BASIC
Wrestler Name: Joey Sweetwater
Nickname/Alias: Sweets
Hometown: Almost Heaven, West Virginia
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 220 lbs
Age: 32
Date of Birth: Feb. 20th, 1978
Ethnicity: White Guy
Alignment: Lawful Good
Gimmick: Joey Sweetwater is considered to be a dying breed. He's a man of honour and occasionally of action. He's also many things; chivalrous, kind-hearted, and has a strong moral sense. He is not, however, the brightest bulb on the tree. Doesn't seem to make much of a difference, however, since he's always been willing to let his fists do the talking in any situation.
Personality (Mannerisms, The Way They May Act): Calm and collected, there is rarely a situation where Sweetwater can't control his behaviour. Some have accused him of even being stoic, but to Sweets, that may not necessarily be a bad thing.
Wrestling Style (Hardcore/Technical/Aerial/Other & Please List!) : Not a trained fighter by any stretch of the imagination, Sweetwater relies on his fists and his feet to carry him through in a pinch. I guess that makes him a Brawler.
APPEARANCE
Character Picture Base: Jensen Ackles
Clothing Style: Jeans, flannel shirts, black t-shirts, and occasionally a denim jacket. On special occasions he's even moved to wear his Stetson.
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color/Style: Short, uninspired brown hair.
ENTERTAINMENT
Theme Music: "Turn the Page" - Bob Seger
Entrance Description & Details:
Taunt Poses: A tip of the hat toward his opponent or the crowd.
MOVESET
Common Moves: Punches and kicks.
Running Strikes: A clothesline, I suppose.
Running Grapples: Neckbreaker?
Counter Moves: I imagine they involve his fists, mostly.
Rebounding Moves: I don't understand this definition.
Submissions: A sleeper hold, I guess.
Aerial Moves: HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... ha... ha... heh.
Turnbuckle Moves: Powerbomb into the turnbuckle?
Trademark Moves: Knee lift
Finisher: Peacemaker - Rock Bottom
EXAMPLE OF A ROLEPLAY(Please include a small roleplay of your character, to give us a brief idea of your style) :
He’s lost in amazement, really. That’s the only way to put it.
Alec Cain stands behind a velvet rope, a soft, yielding touch that gently holds aggressive onlookers back. It reminded him of a friend in a bar; gripping the wrist with a soft, firm hold. That is, as if to say, ‘it’s time to go, you know that.’
All around him, the upper crust of society. The Elite. People who either made their riches through hard work and scandalous betrayal, or through inheritance. Alec thought it was humorous how America had broken away from Great Britain and the tyrannical rule of monarchy, and yet here we were, some two hundred and fifty years later, back right where we started. For a brief moment upon reflection, Alec wondered, ‘what would they think of us?’ After all, what is Capitalism but a form of anarchic monarchy?
Alec’s eyes floated from one aspect of the display to the next. Protected by glass shielding, which he took to represent a stern wag of the finger, the contents protected were little more than tribal memorabilia. Nothing of no real value could be gained, but yet the world we lived in was so full of things with little value. There were the common commodities, true. Water, hydro, those things were deemed necessary to life—and yet they still wound up costing quite a pretty penny.
Capitalism. Monarchy. Kings and Queens, rulers of a land who dictate law and customs through their action… how was America today any different to the England of centuries past?
A ruling class existed. One that held a firm stranglehold over the rest of the ‘commoners’. And those commoners attempted with all of their might to join the ruling class. Never in hopes to disband it, never stopping to think, ‘this isn’t such a good idea’. The only difference between England of centuries past and the America of today, Alec Cain thought, was the fact that there was the illusion of the chance to join the ruling class. That existed today. Young youths instead of fulfilling their own destinies, hopes, and dreams, instead dreamt of fame and fortune—if cash-money that would buy them their golden ticket to happiness. It was a sad thing, to see the hopes and dreams of entire generations quelled due to some rigid architecture that was no more progressive than a drunkard stumbling backward.
It was enough to break heart strings.
Cain sighed, and yet here he was, pretending to ‘marvel’ over the craftsmanship of some Neanderthal with a sharp stone and how brilliant the designs were of these masks. Masks. Big ones, small ones, feathered, old and worn. Weathered wood that looked so brittle it may break at a stern glance.
“They’re marvellous, aren’t they?”
Alec nodded.
“These are from the Northern Edo tribes, indigenous to Nigeria. I particularly like this one, how honed and skilled must be the hands who carved such a delicate façade.”
Façade. The word struck a chord with Alec, somehow.
“What makes you think it’s a façade?” Alec says, turning to see the bright young woman beside him. She stood at five-foot-five and weighed to Alec’s guess, a hundred and twenty pounds. A good weight for a woman her size. She was slender, but not to the extent you see most members of popular celebrity. Bones did not protrude from her body, which was a relief. Alec had seen too many skeletons masquerading as human beings in this city.
The woman smiles, teeth as white as snow, ruby red lipstick accentuated their fullness. Her eyes were a bright amber, hair black and straight.
“Well, masks are a façade. What else could they be but the representation of a power fantasy? A man would don this mask to perform religious ceremony, to convince his entranced followers that he was more than human. That Supernatural power flowed through those veins. But that’s not really true, is it? Supernatural ability has never been proven by science, and therefore, the mask must be a façade—a mask to disguise the frail humanity that lies beneath its hulking power.”
Alec smiled at the woman, gave a light shrug.
“Well that depends entirely on the culture, and the mask’s intent. After all, not all masks are illusion. Some masks are not representatives of what the wearer wishes to be, but instead of what exactly lies beneath the exterior of frail humanity. For instance, notice the ridged brow, the sharpened teeth, the tone of the wood itself as if black soot.”
Alec, with one hand in his pants pocket, brings his other to illustrate his point through the protective glass case.
“This mask wasn’t made to enforce the belief that the wearer was powerful, but instead to accentuate the power that this wearer already had. This one in particular belonged to a Shaman, a mystic of unquestionable power to the tribe. A leader, a wise one at that. This mask when adorned was not a symbol of power fantasy, but a symbol of the strength found within the man—or woman—who bared the weight of his responsibilities. This mask, for instance, is not saying, ‘I wish to be a god to you, so believe in me and I shall be’. This mask is instead saying, ‘I am powerful, and I have proven this to you through the passage of time. I am a leader, and I am your righteous ruler.’ This mask, for all intents and purposes, serves only to accentuate the features of strength and mental prowess. In all respects, the bearer of this mask would be one who commands respect—but not due to title or inherited wealth, but because of proven leadership. Of the ability to keep the bearer’s people from danger.”
“I don’t think I quite see…”
Alec sighed, and turned to the woman again. Dull eyes filled with boredom gripped hers.
“It’s really no different to the way a leader walks, the way a leader talks. The bearer of this mask could be anyone in this room, by my estimation. To the left of me, old, frail human beings with white hair and receding hairlines do not look powerful—but indeed they are. In this society, the mask is a façade, a childish antic that is reserved only for children and the grim festival of Halloween. In this society, it is a token of youth and the fragility of youth… but instead, look at it from the point of view of the Edo, or any other clan that bore masks of such great detail.”
“What defines power? What defines the ability to walk into a room and hold its attention? To you, or to many of the people in this room, power is defined by dress. The way a man or woman dresses sets the tone and standard of which to address them. That’s why power suits are so popular among women. The navy blue, the black, the power suit says ‘I am powerful, and I command respect’. Dress along with title goes a long way to how the public of this society perceives you, ma’am. These men for instance, they tell me by their dress and demeanour that they are powerful, and yet to someone of the Edo tribe, they would look to be little more than examples of frail humanity. Indeed physically they are frail, damn near ready to keel over for passage into the Great Beyond… but to us, they are powerful men. Tell me, how is that any different to the masks of the Edo, or any other tribal culture that celebrates the so-called ‘façade’?”
The woman’s expression tightens slightly, but still firm in its pleasant smile.
“I don’t think I’ve thought of it that way.”
“No, not many people do.” Cain returns to staring at the masks, [color=red]“To others, masks are entirely futile. They represent childishness, or worse yet, the idea that the mask is hiding something—that they’re hiding something worth discovering. The problem with this notion is the fact that we look at it through the Western ideology. We look at these masks through the skewed perspective of Capitalism and American Apple Pie. We do not judge these cultures based on their own merits, and therefore, a masked figure in our society is little more than a man with a secret. A man with a secret he doesn’t want to share… but that’s the problem with our society. We are so arrogant to assume that just because we cannot see their faces, that there must be something worth hiding, underneath.”
“That’s simply not true. The mask is not a symbol of childishness in many walks of life, it is a symbol representative of what lies beneath. So of course I ask, what do you think of the stoic, Japanese Kabuki ‘façade’?”
“How does that—“ With a smirk, Alec interrupts the woman, who falls silent with attentive, raised eyebrows.
“Expressionless, pale as snow. The kabuki mask lends itself to interpretive artistic endeavours, the paint that goes along with the traditional mask is personalized, and heavily reflects the one who wears it. It’s not that someone is trying to hide themselves, but instead show who they really are. The human form is frail, mortal, easily abused… but the mask represents as itself an idea. The idea behind the person, what drives them forward in this ever-expanding realm of chaos. This is the truth nature of masks. And this is the true nature of what they represent. So please, do not be ignorant to other cultures and assume everything is some form of ‘power fantasy’, because it’s not. For some, power is very real, and to others, it is nothing more than a goal they shall never obtain.”
“So if a mask is power, and a mask represents what lies beneath the flesh, what does that say about us? The ones who do not wear masks?”
Alec pauses, as if constructing this view point brick by brick, moment by moment.
“I think it doesn’t mean we’re inferior, or any less flamboyant than our cultural counterparts. To us, power is represented in a different way. Through class, etiquette, and dress. To other cultures, it is represented through masks… does that make one inherently better? No. There will always be those who are afraid to show themselves. To wear what lies beneath upon their skin… but what it does represent, to me, is a clash of ideals. Of philosophy… and so long as you treat the counter philosophy with respect, there should be no issue.”
“Do you understand?”
The woman’s gaze continues to stare into those dull, lifeless eyes. Eventually she nods and says, “Yeah, thank you. That was… enlightening.”
Alec smiles, “Think nothing of it.”
Turning to walk away, Alec returned to his muddled thoughts of capitalism and monarchy. What was the difference? In the end, did it matter?
Society was a cancer. A cancer that had festered and ballooned to a spiralling whirlwind of chaos. The illusion of power, the illusion of control and order, all of it made him want to laugh.
Stopping his slow walk, he turned to look upon the Edo masks one last time, admiring their striking beauty, and their symbolism.
