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Post by Wade Mason on Aug 17, 2009 16:09:06 GMT -5
[Single Match] Sebastian King Vs. Camisado
Limit: Two Each Maximum First Deadline: Saturday August 22nd at 11:59pm EST Final Deadline: Sunday August 23rd at 11:59pm EST
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Post by camisado on Aug 22, 2009 0:59:38 GMT -5
Date: Wednesday, August the Nineteenth, 2009 Time: 9:27 PM Location: The Attic Club; Dayton, OH “BRING THA MUTHAFUCKIN’ RUCKUS!” These were words that to most would seem unintelligible and, by the way they were presented, irritable. These people that filled this room though, they weren’t like most. No, they were something special. There were hundreds like them, swarming together in this steaming, dimmed area. These people were drenched in sweat – the sweat produced not only by their own bodies, but those who surrounded them. Most people, the same who would more than likely cringe at the music that blared throughout the building, would also cower at the thought of being soaked in another’s bodily fluids. But again, these people not only enjoyed it, but saw it as encouragement. They thought that, “If you aren’t soaked in fluids from head to toe by the time the show had been completed and you left that small, crowded room, your night was a failure.” Many of these aforementioned ‘moshers’ not only believed this, some even embraced it as a way to live their lives.
When the phrase, “BRING THA MUTHAFUCKIN’ RUCKUS!” filled the ears of those throughout the room, the bustle of furious fists, elbows, and feet came to a sudden halt as those moshing took a moment to stop their torment on one another’s bodies and come together as one deafening and concordant crowd. Facing the band, every single member of the crowd screamed along to the phrase all at once, as if “BRING THA MUTHAFUCKIN’ RUCKUS!” was the headline of an anthem to which they followed.
This phrase was simply the commencement to the breakdown of the song. At shows, this was the part of each song where it was significantly rougher and the blows that were issued from each member of the mosh pit became stronger and faster. This is the portion of the night where people receive the bruises they would notice either the next day or, if they were ambitious enough to stay up late that night after such a brutal performance, later on that night.
Camisado can be found in the nucleus of the pit at nearly every show The Attic Club in Dayton, Ohio hosts. He isn't a guy that goes out to the local club and dances all too often, rather he attends shows performed by bands that belonged to genres labeled 'Metal', 'Metalcore', 'Grindcore', 'Hardcore', 'Thrash', 'Screamo', 'Death Metal', 'Post-Hardcore', and even sometimes 'Electronica' or 'Techno'. The man has constructed his moshing abilities down to making a technical art out of it. One thing he has learned from both amateur and professional wrestling is that, in order to be successful in nearly any aspect of life, one must have an understanding of the mechanical moves and operations of that certain form of art. There are always, of course, times where technical abilities must be thrown out of the mindset of a wrestler and some spontaneous decision must be made, and that decision usually proves to be a pivotal moment in the match in determining the winners and losers. But at shows, there are no losers; everyone is a winner when they’re having fun.
Camisado is hell-bent on making those around him injured and/or bleeding. This is not out of spite or any type of ill-will as much as it is out of the spirit of the activity. Camisado is a man who takes pride in seeing members of the pit walking out of the building after the show with a bloody forehead or a limp in their step. It’s reassurance that his methods are still performing. Though the main goal of those in the pit is to injure their counterparts, there’s never a bitter taste left in anyone’s mouth, as the pit is formed by an understood brotherhood of those who share a similar taste in music and physical activity.
As the show ended and everyone that had attended tried to escape through the exit all at once, Camisado made a deliberate evacuation, much like usual. This was the time where he took a leisurely walk through the parking lot and reminisced on the past evening’s events. He enjoyed this time almost as much as the time spent in the previous hours.
Finally, Camisado reached his car. It wasn’t hard to find, as the glow of the streetlamps glared off the 2006 Pontiac GTO’s sleek, black, glistening paint. He took his time opening the driver’s side door of the car and lazily plopped himself down into the deep, comforting racing seats he had installed on his own. The seats were merely for pleasure, not at all for performance, as Camisado would never even consider street racing. He was far too enamored with this vehicle to ever put it in any position where the risk of damaging the car would be even the least bit heightened.
Before he could even contemplate pulling the seat belt across his body and latching it together, a muffled version of the breakdown to Bring Me the Horizon’s “Diamonds Aren’t Forever” could be heard inside the vehicle. Camisado dropped his head back into the head rest as he reached his right hand deep into the front pocket of his faded black denim jeans. As he pulled his arm back out, a black-and-silver Samsung Instinct touch-screen cellular phone had accompanied it. The image displayed on the screen had exhibited that ‘Josh’ had been calling him. He placed his thumb onto the screen and slid it upward, answering the call.
Josh is Camisado’s younger brother, at just twenty-two years of age. Josh was a part of the independent wrestling scene, working with companies such as the Ohio Impact Wrestling company, the Heartland Wrestling Association, and many other Midwest-based federations. Much like his brother, he too had a stage name. His was Cicatrix, which was a reflection on all the scars that covered his body, very few of which he actually accumulated in his time wrestling.“Hello?” Camisado answered as he rested the phone on his bare left shoulder and held in place with the side of his head, awkwardly shaping his neck in a crooked fashion. His hair had begun to curl as the sweat that had once soaked his head full of fine, dark brown hair began to dry. To add to the peculiar positioning of his neck, he bent himself at the waist towards his right, over the cup holders that held loose change, which is obviously a job they were not designed to do. He pulled the glove compartment that was located in front of the passenger’s seat open and grabbed three objects: a small white-and-yellow tube that contained Neosporin (a pain relieving ointment applied to wounds), a two inch-by-two inch pad of a thin, translucent fabric that is commonly referred to as gauze, as well as a thick roll of medical tape, which was handy as it doesn’t add any further inconvenience when pulled off since it did not have the ability to pull body hairs out of the skin. “Happy Birthday bro!” Josh proclaimed in a young and excited voice as a reply. The volume on Camisado’s phone had previously been turned all the way up. With this exclamation, it proved to be a bad decision, as the sound from the little speaker that was fixed in the top of the phone was so great when it erupted that it slightly irritated his inner ear and the surrounding areas. He continued by asking, “And what’s this I hear about you getting back into wrestling? I thought you were done with that!” without even giving Camisado a chance to even mutter a minute “Thank you.”“Yeah, I decided to get back into the game, I’m gonna play around with some scrubs in some fed out in Cali. And thanks for wishing me a Happy Birthday so late in the day..” Camisado’s voice was not much deeper than his sibling’s, but it there was an aura to it that seemed powerful and confident. He was obviously displaying a slight bit of sarcasm in the second sentence that had been released from behind his lips as he applied a generous amount of the white cream onto the area of skin above his left hip that had been roughed up by a kick in the mosh pit earlier that evening. Struggling with the cell phone that was still in between his shoulder and head, he attempted to screw the cap back onto the tube and, while turning his head just enough to view the compartment that remained ajar, tossed the ointment into the cramped area. “That’s great news man! Any word on your first match?” Josh was a bit more ecstatic about his brother’s return to wrestling than Camisado might have actually been. Josh had always been against his brother’s hiatus from the career that he loved. Before responding, Camisado placed the pad of gauze on top of the creamy substance and pressed it tightly against his skin. He wrestled with the task of separating two pieces of the medical tape from the roll using only his teeth.“Yeah. It’s at the end of the month, the twenty-eighth or something around then. I’m not positive on the date, so don’t hold me to it.” He said this after a few moments of scuffling with the tape, before transferring the pieces he had ripped off to either side of the gauze and attaching it to the skin that surrounded it with just his right hand, as the additional hand was currently holding the gauze tight to the damaged skin. “You gotta let me know when and where it is. You know I’m coming.” Josh was right, Camisado did know he was coming to watch his inaugural bout with True Glory Wrestling. He once again leaned over the cup-holding station that was behind the stick that controlled his car’s six-speed transmission. As he did this, he tossed the roll of tape into the glove compartment and slammed it shut.“Ha dude, good luck. It’s in a whale's vagina!” Camisado chuckled to himself, though deep-down, he had wished his brother could make it to California to see him wrestle once again. He then reached down past his left thigh and grabbed a hold onto the red-and-white Cincinnati Reds-themed lanyard that was connected to a set of keys that rested inside his front, left pocket. He pulled the lanyard up and pulled the keys out of the pocket, soon relocating the keys to his right hand, grasping the key that started his car’s engine in between his right index finger and thumb. He waited until after his brother’s reply to start the engine, and it was all in good thought, as the rumbling of the engine would muffle what he could hear of his brother's voice through the reception of the phone.“Bro, I’ll figure all the traveling shit out, don’t worry about that. I’ll be there.” And as soon as he finished speaking, Camisado placed his left foot onto the clutch pedal (though it was unnecessary, it was a habit he had picked up whilst learning to drive his first car, a pale green Ford Escort) whilst sticking the key into the ignition, quickly turning it away from him, with a rightward flick of his wrist. With this, the 440-horsepower, six-liter LS2 engine (a powerful upgrade to the Chevrolet Corvette’s LS1 engine) erupted in a roar that could be heard inside the White Castle fast-food establishment that stood at the other end of the extended parking lot."When you get to Cali, let me know. I'll hook you up with a hotel room." Camisado uncertainly chuckled again, not believing his brother would be there for his match. He didn’t underestimate his brother’s ambition at all, as it was undoubtedly present at all times; Rather he didn’t trust his brother’s ability to pay for a plane ticket to California, or gas if he were to for some odd reason drive there. Tickets for a plane ride from Cincinnati to San Diego in the middle of the summer would certainly break the bank for a kid working at a retail store on a meager salary.“Will do, man. Who you facing anyways? Anybody worth mentioning?” Josh’s voice was bouncy with the excitement and anticipation that filled his body. Camisado placed his left foot on the clutch pedal and, with his right hand, moved the shifter from the ‘N’ to the ‘1’ for First Gear shortly after releasing the parking brake. Using his right foot, he pressed his foot down on the gas pedal as he released the clutch. “Somebody named ‘Sebastian King’. I’ve never heard of the guy, but from what I see, at least from his profile on the fed’s website, he’s a fucking weirdo, drinks blood and shit.” It was obvious Camisado had yet to master the ability to talk on his phone whilst driving an automobile that operated via manual transmission, though it was not to his fault all, as it is a much simpler assignment to multi-task whilst driving an automobile with a transmission that operated automatically. “Which means that he won’t be a problem for me, dude's going to be too busy do crazy shit and not focused on wrestling. He apparently does a lot of what I do, same size too, just not smart. So I'm set, man's an obvious scrub.” Camisado spotted a red light just around one-hundred feet down the road. Seeing this, he applied pressure to the clutch with his left foot and to the brake pedal with his right as he shifted into neutral, soon stopping the car in front of the light. "Hey man, look, I’m driving home, I gotta get off the phone. You hit me up once you find your way to San Diego.” Camisado really didn’t want to put his car at risk of an accident. Had he owned a car that he cared a significant amount less about, this decision could have been different and his conversation with Josh may have been continued.“Alright Ryan, I’ll see ya soon.” This was Josh’s version of an adieu. Camisado wasted little time removing his right hand from the shifter and sliding the “End Call” graphic on his phone to the right side, thus ending the call, though before he could hang up, his brother added to these parting words. "And hey, if I can't make it, remember to bring some muthafuckin' ruckus!" A grin quickly formed on the right side of his mouth due to the sheer coincidence of his brother’s choice of words for that situation. As the scene faded to black, Camisado tossed the phone onto the passenger’s seat next to him and returned his hand to the shifter, then making a move that alludes to the idea that he had been preparing himself to shift into gear as the light ahead must have turned green, signaling that it was now alright to cross the intersection.
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