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Post by Admin on May 23, 2018 15:52:27 GMT -6
Triple Threat Match
DEUCE HOLMES
vs
Skrabz
vs
Trenton "Forge" Mitchell Roleplay Limit: 2 Roleplay Deadline: Wednesday, May 30, 2018 @ 2AM Central Time |
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Post by Skrabz on May 26, 2018 6:47:52 GMT -6
If it aint Skrabz it aint matter.
Location: Denver, Colorado, USA.
Date: 24/5/2018
Time: 12:15am
"Skraaaaabbbzzzz" shouts the drunk man as Skrabal walks towards his motel room. Skrabal doesn't want to ignore the man but he also doesn't want to get caught in a conversation with a drunk wrestling fan at this time of night. He nods in the mans direction and quickens his pace towards his room.
The door squeaks and squeals as Skrabal pushes it closed behind him. He drops his bag to the floor as he flicks on the single light bulb that hangs in the middle of the dingy single room accommodation.
As Skrabal passes the cramped kitchenette he opens the fridge, it's faulty interior light flickers on and off as he pulls out two barely chilled bottles of beer. He shuffles across the room and flops down on his bed, twisting the lid off a bottle as soon as he touches his quilt and downing the bottles contents in seconds.
He picks up a bag that had been laying on the floor next to his bed and pulls out a pad and pen.
He puts the pen and pad down on the tatty bedside table and quickly drinks his second beer before turning the light off and climbing in to bed.
Location: Denver, Colorado, USA.
Date: 24/5/2018
Time: 9:35am
The rumbling sound of his phone vibrating on the chipped and stained bedside table finally wakes Skrabal up. He rolls over and reaches out in its direction, its bright screen lights up his face as he scrolls through his notifications. After replying to a message from his sister and checking the card for next weeks episode of Mile High Wrestling he climbs out of bed and makes the short walk to the kitchenette. He looks at the small fridge and considers cracking open a beer but he eventually decides on downing a pint of water.
Thirst quenched he thinks about having a shower but after seeing the mold growing in the small enclosed shower unit he decides to shower at the gym. As he packs his gym bag his phone vibrates again. He looks at the screen, "Video call from Ty" is what it reads. He answers the call and his screen is immediately filled with Ty's beaming smile.
"My G!" exclaims Ty "The debut match was a madness bredrin. Big tings agwarn now ya get me?"
"True stories fam. It was a good start" Skrabal replies "But it was only a start blad".
Ty places his phone down on an unseen surface and the view from his camera expands to show Nash sitting on the sofa next to him.
"Yo bredder I beg you check the card for next week" Nash commands Skrabal.
"I seen the ting already, triple threat match with some new mans innit." Skrabal replies nonchalantly.
"What do yo know about these new mans?" Ty asks Skrabal.
"Not much to be real witchu, mans on..." he trails off as Nash interrupts.
"Fam one of these man dont wear shoes" Nash says bewildered.
"The fuck you mean he aint wear shoes?" Skrabal asks laughing.
"No shoes fam. Mans on a barefoot tip." says Ty straight faced.
"That's some nasty shit blad." Nash adds with an exaggerated look of disgust on his face.
"Allow it, fam. Man has to wear shoes." Skrabal says in disbelief.
"I'm telling you fam, the man's on a hippy vibe. No shoes blad." Nash continues.
"That's rancid bruv" Skrabal says laughing, not really sure if his friends are telling the truth or not. "Anyway, mans gotta go fam. I needsta hit the gym and ting, familiarize myself with Denver. I'm a hit you up next week but check me on the BRW podcast on the weekend".
The three say goodbye and the call ends. Skrabal picks up his gym bag and leaves his motel room.
Transcript of podcast interview of Skrabal Stanzas by Chris Grant for beerrapnwrestling.co.uk recorded live on 26/5/2018 @ 11AM GMT.
Chris: Hello everyone and thank you for listening. I'm Chris Grant for beer rap and wrestling and I've got a great guest for you today, an old friend of mine and someone who has been around both the UK rap and wrestling scenes for a number of years now. Perhaps more known for his musical talents having featured on some cult classic UK Hip Hop collaborations but now venturing in to the world of wrestling full time, having moved overseas to America.... Skrabal Stanzas, ladies and gentleman. Skrabz, welcome to the show.
Skrabz: Nah thank you, fam. Nuff respect, big up yourself for having man on.
Chris: Don't mention it, it's a pleasure to have you. Now our listeners will probably be more familiar with you for your association with Toll Gang and you collaborations with a select few UK hip hop artists but you've been wrestling for some time now too, right?
Skrabz: True say fam, mans been grinding for time and getting nowhere in the UK. I seen this little ting opening up over here in Denver and thought I'd send out a feeler and next ting you know man's booking flights.
Chris: I was going to ask, how did this come about? To go from relative obscurity in the wrestling world to working at a company with the connections and media coverage MHW has?
Skrabz: I heard some tales pon the roads. People talk in wrestling fam, shit people just talk ya-nah? But it's really that simple, I heard MHW was opening and looking for talent so I sent them a tape one time. I guess they saw talent when they watched it because they aint hesitate to draw man up a contract.
Chris: How are you finding it in Denver?
Skrabz: Denver is mad fam, do you know weed is legal here? Man tried to find a hook up yesterday and the guy pointed me to a shop fam, a shop. Madness!
Chris: So you made your in ring debut just this past week in a match against Dillon Daniels but you made your on screen debut the week before that, on episode one, with a brief rap? What influenced your decision to make your first appearance in that way?
Skrabz: Shit fam, that's what man knows, ya-nah? Management asked me if I could make the first show for a match and I woulda but man was going through all manner of madnesses so I said look blad, allow me the first week and I'll be at the second show but let me record a ting for you. Management said do it... and shit I was expecting some kinda guidelines or something but that was all I got... "Go do it". So I did what what I do, dropped some bars and introduced myself to the world. And you know I had to have the Toll mandem with me. We coming up together.
Chris: It was some introduction, to see you there surrounded by your Toll Gang family. Tell me, it was the first time we've heard some new rhymes from you in some time and you've had fans buzzing over here in the UK on that front alone. Is there any chance we'll hear more from you in the future in the way of official releases?
Skrabz: Shit mans got more pads than Diddy's stalker fam but I dunno if you see any releases to be real with you.
Chris: So, getting back to the wrestling now and your first match in Mile High was against The Real Deal Dillon Daniels, what can you tell me about that match?
Skrabz: I knew I was going to win before I even left the UK. Normally this is the part where you would expect man to say no disrespect to Dillon Daniels but fuck that!... All the disrespect to Dillon Daniels, fam. That man aint on my level and I proved that. To be real witchu mans kinda vexed still with this whole Dillon Daniels situation. Man like Skrabz got a big appetite fam, it's big belly business out here, and picking through Isaac Combes scraps aint enough to satiate this hunger fam, trust!
Chris: I get you. You mentioned Isaac Combes there, what do you think about his chances in the triple threat title match next week?
Skrabz: Blad don't even get me started on the title business. Ya-nah this is what got man vexed in the first place. I mean I take partial responsibility for the shit still but the info was lax, ya dig? If man hada known about this title situation, if man hada know that the winners on episode one were getting that title work then you done know man like Skrabz would a been on episode one taking the dub from day dot, standard! As far as the triple threat title match goes fam I aint even care who wins. If it aint Skrabz it aint matter.
Chris: I see. Moving on from that... I was re-watching you debut match before we came on air and I heard during your entrance Wavy Crockett saying he wanted to battle you. Do you have any plans to do that?
Skrabz: Allow that nonsense fam. I swear that man dizzy blad.
Chris: Looking at the line up for next weeks show and I see that your second match is a triple threat against two new comers. How do you feel about that?
Skrabz: Let me ask you something real quick my man.
Chris: Sure, Skrabz. Shoot.
Skrabz: My boy told me a couple days back that one of these new man aint wear shoes fam. You know if that's right?
Chris: Err... yes that's true.
Skrabz: Which one is it fam?
Chris: Deuce Holmes.
Skrabz: Is man on a hippy vibe?
Chris. No... he's on a barefoot strong style vibe.
Skrabz: He's on what blad?
Chris: Barefoot strong style, it has it's roots in Japan.
Skrabz: Oh.... seen, seen. Deuce Holmes... man has seen a photo of him. The dude aint Japanese fam. What is it some weebo shit? Manga and katana blades? Shwing, shwing.
Chris: I dont know much about him. He had a match in Hardcore Championship Wrestling but that's all I know.
Skrabz: Seen. Man'll check that still.
Chris: The other new competitor in the match is a man called Trenton "Forge" Mitchell, now he's been vocal on Twitter telling both you and Deuce Holmes to get your affairs in order, to clear your browser history and feed your dogs because he plans to put you in the dirt.
Skrabz: Man'll see to the dogs fam, put them in the pool area and send out a text to Chavo. Get on my crippler shit and leave two corpses in the ring... Chris blad you know me, man like Skrabz is from the dirt so if this guy wanna put me there if gonna have to step foot on my turf to do it. And man like Skrabz is at home in the dirt fam, man's comfy. But it get real hostile in the mud fam and those not from here don't last too long. Walking worm food, ya see me?
Chris: OK, and finally, something I like to do to end an interview is ask three quick questions that are totally unrelated to beer, rap or wrestling. So, first one, your favorite movie?
Skrabz: That's a tough one fam, I dunno if it's mans favorite but the movie I seen more times than any other is Blue Streak.
Chris: Your favorite musical act that is in no way hip hop?
Skrabz: Pink Floyd. Easy!
Chris: Good choice. And finally, your favorite food?
Skrabz: Pussy.
Chris: Another good choice. Skrabal, thanks for coming on the show, it's been a pleasure.
Skrabz: Safe blad. Speak soon. Stay blessed.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on May 28, 2018 7:20:31 GMT -6
> ...
> Starting audio playback...
”Fightin’ and wrestlin’... they ain’t the same thing. That’s what I told Robi when she suggested we do up this Mile High place. She tells me that her and the other Maidens did the run-down and scraped up all the details and that the place is legit… a good spot to fill the coffers, maybe throw off a little heat. But I know she sure as hell ain’t talking about the competition when she uses the word ‘legit’, though. Maybe on the business side this place has its s[beep]t together, but when it comes to the clowns doing the scrapping? Pitiful.
What, they’re gonna be listening to this? All of ‘em?
Good. Then we can get the b[beep]n’ and cryin’ out of the way from the start… from the roster AND the people in the stands. Because there’s damn well gonna be a lot of it when they hear this and a metric f[beep]k-ton more when I start leaving bootprints on faces. The fightin’ versus wrestlin’ comment I made before? I want you clowns keepin’ that in mind from here on out, got it? ‘Cause I ain’t a wrestler; I’m a fighter. There’s nothin’ fancy about how I throw hands and I’m not gettin’ paid by the hour. You ain’t gettin’ pretty with me. You want pretty, pick up a Playboy. You want real? You keep your eyes on your screens when I enter that ring. It don’t get no f[beep]g realer than me.
...what? Yeah, I’m f[beep]n’ done. The hell do you mean ‘editing’? Fine.. do whatever the f[beep]k. I got business to tend to.
Wait, we ain’t done yet? I gotta get in front of a f[beep]n’ camera and yak at these two d[beep]weeds too? Y’know, last I checked you didn’t need to run your mouth to make a motherf[beep]r bleed. You just keep hitting them till they stop f[beep]g moving then stop f[beep]g hitting them. Yes, I get that it’s in the go[beep]n contract. Just… f[beep]k it… whatever. Come back tomorrow. Yeah, around noon. Now get that piece of s[beep]t thing out of my face before I make you swallow it!”
> ...end of audio playback...
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> Playing video “file001.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 05/28/18
> Time: 9:19am, Central
> Location: New Orleans, Louisiana
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> Scene: Twisted Steel Auto Repair & Detailing, Bay One
> …
> Starting...
The angle of the camera and the parts of Trenton Mitchell that fill the frame says plenty right from the start. For one, the person in charge of the device has a distinct fondness for, shall we say, certain areas of the man commonly known as ‘Forge’. For another, they seem to be on the edge of a violent firing… and perhaps have the holy hell beaten out of them if certain folks got wind of where that wayward lens was directed. Before those distinctly-unpleasant thoughts and possibilities have time to take root, however, a familiar voice wafts out from behind the camera itself…
“This HAS to be what those jackasses are talking about when some bubble-butt bitch struts off and they make that stupid quip about hating to see them go but loving to watch them leave!”
Fans who caught the second Mile High Wrestling show should know that voice and if they do not yet then they have only themselves to blame. Robi Mitchell, of the Handmaidens, cackles sweetly as she keeps the camera right where it is. This, at least, means that there are no worries about the person behind the camera this time around. Except, of course, those people in the viewing audience who have little to no desire to see a taut biker ass leaned over a muscle car’s engine.
Which is not to say that Trenton was appreciative of being treated like some denim-clad beefcake, but this is Robi we are talking about. She loves to admire her man. If it were Trenton behind the camera, he would be directing it in the same area. So… fair’s fair!
”So you’re emulatin’ those jackasses, is that it?”
Forge’s voice is somewhere between a grunt and a growl. In most cases this would have people freezing in their tracks; he sounds like a demon who woke up on the wrong side of the gutter. Robi, however, is not everyone else. The camera only moves when Trenton rises to his full height, snatching the faded red bandanna from his back pocket and wiping his hands on it, still staring down into the engine of the Mustang before him.
”You were the one telling me to try and keep this professional, Robi, as I recall.”
”Don’t go denying a lady her fun.”
Turning about, the Chrome Dragon’s scowl slowly becoming a wan half-grin, he folds his thick arms and leans against the hood of the old Ford, his head cocked to the slide.
”Fun, huh? If you want real fun I can grab a chain and fire up the cherry picker over there… give you a damn fun time.”
”Trenton Noah Mitchell!”
Barking out a couple sharp notes of laughter, Forge pushes a hand through his short dark hair and fires off a smouldering gaze toward the woman behind the camera.
”Yeah, you fuckin’ thought about it.”
”NOT the point!”
”Ain’t it? And what’s the full name shit about? You turning into my mother?”
Behind that camera Robi rolls her eyes and directs the device upwards a bit, catching that grin again from Forge.
”Someone has to keep you in line!”
Now that is a comment that both laugh about. Shaking his head, Trenton turns to the rolling tool chest long enough to sift through the ratchets and grab a couple different sizes before setting them upon the towel placed to the side of the engine. Bent over the engine again, the clicks of the wrench being put to use by Forge begin again. And, yes, the camera does waver again but by now Forge is not hampered by it. Robi clears her throat, an indicator that the little red light was off, but now back on, meaning that it is time to get down to business.
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> Starting audio/video playback...
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> Playing video “file001a.wma”...
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In the brief dissolve and return, Trenton has finished his automotive adjustments for the moment and is seen replacing his tools in the sticker-laden tool chest, the camera catching view of him from the side. The man is a tower of muscle in old, grease-stained jeans, black steel-toe work boots and a half-buttoned, short-sleeved work shirt with “Trent” patched over the left-side pocket. Flecks of gray are obvious in his beard but he sees no need to fool with that nine times out of ten. Probably because he imagines what he could do to any punk who tried to make light of it. Like that crazy-ass MMA fighter who has a rainbow on the crotch of his shorts: it is a dare that most do not take. They want to maintain an ambulatory adulthood, you see…
”Let’s get right to the fucking point, boys: I don’t like this shit.”
A white cloth in hand, he cleans every tool before it goes back in the box, meticulous down to the last millimeter.
”And before one of you gets lippy, I knew this was part of the fuckin’ deal, that I’d have to waste time yakking at people before introducing their spine to my knee in ways that make neurologists eyes turn into little fuckin’ dollar signs. It’s just… extraneous. In case you need that dumbed down, it means irrelevant. Unrelated. Yes, this greasy, garage-dwelling biker has a vocabulary and a degree. He also has a short fuse and doesn’t like either of your scrawny asses already, so if you’re brewing up snappy retorts, just remember that that mat hurts like a sonofabitch when you’re driven into it from seven feet in the air at high velocity. You’ve already got a beating coming, boys; don’t make it worse by thinking you’re gonna razz me. I’ve busted faces for a lot less.”
With the last ratchet back in its proper place, Trenton closes the drawer and slips the steel bar through the appropriate slots on the front of the chest. A few locks put into place at the top and bottom ensures that no one gets into his treasure, as he sometimes refers to it.
”There’s just no sense in it. Since when do you need to tell someone you’re going to beat them down before you do it? Does it make the beating hurt more? It sounds to me like giving them warning before giving them what they got coming would be counterproductive. Skrabz and Deuce Holmes, you already know I’m coming for you. So why do I need to stand here and detail something that you both already know? Am I supposed to be trying to intimidate you? Is this useless monologue supposed to inspire you to fight with all your might?! Slay the mean, foul-mouthed biker! Make him pay for his sharp tongue!
Yeah, fuckin’ spare me already.
If either of you are thinking something anywhere close to that, you’d best keep your asses in the locker room. This isn’t some summer blockbuster or feel-good after school special where the hero saves the day and helps the big, bad bully turn his life around for the better. This… is a fight. Not a wrestling match, but a fight… something I’d do for shits and giggles. It just so happens that Mile High Wrestling actually wants to pay me for putting people in traction and making their families cry at their hospital bedside. It’s a legit money making scheme that I’m going to ride into the damn dirt like any self-respecting American would.”
Shrugging out of the work shirt after undoing the rest of the buttons, Trenton tosses it into a cloth bag near the counter… another something to send off to the cleaners later. The removal reveals more of the taut, powerful body that the six-foot-five beast intends to put to painful use in a few days’ time. Robi can be perfectly heard behind the camera, sucking in a breath between her teeth. If Trenton hears it, he pays it no mind. Not yet.
”And the checks come in whether I win or lose. That’s a point you boys need to remember even if everything else flies over your pretty little heads: winning isn’t a requirement for me; it’s a bonus. Pinning you for a one-two-three or making you tap like a drunk at closing time? That might put a bigger number on the voucher, boys, but it ain’t somethin’ I need to feel better about myself. It’s a bonus. I get the same satisfaction win or lose. That little tidbit makes some people I’ve spoken to roll their eyes, making them tell me that I got no ambition, that I’ll never reach the top of the heap by being so unfocused and lackadaisical.”
He considers quietly for a moment while striding over to the Mustang again, slamming the hood shut and leaning over the classic, his palms pressed upon the hood. Through the spaces that the tank top does not cover, the back piece that is the insignia of the Chrome Dragons MC stares out with harsh red eyes. Trenton’s shoulder shake a bit from laughter before he resumes his ‘useless monologue’.
”Those people piss me off.”
He turns a glare on the camera that could shatter steel.
”What’s the word around the land these days? Everyone screams about being real, being true to yourself. And that’s just so goddamn brave when it’s a man turning himself into a woman or some eight-year-old kid with savant-level makeup skills making himself look like a princess. Standing up against our moron president for your rights? Brave. Protesting the failings and violent misconduct of a service system that oppresses more than it benefits the people who are responsible for its existence? You get all the fuckin’ kudos in the world.
But when what you are, born to be or made to be, does not fit with what someone else thinks is proper? That shit goes out the window. People will oppress others for any reason the world while talking out of both sides of their face at the same time about being honest with yourself and the people around you, preaching love and peace and all that horseshit. There should be flying fucking signs on every flight path into this country with big, glowing lights that read ‘Welcome to the United States of the Offended’. THIS is what they were talking about when they said ‘the meek shall inherit the earth’.”
That sounds very tangential, but Trenton does not let it stand long before making it mean something in his message to his opponents.
”Yeah, there’s a fuckin’ point. Shut up.”
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Forge doesn’t downgrade his glower one iota.
”This is who the fuck I am. I have a foul mouth and I see 99.9999% percent of humanity as useless, brainless drones… scum-sucking lemons who can’t think past their next greasy burger or reality show binge. I can literally count the number of people I truly give a damn about on this planet and stay in the single digits. This car right here? It’s not even mine and I still trust it more than I would flesh and blood coming at me spewing bullshit agendas. Winning isn’t everything and it damn sure isn’t the only thing. It’s barely secondary. Like I said: I get a check either way, and I get the pleasure of pounding fools bloody into the bargain. That’s all that matters to me.
With that in mind, I’m imploring the two of you to take a breath and use what passes for your brains before you come firing back from your high horses. You ain’t bringing me around to your way of thinking. You aren’t convincing me that winning means a damn thing in the grand scheme. See, one of you may very well make me tap out or hold my shoulders down for three. But the next day, you’re going to be staggering to the bathroom feeling like you’re 40 years older than you are, seeing a bruised, cut-up and swollen face staring back. Every step, every breath… it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt like all blue blazes.
Me? I’m going to roll over after kissing my hot-as-hell wife away and walk like a man with my back straight and my head up. And I’ll give more attention to not pissing on the fucking toilet seat than I did caring how many matches I took off your career with my fists and boots. That’s your future whether I win or lose, the very sensation that I’m after. Winning is not necessary. While the two of you are moaning like stuck pigs who just got hit by a semi on the freeway, I’ll be smiling. That clear enough for you?”
”Careful, baby. You’re gonna make the little shits cry.”
”That so? Let me put on my fuckin’ care face.”
Busting out in too-adorable giggles behind that camera which, yes, makes Trenton grin briefly, Robi has to compose herself for a moment before she can get the camera right again. Oh, and that ‘care face’? Nowhere to be seen.
”Except that ain’t happening. Because I don’t fucking care.”
Good-bye to the grin.
”Matter of fact, I’m done wasting breath and seconds on these two yahoos. Skrabz and his brain-melting jive talk, Deuce and his… whatever the fuck he has? Nothing but a stress headache that I can cure with a few fists and a boot to the mouth. No mess, no stress. But, because it’s what the so-called bosses demand? I’ll be back to further verbally put their asses to rights before the bell rings.
And fair warning? You’re gonna hate me even more next time.”
> ...
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> ...
> Shutting down...
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on May 28, 2018 13:13:26 GMT -6
"Welcome..to my world."
Those who don't know were always taken back by the rough, deep timber of his voice. Those who did, already knew it was Deuce Holmes speaking before the camera focussed in on his smiling face. He was soaking wet and sitting in a beach chair. He wore only his swim trunks but had an oversized beach towel over his shoulders. In his lucky left hand he held a coconut with a red straw and a yellow paper umbrella poking out of the top. Behind him was a roaring bonfire, some beach somewhere and a slow setting sun.
"Actually, today, it's my bare foot bro Cosmo's world. Show everybody one time, really quick baby."
Behind the camera, Lavinia turned in a slow circle. As she did she revealed a mass of people, both on the beach and in the water. There were several more bonfires and a beach volleyball court. In the distance a frisbee football game was being played and in the center of it all was a wrestling ring.
"Of course Lavinia and I are at Cosmo Cooper's beach bash number DEUCE!"
With his right hand he held up the 'too sweet' that the entire world of professional wrestling knew and recognized as 'the Deuce'.
"It's not like I'm booked tonight and everybody who is anybody in pro wrestling is here so where else would I be?"
Then, he smirked and drained the concoction in his coconut and set it down on the beach next to two others. As he stood, his beach towel fell off of his shoulders and he shielded his eyes from the sun with his right hand. Comically, he oversold looking up and down the beach for something or someone.
"But. There are a couple of...'wrestlers' that I don't see here today."
Right on cue, two really big twins came into view. They stood just behind and on each side of Holmes. They then held up a three feet tall, five feet wide white canvas banner. It bore nothing except the Mile High Wrestling logo.
"SKRABZ! SKRABZ!!!"
He paused and took a deep breath.
"SKRABZ!!!"
Holmes just shrugged.
"See? 'Man' is not here. Because I know he wouldn't be ignoring me like that mark in his promo. But maybe he is. Maybe he ducked off somewhere quiet to write in his diary when he heard me shouting his name!"
Deuce and Lavinia cracked up laughing.
"I'm just clowning on you Skrabz. I actually really like you. The rap you did at Episode one was off the chain! My dude, you really have skills! Then on Episode number.."
He did not speak it, instead just held up 'the Deuce".
"From the time the bell rang, you had 'The Real Deal' looking like: 'The Done Deal.' So yeah, on the real, congratulations on winning your first match!"
Slow. Sarcastic.. Golf clap...
"Anywhere...ever."
The lucky left hand covered his mouth and he made a loud, wet fart noise.
"I do like your style Skrabz and I have no real disdain or disrespect for you. But you're a way better rapper than wrestler. Your moves and skills are novice level...at best. You beat Daniels by sheer adrenaline. Now don't get me wrong, in two maybe three years if you stay healthy and busy, you're going to need a rapper's sized entourage just to carry all the gold belts you've won! And podcasts? You're going to be on podcasts that pro wrestlers have actually heard of!"
Off-camera, Lavinia laughed so hard, so fast that she snorted.
"Lavi and I caught you on that BRW Podcast. You did good kid. I enjoyed it. Did you keep your word and check out my HCW match? That was the night that a real professional wrestler and one of the greatest living deathmatch aficionados, Kuk Killswitch showed up and re-designed the back of my head with a steel chair! Now that...is what it's like to wrestle Deuce Holmes! Imagine that my dude! You just hit that move on me and I am lying still and motionless in the center of the ring. As you go for the pin...someone famous..that everyone in the crowd knows, leaps the guardrail, slides into the ring and picks up on me right where you left off! Not a part-time rapper. Not a part-time grease monkey. A real wrestler...like me."
The single nod and smirk were more than sarcastic.
"In one week, the hashtag Quag Cup begins. In two weeks, it's hashtag Bloody Icon time at the Omega Academy. Three weeks? Mile High versus Kaiju, Civil War. Now what's all that got to do with next Wednesday? Simple. When you're all set and confident with your match preparation...you should also get ready and be ready for Kuk Killswitch...DefTek...Joe Stanton...Lisa Seldon...Hana Park...Juliet Black."
He smiled a big goofy grin and shrugged.
"I could go on and on and on some more. But you get my point. Somehow though, I don't think the other guy is a smart as you are Skrabz. He doesn't have nearly the future that you do either. He is way too worried about being the twitter tough guy with something controversial to tweet from the safety of the insulation his "gang" provides. And why are you even trying to tweet me? Might as well just say it outloud. Your wife? Your gang...isn't that everyone? All twenty or so of your followers?"
Holmes just shakes his head.
"If I had to bet, I bet I lost more followers since I started this promo than Forge Mitchell has! And that is just another checkmark on the list that makes you a great big nobody. Even better though, a nobody who has already resolved himself to his clear fate of tapping or being pinned."
Again, one single nod and one single smirk of pure sarcasm.
"You spoke so eloquently about tapping that I was sold immediately! I know you believe it Forge, so what choice do I have?"
Holmes pointed towards the mass of humanity in front of him. Some of them already surrounding the wrestling ring for a prime spot.
"Dude..don't you know?"
Laughing, Holmes waved at someone, then held up a single index finger letting them know he needed a minute.
"Forge if you were here today, real professional wrestlers would be ordering drinks from you. None of us even know who are. Why? Because, you're not one of us ... yet. So allow me to explain it to you one danged old time ... in a way you will surely understand."
As he held up a single finger, in his clearest, calmest voice he continued.
"Robert Mack ... has made you a 'prospect'. Skrabz ... is going to beat you in. And I am going to fully and completely initiate you both into this brotherhood!"
He covered a nostril with a thumb and shot a baby jellyfish of a snot rocket out onto the beach sand.
"Forge. Do you really think that I'm tweeting funny little Boondock Saints dot gifs because I'm worried about this match? Quite the contrary my dude. I'm actually more embarrassed than anything! Showing my face at Cosmo's beach bash when my next booked match is against two men with one ... pro wrestling match between them! I swear if I wasn't representing Japan in the hashtag Quag Cup...if I wasn't already booked in the main event after the whole hashtag Bloody Icon tournament at the Omega Academy...I doubt I'd even show my face at a bash like this."
Deuce smiled and nodded at someone else who walked up to see and hear what he was up to. Holmes, ever the cut-up, could not resist.
"Forge..sorry y'all. Nobody, wannabe wrestler trying to be all hard about what he is going to do to me in the ring. My dude, it would be so much more interesting if you talked about what you're going to do to me on the moon! Might as well. It's not like you've ever had your feet down on either one! And what are you? Like forty years old maybe? It's not really late in life for a career change...but to this one? C'mon man. Think about it. You might break a hip in there with me and Skrabz.
Again, he holds up a single index finger. This time with his lucky left hand.
"Which reminds me. Don't think I've forgotten about you Skrabz...or the foot fetish you have for me! You really won't get hashtag bare foot strong style until we are in the ring, but all the same, check this out."
He holds out his right hand.
"Over here we have Forge Mitchell and he's undoubtedly going to be wearing some bad ass super heavy motorcycle boots. When he kicks you...it's going to hurt."
Holmes holds out his lucky left hand.
"On the other hand...when I kick you with this bare foot...it hurts too but so much differently. There is nothing deterring my velocity. When my heel strikes a solar plexus off of even a simple Mule Kick, the gasp is obvious. There are no glancing blows. There are no near misses. There are only broken bones, busted ligaments and corrupted pressure points. You should try it sometime. You might like it. Never know."
Holmes shrugged and grinned.
"The guy who threw this party and I, myself have done pretty well without wrestling boots."
By now, there were more than a dozen people standing behind and around Lavinia just off-camera.
"That's basically all I have to say to you Skrabz. Not because I'm really done with you, but because you and I we are going to get this done in the ring. Not cutting funny promos on sandy beaches and definitely not on Twitter."
Again, he held out the right hand he previously held out to mention..
"Forge Mitchell is going to need much more banter. So. As slowly as I can let me clearly state that you have made some comments that some would take personally. So listen. You might want to think about this match like an engine. Work on it and get paid. Then you go work on the next engine and get paid for it. You don't need to try and make things personal to get a little heat. For example, you've heard me mention DefTek. You've heard me mention main eventing at Omega Academy next month twice..actually this now is the third time. How do you think I got there? Before he was the definition of technician. Before there ever was an Omega Academy. It was 2003 and it was at No Limit Wrestling. I was fifteen years old and had been a pro wrestler for a year already when this seventeen year punk from Derby showed up and made it personal."
Holmes paused for dramatic effect. His eyes showed no emotion as he continued.
"I branded him with the family farm's circle H branding iron. I branded his twin brother with it and I've branded his bastard brother with it. Then when I kicked him in the head until he basically gave up wrestling and began training wrestlers at the Omega Academy...when everybody thought we were done...and he hosted a one night hashtag Tournament of Icons, what happened?"
The cockiest smirk of the promo. Then behind the camera, Lavinia took the focus off of his face and onto the hand to the right of Deuce which held up the "Mile High Wrestling" banner behind him. It was branded with a circle A. Looked like Anarchy. She zoomed in on the opposite side and the opposite hand was also branded.
"Alpha Academy happened. I trained DefTek's baby twin brothers. I branded them with the circle of Alpha brand to prove their graduation. And I took them to their big brother's big party and I dropped a great big deuce in his punchbowl. That's exactly who I am when someone gets personal with me."
Once he felt that had all sunk in he again held up a single index finger with his left hand. He bent over and literally drew a line in the sand.
"But that's not what I'm proposing here. What I say is...both of you Skrabz and Forge draw your own line in the sand and say 'We are the triple threat now!' I don't want you both to be as good as you say, I want you both to be better than advertised. I want the crowd to forget about the finale of the Mile High Wrestling Championship and start to leave when we're done! You guys better be good because a lot of champions from all over the world will be watching, just chomping at the bit for a piece of me. So. Yeah. You guys better be all you say you are and more. If you are, I got you. I'll initiate you into this wonderfully wicked world of ours."
The camera focussed in on Deuce's line in the sand as the scene faded to black.
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Post by Skrabz on May 29, 2018 16:16:18 GMT -6
It ain't matter and it never will.
Location: Skrabal's motel room, Denver, Colorado
Date: 28/5/2018
Time: 6.05PM
Location: Skrabal's motel room, Denver, Colorado
Date: 29/5/2018
Time: 3.25am
A dark haired woman sleeps next to Skrabal while he sits slouched on the bed in the grim, musty smelling rented accommodation in which he temporarily resides. A small coffee table stands close to the bed having been dragged across the room, a glass bong stands in the center of its heavily faded, chipped and scuffed veneered surface, surrounded by empty beer bottles, joint debris and note pads. Skrabal takes a final puff on his joint then leans forward and stubs it out in an astray that sits among the mess on the table.
He picks up his phone and opens the camera. After tapping record he looks into the lens with red eyes and begins to speak.
"Ya-nah, on the level.... mans gonna keep it real with you lot. Man's a big man but even the big man dem get lost in the moment every now and then and standing pon dem backstage ends there last week waiting for mans music to hit, rar!... It had mans skin all covered in goose bumps, ya seen?"
He pauses and props his phone up on the table then opens a fresh bottle of beer.
"And standing there I gotsta thinking... this ain't Britain fam. Man's out here alone, on his ones, make or break time blad. Go hard or catch the next flight back to yard, ya get me?"
He takes a few swigs of his beer.
"Man don't go back to yard fam. Man go hard.... Make or break time and man does both. Made my name and broke Dillon Daniels. That man's dead now fam, ya hear me? He finished."
He quickly finishes the rest of his beer and puts the empty bottle on the floor.
"I ain't gonna stay picking through left overs though, bun that! I need big man meals, ya get me?"
He shakes his head and kisses his teeth.
"But hear me though, check the ting. Next match I got two man to eat off. It's all good by me fam, two man, three man, four man, shit there be a few females I wouldn't mind tasting too, ya get me?... Point is man's hungry and anyone who step in that ring with me gonna get nyamed up, trust! "
He takes a small green plastic pot from the table and twists the cap off. He moves it under his nose and inhales the scent from within, letting out a deep sigh as he exhales.
"This shit smell soooo good..... I'ma guess whatcha thinking though."
He pulls the bong on the table closer to him and turns it so the bowl is facing his direction.
"Ya thinking... How they got man like Skrabz on a gate-keeping ting already? Mans second show in putting up first day tests for the new man dem. The hows and whys don't matter a bit, the only thing you needsta to know is the gate strong blad. They ain't getting in. On a no hats no trainers tip."
He takes a small bud from inside the pot and starts to crumble it into the black glass bowl.
"But one of these new man ain't even care if he get in though... imagine that shit... which one is it..."
He pushes the bong aside and leans forward then starts flipping through the pages of one of his note pads. As he lands on the page he's looking for he fumbles with his phone causing its camera to momentarily focus on a small part of the page, allowing just two lines to be read clearly.
"Yeah, that's the one. This man think he oppressed because someone told him to try winning for a change. I beg someone download my man a dictionary app real quick, but ya prolly should open it and read the shit to him too, ya see me?"
He rolls his eyes and kisses his teeth.
"Ya nah, for a man who doesn't see the point in talking you said a fucking lot fammo."
Skrabal laughs as he pulls the bong back towards him.
"And you already done told me you were letting your fingers slide all over twitter to get eyes on our fight so how you ain't understand the point in speaking on it man'll never know. I wish you hadn't spoke on it though fam, trust. I mean I ain't think you were ever gonna stop flapping ya gums blad. Then just when man like Skrabz was asking "has man like Trent got a point" you said you had a point so I kept listening."
He flicks a lighter and ignites the bowl, inhaling deeply as the smoke fills the chamber. He clears the bong and sets it down on the table before letting out a huge cloud of smoke from deep within his lungs. He continues talking, his voice slightly lower and somewhat raspy now.
"Now I'm a be real witchu, man did zone out a couple a time there, especially when you spoke on people protesting presidents or some shit, coz on the level, man is sick to fucking death of hearing about your president... But when you finally got to it your point was on some bullshit about winning not being important to you and you being better than everyone else because of it... on some played out, baseless, delusions of grandeur shit."
His frustrations becoming visible in his facial expression, even despite his current state of inebriation, are an indication of just how frustrated he is.
"Are you dizzy blad?... Like what the actual fuck are you on fam? You must be high as shit. You wanna look down on people you see as soft all while holding out your hand and accepting that participation pay packet?... Pussy!... Coz it ain't matter if you win or not right?... Pussy!... You still get paid right?... Pussy!"
His voice rises slightly in volume as he speaks with venom.
"I feel to fuck your wife right in front of you... but don't worry fam, I'm a let you get the sloppy seconds coz it ain't matter if you first or not, right?"
He pauses with his red eyed gazed fixed firmly on his phones camera lens.
"Pussy!"
He pauses to collect his thoughts.
"Ya-nah, on the real... man ain't never heard nuthin so moist in all my life bredder. How can a man stand there and say he ain't about winning? No pride! Shit fam, if you ain't about winning then get the fuck out the way and let someone with balls take your place coz all you're doing is wasting a spot on the card. Man like Skrabz scratched and clawed to get here fam, scratched and clawed, and you gonna come spewing this nonstarter nonsense?... Ya needsta get the fuck out with that rancid also-ran rhetoric. If you ain't about winning you about losing so just stay home fam. You a bigger wasteman than Dillon Daniels and that's the real fuckin' deal for ya. But it's no biggy fam trust, you ain't wanna win then I only hasta worry about the other new man."
He opens another bottle of beer and drinks half of it before placing it on the table in front of him.
"Coz the other new brudda in the match wanna try winning at least. He ain't wanna settle for less."
Skrabal starts flipping through the pages of his pad again. He finds the correct page and again fumbles with his phone, this time it seems much more deliberate, as more of the page is shown allowing more to be read by the viewer.
Skrabal laughs and shakes his head slightly as he thinks about Deuce.
"Ya-nah man shoulda guessed you'd be drinking from a fucking coconut fam. On that poser shit with your barefoot stinking, straw sucking, chest piece tattoo having, bearded self."
He laughs again before continuing.
"On the level though man, I beg you, put on some boots fam, for fucks sake.... or some verruca socks at least."
He picks up his bottle of beer and downs what's left of it.
"But yeah, on the real manor man checked your match in a HCW there, lil' one time ting. Not a one and done deal though, nah. Man lost and bounced out like he silicon enhanced. Straight dipped, no honor. Shit... if that how you get down this gonna be another short stint for you famalam, for real."
Skrabal reaches out for the bong and begins filling its bowl again as he talks.
"But allow all that sugar coating shit. Just say what you feel, don't go talking out the other side of your face on some bitch shit, giving it that "I ain't got no real disdain for you" while you go disrespecting man talking about one match ever. Coz man has been on this, low key, grinding, standard! But you ain't hearda BRW, you ain't hearda man like Skrabz and that's cool, man gets it, because the shit go both ways blad and man like Skrabz ain't hearda you either. But then I ain't ever been on that barefoot, work-rate, IWC, five stars in the Tokyo Dome fuckery anyway so you can keep all that weebo crap for someone who give a shit"
He pauses and lifts a condensation covered bottle of water from the floor to his lips.
"What you done in the past ain't matter. Those people you branded ain't matter. What you gonna do at QuagCup ain't matter. You main eventing at Omega Academy, whatever the fuck that is, aint matter."
He flicks the lighter again and moves it over the full bowl. Inhaling deeply through the hand blown glass he stifles a cough before moving the bong back to the table and then exhaling another lung full of smoke out into the room.
"If it ain't Skrabz it ain't matter."
A violent coughing fit erupts from his lungs turning his face red. The dark haired lady stirs at the sound of his couging but does not fully awaken. After taking a few seconds to regain his breath Skrabal continues.
"Ya-nah this lil ting between me and these new man is nuthin personal, they just happen to be the next two pins set up for man to roll on through. It ain't a long term ting so lets not make it become one, yeah? Coz man like Skrabz has his eyes on a bigger prize than catching a dub over two wastemen. I ain't fly all the way around the world for nuthin less than top spot, trust."
He pauses and forces a cough to ease his wheezing chest.
"But this be that same shit that got man vexed that I spoke on already, and it just get more and more vexing as it go on. Ya-nah this title situation seem real weird to me fam, and I ain't wanna sound like a paracat or nuthin but it smell real fishy too. See all us man on the roster know the boss-man got a lil history with a one certain chick here, and that one certain chick just happen to beat the boss-man last week during his lil cosplay stunt to advance to the title match, and then the boss-man done decided to officiate that same title match, and why the fuck he do that? Shit, in his own words 'to make sure the right person wins our championship'".
He kisses his teeth before continuing.
"Yeah fam, the shit suspect. It sound like some real dirty paigon shit to me blad, straight up. But all I'm a say on it is boss-man, fam, if you aint call this shit down the middle you gonna have an aggy locker room to deal with when the show over, man a tell you that for nuthin. But you done given yourself a fools errand anyway, I mean how you gonna make sure the right person win the strap when the right person ain't even in the match?"
He pauses to take another drink from his bottle of water.
" See you can have have your Tattle Tails, your Titannesses, your Masters, and I'm a get at that big bredder one day fam, trust me, it... figures... ya see me? But you can have all them right there fighting for ya strap still and it ain't matter and it never will... coz it ain't man like Skrabz"
He leans forward and taps the screen on his phone, ending the recording.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on May 29, 2018 18:51:32 GMT -6
The first image is that of a rest stop on the side of the Interstate. It is around an hour or two from sunset and traffic is beginning to thin just a bit, though there are still plenty of rabid commuters trying to get from Point A to Point B. They are of no consequence, though… at least not to a group pulling in to the aforementioned roadside bathroom and vending machine mecca. The unmistakable roars of their Milwaukee hogs overtake all else, the euphony (in their opinion) of the growling engines sending warnings to all within earshot, the group comes to a stop on the still-warm asphalt. Parents clutch their children a bit closer and old folks look on silent disappointment with judging eyes… but neither the Handmaidens or the Chrome Dragons waste a blink or a breath lending them credence. The ride from New Orleans to Denver is a long one and, frankly, the silent and fearful disdain is old hat.
Robi Jean Mitchell rolls her bike right up next to that of her husband Trenton Mitchell with Fianna, Widow, Alex and and Jackie pulling into the spots right up next to hers. The Shieldmaidens are riding in force and it is a beautiful sight. Then upon taking a look to Robi’s left? We have Trenton’s side of things, the massive Khary and the grinning blonde nicknamed Goldie and another guy, the biggest of the four, whose head is completely bald save for a single black braid that hangs a good halfway down his back. Freshly patched-in, Goldie is even more jolly than usual and Forge, despite himself, finds the good mood a little infectious. Khary is more resilient, however, and the Mongolian-looking dude next to him? Guy could probably force the sun to set by glaring at it.
”Hey, Kyojin… if you keep scowling that you’re gonna invert your fucking face.”
That snark even has Khary letting out a small grin; Goldie, on the other hand, laughs like a loon while Trenton claps the big fellow on the chest with his open palm. Rolling his eyes, the monstrous due finally smiles… well, no, that is not quite accurate. He just stops snarling. But there IS a miniscule twinkle in those eyes.
”There, see! That’s more like it!”
”Don’t push your luck, squirt.”
Holding up his hands palms out, Goldie comically backs away… but not fast enough. Kyojin snatches hold of him and gives him a Dutch head rub from hell while the Maidens and the other Dragons chuckle. The rest of the ladies disperse into the rest stop, followed by the Dragons. Separate clubs, yet they move as a unit. A dangerous, imposing unit.
Robi sticks by Trenton’s side as he looks after his fellow club members and there is no mistaking the pride on his face. Seeing this causes her to allow a warm smile out as she wraps her arms around one of his, resting her head against his shoulder.
”Be honest: has the kid stopped smiling yet?”
”The jackass smiles in his fuckin’ sleep.”
The retort has Robi laughing louder than she intended to, reducing her to barely-restrained snickers within moments. Making a few notes of dry laughter, Trenton took that moment to search about in his saddlebags for the portable digital camera. Robi, eyeing it, looks up at Forge with a smirk now.
”Right here, right now?”
”You or the camera?”
She rolls her eyes, but there is no hiding the pink on her cheeks.
”Don’t you fucking start! We have hours to go!”
”Yeah, yeah…”
Raising his shades so that his eyes can be clearly seen, Trenton leans back on his bike a bit while Robi fiddles with the camera until she has it set just right...
> ...
> ...
> Playing video “file002.wma”...
> ...
> Date: 05/29/18
> Time: 6:38pm, Central
> Location: Interstate 10
> ...
> Scene: Rest Stop
> …
> Starting...
...whereupon Trent, already looking off into the distance at the oncoming rush of mid-evening traffic continues incessantly. Already shaking his head back and forth before beginning to speak, he lifts a leather-gloved hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. It seems as though he has taken note of the words of his opponents and, well…
”I could have sworn that I was speaking English when I addressed you two fuckwits the other day. Granted, a college-educated man should have a strong vocabulary, which I do, but I swear before Odin himself that I really tried to dumb it down.”
Folding one arm across his broad chest, Forge strokes his chin for a moment, then shrugs.
”But it’s true what they say: you can’t fix stupid. Thankfully I don’t care to fix you two. My only intention is to beat the fuck out of you, something that went over both your heads apparently. So… let’s try this one more time, eh?”
The camera officially has Trent’s full attention. That… probably is not the best thing for Deuce and Skrabz.
”In Denver, at the third episode of Mile High Wrestling, I’m putting you two in the dirt. In. The. Dirt.”
Speaking slowly, enunciating the words in an exaggerated way, Trenton snarls.
”I don’t see where that’s so hard to fucking understand. Obviously the two of you have to have something resembling intelligence or you wouldn’t be able to dress yourselves in the morning without a drawn diagram. I’m going to start with you, Holmes, since you finally found time in your drinking and partying schedule to open your ball-washer. See, I may not like this promo bullshit, but I do it. And I get down to business when the time comes instead of doing what you do and treating it like amateur night at the local comedy club. But seriously… riveting shit, man. Really. I think you actually inspired me.”
”To upchuck breakfast, maybe.”
”You know, until you opened up there, Robi, I probably had him going.”
Snickering from behind the camera, Robi quickly quiets as Trent’s ire gets real again, dumping all over Holmes like a month of Sundays.
”The shit you talk is the reason that standing in front of a camera pontificating is such bullshit on my opinion. You assholes go off on these fucking fifteen-minute tangents talking about everything but the topic at hand. What, in your rambling about ‘Icon’ this and ‘kaiju’, should lead me, or even that waxed-up fuckwit Skrabz for that matter, to think that this fight we’ve got coming is anything but a mindless diversion for you? You think you’re gonna roll up in the ring in Denver with shaved thighs, half-soused on pussy drinks and dance your way to a win or something? Because that might get you a couple laughs from the cheap seat drones who found ticket money in their trailer park dumpsters, but if you bring that shit and your goofy-ass hand gestures to the same ring I’m standing in you can expect your teeth to be kicked through the back of your neck. Then they can roll your twitching carcass into an ambulance for a thousand-dollar trip to the hospital and with half-broken fingers you can stagger on to Twitter and tweet ‘hashtag Forge Fucked My Face With His Foot’.
See, I was under the impression that a ring was for men, not boys. The whole humor-as-coping mechanism thing you got going on isn’t alien to me. It’s boilerplate psychology. My question is whether you know when to stop. For your sake it needs to be before you roll your useless flesh into that ring in Denver. I’m already going to punt you like a field goal. The last thing you need is for me to have extra incentive to make sure you bounce off the rafters in the process.”
Robi finds some amusement from that line, what with the barely-restrained laughter behind the camera. So in the zone is Forge, though, that he barely notices.
”So… do I have your attention now, Deuce, or do I have to flush you like your namesake?”
Pushing up from the bike, Trenton pops his neck on one side, then the other, leather creaking in his grip as he pops his knuckles as well. He’s… having a hard time waiting for the fight.
”What’s even sadder than the short attention span theater you put everyone through though is how you think I give two shits about your attempted insults toward me. I don’t have to court attention to make myself relevant, something you’re going to learn painfully in a day and some change. And I don’t have to have history or notoriety in wrestling to know your type. You DO know the type I’m speaking of, right? The all-talk,no-walk motherfuckers that are bold as brass until the fists start flying. Again, because you missed the first fucking time and every time thereafter? I’m not a wrestler. Don’t claim to be, don’t want to be. I’m a fighter. There’s not going to be anything fancy about me between the bells. When I throw these soup bones, I’m aiming to loosen some teeth, maybe bust a lip or nose. When one of these size-sixteen boots gets lifted, someone’s gonna be leaving that ring with footprints all over their faces.
News flash: that’s you and Skrabz.
You still keep on tossing it out there, though, the only weapon you seem to have in trying to talk your way out of a beating… and it’s weaker than my late grandmother’s coffee. It doesn’t even take a wrestler to see just how badly you shit yourself getting in front of that microphone. But since I’m pretty sure you have no earthly clue what I’m getting at? I’m going to simplify it. Again. You’re fucking welcome.”
Another incredulous shake of his head.
”One match worth of experience between your opponents, Holmes. One. And that’s all on Skrabz’s side. As if that’s supposed to make a difference. I’m leaving with a paycheck one way or the other and that’s all I give a damn about. You don’t know enough about me to even think of making this shit personal while Skrabz is over there barfing on a microphone and calling it a fucking mixtape. But for the sake of argument? Let’s say I get a wild hair up my ass and decide I want to win. Think on that for a moment. I know using your brain isn’t your strong suit, but… humor me.
All the useless air you just spewed, the hot air over wet garbage that your entire monologue came off as? Doing your utmost to run me into the dirt like you’re the second coming of Wrestling Jesus or something? How do you think it’s going to look to all those hashtag-spewing jackasses that you’re sucking up to, all the companies you’re fondling the balls of… when the so-called superstar you try to pass yourself off as gets his spine contorted by some rookie in his first match? And not just a rookie, but an OLD one! You’re already leaving this match with a limp, motherfucker. But if you’re determined to have me embarrass your punk ass into the bargain? I’ll be more than happy to oblige. You are what you are, and that’s a wrestler. Wrestlers don't do well against fighters, Deuce. While you’re slapping at me and trying to pick me up and move me around, I’m going to be driving knuckles into your skull and treating you the way a starving pitbull treats a pork chop. Is that a strong enough visual for you? Do I have your attention now?
What you did up to this point means two things to me, Deuce: jack and shit. What I care about, and what you’d damn well BETTER care about, is what gets done in Denver at Mile High #3. And right now, you don’t seem to know what that is. Unfortunately for you, I do. I know EXACTLY what I’M going to do. And it’s the kind of shit that the mafia gives scholarships for. See if you can wrap your brain around THAT.”
Whatever gets spoken under Forge’s breath… chances are that it is a good thing it fails to make it into the microphone. Sucking in a few cleansing breaths, the monstrous biker seems to chill just a bit. A teeny bit.
”Well, if he weren’t pissing his pants already…”
”He’s too stupid to be afraid, sugar. All punks like him understand these days is counting their money and judging their existence through retweets and Facebook followers. But it’s nothing tearing his head off won’t solve.”
”How is decapitation going to solve anything?”
”It’ll make me smile.”
A smirk slips out when Forge eyes his wife. It does not last.
”Now, I’d like to stand back and say that I’ve got something to put to Skrabz, too, but the guy’s got so many rocks in his mouth that no one can fuckin’ understand him. All you’ve got going for you, ‘fam’, is that you at least seem to have listened… even if the point went right over your damn head. And I’ll grant you this: after I get done borderline crippling you and Holmes in Denver? At least you’ll have something to fall back on… even if it’s some kind of weird-ass islander stoner rap.
Just like Holmes, though, you want to judge. Calling me on my pride, about not caring whether I win or lose and… well, it’s fucking tired. And that right there is what you two can’t get over, the one thing about me that you can’t reconcile because neither of you have any concept of it. The fact that I’m honest and don’t dump sugar all over the truth to make it easier for people to swallow. It’s about the money, kids. Plain and simple. What do victories mean? Money. What do titles mean? Money. Any motherfucker stepping into a ring that tries to tell you they’re after anything but the green is full of shit.
‘Oh, I love the business so much!’ ‘My daddy did it and I want to make him proud!’ ‘I want to be a role model for children and dreamers and kittens in the world!’ Fuck. All. That. This is a job, boys. And the purpose of a job is to make money, to make a living. And I’m here to do just that, doing something I would do for free and getting the green for it. Hate me if you want, but I’m clear as glass. Words and insults don’t touch me. If you can’t handle that, well, you have a chance to do something about it very, VERY soon. And I’m fucking begging you to try.”
”Maybe get down on your knees so they know you’re serious?”
”You’re a non-stop laugh-a-thon.”
Robi’s musically-sinister laughter again. At the very least it loosens Forge up a little bit. But, as it has been almost every time prior, it does not last. The man is geared up for the fight. Nothing else matters.
”Eh, hell with it. I’m done with talking to these idiots. Going off like a broken record ain’t worth it. They won’t get it anyway until I wring their goddamn necks.”
Dutifully, Robi shuts off the camera...
> ...
> End feed...
> ...
> Shutting down...
...staring at it for a moment as she rolls over the last few minutes in her mind. Then...
”The very cheek of those idiots…”
Robi states, putting the camera back in the saddlebag while Trenton gestured the Maidens and Dragons back over, tapping his watch as an indicator.
”Yeah, well… kids will be kids. Pain will teach them the reason why. We’ve got more riding to do. And you? Well, you have your own fun to take care of. Eyes on the prize, gorgeous.”
Stepping into Trenton’s arms, the two lock lips for a few moments before, along with their respective clubs, they mount their bikes and tear off down the Interstate, the Rockies already looming in the distance, a promise of destruction just beyond them.
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