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We find ourselves in the back of a very poorly lit basement makeshift wrestling gym. Various beaten up, wrinkled and stained wrestling mats are spread from corner to corner. The room is lit by a few old garage style hanging light fixtures, slowly swinging back forth like a pendulum from the ceiling. We hear grunts and the odd hard slam onto the canvas off camera. The camera approaches and turns to a mirror on the wall pointing to the actual action going on. It continues to swing and now see the full scene.
In the far corner of the dingy room in Bobby Tremblay, arms crossed in an unusually simple and basic looking suit and absent on his face are his signature pink aviator specs. No chains or fancy watches on his wrist and his footwear appears to be slightly scuffed loafers. He is looking dead ahead of him, observing his two favored clients. Not saying a word yes not looking away even for a second.
CRASH!
The sound of a vanilla wimpish looking man crashing onto the mat from a monstrous choke-slam from none other than Don Marshall, knocking every molecule of oxygen out of his lungs.Before he can catch his breath, however, Don Marshall immediately leaps on top of him, sitting directly on his chest and begins to rain down full strength elbow strikes onto his cranium.After no more then 5 strikes, the poor man’s face starts pissing blood onto the floor like a broken faucet. Don flips him with ease onto his stomach and locks in his bulldog choke, trivially putting the sad excuse of a trainee to sleep, gasping for air through a thick crimson mask. Bobby Tremblay casually walks towards them, grabs the trainee behind the head and violently carries him and throws him out of the back door.
“Next!” he says, closing the door behind him.
The next poor soul gasps from a short lineup of men in casual black shirts and gray sweatpants, breaks the line and walks towards the towering behemoth…and eats a right hand square to the jaw for his trouble.
As this continues the camera turns to the other corner where Johnny Lou Gagnon has just super-kicked a trainee’s head off into the stands, metaphorically speaking. He notices the camera and walks to it gingerly, lacking his own patented shit eating grin.
Johnny Lou Gagnon
“ So you finally show up, we’ve already started bud.”
He shakes his head in disgust.
“ Oh well, the only thing that really matters is you're here to document this. Because we have a clear message to give to our new friends: The Bordeaux's. “
Johnny slowly closes his eyes and rotates his head on his neck to briefly look upwards, motioning built up anger and uncomfortable rage.
CRASH!
The back of the head of a trainee hits the mat at full velocity from the whiplash of a Shit Kicker thrust kick from Don Marshall, knocking him out cold instantly. He rubs his beard as Bobby Tremblay scrapes him off the floor and escorts him out. He makes his way towards his brother in arms, Johnny Lou.
“ That’s right brother!”
Don Marshall
He casually puts his sweaty arm around his smaller framed tag team partner.
“ We do have a message for The Bordeaux's. Maybe not even so much a message, but an attempt to educate two ignorant fools who have not even come close to realizing the mistake they made by disrespecting us and taking what was right ours!”
Don Marshall’s face already flushes with a light shade of red as he untaps the floodgates to his hatred towards the arrogant and seemingly clueless rookie tag team.
“You took advantage of us when we were forced to fight another man’s battle!”
He turns towards Bobby Tremblay and stares him down. This time Bobby simply looks to the floor and accepts the venom spouted towards him.
Johnny Lou Gagnon continues the airing of their grievances.
“ That’s right, like a bunch of sneaky little rats! We earned that #1 ranked tag team recognition when we traveled and dominated the entire planet. From coast to coast, championship after championship! And you thought you could just walk in and take that away from us? Without consequences? Nahhhh bud. That’s not how we do things up here is it Donnie? You’ve got a lot to learn, kids.”
Johnny slowly blinks and cracks his neck in an attempt to look tough and is mostly successful at it. Now Don takes over speaking duty.
“ We think that since you’ve shown us such a lack of respect, we need to take you to school like the little babies you are. There you can be taught about respecting the ones that came before you, the ones who paved the way for tag team wrestling to even be on the mainstream map! You will learn to wait your turn and not jump the line. And most importantly, you’re going to learn a lesson in VIOLENCE! "
“NEXT!”
A student tries to pull a fast one and runs at full speed towards the pair. He runs into a straight arm clothesline.
“Hold’em”
says Don to Johnny, as the french canadian traps both the trainee arm behind him as he’s stomach first onto the mat, signaling an assisted stomp. Don lids his right leg up high and both of them stomp down the back of the trainee head crushing into the ground to a cold thud. Once again, Bobby Tremblay calmly drags him outside.
Johnny takes over the talking once again.
“See, after what we saw at Manifest Destiny? You know? When we paid you a little visit in the studio and left you for dead? You remember. Yeah we don’t think you little pukes have what it takes to be the top tag team in AMA. We think you’re a fluke!”
A wild, almost bear like Don nods furiously along and continues for Johnny.
“ And that’s why we’re going back to basics here. To really unleash our violence! We’re going back to who we were and what made us ruthlessly successful around the globe. And that’s pure, unfiltered merciless violence. Because when we embrace our truly animalistic and sadistic violent nature. Well no one has ever been able to stand in our way!”
Johnny Lou slaps Don back a few times in excitement and sports a more devious grin than ever, perhaps marking a change in his own behavior and a further dip into embracing his own psychotic violent side.
“ But we’re going to teach you both, isn’t that wonderful! We’re going to enroll you in our very own Violence Academy. We’re going to be very, very hands on…”
Suddenly an old trainee discarded earlier managed to sneak back in an attempt to grab Johnny from behind. Furious, Johnny flips him over his back onto the mat. Don goes for the assist but Johnny waves him off. He grabs a wrist with each hand and begins to savagely beat his face down with the heel of his foot. This time, he won’t be getting back up or coming back here.
Don Marshal looks extremely proud of his younger teammate.
“ You see we’re always ready to take it to the next level, Just look around! We will always do what it takes, no matter what, to achieve our goals. What have you shown us so far, huh?”
Don is getting more red and his voice booms louder now.
“ You, Bret Bordeaux. A real man’s man, huh? College wrestler, naturally gifted in the ring..with the charisma of a wet mop. You couldn’t be your own man so you brought in your sister with you…in hopes of what exactly? Leech off her charisma? The one you simply don’t have yourself? What kind of man puts his younger sister in danger? The person who is supposed to mean the most to him…How dare you put her in front of us to shield you, as if we would even break a sweat breaking her down, piece by piece. You’re pathetic, Bret!”
Don is screaming and seething, truly disgusted by Bret Bordeaux and his sister daring to stand in the way of his success.
Johnny grabs Don behind the head and puts his forehead to his as Don slowly calms down. Johnny turns to the camera.
“ You took food off our table and money out of our pockets. You embarrassed us on national television! Do you still think this is a game, Beatrix? Will you still be all giggles and bubbles when they scrape your poor brother's face off the mat after we stomp it until he stops moving? Because if you think this is still a game sweetheart, you’re not going to last five minutes with us in the ring. You saw what we were capable of doing last week, and that we have no problem putting either gender in their place when they fuck with our money and reputation. That’s only a fraction of what we’re going to do to you at St. Patrick’s Smash. This isn’t going to be one of those beatings you enjoy…”
Don, now calm again, agrees with a few more nods. He takes over.
“ And when we are finished with you, you’re going to thank us. You are going to get on your knees and thank The Northern Touch for teaching you about the true meaning of VIOLENCE. You will be better from it. But make no mistake, you will never show us the disrespect you’ve shown us at Manifest Destiny again. I pray that you graduate from our Academy of Violence. “
Johnny barely contains himself as he laughs obnoxiously.
“ Bud, I will be surprised if they even SURVIVE it. After the beating we gave them last week, maybe they’ll even be too scared to show up in AMA ever again? Deuce it with me finally my brother! “
Johnny and Don do the The Northern Touches patented “handshake”.
“ Just remember my young Bordeaux's, St Patrick’s Day Smash : Class is in Session! “
The camera looks on as Don points to it, as a giant smirk begins to form on Johnny Lou Gagnon’s face. He steps back, loads up and cracks a super-kick right in the middle of the camera lens, cracking it in half and sending the cameraman crashing backwards to the floor. The feed breaks up as we hear a final word from the brash french Canadian.
After a few moments of darkness, we are gifted with all of the glitz and glamour of a shoddy, broken down, abandoned old house that looks like it would belong in a horror flick. As we look upon the ramshackle old building from the outside, the walls begin to tilt to the right as a strong breeze hits them. With the worst of the damage seemingly hidden under cover of darkness, the moon having been shrouded by a heavily clouded sky and several nearby streetlights smashed and damaged. After a few moments, we hear a thunderous raw generated by the night sky, and before long, heavy rain begins to pour. Moments after the rain hits, we are thrust towards the spooky house, and in no time at all, we’re slung through the front door and thrust into darkness once more.
A few moments go by before life is again breathed into the scene, this time from the sound of footsteps trying and failing to be stealthy, thanks mainly to the highly creaky wooden floorboards. Soon, the sound of footsteps is accompanied by the feet making them, as we see a set of combat boots and skinny jeans-clad legs creeping along a dank corridor. As our vision pans up, we are greeted with the sight of the ever-quirky Bellatrix Bordeaux, one half of AMA Wrestling’s #1 Ranked Tag Team, torch in her left hand, and, for some reason, a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in her right.
Dressed in the aforementioned boots and jeans, accompanied with a buttoned-up flannel shirt, with the top two buttons undone, and a leather jacket over the top. As she makes her way past a room with an open door, her entire body turns rapidly as she aims the torch and the weapon into the room. After a couple of seconds of jerky movements, as she scopes out the room from the doorway, she continues up the corridor, seemingly not finding whatever she’s looking for.
Before long, she comes to yet another doorway, and as she attempts to repeat her routine from the previously checked room, she lets off a loud, startled scream as her entire body is flung off her feet and sent crashing through the closed door of the room opposite, blowing a hole in the ceiling with her shotgun out of panic. As she lands with her back against the wall, a spectral figure hovers intently through the doorway and charges at the young woman, with Bellatrix raising her shotgun in defense as the supernatural entity grows ever closer.
Before the ghost reaches its target, and before Trixie has a chance to pull the trigger of her gun, another voice can be heard yelling in pain, and with it, the spirit vanishes, along with the room that it and Bellatrix were in, and everything else as the entire scene is shattered like glass and is replaced with that of a different feel as once again, a cry of pain can be heard.
"Ah FUCK!"
Accompanied by the sound of skin banging against metal, the cacophony of noise resonating from somewhere out of sight knocks Bellatrix clean out of her weird and wonderful mind, dragging her back to the place she seemingly tries to avoid at all costs…reality. Taking a moment to gather her bearings, the dotty young woman looks startled and annoyed as she sits cross-legged on the floor, nearly directly below a thirty-two-inch T.V mounted on the wall above currently screening an episode of the T.V. series “Supernatural”.
Wearing an oversized and unbuttoned blue plaid shirt, a Nirvana crop top underneath, faded blue denim shorts, black and white striped over the knee socks, and a pair of black Chuck Taylors, Trixie rises to her feet, looking to find the source of the interruption. Now standing, in the middle of what looks to be a small and rarely used cafeteria, Trixie’s head turns towards an opened door, her eyes fixating on the source of the sound as she makes her way towards the cafeteria exit.
A light grey, almost white, primer painted vehicle can be seen, lifted a foot or so into the air by a machine, and under it, a pair of legs covered in dirty blue overalls and a pair of black worn-out Nike trainers. The legs slide out from under the vehicle, revealing the torso, arms, and head of the male half of AMA Wrestling’s #1 ranked team, as he shakes his right hand violently, seemingly having taken quite a knock.
"Damn piece of shit!"
Now entirely free of the confines of the vehicle, Bret raises himself into a seated position and places his injured knuckle in his mouth, sucking on the open wound. Realizing that his hands are covered in dark grease, Bret removes the injured knuckle from his mouth. He wipes his hands on an even greasier rag lying next to him before climbing to his feet, noticing an annoyed-looking Bellatrix staring a hole through him. Bret greets his sibling with an expression on his face that makes him resemble a deer in headlights and a hint of nervousness in his tone.
"Oh, hey Trix, what’s up?"
Trixie, looking cartoonishly annoyed, stares a hole through her brother, seemingly hoping that lasers would burst from her heavily mascaraed eyes and blast a hole through her brother’s forehead, before responding in a subdued voice that’s trying its hardest not to sound angry.
“I’m tryna watch T.V.”
With a puzzled expression on his face, Bret responds.
“Okay…well, the T.Vs in the kitchen, so knock yourself out…shit, wai-”
With a look of puzzlement added to her moody demeanor, Trixie interjects.
“Why do you want me to knock myself out?”
Bret, looking to work his way out of the predicament that his poor word choice has landed him in, responds.
“I don't; it's a saying, I don't mean it literally…It means you're free to go back there and watch it, you know?"
Trixie just stands there looking at him, unamused at his explanation. Bret sighs and scratches his eyebrow before speaking as he stands up.
"Anyways, sorry if I interrupted you…I don't wanna piss off the other half of AMA’s top-ranked tag team!"
His face twists into a big smile as he points at his sister playfully, then to himself, and then back to her.
"Uh-huh? You and I kicked ass out there. I know I'm good, great even, but you? Trix, you were awesome out there! You took to the mat better than anyone I've seen in a first match. And, you got the final pin! A whole ass pinfall to your name."
He walks towards his sister, who is in his way, as he attempts to enter the kitchen to clean himself up a bit. Trixie, with reluctance, still peeved at having her dream disturbed, steps to one side, allowing Bret entrance to the kitchen before following him as he makes his way to the sink.
"I don't wanna hype myself up or anything, buuuuut I think you have a great teacher. He's definitely laying the foundation for you to become a great wrest-, I, er, hitman."
Reaching the sink, Bret turns on the hot tap and begins to wash his hands.
"Honestly, Trix, if we keep this up, then we'll be able to not only stay on the top of the tag division that WE helped make, but bigger companies could also scout us, which means bigger contracts. That'd be cool, right?
Bret glances at Trixie with an excited smile, before said smile falters as he stares at his sister. Standing on her brother’s right, Trixie has her head down, staring at an uninteresting spot on the floor, looking dejected as she responds.
“I guess.”
With a look of concern forming on his face as he continues to stare at his sister, Bret, having finished cleaning his hands, turns off the tap and grabs a nearby towel before drying his hands as he inquires.
“Hey, what’s up? You okay? You've been acting kinda bummed ever since Mani- I mean our first hit. Anything I can help with?”
Trixie looks up at her brother, her face seemingly struggling to find the setting to fit her feelings, responds bluntly.
“You can stop lying to me.”
With a feeling of extreme anxiety falling over his being, Bret responds in a voice that sounds a little panicked, despite his best efforts.
“Uh, what…whatchu mean?”
Staring at her brother with a look of frustration, Trixie responds, her voice rising to a crescendo and becoming more frustrated as she speaks.
“You keep telling me how good I did and how I’m learning so quick and, like, it’s all BULL DOODOO! I was CRAP! All I did was get beat up and thrown around! That’s why you were scared to high-five me and let me fight because you thought I’d BLOW IT! So just stop telling me I’m so good when we both know I’m not…”
Looking as though she’s about to explode into a scream, tears, or both, she continues, trying her best not to shout at her brother.
“...I’m just useless, Bret. You’d be better off without me.”
Looking utterly stunned at his sister’s outburst, Bret exhales shakingly, trying to process Trixie’s outburst and searching for the best way to console his sister. After a momentary silence, Bret responds.
"Can I tell you something?"
Trixie looks up at her brother's face and shrugs dejectedly. Bret leans against the counter, resting his hands on the countertop.
"My first ever match, I got my ass beat. The worst loss of my career, hell, my life. This guy, this massive human being, Toyo Suzuki, beat the ever-living crap out of me in front of seven thousand people for thirty minutes. He told me that he would end my career before it could even start."
"Did he?"
Trixie asks in a deadly serious tone. Bret lets out a nasal chuckle before continuing.
"No…no, he didn't, because I didn't let him. He may have beaten me so badly that I needed help back to my hotel room, but he was the spark I needed. Because of him, I motivated myself more than I ever did before. All I wanted to do for that full year in Japan was prove him wrong, and eventually, I got my chance."
Bret takes a moment, looking off in the distance as if he's seeing it all play out again.
"The final show of that tour, I got my rematch, and on that night…Toyo Suzuki didn't meet the same person he'd beaten all those months ago. But I did. In front of eight and half thousand people, I humbled the man who tried to end my career. He tapped in the middle of the ring, the exact spot where he pinned me. That was the turning point in my life where I knew that I was meant for this…"
He turns back to his sister.
"And I think you are too."
Her eyes widen, looking angry as Bret continues to “lie” to her, but she never gets the chance to respond as her brother continues.
"You did something that most people never get to do in their career, score their first win in their first match, and before you say that you're useless again, without your tag in while I was out on my feet, we would've lost. It was your quick thinking and determination that saw us win. You could've tapped out or decided to stay down at any time, but you didn't. You kept fighting. You kept thinking of how to get back into the fight, and when you hit that jackknife cover? I may have taught you how to do it, but you're the one that pinned Gagnon with it to win. Not me."
He smiles confidently.
"Only thing I did was make Slate pass out before that…But Trix, honestly, you're ready for this. I've meant everything I've said about your progress, and I have not lied to you once about that."
Taking a moment to process Bret’s story, Trixie responds, quite a bit calmer than her previous outburst.
“Soooooo, you really think I did good?”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been telling you!... Trix, where did this come from, huh? In the doc's office after the match, you were so stoked! I think you even called us “the best hitmen ever”! What changed?”
Thinking over Bret’s question and taking her time about it, Trixie’s face becomes more and more enraged with each passing moment before finally responding.
“Canadians…”
Bret, looking momentarily confused, quickly snaps out of it as a wave of understanding and underlying anger surges through his being.
“Yeah, those dickheads….”
The elder Bordeaux takes a few steps to the nearby fridge and opens it, nodding his head in thought as he reaches in and pulls out a brown glass bottle with a red cap. Turning and shutting the appliance with his foot, he swiftly opens it with an assist from the counter as he slams his hand down on the wedged cap to make a satisfying pop, letting the vapor from the bottle mist out.
"They're something alright."
He takes a long drink from the bottle and then looks at her. Trixie studies his face to see if he's worried, and he's completely calm. He releases the bottle and sighs in relief before looking at her and speaking.
"Facing them, I could see why they were successful as a team, until they met us, of course. Big, powerful, mean as hell. But no one told me they were the biggest pussies in the business."
He takes another quick sip and readjusts himself to be seated on the countertop.
"They like to act tough, sure, and their size helps them out. But Trixie, they're scared of us. They proved that by jumping us in the doc's office. Why else would a "vetted" team do that? Just because they're sore losers? No. Mmm mmm."
Another quick sip of his drink follows after his words, and once taken, he points the bottle at Trixie.
"They know they can't compete with us inside that ring, so instead, they try to get one over on us when we least expect it. I bet you right now, though, they're in some dingy gym training for our match. Not practicing the fundamentals, overlooking why they lost to us last time, and focusing on brute strength alone. People like them get in the business to hurt people, Trix. They don't do it to get better."
He scoffs.
"And when you face guys like Gagnon and Marshall once, you have them figured out. They're one-trick ponies. They don't evolve. They don't adapt…they go extinct."
Bret lifts the bottle back up and downs in it with one last long swig.; meanwhile, Trixie, who has been listening intently, chimes in with a hint of worry in her voice.
“But Bret, what if they come after us again? Like you said, they just wanna hurt people, and last time, they even beat YOU up, and you’re like, the best hitman EVER! Soooooo, what if they keep tryna hurt us?”
He sets the empty bottle down on the countertop with a "clunk" before looking back at his sister, a small smile on his face.
"Then how about we melt The Northern Touch at Saint Paddy's Day Slam? Make sure that they think twice before they ever blindside us again."
He pats her once on the left shoulder and slides off the counter as Bellatrix responds, with her right hand holding her chin as if in deep thought.
“But I don’t think they’ll fit in an oven…we could buy a furnace or something, I suppose, but we need somewhere to put it….”
"It's a saying, Trix. We don't need a furnace."
Bret shakes his head, wondering where they would even put a furnace.
"Besides, we live in Louisiana…we'd obviously feed them to the gators."
He laughs under his breath and begins to walk back through the kitchen area door.
"Anyways, c'mon, let's go get started. The Northern Touch aren't gonna be meeting the same Bordeauxs they faced at Manifest."
As he walks away, he turns back towards his sister, looking over his shoulder with a determined expression.
"But we'll be meeting the same Northern Touch."
Trixie shakes her head in acknowledgment, a determined sparkle in her eye as the camera focuses on her and she begins to follow suit. She takes four steps in silence until…
"By the way, we aren't really hitmen!"
She freezes as Bret yells off-screen.
"Great nickname, though!"
As the scene fades to black, the last image we see is that of Bellatrix, a look of shock and contemplation on her face as she ponders this revelation.
“But Bret…what are we?! BRET?!”
I'm so use to how I'd post promos on the old WWEFORUMS site that my muscle memory changed it all to white before I started even editing it here lol That's my b
It’s a miracle!
