Post by thefeelgood on Jan 26, 2013 10:03:43 GMT -5
A History Lesson
A History Lesson
As the scene fades in we're in an apartment building. By the view out the bay window, we can tell that the apartment is set on the top floor or just a few floors down from it, as we can see the tops of other buildings around in the semi-city setting. In the middle of a large living room sits Jackson Davis on a huge white leather sofa. The bay window is the backdrop to the shot. In his hand is a remote control, and as the camera swings around we see a large white wall with a picture of a small child projected onto it. Behind the child there's a television with a man in a white judo outfit on, grappled with a bald shirtless man with white judo pants on.
This is me. November twelve, nineteen ninety three. I was nine years old. Royce Gracie versus Gerard Gordeau. The minute I knew that I was destined to be an ultimate fighter. The minute I knew that the UFC was my destiny. The minute I knew that mixed martial arts was my calling. So, I started training.
Jackson clicks the button on the remote control, and the picture on the wall changes to a teen on a raised platform with a white floor. He's got his left foot planted on the platform, his right foot clearly blurred in motion as it races towards the head of another teen who clearly is trying to bring up his arm to protect his head. The teen on the defense is clearly about four inches taller than the offensive team, and has protective gear on his head. The smaller kid does not.
I was the best. Thirteen years old, and I was knocking out older kids who were still wearing head gear. I was the best anybody had ever seen. I was winning local and regional tournaments. Since they were teenage tournaments, rounds were three minutes and there was three of them. They didn't want to push us too far because we were too young. I never had a fight go passed the first minute of the second round. Never went to a decision. I either knocked everyone out, or they tapped. I shattered an elbow in an opening round once with an armbar. I kept pulling and pulling and pulling and he didn't want to give up, so I gave one last crank. Put everything I had into it and his arm fell into my body like jello. There was nothing holding his arm together anymore. He had to have six surgeries just to get his elbow back fully functioning. Meanwhile, I was unstoppable. I won everything. So, they decided at sixteen they would move me into adult amateur contests.
Jackson clicks the button. The picture changes to Jackson, clearly outweighed and about a foot smaller than his opponent.
There were no weigh classes. You pulled a number out of a hat. Number one fought number two. Number three fought number four, and so on. My first opponent was ten inches taller than me and weighed one hundred and thirty pounds more than me. He hit real hard. The hardest I've been hit in my life. We had five rounds, and we used all five. He would batter me. I would get away. I would come in and hit him. I would get cocky, and he would catch me. He would pummel the SHIT out of me, but I would get away. He was slow and I could get away real easy even when he was on top of me. I ended up winning my first decision that night because I controlled the pace of the fight. When I wanted to be fast, he couldn't keep up. When I wanted to be slow, he would shine but then I would show that I was controlling him by picking up the pace again. I landed more strikes than him, so I moved on to the next round of the tournament.
We hear the button click. The picture changes to one of him with a black right eye, blood coming out of his lower lip, and a deep gash on the left side of his face above his eye that's closed with twelve staples.
I won. I don't know how. All of that is from the last fight. Looking at this picture you'd think that I got jumped by a biker gang. The man I ended up facing in the finals was a body builder. Fifteen inches taller than me, a hundred and seventy someodd pounds heavier. He was just as fast as me, too. I was in trouble. He beat the piss out of me through the first round. Somewhere within the second round, I blacked out from the pain. I won the fight in the fourth round. Ducked a left hand and hit a right uppercut. Won by knockout. The second the referee called the fight, I collapsed from blunt trauma to the head. I ended up with a fractured skull, a shattered right orbital bone, a dislocated jaw and massive internal bleeding.
The button clicks and we get sent through a montage of pictures of Jackson in hospital beds. Each shot has his head wrapped up a different way and his face is contorted or swollen in different areas.
I went through twenty surgeries over six years because each time a surgery would be completed, another complication arose. Every single time something was done, something else went wrong. I basically lived in the hospital for six years. My parents had had enough and sought legal advice. We ended up winning a lawsuit and a year and four months later, we won our case and were compensated fifteen million dollars, and all of our expenses were absorbed. My father was a vehicle mechanic for the US Army and my mother was a janitor. We couldn't afford the surgeries, so this was a blessing. Both of my parents retired. They gave me most of the money and I use it to live life to the fullest right now. I'll never be allowed to enter the world of MMA ever again. I asked my doctors and after years of training and strict medical guidance, I've been given the clearance to move to the world of professional wrestling. I've been advised not to be jumping off ladders or off the top of cages, but for the most part I should be okay to do this.
The camera swings back around and Jackson stands up. The camera zooms into a close up of Jackson's face.
Prestige Wrestling, I'm comin' for ya. Jigsaw. Santa. Corey Benjamin. AJ Flare. Rickman. Be prepared. Because you not ready for the ass whoopin' that's comin' your way. I'm headed to the top of the heap. Enjoy your bye week on Disorder. You've all been put on noticed. I'm one bad motherfucker, and y'all can't handle this.
Jackson walks up to the camera and puts his hand over the lens, causing the scene to fade to black