for the fences and fling a man like not many others in his time. It felt illegal watching Cutter Driftwood matches, he was an outlaw and he made us feel like outlaws too."
There’s an air of nostalgia to the story as Gonsalves’ head drifts up to scan around the environment.
“Probably means nothing to you.” He mumbles to himself. It hangs for a moment before he takes his championship and drapes it across his lap, staring down at his reflection in the centre plate.
“His kid is just like him, not an ounce of fear in his body. How do you beat someone who isn’t afraid of death? Not afraid of getting hurt or being twisted. He’s every bit his father so it’ll make for an interesting match for sure…” His words trail off for a moment as for half a second his gaze drifts up to the camera, making note of it for the first time.
“Sorry, give me a second.” His words are directed off camera once again before he calmly turns his attention forward, “JD, I’m not going to lie to you, I was very confused as to why you’re the one I’m facing for the CULT Classic Championship at the end of this month.”
Gonsalves scratches his chin as his gaze returns back to the camera, formally addressing his opponent directly.
“When it was explained to me what this championship was going to represent, and the values that needed to be adhered to in order to hold it, I knew that it was something that I wanted to win. But I can’t lie, mate, I second guessed that decision when I realized it’d be against you. Not because I’m afraid to fight you, no, but because I wasn’t sure if the choice of JD Driftwood was an appropriate reflection of the championship.”
A shrug from the Strong Crown Champion, as he drags the belt up and onto his shoulder.
“See, JD, there’s no lineage for us to work from. There isn’t history or heritage to the CULT Classic Championship yet, so it is up to its first champion to build the foundations of this division from the ground up. I dunno if the gravity of something like that is apparent to you, big man, but best believe that it is weighing heavy on me.”
He readjusts the championship on his shoulder, gripping it a little bit tighter.
“It weighs heavy on me because, for the past month, I’ve been in two minds on whether or not wrestling you is going to be the introduction that this championship needs.” He tilts his head slightly, the words lining up one by one as he carefully constructs them in his head, “But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that you’re every bit the introduction that this championship needs. See, if I’m going to bring a modern take on catch wrestling, if I’m going to bend and twist you, and contort your body in ways you’ve never considered, then you’re going to bring the classics. JD, I’ve realized… that you’re a chip off the old block. You’re southern wrasslin’ through and through, you’re haymakers, lariats and a kick in the guts. Sure, you can take a tack bump, sure, you can handle being gouged with the sharp end of a broken lighttube… but you’re old school, at the end of the day.”
That trademark smirk slowly creeps back as the excitement is palpable in his voice.
“This match, JD Driftwood versus Owen Gonsalves, is the very essence of what this title could mean, this match doesn’t just cover one type of technical wrestling, we’re covering the broad spectrum, and I realize this probably means fuck all to you and you just wanna beat the piss out of a lanky Australian, but this is bigger than you or me, mate, this is the foundations of a division.”
He’s almost out of breath, he breaks his gaze for a moment, recollecting himself as he calculates his next move.
“JD, I need to win this championship, because I can see the bigger picture. This is more than just a means to end, this is the means to a beginning. They want a classic, and it is up to us to give it to them even if it means painting the West Coast red. But when all is said and done, I’ll be the one with the responsibility to make the CULT Classic Championship mean something… and you’ll be the man I beat to start it all.”
Gonsalves holds for a moment, before turning his attention back off camera.
“I should go. We’ll talk soon.”
He reaches over, behind the tree, revealing a bouquet of flowers, lavenders and violets and purples, collated together with white cellophane wrapping around it. He lays it down next to him before standing up, forcing the shot to reframe as for the first time we see that he’s been sitting in front of an elevated slab with a plaque on it.
The plaque reads:
Olivia Marie Gonsalves
20.09.1964 - 30.08.2007
‘A mother, a wife, a daughter, a classic.’
Gonsalves turns on his heel and walks away, championship belt tucked under his arm as the wind picks up once again, blowing through the tall oak tree.
