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| OTC Unfiltered - Road to WB Edition | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 3 2012, 09:42 AM (259 Views) | |
| ShaunSindelman | Apr 3 2012, 09:42 AM Post #1 |
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The White Shadow
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[Fade in: <Man, what kind of life is this? There’s nothing but bad news on the television. The World is moving closer and closer to another recession because nobody seems to realise that capitalism as an economic theory cannot exist in infinity. You borrow, you have to pay back. That’s how the system works. So now everybody is throwing about ideas on how to save a dying system and keep making payments on their giant home. Well, it’s impossible to keep making money by streamlining the workforce. Somebody’s got to be poor for somebody to be rich. The big banks understand that and they choose to be rich. So unemployment’s at nearly ten per cent in the supposed greatest nation in the world. And if you’re African-American it’s even worse. Unless you’re the president. But even he’s in danger of being unemployed next year. Wait, what does this have to do with SPW? It’s simple. The real world sucks. Adam Copeland said it best. There’s no theme music or pyro when you walk into the room. That does kind of suck. Imagine theme music when you go on welfare. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? But the real world sucks. So it’s time to hide out again. It’s time to get lost in the fantasy. And SPW is nothing if not fantastic. So, even though you kinda hate their product, you flip the remote to that special channel at that magic time to see the magic show. Off the Chain ... joined in progress.> O.T.C. UNFILTERED- Road to Wrestlebowl Edition! SHADOE RAGE [Fade in:] <Oh Goddammit, why does it always happen like this? The one motherfucker you don’t want on the screen when you’re contemplating your pathetic life is on the screen. And she’s right there next to you. Her hand on the remote just to remind you that she’s probably getting a little bit wet right now as you seethe in silence because the man on screen seems to have more blessings than you ever will. Dammit, he probably fucked Palin. Bachmann and Mrs. Obama, too. Bastard. SPLOOSH. What’s that sound? That’s your girlfriend next to you as she’s probably thinking the same thing. How does it feel knowing that Shadoe Rage gets her wetter than you?> [Shadoe Rage leans sits backwards in a chair. His mass of dreadlocks fall around his face as he rests his chin on bulging forearms. <Fuck him and his forearms. SPLOOSH. Oh Goddammit.> He is shirtless. <DOUBLE SPLOOSH. Muther....> Slowly, he lifts his head towards the camera, the sexy broody savage. He pushes the lank locks out of his face so that his beautiful beautiful eyes stare right through the screen and right into your soul.] <SPLOOSH!> Shadoe: My name is Shadoe Rage. _My_ name is Shadoe Rage. _MY_ name is _SHADOE RAGE!_ <You know what his name is. She talks about him all the time. She even flashed him her tits once when she thought you weren’t watching.> Shadoe: They say that if you repeat something three times that you’ll never forget it. And you’ll never forget me. Yeah, I am Shadoe Rage. The Sexy Savage. The Angel of Death. The man who is better than you! Ask your girl. Ask her. Ask your girl. I’ll wait. [He pauses.] <Fuck him, you’re thinking. Wait, why is she looking like she agrees with him? Goddammit!> Shadoe: There’s no shame in it. I’m a man blessed above all others. I walk with a Goddess and my path is divine. And my path in SPW is leading me straight to the top! Straight to Wrestlebowl! And straight to the Fusion championship! I know all the Murphies out there have been making sport of me, haven’t they? <How’d he know your name?> Shadoe: They say that I’m indistinct. I don’t have a voice separate and apart from Marissa Monet. That I’m just some guy in the Court. [He laughs in that gravely Jimmy Durante on sleeping pills voice.] <I guess he does read the internet.> Shadoe: I’m not some guy. I’ve never been some guy. I am simply a man with a Cause. [He pushes the chair away, standing up.] <SPLOOSH! Dammit it, Betty. You can see how amazing his abs are. But what’s making you a little more uncomfortable is how seemingly large the bulge in his tights is. Seems to end somewhere near midthigh. Bastard. SPLOOSH. Was that you? Even I don’t know what to tell you about that.> Shadoe: Unlike the rest of you workaday slobs, I understand that the female of the species is more dangerous than the male. Unlike the rest of you I don’t ever have to worry about my masculinity. I’m never scared that I look weak putting my woman’s needs first. Because that doesn’t make me weak. That just makes me a good man. That makes me better than you. But a man cannot simply satisfy his woman’s needs. Marissa is the SPW champion and all is right with her world. She can take care of herself. Now it is time to go for mine. And go I will. [He clenches the air in front of his face.] Shadoe: The Fusion championship. I claim it as mine. I see the people. They know that it is inevitable. They know that Chris King poses no opposition. Jackson Hunter ... Lark Fenriz ... no competition. The Fusion title is mine. Why? Because my goal is to make Ascension greater than any wrestling show that has ever been. The Scarlet Serpent ever day he laughs at us. All the Murphies out there laugh at us. Why? Because a promotion. A brand ... it’s only as strong as it’s champions. In Marissa Monet we have greatness! Unappreciated greatness, yes, we do. But what lies beneath her in the rankings? Andrew Davis, a common man wracked with common problems. Frostbite? Patterson? They aren’t men. They are jackals. No, there are no champions amongst the rank and file of the SPW. Nobody who can best demonstrate the aspirations to greatness that is Ascension. Nobody who represents what the Fusion title means. No one to undo the stain left upon the belt by the coward Marcus Davis. No one except me. Except me. EXCEPT me. <What about Chris King, Jackson Hunter or Lark Fenriz, you goofy guyliner wearing motherfucker? Anyone would be better as champion than Shadoe Rage. You say it in your head for a reason. You don’t really believe it. You know there is a certain inevitability to all this.> Shadoe: And that brings me to you, Christopher King. See, I know your name. I’ve studied it closely. I paid attention because you stand between me and destiny. You stand between me and the greatness of winning the Fusion title on the grandest stage of them all ... Wrestlebowl. I won’t let you take that from me. Maybe all the Murphies out there might have written you off because you lost for the first time to Jean Pierre Celine last time on Ascension. You got pinned at the worst possible time. Sports announcers ... [he circles his arms around each other as he flicks his tongue at the screen] ... always talk about momentum. You lost momentum last time getting pinned. But I lost a tag match with Orchid and people know that I am the greatest tag-team wrestler of all time. So a loss means nothing. I expect you to be ready. I expect you and sir William to be at your best. You better be because I expect you to respect what the M.A.T. is all about. The chance to be the Fusion champion. <Maybe he’s not such a jackass after all, you think. At least he seems to care about championships and winning. It’s not like he’s caught up in some personal soap opera. He realises this is a sport and he’s not just bragging about himself. But he is still standing there with his shirt off tempting your girl with his pretty abs and impressive chest and V-shaped back and big strong arms and rather generous package and ... no, it doesn’t make you gay to notice all this about a man. It just makes you kinda curious. Deal with it.> Shadoe: The idiots out there in TV land may call it a secondary championship. But what it is is a passport. A passport to greatness. A championship is a championship. And a champion is a champion. And that’s a rarity in this business. It means something. The last Fusion champion ran and hid and got stripped of the belt. Never defended it with honour. That’s not good enough. That’s embarrassing. Nobody even remembers his name. He degraded the Fusion title. <Ah, you’re paying attention now.> Shadoe: So by the time Wrestlebowl is finished they’re going to be declaring me the winner and new Fusion champion! And it’s gonna be a freak out in Rage Country! And everybody’s invited! Because my name will make the belt and the title will make my name. You count on that. And Chris King, even though you are a phenomenal talent you’re just simply not as good as me. You don’t shine as bright. You don’t burn as hot. [His mascara-rimmed eyes burn through the screen. He grins to show amazingly white teeth.] Shadoe: You’re not as committed. Don’t bring the loss to Celine with you because it will happen again. And you won’t lose by pinfall. You’ll just get knocked out! You’ll get obliterated! And you’ll be just another victim. [His face grows serious.] <Damn, you’re getting hooked on the intensity of the emotion coming from the King of Rage Country. He hasn’t moved a muscle. He hasn’t really done anything but the mood has changed. Your girl noticed it too. She’s squeezing your hand. Rage has become dangerous. He has become a killer.> Shadoe: My name is Shadoe Rage. I am the future Fusion champion. Chris King, at the Road to Wrestlebowl you will fall. But I want you to rage ... rage against the dying of the light. Rage against your name being forgotten. Give me everything you have and honour your father and mother. Honour your name so that it doesn’t die in darkness. [He draws in a deep breath before he recites his verse.] Shadoe: For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast; and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed. And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and still and their hearts heaved but once and forever grew still. And so was the Destruction of Sennacherib. And so shall be the Destruction of Chris King. [Fade out.] <SPLOOSH! That one was you. You gotta see this match.> "LA HIRE" JEAN PIERRE CELINE [Walmart. More three wolf moon tees than you ever thought existed. Coming from a country with real wolves, JPC finds the attire distasteful, unfortunately that’s all part of the Walmart experience. A McDonalds at the entrance, how convenient. God Americans are fat. It’s too bad that he’s a face now, or our electrifying European superstar might point out the error of their ways. Don’t they realize their transfat vices make them a universal joke? The Frenchman gulps back another glass of wine. Sitting at a booth in the electronics section, Celine autographs copies of the new “Warrior’s Cry” DVD. It has a commentary track by the Non-Contract Players, so it’s infinitely more watchable than the original show. A flashbulb goes off. Damn, Celine hopes he doesn’t show up on People of Walmart. He thought there was some sort of treaty that banned photography inside these dens of questionable impulse shopping. Celine swigs back another glass of wine – red – before returning to autograph session. Sometimes it really sucks to be the face of Ascension. Why can’t Andrew Davis do this? Oh yeah... he had to cut the ribbon at a new Arby’s on the interstate. Thank god that coin came up heads...] Woman: Could you make it out to Sheynana... that’s spelt C-a-e-h-n------------ Jean Pierre Celine <scowl>: I know ’ow to spell CayEHnayahney... 40-year-old-man-who-should-know-better: I thought you’d be taking on the Vicious Circle, but Conquest is sending out some baby faces, you’re going to get booed out of the arena. Jean Pierre Celine <nods>: Ze one match ze audience was supposed to support me on, right? [A videography... thank goodness. Quickly finishing his signature, La Hire throws the Music of SPW ’04 CD at the jerk fan, before turning to the camera with a smile. Might as well cut his losses, and turn this into a promo.] Jean Pierre Celine: Why am I ze captain of Team Ascension? I ‘ave a ‘istory. I took charge of ze Invaders and I turned zem into a force to be reckoned with. I ‘ave natural leadership abilities. More importantly, I ‘ave a motive. I LOATHE Vile “Vince” Viper and I want to ‘umiliate ‘im and ‘is lousy brand. It makes sense for me to be captain. Now I come from posh European schools, I’m an educated man, as such I see me being Captain as a fairly obvious decision. Zat doesn’t mean it’s obvious to management, so it meant a lot when Serena Black chose me to lead ze charge. Put ‘er FAITH in me. Vile attempts to force ze talent pool to ‘ave faith in ‘im, it doesn’t work out. Me as captain seemed like a longshot, but ‘ere we are, with people believing in me. Serena didn’t ‘ave to, but ‘ere I am anyway. [Signing his autograph on an IGA “Defiant Ones” JPC action figure is proving rather difficult. The hard plastic doesn’t lend itself to legibility, so after accidentally giving the doll a Hitler moustache, La Hire settles for an “X.” Security – Ben the Wrestling Bear – pushes the disappointed fan to the side.] Jean Pierre Celine: I fought for a contract, earned it. Been doing my best with an injury, and even managed to pull off a few match of ze year contenders against Johnny Pain. It’s been a long road to respectability, but I’m ‘ere. It’s kind of a big deal... So why am I pointing zis out? Mark Haley. [Someone hands Celine a Mark Haley poster to sign. Just kidding, it doesn’t exist. They do produce a best of DCWL DVD... which Celine promptly sets on fire. He’s a face with an edge... and a lighter, Europeans chain smoke.] Jean Pierre Celine: Who? Oh right. Ze Conquest Team Captain. ...What did you do to get ze job? Oh yeah. You’re a friend of ‘enry Spikes... I almost forgot. <smirk> I ‘ave zis ongoing joke with James O’Connor, where I suggest zat all ‘is success, all ‘is victories, all ‘is achievements, are a result of ‘im sexually gratifying ‘enry Spikes. When did JOC really make it big? In ‘enry’s office? No, I mean wrestling wise - wasn’t it WrestleBowl? Well I’ll be damned… plucked from obscurity, ‘enry in your corner; fighting ze big fight at WrestleBowl... you can be ze NEXT James O’Connor! Won’t your parents be proud?! <cringe> ...Maybe don’t take ‘enry home to meet them... [RSO Chapstick? That certainly takes the cake as saddest obscure wrestling merchandise of the day, and most questionable product to put on your lips. Celine signs it anyway... he just doesn’t touch it.] Jean Pierre Celine: I deserve to be ‘ere. Zis is important. ...But when I look at you as captain, I don’t think I’m rallying ze troops against Vile’s style... no... I feel like I’m taking on DCWL class of 2008. Zat’s not what I signed up for. Zat’s not cool. I’m proud to be part of zis match... but now I feel like I only got ze part because everyone else was busy. Eddie Christian is dead. Johnny Pain ‘as a title to defend. Team EGO will be doing everything in zeir power to retain zeir straps, while Vik Avatar ‘as to do everything in ‘is power to stop zat. JOC ‘as ‘is ‘ands full with Patterson. Lark Fenriz ‘as to put Tara Silver in traction again. Jackson ‘unter is going after ze Fusion strap, and Fury ‘as to keep ‘is snot nosed godson out of trouble. You can be a team captain, Mark, you just ‘ave to envision ‘ow. Everyone else was busy making ze audience care about zem? <chuckle> Not bad. Not bad at all. In ze end, I know I deserve to be at the ‘elm of Ascension... You Mark? Even for a show as bad as Conquest, you need to PROVE it. [Another man child drops a complete set of Hasbro Heroes of SCW action figures onto the table…] Harvey: ...They’re for my kid... can you make them out to Harvey. [La Hire lowers his head. It’s fucking hard being a face. End scene.] ERICA DUKE There’s an old saw that says politics makes strange bedfellows, and in a world like Pro Wrestling that counts for double. When two half-bright would-be demigods get together and call themselves “GM’s” and talk about “their show” as a matter of personal pride, well, Bubba, you’d best stand aside or be ripped to shreds like a scared animal. One can talk about the Human Chess Game, but deep down, politics is pro wrestling. There’s a reason why Henry Spikes hasn’t blown out of here and returned to DC; he got a taste of the raw atavistic bloodsport that seems to surrounds Shootfire that makes the deathmatches tame, and the US Congress seem like grade school hopscotch. Why else, other than politics, would I be coerced to team with Chance Fortuna again? At least were Andrew Davis to team with me, I wouldn’t permit him to waste his time on Twitter. Besides, Chance Fortuna brings nothing to the table. The real intellectual meat is across the ring from us. I tried explaining it to my old friend James O’Connor to give him a reason for his World Championship loss and an insight into the man he faces at Wrestlebowl. No matter how high the Marissa Monet’s and the Rich Patterson’s and—you indeed, you bet—the Erica Duke’s of the world, they still look down on you. No matter how many championship or awards you win, it’s still not enough. We still feel like the little guy. The loser. The Frostbite’s and the Orchid’s will tell us that a hundred times over, and they’re the ones whose respect we really craved in the first place. The inevitable realization is that we are truly Doomed. It explains why Rich Patterson resorts to such desperate measures to leech off of James O’Connor’s time in the sun. It’s why Orchid keeps a team of fixers on standby to keep a hold on the winner’s podium. It’s why Marissa Monet blew out of the Women’s Division on her terms, before someone came along to knock her off her pedestal so hard she’d never come back. Deep down, every wrestler must face the savage realization that they’re headed for the Dirt. Some accept it gracefully, but most resent the notion that at the end of the ride, they’d end up worse off for having tried to make something of themselves. One road agent said to me that there were only about five elite calibre athletes in SPW, the rest are in the conversation because they’re good at political maneuvering. Well, shucks. There is something to be said for someone who’s given their life over to pro wrestling only to discover that there’s someone more gifted than they. And the only way to get ahead is to make them choke on your continued success. Selah. - Erica Duke DIRT DOG UNIQUE ALLAH, DEATHKNELL (THE COURT) [Fade in: The Dirt Dog and DEATHKNELL emerge from the Court’s dressing room. Dirt Dog, as usual, is grinning insensately, his jaw hanging loosely and his eyes popping as he swaggers down the hallway in his formerly designer pea coat and wrestling jorts. DEATHKNELL moves at his side. The Screaming Demon says nothing as Dirt Dog stops and skulks back towards the dressing room door. He presses his ear up against the wood, giggling like a fool as he beckons DEATHKNELL over.] DDUA: Yo DK, it’s going down! It’s Court appreciation night and the Black Jesus is risin’ again. [He guffaws as DEATHKNELL glares at him with bright red eyes. Dirt Dog keeps listening at the door until he realises that his behemoth partner is not amused by his antics.] DDUA: Aw c’mon, muthafucka, you don’t wanna take a listen. DEATHKNELL: YOU DISRESPECT THE QUEEN! DDUA: Shhhh, goddamn it, muthafucka, they gon hear you. [Dirt Dog straightens up.] DDUA: Aw fuck this. You ain’t no fun. I’m feelin’ good tonight, muthafucka. DEATHKNELL: THE MISTRESS HAS FILLED YOU WITH GLEE? DDUA: Pause, muthafucka. Pause. Yeah, I feel good. Cause I feel like the shit is finally goin’ Dirt Dog’s way. Main event, Road to Wrestlebowl? This world is mine, ya bastid. Mine! DEATHKNELL: YOU HAVE FELT SUCH EXUBERENCE BEFORE. NORMALLY IT IS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF THE BOTTLE. NORMALLY SUCH COURAGE AND GOOD SPIRIT ENDS IN CALAMITY! [Dirt Dog stares at DEATHKNELL in shock.] DDUA: You drawin’ cards on me, muthafucka? Yo, you pasty bastid, you think you got jokes? Fuck you! [Dirt Dog starts to sing the words as he points to the backstage hands.] DDUA: Fuck you! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK ALL Y’ALL! DIRT DOG IS GOING TO THE MAIN EVENT! [Nobody seems to be paying attention to the Dirt Dog. So the Dirt Dog does something about it. He leaps onto a pallet and tears off his coat, throwing it in the air. He shows off his buff but undefined body. The knife scar in his belly is knotted and ugly.] DDUA: Don’t none of y’all wanna fuck with Dirt! You muthafuckas ain’t with me! I’m the Black Knight of the Court and it’s time for revenge in the main event of the Road to Wrestlebowl! [Nobody seems to pay any attention to the outburst.] DDUA: Muthafuckas, you shut the fuck up! And you shut the fuck up! That’s what the fuck y’all do! It don’t matter that Celine ain’t pick me for his team. It don’t matter that I might not have a match at Wrestlebowl! It don’t matter. I know you muthafuckas think I ain’t nuthin’ but Frank Wilkes prop, but you watch. I’m a fuck up Frostbite! I’m a fuck up JOC! I’m a fuck up all y’all muthafuckas who dare to denigrate me. Yeah, muthafucka, I know big words. I can say more than ‘I say yeah!’ I’m the last of the good time muthafuckas! But yo, I don’t care. I’m a do me and shock the world tonight. From the moon to Pluto ... from all houses in your town, Dirt Do comin’ to put in work. I’m a show all y’all muthafuckas just how it be. Say hello to the Black Knight, muhfuhs! Say hello to table crunching, pie munching, liquor swilling, pussy filling hobo with a goddamn Cause! Y’all hear me, muthafuckas? [Nobody seems to pay any attention to the outburst. Dirt Dog climbs down from his perch. He looks around with his yellowed eyes. Even DEATHKNELL seems nonplussed.] DDUA: (drawing a deep breath) Well, fuck y’all. [Fade out] MS. KEISHA LOVE [Fade in.] [Today we’re treated to quite a simple scene. Standing in front of a plain backdrop is Keisha Love. She’s clad in a red tank top and matching sweats, completing the look with tennis shoes. Her brown hair is pulled back and styled in a ponytail. With hands on her hips, she fixes the camera with a determined glare.] Keisha: I sent the camera crews home and got rid of all of the frills because I’m here to deliver a message and didn’t want it getting mixed-up or misconstrued. [She clears her throat.] Keisha: Ahem! At Road to Wrestlebowl, Tara Silver, I am going to kick your ass. [She narrows her brown eyes.] Keisha: That’s not opinion or even a threat. It’s gospel. See, I didn’t at all appreciate the little stunt you pulled at Conquest. Yeah, I understood Heather was throwing a fit, since losing to the black girl is going to make her persona non grata at her next Klan meeting. But there was no excuse for you to then turn around and attack me. It’s funny because, despite the shady insults and innuendo we've been throwing out, I’d hoped we could keep this thing between us sorta civil. But it’s obvious that I was mistaken. The first hint came, when you got all up in my face when I was going commentary. But this last sneak attack just goes to show that you want to start making this thing personal. [A look of disappointment crosses her features, replaced by a scowl of disgust.] Keisha: If that’s how you want to play it? Fine by me! Because I’m making it my mission, during this tag match, to even the score. So, I don’t care about partners or whatever. [She swipes a hand through the air.] Keisha: This is all about me getting my hands on you, Tara, and dragging you around that ring! You thought that Silver Bullet was cute? You haven’t seen anything yet. Because you’re going to get a taste of what our match at Wrestlebowl will be like. And, after that, you might just want to reconsider even showing up! [Fade out.] TARA SILVER SPW JUNIORS CHAMP [Fade in on the glistening abs of Tara Silver as she is working out, flexing her muscles as she lifts the bar, eyes determined as she stares ahead across and empty gym. For the first time in forever, she feels like there's no reason she should even be training. Yet the fire in her eyes and the motivation in her soul says different. Even if winning would be defeating her boyfriend's team, Tara Silver is a competitor. Regardless. She sets the weight down, and wipes the sweat from her forehead.] Tara: Shootfire Nation. I am booked to team with Vile Vince Viper, Jack East and a mystery man. I think everyone here knows exactly the way I feel about VVV. And any cronies of his as well. If the roles were reversed and I was on the other side of the ring, with Johnny, where I should be- then I'd go into this with a lot more heart and determination but, that's just not the way this particular match turned out to be. [Tara moves to the forefront, to take up a water bottle and drinks, then exhales and wipes her mouth with a gloved hand.] Tara: VVV is a legend in this sport, for all the wrong reasons. And for that, he's going to think he can tell me what to do. I'm not some kid who's going to do the opposite- but- let's just say Viper himself will tell you he's untrustworthy. So, that being said, why would anyone expect him to have my back? But at least he wants to win. You see you can find a commonality, even with those you particularly hate. And VVV wants to win so do I. I need to pin Keisha Love. I need to beat the Angels and Amazons Champion. For the Shootfire Juniors Championship I do. And Road to Wrestlebowl is too good, an opportunity for me to pass up. I will outwrestle her and prove that Silver Bullet was no fluke. [Tara smiles.] Tara: But what if Vile gets in my way? Well, a swift kick to the nuts will stop any man, god or legend in his tracks. I'm warning you goons, stay out of my way. I am here with a mission. One of glory, to win, but my way. I don't care what you're planning, I don't want to be part of any of it. Your problems with Johnny and EGO are well documented. Your problem with me is just beginning. Do you really want to face a war with your own teammate during this match? Because I can make that happen. So listen up, and listen good. I am a winner, and I come here to win. I will face off against Pain if I have to so be it. This is wrestling, it ain't the Hallmark Channel. And I have no problem doing my best against the best technical wrestler in SPW if I have no choice. I love him but I will kick him in the face if that's what comes to it. To break up a pin, to save my match. Because he would do the same and all in all, we are both, true competitors. So Road to Wrestlebowl, Tara Silver is here for one reason. For victory. For success. To become known as, the best Shootfire Juniors Champion of all time. No matter who the enemies, no matter who the friends. My name is Tara Silver. And Silver? [Tara tips her water bottle in salute.] Is better, than Gold. [Fade out.] JACK EAST <Fade In.> <A black backdrop is covered by dozens of SPW logos, evenly distributed into a surprisingly stylish pattern. From the right side of the screen, a man steps into the frame. Older fans will immediately recognize the grizzled face of long time squared circle veteran, Jack East. Decked out in a brown leather jacket, white tee, and blue jeans, East appears to have walked in off the street to shoot the shit. Tense body language suggesting that even this bare bones promo is an aggravation, taking precious time away from his golf; Mister Serious is quick to address the camera.> EAST: SPW. For those of you that are unfamiliar with me, my name is Jack East, and I’m a professional wrestler. <flinch> I’m guessing that applies to the majority of you; as I watch a product featuring a supposed drowning and a billion unrealistic chair shots, and can’t help but think the target audience is five years old. If that’s the case, then trust me, you five-year-old viewers, when I say that I was hot shit before you were born. But maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe you don’t appreciate the levels of wrestle crap either? Perhaps you blame all of these lame brained decisions on my good friend, Vincent? <Not very warm to begin with, East seems even colder at the mention of the general manager.> EAST: I see I’m tagging with him this week, so I might as well set the record straight. Vinnie is no friend of mine. We have a history, and I’m here at his invitation, but in my book? VVV is everything that’s _wrong_ with _my_ sport. Despite my contempt for his character, it appears I’ll be dragging the old man to a win this week, because I’m part of that dying breed known as PROFESSIONAL. I once again find myself thrown into the main event for the second week in a row. I look at a roster with guys like Mark Haley and Jackson Hunter, and wonder why I’m getting the big star treatment. Oh I used to be a name, but that was a long time ago. I have no problem with paying my dues; I’m not above _earning_ my spot at the end of the night. Then again, maybe I am. Tagging with lowlifes like Vincenzo and StrYfe is rather degrading, and look where it has gotten me; across the ring from this company’s champions in Pain and the Ego kids. A chance to see if I still have what it takes to compete with the best. I do. I will. Although I find taking Viper to victory distasteful, I do have a bone to pick with our opponents. I signed onto Conquest; because Vinnie assured me it had the _real_ competition. When I arrive, what do I find? I’m on the “sport’s entertainment” show, which runs opposite the “wrestling” show. <rubs temple> I know that pageantry, showmanship and melodrama are a large part of _my_ sport; but that doesn’t change the fact that _the_ sport is WRESTLING. Johnny Pain, Team EGO, you’re the champions of this federation. You seem to think because you have to put up with Vincent’s tired antics that you aren’t expected to put on the same quality of matches as a Shadoe Rage or Frostbite? That isn’t the case? Then why do you allow the _other_ show to boast about how much better there in-ring product is? Rather than put on better matches, you blame management. Well management is going to be in the ring this week, why don’t you show him the difference between a wristlock and a wristwatch, because if you “champions” don’t shape up, I will put you in place. Keisha Love. I’d heard that the intergender portion of this federation was mainly forced on those unlucky enough to get world title shots. Yet here we are. I’m not comfortable wrestling women, but if you make the mistake of locking up with me, I will spread the Love or at least your face across the canvas. Cage, Diamond, last week I was thrown into a match I didn’t have a stake in. I signed up anyway, looking to make the most of the opportunity, put on the best wrestling clinic possible. I wasn’t there for the sports entertainment. I wasn’t in on the crooked referee. I didn’t bring the chairs into play. I still took my lumps. I still got dragged into some wrestle crap bull shit. Didn’t care for it. Considering my role in that match, I feel like you took some undeserved liberties with yours truly. I hate Antigod, Strife and Vinnie, more for what happened than you; but don’t let that fool you. You’ve made an enemy out of me. This time around, try to conduct yourselves as proper WRESTLING champions instead of chair swinging thugs that stole the belts. You see, Conquest is going to become known as _the_ wrestling show. It all starts in that eight man tag match, where I will _drag_ the seven of you to an athletic contest if it _fucking_ kills me. That’s a promise. <Mister Serious leans into the camera for an extreme close-up of his cold eyes, before the picture fades out.> TEAM EGO!! SPW WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS [Tap Tap] [Tap Tap Tap Tap] [Fade back as Owen Cage and Shane Diamond are looking sideways at the camera beneath them. The lens pulls back to show the gold gleaming off the light as they are outside the Cedar Rapids Ice Arena. Smiling, YOUR Tag Team Champions of the World are very much proud with themselves. If only because, nobody does it better, than TEAM EGO Owen: Hey so what's up how are ya good? Great. Yes lo and behold, Team EGO make it all the way to the Road to Wrestlebowl STILL, your Tag Champeens and for good reason. Shane: Oh I know it's good. Owen: It's good because who betta den Team EGO? Shane: Ain't NO ONE! Owen: HaHA yes... but that's not we came out to talk to yous today no. Ya see, we are asked to work, no, lead, in the Main Event of SPW's Survivor matches! As we are getting ready to lock up with the Vilest of Vipers, The Silver Tongued Devil herself, the Eastest of all the Easts, and of course, some unknown guy. Brought in by Vile. Shane: Makes sense, that Vile's friends would not want to show their true identity. Owen: Now on paper you say ok. On one side. Team EGO with Johnny Pain and Keisha Love. Winners. Wrestlers. Americans. Shane: AMERICANS. [Hands to the heart.] Owen: And on the other hand? Romanians? Tara Silver? And some unknown dudes one whom we just kicked his ass so bad the rest of him may be east but we kicked his butt west. The man needs an atlas to find his ass. Jack East, welcome to SPW son, and may this be the first of the many, many ass kickings you're about to receive you see, Team EGO? We are equal opportunity ass kickers. Shane: Indeed, and in fact we will hit a girl... but Tara we know you hate Vile as much as we do, so, we'll keep an eye out fors ya. [Wink!] [Ladies.] Owen: And in any case that leaves us to masked man uno. You know what, Viper may have pulled a fast one over Colt Montana but those Spaniards not in remedial class should probably know- you can't trust Vile. Oh sure he's the "God" of this place but whatever. When the chips are down, he'll bail on ya. You saw what he did to Setzer Van Strife. You saw how much he protected those tag team title belts. Nope. And that's why y'all are gonna lose- because your leader, is not, a team player. Shane: Nope nope nope. Owen: Oh sure he might SOUND like a team player with all his goons and morons riding around like a crazy carny of retired delusion but in fact the only reason they're there is because they're frickin parrots. Not because they have independent thought. Think of this? Why did he bring back Jack East? And not Flaming Bob? Because VVV can't control Bob. Where is Sabbath? Exactly. Naw, Viper wants stooges and that's it. And Stooges do not a team make. Because when the chips are down, when Viper is down- and looking for that tag- are his flunkies gonna be able to hulk up and go into business to save their match? Nope. Who of his friends can find that thirteenth wind, to stand up and do whatever needs to be done to save the day? No one. Shane: It's real simple folks. Since Day One. Owen and I have trusted each other to come through when the other is down. No matter who the man, woman or opponent facing off against us across that ring. I know when I'm hurting and wanting my Mommy Owen Cage will save my bacon cause he has So many times before and Vice the Frickin Versa babies. Owen: That's why we're a team. And that's why we have these. [EGO display their World Tag Team Titles. Of the World!!] Shane: And that won't change at Road to Wrestlebowl. It might change at Wrestlebowl itself... but we seriously doubt it. Owen: Ha ha ha... VVV, bring your best, because as we've proved... your best isn't good enough to keep us down. We'll see ya sooner than later old man... we can't wait. [Cage starts looking at his own reflection in his belt. Shane huffs up.] Shane: Because we are TEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!! Owen: ... Shane: OWEN! Teamwork! Owen: Oh shoot. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEGO!!!!! [Fade out on the Cedar Rapids sun.] VILE "VINCE" VIPER GOD OF SPW [SPW corporate offices...] [We take on the perspective of our protagonist as he walks towards the imposing building. The large front doors open as a defeated looking LEFT Tentacle takes his leave – another Shootfire hopeful shot down as being a little too indy. Spotting the legend strutting towards him, Tentacle is quick to hold the door in a sad attempt at currying favour.] LEFT Tentacle: Top of the morning champ! [The camera nods politely at the giant tentacle, before continuing through into the building. Fans of more obscure organizations will immediately recognize the Haemophiliac Kid, having fallen on harder times, is now working security. Haemophiliac pats down a long line of SPW faithful that are looking to take a tour of their Mecca, upon seeing our lead, Kid just waves him through.] Front Desk: Good morning champ! [A few of the marks take pictures of our camera, uncomfortable waiting for the elevator, he decides to take the stairs. Our protagonist isn’t used to all of this attention. He prefers to blend into the shadows. Second floor. When he went after the gold, he knew his life was going to change, but he thought it would be for the better. Third floor. Still, this is his dream, right? Fifth floor. This is what he worked so hard for. Eight floor. He asked for this. Ten. Sitting on the next set of steps, Andy Simmons puffs away at a cigarette.] “Asshole” Andy Simmons <exhale>: Little privacy <points at camera> please, <snort> champ. [A hand reaches out, opening the door to the tenth floor. Coming out into another long hallway, our perspective reaches down into his pants pocket looking for a pair of keys, while continuing to walk towards his destination. Yeah, if he’d known this was the life of a title holder he never would have won the damn strap. Using the keys, we enter one of the larger offices... a waiting room. The receptionist desk is empty, while The AntiGod takes a nap on the couch. Taking advantage of the large man’s bored slumber; Dr. Rinas is trying to map The AG’s brain before his wife gets back. Giving the camera a dirty look, Rinas points to the next room.] Dr. Rinas <whispering>: He’s waiting... champ. [The camera shakes as our star swallows hard, then continues on into the next room...] “For the last time Serena, I’m not going to be your sperm donor!” [We enter the corporate offices of the Conquest General Manager just as he slams his pink blackberry against his black, oak desk. Black curtains are drawn, blotting out the sound, and the best view in the building. The scarlet serpent sits back on a large mahogany throne. Dead animals, live animals, candles, and creepy post-modern sculptures have the interior design looking more like a black mass ritual than an executive’s office. The only thing that looks normal is a bland grey chair in the middle of the room – you know, for guests – but even it stands in the centre of a pentagram. Once again putting off the lustful advances of the AJ Black’s whore daughter, it’s safe to say that the Lord is in a foul mood.] Vile “Vince” Viper: How much will my show sssuffer because I won’t sssatisssfy that harpy? <turning to face the camera> Ah, Missster Montana. [A second camera takes us out of the first person perspective, to find our “champ” to be Colt Montana, decked out in his NEWF World Title. I didn’t forget about the title; it’s just a slow burn... like peeing after a night of intense passion with Kieran Rae. Who knew that NEWF world champion meant personal assistant to Conquest’s commander and chief? I did.] Colt Montana <handing over laundry>: Here dry cleaning. Blood no come out. Vile “Vince” Viper <licking the blood on his pants leg to make sure>: That’s alright, it isn’t my blood anyway. <looking up> ...And my lunch? Colt Montana <handing over Philly cheese steak>: Sorry late, restaurant you send me, is burn down. Vile “Vince” Viper <licking his lips>: Yeah, <ripping open container> they do that. Colt Montana <last package>: And the gift for Mrs. God. It cost---- Vile “Vince” Viper <mouth full of steak>: That’ll do Missster Montana. Better get back to your station. [Fumbling with receipts, Colt stops, nodding in understanding at his cheap saviour, and then exiting the macabre office. He’s a champion now. He can absorb the costs of a diamond necklace. They pay him more, right? The camera follows the world champion out into the waiting room... just in time to see The AntiGod chase Dr. Rinas out of the waiting room!] The AntiGod: GET BACK HERE YOU SONOFABITCH!!! [The AG tears electrodes off his forehead while swinging the couch as a weapon. Just another day at the office. Sighing, our favourite luchador picks up a few overturned chairs. They do that every day. Colt shuffles the magazines – all pornography – before sitting down at the receptionist’s desk.] Colt Montana: ... [The phone rings, call display has Serena Black on line one. Colt looks around awkwardly, but with the phone ringing off the hook; it doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere.] Colt Montana <picking up phone>: Hello -------------------! [Colt pulls his ear away from the phone as Ascension’s resident super bitch goes off on a tirade. Even wearing a mask, that was painful. Her shrill, nasal voice is loud enough to get picked up on camera...] Serena on the phone <super high pitched, if you have a pet dog in the room it’s have a conniption fit>: wieiaodighalaihdglaihlaihertlaihtalighaldihg! Colt Montana <nodding>: Si. Serena on the phone <no signs of stopping>: oihatglirhatiahetlaihetlaiehtALIEHT!!! Colt Montana <nodding>: Si. Serena on the phone <sounds sort of like one of the adults on Charlie Brown>: waaahwloishalaidhtlaihralihrtal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Colt Montana <nodding>: Si. Serena on the phone <getting even angrier knowing that Colt has no idea what she’s talking about>: woiheroiahertihaertihaleithaleiht!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Colt Montana <wait for it>: ...Si. Please to be hold. [Looking down in confusion, the plucky luchador hits the... well it looks like he hung up on her. Uh oh. She’s going to be mad. And you wondered why Vile would want him as a personal assistant. Best trade of the whole draft. Fuck Damian Payne; wouldn’t even get VVV coffee.] Colt Montana: ... “Colt.” [Jumping out of his chair, Colt fears that Serena has walked down the hall to confront them. Like all Ascension workers, the bitch is too lazy. He must be hearing things.] “Colt!” [Falling backwards out of his chair, Colt holds up his cross, terrified of the disembodied voice.] Colt Montana <yelling loud enough that he can be heard in the other room>: Who that? Intercom: “It’sss God.” Colt Montana <falling to knees and crossing himself>: Ay dios mio! Forgive me lord! Intercom: “Take a messssssage.” Colt Montana <looks horrible confused, but sits back at his desk, slowly putting his hands on the keyboard>: ...yes, Lord. “Dear Team EGO, Congratulationsss on your recent title win. I knew you two had it in you. While I’m sure the result would have been DRASSSTICALLY different had I been involved in the contest, we can settle that score on the Road to WressstleBowl. Of course, the only thing keeping me from having you two battle it out in a loser leaves town barbwire shark death match was Ms. Black’s threats to strip my friends of the titles. Now that I no longer have to worry about petty time of the month reprisals, the sky really is the limit. So enjoy your championship run while it lasts. I for one couldn’t be happier for you, showing the world that while champions can work both shows, only CONQUESSST athletes can actually win. Best of luck with your upcoming defences which I assure you will be torture, and very much looking forwards to fucking you up in the ring, Sssincerely yoursss, Vile Viper, M.D. ...You get all that, Missster Montana?” Colt Montana <hasn’t typed word one, but might be waiting to start>: Si. “Good, next letter... Dear Sssetzer Van Ssstrife, How did you lose to those pathetic retards? Your heart seems to be more into selling usssed carsss. Speaking as one of your closest friends, you’re an embarrassment to your name, legacy, family, and most importantly me. As such your services will no longer be required with our company. Fuck off and die. Bessst of luck with future endeavoursss, Vile Viper, Esquire” [Colt looks around for a minute, then slams his fist on the keyboard like that will create the characters that VVV just spouted off. I really hope SVS gets his pink slip...] “Dear Johnny Pain, You’re the only part of Conquessst I refussse to watch. How is life treating you? I see we have a match this week. Congratulationsss on finally getting me in the ring. Normally I don’t slum around in the openers, so I’m sure you can understand how our fictitious feud had to primarily exist inside your head. Still, with the help of six other bodies to distract me, you somehow managed to turn your dream of locking up with the great man into a reality... no matter how quickly it ends. Good for you. Not unlike the small children who’ve become retarded as a result of brain tumours making dumb requests of the last wish foundation, it warms my heart to see you achieving your life’s ambition of standing across the ring from me. I’m not sure if I’ll take the time to pin you, you haven’t really EARNED it, but you can stand in the corner while I dispatch your partners, and you can tell the grandkids one day how you jerked curtains against the best of them. Just so you know Johnny, our sssurvivor match features Conquessst’s bessst and brightessst and you. I’m pretty sure Ssserena Black is going to make a power play to have Assscensssion close the show – Brave little toaster that it is. Ssshe’sss doing this because I’m not willing to provide her with my genetic material which she cravesss – but don’t let that fool you. If our half of the main event doesn’t finish the show, it’s not because we won’t put on the better match... it’s because you have less drawing power than Frossstbite. If I were you, Johnny, I’d kill myself. Wanting to wrestle me, you must have some sort of death wisssh. Ssspeaking as some sort of father figure to you, go with it. In conclusssion, pleassse die. All the best, with killing yourself, Vile Viper, Better.” [Colt has been randomly slapping the keyboard, looking like he can type a thousand words a minute. I hope Johnny Pain gets the message. No one likes him, and he’s a worse lame duck champion than Marcus Davis. Seriously, since being handed the title has Pain had any decent opponents without protected finishes? Fuck you, Johnny Pain.] Colt Montana: <breathing a sigh of relief, happy to finally be done...> “Dear Angel Titsss, Now Keisssha Love my love, I consider you to be the last great sign that Ssshootfire made, and my persssonal coup of the draft. Oh, I didn’t draft you first, what with women being inferior to men; in fact I think I asssked for you after Fury, if that demonstrates how little I think of female athletes. The important thing is, I had the highessst possssssible expectations for you coming in. You were going to be the best thing that happened to our woman’s division since Jasssy O’Neil died of that urinary tract infection while trying to put on a Patong ping pong ball show. You were going to set the women on fire! What did I get? Have we had sssex once? What’s the fucking hold up?! I appreciate playing hard to get, I have a nun outfit we can use, and it’ll be nice not being the one wearing it for a change, but this is getting rather ludicrousss. I wouldn’t mind the teasssing if you actually delivered in the ring, but what have you done? Seen who can bleed the most with Avatar’s ex, and a lacklustre win over Heather Owens? Is this what we’re paying you for? Sssuch a disappointment! Well, I see we’re finally going to get a chance to tango at the Road to WressstleBowl, and I for one hope you continue to underwhelm, Love. Enclosssed you’ll find a pair of my panties, hoping they find you in good health. Ssseriously, get tesssted, after Kieran Rae I can’t afford to take chancesss, Yours affectionately, Vile Viper, 12” uncut. ...You getting all this, Missster Montana?” Colt Montana <raising head from keyboard>: Is Strife two S’s or three? “Three.” Colt Montana: Got it. “Now make sure you include a pair of my undergarments with the Love note, I’m leaning towards the red teddy.” Colt Montana <looking up to the heavens, there are a lot of pencils stuck in the ceiling>: Si, oh Lord. “I’m going to have a nap now. If Ssserena, somehow forces herself into my office, make sure she doesn’t molest me while I’m sleeping in a last desperate effort to impregnate herssself. Have AntiGod put the door back on its hinges when he finishes with Rinasss. Feel free to leave at sssix tonight...” Colt Montana <finally the perks of being a champion>: Gracias! “...Asss I’m going to need you to take my jaguar to the cleaners. Also get my car detailed. More laundry to be picked up from Chow’sss, this is a dirty busssinessssss. Ssshake down Deadman again, if he wants to avoid getting traded to Conquessst, he’ll pay through the nossse! I can’t get my TiVo to work, so swing by my crib later to sort it out… wait until nightfall; I don’t want my neighbors to think I hire day laborersss. I’ll also need a birthday presssent for the other Mrsss. God, ssspare no expenssse, Montana!” [As Conquest’s General Manager continues his laundry list of demands, Colt Montana looks down at his NEWF World Heavyweight title. When he defeated Monet for the strap, he had no idea what it would do to his life. It’s not like he had a choice, its Marissa Monet, Colt won the belt by divine will. His mask is reflected in the gold plates. Colt musters a sad smile…] [The life of a champion…] |
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| dalbellorage | Apr 3 2012, 11:53 AM Post #2 |
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Carl Brutananadilewski
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Interesting how this will play out. I wonder what he's going to do. Is this really a farewell or a comeback? If there are written shows I wonder if it is really the end of SPW. |
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| ShaunSindelman | Apr 3 2012, 12:08 PM Post #3 |
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The White Shadow
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I gotta think AJ wanted to at least wrap up what he had in mind for RtWB and WB itself. |
| TSWF (Tri-State Wrestling Federation) - Bigger & Bolder Wrestling - http://tristatewrestling.yolasite.com | |
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| Herr Tommy | Apr 3 2012, 12:32 PM Post #4 |
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The Wwwyzzerdd
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Wow, that Shadoe Rage RP was disgusting. Kudos if you were going for that, Dare. |
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| dalbellorage | Apr 3 2012, 12:47 PM Post #5 |
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Carl Brutananadilewski
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I was going for romantic and touching. You didn't feel the love? I'm thinking Rage will corner the kids market. |
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| dalbellorage | Apr 3 2012, 12:52 PM Post #6 |
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Carl Brutananadilewski
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It'd be nice though if people could get final promos in for Wrestlebowl itself, though. At least give handlers a chance to take part in the finale. |
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| ShaunSindelman | Apr 3 2012, 01:16 PM Post #7 |
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The White Shadow
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I'm sure AJ is going to accomodate that. This could end up though being the longest drawn-out finale in the history of eW. |
| TSWF (Tri-State Wrestling Federation) - Bigger & Bolder Wrestling - http://tristatewrestling.yolasite.com | |
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9:41 AM Jul 11