Post by Tyron Bickerton on May 5, 2016 6:54:49 GMT -6
The scene opens on a darkened room, with only a slender table visible, illuminated by a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. It's a similar set-up to an interrogation scene in a police movie, until Tyron Bickerton slowly walks into frame, his footsteps echoing through the empty room with each step. He stops mid-frame, and pivots in his place to face the camera.
“Good evening, America,” he says sternly. “My name is Tyron Bickerton; I'm a professional wrestler for Visionaries of Wrestling. You may be unaware of the aforementioned fact, and if you are, I don't blame you -- God knows the company hasn’t done anything to promote my involvement in their product.”
He leans back, resting on the desk.
“I'm not here to talk to you about that, though; I come before you this evening to discuss a far more serious matter.”
The camera pans out slightly, and a graphic of Heath Williams fades into the right hand side of the screen.
“Heath Cornelius Williams. Fans of VoW may know him as the reigning I4NI Champion. He’s overcome so much adversity in his career -- he’s clawed his way from mediocrity to become the recognisable wrestling icon that he is today. But, what do fans really know about their beloved Hardcore Hero?”
Tyron stands once again as the graphic slowly fades off the screen. He begins strolling away from the table, and the camera follows along with him.
“Tonight will be the first installment in a series of tell-all interviews with the people that know Heath Williams best; honest-to-goodness human beings who have suffered because of Heath’s misdeeds.
I can only describe it as: The Tour of Self-Destruction.”
The screen fades to black.
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The scene brightens back in, displaying a pleasant open meadow with a gentle breeze sweeping the tall grass. The camera pans to show Tyron entering a tavern nearby. As the cameraman follows him inside, the lavish interior one would come to expect from such a breathtaking exterior is non-existent; instead, the lobby is in a neglected state, with black mold infesting the paint-peeling walls. An elderly gentleman can be seen filing some papers on a splintered wooden desk.
“Excuse me, sir?” Tyron speaks, startling the man from his work.
“My word! An actual person?!” The man seems bewildered as he slowly turns, every bone in his old body creaking.
“I’m Tyron Bickerton. We spoke on the phone earlier?”
“...Ah, yes!” he responds, with a swish of his false teeth. Every word the man speaks is entwined with agony -- as if they’re desperately trying to escape their prison. This man has been starved of human attention for what seems to be an eternity.
Tyron turns to the camera for a moment, gesturing toward the man.
“This is Stanley Hayes,” he introduces the elderly individual. “Mr. Hayes has lived and worked here for the better part of six decades. He’s the owner of this once fine establishment.”
Stanley nods in agreement with everything Tyron is saying, glancing at the camera occasionally.
“So, Mr. Hayes… Can you give us a bit of a background on the Hayes Family Hostel?”
“Well, my pa was a nomad -- a drifter -- movin’ from town to town,” Stanley begins to open up, before coughing and spluttering uncontrollably -- most likely suffering from black mould poisoning. He clears his throat and continues on. “He passed through here one day, and fell for a woman who would later become my mother. He decided he loved it here so much that he planted his roots, and started this here hostel.”
“Such a touching story!” Tyron comments. It’s uncertain whether he’s sincere or not.
“I began working here when I was just a teen, and when my pa passed on, I became the owner.”
“We’ll get back to the hostel in a moment,” Tyron states, turning back to the camera briefly. “What the viewers at home may not know is you also had your own brand of bourbon… Correct?”
“Yep, that’s correct,” Stanley confirms.
“So, what happened?” Tyron questions. “Why isn’t Heavenly Hayes Bourbon a global brand of whiskey?”
The colour drains from Stanley’s face -- the kind of colour draining that occurs when one thinks they’ve seen some kind of spiritual apparition. “Heath Williams happened,” he mutters with a hint of distaste.
The camera centres on Stanley’s face; it’s painted with torment and distress, caused by reliving the traumatic experiences from many years ago.
“He ruined my business,” he claims, choking up a little as he speaks. “Both of my businesses, in fact.”
“Is that why your hostel is in the shape it’s in?” Tyron can be heard asking off camera, to which Stanley validates as fact with an affirmative nod.
“I thrived here; the whiskey sold well, families stayed here on their way into town… It was perfect. I thought I had secured the financial futures of my grandchildrens’ grandchildren.”
The old man wheezes once again. He catches his breath, thanks to his inhaler, and continues.
“One day -- I’d say it was around ‘08 or ‘09 -- the sky was unseasonably black. We’ve never been known to get a great deal of rain around these parts, so it was a very noticeable difference. It was almost as if the weather itself was trying to warn us of what was about to happen.
That’s when he walked in.”
“Heath Williams?” Tyron asks off-camera for clarification.
“Complete with his trusty crack pipe,” Stanley confirms. The camera cuts to Tyron for a moment, who is shaking his head with disappointment. It returns to Stanley, as he recalls what happened next.
“Within moments, he sexually assaulted my 19-year-old daughter…”
“You’re kidding…”
“I wish I were, Mr. Bickerton… He grabbed her buttocks and said, ‘Hey, sweet ass!’, or something to that effect… He then suggested they leave and engage in intercourse…”
Tyron clasps his hand to his face in shock; but Stanley’s story is far from over.
“Of course, I took exception to this and confronted the degenerate… To the best of my recollection, he called me an ‘Old fart motherf*cker’, and demanded I serve him the hardest liquor available.”
“And when he discovered you were sold out..?” Tyron quizzes.
There’s a moment of silence, as Stanley tries to find the courage to go on.
“He began threatening the guests…” he recalls. “Men, women, children -- no-one was safe. He was screaming incoherently; it truly seemed as though he blamed them for the lack of alcohol in the building.”
“Did he strike anyone?”
“Oh, yes… He was out of control. Off his face on a cocktail of drugs, most likely…”
He sniffles, distraught, fighting back the tears.
“I can still hear the childrens’ screams… ‘STOP, MISTER! PLEASE! DON’T HIT ME!’... It haunts me to this day…”
The camera pans out to show both Tyron and Stanley in frame once again.
“I know how difficult this must’ve been for you,” Tyron says in an understanding tone. “And thank you so much for your time, it’s much appreciated.”
Stanley nods as the two respectfully shake hands, and Tyron turns back to the camera.
“Hopefully this information will give you enough reason to see Heath Williams from a different perspective; the perspective of a man who had his businesses -- his life -- ruined by this out of control lunatic. No-one would ever stay at Mr. Hayes’ hostel ever again, for fear that either they or their children would be subjected to a violent outburst such as the one that took place on that grave December morn.
I’d like to thank Mr. Hayes for being very brave, and sharing his story with us. Tune in next week for Part 2, where we will reveal more hidden truths from the past of the Hardcore Hero.”
Tyron and Stanley shake hands once more, and the scene fades to black as the camera zooms in on a single tear rolling down the cheek Stanley’s wrinkled face.
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The scene returns to the darkened room -- the very same room from the beginning of the tape, with the table -- with Tyron sitting behind it.
“I hope you all enjoyed the inaugural installment in the Tour of Self-Destruction series,” he states. “I hope it enlightened you, and opened your eyes to the fact that not everyone is how they appear to be on the surface.”
He folds his hands.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to all of you about. See, after we were done filming that interview you just witnessed, I was informed of my next opponent on VoW Breakthrough…”
His tone turns overly-sarcastic as he finishes: “...The Human Spitfire, Craig Anderson!”
Standing from his seat, he slowly steps around the table to approach the camera.
“Craig made his debut on the last edition of Breakthrough, in a match against Jamo. And it was an impressive win; quick and decisive. Fans of Anderson wouldn’t expect anything less -- he’s a world-class athlete! He’s traveled the globe, wrestled for highly-prestigious companies before making his way here.
I’m not here to sing his praises, folks. In fact, there isn’t a whole lot more I can say about the acrobatic Englishman. What do we know about Craig Anderson? We know he’s an alumni of the Bebo Wrestling Network -- much like myself -- who competed for companies such as OWA, against wrestlers such as Jamo. We know he likes to joke around, have a good time…”
He pauses for a moment, stroking his chin in thought.
“...Y’know, the more I think about it, the more he’s sounding like Heath Williams; and we all know what he’s been hiding behind that nice guy facade of his. Craig, I put it to you that you’re also hiding something behind that happy-go-lucky exterior of yours; something far more sinister. Your deceptive attitude of a guy who’s just glad to be here is great and all, but it’s something I’ve seen all too much of -- guys like you aren’t who they appear to be.
Let’s take your cousin, Nicole Evans, for example -- she came in here as part of a team with Gina Neon, and quickly showed her true colours when she deceived her own tag team partner to steal the Twin City Titles!”
After pacing for a moment, Tyron slowly makes his way behind the desk. He speaks to the audience once again.
“Craig Anderson hasn’t had the opportunity to swindle anyone in such a manner yet…”
He takes his seat, resting his forearms on the hard surface in front of him.
“...But, rest assured, he will; it’s only a matter of time. He hasn’t been pushed to his limit the way his cousin was in that match with me. See, Craig, you can bark about beating nobodies like Zack Richards all you want, but the fact remains; you’ve never faced anyone like me.
That’s simply because there’s no-one on the face of this planet like me. Not in OWA, not in WEW -- not even here, in Visionaries of Wrestling.”
His expression shifts from displeased to sinister in a heartbeat.
“No-one on this roster is willing to go where I am to make sure the other guy leaves that ring second best; if I have to end your brief stint here by snapping your femur in four separate places, then that’s what I’m gonna do. Fans the world over -- those of wrestling and football -- will shower me with gratitude for removing you from both sports, permanently.”
He slaps the table with an open palm as he stands, the camera raising to zoom in squarely on his face.
“You all saw what happened to Owen Gonsalves at Breakthrough 44,” he addresses the general VoW population. “It was intended as a message to Heath Williams -- one that failed to be delivered, evidently.”
He stands tall, the expression on his face softening.
“But, it’s fine. If by some divine miracle that he can pass his drug test, Heath Williams is going to find yet another corpse thrown at his feet. How many casualties is it going to take before he does the right thing?”
Tyron strides off-camera, voicing his final thought: “Walk away, Heath. Just...walk...away…”
Fade to black.
