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 September 03, 2010, 02:03:51 AM
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The BAWS!
Group: Administrator
Legend
Posts: 1896
I'm kind of a big deal...
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Defiance TV S02E07Wednesday, September 15, 2010 Hosted @ UIC Pavilian; Chicago, IL Roleplay Deadline: Monday, September 13, 2010 11:59pm CST
Segment Deadline: Tuesday, September 14, 2010 11:59pm CSTMain EventFour-Way SurvivalAdrien Cochrane vs Jimmy Kort vs Chris Cannon vs Jake Donovan  vs  vs  vs  What? This is the main event? Is Eric Dane high? Wait, as it turns out, he probably is. It seems that The Baws is still out of commission and Elijah Goldman is still running the show, as such he's put his two hand-picked Golden Boys into a Four-Way with Defiance mainstay Jimmy Kort and the up and coming Jake Donovan in a match that is sure to have E-Gold's fingerprints all over it!World Title Match  vs  Bronson Box is the kind of man to take the bull by the horns, then rip them clean off. And he’s demanded a shot at Boston Bancroft’s "World" Championship. Boston has agreed, and so the battle in Chicago is set. Boston Bancroft, "The Spoiler", versus Bronson Box, "The Strongman," in a winner-takes-all grudge match to see whose moustache shall reign supreme! Pushbroom versus waxed, old-timey! Will Bronson Box be able to prove just why the Hydra scouted him, over anyone else, or will the Boston Bancroft Experience live up to their word and make believers out of all of us?Southern Heritage Title Match  vs  The [CENSORED] Bandits left some business unfinished last week. So, with the effort that he put in, the Powers That Be decreed that Tom Sawyer will get another shot at the Bandits, another shot at immortality, and this time Doozer will be facing his toughest challenge yet as he defends his Southern Heritage Championship in what is sure to be an exciting, fast-paced match! Tom Sawyer, fresh off his world-spanning adventure (Tom’s Quest, available at DEFIANCEshop.com!), and Doozer, fresh off his shoulder-rush on the biggest monster in DEFIANCE will meet in this special challenge!COOL Title Match Match vs  COOL Cancer Jiles showed no fear going into the main event of Episode 6, but he was conspicuously absent from the ensuing five-on-one on Victor Mandrake. Now, the GURU of COOL will be defending his COOL Title’s innocence from the man who Cancer Jiles would least like to touch his belt: Someone wearing a John Deere trucker’s cap. The leader of the [CENSORED] Bandits and challenger to Boston Bancroft AND Ronnie Long’s claim to "Champion of DEFIANCE" status will face one of his most learned and capable opponents yet, "The King of the Bittermen!"Singles Match vs  Heidi set the stage for her Defiance career when she decided to go Caged Heat on Wendy Briese at S01E08. With Wendy not having signed with Defiance nothing has come of this yet, but it certainly hasn’t been forgotten by anyone - least of all her husband, Terrence "Twister" Thompson. Terrence Thompson doesn’t need to defend his wife’s honor, but he sure can wrestle Heidi to see which one is gonna get put into contention for a shot at either Doozer or Sawyer! Twister is always impressive and has won all sorts of world titles, many times over. Heidi’s also a former World Champion though, and she’s already put two wrestlers on the shelf. Will Twister make it three, or get some revenge? And will Wendy keep herself out of the match?Singles Match vs  "Beautiful" Bobby Dean marked one man off his list with Xavier Langston’s mysterious-but-obvious assault at the end of the last episode. Now, with Dean’s star on the rise, he will challenge the "King of Pain" in a match that will either make or break his legacy! Greer is in no mood to take any prisoners after the car accident that was his match with Terrence Thompson and after the hunt of Long went unsuccessful, you can bet that Greer wants to taste blood in his teeth. Bobby Dean had better go big or go home, because if not the King of Pain is gonna ride out of Chicago on Dean’s flayed carcass!Handicapped Match  vs  We’re only half-sure that Victor Mandrake isn’t going to show up during any match he pleases and carve evil runes into someone’s flesh. This way, the rubber-boned Fuck/b/olts will at least take the brunt of the damage. We hope. Look, it’s like leaving a sacrificial goat(or virgin) by the dragon’s cave in hopes of placating it. Maybe Victor Mandrake won’t murder them too badly. We doubt it though. Non-Televised pre-show matches: - Saint Louis #3 vs the Truly Untouchables in a tag team rematch that is sure to impress, sure to entertain, and sure to mean big things for either a functioning-as-a-unit T-UTs, or a fast-on-the-rise Saint Louis #3! - Also: Kasper Braddock vs Angel of Death, in a lariat-throwing, spiderweb-wearing, Texas-Gothic meeting of epic proportions! - Vincent Chell vs Ryan McAdams vs Frank Dylan James in a special attraction match whereby if either Chell or McAdams "phone it in" they will be officially Future Endeavored by the Rampaging Redneck Riot known as the Hillbilly Jesus! Card subject to change. Come early and get to meet certain select DEFIANCE talent in an autograph signing and get to take pictures with the Boston Bancroft Experience and the "World" Championship, Doozer and the Southern Heritage Championship, and Roger Dane of the Tragic Heroes and the DEFIANCE Tag Team Championship!
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« Last Edit: September 08, 2010, 04:37:46 PM by Greer »
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September 04, 2010, 07:25:03 PM
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Group: Administrator
Legend
Posts: 982
First world champ... motherfucker.
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The group of human beings making up what most people refer to as civilized society rarely live the lives they'd choose. If they did we wouldn't have garbage men or janitors. Most people muddle through doing the best they can with what they're given. It's just a fact, regardless of circumstances most people never rise above the level of their parents. Live in the town you were born in. Get a good job and plan for the future. Real drive on the right side of the road, color in the lines sort of existences. Sometimes, however? The circumstances are so poor, so mindbogglingly depressing and the level of potential and success so high... even the almighty takes a step back and says.
"Goddamn... " "A better wrestler, a better man, a better champion." [Maud, Aberdeenshire, Scotland] [A dreary day in the depressing hole in the road that is Maud, Scotland. Maud is quaint in the same way an old mangy dog with one leg and not a lot of fur is quaint. At first you think 'awww, poor puppy, who did this to you?' then you realize it's mean as piss and would literally tear your arm and face off if you get to close and it was hungry enough.] Voice: Boxer McAllister? Is that you boy? [The portly old woman in bright blue stretch pants and a huge oversize flowery t-shirt wraps her arms around Bronson's neck like a vice. Bronson is taken aback by this sudden assault on his senses and complete disregard for his usual strict rules about person space. After a few shocked seconds Bronson rests his hands on the old woman's shoulders.] Box: Mrs. Murphy, it's... [grunt] good to see you. [The woman's round smiling face looks up from her hug at Box.] Mrs. Murphy: How are you, son? I haven't seen you in goin' on, what? Ten years since your fathers... [Bronson quickly nods, cutting her off.] Box: Yes, about that. [She prattles on about town gossip, where people Boxer might know might be and ended up. His eyes fall on the depressing little town square. Half the shops are closed up and the ones that are open, like Murphy's Grocery, only do so out of complete and utter necessity. The only three institutions skating just above 'dilapidated piece of shit levels' have to be the school, the church and the pub.] [The pub.] Box: [under his breath] Holy God... [Mrs. Murphy stops her rant for a moment and follows Boxer's gaze to the Lamb and Flag pub across the street, realizing instantly the bad connotations that building held for Boxer. After a long silence she finally spoke up, trying to change the subject.] Mrs. Murphy: So what are you doin' back in town, son? [Bronson shakes his gaze from the pub, readdressing the stout little woman.] Box: My work is going... [searching for the right ambiguous words] well, some good opportunities coming my way. I wanted to poke my head around the old homestead, put things into perspective. I suppose. [Mrs. Murphy smiles warmly. Bronson is utterly horrified and uncomfortable with all this emotional prattling on. If its one thing Box hates more than liars, fatties, heathens and druggies its the idea emotions had to be 'shared' with just about anybody that will listen. But something told Bronson, before his match with Boston for the WWA World title he needed to make this little journey.] Mrs. Murphy: Will you be needin' a ride out there, son? Henry was just headin' up there to check on his mother, poor thing, loony as jay bird she is. She wandered off two months past, found her a day later naked as the day she was born in the bread isle of our market here. [Bronson holds up his hands.] Box: I think I'll walk. The trek'll bring back memories. [And it did. Memories of walking up and down this long road knocking on doors virtually panhandling for any random job or spare change. Not a terribly long road, but a few miles to a tired and hungry child? Might as well be a thousand.] Box: There you are you bastard. [Bronson pulls his hands from their places in his brown trench coat and fumbles with the rusty latch on the front gate. He looks up at the little two story farm house with stone cold eyes. Even ten years ago at his fathers funeral Box didn't set foot near this place. The last time he left this house he was an angry, confused, broken little boy named Boxer McAllister. Now he's stepping back The God Warrior, the Defiance original, the wrestling superstar, the "Bombastic" Bronson Box.] Box: This seems as good a place as any to talk to you as a man, Boston Bancroft. The place where 'it' all started for me. Everybody has a different 'it' that comes to them, bang. Like a flash. For me it was a choice. Die here? [Bronson motions to the ramshackle little house.] Box: Or take to the streets and find myself. Find a new path that didn't include the monster that lived in this pile of sticks and bad memories. I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that we're more alike than either of us are comfortable really sayin', boy'o. Real 'pull yourself up by your bootstraps', 'wrong side of the tracks' sort of chaps. Champion of takin' a little and makin' it stretch [wink and a nod] am I right? [He starts walking up to the front porch. Memories flash of his father standing in the doorway. Boxer shakes them off.] Box: You're the only other man in this company, short of Stephen Greer, that has shown me an ounce of respect. Considering my usual feelings regarding someone of your... ilk, that's sayin' a bloody mouth full. The fact you're standing up and facing me like a man? Eye to bleedin' eye? That's a least a start on makin' you look like a true bloody champion. [A mustache curling sneer.] Box: Just a damn shame that won't matter for piss since that belt? It's comin' home with me. You can go sit on your two Summer Games victories pally boy because that piece of leather and tin will be on ol' Boxer's mantle come the sixteenth of September. What will I do with it, you may ask? What will I do with your little prop? Who knows. I might keep it, defend the bastard as is. I might declare myself the true Defiance World Heavyweight Champion, put an end to all this nonsense. I might rename it, create my own damned title. [Bronson raises his eyebrows, gives the camera a little knowing look.] Box: I might hand the bloody thing to Eric Dane myself with a bloody bow on the bastard. I might chop the pitiful little thing up and send it to each former champion with a little photocopied picture of you bloody, beaten, broken at my bleedin' feet after our match! Your neck cranked, your back broken, your face crushed by my right hand! Do you hear me you dark skinned heathen? "We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair" that was second Corinthians. I've lost a few. But you know us, Boston, we just keep pulling ourselves back up. [Patting the paint chipped exterior of the house. A hundred toe curlingly bad memories flooding his minds eye.] Box: Those damn bootstraps, I wager. [Bronson climbs the stairs and stands in the door-less doorway to the house.] Box: Speaking of those losses? Ronnie Long. Your actions last week obviously have nothing to do with me specifically. But believe me, it might be next week. It might be weeks possibly months from know. Bronson Box doesn't forgive... [as stern as a human voice can possibly get] anything. Causing me to lose to that bloated whale of a man, Edward White, makes me ill. I can still feel his drooping sagging body all over me, pinning me helplessly to the mat with his girth. All thanks to you, Ronnie my boy. With all the ruckus you've caused, Ronnie? This next week you might try watching your back for a change, boy'o. Can't take that bloody shovel with you everywhere, pally. [A heavy sigh as Boxer makes his way into the interior of the house, making a b-line for the upstairs bedroom. He pushes open the thin press board door, "Boxer" scrawled in marker near the doorknob. The little metal frame bed and stained mattress still stand where they always had in the far corner. The rest of the tiny bedroom was bare, the windows all busted out long ago.] Box: My want to be a champion, Boston? I can't help but say it's far greater, far more intense than your want to stay one. Like I mentioned before, I respect your ability. You show me respect, I'll show it back if it's warranted. I may not care for your attitude, your lifestyle, your... background but I respect your ability. Unlike Ronnie Long? You have a modicum of respect buried underneath all that ego and flash. But even with that said? These "successes" of yours from the alliance? They're weighing you down. Accept my offer of unburdening you, brother. Realize with all you have going for you... I'm just that much better. A better wrestler, a better man and soon? [Bronson walks over to the little bed and reaches a hand underneath the mattress pulling out an old folded up wad of magazine clippings. Page after page of old faded photos of body builders, boxers and wrestlers. He stops at a clipping of what looks to be a boxer holding up a title belt.] Box: A better champion. [After a few beats Bronson turns on his heels and marches out of the room.] [End.]
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 10/10/10 - 3/24/11 "I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! [Makes slurping sound] I DRINK IT UP!" |
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September 05, 2010, 09:06:03 PM
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Group: Handlers
Rookie
Posts: 134
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...the following is an E-Gold Classic…The latest addition to the DEFIANCE roster is sure to raise a few eyebrows, bang many mothers, and actively pass paternity tests left and right. "He is every woman’s dream and every husband’s nightmare!" [Waves.] Voice: Hey there. The name is Chris Cannon. [The camera is in the wrong place.] [Insert ‘grabbing of the balls’ motion here.] [Pause.] CHRIS.”THE”.CANNON!!! [Peek-a-boo!] [Cannon reaches down and helps the camera guy get a closer view of his trademark grin.] [That’s better.] [Chris takes a seat in front of the black backdrop background with white text reading “E-Gold Certified”. He is wearing a black tuxedo and matching dress pants for this occasion. I guess being taken up by Elijah Goldman pays financial dividends.] … [SRS Tyme!~] The Cannon: Did you miss me, Defiance? [Probably not.] The Cannon: It’s been a long time coming for yours truly, and I’d like to first of all thank Elijah Goldman for knowing talent when he sees it. More importantly, I must thank him for realizing that the DEFIANCE product has been for too long considered an abortion of a wrestling company full of chimpanzees and con-artists. Pretty accurate assessment if you ask me. There are the guys that work hard to make things go and the guys that just naturally fit. I am one of the latter and will bring necessary transition to the end of Season Two and for here on forward. [Nods.] The Cannon: I come to DEFIANCE because I feel it is the perfect playground for me… But like in every company, I see the improvements that could be made. [Word.] [Change is coming. Let’s keep it simple for now…] The Cannon: 1.) Bring the wrestling back… All of these pathetic, worthless, half talent fucks are running around with these second-rate, half ass gimmicks, while the real art of wrestling fades out into a shallow and forgotten grave. With Chris Cannon you get quality matches, asses in the seats and guaranteed ratings. The most exciting prospect since the inception of free agency itself! 2.) Find yourselves… I know it is physically impossible to be as good looking, handsome and lucky as I am, but at least grow some standards. With Chris Cannon, you get a no non-sense and in your face frame of mind. I won’t jerk you around or lie to you. It is what it is. Accept it because pretty soon DEFIANCE will be revolving around me! [Are you still following? Need it a little more simple?] The Cannon 3.) Welcome me… Chris Cannon is here and he is going nowhere. I won’t stop until my waist is wrapped with gold titles and the loving from all of your mother’s and wives‘. Consistently… Two times, three times, and I’m sure you get the picture. [Not that in-depth, eh? Oh well.] [Cannon contemplates his next thought. A grin crosses his face.] The Cannon: Now that I am here, I’d like to take this opportunity to tell the entire DEFIANCE locker room that you can now officially suck my dick, eat shit off the arena floors, and suck the dirty off my wrestling boots. I am officially your main event and there is not a thing that you can do about it. My first week in DEFIANCE and look at the controversy that has arisen. The dirt sheets are scrambling to get answers because two of Elijah Goldman’s prospects are hitting the main event with evident purpose and intent. [Chris shakes his head.] The Cannon: But goddamnit, why do I get the lightweights? Jimmy [The CILF (Cousin I’d like to Fuck) Hunter] Kort and Jake [The …zzz] Donovan. It’s okay, though. I am not one to grumble when it comes to outwrestling and performing any wrestler at any time or day. [Cannon shows a more serious tone on his face.] The Cannon: Jimmy Kort? How cliché can you get? Seriously? You are the absolute worst rendition of a stereotypical redneck if you ask me. Frank Dylan James has to be pissed the fuck off when he sees you acting like a horses ass and degrading what little reputation he still has left. I guess everyone loves the Beverly Hillbillies? [Shrugs.] The Cannon: But I get it. Gotta do what’cha gotta do to make a dollar in this here life. But at what expense? To become a broken down human being spitting tobacco out of his mouth so he can stay legit? Hey, it’s your life… [Pause.] The Cannon: Why should I give a shit about you besides saying I came to DEFIANCE in the Main Event and killed the Sheriff who was on fucking duty. Using you as target practice in a continuing journey for bigger and better things. I’ll only let you answer that. Why should you give a fuck about me? I’ll let that be your own paranoia. Just don’t get all pissy and in a bunch when Chris Cannon becomes the new big deal around here. Always helps to have friends in high places with a mix of superior talent. [Cannon poses with a smile.] The Cannon: Can’t say I didn’t tell you so. [Nope.] The Cannon: Jake Donovan. Didn’t forget about you! Sorry I don’t have some long detailed mockery for yourself. I tend to not be able to watch more than two minutes of you. You’re boring, predictable and incredibly lame. I’ll probably not be responding to anything you say about me. Don’t take it personally. …You care. Don’t care. Society cares and doesn’t care. I just don’t fucking know… The fact is there is a life out there and you have to play the damn game. When your time comes and it is time to move aside, you accept your fate. It has knocked on your door. Chris Cannon is here… Chris “The” Cannon. And he is passing you by. [Sounds about right? Right.] The Cannon: Can’t forget about the guy on the other side of the E-Gold promise, Adrien Cochrane. The E-Gold Promise is just that, buddy. It’s a guarantee that things are fixing to change for the better. We’re both highlighting the Main Event in our first week. Just the way it should be. [A knowing smile crosses Cannon’s face.] The Cannon: Let’s go out there and claim our prizes!
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« Last Edit: September 10, 2010, 09:35:24 PM by xchriscannonx »
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September 05, 2010, 09:53:13 PM
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Untouchable, forevermore
Group: Administrator
Legend
Posts: 756
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“Well hi there.” Jeff Andrews speaks into the camera as if he’s having a conversation with it. “I appreciate the fact that you came out here so quickly, and I reckon you’ve got a lot of questions for me. Well sir, I’ll try to answer all of ‘em as best I can. And we’ll start with… where the hell am I at?” And it’s a good question, because this isn’t the usual backdrop for a promo. Andrews’ head and shoulders are all that’s visible right now. Behind him, out of focus, is a wall of green. He’s outdoors, and it’s sunny. The John Deere trucker’s cap that is of course placed on his head casts a shadow across his face. But not one of those menacing, moody ones. Like one cast by a man who set his hat to keep the sun out of his eyes or something. “Now, I know the story around these parts is that I’m stoopid, that I don’t like to think. But, eh, I’ve thought before and I will again. It just takes, ah… taking a step away from the big picture, is all. That is, when I want to think all clear. So I decided to take a break from cutting promos for a webcamera in my living room, and get me back to some nature.” And with a fade back, we see what he means. Jeff Andrews is somewhere out in the country. There’s a wide open blue sky, and a big grassy hill behind him, with one scraggly old tree growing up behind him. The grass nearer has been mown short, up at the top of the hill it’s long and turning gold at the tips. It’s not quite idyllic, but it’s peaceful. And Andrews himself? Well, aside from the cap, he’s wearing a Hydra T-shirt, jean shorts, and he’s sitting on a tractor. Specifically, the John Deere 9030 that he drove during the Defiance invasion. “Now, before I get down to business and talk ‘rasslin, I’ve got a story to tell. This here tractor I got? Y’know, I liked this thing. It was just… big, and there. Kinda like me. I identified with this. But haulin’ a tractor to a wrestling show gets expensive. It was fine when I was working in a fed that didn’t tour, I rented me up a storage garage. But now that I’m going all over with Defiance, I can’t afford to bring my tractor with me.” Andrews leans back in the seat and puts his hands behind his head. “So I called up my dad. Now my folks, they didn’t really take to me picking wrestling as a career, and so things have been kinda strained for several years. But I needed something to do with my bro, here…” He thumps his heel down on the tractor’s dashboard. He’s wearing no shoes. “And so I was all ‘Hey Dad, want a tractor’?” “And of course he said yeah, because hey, free tractor. And I done brought it out to the old Andrews farm.” “And now that I’m out here, I figured I’d do me some thinking.” “You know, of course. First title shot in damn ages, and I pull pro wrestling’s version of an incomplete pass on fourth down in football. What gives? And… why’d it happen in the first place? Motivation issues or not, I would like to stack up some W’s in my career here in Defiance. So…” From out of sight beside him, Andrews produces a beer. Samuel Adams Summer Ale, to be exact. He takes a long drink, sets it down and sighs in relaxation. “That’s why I decided to come out here and take a load off. Didn’t even bring Heidi. Just me, the sunshine, the fresh air, the beer and the tractor, and my thinkin’ hat. And you know what? I already figured this out.” He laughs to himself. “There’s two ways to get me to bring my best game. To be someone who I actually want to get in the ring against, and to irritate me into actually doing something. But most people end up falling into the category of people who irritate me into apathy. And so I sat down and listened to Bancroft cut his second promo and try to kiss his own workrate’s ass, I was all ‘hell with this’ and quit caring.” “I don’t need a title for validation. I’ve already won a belt. And while I’d like the bragging rights, you know what?” “It’s not worth making me do something that I just don’t fuckin’ feel like doing.” “And if that’s making sure I’m at my prime when I step into the ring… meh, I’ll eat taco bell and stay up the night before the match playing videogames instead if I want.” “Enjoy your title, Bancroft. No, seriously, enjoy it. Use it as a mirror when you comb your mustache. Take it out to dinner with you. Go to outer space with it. Hell, I’d pay to see that. Boston Bancroft, riding his title like he’s the Silver Surfer, straight through the stratosphere and into outer space, and then his head explodes and his mustache floats down and some idiot like Adrien Cochrane goes chasing after it because he thinks it’s a butterfly.” Again, Andrews chuckles at his own wit, as well as the mental image of Adrien chasing Boston Bancroft’s mustache, flailing his arms and missing. “So anyway. Enough about that, I got me a different match this week. Cancer Jiles.” Andrews adjusts the brim of his hat slightly to the right. “Y’know, his name caught my eye when he was in DREAM… I was like, Cancer? Jiles? Sounds like the most sleazy divorce lawyer ever. Then I look at the dude, figure him for a surfer. You know, cos of the dorky board shorts, and maybe his first name’s talking about the Tropic of Cancer instead of the malignant illness. But nope.” “He’s cool.” “That’s about it really.” Andrews shrugs. “I’m well aware that Jiles won the battle royal at the beginning of Season Two, and honestly? Pissed me off. Don’t see why wrestling companies let the obviously sneaky and less talented cheat like that and get away with it.” (Not a mention of wrestling companies letting a pack of bloodthirsty maniacs put half the roster on the shelf like Hydra did) “So, retribution? I guess. It feels like, I oughtta be calling down the holy fire, especially because back then the fans loved the hell out of me. But on the other hand? It’s not like I wouldn’t do the same damn thing. What’s better than winning a match? Winning a match without trying AMIRITE? Hell yes I am.” He taps the brim of his hat down with one finger and crosses his arms, all COOL or something. “Besides, you hit Cobra in the head with a bag of sand, and that’s entirely commendable. Have I ever mentioned that my biggest regret in my Defiance career is that I didn’t get to be in on kicking that self-satisfied douchefuck out of Hydra? I dunno, maybe that’s not the biggest regret, but it’s up there. Anyway, I guess I’m just going on about not a whole lot, so lemme wrap this mess up, k?” Again he leans back in his seat, hands behind his head. “I’ve mentioned that there’s two ways to get me really up for a match, Jiles. Motivate me by being awesome, or motivate me by being intolerable.” “You’re intolerable.” “And I’m gonna rip your damn head off.” [End]
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September 05, 2010, 10:55:58 PM
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Group: Administrator
Legend
Posts: 807
Mr. Bear is disappointed in you.
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Bronson Box looks up at his friend's fat momma, who glowers down at the moustached, cueball-looking grappler. In his little world, Bronson Box's going back to his roots means something. It's poignant. It reflects the lengths he's willing to go to to defeat Boston Bancroft. He's confronting the hellish-looking battleaxe that is Mrs. Murphy, that old dragon-looking beast. She looks back down at him, contempt in her expression. She knows this kid is a no-good thug.
"Is that you, Boxer McAllister?" she asks, her voice curious, and ever so slightly afraid. Then, she gives him a hug, hoping to placate the beast's emotional drive, give him something to think he shouldn't gut her and add her lip's impressive collection of the ol' Scots fuzz to his moustache."The Undying Rockstar" Kelly Merciless stood on the porch of his front porch, a cracked and weathered old piece of slate set into the Irish grass. He swallowed heavily, combing his dark hair back with both hands, behind his ears. Taking a long, slow breath, the Prince of New York walked up to the door, and banged on it repeatedly with one hand.
"What, who is it?" came the squawk from inside. A face appeared in the window, and the woman who was technically Mrs. Merciless, although she'd hate to be referred to that, looked out at him. The little redheaded woman looked out the door, and her jaw fell open, at the black-haired, greasy-looking punk in a leather jacket.Bronson Box has returned home. It's even more meaningful than stopping by his old neighborhood. It's his house. The very place where Poppy Mcallister slapped the shit out of little Boxer on a regular basis. The reason that Boxer grew up to be a big, mean, nasty bully: So he can beat people up before they victimize him.
It's a defense mechanism, really. Bronson accepts this, steps onto his porch, and looks out at the omnipresent DEFIANCE camera.
"This seems as good a place to talk to you as a man, Boston."
His voice comes out thin and reedy, worried with the nearby presence of the abusive ghost of his father, haunting Bronson Boxer McAllister's imagination. And to a kid who grew up someplace abusive, the imagination was the escape. So Box is conjuring all sorts of terrifying what-ifs in his head.Kelly Merciless stood in front of the much-fabled "woodshed", the place where he threatened to take people out behind, and relayed tales of his father bouncing his head off the side of it, beating the shit out of him behind it, treating him poorly. He looked to the Big Apple Wrestlin' camera crew, and smirked. Indexes pointed straight outward, at the chunk in the side of the front wall, where Kelly claimed to once have busted out a part of it, and used it to hit his father back, before sticking out his tongue and flashing a heavy metal devils-sign.
"Boston, Oi figger'd tha this'd be tha bes' place ta talk to ya. Jes' you an' me, ya bas'ard."
He stepped up against the wall of the shed, and tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his dark leather jacket. A grin that was so arrogant, so self-satisfied, it oozed "punch me in the face"-juice, appeared on his lips. A toss of his head, and Kelly winked to the camera.Bronson puffed himself up, trying to look like a bigger, badder man than he was currently coming off. Pacing anxiously across his porch, Bronson reflexively opened and closed his hands, throttling Boston and his father alternately, eyes hazy and far-away. If he was only more of a man, maybe he could have been self-reliant back when Daddums whipped Boxer with a belt.
"-The fact you're standing up and facing me like a man? Eye to bleedin' eye? That's a least a start on makin' you look like a true bloody champion."Kelly Merciless looked around, eyes rolling as he worked that around in his mouth. He hated the taste of saying that phrase. It sickened him, visibly. It was awful-tasting. It made him want to dry-heave bile and razorblades and old burritoes. There was no way he could possibly be willing to say it again.
"Oi'll say it 'gain... Gothim Hahvywayt Champ'in Boston Bancroft? Feckin' awful. Bet at laist ye'll let me have a go atcha an' that pretty toitl' belt o' yers."Bronson twitched as he snuck into his old bedroom. Any moment, a hand would descend upon his shoulder and make him literally have kittens.
"My want to be a champion, Boston? I can't help but say it's far greater, far more intense than your want to stay one." Kelly kicked over an old axehandle. He said his father liked to smack the hell out of him with an axehandle. Behind the shed, the One Man Cover Story looked up, and out, at the camera.
"Yeh doan' love that juicy toitl' loike Oi do. Now that Oi got meself a shot, it's gonna foinally be moi toime! MOI CHANCE A' THA STARS, YEH BLOODY WANKER!""Soon? ...A better champion.""It'll be moine. An' New Yahrk'll foinally have th' champion it daserves.""Everything old is new again. Here I stand, a champion, and my young challenger is making claims of being better than me, more passionate, more driven." Boston Bancroft finally cut in, the videos spliced from old Big Apple Wrestling footage and DEFIANCE TV hype-reel footage cutting out in favor of Boston, standing before an "IPW" backdrop. It's not that he worked for IPW... Well, technically, since he pulled a paycheck from their wrestling school, and he was financially invested in the company. But he wasn't obligated to hype them. It just happened to be a good spot to slide a little shout-out. “I’ve been in this very position before. It’s nothing new. Your promo, your trip home, your claims of being hungrier, better, stronger...” The World Heavyweight Championship hung on his shoulder. An expensive silk shirt hung off his chest. He wore sunglasses, a moustache, and a big ol' grin. And the keen-eyed would notice that a new golden chain, thin and tasteful, adorned Boston's neck. It had a winking embossed Jesus Christ on it, smiling and happy. "Well, Bronson, all I have to say is good job. I put my word out that I'd defend this title every chance I got, and you took me up on the offer. It wasn't just a good idea, it was you grabbing at the opportunity dangled in front of you." A beneficent smile, and Boston arched an eyebrow. "But who is Bronson Box to take this shot? Now, I can't say anything dire about your skill." The camera caught Boston from the shins up, and he looked down, kicking at something with a silk trouser-wearing leg. "You are skillful. Your mat wrestling is good, superb even. You can Greco-roman-grapple with the best of 'em. Your arms are like octopi, ready to snag and grab and twist and hurt. You've got biceps like coconuts, and shoulders like boulders. My god, man, if you grew a little hair and trimmed your moustache situation to something more contemporary, you'd be an Adonis!" A hand gestured towards the camera. "You've got the ability. And the physique. Neither of those can be doubted. Anyone who does is a liar or stupid. I'd consider it an insult to my own abilities to claim that you aren't capable of taking me to the limit." A finger popped up, and slowly swished, chastising. "But there's a major difference between the two of us. You're Bronson Box, the man who lost out to Aaron Vasquez, a guy who couldn't even stick it out for a full second season. The guy who got rolled up by Edward White. The man who everyone is going to forget lost to Cancer Jiles, just before I broke Cancer Jiles' hand." Thumb jerked back at his chest. "I'm Boston Bancroft. I'm the Boston Bancroft Experience. The Spoiler. When I show up, things get done. I won Summer Games twice, I won this World Title off the guy who everyone seems to be terrified of, "The Satan of Florida's Castle", Vickie Mandrake. I beat Andrews. I've beaten World Champion after World Champion, I've held a dozen more titles than you've even fantasized that you managed to win out of your old magazines, and I love this business a hell of a lot more than you ever could." Boston snatched off those shades, frisbeeing them away. He leaned close to the camera, eyes narrowing. "So don't you dare say that you'll be a better champion than I am. I'm doing this to ensure that our customers, the paying fans, the people responsible for your paycheck, my glory, and Eric Dane's hospitalization alike, get what they paid for." Boston sniffed as he straightened, taking the title belt off his shoulder and strapping it around his waist. Once finished, Boston quietly continued. "Boxer, you've got everything, the desire, the skill, the power, the ability. You just don't have the knowledge I do. The experience I've had, that tells me that you have to make sure those fans, the people who come to see you and I compete, get to see something that knocks their socks off." Finger jabbed off to the left, that familiar, comfortable, reassuring weight around his waist spurring him on. Boston's nostrils flared, his eyebrows twitched, face a mask of pissed-itude. "Boxer, you and the Hydra forget that. That's why I'm on a crusade through your ranks. You have to do stuff that they'll enjoy, like kick Cancer Jiles' ass, save the day from Victor Mandrake, or make sure that all those wearing DEFIANCE merch go home happy, whether it at a certain pay-per-view, or at one of our TV shows." Boston put his hands on the title’s faceplate, and Boston angled it upward. “There’s one thing ya need to know, Bronson. Every time you’re in a tight spot, a bad corner, you lose. Every time you’ve been up against the grind, you lose. And it’s not because of your skill or ability. I’ve already said how good that is. The problem is that you inherently hate yourself. You want Bronson Box to be consumed into ashes in the fires of HELL... and reborn into a new man.” A grin. “Me? I’m happy with who i am. Boston Bancroft is a success. I’m great at spoiling the hopes and dreams of those scrubs like Jeffy and Victory, and I’ve got a very, very profitable set of investments now that I’m on top. Even when I lose, it’s because someone else wasn’t pulling their weight, or I was busy kicking someone else’s rear all up and down the aisles.” Boston turned, walking to the right, a sigh. He shrugged, and turned, so his face was turned back to the camera-left. “Every time I get put into a bad spot, I pull it out in the end. When I got put into a three-on-one cagematch, I managed to dupe them and win. When I was in the barbed wire ropes ladder match, I got him tied up and pulled it out. Battle royales, I’ve won. Gauntlet matches. Chair matches. Scaffold matches. Thumbtacks, razorblades, last man standing, test of strength, and even ultimate submission matches!Boston paused, to take a breath. He had said that last bit all in one gasp of air. “I will not let someone who is not worthy be the one to dethrone me. I’m not gonna let some puffed-up bully with a 1920s moustache be the one to end the legend of Boston Bancroft, World Champion.” A hand waved, to insinuate the marquee with Boston’s name on it. “What I will do, Mister Muscles, is let you in on MY very favorite Bible verse.” Boston grinned, shuffling his feet a few times, Ali-style. The path of the righteous man...” A thumb jerked towards Boston’s chest. “...-is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.” A snap of the fingers, a wink, and a finger pointed to the camera, complete with a silently-mouthed “that’s you!”. “Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness.” Nobody said it, but it was clear who Boston meant. Mister Whealdon? FANS~!“-for, you see, he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee...!” Fist shook at the camera, at Hydra, at Bronson Box. “With great vengeance! And fuuuuuurious anger!” The Cradle of Liberty. The Boston Massacre. “THOSE! LIKE YOU, BOX! WHO WOULD ATTEMPT TO POISON, AND DESTROY MY BROTHERS!” The camera goes dark, and all that is left is the afterimage. Boston’s World Heavyweight Championship, the top prize in all of professional wrestling. It glittered. It gleamed. “And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”
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September 05, 2010, 11:24:12 PM
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Group: Handlers
Veteran
Posts: 327
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“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD’S HAIRY BALLS ARE YOU TOO BLOODY IDIOTS DOING!” The old lush thundered as he watched Gabriel and Darren walk into the room with their arms laden with popcorn, chips, soda and supersized movie candy bars. "You said we was watching films." Gabriel said as he settled down in an easy chair. "Yeah so we figured we'd grab some snacks and things before the show." Darren said as he sat down too, arranged his snacks on the end table beside him and took a long drink from the bottle of pop he held in his hand. "What movie we watching anyway?" The old Lush looked from one to the other with a look on his face that was one part astonishment and one part pure fury and murderous intent as he sputtered and waved his arms before completely exploding at the pair of them. "Films, I said films, as in films of your opponents you BLOODY IDIOTS! You two can't be this stupid, you can't, I mean seriously, did we drop you two numbskulls on your heads once too often in training or what, I mean seriously...SERIOUSLY, you two showed up to watch films with popcorn! Where are your notebooks, where the hell are your pens, GOD DAMN IT ALL, do you take ANYTHING...ANYTHING seriously!" The old lush yelled as he snatched a bowl of popcorn and threw it across the room, then grabbed the chips and tossed them on the floor, stomping them till the bag popped open and chips sprayed everywhere. "Go get your notebooks and get back in here ready to study your god damned opponents." The pair dashed from the room to do as they'd been told while the old Lush sank down in the third chair, his bottle of tequila in hand he tilted his head back and took a long drink then wiped his mouth. "I'm too old for this shit, I'm too old for this shit, I'm too god damned old for this shit!" he grumbled to himself. "I could be on a beach surrounded by half naked women but NO, I'm here, spending my retirement years with the moron twins. I swear before god they're going to try my patience one of these days and I'm going to break my foot off in their hind parts! I'm an old man god damnit, and too god damned old for this shit!" "Yeah, your old when you're sitting there talking to yourself." Darren said as he came back into the room with a notebook and pen. "I wouldn't be talking to myself if you two idiot didn't drive me to it!" The old Lush declared. "now can we PLEASE get down to business?!" "Fine." Gabriel said as he sprawled in a chair with his notebook and pen. "Anyone know why we gotta face the Truly Untouchables again anyway, I mean, we won, so why do we have to do it again?" "Because one win doesn't always mean you're the better team moron." The old Lush grumbled. "Open your ears boy, let me tell you a little story about the old days and what Tag Team rasslin was really like." "Oh lord." Darren groaned. " He called it rasslin." "Shut up, I want to hear what he has to say." Gabriel said, which clearly shocked the old Lush, who paused, drink halfway to his lips as he studied the sprawled form of sometimes reluctant member of the team. "Well then...that's a first." the old lush said as he finally took his drink, then leaned back. "Now let's see. Back when there were more teams than you could shake a stick at, one match just wasn't going to get the job done, hell back then, matches actually went twenty, thirty minutes and the fans weren't board with it mind you, hell they were glued to the action. Now you have a bunch of teams vying for a title, and those belts were coveted way back then, not like the bullshit now, with everyone having their me first me first attitude and no one wanting to team up because they're afraid to share the glory. Back then, hell, back then you road up and down the road with your tag team partner, you ate together, you trained together, you went to jail together if need be and damnit, you knew your partner better than you knew you're damned family...hell you were family, whether you were blood or not. Which is why I am constantly trying to tell you two ijits that you already have an advantage over most of your god damned opponents because you ARE blood and you should know each other better than anyone and you should have that bond between you that allows you to know what the hell your partner is thinking at any moment in the match but you two idiots are so far behind on that curve that it's going to take me till social security kicks in just to teach it to you." A long drink followed the long as ramble. Darren fidgeted, but Gabriel sat glued to his seat, his eyes on the old Lush. "Now where was I," The old lush grumbled "Ah yes, back then, it often took a series of matches to decide which team was better, which teams were going to be ranked where, have a shot at titles, and while there were teams who could pick up the occasional win every now and again, but it was the real teams, the power teams, that could go into a best of three or a best of five, or a best of seven series who could really show their dominance. That's how grudges were settled, and the pecking order was established, not this one match bullshit that you kids think is how you're going to work your way to the top. So you beat the Truly Untouchables once, big fucking deal, even a mangy dog manages to dig up a tasty bone every now and again. You guys didn't prove shit with that win, and I sure as hell ain't gonna sit around and watch you two get cocky, now play the tape damnit, I've had their most recent matches compiled, I want you guys to look and see where you might be able to get an advantage and the things you're going to have to look out for." "So you mean like when St. Sure slipped that armbar and sent Darren to his knees." Gabriel commented. "Exactly." The old Lush said. "That woman is fast and experienced, and she is well versed in submissions, that Truly Untouchabreaker she locked on Darren should have ended things, would have Gabriel, if Booya hadn't allowed you to break it up. You two have to watch out for that move, you have to watch Booya's body language as well. Last time he walked away when you were pinning St. Sure, you cannot count on that happening again, you have to be prepared to intercept Booya and take him out if the need arises." "So you think that we should isolate St. Sure in the ring and try and keep Booya out, why, cause she's a chick?" Darren asked. The old Lush sighed in frustration. "I think," Gabriel said lazily, his eyes on the screen where he was watching Booya Powerbomb the hell outta somebody "that what the old lush is trying to say, is that we need to cut the ring in half, and isolate whoever we have in the ring with us, but that we also need to keep an eye out for the guy on the outside, watch his eye, his body language, learn to read what he's going to do." "What makes you think you know so god damn much?" Darren growled, glaring at his cousin. "You're the guy who half the god damned time doesn't even want to BE here!" "Doesn't mean I don't pay attention." Gabriel said. "I listened to the dad's talk about cutting the ring in half, controlling the pace of the match, controlling who gets in the ring and how long to keep them there. The point of a tag team match is to have someone to go to when you need a break, if you stop your opponent from making their corner, then it becomes a two on one situation, simple and basic, everyone knows that. If we isolate Booya, there are several things we have to be wary of. Number one, he's bigger than either one of us, he's got 6-7 inches in height, and we can't forget that translates to reach too, which means he would have an easier time reaching his partner than either of us if we were cut off. Dealing with Booya we'd have to cut the ring in less than half, keep him in our third of the ring. The other thing we'd have to watch is St. Sure, she is faster than both of us, and if we turn too much of our attention to Booya, she could sneak up on one of us and waylay us and be out of the ring again before we even knew what happened." "Exactly!" the old lush exclaimed "Bout god damned time someone actually listened to me." "We should listen to you more." Gabriel said. "You've been right each time you've told us what we need to do to win. We're ranked number two, which, for a pair of messed up Rookies is actually a damn good thing. But the Truly Untouchables aren't ranked, and if we lose to them, we'll lose our spot, and we'll have to fight even harder to get it back. This is our chance to prove ourselves, and maybe we ain't got our shit together yet, and we don't know each other like a real team should, but we can't worry about the things we ain't got right now, we have to focus on our strengths and our biggest strength is the old Lush, we need to know what he knows and if it means listening to old stories and watching a fuck ton of tape, then get prepared to wear out that pen Dare, because we're going to take notes, and we're going to fucking learn how to get better even if it kills us, because I didn't fucking give up my band to come on the road with you and fail. Now there's one team between us and a chance at those titles, and that's The Foreshadowing, and to get to them, you know they are going to make us prove ourselves over and over and over again because no one in this company is going to want to see a pair of fuck up rookies triumph over their god damned so called stars. Those guys who rule this place, those guys we grew up watching some of them, and we ain't shit to them, we ain't nothing, and no one in this god damn place is going to stand up and take notice of them unless we make them." "We gotta make them notice." Darren said. Gabriel nodded. "Exactly, we gotta make them notice. Look at all those guys, their running through the place, tearing shit up, finding ways to get the camera on them every chance they get. It's time we find ways to get the camera on us. Just because this is set to be a dark match, doesn't mean we have to allow them to keep us in the dark." Gabriel said. "It's time to find the light boys." The old Lush said as he took a long drink. "It's time to find the light."
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September 06, 2010, 02:36:04 PM
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Group: Handlers
Veteran
Posts: 300
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The Reaper of unCOOL soulsNo, you really shouldn't have.
~~ Disclaimer: Before meandering through the following podcast, you should know it won’t be laced with its' normally jubilant, COOL flavored glazing. [Thank you.] As for the troubled reasoning behind such a high act of malfeasance, or for jogging "off the reservation” if you will; the all important, minty-gold Script of Life was unceremoniously flipped on its head, and then swift kicked in the private parts a few times for added pleasure. More precisely though, the crippling aftershocks stemming from the down right malicious and retarded behavior exuded by certain "superstars" residing in the house of the Defiant. One of the victims caught in the eye of this deadly barrage of terror and destruction is a man who refuses to be interfered with, ever again. The following is his gauntlet. Run it, if you dare. A lone voice can be heard, as a [censored] Bandits banner proudly sways in the background. ???:I'm done with Mongo's sticking their big noses in other peoples affairs. That's my job for Christ’s sake. I'm the one who made doing that COOL. Oh, and to quell any confusion, I'm not flattered in the least by it. What I am is something far-far worse. And know this, if I have to start drinking goat blood, or sacrificing chickens, or juggling fire and brimstone in Alloy's backyard, or dig an underground tunnel to China, or eat a box of glass-jimmied Twinkies... Seems as if the last possible guy to ever even think about caring, is willingly taking up a sure to be grievous, and quite possibly grave cause against a common, massively overweight and grungy enemy. Kevin "Satan" Alloy: (cameoing) mmmmhhehehehahahahahaha.... Satan doesn't know why he is here, but the King of COOL whip can't be wrong with his tasty hell freezing goodness! CCJ: (with ironclad conviction) Then so_fucking_be it. Standing tall inside of the tried and true Defiance promo booth, Professor COOL stalks into view. Intensely gazing into the camera before him, his patent-pending COOL shades rest atop his tilted head; revealing for the first time his unforgiving hazel shaded eyes. CCJ: (with an unknown sincerity) This shit has to stop. Like, right fucking now stop. I ain't kidding either. Think about what a grave travesty it would be, if all that has been worked for was so carelessly tossed to way side in favor of a palsy-esque game of Fossils and Dragons. All of MY scrupulous work, meticulous planning, and steadfast dedication can not be allowed to fall upon deaf ears. Someone has to put their foot down and end this masquerade before it spirals aimlessly out of control. Someone’s got to dig in, and take a stand against wrong and injustice. The fancy, vibrant, awkwardly patterned, long-sleeved collared button-down that Cancer the COOL dons for his "call to arms" is loosely tucked into a freshly pressed pair of khaki dress slacks. Also in play are a pair of all sorts of styling (green)snake-skin boots, a luxurious diamond studded Movado watch, and a Puerto Rican themed handkerchief that effortlessly hangs out of his pimped out breast pocket. [You know, for complimentary purposes.] CCJ:That person I so graciously speak of, and you should probably be sitting down for this... is me. THE COOL CHAMPION. That's right bitches. I have nominated myself to do the unthinkable, yet again. For you see, I will NOT fall on deaf ears. NO SIR! No longer will the lowly and prehistoric remnants of Christmas past play fiddles playground with the life blood of Defiance. Que the fake applause and roaring cheers. No, really. A cassette tape was played in order to help sell the fact. Coincidentally, when played backwards, the tape also reveals the secret location to Mandrake Island. [Stay tuned.] Closing his eyes and envisioning what it would be like to have righteousness on his side, Cancer uncharacteristically allows himself to get swept away in the magic of such a fun loving moment. The shit eating grin he so classically supports almost reaches 100 percent, only to hastily dissipate upon snapping back to the horrifying reality of his current situation. CCJ:I know all about mountains, even more about how hard it is to move them. I'm aware the trials lying ahead will be both of a tumultuous and tiresome nature... that'll most likely amount to ZERO fun. I _KNOW_ the toll might wind up costing more than just an arm and a leg, but gawd dammit... I‘ve reached my wit’s end! Clearly agitated with his inability to focus on the simple task at hand, Cancer shakes his head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs. He pauses with the bobbling to viciously spit on the mute colored wall, amongst showing other obviously visible signs of disgust. Oh, and not that it really needs pointing out, but the famed/precious/one of a kind COOL Title that occasionally gets beamed out of Deep Space 9 is strapped around Thee COOL's sharply dressed waist, further punctuating his constantly astounding and forever impressive COOL factor. CCJ:I mean, it’s like Prego soup, ya know... where's the beef, Vic? You slow... or just stupid? Don’t answer that, I already know it's both. But really, you don't go running in on the uncrowned Champion while he's doing work. YOU definitely don't do it TWICE. You Mega-Mongo. Maybe you think it's funny, costing me my rightful and deserving spot at the top of the Network. Yeah, I bet you do... what a funny fucking guy you are. There will be a severe penalty for that, I assure you, funny-guy. You might be 500 pounds of glass chomping fun, but you are not above the COOL. Not above the Bandits. Nobody is. Especially NOT some man-titty freak show with "will suck dick for elf blood" tattooed across each of his arms. The Bandits are coming for you, and we're going to pay back the favor before the Season is up. I PROMISE you that much, clown. An exhausting sigh is exhaled, followed by the careful lowering of COOL shades. CCJ:Enough about the meaningless. Let’s delve into the soon to be a lil' less meaningless pot. That would be in the ballpark of Jeff Andrews, I suppose. Well... last chance, eh Bitterman? I guess after Boston bean-bagged ya, you'll be looking to redeem yourself against the COOL. Maybe even try to exorcise some of those Defiance Rumble demons. Remember when you first had the chance to do so? I do. What I remember about it, other then another shoddy performance on your end, was some over-sized, over-zealous... fan, waltzing down to MY ring and sticking his insolent Mongo nose is MY business for the very first time. [That last quip would be in reference to Episode Two, of Season Two. As you might have guessed, it was during the main event.] Slowly pacing back and forth, Lord COOL snaps the PR flag-hanky out of his pocket and uses it to clean the lenses on his COOL shades. Taking his time with the whole process, one could assume he was using the intermission to collect himself. Placing the shades back over his eyes, he continues down the horse-beaten path. CCJ:Oh, that's much better. I can’t stand it when my vision gets clouded. Don't know if it’s just me, or something everybody hates. Pretty sure everybody hates Victor Mandrake though. Ruining the Bandits reunion party was the stupidest fucking thing you ever could have done. All it takes is one man to prove you're just a mortal who got the piss knocked out of him by a cripple. Oh wait... I just proved it, so scratch that. [That comment would be in reference to the cage match that took place during Episode Five of Season Two, and not the beating Boston Bancroft gave Victor at Summer Games.] Nonchalantly, el COOL tosses his shout-out to AV in a nearby trashcan. CCJ:Sorry Jeffy, maybe you deserve better than this. It’s just... well, I guess I'm playing your card, and not really caring about the smaller fish. Shit, it's not like I haven't already bested Jeff "hick-ass" Andrews before. However, not wanting to completely leave you with your dick out in the cornfield... you’ll never touch this title. Not in your life. I don’t care if you want to or not. Forget about winning. That aspect is so far out of reach, Ronnie Long won't even bother interfering. If I were you, I'd kill myself instantly, OR... OR I'd start worrying about how to come off looking somewhat good in another debilitating loss. An unknowing shrug in tandem with some eyebrow raising ensues. CCJ:Maybe I'd even go out and buy a fancy new tractor. Ya know, so afterwards I'd have something to boost my shattered once again by Cancer the Cool morale. I'm no hick, so I don't know what exactly it is that you're into. Well, other than losing that is. Ya see Jeff, it's a fact that I'm located on the opposite side of your spectrum. By rule alone, that makes me a winner. First and always, I am the COOL. WINNING, and COOL. The two words are synonymous, but I'm sure you already knew that. First hand experience in both fields, you could even be considered an expert. Holding a blank pause for a second or two longer than needed, to really draw out the over the top effect, Cancer sharply smirks before finishing. CCJ:That wasn't a compliment, ya stupid goat fucker. And back to MONGOliath... Vic Mandrake, you better buy a couple of umbrella's buddy. Maybe even a tarp for that matter. Oh, and Andrews, you better buy another freakin’ doctors' note if you keep on talking to the COOL like we see eye to eye. I'm taking back what is mine. This week, the bullshit ends. &Maybe, it's just beginning.
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« Last Edit: September 06, 2010, 05:52:26 PM by CCJ »
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You're not COOL enough to be Mr. Cool.
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September 07, 2010, 01:17:42 AM
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Group: Handlers
Veteran
Posts: 360
Human Highlight Reel
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Kort:
"There's a lot that you don't get it. That much should be clear as day."
[That's Jimmy Kort. Consider this your welcome Chris Cannon.]
Kort:
"But that don't mean ya can come in here and pull the wool down over my damned eyes. Ain't ya the same guy that tried to make his own damn country not too long ago. Ain't ya the guy that couldn't pull a viewer to save his ass over in the Dubya Dubya Aye. Now that no one's come out and signed ya, you wanna run with the big dogs? Is that it?"
[Jimmy Kort pushes his hat ever so slightly out of his eyes. It's an intimidation tactic, learn them, use them. They might just help you.]
Kort:
"Well let me tell you something Chris, ya ain't worthy of a welcome to Defiance. Nah, that's noise best served somewhere else."
[That's right the Sheriff said get the fuck out, now GTFO.]
Kort:
"I been here since Day One. I been in Defiance since back in the day when it was the Doubya Cee Cee and their ain't nothin' you or anyone else can do to take that from me. Hell take a look 'round, I just might be one a' the oldest tenured people in this here federation. The majority of ya were off playin' grab ass in the Dubya Aye Aye, swearin' you were gonna tear us limb from limb and save the scraps for the dogs. Well who's standin' now asshole? Who's left smilin' when the smoke clears?"
"Hmm...think that was us."
"Ya see Cannon, I can see right through the smoke and the damned mirrors. It's people like Elijah Goldman that took the Dubya Aye Aye and tore it to bits right before my eyes. People with agendas, and briefcases. People that drive cars that aren't American made, people that outsource our jobs all for the sake of savin' a dollar. Well I ain't gonna take it anymore."
[Hell of a rallying cry from the heartland.]
"Ya see, since ya stuck your neck out already and said you were Goldman's boy that means ya get a big ol' bullseye sitting right on your chest. Kinda like the tattoo that Katie Lynn got sitting right above her ass, a tattoo that no one ain't gonna see, anytime soon. I'm gunnin' for you Chris, I'm lookin' to send a message right back to Goldman, that Jimmy Kort ain't a house slave. I don't change no bed pans, I don't roll over cause someone says it so, and lastly that I wrestle for the fans and the fans alone. Not for damned ratings, or damned critics."
"I might not be the cleanest worker, but damn if I ain't one of the hardest. You name me a name and I pinned him. Aaron Vasquez, I had a few good matches with him. Cobra, I pinned his ass. Box, pinned him. Greer, pinned him. Drago, pinned him too. Ya ain't nearly as good as any a'them Cannon, so why in the hell should I be scared a'you. Short answer: I ain't. The longer answer: I ain't scared a'you."
"Give that message to Goldman for me."
[Kort has strong words.]
Kort:
"Adrien Cochrane your another one, you're just another blind squirrel tryin' to find a nut. Ya swore to God, ya swore to your Lord most high, that Defiance was gonna be put down. Now here ya are tryin' to collect a paycheck. What's the matter, ain't your guitar got anymore songs left to sing? Ain't ya got anymore adventures solving murder cases? Ya I ain't stupid, I'm Southern. I saw all them videos on Tee Vee, saw ya actin' a fool a'yourself. Gonna try to garner some sympathy cause ya don't drink, or have sex, or curse. Well fuck that, have a beer and maybe I'll let you watch Katie Lynn change cause it might do ya half a mind of good."
"Adrien, ya walked into the door and ya egged a car, like a kid back in the seventh grade. Congrats, don't make you worth your weight in anythin' round here. You're just another Goldman message boy, so you're one more person for me to take down. Remember that before you open your mouth. That is if ya ain't in some corner cryin' over some girl."
[Kort pushes his hat back down into his eyes and laughs a little. The setting isn't important. It's Anytown USA on Labor Day.]
Kort:
"Jake Donovan, I told ya once before and I'll tell ya again you got a lotta talent kid. Simply put, it ain't your time to shine. You want me to help clear this place a two pieces a'shit, then by all means saddle on up to the horse beside me. But if you're gonna be a pain in the ass it's best to lemme know Aye Ess Aye Pee, so I can put ya on out to the pasture. Ya feel me high flyer?"
"It's like Dubya said, you're either with us or your with the terrorist."
[Kort smiles, ever so slightly.]
Kort:
"That's all I got this time 'round the block. I'll be back though. Don't even get me started on that damned Title Match.
[1.]
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...it goes on.
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September 10, 2010, 06:38:16 PM
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Group: Handlers
Rookie
Posts: 184
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fuck/b/olts - Random In the Random Room of Randomness.
The Door to Eric Dane's office had been protected with three deadbolts, each more heavy duty than the last, and while there was plenty of evidence on the older locks that someone(or someone in particular) had jimmied the locks open with whatever was available, the two newer ones however still shone in their pewter glory.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Mmmmhehehehahhahahaha Satan demands use of his Office!
The Eric Dane nameplate still shone with all of his authority.
Satan fumbled around with his large wool overcoat producing what appeared to be a keyring, lacking keys. Satan threw it at the ground and mumbled an incantation, or a pancake recipe. maybe both.
The Door remained closed.
Satan tried the doorknob. It was locked. Leaning to the right of the door were life sized cardboard cutouts of Pete Whealdon, Damien DeSett, and oddly enough a Ficus Tree, and a Barbeque. Whealdon and DeSett were in their ring gear, Smiling Boldly, as well giving thumbs up. also on the ground was a tape recorder.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Satan doesn't remember the combination to the lock! You! MINION!
Cue the Defiance Janitor. He looked around, hoping to find someone else that Satan could be talking to.
Defiance Janitor:
...
Shedding his overcoat in to a nearby garbage bin, Satan approached The janitor in all of darkness and evil. Satan tripped on his own two feet, sending him skittering in to the Janitor who tumbled in to his cleaning cart, sending cleaning supplies everywher.
Satan regained his feet.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Satan demands you open his office.
Eric Dane's Office
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Immmmmmmhhehehehahahahahahaahhahahahahaediatly.
Defiance Janitor:
...
Angus Skaaland had no idea why he came to work on his day off, but he was about to regret it alot more than normal, as he rounded the bend of the hallway to see Satan accosting a paid Defiance Employee.
Angus Skaaland:
YOU!
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Mmmmmhahahahaha YES ANGUS! ME!
Had Angus already not been reeling from a long evening of Angus styled debauchery, he might've been able to fathom what he was looking at.
Angus Skaaland:
Oh Fuck this.
Angus promptly retreated back around the corner, making his wisest decision of the day. Or that's what he wanted to have happen, as in the distance a loud hooting and hollering had started to grow in volume, and Angus now running the opposite direction, past Satan and around the other bend, disapeared off in to the distance, Satan took his time to appreciate the situation, looking at his tape recorder, he went over to it and pressed play
The Voice of Pete Whealdon:
"FANS!"
It was at this point the new Fuck/b/olt Enforcer Frank Dylan James had appeared, carrying his former tag team partner, a steel chair in his hand. It's Frank Dylan James, you know what he looks like.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
mmmmmmhehahhahaha Satan doesn't know how you got here, but he takes all the credit.
Frank Dylan James:
Ah reckon yer gun' tell me befer I gutchu.
Satan in his most Whealdonian moment stroked his chin thoughtfully. Frank just glowered at him. trying to piece together why he was here.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Satan summoned you mmmmhehhehehehahhahahaha, to OPEN THE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE!
Frank Dylan James:
Well Hell! If yew wan' a door open, ah'm yer man!
Without thinking twice, Frank Dylan James barreled in to the door, only he missed and went crashing through the wall next to the door.
Satan stepped through the rubble as FDJ pulled himself to his feet, neglecting to wipe the dust or pull the bits of drywall out of his beard and hair. Satan had both cardboard cut outs with him and the tape recorder.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
mmmmmheheheheehhahahahaah Its exactly as I left it!
As Eric Dane's secretary had left it, exactly in fact, with an exacting note that Kevin was not be let in for any reason. taped to the chair was a note, penned in her hand.
"Kevin,
use Elijah Goldman's office."
throwing the note away, FDJ crashed back through the hole in the wall, and brought in the barbeque and Ficus Tree Cut outs, he leaned the tree cutout against the famed Ficus Tree, and The Barbeque against the front of the desk, while Satan Hastily arranged his tag team behind him.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Frank! mmmmmmhehehehehehahahahaha, it would seem Satan has come in to more Defiance Property! DO MY BIDDING!
Frank was confused.
Frank Dylan James:
Whatn th' hell yew ramblin' 'bout?
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Satan has been gifted more offices! Go forth! AND CONQUER MMMMMHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!
Satan shook his fist victoriously as Frank Crashed through the otherside of the door, and disapeared in to the sunset. or beyond the two gaping holes around Eric Dane's office.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Yes, let's get started! I am SATAN! DARK mmmmmOVERLORD hhehehehehahahaha! And with me today is the greatest tag team in Defiance today! The Dolphin/b/olts!
Kevin fumbled with the tape recorded
Voice of Pete Whealdon:
FANS!
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
hmmm yes, Pete Whealdon and Damien DeSett, you are besett by a gigantic enemy this week, how do you feel about it?
Kevin again fumbled with his tape player
Voice of Damien DeSett:
DUDEBRO!
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Hmmm. thats not what Satan desired to hear.
More fumbling
Voice of Damien DeSett:
This is the worst non-birthday I’ve ever had, and I only have one thing to say: Mom, I love you, but now that all I have to look forward to after facing the Wargods is eating through a tube and communicating with the world through a series of eye twitches and tongue clicks, I can honestly say I wish you’d had that abortion you always told me you wanted. Oh, and Pete can have my legos.
Voice of Pete Whealdon:
DAMIEN! DUDEBRO! MY FELLOW FUCKBOLT! what’s the haps man?
Voice of Damien DeSett:
We were uh... just delivering a special message to the FANS!
Voice of Pete Whealdon:
Sweet Pete Whealdon, Dynamic Damien DeSett, High FLYING ACTION! FANS!
Satan look pleased with himself
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
mmmmhehehehahahahaha Vincent Mantooth has no idea what he is in for isn't that right?
more tape recorder jiggery
Voice of Pete Whealdon:
FANS!
It was at this point that Frank Dylan James returned arms full of semiuseful pluder, and a beard full of pens, he was carrying many solo coffee cup in a garbage can sloshing full of coffee.
Frank Dylan James:
Where in da hell is Petey and Damien! I jus' hear'em while I was plunderin' tha new kitchen office! Yew drink yer coffee black like a man, or cream like some kinna hippie woman?
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Satan takes his coffee black like the darkness of hell! mmmmhehehehehahahahahaha
Kevin fumbles with the tap recorder
Voice of Pete Whealdon:
FANS!
Frank stares at the tape player confused. since Doors elude him this device's magical properties certainly have flown over his head.
Frank Dylan James:
What tha hell? that some kind of jew hippie voodoo device?
Taking up the tape player and dropping a garbage can full of coffee all over Eric Dane's office, Frank Dylan James pressed the play button.
Voice of Pete Whealdon:
Pete Whealdon:
- Decided, while I was rummaging through some thing at the Defiance Headquarters that we required a mobile unit from which to spread the message to the FANS!, While I may own many socks and pants, the keys to Mr. Dane’s limo were not in the promised position of previous attempts to drive it places, though I did manage to remove the windshield in the attempt looking, which correlates back to our original story of that we now have this mighty chariotsteedboat! from which to deliver our message! And tasty goods! Though I forgot to turn the freezer on after we found it running with a guy selling stuff out of it!
Damien DeSett:
But..
Pete Whealdon:
THERES MORE! We traded our handy assistant, mufichanel, for “hey get the fuck out of my truck” which struck me as an odd name at the time, though now that I think about it-
Frank's eyes wide with terror, he threw the tap player at the barbeque, likely hoping to cook it, instead is went through the flimsy cradboard, snapping it in half, and breaking against The solid mahogony of Eric Dane's desk.
Frank Dylan James:
Aw Hell, I done broke the Barbeque. looks like yew an' me gonna have to go to tha bar ta eat. yew ain't scared o pussy like some Ive met?
It was a challenge.
Kevin "Satan" Alloy:
Satan is the mother of whores! mmmmhehehehehehehahahahahaha
Kevin getting up from behind the desk, pulled out a barbeque lighter and quickly lit the cardboard barbque on fire, smoking rising from it as he laughed tumultously as Frank Dlyan James made preparations to leave.
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  "Neat" Pete Whealdon. Crashing on a couch near you |
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September 10, 2010, 09:27:48 PM
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Group: Handlers
Rookie
Posts: 134
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FOR THE RECORD feat. Chris Cannon INTENDED FOR: Jimmy Kort, Jake Donovan, DEFIANCE TITLE: "How to Kill the Sheriff" --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Another expensive tuxedo paid for by E-Gold himself. Check. Cannon sitting on wooden stool, waving… Check… Standard E-Gold promo room with “E-Gold Certified” logo. Check. A pissed off Chris Cannon looking to destroy the lame, gimmicked the fuck up, fake redneck, Jimmy Kort. Check. It couldn’t be a better or brighter day.] The Cannon: Now that you have introduced yourself as the doorkeeper for “n00bs“, I must ask you a serious question. [Pause.] The Cannon: Are you really that dull, Jimmy Kort? Or are you some con-artist that tries to sell yourself as a savior? When in reality you are a fucking doormat for others to step on. Let’s get this small shit out of the way really quick, though. You see, that company [WWA] is dead and forgotten. Nobody misses it, not even the crowd that attended it. It was a cure for their boredom, because even then it was the hottest show in America. Not only was it a past time federation, it was also a check in the mail for me. Do you understand? [He just got passed up with that shit.] The Cannon: There was no way in hell I should have took my job seriously over there, because I was never booked properly. Never given any sort of opportunity to grow or do anything. Well, besides the proverbial crazy shit that I did on a daily basis, mainly for the fuck of it. Hell, I would have wore a tutu to the ring and tried my best freestyle while injecting myself with heroin just to humor myself. I know. I was fucking miserable for the longest time. …But now shit is going to change… [Cannon smiles.] The Cannon: You should be worried about me and not laughing. You don’t think I am serious? You don’t think the “E-Gold Promise” is exactly that? [Cannon shakes his head.] The Cannon: I remember in 2008 when Southern folk like yourself had your panties in a bunch with your guns clinging. Afraid that if a certain man got what he wanted, you’d be left in the desert to hyperventilate and stiffen up, like an old, forgotten fossil. [Cannon cringes.] The Cannon: I know you weren’t too fond of him or his policies. [He probably wanted to kill him…] The Cannon: He wasn’t going to take your guns, job, and he definitely wouldn’t turn this into some cuckoo land third world country. As far as you were concerned, you would not let that motherfucker in. You would stand firm on this matter. [You also had other issues with that guy!] The Cannon: But November 8, 2008 would creep up on you like nothing you’d ever witnessed in your lifetime. Probably the worst day of your life. [You didn’t take your shotgun and take his head off. You probably hid them and hired an attorney in case he tried something… Not like it would matter though. You can‘t tell hillbillies how to walk straight and chew gum at the same time. Even if they are sober or not.] The Cannon: Now he is sitting above the sheriff’s office and running the shots. He didn't give a fuck if you were hillbilly or not. He was the big deal, and you were simply scraps off his table. [He fucked your shit up.] The Cannon: The United States of America. Full of the greatest crop of people known to mankind could not resist his march. He walked the fuck in and claimed his kingdom. Maybe it was destiny? Maybe there was no other choice… But it doesn’t matter, because what’s done is done. [BOOYA!] The Cannon: And now that Elijah Goldman has come and laid the law down: you and the rest of the DEFIANCE stalwarts have spoken out with your dislike and resistance. But it still won’t matter, Jimmy. Dane is taking an extended vacation and won’t be around to change my destiny. It’s called the changing of the guard, just as November 8, 2008 signified. [Get it?] The Cannon: And I am here to warn you right now that history is going to repeat itself. Through all the blood, sweat, and tears, Jimmy, nothing can stop the “E-Gold” promise. Consider this a Mafia hit. You are only one of many victims in this war. [Laughs.] The Cannon: Here… Let me help you understand. You are full of shit, Kort. From your Southern boots to the two dollar cowboy hat from your local flea market. You’re playing yourself. And by the end of the next DEFIANCE show. Well, you will be laying flat on the canvas, eating my superior steel toe boots, while watching your pathetic and tragic career flush right down the drains. [Let’s finish this bitch off…] The Cannon: Jake Donovan, don’t even bother showing up for this event. You have plenty more other worries than this. It doesn’t involve you, and I think you’re just an innocent bystander in this E-Gold/DEFIANCE ongoing war. But if you want to bulk the fuck up at me, I will be more than willing to knock you the fuck back down. It’s all your decision. [SRSLY! Let's finish this bitch off!] The Cannon: All in all, this is no “Cannonda” bullshit… This is no “A.W.E.S.O.M.E.” bullshit. This is Chris Cannon… Chris “The” Cannon and this time I have my shit right… [Cannon gets up off the stool and walks away.] ... ... ... ... [Not so fast! Didn‘t think you‘d get off the hook that easy, did you?] The Cannon: Oh! And I don't give a flying shit if you were here from Day One, Kort. I don't give a fuck if you were a part of WC:C. I don't even give a shit about AWF, WWA or any other fucking federation I was a part of. All I care about is putting you into a goddamn coma, liberating your cousin from your incest rape fantasies and giving her the cannon, my cannon. The only cannon that matters. [Cannon grins.] The Cannon: Hell, if you keep your shenanigans up, I just might give your main squeeze, Katie Lynn Johnson, some of my cannon juice. [There goes another positive DNA paternity test!] The Cannon: So, go ahead, run your slack jaw yokel mouth to me. Bring up how I got jobbed out to girls like a male stripper being forced to do ass play. Hell, bring up the past all you want. Make some shit up about how I pissed myself when I saw Mandrake for the first time. Because in the main event, you're entering a world where your chewin' tobacco mouth, rattlesnake skin boots and blue jeans aren't going to help you. I'm not Bronson Box, I don't have a fucking gay ass mustache. I'm not Aaron Vasquez, I actually have a college education. I'm not fucking Stephen Greer, Joe Drago or any washed up has-been from the glory years of yesteryear. I'm Chris "The Fucking" Cannon - The new big deal around here. You don't have to be scared of me. But, by the end of the night. [Pause] The Cannon: Well, you'll be in a goddamn coma! E-Gold Standard, bitch! P.S.- Oh, by the way, SUCK MY MOTHERFUCKING DICK! Ice, Ice Motherfucking T!
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« Last Edit: September 10, 2010, 09:37:40 PM by xchriscannonx »
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September 10, 2010, 10:29:43 PM
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Group: Handlers
Veteran
Posts: 327
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"And the point of that little exercise was?" Jake glanced over at Charlie, glared and then looked back at the road. "I'm just trying to understand what you threw away a perfectly good college education and a right good amount of mom and dad's money for." "You aren't capable of understanding." Jake grumbled and as he pointed the nose of the car west and turned the radio up louder. Charlie turned it down. "So you gonna do what that Goldman guy is telling you to do Jake?" Charlie asked. "Do the whole face painting thing with the kiddies, hand out t-shirts at ringside and pose for pictures with the screaming little brats?" "yeah" Jake glared, turned it up again. Charlie turned it off, ripped the knob off, shoved it in his pocket. "What the hell's your problem!" Jack complained, voice rising a bit as anger overtook him. "I'm trying to have a conversation here Jake, I'm trying to understand why you spent weeks training for a match only to get in there and literally get your ass handed to you from one end of the ring to the next, I mean seriously, did you even manage to string two moves together, hell did you even manage to get one offensive move in that was worth a damn?" Charlie asked. "Not to mention, this Goldman guy's going to have you acting the clown for a couple fans who aren't even old enough to buy their own tickets." "I'm well aware of the fact that I was no match for my opponent and that the fans I'm being asked to pander to are too young to even have jobs." Jack said coldly. "But thank you for reminding me, now if you don't mind, stick the knob back on the radio and turn that damn thing up, I don't want to hear you and I don't want to hear myself think right now." "Why?" Charlie asked. "Scared of what you might come to realize? Afraid to face truths, afraid that in the silence you might not be able to ignore the fact that for the last four years you've gotten away with acting like a spoiled, selfish, irresponsible child. Fine, you wanted to see the world a little, ran away to Japan, but this wrestling bit, this is stupid Jake, you're not some stupid beer guzzling, pool hall fighting red neck idiot. You've got brains and you've been afforded an education..." "And I've had training and been afforded some of the best opportunities imaginable to get into the ring and prove to myself that I can make it...." "Newsflash, since your too fucking stupid to see the truth in front of your eyes. You're not making it Jake, you're a joke. You went out there, and you did your best and you know what, yeah, I could hear people cheering you for that, but what good did their cheers do in the end. He walked all over you Jake, he destroyed you and all you did was embarrass yourself by trying so hard and believing you could actually win. " Charlie said coldly. "It's time you come home Jake, apologize to mom and dad..." Jake slammed on the brakes, pitching both of them forward. "How many times I gotta tell you Charlie. They aren't my mom and dad and you ain't my brother, now get the hell out of my god damned car before I throw you out. I'm not giving up, not for you, not for anyone. Every loss just pushes me to try harder. Every jeer just pushes me to do better, but that's not something I expect you to understand Charlie, especially since you're sitting here with me and not tooling around your little high rise office in one of those leather chairs on wheels, staring down your nose at the people scurrying by below you like a bunch of ants from a window seat your dad purchased for you. What the hell do you know about working hard or earning anything Charlie and why the hell ain't you up there now?" Jack said, facing him with angry green eyes. Charlie snorted. "Cause they fired me." He said with a shrug. "Like it matters, I'll get another job." "You mean your daddy will get you another job like he's willing to pay someone to give me a job if I come home and admit I'm wrong, and the sad part Charlie is that you don't see anything wrong with that." Jake said. "Now get the fuck out." "You'd put me out on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere without a second though?" Charlie asked. "In a heartbeat." Jake told him, reaching across him and unlocking the door then shoving it open. "Don't turn this into a fight Charlie, I'd hate to add leaving you hurt on the side of the road to the list of sins you and the rest of your family is already heaping around my ears." Charlie shook his head. "You're a real piece of work, you know that." Charlie sneered. "You think your better than me because you're living some pathetic dream ? All that dream does is prove that blood and breeding prevail every time, no matter how someone is raised, or, in language you might understand, you can take the pig out of the barnyard but you can never wash off the stink." Jake just laughed. "Yeah, and you wonder why I left and never came back." He said. "You think I don't know this is the way you and everyone else in that damn family has felt since you took me in? Get out the car Charlie, last warning and things are going to get very real." "Fine Jake," Charlie snarled as he stepped out the car, "See you in hell." "Not if I see you first." Jake said, yanking the door shut and stepping on the gas and tearing up the roads till the gas gage got so low he had no choice to stop. By then he was half starved and more than just a little pissed off, made at the whole fucking world and looking for someone to take it out on but then, that would just be another stupid wrestling cliche, getting into a fight on the road with some damn idiot in a truck stop, ending up in jail and making the news and rumor reports. that kind of shit gave the whole damned sport a bad name...but then so did corporate assholes and their handpicked golden boys, like Cannon and Cochrane. "What a clusterfuck in the making" Jake growled as he sat glaring into the webcam "and the sad part is I'm not sorry for it. I'm not sorry about ditching Charlie on the road, I'm not sorry about sending Cassidy and Kinsley packing, hell if anything if I'd have been more focused on wrestling and less focused on the shitstorm surrounding them I might have done a better job scouting my last opponent. Not to say I'd have won, cause I don't think there was a prayer in a Sunday school full of Bibles that would help me, but I didn't need that shit." Funny though, how a picture of both of them was still strapped to the visor over his head. Guess for now we'll just have to assume he forgot to take it down. "I don't need Charlie giving me shit about losing or about the things I've been asked to do, cause the plain truth of it is all is, I don't care one way or another who asks that I keep heaping the paint on, I paint my face because I choose to, but I maybe it will help to do the meet and greet thing and paint the faces of the kids and be a little more enthusiastic and little less somber and maybe brighten up the colors a bit. Add more streaks and less flames and see what happens. Course, the big plus of this whole mess is getting to go out there and help Kort clear the ring of two assholes with a golden boy complex." "And you wanted me to stay away Cannon." Jake said, sneering a bit. "Forgetting something, you psycotic ex president of a fictional place? You can't scare me. I'm the guy whose been in the ring with you for tournaments and singles matches and each time you've gone head to head with me you've come up short. So proclaim yourself what you'd like, change your fucking nickname a million times, your still silly, stupid, pathetic old Chris "I'm a fucking moron" Cannon to me, and that's all you'll ever be. And you have the nerve to think I won't show up? You think spewing a long line of cussing and blustering is going to keep me away from the ring? Yeah, your touched in the head but then the whole world knows it. Any guy who ends his promos advertising the fact that he'd like nothing more in life then having another guy suck his dick needs to seriously re-evaluate his reasons for living then chomp on the business end of a loaded .357." "Come on Cannon, you can do better than that. Get inventive, get creative, get real jackass. Who are you but some paid patsy sent to try to put a little cash in a corporate man's pockets. You ain't never wrestled worth a damn and you never will. You've had how many opportunities how many places, to earn your way to the top, and in the end, the only way you could get there was by being the new executive bitch. So keep on screaming and hollering about how you "got jobbed" and a bunch of other bullshit excuses for why you could never get the job done, but I know the truth Cannon, cause more than once I was in there with you, and you didn't get jobbed, you simple son of a bitch, you straight up lost, so quit your bitchin and learn to live with it." Jake cracked his neck, glanced in the rearview mirror, catching sight on the two backpacks on the back seat. He grabbed Charlie's and made ready to heave it out the window, then thought better of it, opened it up and began to pour the contents out. Something fluttered and caught his eyes, a little scrap of paper that looked like it had been ripped off a stack wrapped around a brown vial with a white top. "Son of a bitch@!" Jake yelled as he read the label, then yanked the top lose till white pills went flying and the lid went everywhere. He dumped the remainder out the window, drove over the whole pile, Charlie's stuff and all, then backed over them again. "fucking bastard." His foot was pressing the gas to the floor as he spun out of the parking lot, all thoughts of food forgotten as he aimed the nose of that TA west again and roared into the night.
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« Last Edit: September 11, 2010, 01:17:58 AM by ulfric »
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September 11, 2010, 08:31:25 PM
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Group: Administrator
Legend
Posts: 807
Mr. Bear is disappointed in you.
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"So, this... This guy, this Bronson Box is what, a 1920s-style strongman?" "You could say that. He certainly looks like one. And he's definitely got the power to put any of those guys to shame." "Hey, hey, some of my best friends ride those bicycles with the one huge front wheels." Honk honk. Slide whistle.It was a living. Boston Bancroft, World Heavyweight Champion, had to do radio slots hyping the next DEFIANCE show. And hey, it was an additional, if smaller paycheck from the DEFIANCE office to do that, as a thank-you. "So, are you scared of him, going into this match? I've heard it's being called the "Battle of Facial Hair", in some places." "Yeah, by people with no imagination. Ha ha! Maybe you should try calling it the "'Stache Fight"!" "His moustache is fairly well groomed. If it were a contest of looks... Well, I'd still win. Nobody votes for a bald white guy over a bald black guy." "Bold words from the World Champion, but what about in a fight! Test of strength, and all that?" "Bronson Box has some of the strongest jabs I have ever seen, Whitfield. Even a radio personality like yourself should understand one thing. I would rather be in the ring with anybody else's jabs but Bronson Box's. I've seen the man cave in jawlines, I've seen tapes of him coldcocking people with one red right hand." "Ha ha, music reference!" Gunshot sound affect. Chicken going "BA-GAAAAAAWK!""Thank you, Chazzinator." "That's me! Whitfield and the Chazzinator, right here on your spot for Naperville, Woodridge, and Aurora, Illinois' top rock countdown!" Chorus:WE-BEE ONE OH THREE~! Pause. "Can we continue?" "Yeah, sorry about him, Boston. Listen, how about your wrestling skill? I've heard that you're a pretty good grappler, think that's how you're gonna stop this young buck?" WHINNY OF RIGHTEOUS ANGER"No, cuz, y'see, Bronson Box is a really good grappler. He's not one of these tame fighters you get in the states that can only hit, and when you get him into a wrestling hold, he's just as likely to get out of your hold, put you in one of his own, and try to twist your arm off. He's good at it. Great, even. Trained in a different style of school, one where you gotta know how to hurt somebody, not just immobilize 'em." "Dang. That sounds seriously painful! You might be in some trouble! Fo' shizzle, my ni-" "Sentence ends here, Chazzinator." "...Uh, yes, Mister Bancroft. It sure did." Price is Right failure horns."HEY!" "You're not the only one with access to the sound board, Chazzinator. Listen, I gotta ask you, Boston. What do you have up on Bronson Box? Is it your speed? Your size? Your loaded left boot? You've gotta have SOMETHING that'll give you the edge." "It's simple, Whitfield. You and all your listeners out there, in the greater Aurora-Naperville-Woodridge area should know why, too. Because I'm your Champion." "-Excuse me?" "I'm the World Heavyweight Champion. I represent you all. Every last one of you fans who will come to see me, I'm not only fighting for you, I'm gonna be fighting to entertain you. Every last bit of me goes into that ring, and fights that fight, and if you want to see the ONLY man who is worthy of being called... World.... Champion..." Pause. Chazzinator fidgets, but isn't willing to play a sound effect. "Then come out to Chicago, and see this match, live." "Well, I'm sure you'll do fine, with confidence like that! And you fans keep listening to your number one station for rock, because later today, we'll be playing the AC/DC PRIZE GAME, where if you call in at number nine when we play a random AC/DC song between three and five P.M., you'll win a free four-pack of tickets to see DEFIANCE wrestling!" "So stick it right here, baby!" Arrow whizzing, then a cartoony stabbed-in-the-ass sound effect.VOICE OF GOD:WEE-BEE ONE OH THREE! ~~~ "I feel like I'm watching a Greatest Hits tape of my own life." Hands spread placatingly. "Trust me, Bronson. The comparison I'm making is a good one." A grin behind bristly moustache. "You see, the rivalry that first got me national notice was against a stable... A group of guys together to dominate a company, and thereby, accumulate power and wealth. Difference was, DEFIANCE is nationwide, this company toured the midwest. Still, they had a TV deal and everything." "You see, when this company bought out its main competitor, they got me as part of the deal. And I was the top champ of that company. So, they set up a unification match, me versus the leader of this stable. Kinda like if Greer and I threw down, except Greer would have to have done something in the past three months." "They set me up to lose, and the stable, called the "Deathseeds", interfered, cost me the title. Hurt my leg, kicked my ass, took my belt and proclaimed their leader a double champion." Boston grinned with long-since-become-memory nostalgia. "When i came back, though... Well, since the champ had moved on, faced new folk, I needed to get his attention." "I beat every... single... one of his little troops. All four of 'em." "Just like what I'm doing now. I beat Jeff. I'll beat you. If she wants to go, Heidi. And unless you lugs have kicked him out, Lightning." "And then i came for their leader, with my trusty baseball bat. In the final match, I had to fight them all off, and a few buddies came out to even the odds. After I hit the biggest baseball bat shot of my life, then did a Yakuza kick that ended another dude's career... i won my title back, and was on top of the world again." A shrug. "It's not quite as dramatic as it could be. Or as it should be. This time, i don't intend to lose any titles, so there won't be a winning back. But then, this time, you Hydra guys just happened to get in my crosshairs. Unlike last time, this is my stomping grounds, and this is my story. "So, Bronson. Now you get to pick your role. You can be the wily second-in-charge, champing at the bit to be the stable leader, or the big dumb loyal powerhouse. I wouldn't say Jeff was either, his match was the "Interference by mutual enemy" spot." "But this is all a retread for me. I won the first time through a stable, and I'll win this one. You're good, Bronson. But you are hardly man enough to take my title." "I know the kind of man you are, and the kind of man you wish to be." "One isn't half as close to the other as you'd like." "We both know that. And we both know that this... will be title defense #2 for the Boston Bancroft Experience." ~~~ "Alraht, Boston. Gimme another one." The World Champion gritted his teeth and forced his muscles to clench, yanking himself up from the prone position. The North Dakotan Cowboy knelt on Boston's feet, forcing his toes down. Had to make sure it was a real sit-up. Eddie the Snitch sat beside the two, picking at his teeth with a toothpick. He squinted, and looked around the gym, leering at a few of the women in spandex. He hated exercise, but loved to see chicks doin' it. The Brooklyn native looked back to the sweaty black man, and swatted him in the side. "Hey, listen, ya gotta beat this fuckin' mick up, right? I don't like no Irish, and if he wins, I'll have to start leechin' offa him rather than you." Boston shot a look to Eddie. "Thanks, I think." "Don't mention it. Am I right, ya big dumb fuckin' hayseed?" Jess narrowed his eyes at Eddie. "Do I gotta bust your lip again?" The two had feuded over a right hand that Jess had delivered, splitting Eddie's lip right open before he went off for a magazine shoot. Eddie paused, and shook his head, going back to picking at his teeth. "You worried? Ya been talkin' a big game all week about how good this guy's gonna be, how it's gonna be the fight o' the century..." Boston put both hands down, on the padded ground beneath him, taking his time and breathing slowly, trying to slow his heart rate. Jess arched an eyebrow at Boston's telling silence. "He's a good fighter. Driven. Hungry. Ready and able to take the whole world if he wants it bad enough. I've got one hell of a fight on my hands." Boston rose to his feet, groaning as he did. Knees popped, flashes of bright pain marking his ascent to his feet. Hands went to his hips once he was upright, and he groaned again, working a few stiffnesses out. "I don't rightly know what's gonna happen. I know that if I'm gonna lose that belt to anybody, Bronson Box is a good possibility. We'll see who's the best fighter." Jess patted Boston on the shoulder, giving him a firm look. "...But... You ain't gonna let this go without trying to improve your odds a little, right?" Eddie was most concerned. Boston just grinned vacantly. "Bitch, please. You're talking to Mistah Cheap finish."
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September 12, 2010, 04:19:54 AM
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Group: Administrator
Legend
Posts: 982
First world champ... motherfucker.
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[London, England.] [St. Anne Catholic Church.] [The old chapel is nearly empty. The only illumination in the room beams off of the massive array of candles on the front altar. Father crosses himself and bows his head for a few moments mouthing a small prayer. A voice from the silence startles the old man something fierce. A booming voice from the back of the chapel near the large wooden doors.] Voice: Is it to late for a confession, father? [The old man takes a deep sigh of relief, nodding yes with a warm smile.] Father: Come in my son, would you like this face to face? We can use the booths if that would make you more comfortable. [The man walks forward down the center isle. The clack of his dress shoes reverberate off the stone and mortar walls like tiny gunshots. He's in a fine tailored three piece pinstripe suit, blue in color. His head recently shaved and his facial hair freshly trimmed this fella obviously mean business. His mouth curled into a snarl to match the curl of his mustache, the man plants himself in the nearest pew. The old priest nods and does the same one pew up.] Father: It's been a very long time, Boxer. Box: To long, Father. Far to long. Father: I hear you're a big television star now, my boy. [The old man smiles coyly.] [Box lets out a weak laugh as he strips off his coat, laying it along the pew beside him. His laugh quickly melts back into his normal stone cold serious demeanor.] Box: I'm beset on all sides by men of weak moral fiber, father. The man I combat next spouts hyped up platitudes and runs through his length'eh list of accolades over and over again. Expensive clothin' and jewelry, you know the type. He enters the home I helped build as an outsider, spittin' right in my face. He celebrates the fact he'll gladl'eh cheat his way to victor'eh. He touts his prize as somethin' of value when in realit'eh it... [The old priest holds up a finger.] Father: Excuses, Bronson... so unlike you. Do you believe you can beat this gentleman? Do you believe your abilities superior? Box: I do, father. [An obvious "well then... " silence falls over the room.] Box: It's not that simple, father. Yeh' don't understand how men like this Bancroft fella' work. [The old man silently looks up at the huge wooden carving of Jesus Christ.] Box: This sod has spent the last week tellin' me, more or less, how bored he is with everythin' and how all this we're doin' is retread from his past. This jive talkin' tosser is somehow actin' as though men with dah' and mah' issues and chickenshit stables are both some sort of rare bleedin' occurrence in this blood'eh business. [Father perks up somewhat sarcastically.] Father: Such language, my boy! In the house of God, no less. [Box frustratedly leans forward in his pew.] Box: I've done everythin' for these damned people. I tried to be the messenger, preach the word... [waving his hands in front of himself] nothin', nee a blip of blood'eh recognition. I tried to sound more American, walked around talkin' like fookin' Sean Connery... [hands] nothin'. They don't deserve it, any of it. Especially Boston bleedin' Bancroft. Nee meh' time, nee meh pitty, nee meh religion, nee meh bleedin' respect. And definetly nee meh fookin' accent. [Casting his gaze away from the bloody visage of the son for a moment, the old priest looks down at the floor and folds his hands. Not in prayer, but in contemplation.] Father: You are a tool of the Lord, Bronson. I sent you forth to gather watchful eyes, to gather open minds. The higher you build your pulpit the farther and louder the message. The message of our Lord God. Box: I know father, I know. I just... [The old priest slams his fists down onto the pew sending sound waves bouncing off every wall, door and window. Bronson sits up straight with a start. A noticeable silence is left to ooze over both men for a few brief moments, settling the room before the old man speaks.] Father: I hear you ran into a speck of trouble in Maud. Tell me about that. This is a confession after all, isn't it? [Bronson nods softly. The old priest motions for Box to continue.] Box: I come back from meh' pa's house. The whole town knew I was there by that point. I decided to visit his old pub, the Lamb and Flag. Somethin' inside meh head needed to see the inside of that blood'eh place again. The source of all that pain and sufferin'. Father: I thought you'd abstained from drink since you got out of prison? Box: I have. I still have. Father: The report I heard said you had consumed drink, my son. [Bronson chuckles under his breath.] Box: Yeh're a cop and you step into a bar fight. Yeh' see three guys bloodied and broken on the floor. Then? Yeh' see me. Lookin' as I look, standin' over the sods. Only explanation was is I filled with more rage than I could handle at that particular moment and all I needed was a couple of local pricks start talkin' bits behind meh back within earshot for me to lose meh cool just a smidgen. I figured "I'm drunk" was easier for the poor saps to swallow than that whole lot when they were questionin' meh. [The old priest looks disappointed.] Father: You're letting you emotions rule you, Boxer. Tell me. What is your goal? Your ultimate goal. [Box visibly tries to focus. Closing his eyes, clenching his fingers around the seat of the pew.] Box: To spread the word through notoriet'eh, notoriet'eh through victor'eh. Father: So what must you do? Box: Break Boston Bancroft. Break his back, break his face, break his neck. Take that bleedin' title and take meh place as the rightful Defiance World Heavyweight champion. Father: But what of your respect for his abilities, my son? [His eyes pop open wide and quickly narrow into a piercing glare.] Box: [through clenched teeth] No respect. [A sinister grin crawls over the old mans face.] Father: Tell him, Bronson. [Bronson's gaze is locked on the camera.] Box: You listen to meh you empt'eh heathen... [Old school heel promo incoming.] Box: From yeh'? It was a quote from some wretched Samuel L. Jackson movie. From meh'? Well... Let's just say this. Leave the bible quotes to the professionals. [Calm and cool as a cucumber.] Box: Ezekiel twenty five seventeen says "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyrann'eh of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charit'eh and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valleh' of darkness, for he is trul'eh his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And yeh' will know my name is the Lord when I lay meh' vengeance upon thee." Not meh' favorite verse. Just that last line. "And yeh' will know my name is the Lord when I lay meh' vengeance upon thee." Somethin' about that wrath of God mentalit'eh. Sends shivers up my blood'eh spine. Yeh' will know meh' name... Yeh' might not know spit about meh' now, Bancroft. I'm just a collection of stats and losses. Things to exploit durin' our match. To you? I'm meh' association with Greer and Hydra. I'm some random face in the crowd durin' Defiance's war on the alliance months back. Am I warm, Boston? Am I followin' yeh'r train of thought pretty well? "Great skill that one, but this and that and this and the other." Am I right? Eh? Boston, read my lips. [Ice cold stare.] Box: Yeh' will know meh' name when I lay meh' vengeance upon thee. Meh' name is the "Bombastic" Bronson Box, sonny boy. And as of right blood'eh now? I'm the most dangerous opponent you've ever faced. [Amen.]
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10/10/10 - 3/24/11"I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! [Makes slurping sound] I DRINK IT UP!" |
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September 13, 2010, 09:02:39 AM
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Group: Administrator
Rookie
Posts: 151
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[Dressed in designer blue jeans, expensive looking white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar; unbutton a few holes, Ryan McAdams sits on a steel folding chair, in front of a red curtain set up for a backdrop.] “For the love of Christ, what the fuck?” [Shaking his head in disapproval, he continues.] “So let me paint you a story here.” [He pauses to lean forward in the chair to make sure you are paying attention.] “I’m a wrestler now, my fathers a wrestler; yes he still wrestles in Mexico. So around the long weekend of August they are having this big show down in Mexico city, looks like I’m not scheduled here in the states so I tag along to catch the show and what not… Boy what a frigging mistake that was…” [Displeasure shows on his face.] “No, no, everyone that was at the show agrees it was one hell of a show, it was when I was trying to get back home that I regretted going. You see I’m chilling in Mexico enjoying the sun and what not for a couple days, when I get a call that I’m booked to face Johnny Lightning in Reseda Cali… Man I love Cali, I’m not missing this show, I bag my shit and head for the border.” [The displeasured look remains on his face as he continues on with his story.] “Did I mention my dad went back a few days earlier with one of his friends? I’m driving my Mustang up to the border, I reach in my glove box to get my passport out, and do you think it was in there? Shit no. So instead of showing my passport and going on my merry way, I try to explain to the lady at the booth my situation. I have her blushing and smiling, I’m charming the Os right out of this girl, she’s about to let me back into my homeland, when her supervisor catches wind and send her on her break. So I start explaining my situation to the bald fat supervisor, he looks at me, he looks at my ride, and I know instantly what he’s thinking. Sure as shit, he has me pull to the side where they strip my car apart to search for drugs. Finding nothing, he accuses me of stealing this car, and has me tossed in jail with out even a hint of evidence. Apparently because I have an awesome dark tan, I am now Mexican and not American, being I can’t prove my citizenship.” [A sarcastic smile comes over his face.] “So I sit in the border jail for two weeks, I miss my match with Johnny Lightning, and don’t even get a phone call for my troubles. Finally I’m able to persuade a female guard to at least let me have a phone call so I can try to get this sorted out, I may have had to give her something in return but that’s not the story this time around. I get my phone call, I reach my dad, and he realizes he grabbed my passport and id when he rushed to grab his as well. The next day he brings my credentials and a lawyer down here and gets me out of this god forsaken place. Did I mention this place smelt like piss?” [Shaking his head as to clear the past events from it he sits back in the chair.] “On my return I try to reach someone at defiance, but do you think anyone will pick up my call? Hell no, I’m now a black mark on the Defiance booking sheet for no showing the event, I’m no longer a priority to them if I ever was. And now, now it turns out I have to step into the ring with a masked super hero wanna-be and a questionable lifestyle hillbilly, where by if I lose I get shown the door. To hell with that I say, I’ve already been shown the door on one career I’m sure the hell not letting another go with out a fight. Chell, James, I have nothing personal against either one of you, this is business, and I have no intentions on leaving this business any time soon...” [A cell phone rings, reaching into his pants pocket Ryan pulls out a small cell phone.] “Hello?” [He pauses to listens to the person on the other end.] “Yeah I’m going to be there, I have no intention on missing another show.” [Pausing once more he listens.] “Sure thing, I’ll find you as soon as I get to the arena. Thanks for calling.” [Ryan stands up and places the phone back in his pocket and walks out of view pretty much forgetting that he was cutting a promo.] […]
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September 13, 2010, 12:41:14 PM
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Rookie
Posts: 147
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There is no fancy, long drawn out introduction. No bells and whistles to speak of. Just “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, in his street clothes consisting of blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a baby blue t-shirt with Bobby’s face on the front and his name on the back. Pacing back and forth in a lavishly decorated corporate office Bobby is joined by a man named Richard Sloan, or so says the name plate seated on the top of his massive desk. Pushing papers Sloan doesn’t even bother looking up at Bobby as the man continues his jaunting pace, walking back and forth, back and forth. “Greer!?” Bobby asks for the umpteenth time. “Are you sure he said Stephen Greer? The same Stephen Greer currently aligned with Hydra?” Placing the papers down on the desk Richard looks up and smiles one of the most insincere smiles Bobby’s ever seen, if Bobby would stop pacing long enough to see it. “Yes, Bobby. Stephen Greer, the same Stephen Greer currently aligned with Hydra, why does it matter?” Bobby finally stops, turns toward Richard with a look of absolute shock on his face. “Why does it matter!? You seriously just asked me why does it matter? Oh I don’t know, maybe because it’s my first match back in Defiance and instead of padding my win column with bouts against the likes of Adrien Cochrane or Vincent Chell or even Gramps himself Kasper Braddock, they have me facing Stephen fucking Greer.” The pacing resumes as Richard shrugs his shoulders and goes back to the paperwork at hand. “I still don’t see the big deal…” Sloan remarks under his breath. “The big deal? It’s quite simple really, if I return to Defiance and right off the bat get a lose to Greer, my stock within the company is shot to shit.” Bobby explains but pauses as he takes a seat in the chair opposite of Richard before continuing. “I mean, I’m coming in with some momentum, to just lose it all because of a guy like Greer, I just can’t handle that.” “So win…” Richard deadpans, once again not even bothering to look up from his papers. “That’s a great idea Dick.” Bobby shoots back. “I guess I should just stop worrying and just go out there and win. Why didn’t I think of that?” Bobby sighs and is about to continue his rant when suddenly Richard slides over a stack of papers. Bobby picks it up, reading the head line aloud, he smiles. “Essence of Beauty” “A line of beauty products, specially geared towards men…” Bobby reads the synopsis aloud and to himself. “I like it. What do we have to do?” A couple of days later… [The scene opens up as the cameras pan out showing a studio audience on their feet clapping. The majority of the audience is men, with a few scattered women here and there. One of the stage hands is waving their arms to get the crowd to keep clapping as the camera spins round to face the stage. It’s a generic infomercial stage with a table in the front and a line of products seated on top.] Announcer: “And ladies and gentlemen here’s your host, spokesperson for Essence of Beauty, Mr. Beautiful himself, “Beautiful” Bobby Dean!” [The stage hands are once again motioning for the crowd to go crazy as Bobby Dean comes running out from behind the curtain, dressed in an outrageous three piece suit, baby blue in color, with matching baby blue wing tip shoes. Bobby smiles that award winning smile of his to the camera as the stage hands are now motioning for the crowd to quiet down.] BBD: “Welcome ladies and gentlemen. I’m here to introduce a line of products brought to you by the wonderful people of Avon. This product line, known as the Essence of Beauty is for those of us guys who want to look our best without worrying about being ridiculed for being “metro” or “flamboyant.” If you are a man who wants to look his finest, these are the products for you! “First in our line, is the Bronze Beauty. Most guys don’t have time for a quick fake ‘n’ bake so we’ve come out with a nice spray on tan for the man on the go.” [Cue the applause as Bobby unveils the spray bottle.] BBD: “Are you tired of looking like this?” [cue the groans as the blown up poster of Greer is shown. Bobby grimaces as he looks over at the picture himself. Waving his hand, a pale looking man comes walking out in just a European styled bikini brief. Standing with his arms spread out wide, Bobby takes the spray and applies it to the man’s chest. The once pale chest now takes on a darker shade where as his stomach still remains as pale as ever.] BBD: “So no more looking like a marshmallow, now you can all look like golden gods, like me.” [Spreading his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, he spreads his shirt wide enough for the camera to zoom in and show the once pale skin of Bobby dean turned bronze. But it appears to have been a half hazard attempt because there are still some splotches of pale showing.] [Cue the applause and the Ohs and Ahs.] BBD: “Next on the table is something I’m sure you will love as much as I do.” [Removing the sheet, another bottle sits there in place.] BBD: “If you’re like me, sometimes you need to have that glistening body. Those glistening abs that all the ladies fawn over. Well sometimes dropping down and doing a hundred crunches can be hard for some of you. So, I present to you Beauty Sweat.” [More ohs and ahs as Bobby picks up the bottle, walks over to the half tan / half pale model and begins to spray the bottle on his abs. Soon the model’s abs are dripping wet as the camera zoom in on the glistening wash board abs.] BBD: “So next time you’re at the gym and want those muscles to glisten, a few quick sprays and you’re set.” [Cue more applause as Bobby walks back to the table.] BBD: “Well ladies and gentlemen, this has been the Essence of Beauty, tune in next week as we introduce the Brozilian Wax and the Crab Be Gone kit.” [The infomercial fades to black as Bobby stands there amongst the applauding crowd.]
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