Kincaid v Mercer v Recoba

[UKWF]

Post your RPs for the match below. 2RP cap, max. 500 words per RP.

[Deleted]

A camera takes us backstage, far away from the action still ongoing in the UKWF ring to a dark storage room. On a creaky looking steel chair, Alex Kincaid sits. His posture is slumped. He looks tired, overwhelmed with everything that's happened. He wipes a mess of intruding brown hair from his face and then slowly smiles. He wipes at his eyes, still irritated from the hair spray Shazza hit him with earlier. When he puts his hand down he spots the cameraman lurking in the dark. He coughs, awkwardly, and straightens up his posture in the chair before waving the camera in.

“So there it is. First night under the UKWF lights. You know, you can look at the match time and you might think that was a quick one but it was harder than I expected. Certainly didn't expect an eye full of that hair spray. But if you ask me, I'd rather have to fight a little bit to get it done than just run through the first match. From what I hear, you don't get to run through anybody in UKWF. That works for me.”

He shifts his weight forward in the chair and waves the cameraman in so that he's closer, eyes sharp and focused to stare into the lens.

“They tell me next show it's a triple threat. Right when I walk through the curtain, it's another challenge. And the sad truth is, most people are going to resent that. Most people are going to be frustrated there's no time to breathe. But me? I'm not most people. You know what the thing is about Canadians, don't you? You're heard the jokes. The “sorry” jabs, the hockey obsession. But you know what else? We're a nation of hunters. And ever since I was little boy, cleaning my rifle on my grandfather's porch nothing – NOTHING – has made more sense to me than the hunt!”

Kincaid jumps out of the chair, sending it flying to the back of the room with a heavy thud, before pointing into the camera for his next words.

“I'm hunting for respect. I'm hunting for glory. I'm hunting for title gold. But next show...next show, it all starts with hunting for that second win. And I don't care who you put in there with me! I don't care if it's Big Mac Mercer, near four hundred pounds of smashing Sooner muscle or Cross Recoba, a capital S Sicilian snake who's going to eat me alive if I take my guard down for even a second. At Showdown, I walk through the snakepit, I take down the behemoth. I give you the fight of your life. I promise you, you've never fought anything like me. You've never been asked to give what I will make you give these people to beat me. I'll see you on Devil's Night. And we will walk through fire.”

He's still staring wildly, breathing deeply, into the camera as we fade...to....black...

[Cross Recoba]

The shot seems abruptly cut. We’re outside The Hereford, W1. We’ve joined mid-conversation; the focus of the shot wears a clearly made-to-measure light-grey suit complemented by a pale blue shirt and Boston Red tie. He pushes what was the Grilled Blythburgh pork chop away and pulls out a Lucky Strike from the packet that lies on the table.



“...I told you, wait for me to finish lunch and you can have your precious soundbites for Showdown…”



He takes a drag and runs his hand through his hair to gather his thoughts before flashing the kind of smile that contrasts the off-hand comments.



“Where to start, where to start? In the UKWF the answer seems obvious, I’m opening the show with Kincaid and Big Mac Mercer at the Proud2 Arena. How do you feel, gentlemen? Nervous? You should be - just think about it a little, I’m the last-minute addition to the match, why would that be? If I were either of you I’d be worried that maybe I’m there to shake things up, to get people invested in the rest of the show because, honestly, without me, all we have are two fan handshaking, baby-kissing, wouldn’t your mother like to meet them, vanilla wrestlers.”



The smile seems to transform into one that appears much crueller.



“I saw your match against Gav the Chav. Sure, you won, but who did you really beat? I haven’t got the strength in me to rewatch the tape but I’m certain your music played for longer than you wrestled and yet you say it was harder than you expected? What would be easier? Walking to the ring and having a cheque given to you? I’m aware that you’ve got a height advantage on me, I’m aware that you like to take it down to the streets in the ring but are you confident that your experience isn’t going to be a disadvantage? How many miles have those knees clocked? What happens if you go for that Frog Splash and find no-one is home? Will they hold out? Will they become more of a target?”



He flicks his ash into the ashtray and picks up the tumbler of bourbon, contemplating his next move as he swirls the liquid around the glass.



“Maybe you’re banking on facing two people whose experience doesn’t make up a fifth of yours? After all, Mercer - what do you really bring here? You might have a chin made of stone and agility that betrays your size but how about that oxygen tank? Every minute the match goes could be a problem for you. The quicker, smaller guys don’t need quite so much oxygen to keep the pace up - going to be able to cope? You’re a prime candidate for The Sicilian Typewriter if ever there was one.



I’m not here in the UKWF to win friends, I’m not here for respect. I’m here to turn up, hit the Sicilian Typewriter and get paid!”



He puts out the cigarette and walks out of shot.

[mac]

*The sound of metal slamming against more metal is heard as the camera pans out to show us a random gym rat and none other than the Mountain of Man, the Mega Man, The Incredible Mac Mercer, laying down on a bench ready to lift what can only be describe as some ungodly and inhuman amount of weight*

Mac: Add a little more. I gots a big match and gotta make sure I’m strong.

*His spotter adds two more 25bs plates, and Mac unpacks the weight and begins pressing it over and over and over. After his set, he racks the bar back, sits up and wipes his brow. He breathes heavily and takes a drink of water from his bottle.*

Mac: I tell you man…I’m super stoked for my first of many matches this weekend at UKWF. Some people would be so nervous getting in the ring with two very experienced and very good competitors like Cross Recoba and Kincaid.

But Mac Mercer is NOT just some person. Mac Mercer is the biggest, strongest, and baddest man UKWF has ever seen or will ever see. Not only that, The Mega Man is the variable in this match. See…these other guys have been around for a while, taken their lumps, won some matches…and lost some matches. People know what to expect from them. I am the anomaly. They don't know what to expect…so let me show you. You've seen my strength….you can tell by my size that I am a beast….but look at this.

*Mac walks over to a wall and leaps up, smacking a spot on the wall*

Mac: 37 inches. So not only am I stronger than both of you…I’m just as agile and mobile. That makes me extremely dangerous. The other thing that makes me dangerous in this match…I don’t have much to lose. See…if these mooks win against an inexperienced rookie…then whatever. They beat him as they should have. But when they lose to Big Mac Mercer…when I pull the upset and beat two very experienced ring vets who think they can simply just run around me the entire time….seriously, this is a wrestling match and not a communist soccer match. You're gonna have to fight me and not run around like a sweet 18 year old co-ed her first week in college…but when I win, its gonna be huge. I can see it now, New Comer Mac Mercer pulls out the Upset, going over two industry vets!!!

Either way this match is gonna be HUGE!!! The fans are really gonna get their money’s worth seeing the three of us tear down the house. Just know Kincaid and Cross that once the house is down…Mac Mercer is gonna be the one standing over the rubble.

*Mac sits back down on the bench and begins his workout again*

[Cross Recoba]

The sound of metal slamming against more metal is heard as we open the shot locked on Cross Recoba’s face. He seems to be full of concentration, the gaze in his eyes seemingly made of steel. 

“Add a little more, I’ve got a big match this weekend so need to make this count.” 

The camera switches to behind his shoulder and we see a bartender adding more Woodford Reserve Bourbon to Recoba’s Old Fashioned. The back bar is stocked with no whisky lower than a single malt, all held on a mahogany shelf. 

“That’s the one. It seems Mercer is determined to turn this into a pity-party for himself, being the rookie in the match. Apparently, if I beat him it means nothing, which is where his inexperience really shows. Not only am I apparently a veteran despite being in this game for under two years, but, and this is far more crucial - a win for me, even against a rookie, sets the standard for what the UKWF can expect!” 

Recoba takes a sip of the cocktail. 

“Like I said last week, I’m not here to make friends - I’m here to win matches. EVERY match counts - and it’s by making little rookie errors like he has done which makes me even more confident I’ll be the one getting his hand raised at the end of our triple-threat. How are you going to cope with the pressure of a sold-out venue? Will the fans spur you on even further or, far more likely, will their expectation be the straw that breaks the camel’s proverbial?” 

Another measure of the Old Fashioned is sunk. 

“Kincaid has put a target on both our backs, have you prepared for that? My personal take? Kincaid might have the experience out of the three of us but if your thirty-seven-inch guns start to take their toll on him, can he focus on a two-pronged attack? Can he deal with the threat of the Million Lira Dropkick? The knowledge that The Skim is only a gut-kick away?” 

“He’s made his debut, he’s shown what he can do. This time round it’s my time to steal the spotlight, it’s my time to put away the better-known face. The fact that his arsenal is comprised of the basics done well just means I’ll be looking at every possible way I can avoid, negate, and then turn them against him.” 

“I know what I’m bringing to the table - I’ve got in-ring creativity that a man who calls himself ‘Big Mac’ can only dream of. I’ve got ring smarts that’ll rival a decade and a half in the business. I’ve also got no desire to get involved in a street fight or a test of strength.” 

“I’m seeing this as the opportunity it is - a match to show the UKWF why I’m the guy who’ll outshine Fader, Black, and Arcane and you two just happen to be the props I’ll be working with!”

The camera fades as Recoba walks out of shot.

[mac]

*The restaurant is very busy and form the look of the clientele and wait staff, very exclusive and classy. So when the camera pans to a large behemoth of a man wearing a tuxedo t-shirt, thats right folks not an actual tuxedo with the cummerbund and neck tie and tails, The Mega Man is wearing a tuxedo t-shirt and cargo shorts. A snooty looking waiter comes up to Mac Mercer, who is sitting at a tiny table, napkin already tucked into his shirt under his neck*

Waiter: And would the gentleman like a said with his meal?

Mac: Sir…do I look like a rabbit? 

Waiter: Of course not…sir.

Mac: Then I will not want to eat what a rabbit eats. Salad is what real food eats. Now bring me my steaks.

Waiter: Plural, sir?

Mac: Heck yea Alfred. I’m sorry is that not your name?

I just assume anyone in a tux with a wicked cool stache’ like that is named Alfred…but yea, the best way to eat steak, is to eat two steaks.

*The waiter seemingly glides away to the kitchen, seriously how do they walk like that? Anyway, as the waiter leaves Mac begins to talk to someone, we aren’t sure whom. Probably either a super fine hottie…or his mother. (Who from what I hear back in the day was a real catch)*

Mac: So…my first match comes up in like two days. And my opponents are already talking about this big plans to upset Big Mac. Big plans to run circles around the rookie, plans to use a Million Lira Kick on the Mega Man….look man, I don't know who Lira is, or why you are kicking like she would…but some little girly kick form some little girly man ain’t gonna be enough to knock down this guy. Cross and Kincaid can double team, triple team, heck they can even get Her Majesty’s Armed Forces….it ain’t gonna be enough to stop me. I got two mooks in the ring in Kincaid and Cross Recoba who have great plans to take down the big man.

Like my boy Mike Tyson said….Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

And boys…I promise whatever plans you got going into this match this weekend in front of thousands of my newest bestest friends is gonna go out the window after I smack the taste out’cho mouths at the next Showdown. People paid good money to see three guys tear it up….and I promise this big rookie is gonna be the one doing the most tearing and ripping and smashing. Im gonna punch you Kincaid….Im gonna Suplex you Cross….and Big Mac’s newest friends are all gonna cheer, watching The Mega Man win his first match.

Now, l excuse me…I gots me two steaks to eat. Prepare to be impressed.

*The scene fades as Mac starts to eat. But who was he talking to???*

[Deleted]

“Well guys, we have something special here don't we?”

It's early. Very early. The sun is just starting to break over the rooftops of London and Alex Kincaid had already been working hard. Despite the early morning chill, he stands in front of the camera wearing shorts and a sweat soaked t-shirt. He rests his hands on his hips and takes a deep breath, shaking his head slowly.

“7 in the morning and I've already been up for more than two hours. You know why? Because as we march toward Showdown I get the feeling that this is going to be one of the toughest challenges I've ever faced. People talking about this match, the talk is always the same. It's the hungry veteran vs the eager rookie vs the rising, villain just really hitting his stride. Last week I talked about this as a hunt. That...I know. That I'm comfortable with. But lately-”

His expression changes. There's a quick frown at the edges of his lips and a hardening of the look in his eyes. Just as quickly as it's there he forces it from his face – he's been wrestling a long time, and he understands it's every bit as vital to play the game of appearance as it is to exchange holds on the mat. He forces the confidence back to his face and continues.

“I'm not rich. I haven't won a pile of world championships. The only thing I have is the knowledge that my name means something. People know, if Alex Kincaid is across the card from them? It's a test. It's a test of everything in them. Granted, some of that's because I haven't always been the best person. I've done things that make mens blood run cold. And honestly, even though I am trying to do things better...that's still important. It's still important that when someone fights me, I know it makes them wonder what they're getting into.”

He wipes a hand over his face and chuckles sarcastically.

“So why do I feel like an afterthought right now? Why is it that I feel like that people think I'm the last interesting thing in this match? It's difficult for some people to imagine what it's like. To suddenly, after years of hearing your name said a certain way, to have it said like...like it's nothing. Imagine how it feels. Imagine what it makes you want to do. I can tolerate losing. I can tolerate getting hurt. But I can't handle the thought of all my work being for nothing. So I'll work. I'll run myself to death out here. And I'll fight until I can't give anything else. Because that's what I've always done. That's what...”

Kincaid stops himself and rolls his neck back and forth in a lazy circle. That uncertain expression clouds his face again, for a moment, but then he takes a breath and forces the fire back into his eyes.

“That's who I am.”