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Post by Eʟʏsɪᴜᴍ Pʀᴏ on Oct 10, 2017 12:45:51 GMT -8
[Single Match]
F.M. Young vs. Madison Fitzpatrick
Deadline: Friday October 20th, 2017 at 11:59pm EST
Limits: 2 Promos of 1000 Words Each [Maximum]
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Post by F.M. Young on Oct 15, 2017 20:40:46 GMT -8
This video opens very differently than every other before it. FM propped the phone up and sat across from it, leaning on an opposing wall. Her olive skin standing out in stark contrast to the white painted cinder blocks behind her. She's facing away from the camera, looking to the left, staring out into the middle distance, wearing a plan purple hoody, wide leg jeans and converse high tops. After a moment she lets out a breath, and a song is heard playing faintly behind her just loud enough for the lyrics, slurred out by a southerner to be heard over to twangy thumping melody.
They're dead straight, I'm guessing they're alright. I get regular hate, testify. Break neck, betting against ya....You don't belong here...Shit faced, regular coma, get down on your knees, head high. Bite down on the reigns and take a ride.
“Are you pissed, Madison?...You should be. Me? Ooohhh.”
The big woman stops here, nostrils flaring as she takes a couple of slow breaths in and out through her nose.
“Here we are, arguably the best fighters in that fight. Fighting each other and G.O.A.T Man gets a slap hand shot at the Iron Championship. While we get stuck fighting each other again and I don't get why.”
Another pause here, which is highly unusual for the generally fairly verbose woman. She just stares at the wall, the muscle in her jaw jumping slightly as it works against tight skin. Her normally dark eyes are almost black now, deepened with the look of a woman fighting a war with herself. The look of someone hunted by something they just can't shake as the radio drones on with the drum and base heavy tune.
The Devil's hands hit me hard in this time of frustration, he takes me down the path that you fall. Back to life and he shows me the complication, then opens up his plans for me.
“You can spare me, because I already know what you're thinking. It's what everyone else has to be thinking. 'This'll be no sweat, Madison Fitzpatrick had her dead to rights last time. Clean tap. Middle of the ring...No problems, she's got the Amazon's number.'”
FM curls her hand into a balled fist, clenching it hard enough to turn her knuckles white and make the muscle in her fore arm jump. The tune whines on into it's third verse.
Don't wait, stay straight, get your head in the game now. Before the residents put you to shame now. You've come back with your lack of respect, you've self checked to get wrecked. You better learn to collect.
“But do you, Madison? Do you? Don't answer...We both know you think you do. Here's the catch, because there is always a catch. I eliminated all your competition in that match....Me. The last nail in Rafa Whatley's career? Me....The reason Seth Gile's back looks like an advertisement for blood on the dance floor? Me. I know...I know damn well, what I can do. They do too...You called yourself a fighter. A real fighter. But look at me...Fighting is in my blood. It's...It's a part of me. I don't like hurting people...I've always tried to set an example. A long time ago...I looked around and for the life of me, I couldn't find any heroes....So I decided to be one. I decided, that strength and animal power weren't going to be my only advantages. I stopped using them to their full potential. I have another question...Have you ever been around a cornered animal? Have you ever seen what that kind of unleashed, untamed power can do a human body?”
Another pause to breath, as FM's had begun breaking in the last part of her speech, coming out a whisper, a barely intelligible rumble. The normally large and energetic woman had started to rock back and fourth, curl herself up with an effort that made her muscles strain against her skin, teeth bared in a flash of white against the dark black hair now framing her face. The last chorus of the song swings into gear.
The Devil's hands hit me hard in this time of frustration, he takes me down the path that you fall. Back to life and he shows me the complication, then opens up his plans for me.
“I've noticed something....Nobody ever see's performance. Everybody always see's wins and losses. I firmly believe that Xavier would be heehawing his way back home by now had I not cleared the field for the both of you. Nobody will believe that though...It leaves me with a choice. One I don't like making....One I don't like feeling inside me. The only thing I can do now is refuse to go down... The only thing I can do....Is make everyone see my performance. Win or lose...Make everyone acknowledge that my skill, my ability, is completely undeniable. I'm a woman of promise, as in I keep them. From now on, that's my promise, exactly what I intend to do with our match. I keep doing that long enough and I'll get what I want. How am I going to do that? I have a plan...An idea...I don't like it. Not yet anyway. Back anything into a corner and it's dangerous enough. Maybe in time, I'll decide to live with it. I only really have two things to say to you now Madison. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...That you've become the point I need to prove.”
With that the dark-haired brutal beauty springs to her feet with a surprising quickness given that she had been balled up tightly just moments ago. There's a sudden and wild look in dark eyes that stay's there for a moment before she reaches out to the phone.
“Quando omni fluntus moritati.”
The Camera then goes dark and the streaming icon turns off.
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Post by Madison Fitzpatrick on Oct 17, 2017 15:42:25 GMT -8
It's the middle of the day as the sun hangs high in the sky. The birds are chirping, children are playing in the park across from Madison's hotel room. She was standing on the balcony wearing a pair of dark denim shorts with a green tank top and calf high riding boots on her feet. Her orange hair was draped over her right shoulder as Liza Capernick is holding Madison's phone.
"Frontline 2 was supposed to be my night. I was supposed to walk out the first Iron Champion but that didn't happen. I was caught by a guy who did nothing throughout the match. He merely survived and yet I don't get my rematch against him,"
Madison begins while keeping her face pointed towards the park. Her dark hazel eyes are narrowing on a few kids playing tag. A soft growl comes from under her breath.
"Instead of me facing off against Anthony Xavier, I have to face off against FM Young. How many times are you going to question my ability to fight? You tout your chest because you think you eliminated two people. Two people who were unfit to be in the ring in the first place. Yes, that is a great accomplishment but I made you tap. After all your bragging about being this great fighter, I schooled you. I proved that I am both a fighter and a wrestler. I proved that while you can take out trashy fucks, you couldn't hang in my ring,"
Madison sighs a bit while turning to her side. The left side of her face is covered by the awning as Liza tries to adjust the picture quality.
"What kind of fighter doesn't like hurting people? That's like a hunter not wanting to kill something. It makes no sense. Just like you don't make sense. Rafa and Seth Gile weren't the competition Young. They were just filler. I was the one who eliminated the real competition. While fighting may be in your blood, it's what I've done ever since I was six years old in Belfast. While you had a home, I was surviving the streets. Night after night, I would find myself in a street brawl with several drunks. I had no one. So you ask me if I know what it is like to be near an untamed animal,"
Madison turns fully around, her eyes narrowing as her upper lip is curled up. A growl escapes from her throat as Madison looks directly into the camera.
"I don't have to imagine it Young. That's because I am one. Wins and losses don't really matter to me. If I win great and if I lose then great. While you want people to remember you by your performance, I want them to remember me by how I hurt people. I have been treated like a stepping stone for far too long. It's time for the Irish Hellcat to be unleashed from her cage. You want a fight Young then you got one. I hope you understand what is coming at you. The fire that burns in my eyes will be the same fire that engulfs you. Frontline 3 will be the night everyone remembers MADISON FITZPATRICK,"
Madison walks closer to Liza before smirking.
"Let the fight begin,"
Madison says before walking out of the shot.
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Post by F.M. Young on Oct 20, 2017 17:29:22 GMT -8
The scene opens to an old boxing gym, the atheistic? Sweat and bricks. An intimate look at FM Young’s home base. The leader of said base? Sloan Young. The woman herself, the manager, off to the side in a private office. The camera was walking closer and closer, round a ring, showing off the everyday joes from the neighborhood who came to work their frustrations out with friends and family.
“Come on, bitch. You know they want an answer. Blog post just isn’t going to cut it.”
– is heard from an unidentified female voice from behind the screen. The tone, slightly jeering, it’s clear they’re used to getting their way from the manager who you can’t quite see yet.
“I said no. No interviews. No cameras. I don’t have anything to say to this ‘Irish Hellcat’ except that she needs a better dye job. Cheap.”
-The camera would finally catch sight of FM Young’s manager, red-bottomed stilettos perched up on the edge of her desk. The only sight you get, as the camera dodges for a second, something thrown at head height person behind the screen.
“I SAID NO, HUNTER.”
“Do it for FM. You know she isn’t a talker. Why you let her talk at all is beyond me. She’s so much better at…”
-And that’s when you’d see the camera dodge again, the clatter of something metallic hitting the wall just behind the camera.
“Fine. Just shut up. Get me from my good side. Every side’s a good side.”
-There’s a sound of gagging from off screen and you can see the woman finally, from the shoes up as she tosses her dark hair over her should. Olive skinned, dark haired, she looks like she should be sitting in some high rise, not in some well-worn leather chair behind an antique desk. But this was home. Behind her are pictures. Pictures of family. Of fighters. None of them look local. Much like FM, there’s a slight accent to Sloan’s voice. More immigrant stories, folks. If anyone knew the hard knock life and understood Maddison’s plight, it might be this family. But Sloan Young didn’t have sympathy to share. She was a no-nonsense type manager. Unlike the conversation she’d been caught in with FM, today was business. Leaning back in the chair, she would cross her hands over the stomach. One fine eyebrow raised. A little shrug as her hands lifted in the air in a helpless little expression.
“So what do you want me to say, hmm? Madison Fitzpatrick. Self-proclaimed Irish Hellcat. Who thinks that just because FM had a home…that it was a nice home…because if you aren’t brawling with drunks at the age of six in the merry old streets of Belfast, clearly…your life was enchanted. OOoooooooOoOo. Six years old and on the streets! Please.”
Her feet would hit the ground and Sloan would lean forward now, elbows on the desk, giving the audience what they asked for. After all. Promos were important.
“FM fights. I clean up the sloppy bits. Like Madison Fitzpatrick. I know that life sucks for you…being a soulless ginger and all…but baby….life’s hard everywhere. You don’t have to be an “Irish” nobody…woopse…I mean “hellcat”…for that to be true. Let me tell you how we do it on this side of the puddle. Immigrant style.”
Leaning back in her seat again, it was clear why she was good at her job. Why she had picked this old gym as her office. She was from the dirt up, had fought her way through with passion and desire. Sloan was more than willing to correct them on the ways of modern immigration and being children of illegals.
“You were on the streets? FM was in the fields. She was born to illegal immigrants, probably crossed the border in some 120 degree boxtruck through the Arizona desert by some coyotes. Don’t know what a coyote is? Go ask the drunks, Belfast. While you were in ‘the streets’….”
- fingers raised in quotes, clearly condescending. Sloan was pissed at having to have this conversation at all. But she’d continue.
“FM was in the fields, picking crops alongside her mother. You lived in the streets? Oh boo hoo. Tell me about that healthcare system you got over there in the UK. FM lived in a shack with a bunch of other slaves. I mean illegals. She had to fight for legality. She had to fight for an education. She had to fight to be anything but some dumb, illegally bred slave to the system. Don’t tell me about the streets, puta. We come from the earth. We feed unwanted street rats like you.”
-At this, Sloan would stop, a low whistle heard from behind the camera. Pushing to her feet, Sloan would round the desk, moving to the edge. She would perch there like it was a throne. One long leg crossed over the other, her face would flash the most brilliant smile. Her smile was possibly scarier than her scowls.
“You think this is going to be a fight? No. This is going to be a beat down. You got too many teeth in that jacked up mouth of yours to talk so much crap. You’re going to be -begging- that we ignore you, after this. You want the attention? You got it. You’re not leaving that arena on your own two feet, sweetie. They’re going to wheel you out like the street trash you are. Potato’s and cabbage all. Day. Long. Gonna be fuckin St. Patrick’s day up in here.”
-and with that, there would be a snort from behind the camera. Sure, it was corny, but Sloan didn’t care. There was a mummer of….
"Leprechaun’s gonna be raining goooooold up in this bitch.”
-to which Sloan would roll her eyes and get to her feet one last time. Walking up to the camera, she would point a fingertipt at the screen, giving her parting remark.
“You’re really going to wish that you hadn’t asked for this. But don’t forget. You don’t have anyone to blame but yourself. Like being homeless. Maybe if you were a cuter kid….choices.”
…and with that, she would shrug, the woman behind the camera losing it, as Sloan walked away.The camera would go dark.
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