Post by SANGRE on Dec 8, 2022 4:33:45 GMT
From the heavens of a musty high school gym, a late 00’s camcorder records a long haired, teenage MEZA in the moments before a wrestling meet. A white flashing text appears on the bottom right:
December 6, 2013
6:13pm
It zooms in as a grainy MEZA, wearing a gold singlet, approaches his coach on the sideline. They share a few words before MEZA is sent on his way with a slap on the head. The voice of our cameraperson, Joe Meza, echoes down the rafters from behind the camera:
“Let’s go, Meza!”
MEZA, in mid-jog to the check-in table, acknowledges the camera with a wave.
“Ay! That’s my boy!”
We are teleported to the mat as MEZA meets his opponent in the center of the circle. In typical fashion, MEZA extends his hand first in a gesture of respect. His hand hovers in the air with no reciprocity. Who does this punk think he is? MEZA looks to what he expects to be his opponents and is met with the vision of Eron Hunter in a singlet. His long, silky hair flows in a breeze uncharacteristic of a high school gym. The white knight looks down on MEZA and reveals:
“This would be better for my career if you were David Troy.”
MEZA cocks his head as if to say “huh?” The referee’s whistle snaps him out of it. The entity Hunter possessed is now just a sweaty, pimply high schooler. MEZA and his opponent tangle into a lockup. The opponent baits him to step forward and MEZA is flipped on his back with a headlock takedown. MEZA’s shoulder is inches away from a technical pin as he tries to escape by bridging out. MEZA’s pimply faced enemy is now donning the original Pollo Dorado mask. As Dorado wrenches the neck even tighter, he uses his free hand to produce a cup of water:
“Esta agua eres tú.”
MEZA’s eyes grow large and worried as he desperately tries to avert the waterfall of putrid green water. One last attempt to bridge out is successful, but Dorado maintains the pace. He continues to imprison MEZA, this time with a cowcatcher or guillotine choke position. A battle for supremacy ensues on their feet until MEZA cleverly pushes the entanglement out-of-bounds. The whistle blows and both competitors return to the center. MEZA pats his own head to knock some marbles in place when he notices Dorado is no more. Joe, holding the camera we were just watching from, yells:
“Hey MEZA!”
MEZA double takes when he acknowledges his father at the top of the rafters. His father’s olive skin is now Caucasian, and his appearance resembles AJ Knight. Supposed Joe taunts:
“You’re young, you’ll bounce back. And if not? Well, you were never going to be what your family hoped anyways!”
Joe ends with a thumbs up before sitting back down, camera still in hand.
MEZA mouths the words “what the fuck?”. He shifts his attention back to his opponent to see one final, familiar face: Luke Marshall. In a gritty, Australian accent, Marshall growls:
“Lost that smile yet, ya feckin’ cunt?”
Before the referee can restart the match, Marshall drives his foot up MEZA’s undercarriage. The pain immediately tingles from his genitals to his gut as whiteness consumes his vision before returning to normal. The lights from the ceiling begin to dim as his eyes adapt to consciousness.
We snap back to the perspective of Joe who films the referee raising the hand of his son’s opponent. Nothing seems off, or “possessed”, from this point-of-view.
We transport once more to current day where MEZA and Lynx watch the footage from an editing room. An editor controls the playback from a seat in front of the pair. The rookie’s coach chimes in:
“Crazy they were able to find and restore your high school matches in high def, mijo.”
The editor adds:
“We’re using it in the first episode of MEZA’s new show.”
Lynx nudges MEZA and teases:
“New show? I wonder who got him that.”
MEZA hasn’t cracked a smile. He buried these tapes in his father’s trailer with the hope that the failure would never resurface. This tape, specifically. It depicted a pitiful loss in the first round of an all-state tournament, an event Meza trained all year for. MEZA faces the potential of similar failure in the HIJO Invitational, but this time he is fueled by the coals of redemption, being shoveled in the furnace by his desire to make Marshall pay.
December 6, 2013
6:13pm
It zooms in as a grainy MEZA, wearing a gold singlet, approaches his coach on the sideline. They share a few words before MEZA is sent on his way with a slap on the head. The voice of our cameraperson, Joe Meza, echoes down the rafters from behind the camera:
“Let’s go, Meza!”
MEZA, in mid-jog to the check-in table, acknowledges the camera with a wave.
“Ay! That’s my boy!”
We are teleported to the mat as MEZA meets his opponent in the center of the circle. In typical fashion, MEZA extends his hand first in a gesture of respect. His hand hovers in the air with no reciprocity. Who does this punk think he is? MEZA looks to what he expects to be his opponents and is met with the vision of Eron Hunter in a singlet. His long, silky hair flows in a breeze uncharacteristic of a high school gym. The white knight looks down on MEZA and reveals:
“This would be better for my career if you were David Troy.”
MEZA cocks his head as if to say “huh?” The referee’s whistle snaps him out of it. The entity Hunter possessed is now just a sweaty, pimply high schooler. MEZA and his opponent tangle into a lockup. The opponent baits him to step forward and MEZA is flipped on his back with a headlock takedown. MEZA’s shoulder is inches away from a technical pin as he tries to escape by bridging out. MEZA’s pimply faced enemy is now donning the original Pollo Dorado mask. As Dorado wrenches the neck even tighter, he uses his free hand to produce a cup of water:
“Esta agua eres tú.”
MEZA’s eyes grow large and worried as he desperately tries to avert the waterfall of putrid green water. One last attempt to bridge out is successful, but Dorado maintains the pace. He continues to imprison MEZA, this time with a cowcatcher or guillotine choke position. A battle for supremacy ensues on their feet until MEZA cleverly pushes the entanglement out-of-bounds. The whistle blows and both competitors return to the center. MEZA pats his own head to knock some marbles in place when he notices Dorado is no more. Joe, holding the camera we were just watching from, yells:
“Hey MEZA!”
MEZA double takes when he acknowledges his father at the top of the rafters. His father’s olive skin is now Caucasian, and his appearance resembles AJ Knight. Supposed Joe taunts:
“You’re young, you’ll bounce back. And if not? Well, you were never going to be what your family hoped anyways!”
Joe ends with a thumbs up before sitting back down, camera still in hand.
MEZA mouths the words “what the fuck?”. He shifts his attention back to his opponent to see one final, familiar face: Luke Marshall. In a gritty, Australian accent, Marshall growls:
“Lost that smile yet, ya feckin’ cunt?”
Before the referee can restart the match, Marshall drives his foot up MEZA’s undercarriage. The pain immediately tingles from his genitals to his gut as whiteness consumes his vision before returning to normal. The lights from the ceiling begin to dim as his eyes adapt to consciousness.
We snap back to the perspective of Joe who films the referee raising the hand of his son’s opponent. Nothing seems off, or “possessed”, from this point-of-view.
We transport once more to current day where MEZA and Lynx watch the footage from an editing room. An editor controls the playback from a seat in front of the pair. The rookie’s coach chimes in:
“Crazy they were able to find and restore your high school matches in high def, mijo.”
The editor adds:
“We’re using it in the first episode of MEZA’s new show.”
Lynx nudges MEZA and teases:
“New show? I wonder who got him that.”
MEZA hasn’t cracked a smile. He buried these tapes in his father’s trailer with the hope that the failure would never resurface. This tape, specifically. It depicted a pitiful loss in the first round of an all-state tournament, an event Meza trained all year for. MEZA faces the potential of similar failure in the HIJO Invitational, but this time he is fueled by the coals of redemption, being shoveled in the furnace by his desire to make Marshall pay.