Phoenix Cup Round 1 - Mr. H vs. Rip

[mth]

ou[R] Fed presents...

**The Phoenix Cup Tournament**

FIRST ROUND

MR. H versus RIP

aka @mth vs. @Rip

3 alternating promos from each competitor. Remember the criteria you will be judged on:
-Selling characters/story
-Selling the match
-Entertainment Value
-Grammar/Cohesion

Coin flip reveals Mr. H goes first.

[mth]

A single blacklight bulb illuminates, killing the darkness and casting an indigo glow over a small nondescript room. After the sound of a few footsteps, Mr. H enters the frame, robed in a shaggy black fur coat and top hat, a steel chair tucked under his arm. He takes a moment to set up the chair beneath the lone bulb and begins to sing quietly as he slowly circles around it.

“The foot bone connected to the leg bone, the leg bone connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone connected to the hip bone...”

He stops for a moment behind the chair, both hands on the back of it, head lowered.

“The hand bone connected to the arm bone, the arm bone connected to the..other arm bone...”

He reaches up to remove his top hat, tossing it aside. Raising his head, the blacklight sets his grinning visage ablaze as it illuminates the colorful paint that covers it. He also raises his voice,

“EVERYTHING connected to the BACKBONE.

I probably shouldn't mention the knee bone, eh, Ripper? I mean, your knee bone's barely connected to anything, heh. But I get ahead of myself...
...firstly, foremostly, I probably ought to make a proper introduction of myself...
They call me Mr. H.
Everything you fear and everything that puts a tingle in your dingle all crammed into one sleek wrestling machine.
Damn-near twenty years in the bizniz, tag titles, world titles, accolades and accomplishments, ressssspect on the name.
Respect.
Respect because I am The Backbone.
Not just because I have done it all but because I will do it all.
Boots in a bag at all times.
Whether it's for a fat stack of cash or a hotdog and a handshake...hell, ring a bell right now with nothing to offer and I'll gladly make someone my bitch for the sheer joy of it.
Because I love it and I live it.
Because I am it.
Because this warpaint on my face runs through my veins.
Because I've kept the leathery, withered, stanky-stank corpse of the R-feds in a room in my basement like goddamn Norman Bates and his mom, ya get me?
'Cuz if I don't have this, I am not me...
...and to be perfectly honest, if this doesn't have me, this wobbles and flops and gasps and flatlines.
Now...”

He takes a moment to shrug off the coat revealing a hot pink and black striped suit that radiates under the blacklight. He walks around the chair and takes a seat.

“Why do those last few words make me think of you, Rip?
Now for those who aren't aware, Papa Ripper and I go pretty far back...deep and tangled and tied up pretty well with each other.
My real pops passed when I was 12 and ol' man Rip's been a bit of a father figure to me in this wild world of wrestling, like he's been to a lot of the boys.
Because, truth be told, Rip's a fount of wisdom and experience, a sturdy sequoia filling us saplings with admiration and inspiration.
But you know...can't lie...daddy issues can be a hell of a thing.
For as much as you are all, “Teach me, Father! Make me a better man!”, you're also like, “Fuck you, Father!” and want to smash the old bastard's face into goo.
And by 'you', I mean me.
Because Dad's supposed to protect you.
Dad's supposed to provide.
Dad's supposed to keep you safe.
Dad's supposed to pull you in tight, hold you close, and you breathe in his musk, feel that sandpapery stubble against your cheek as he whispers, “It's going to be ok” in your ear.
But you didn't do that, did you, Rip?”

He leans forward in the chair,

“You let it dry up. You let it die.
R-Feds? More like “Are Deads” and not only did you do DICK ALL to stop it but you left me to try to carry it sputtering on my back.
It breathed its last in my arms, Ripper.
And you were nowhere to be found.
Just a boy and his beloved and his beloved had given up the ghost.
And everything was not ok, Daddy.
Everything has not been ok.
For years now.
Sssssoooooo...”

He stands,

“...so, listen, a part of me just wants to run to you, Ripper, run to you, wrap my arms around you, and hold you tight.
But a part of me wants to run to you, wrap my arms around you, drive your skull into the ground, squeeze the life out of you, make you scream and beg and wheeze...
...part of me wants to take that gibbled leg of yours and kick it and kick it and kick it and kick it and kick it into dust.
Send you back to your “real” family a broken old sack of beef...
...because you failed your family here, Rip.
You failed me.
My reals pops died when I was 12...
...hard to exactly pinpoint when my wrestling pops kicked off...
...so I think I'll make it nice and clear.
I think I'll nail down a date and a place.
I think I'll make it official.
And just like you left the Feds to rot, I'll leave you to do the same.
And then I'll go on and win The Phoenix Cup.
Because I am The Backbone of this Business.
And you...
...you're just a fossil.”

He takes a few steps towards the camera, his face filling the frame,

“So dust 'em off, Ripper, and try to put your fist through my face.
Let's see if the old dog still has some bite.
Because for as much as I'm doing this for me, maybe I'm doing it for you, too.
See you soon, Daddy-O...”

He kisses the camera lens, leaving a black smudge as he exits the frame. The light clicks off and we snap to black.

[Rip]

The camera opens into an old gym.

Old but well set up, good quality but well used, old fashioned equipment but well maintained.

A single figure works out, hammering rights and lefts into a hanging heavy bag, each thudding into the taped section, no wasted shots, each landing like a metronomic brother to its predecessor.

From a distance the figure looks imposing, shaven head seemingly bolted directly to massive shoulders, heavily muscled arms working like pistons firing big, knarled hands into their target.

As the camera draws closer more details begin to become apparent, the left knee is encased in a heavy brace, three broad straps above and three below holding a scaffold of metal in place, the arms and shoulders show heavy scars, a network of reminders earned in past conflicts, closer still, the left ear is clearly heavily cartilaginous, or as better known ‘cauliflower’ and a final scat runs across the left eye, splitting the eyebrow almost in two.

Two more sharp lefts and a heavy right thud into the bag.

The man turns, his gaze resting on the lens.

You’ll be here for my response no doubt?

I heard what he had to say, ‘Mr H’ is it now? It’s easy to lose track with that one, more faces than a bloody watch shop.

I see he’s rocking the purple again too, nice to see, always thought it suited him better than the damn yellow.

He’s right though, I did let him down, let them all down I suppose, see when the feds fell I thought I’d try and bring them back, tried to get them running again and it almost worked out, we had a few good lads, some of the old guard and a couple of fresh kids that might have had something given the right support.

But then it all fell apart, I got tied up with some bloody kid that thought he was the next great ring master, full of stupid games and bloody childish tricks, like an idiot I got distracted by teaching him a lesson and I missed the signs…

See I never saw it coming, not a damn clue.

My bloody son in law knew before me, he told Penny and she rang me.

Sitting in a damn pub some outside Wakefield, she rings me in tears, sobbing her heart out wanting to know why T knew before her, why her husband had told her about her mother and not me.

I never knew.

She didn’t want to worry me.

Distract me.

She’s been to see the doc, needed to talk to someone and when she’d picked the Grandbairn up it’d all come out.

Aggressive

Inoperable

Cancer

And that was that.

I left that damn rat hole and went home,

Two more months, that’s all we had, thirty years, five kids, three grandkids and that’s all we got.

Two fucking months.

So yes Mr bloody H or whatever you’re calling yourself this week, I dropped the damn ball.

You remember her Matt? You remember sitting at our table sharing meals? Making memories? You remember her feeding you when you had nothing? Sleeping in our damn home in a bed she prepared for you? Her picking glass out of your skin that I’d put there in some god forsaken hell hole for the amusement of a crowd of drunk kids?

You remember her coughing up blood, not being able to breathe, not being able to hold her grandkids?

No, you won’t remember the last part will you, because you decided that you didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to know where I’d gone, the boys all came Matt, they all came and saw her, it damn near killed Dick seeing her like that all things considered.

She asked for you though…

Always had a special place in her eyes you did, but then you knew that didn’t you.

Even at the end she believed in you son, believed you’d be there.

But you never even had the balls to pick up the fucking phone did you, to answer a bloody message to ask ‘Why?’

Why I’d gone.

Years on the road together, mentor, partner…

Friend?


The grizzled face turns away, glassy eyes refocus on the bag, the rhythm of blows begins anew.

I was done with all this crap, ready to just curl up and die I guess.

Then I heard about this thing, this tournament of fools.

And I heard a rumour you were in.

And I knew.

I knew if you saw my name you’d mysteriously find a way to get us together.

And here we are.

See you soon Son

[mth]

We fade it to the tail end of Rip's previous promo, the TV screen pauses as he finishes his final line. The camera pans to show the light of the screen illuminating the painted face of Mr. H looking disembodied in the darkness.

“On the one hand: you've got a man who is powerless to stop the suffering, the agony, the cruel end of that which he loves with every fiber of himself, loves more than anything in this world, losing a part of himself as much as he is losing another.
And on the other hand: you've got Rip.
Because...because it seems to me, Old Friend, that you're trying to one-up me and out-do me in the sad sack department...
...and that's pretty fucked up...
...and I'm sorry but you're coming up short.”

He puts a finger to his ear.

“This just in, breaking news, I'm being told that...mm-hmm...yes, folks, I'm being told that:
PEOPLE FUCKING DIE, RIP.
Guess you didn't get the memo, Pops, but the Reaper comes for everyone.
I could rattle off at least a dozen folks in my life that have been on his list...
...need I remind you a blood vessel in my father's brain burst, my mother processed that with too much pills and booze, and my girlfriend was hit head-on by a fucking drunk.
Yeah, he comes for everyone and I got real intimate with that son of a bitch a long time ago.
I was friends with the Reaper long before I was friends with the Ripper, heh.
So...so, you wanna come out here and you wanna spin it, you wanna twist it, you want to show the people that good ol' Mr. H...and that IS Mr. H to you, too, Daddy-O...that I'm the bad guy in this tragic yarn, hmm?
Wrong.
I'm not handing out tumors over here.
And there's not a goddamn thing I can do to cure them, either.
And you want me to apologize 'cuz I didn't dial her up, didn't bring over a nice cassarole, wasn't there to be some kind of comforting son....
...no, Rip, no, you don't get to tell me how to handle that shit.
Because it's funny, it's funny you don't realize, don't recognize, don't APPRECIATE...why.
Because MY LOVE was dying, Rip.
I wasn't there because I was here. Trying to save this, trying to keep THIS alive.
And you weren't here because you were there.
But that's where there's a big difference, ALL the difference, and that is this:
You being there didn't save her.
Me being there wouldn't have saved her.
Nothing could save her.
But you being here?
You could have saved this.
WE could have saved this.
Because people die, Rip, no matter what you do, no matter if I picked up a phone, no matter if I told her how much I cared, how much she meant to me, no matter the best doctors, the best treatment...
...people fucking die.
But Feds?
This Fed?
OUR FED.
Didn't have to.
We could have saved it.
And maybe...maybe...maybe right now we ARE saving it, even if it's only for a moment.
But I couldn't have stopped what happened to her, Rip, and if you want to condemn me, want to damn me for my choice, for giving my heart, my soul, my everything to try to save this...
….well, that's fine.
Because I've had a gaping, bleeding, festering R-Fed-shaped hole in my heart for years now...
...and you, well, you just have a dead wife.
And I'm not trying to be callous here, I'm just being honest.
I could dial up a stat on Google right now, how many people, how many good, honest, innocent people even....*snap* gone every hour, minute, second?
Rip I'd be lying if I didn't say she was special but at the same time, Rip, she wasn't special.
BUT THIS IS MY FUCKING LIFE.
THIS IS ALL I HAVE. ALL I AM.
So I'm sorry if I didn't come trotting around with a hot casserole and a 'Get Well Soon' card...
...I'm sorry if maybe I walled myself up in a fucking closet, numb to the inevitable mortality that curses us all...
...but I was trying to be alive, trying to stay alive, trying to keep MY LIFE ALIVE.
And if you and some of the others actually gave a damn, actually bled this business like you all say you do, then maybe...maybe we could have saved it, maybe we could have kept it shining bright...
...but no, you were all out there with your families and your children and your....excuses.
...see, see, the thing is, Rip, you want someone to blame. You need someone to blame.
So you point your finger and you shake your fist at me.
Completely misdirected, but I'll take the burden, Old Friend, I'll take the blame, if only to make you feel better. I'll be your therapy, your coping mechanism.
Because I'm not the bad guy.
Because me?
I don't want or need someone to blame, no, I HAVE someone to blame.
Because you could have accepted her fate...
...but you didn't have to accept the R-Feds' fate.
But you made your choice.
And you walked away.
From something that wasn't inevitable to something that was.
A poor choice indeed.
So I'm gonna rightfully point my finger and I'm gonna rightfully shake my fist...
...no, no, even better, I'm gonna ball up my fist and I'm gonna punch your grizzly grey noggin.
Repeatedly.
Until it bleeds.
Because I'll gladly let you slap me around for a few minutes to process your grief...
...but no chance in hell I'm letting you win.
Because think of it, Ripper, think of HER...
...think of one more day, one more picnic in the park in the sunshine, one more warm embrace, one more soft kiss...
….that's what this tournament, this Phoenix Cup, is to me, Rip, and the difference is: I can have this but you can't have that.
You don't deserve this.
Because I am The Backbone.
And you...
...you are spineless.”

He shoves the TV off its perch and it topples, lost into the darkness, much like himself.

[mth]

PROMOS FOR THIS MATCH ARE ARE NOW CLOSED.

Judges/Bookers @Mazer @TimeSplitter @Psycho666Soldier

Please read through the promos, judge them based on the established criteria, and determine who you think should win the match. PM @Caito with your judgement/winner and any ideas you have for how the match should play out based on the promos and story being presented. Caito, whenever you've got everything you need, you can post the match itself and the judges remarks.