RoughKut Rd. 2 Promo 1

We find Royce coming up the stairs in an old rickety building. The banisters have fallen over and a couple steps on the stairs have been kicked out leaving only a peak to the ground below. He comes over to the camera and walks up next to a door covered in scratch marks and vulgarities carved all across it.

Royce: I didn’t think I would ever return to this old place. Surprisingly, I used to live in this beat up shit hole. Years ago mind you but never the less my life of poverty ran deep. I do remember it looking much better though.

Royce opens the door showing a long since dilapidated apartment. The view is difficult to make out because the only light showing is the rays from the morning sun casting in through a broken window in the back of the room. Easily seen however, is the ceiling which is caving in, the wallpaper which has long since been savagely ripped off the walls and the aging color of the glue which has taken its place. Royce steps in and stumbles over a broken down chair, the legs have been broken off leaving the back to stand straight up high enough to be an obstacle but hard to notice in the dim light.

Royce: Damn this place has seen far better days. The local vandals never stop work on something they begin.

He continues into the kitchen where a rat scurries off the counter at the site of the intruder. A couple pots crash to the floor in its wake. He walks over to the kitchen table and notices a newspaper that is torn in half sitting on its top. The yellow coloration has bled into its pages but the words are still easily read. Royce pulls the halves together and matches them up. The camera zooms in and shows the headline.

“Youngest Man to take gold in the history of OWF.”

A picture of Royce, a few years younger, is pasted across the front cover just below the headline. A smile from ear to ear with the belt held high above his head.

Royce: I remember this day as though it was yesterday. Strange how things can change yet still stay the same. [Laughs]… I was a good looking young man in my years… Hell, I’m only 23, I’m still a good looking young man and it’s still my year.

Royce tosses the paper to the side and walks out of the room. He side steps around an old recliner which looks like a dog ripped it to shreds.

Royce: I cannot believe I once lived in this ratty ass place. It has been a long time since I had to live in this type of poverty. I cannot complain though, the place really did look a lot better once upon a time.

Royce opens a door and steps into what seems to be a study, or at least used to be at one time. The desk on the back wall had been broken down and is at an extreme angle to the ground. The top is scrapped up with carvings of names and numbers.

Royce: Hmmm… old records and opponents. I remember damn near every one of these. Each one a lost memory tossed into the fire of a wished to be forgotten past. Or at least that is what I would like to think of them as.

He opens the desk and begins rummaging through the stacks of papers.

Royce: I cannot believe this stuff is still here. It’s been years.

Royce looks on tossing things to the side, pauses every so often to stare at a sheet of old news and records until he stops in a daze of shock.

Royce: Wha… Hell I thought I tossed this into the flames.

He pulls out a ratty binder. The edges are frayed and pieces of newspaper are hanging out of the sides. He drops it on the desk and opens it up. The camera pans around and zooms in on the first page which he opens to.

“Young talent meets terrible end in the OWF.”

The picture causes Royce to glare and look on in silence for a few moments. Below the headline shows a picture of Royce laid across a stretcher writhing in pain as he is wheeled up the ramp away from the ring. Onlookers are in a state of shock and a pale faced individual, probably the opponent, is out on the ground a few feet away.

Royce: Now this is definitely a memory that I burned out of my mind and wished not to come back. This move ended my career. Well at least temporarily…

Royce looks up at the camera and gives a bit of a half grin.

Royce: I guess a Moonsault from the upper deck was a bit much for my body to handle. That stunt snapped two of my vertebra. Doctors said I would never walk again. I guess they were wrong. There is nothing like a little stem cell research and $150,000 to get things going well again. Funny thing is…

Royce held up the paper toward the camera and pointed at the man laying a few feet away.

Royce: This same man got me back in the sport. I have but only bitter hatred for the bastard cousin of mine… however there is nothing like a bit of competition to get me back into the wrestling ring. Well that and a lot of cash to get me back in form to compete. I figure that’s where my little extracurricular activities after the accident paid off. But those, well, such subjects are not meant for national television.

Royce pulls the paper away and winks at the camera. He looks down at the paper and again and shakes his head.

Royce: CWR… a place that didn’t know my history or what I was about. Right after I got back in shape, they signed me anyway. This risky move proved to be a vital step for the federation.

Royce laughs at the statement.

Royce: … A VERY vital move. But that’s all history now…

Royce steps around the desk, tosses the binder to the side and walks out of the room. He walks to the front door and leans against it. Taking out a cigarette he gazes through the dim light at the run down shape of the place. He puts a high flame to the end of the cancer stick and lights the tip. Once lit he takes a heavy drag and releases a cloud of smoke that engulfs his face briefly blocking him from view.

Royce: After all these years, I have now fallen into a tournament of handpicked feds and chosen competitors. It began with sixty four men and now down to thirty two. I faced a man that seemed to do all his talking alone in the ring and now I am against a fool that looks like some broken down carnival knock off. He is a damn jester on speed, which seems to enjoy his time hanging out with a porcelain man that plays with children in ways too familiar for televised explanation. Hell, from the first time I heard this guy speak my first impression left me with a description that the gimp from Pulp Fiction had moved on to green hair a painted face and a Corky… [Laughs]… mafia connection. The lost Romano…

Royce takes another hit of the cigarette savoring every last particle of nicotine.

Royce: Corky… you are a joke, a missing link on the ladder of broken sexual offenders, a circus tent of fear and a skipped step through puberty, a Bozo without the jokes, a Red without the Skelton, an Under the Big Top flunk… I hate clowns. I have never liked the bastards. The thought causes a disturbance in my stomach that wishes to come to light.

Royce tosses his cigarette to the side and snatches the lens of the camera. He pulls the camera close and the only feature that can be seen is his two bright brown eyes that now burn like fire across the audience’s moving screen of color.

Royce: To sum it up Gideon, I plan on beating the paint from your face and that green bush from your head. I will wrap your birthday party gone wrong tights, around your neck and choke you till Big Tony shits his pants.

Royce releases the camera and an eerie transition washes over him, he suddenly draws back into a calm demeanor and lights up another cigarette. He kicks away from the door and turns to open it. Swinging it wide he looks back at the camera before stepping out.

Royce: See you soon little Corky… Hope you have more than just water in your flower pin. You’re going to need every advantage you can gather. I will have a lot of fun with this one.

Royce flashes a quick smirk and disappears through the door, slamming it behind him. The hinge on the door breaks away under the weight of the wood and pressure of the action. It crumbles from the threshold and connects with the camera killing the feed and leaving only a snowy screen for the audience watching around the world.