Arlo made this pic
Record: 2-2
The scene opens focused upon a dirty bench sitting under the Cresent City Connection bridge in New Orleans. Suddenly, a man, dressed in black jeans, a black t-shirt, black gloves and black shoes, approaches the bench and sits down. As the camera focuses in on the man's face, it is revealed that it is in fact, the
African King, Shabba, who has sat on the bench. He isn't dressed in his familiar clothing, and seems a bit distraught. He looks down at the ground, before looking back up, and speaking to himself.
"What makes a King? Does leadership make a king? Does brute strength make a king? What about being a mental master, or a tactical genius? Or does it take heart? Maybe it takes all of those things and more. Or maybe... it just takes me. I alone, stand on the pinnicle of greatness. I alone, bonded my people under one commonality and strived to make us one of the greatest empires of all time. But yet, some still doubt the reality of my empire. They doubt Zimbabwe could ever be a great empire, lead by a great King, to achieve a great good, the realization that the African people, MY people, should be the most dominant people in this world. But, until my empire is fully realized and thus becomes a threat to this horrible place, no one will ever see us for what we are. Not until we kick in their doors, ducktape them and beginning volently executing them one by one until only a few remain. And ones like Titus will be hogtied and thrown off of the bridge that is currently over my head, just to make an example of. Because he was lucky in our match, because he happened to come across the more half assed version of King Shabba. Lately, I've been lack luster. I need to refocus on my goal. I've been too.... Americanized, and it stops here. I mean look at how I've been acting. And this" *he pulls a blackberry phone from his pocket and looks at the screen as it flashes with the name 'Nnamdi', before thowing it into the street and watching it be ran over, an uncountable number of times* "Stupid cellphones, computers, and other hitech devices are unneccesary. He's just going to ask me where I am, and tell me who my opponent is. I already know that I face that wanna be doctor guy Steven Kurtesy. Yet another Aussie. Yet another person who I am better than by a long shot. And he will be the first to see the true nature of this African Lion."
The King looked up at his surroundings. He was in a grimey, dirty part of New Orleans, but showed no fear or intimidation as he sat there, alone. He seemed to have changed alot, because he cared not for the finer things, and he felt no desire to clean off the dirty bench before he sat on it. He was totally focused on the task at hand.
"New Orleans. Mardi Gras land. Bourbon Street. A place full of scum, drugs, crime and voodoo. A place that is a disease to the entire world. Much like Steven Kurtesy is a disease to the WZCW. He feels like he knows everything because he calls himself a doctor, but he comes from Australia. Australia is like the bottom of a homeless man's foot. Full of all kinds of diseases and crap, that if you touch it you'd die on contact. And as far as his wrestling career goes, he's been lucky enough to have other guys carry him throughout his career. He is a 'tag team specialist', I guess you can call him, which is actually a 'I can't do it alone specialist'. I mean, look how his pal Steven Holmes has be trying harder and harder to seperate himself from this loser. I mean, just look at him. He won't last two minutes in the ring with a vicious killer like myself."
While King Shabba spoke, a
drunken homeless bum stumbles upon him and begins to beg for change. The homeless man looks as if he could have seventeen different diseases on top of the dirt and flies that surround him. As he walks up to the King, Shabba suddenly began to cough outragously.
"Excuse me, good sir, but do you have some change that you could spare?"
"......."
"Anything you could give would be *burp* "helpful."
"........."
The King stood up, and reached into his back pocket and pulled out a huge band of money, in a gold money clip. He pulled the first hundred dollar bill off of the top and put the rest of it back into his pocket. The man got extremely excited, thinking of all of the liquor and drugs he will buy with the large bill that he is destined to recieve from the gratious young black man. When the man held out his hand to recieve the bill, King Shabba quickly ripped up the bill into tiny pieces and threw the pieces into the man's face before laughing and adding.
"Go get a job, you horrible disgrace for a human being."
As the homeless man walked off, muttering profanity and stumbling, the African King sat back down. And to his surprise, he heard a
voice speaking to him.
"Now you know you didn't have to do that to that gentleman, young man."
The King, as startled as he could be, looked back to see another man sitting on the ground under the bridge. He looked cleaner than the former man, but still had a bummish appeal to him. King Shabba quickly responded with heat in his voice.
"What? You better mind your own damn business, old man, before I give you something to really complain about."
"Such anger comes from you. I know JeMonte taught you better than that."
"What?!?" *the King sprang from his seat and began to walk towards the man.* "What did you just say? Do you know me old man? You speak of my father as if you knew him. how dare you!"
"You're father was a great man, and you should show him more respect."
"My father was a fool! He forgot who he was and let these Americans change him, and it was his downfall. He died, like a coward! And no one even cares! He did nothing for MY people! And he did nothing for me! So, old man, you should drop it, before I drop you."
"You're father was a great man. You are the one who forgot who you are. You forgot that you grew up on these streets here in New Orleans? That you're mother is an American? That, up until you were thirteen years old, you were a proud American! But JeMonte forgot who he was? He was, and always will be a proud rastafari, who met an American woman who he loved more than himself, and had a son, who is a disgrace to both sides of his being, both American, and African. So you should look into the mirror and start throwing some of those comments to yourself, Travaris, because you, are a damn disgrace, not your father!"
Those words cut through King Shabba like a knife through butter. He knew not who this man was, but the words he spoke sparked feelings inside of the proud African King that he had long forgotten. The eyes of King Shabba, now bloodshot red, began to water, and without realizing what he was doing, began to pummel the man. He punched the man with all of his force, with both hands, before throwing him down to the ground and stomping him continously, until a black car pulled up and out jumped
Nnamdi, grabbing King Shabba and throwing him into the car. The car speeds off with a cloud of dusk and left the man laying there, in a puddle of his own blood. Nnamdi, who is in shock of what he just witnessed, looks at King Shabba, who is still distraught, and comments.
"How could you do that? How could you beat him like that? How could you do that...... to your own father?"
As King Shabba looks up in disbelief, Nnamdi hands him the envelope that he has been holding, and as the car dashing onto the bridge, the camera fades to black.
To Be Continued
