Don of a New Day
Middle of fucking nowhere, some forest in western Canada
Don Marshall is crouching, his left knee touching the slightly damp soil beneath him. It’s early morning, the dew is still glistening off wild blades off grass, a gentle breeze occasionally making them dance. Don Marshall is taking quiet, shallow breathes, his gazed focus in between two large oaks north west of him. A little more than a hundred yards away, stood a majestic Wapiti (or Elk) buck, his massive antlers awkwardly rubbing against a branch as he picks at some grass in front of him.
Don makes his way closer and closer, with meticulous stealth and grace, lining up his view to the broad side of the beast. He finally stops, and then, slowly lifts his left arm to reveal a behemoth-like compound bow. He takes one last breath and hooks and arrow with his right hand and begins to draw the bow back. Inch by inch, seconds feel like minutes, as a bead of sweat drips down his face. The pressure at which the bow is being torqued would likely break the arm of a normal man, but Don’s sheer bear like size isn’t particularly standard. The bow reaches its apex and Don looks forward one more time, the Wapiti still clueless to it’s impending fate. In a flash, Don release the arrow, and a shot yelp is heard. After a short hop, the elk crumbles and passes, and arrow stuck clean through its side.
Don quickly walks over and ensures the animal does not suffer, cutting its throat. Marshall picks up the animal with the strength of a giant and chucks it over his shoulder, like a common case of beer. He gingerly begins to walk back from which he came, towards a large wooden shed beside a small cabin. As he approaches the cabin, he can hear the noise of an engine I the distance. Don smiles and makes his way to the shed, to gut and hang up his prize. He lays the elk on a table and guts it, finally placing it on an ominous meat hook, breastplate wife open. Don stands and observes his work, proudly, covered in blood and entrails.
Before he can wash up, a swanky Mercedes Benz pulls into the rocky driveway, classical music blasting away. The roaring engine comes to a stop as it parks, and a well-dressed man with rose tinted sunglasses walks out, already dusting off his jacket. It’s Bobby Tremblay, esquire, and manager extraordinaire to The Northern Touch.
“Don you could have told me this was in the middle of god damn nowhere! Christ I think I got a few scratches on the Benz here, I would have taken the SUV.” Bobby bends over and wipes the side of his car with his jacket, but there is zero signs of actual damage. He stops and walks towards the shed where Don is.
“You in there Don? I hope you didn’t call me here to murder me and bury me where no one will find me!” Bobby chuckles nervously. He walks into the shed and lets out a yelp like a scared poodle. He shakes his head in disbelief as Don is standing in front of him, knife in hand, covered head to toe in blood.
“You almost gave me a damn heart attack! You couldn’t clean up before asking me to come over for a meeting? You’re insane man…” a frustrated Bobby stomps his feet in frustration. Don just cracks a smile and chuckles under his beard. He then gets very serious an his eyes widen.
“Bobby you better tell me you have some good news for me. Tell me that you got me a match in that bullshit tournament, since once again, they don’t have a TAG match for us.”
“Don I get you that match but you are not going to be happy about what I’m going to tell you next. You see, AMA management, through their obvious superior intellect, decided that you Don Marshall had to be part of the wildcard bracket. While the man you beat, that pathetic little mommy’s boy Saus X, gets a one on one match. Does that make sense to you Don? Because to me, that sounds a lot like the SYSTEMATIC DISCRIMANATION against my client at play, once again. My client right here is undefeated and…”
“Bob, shut the hell up for a bit will ya…” Don’s voice booms and echoes through the shed and freezes the veteran manager in place. Don takes his knife and smashes it into the table, making it pierce through. He turns around and faces Don and the camera.
“Anybody in my match, at the Road for Gold, better pray to whatever god they believe in. The fact that this company is giving participation awards to grown men makes me sick to my stomach! Where I grew up, we didn’t get or believe in participation trophies, no sir. Where I grew up, if you came home a loser, you got your ass kicked some more. And if you lost again, you got your ass kicked more and more and more. There wasn’t NOBODY to pick my ass up when my sorry ass got beat. Nobody pat me on the back for a good effort. The only way to stay alive where I come from, is to make sure nobody else can stand up around you.”
“And that’s exactly what I’m going to do in North Carolina. I don’t give a damn who you put in front of me, or how many. Don Marshall is a wild fucking animal, and beast are at their most dangerous when cornered!” Don Marshall ends his last line with power and authority in his voice. He stands there, breathing heavily like a deranged monster, draped in blood. Bobby Tremblay shivers with excitement and smiles from ear to ear.
“You heard it from the man himself, ladies and gentlemen. July 6th in charlotte is the dawn of a new era in professional wrestling, and you are all about to see it firsthand. At Road for Gold, my client Don Marshall, along with myself and Lou Lou are once again going to shock the world and make history. So don’t blink, set your DVRs, and get your pre-orders in for the new shirts kids, because The Northern Touch not only walks on gold, we’re the GOLD STANDARD!” Both men laugh as the scene comes to a close.
