Post by Deleted on Sept 16, 2017 4:53:46 GMT
When the crackling static and white noise disperse, our scene opens in what appears to be a cramped slice of kitchen; not too shabby, but not all that homely, either. There's a thin layer of grime that not even the blurry tracking lines and warmth of aged VHS recording can cover; the lack of wiggle room is apparent. An artificial Christmas tree stands crooked on the kitchen table. The time stamp at the video's corner margin reads 26-12-1997.
"Blaise!"
Crashing into frame comes a pair of tiny, tangled bodies, hurtling into the side of the kitchen counter in a heap. An audible gasp can be heard from behind the camera, but the two children shoot to their feet in an instant, arms flailing and giggling gleefully.
"Blaise, c'mere!"
The larger of the two children, no older than six, wears a pink lucha libre mask, and easily has a foot over the younger. The play-fight is clearly one-sided, and without much ado the former lifts the latter off his feet by the waist.
"Lor, will you stop—"
"—Blaise, c'mere, look at the camera!"
With the boy still trapped in her arms, the masked child turns to face the camera. She lifts him even higher; her knees begin to buckle, but her smile is wide and patchwork.
"Put him down!"
"Fuckin' leave it, will ya?"
Her balance lost, little Blaise Fader tumbles backward into the kitchen table, her brother launched haplessly over her shoulders. A stool by the counter wobbles from the impact and falls; the artificial tree collapses in on itself.
"God dammit, turn it off!"
"The fuck's yer damage, they're havin' fun—"
"—they're gonna damage 'emselves!"
The camera is set on the kitchen counter, facing the wall. The shouting shouldn't be as crystal clear as it is.
"Jan van der Roost... what an honour."
We open on a scene of much more vibrant color; blue skies, clouds of puffy white, a forest of abundant green. The sun filters through the high forest canopy like sheets of gold; wilderness, as far as the eye can see.
Present-day Blaise Fader, profile to the camera, addresses someone face-to-face, perhaps Jan himself.
"I've followed yer work fer awhile, whether it was Pollomania, Lion's Road, 4CW... it's hard to find a veteran who's still workin' with a sunny disposition. Harder still to find one farther along in their career with things on the up-and-up. Got a beautiful wife, a darling little boy, wrestlin' schools guaranteed to change this business... cheers, mate! You've earned it."
Blaise extends her hand toward—
—a moose.
The woodland behemoth gazes into the distance with dull eyes, ambivalent to the Englishwoman's touch.
"Don't get me wrong, wrestlin's been good to me, too. Workin' in America, my career's taken me so many places I never could've dreamed of. Maybe things I only could've dreamed of. So much is different from back home... but some things never change. Honour. Respect. Got a hunch it'll feel the same in Winnipeg.
"When I chose to take this bookin', it wasn't just about a dream match. It wasn't just about upholdin' a reputation. We're both in a rather privileged place in this business that a loss won't mean any less food on the table. It's about makin' a statement. Maybe that'll be the difference between us, not how we fight - why we fight. You've got yer wife, an' yer son, an' yer wrestlin' schools. You've got all that to come home to. My home... is on hiatus. Fer now, I have no home port. No return address. But don't think fer one second that'll slow me down.
"Take this... dog," Blaise gestures to the moose; she's never actually seen one in her life. "Noble. Majestic. Weird face. Far from home. Yer first mistake, other than pullin' over in the middle of nowhere to prod at him, would be to think that makes him any less dangerous; quite the contrary, in fact.
"We'll both fight with honour an' respect, Jan. But if you think that puts us on an even playin' field... oughta remember why I'm playin' in the first place."
The camera faces the wall. The shouting hasn't stopped, echoing throughout the tiny flat like machine gun staccato. The recorder is jostled, ever so slightly, then swept off the countertop into a child's hands.
We're met with young Blaise again, her pink lucha mask crowned lopsidedly over a unkempt mop of straw.
Despite everything, she smiles again, wide and patchwork.