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Tony Savage vs. Impulse RP Thread

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  • Tony Savage vs. Impulse RP Thread

    RP here.

  • #2
    Special Edition: Do the Pieces Fit?

    Okay, before we begin, I have to warn you all not familiar with me and my body of work, you're going to notice I do things different than most wrestlers.

    Yeah, he's doing his shoot with his iPhone camera. Can you blame him? He's doing a promotional for a tournament ran by a wrestling news and gossip site. Production budget is a NO GO! In fact, the rep for the company tried to hit him up for $.50 for a soda from the machine. You make due.

    So, the view is the phone leaning against the counter in the kitchen of Tony's suite in Las Vegas. Despite access to the Bellagio's gourmet room service, Tony never passed up the opportunity to cook for his son. A tiny blonde copy of Savage's sitting at the table in their room, clutching silverware while watching Spongebob.

    Hey, bud.Tony calls out, flipping crepes in a pan.How many crepes you want? One, two..

    Five! Little R.J. chimes in with a playful voice holding up five chubby little digits.

    Oh, you think you can eat FIVE! little garbage disposal, huh?

    Tony tickles his boy, then dips back to the kitchen, putting fruit and toppings on breakfast. Due to Tony's training diet, his bland meal of steamed chicken and egg whites is nowhere near as decadent as his boy's. It's one of the prices he pays to maintain a finely tuned war machine. It always made him chuckle seeing alleged athletes make fast food runs and gorge on junk. Again, this has to do with the way he was raised and trained.

    His family weren't wrestlers. Their trade was rougher. Every Savage man was a certified combat veteran; whether in the military or in action with their private security company. When other kids were playing video games, he was into shit like boxing and football.Taking karate classes while his friends were reading comics. He learned more about fighting by the time he entered high school than most adults in the fight game had picked up their adult careers.

    Then it was the Army Rangers. He was kicking in doors and fighting terrorists while high school dropouts were paying money to learn how to dropkick. The bullet and explosive wounds on his chiseled frame sat side by side with little forget-me-nots he picked up in the ring over the years.

    Maybe that's why he was so successful. While others treated the sport like a platform or an opportunity to spit cheesy catchphrases and sell homemade merchandise, he treated it like it really was...

    A war. Weekly gunfights in the ring that proved your worth to the world, not to mention potential sponsors.

    Following message was brought to you by GNC!

    First off, I never started off wanting to be a professional wrestler. Hell, I never had a match before I was 20. My first experience in the ring was in makeshift rings beating the crap out of fellow soldiers while other troops whooped and hollered and spilt beer on the floor. I never learned the game from some overpriced name that was supposed to mean something to anybody. And for my entire career...He pauses to hand his kid his breakfast, which he excitedly stuffs in his cute little face.I kept getting told "you don't belong here, you're a just a part timer, you use this sport as a means to pimp your outside sh..stuff!"

    He had to edit himself around his boy, although he was so engrossed in the exploits of Patrick and Bob driving Squidward nuts, he wouldn't notice. Still, Tony likes to think he avoids that common wrestling trope that his ilk were crappy parents that put getting hit in the head with chairs above family.

    4 world titles and a buttload of money later, most of those said folks are either out of a job, or looking at my resume with that same look people sport on the toilet when they realized they ticked off the waiter at a Thai restaurant, then ordered extra spice on their food. Big ol' mistake...

    He puts his hand over the phone screen, and when he removes it, it's attached to a selfie stick while he's jogging down the Strip to the gym.

    Caught you off guard, huh?Sweat rolls down his face, and his breath is heavy as he runs.That's what's known in post production as the "roll-over", what I just did..*huff* from one scene to a different locale. You learn shit like that along the way. Like you learn...*huff*...

    Shit like nutrition tables, tax tables for earned income in international markets, how to plan travel and publicity itineraries. or doing a segway shoot...

    Now, him and his phone are in the locker room at the gym. He's pulling out boxing tape and scissors, wrapping his fists up for a sparring session. On top of three wrestling gigs, he's also making his debut in the pro boxing world for Elite in mere days. He keeps talking as he turns his mitts into bricks.

    Point is, there's a lot of minutia and tiny details that set apart the bad from the good, the good from the great. You can stand in front of a camera, read off the script about how much grit and skill you possess, how you're a deathwatch god or a hall of famer, or the hot new kid on the block about to rip the industry a new asshole, if you're not proving it in everything you do...He smacks his hardened paws together, and when he grabs his phone...

    It's filming Tony ringside, chugging on a bottle of water and wiping sweat and grime off his sparring gear.Then all that gum flapping is just wasted motion.

    Boxing has done him a world of good. Know for being a tough, gritty technician with cinder blocks for feet, weeks of jump rope and foot drills have added pep to his step; more torque on throws and punches, better footwork. Don't expect him to slap on a lucha mask any time and pop off 450 splashes nonstop, but when you add acceleration to an armored car, that's a bitch to deal with.

    How you conduct yourself, how you train, speak, handle every aspect of your business, it's just as important as all those shiny plaques on your wall or those PPV poster your face is slapped on.

    When times are good, and life is rolling sevens for you...
    Said while at Bobby Flays enjoying dinner with his wife and shaking hands with a potential sponsor.

    When they get fucking bad...Jesus...Said as the scene shifts to him calling an Uber while his rental car's radiator is steaming like a geyser on the side of the road.

    And when they flat just get dull, like waiting for a connecting flight because the weather's causing delays.Now, he and his family are waiting in the lobby of Las Vegas's McCarin airport, watching his boy play his Switch, and his wife and son's stepmother, a raven haired beauty of a college professor named Cassandra, spending part of her holiday break explaining to one of her students over the phone in not so nice terms why she failed her midterm test, and covering the phone to cuss up a storm in her posh Chelsea accent. So many things, most of them so little you almost disregard, you have to have tight to make this machine work, and trust me...

    This war machine's components run like motherfucking clockwork.

    Now, he's in his suite in Philadelphia. With his Elite Boxing debut just a few days away, Tony once again puts boots on the ground in the City of Brotherly Love, and a weary ass down on a sofa. He loosens his tie and puts his rare weekly treat glass of single malt on the coffee table. He leans forward, looking dead center at his mobile device, with his fingers interlocked.

    Hi Randall, I'm Tony. Nice to finally talk to you.

    Yeah, I called you Randall. I tend to call people by their actual government names instead of their super secret code identities. First off...

    I know about Rosie. Tough shit, man, seeing a loved one go through cancer. Damn near lost my wife, my heart, to health problems. Lot of people gave me shit cause I left the game to be by my baby's side, help her fight her fight of her life. Same people are also those I've either vanquished in the ring or built a resume they can only dream of claiming.

    Yeah, I check receipts. Sorry to say, you haven't left that much for me to work with, but I paid attention. Lot of ways, we're not that much different. We both seem to be guys that pride themselves on being professionals in a sea of costume wearing children talking sideways out their asses. A guy that takes his craft seriously.

    Can't tell you how refreshing it is. You should know all too well some of these bozos in Lycra; they don't exactly put the professional in professional wrestling.

    But, you've been gone for a minute, and your radio silence isn't exactly inspiring confidence in your supporters. What kind of guy are you these days/ Off rotation for an extended period, watching the industry evolve into something new? I went through that same scenario a month ago when I came back, and guess what?

    Turns out, I'm still the same motherfucker that people on the twittahs still say my name with reverence. less than a month, I've reshaped their culture. Ran roughsod over most of their best, and even in the single defeat I've suffered across all the places I've wrestled, against Duce Jones in a match that company considers one of it's marquee classics...

    Even in defeat i won.

    How so? Simple; you can talk about how your wins influence the sport, but when your opponents beat you and STILL turn around and train like you do...

    That..that says a lot about the type of fighter you are. It says volumes.

    Tony grabs his drink, and eases into his seat.I'm a man that's survived everything from bombs and gunfire, to personal heartbreak and tragedy, and built his own empire. I'm still the man that can change the culture of a locker room. Who still has the fed heads celebrating on twitter like they hit the lotto for signing me.

    GCWA's called me the future. Premiere Fighting's proclaiming me a king returning to reclaim his crown.

    I've helped take indy feds like Premiere and Boardwalk, and turned them into international stages. I'm the man Danny Mac is loathe to admit helped rebuild his empire. I'm the man that still can end a career in a night...

    Or elevate it to heights not even my enemies could have ever dreamed of.

    And I did it, without walking the same played out route guys like you seem to relish traveling on.

    That's who I am, pal. What about you? Who are you? Do you still have what it takes to thrive in this jungle? No offense, but unlike me, we haven't seen a shred of evidence stating you can stand toe to toe with a two sport superstar that reshapes his surroundings lately.

    We're sure as hell gonna find out real soon, man. And i hope for your sake, you are worth my time...'

    Because COME FIGHT NIGHT, under those hot lights, you're not going up against some spoiled silver spoon or nutjob in a mask...

    You're going toe to toe with one of the greatest fighters in the modern era of professional wrestling....PERIOD!

    With is drink in hand, he glares into the screen, his face a cold, determined thousand yard stare that's looked down on dozens of foolish victims who just didn't live up to his standard.

    Check the records. See if I'm lying.

    This game's about putting all the pieces together, Randy. And when we face off...

    If you don't have all the pieces to the Impulse puzzle put together, the only state I'll leave you in...
    He sips from his cup before he wraps things up.

    Is in pieces!


    • #3
      There Are No Roads

      The sun’s started peeking up over the row of buildings off to the east, and despite the fact that the city hasn’t gotten any more busy in the past two, three hours or so… it feels like things are waking up.

      New York City doesn’t usually see snow until January, and while it’s been cold enough on isolated nights so far, it’s been clear. And while I can see my breath, I can also feel that it’s nowhere near right now.

      Agreeing to take a brief journey back into the life has got me up at all hours again, looking at all the angles. Sometimes, it makes me miss being on the road full time. Sometimes it makes me miss the camaraderie of the locker room; that’s one place that I’ve definitely always felt at home.

      Sometimes. Like tonight. It makes me unable to sleep, so I leave home at midnight or so and go for a run.

      They didn’t call me The Marathon Man for nothing.

      As I’m slowly, steadily jogging up Broadway, I suddenly remember where I am and what time it is, and turn right onto a hundred eighty first street.

      I’m only twenty blocks from home, but I texted Rose to let her know I was going for a run, and she doesn’t like to go home when she’s going home alone to an empty apartment.

      Hundred eighty first leads to the Washington Bridge into the Bronx, and then I’m only three blocks from TC’s pub, where she was closing tonight and then - if I’m right - crashing in the loft on the second floor.

      The ewMania podcast has been playing in my ears on repeat; it’s gone three times while I’ve absorbed as much information as I can. Eight wrestler tournament. Small payoff to the winner but the main draw is bragging rights.

      Of the seven potential opponents I’ve got, I only know two. Mike Best and Eric Dane.

      Mike, I know by reputation only, and he’s best known for two defining personality traits.

      One, being an arrogant bastard of a pain in the ass, and two, being infuriatingly good enough at what he does in the ring to back it up.

      Dane and I have been enemies, but were able to become and remain allies, if not friends. He’s getting up there in years and has had to replace physical ability with cunning and guile in greater quantities.

      More often than not, he succeeds.

      Ironically enough, I’m not guaranteed to face off against either of these men. They’d be a semi - finals and final round opponent for me, all things falling my way. The other five? I’ve never heard of them before, including my first round opponent Tony Savage.

      That’s not good or bad. I don’t think an athlete so great that I’ve got no chance of overpowering him would be someone so far off my radar that - even as disconnected as I am from the sport these days - I’d never have heard of him. At the same time, it’d be foolhardy to assume a lack of information equates to a lack of talent.

      I wouldn’t disrespect any opponent like that. At least until I heard what he's got to say.

      Turning the corner, the TC’s Pub neon sign glows as a lone beacon of light on an otherwise shut down city block. Even with the CLOSED sign lit up, the logo’s status has always been a private message between Rosie and myself that she’s crashing there for the night.

      We’ve been best friends for nearly eighteen years and have been together for twelve. You can bet your bottom dollar we understand the nuances of what the other means.

      It’s a good thing, too - nobody else speaks fluent Calico Rose.

      I unlocked the door and slipped inside, locking it behind me. The familiar scent of the building brings me back to my teenage years. Before this was TC’s Pub, it was Coop’s Gym, where I learned the art of wrestling a hundred years ago.

      Now it smells like band sweat and spilled-but-cleaned-up alcohol and fry oil, but the memories are embedded in the walls and they ain’t comin’ out.

      Before I opened the loft door, I stopped and checked my stats for the day. Just under five hours of jogging, walking, and stopping for coffee and conversation with anyone in a bodega, I’ve still done seventeen miles and change.

      Some days I wrestle well. Some days I wrestle terribly. The day I lose that kind of stamina I know I’ve lost the plot.

      Coop lived here the last ten years or so of his life; there’s plenty of room for Rosie to stay here comfortably for a night or twenty if she desired. Usually, she’s only crashed if the weather’s been terrible or our apartment in Washington Heights is otherwise empty.

      And there she is.

      Rosie usually sleeps on her side, clutching an oversized pillow like it’s a favorite stuffed animal, but tonight she’s facing the opposite of her usual direction. She works here as the manager five nights a week, usually from open to close, and never once complains, and never once loses the passion or the energy for entertaining the patrons with her ridiculous sense of humor.

      You don’t see how much it takes out of her until moments like these. And as much as I’m wired, as much as I’d love to wake her up and talk to her about this tournament right now, I can tell she’s sleeping deeper than she has in a long, long while - and she’s earned it.

      I strip off my outer layers - running shoes, hoodie, gloves, scarf, etc - and ease in next to her. As deeply as she’s asleep she seems to know I’m there and gets comfortable.

      These are the moments that matter, and these - as much as being inside a wrestling ring - are the moments I live for.

      Tony Savage and the tournament will keep for a few hours, I say to myself as I put an arm around her shoulders.

      It isn’t five minutes before I fall asleep.


      The voice is muted, like I’m underwater and trying to hear someone on the surface.

      “...Earth to RK…”

      Loft, I said to myself. I’m in the loft. Someone is talking to me.

      Slowly and reluctantly, I force myself to open my eyes, and I see Rosie kneeling on the bed next to me, her eyes wild with energy despite the circles under her eyes.

      Hey love, I said, yawning. What time is it?

      “Like nine or so,” said Rose, “What time did you get in?”

      Well, I started. Then I realized I had no idea.

      Sixish, I said.

      “Holy potatoes, that’s crazy,” said Rose, “You just missed the crew heading out.”

      I did the math while Rosie started to pick up her clothes. On a weeknight, last call is three AM, and she and her crew are pretty good at getting out within an hour.

      “So we had this bachelorette party stumble in at like two thirty, and they were pretty schlackered already. This one girl that was somewhat sober asked for one round for the road and I had to say no, and Pipsy McGee decided to start grabbing glasses and throwing them.”

      Pipsy McGee.’ Like I said, she speaks in a language all her own. Full throttle Calico Rose slang.

      Wow, I said. Cops?

      She smiled. “O’Fadden was in the back with some coffee, he took care of it.”

      Rosie and the bosses offer free food and nonalcoholic drinks to on- and off- duty police. It started as a neighborhood courtesy thing, but it’s come in handy countless times.

      Good deal, I said.

      “Anyways,” she continued, pulling on last night’s jeans, “I cut the kids loose at like four, but they were insistent on hanging out and helping until we were done.”

      She looked at me. Those brown eyes that won me over so many years ago are dancing at me.

      “Good thing, too. Otherwise you’d’ve been scooping up glass after your extended run.”

      And she cocks her head.

      “Why were you out running so late?”

      Raised eyebrow.

      “Are you working?”

      She spins around on her knees and grabs my hand.

      “Is there a match coming?”

      Like an old school movie, she clutches my hand to her chest.

      “Are we about to jump into the fires of…”

      And we wait.



      “It’s on the tip of my tongue…”

      Now it’s my turn to laugh.

      You’ll get it after you wake up, I said, dragging my own self up. Tell you what, let’s get outta here and get some breakfast at Coral Veranda, then we’ll head on back here and you can think about it some more.

      “Ooooooooh!” said Rosie. “Promo time?”

      I smiled at her. Promo time.

      It’s been a minute since I did one’a these. But it’s like riding a bike: you don’t forget how to talk.

      Sun’s coming up; it’s getting warmer. Doesn’t feel like November, and for the moment, I’m good with that.


      For the record, this is the part that I miss. The promos, the hype, the anticipation, the match. Everything else can go kick rocks.


      For the record, how I’m feeling is fantastic.

      And… go.

      “The title’s different, but the logo’s the same. Is this the WCWA?”

      Nah, this place has a totally, totally different name.

      “I’m asking, because… you know. Lightning striking twice. The last time I wrestled in an interfed type environment, I walked out as the first - and only, so far - WCWA Internet Champion.”

      From somewhere off camera, I hear Rosie call out ‘Internet Champion Dot Net!’

      “It’s Dot Com.”

      Some things, you never grow out of.

      “There’s a different vibe, though. This isn’t the promise of greater things that never materialized. This is a one’n’done, which I think suits the current vibe’a wrestling a lot better.”

      “You find less ego in the one off tournaments and special events than in a long-running, or intended-to-be-long-running interpromotional body.”

      See: The Unified Championship Committee. I wasn’t there, but I’ve heard stories.

      “For those of you that don’t know me, my name is Randall Knox. I’ve been wrestling under the name ‘Impulse’ for twelve years now, more or less.”

      “The ‘more’ is that I wrestled a handful of matches under my real name four years prior just before I turned eighteen. The ‘less’ is that it’s been a long time since I was committed full time to a wrestling promotion.”

      “I’m a three-time former World Heavyweight Champion despite the fact that I don’t make the minimum weight requirement for most company’s heavyweight division.”

      Go figure, right? Who knew you didn’t need to be seven feet tall or three hundred pounds to own this industry. Or even six four, two thirty one?

      “You can go far in this sport on conditioning, determination, and the obsessive drive to become the greatest mat wrestler the sport has ever seen.”

      I’d wager it’s farther than you can get ‘taking up’ wrestling to blow off steam and earn beer money. Too soon?

      “And if you’ve heard of me, then you already know: The Messenger Is Not Important.”

      Catchphrase. Cha-Ching.

      “Is that the biggest difference between me and my opponent? It’s possible. Tony Savage says he’s his own man, hitting different beats than the rest of the stereotypes in the sport of professional wrestling, and in one sense he’s correct.”

      In one sense. In the other he’s the illegitimate son of a whole new crop of cliches.

      “When I broke into the sport, we were coming off the dark days of the gritty and edgy 90’s and into the twenty first century. Seemed like every professional wrestler worth their salt came from a broken home with six dead parents, an estranged sibling, a wife (because it was the biggest boys’ club in the history of forever) that they cheated on and kids that they couldn’t relate to.”

      The alienation of one is a tragedy; the alienation of millions is just a statistic.

      “So the sport swung the other way, and it became saturated with family men who only wanted to make their trophy wives proud and be a good example for their kids. Even the most evil, most hated villains held onto their kids as the only glimmer of a good man remaining.”

      Even Kodiak Vic Creed tried to make things work with his son Alex.

      “Now? Man, I dunno. I feel like a senior citizen, an outsider in a sport I’ve competed in for sixteen off - and - on years, and I’m only thirty three years old.”

      “In the age of social media, we’re ‘If it didn’t happen on twitter, did it even happen, bro?’ In a world where twitter lesbians knee-jerk their way into being offended because it’s their only defining personality trait, is this even a sport I want to come back to?”

      Enter: Tony Savage.

      “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Tony… but you said you do things ‘a little differently.’ That implies that… you know… you do things a little differently.”

      “Is your PhD wife who had a stalker that you had to save her from and cancer that pulled you away from the sport but is really smart and made you billions of dollars really any different from the army of plastic women that stand by their man and ask the questions that allow him to run his mouth about the topic at hand, just because she knows she could ask you to quit and she doesn’t?”

      A well disguised stereotype is still a stereotype.

      “Are you really in this sport for the right reasons, Tony? Do you know what it means to be a wrestler?”

      Think carefully.

      “You like to fight. You like to win. You like to get paid.”

      “Are you looking to leave this sport in a better place than you found it? Are you looking to respect its traditions and add your own flavor to ‘em to evolve professional wrestling into something better than it was before you walk away?”

      “Do you have the guts to walk away from the money, the power, and the glory because your integrity is worth more than any of those?”

      “Cause I’ll tell you something, cowboy. Quitting a wrestling promotion because their views no longer aligned with yours. Showing up as their World Champion until you lose the title to someone else because you respect the traditions of the sport. Not looking back, because it’s the right thing to do?”

      “That’s a road that’s a hell of a lot less traveled than being a soldier, getting into fights and becoming a wrestler, marrying a strong woman who mysteriously starts doing all of your finances for you, and claiming that you do things differently than anyone else.”

      That’s a form letter, Tony - with your name written in the blank spots. In pencil.

      “Do I still have what it takes, Tony?”

      “It doesn’t matter.”

      “We don’t control who wins and who loses. The match itself. The referee. The fans. The wildcard of luck. There’s a thousand things that can affect the winner of a wrestling match that have nothing to do with our skills as a wrestler.”

      “All we can control is our own efforts.”

      “So let me ask you this, Tony. If you’ve changed the culture of every locker room you’ve ever been in, if you’ve elevated your opponents and this sport to heights nobody could’ve ever dreamed of…”

      “If you’re one of the greatest fighters in the modern era of professional wrestling…”


      “Why are you rambling, babbling, and showing off like you’ve got something to prove?”

      Fade. Done.


      • #4

        Probably don't need to point out that you cut promos unlike others, even if this was you saying it prior to your narrator taking over. It's actually a nice way to RP IMO, I kind of do the same. Internal narrator mixed with my character's words and actions. The backstory, while important in a tournament like this, did go on a bit longer than it really should have. You spent more time developing your character for us than giving us a look into the match, how you're feeling, and such. CD is needed, but relevance and the situation at hand are very important too.

        Once you did get to that point it was nothing but straight dialogue. You had built a nice base with narrator description and your, but then it goes to all talk, no action. Where did that descriptive nature go? Why would you purposely call out how you come at it different, do that, but then revert back to a basic dialogue promo? The consistency could be improved upon. The dialogue itself is pretty good, and you start to finally hit your stride toward the end.

        Good work hitting relevance of the tournament and all opponents, then you have a CD driven set up that doesn't drag on before hitting the promo itself. The formula here is right on the money imo. Really enjoyed the throw back to past interpromotional things ran here (affiliated with here at least). I felt you relied a bit much on replying to Tony's RP than giving us something new. While its great stuff, the best writers can provide without needing to lean on their opponents first RP.

        Impulse's RP was just really good top to bottom. While it did come off a bit "reply-ey" it was just good. The format, the flow, the content. Tony had good writing as well, but I think it's just not as polished as Pete's at the moment.