Post by TheLaw on Oct 23, 2016 9:18:12 GMT -5
CHARACTER INFORMATION
REAL NAME: Dominic Lawson
RING NAME: Dominic Lawson
NICKNAME(S): "The Law"
PICTURE BASE: Al Barr
AGE: 34
HEIGHT: 6'3''
WEIGHT: 230 lbs
ENTRANCE MUSIC: I Fought The Law by Clash
HOME TOWN: Belfast, Northern Ireland
HAILS FROM: Boston MA
ALIGNMENT:
Principled Heel - Twisted ethics, has a reason for their actions. ex. Jake The Snake Roberts, Triple H, Bret Hart;
SALARY: $6,000 a Match
POPULARITY:
TWITTER @: Dominic Lawson
PRIMARY FIGHTING STYLE: Brawler
SECONDARY FIGHTING STYLE: Striker
IN-RING STRENGTHS:
- He has nothing to lose
- No moral problems in taking shortcuts or cheating in order to win a match
- Great experience, he started wrestling at the age of 16
- Great Stamina and high pain treshold
IN-RING WEAKNESSES:
- Gets frustrated quite easily, increasing the chances for him to make mistakes
- All the fights he has been into will eventually take their toll
- Submission isn't really his game
- Resigned, he firmly believes this is his last chance to make it. Every loss is one step closer to desperation and eventually the end of his career
PERSONALITY AND GIMMICK: Embittered, Frustrated, Disheartened, Angry. Dominic know this is his last chance to make it, otherwise all he got left is the painful realisation he wasted 34 years of his life chasing a dream that has always been out of reach for him
BIOGRAPHY: After making quite a name for himself in the UK indipendent circuit, Dominic tried his fortunes accross the pond, estabilishing in Boston. For the first few monhs, things seemed to be working just fine, he signed a contract with a local promotion and fought every week. Sure the payouts were never huge, and he wrestled in front of a bunch of diehard fans, but it was sure money, sure enough for him to afford a mortgage to buy a house. His career seemed on the right track, so he wasn't too worried when the booker started paying him every other week. And then it was evey three week, until he disappeared with three months worth payments. Dominic was broke, he literally lost everything. His house and his dignity. All that was left to him was his wreck of a car to travel the country and his skills, who granted him appearances now and then, wrestling for nothing more than enough money to carry on for another week. That until he heard about AWE opening its doors, giving him the contract and stability he was hoping to find, as well as a last chance to pursue his dream
ACCOMPLISHMENTS: none worth mentioning
RING ATTIRE: Black Cargos, Black leather combat boots
PREFERRED DIVISION: Resilience
MOVESET
STANDARD MOVES:
- Chops
- Inverted Atomic Drop
- Suplex
- Backbreaker
- Stinger Splash
- Powerslam
- Leaping Shoulder Block
- Vertical Suplex
- Knee Drop
- Multiple Knee Lifts
- European Uppercut
- Dropkick
- Big Boot
- Legdrop
- Bulldog
- Low Blow
- Eye Rake/Poke
- Snap DDT
- Fallaway Slam
- Headbutts
SIGNATURE MOVES:
Bringing Down The Law: Elbow Drop from the top rope
Law And Order: Vicious stiff combination of punches and forearms, ending with a Roundhouse Kick
The Long Arm Of The Law: Discus Lariat
FINISHER(S):
Law Breaker Spinning Reverse Shoulder Jawbreaker
MANAGER INFORMATION
NAME:
PICTURE BASE:
PERSONALITY TRAITS AND TENDENCIES:
INTERFERENCE/INVOLVEMENT TENDENCIES:
HANDLER INFORMATION
NAME: AndreaAGE: 34
CONTACT DETAILS: Twitter DMs; Board PMs
SAMPLE ROLE-PLAY
*Tock Tock*
Great, here we go again...
*Tock Tock*
I slowly turn my head on the left, where the sounds came from.
A sting at the base of my neck. Something I learned to live with, something I should get checked from a doctor, something that is probably shortening my career.
If you can call this a career...
*Tock Tock*
Oh fuck it!
The exact moment I open my eyes, a beam of light pointed straight to my face dazzles me. I squeeze my eyes, jerking my head to the opposite side. And immediatly, my neck makes me pay for it. I open the door, it's way faster than lowering the window.
"Is everything ok, sir?"
What do you think you idiot?
"It would have been better if you didn't wake me up, officer..."
"I... I am sorry sir, we were on patrol, noticed the car and just came here to check. Can I see your documents please?"
"Sure, I got them here, somewhere..."
Blood and sweat. The stench that reaches my nostrils is disgusting, and it brings flashbacks from last night with it. I clearly remember that nasty DDT on the steel chairs opening my forehead, and I remember the whiplash on the neck. That kid fucked it up, that's the problem with this new generation of wrestlers. Their desperate need to impress the crowd with spectacular moves, their craving for awe.
"Sir, the documents..."
"Yeah right.. Here agent!"
I remember this young man coming to me with this crazy idea to finish the match. I remember me telling him to go fuck himself, that we could have done this in so many other less dangerous ways, and he was going to look good nonetheless. Then, why we ended up doing a Springboard Moonsault Tornado DDT on a pile of fucking chairs?
"There you go mister Lawson."
That's why. I am Dominic Lawson, a nobody in this industry. And I must put my career on a 200 pounder who believes he can fly, because that's what people want to see. A young athletic kid with his spectacular lucha shit embarass someone who sacrificed everything for this sport. A broken man.
"You shouldn't stay here mister Lawson. It's not safe. Have a good night."
"You too officers."
I rub my aching neck, as I turn the keys praying for the engine to ignite
...
Goddamnit!
I can only hope the next bar isn't far away.
I can't really tell where I am, all the streets look the same to me. And honestly, I don't care at the moment. I need a drink. I need something strong to drown my pain and misery in. Something cheap, because despite getting my neck almost broken by that spot monkey, the pay was ridiculous.
You should be used to it Dom.
I am.
And that's the worst part of this sad story. The neon lights of a bar just around the corner are like a vision before my eyes.
"A whiskey."
"Tough night, uh?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Have you looked at yourself recently?"
There's a mirror behind the bartender.
"Hey buddy, I admit I'm not in the best shape, but I've seen myself in worse conditions"
"Hard to imagine it..."
He's right, I really look like shit. And it's been a constant of my life for the past two years. Since my career went down the toilet. Since that son of a bitch disappeared with my money. Since I had to start accepting this shitty booking just to carry on another day, getting planted head first on some chairs in front of 40 drunk ass unable to see their oh so talented favorite wrestler sensationally botched his finishing move.
"Sorry dude" he says
Sorry my ass...
"Excuse me?"
"What?"
"You said something about my ass"
"Are you kidding me?"
"You think I'm dumb? What's your problem man?"
"What's YOUR problem?"
"Get lost dude! Out of my bar!"
I stand up from my stool.
"Make me..."
This escalated pretty quickly. I don't know what's this guy issue, but if he thinks he can throw me out of here, I got a surprise for him.
"What the..."
Something lifts him from behind. The cold air night embraces me as I get rudely tossed on the sidewalk by a mountain of a men. How could I not see him before? Well, it doesn't matter at this point. Nothing really does. It's nights like these I think I should just give up
Great, here we go again...
*Tock Tock*
I slowly turn my head on the left, where the sounds came from.
A sting at the base of my neck. Something I learned to live with, something I should get checked from a doctor, something that is probably shortening my career.
If you can call this a career...
*Tock Tock*
Oh fuck it!
The exact moment I open my eyes, a beam of light pointed straight to my face dazzles me. I squeeze my eyes, jerking my head to the opposite side. And immediatly, my neck makes me pay for it. I open the door, it's way faster than lowering the window.
"Is everything ok, sir?"
What do you think you idiot?
"It would have been better if you didn't wake me up, officer..."
"I... I am sorry sir, we were on patrol, noticed the car and just came here to check. Can I see your documents please?"
"Sure, I got them here, somewhere..."
Blood and sweat. The stench that reaches my nostrils is disgusting, and it brings flashbacks from last night with it. I clearly remember that nasty DDT on the steel chairs opening my forehead, and I remember the whiplash on the neck. That kid fucked it up, that's the problem with this new generation of wrestlers. Their desperate need to impress the crowd with spectacular moves, their craving for awe.
"Sir, the documents..."
"Yeah right.. Here agent!"
I remember this young man coming to me with this crazy idea to finish the match. I remember me telling him to go fuck himself, that we could have done this in so many other less dangerous ways, and he was going to look good nonetheless. Then, why we ended up doing a Springboard Moonsault Tornado DDT on a pile of fucking chairs?
"There you go mister Lawson."
That's why. I am Dominic Lawson, a nobody in this industry. And I must put my career on a 200 pounder who believes he can fly, because that's what people want to see. A young athletic kid with his spectacular lucha shit embarass someone who sacrificed everything for this sport. A broken man.
"You shouldn't stay here mister Lawson. It's not safe. Have a good night."
"You too officers."
I rub my aching neck, as I turn the keys praying for the engine to ignite
...
Goddamnit!
I can only hope the next bar isn't far away.
I can't really tell where I am, all the streets look the same to me. And honestly, I don't care at the moment. I need a drink. I need something strong to drown my pain and misery in. Something cheap, because despite getting my neck almost broken by that spot monkey, the pay was ridiculous.
You should be used to it Dom.
I am.
And that's the worst part of this sad story. The neon lights of a bar just around the corner are like a vision before my eyes.
"A whiskey."
"Tough night, uh?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Have you looked at yourself recently?"
There's a mirror behind the bartender.
"Hey buddy, I admit I'm not in the best shape, but I've seen myself in worse conditions"
"Hard to imagine it..."
He's right, I really look like shit. And it's been a constant of my life for the past two years. Since my career went down the toilet. Since that son of a bitch disappeared with my money. Since I had to start accepting this shitty booking just to carry on another day, getting planted head first on some chairs in front of 40 drunk ass unable to see their oh so talented favorite wrestler sensationally botched his finishing move.
"Sorry dude" he says
Sorry my ass...
"Excuse me?"
"What?"
"You said something about my ass"
"Are you kidding me?"
"You think I'm dumb? What's your problem man?"
"What's YOUR problem?"
"Get lost dude! Out of my bar!"
I stand up from my stool.
"Make me..."
This escalated pretty quickly. I don't know what's this guy issue, but if he thinks he can throw me out of here, I got a surprise for him.
"What the..."
Something lifts him from behind. The cold air night embraces me as I get rudely tossed on the sidewalk by a mountain of a men. How could I not see him before? Well, it doesn't matter at this point. Nothing really does. It's nights like these I think I should just give up