What? You Were Expecting Something Else? [#2]
Jan 24, 2013 22:06:44 GMT -5
Post by Bondo on Jan 24, 2013 22:06:44 GMT -5
Words.
That’s all they are, right?
It’s a quarter past two in the morning. The streets are glossed over with a light covering of snow. And if it weren’t for the blistering cold wind at the moment, the scene set in front of us would be Capra-esqe. The night sky is cloudless, hundreds of thousands of stars encompass the heavens above. Beauty. Serenity. Tranquility. You name it. It’s a peaceful as peaceful can be.
The only sound (aside from the occasional car driving through) is the crunch of snow under the feet of a traveling soul. The rosy cheeks of a man who’s facial hair is three days old and rugged in nature attain to the coldness in description. Drawing down, one can see that he’s wearing a dark black pea coat, a simple black beanie, and a pair of what appear to be leather gloves. His jeans do little maintain a comfortable level of warmth.
“A wise man was once quoted as saying, “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.””
Silence fills the area, once more the only sound are the footsteps by the orator.
“Aww, who the hell am I kidding. Friedrich Nietzsche was a closeted homosexual with religion issues who caught syphilis and went crazy. But I gotta tell you, as an analogy to describe the mentality of a professional wrestler, such as myself, I couldn’t have been more spot-on.”
The natural darkness is briefly lit up by a passing car coming up behind the possibly insane night-walker with an affinity for dead German philosophers.
“We are a breed of men who live on a rush attained from having our bodies slammed into the mat, elbows jammed into our skulls, knees driven into our abdomens. Some might call us insane, others might even call us gladiators. However you want to look at it, we’re a unique breed. Some of us are tall. Some of us are naturally smart. Some have battle reflexes of a Greek God. And others… are just miracles of nature.
Anton Chase…”
A slight smirk forms across the chilled face of our hero, Chris Bond. His piercing blue eyes sparkle in the starlight, giving some sense of honorability and humanity to an otherwise potential lunatic.
“Man, oh man, did they break the mold when they made you, boy. You sure think highly of yourself. I feel awful dirty having watched the butchered words that you attempted to sling at me.
As to recap, you called me old, slow, and stupid for underestimating you. I may also have struck a nerve somewhere by allegedly referring to you as a ‘glorified stuntman’ although I have never said that in my entire life.”
Another smirk is noticed, as his lips gloss over from the lick of his tongue. He stops briefly to cross the street, making sure not to wind up dead because of poor planning on location scouting for his debut promotional video for the FGA. Although, what a way to wind up on TV though, yeah? 1,000 Ways to Die, anyone?
“When I was told that I would be facing someone with a resume as padded as yours, I had assumed that I would at least be given an even mental battle. But once more, I find my assumptions about hardcore wrestlers to have been proven true. You opened your mouth, and not two minutes into an abysmal shoot, I found out you couldn’t string two sentences together without sounding like some moderately retarded, would-be Republican politician. In fact, I’m increasingly surprised you’re not related to Michelle Bachmann.
You’re a guy, Anton, who claims to have momentum heading into your first ‘real’ match here in the FGA, but if memory serves me correctly, and I know I’m kind of advanced in age so I may be wrong, but didn’t you lose your debut match? Now, I may be older than most, but when I was a guy trying to make a name for myself in a promotion I had just entered, I didn’t claim to have the momentum heading into a contest on the heels of a loss. And let’s be honest Anton, it wasn’t even an upset. You got your ass handed to you because you were too busy sticking crayons up your nose to prepare for a match with your last opponent. Now, that’s fine training… but only if you’re facing Ralph Wiggum. And at this point in time, I’m fairly certain he would have kicked your ass, too.”
A smile forms as Bond briefly imagines Ralph Wiggum, the son of Police Chief Wiggum of ‘The Simpsons’ fame, beating the unruly fuck out of Anton Chase. Bond is brought back to reality when a dog is heard barking off in the distance.
“I’m going to be blunt here, Chase. I don’t honestly think you know anything about me. I think you pulled out your fancy little smart phone, opened up your Google app, and typed my name in only to find a couple brief postings about me aside from my Wiki-page. And yes, if you’re wondering, I really do despise the movie “Rudy”.
But let me introduce you to something I like to call, reality. I’m not in the FGA because I’m hurting for money. I didn’t poorly invest, nor did I blow it all on painkillers and Johnnie Walker. I don’t need to brag about my personal wealth to try and get over or psyche out my opponent. I came to the FGA to get back to my roots. To reclaim a solid footing in this business after an injury that would have grounded most men permanently.
You don’t need to worry about my ring rust either, because I’m pretty sure what little I have in my pinky-finger would still be more than enough to turn you into a mop and wipe the ring with you.
Now, that may sound harshly arrogant, but after the words you said to me, I have little to no respect for you. I’m already aware that the years you spent training for this business have faired you well. You’ve got a resume a mile wide. But honestly, the fact that you speak like some poorly translated Russian-to-American porno, I gotta say, I’m having a hard time taking you seriously. And no, that wasn’t a euphemism to describe my penis.”
Ahhh, the inevitable penis plug.
“You’re always on about being at the top of your game. In fact, you even called yourself an ‘in-ring general’. Why do I get the feeling you’re more like Petraeus than Eisenhower, Chase? You’re too busy trying to get your rocks off and chasing after some reporter than worrying about your duties and trying to fight the war you were put in place to fight.
Pop culture and current event references aside, congratulations on your championship in, how did you put it? Oh yeah… ‘America’s top Indy promotion, Warped’. Way to go buddy, we knew you could do it.
In all seriousness. If you think I’m just some injured, rusty ring veteran with an affinity for painkillers and scotch-whiskey, well, you’re partially right. I’ve got my demons. I wrestle with them every day, but you show me a person who claims to be free of those and I’ll show you a fucking liar.
This is the FGA. This isn’t yesteryear. This isn’t Warped. This is Frontier. Where we both came to make a name for ourselves.
You don’t have the momentum heading into our contest. You barely have a double-digit IQ. But what you lack in brains you do make up for with a natural athleticism backed by years of training. I wouldn’t trust you with painting my house, but I’ve got to give you credit. You can kick some ass. The only problem is this week, it won’t be me.
I’ve never underestimated you, Chase. I’ve had some formulated opinions based on your recent work, but to say I’m overlooking you is a huge mistake in your book. I may be an arrogant, over-the-hill, addict, but the truth is… I’ve still got it in me to kick your ass.”
Bond stops and lets out a deep sigh. The warmth from his lungs hitting the bitterly cold air shows brilliantly in the backlight of star-lit skies.
“This week isn’t about making friends. This week isn’t really about first-impressions. This week is about making a lasting impression. And Anton, the only impression you’ve made thus far is that of a failure.
By writing me off as some broke, injured, less-talented, unable-to-beat-you, washed-up, generic tagline, you’ve overlooked one important thing: I’m Chris Bond. I’ve spent years training, working all over North America. I've been up, I've been down. I've held my share of gold, and I've had my ass handed to me on many occasions. I've been cheered, I've been booed. And if you think for one second that you’re going to waltz into the Rhode Island Convention Center and beat the ever-loving shit out of me, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not going to let somebody like you make a name for yourself at my expense.
This is my time. This is my game. This is my life.
I won’t let you, or anyone else, fuck it up for me.
My name is Chris Bond, and welcome to my Frontier.”
Bond glares into the camera, his face a stone-cold look of sincerity. He bites at his lower lip before shuddering lightly and placing his hands into his pocket. Chris turns to the left and heads off into the distance, the bitter, cold air flowing in his wake. The sound of crunching snow under his boots, echoes under the silent night sky.
Who will win this battle… this literal and physical war of the words?
Which Gladiator will avoid being thrown to the lions?
It’s simple really. The one who carries the pen.
For the pen is truly mightier than the sword.
Unless of course, you have a laser gun. Then the laser gun will always come out on top. Fact.
That’s all they are, right?
It’s a quarter past two in the morning. The streets are glossed over with a light covering of snow. And if it weren’t for the blistering cold wind at the moment, the scene set in front of us would be Capra-esqe. The night sky is cloudless, hundreds of thousands of stars encompass the heavens above. Beauty. Serenity. Tranquility. You name it. It’s a peaceful as peaceful can be.
The only sound (aside from the occasional car driving through) is the crunch of snow under the feet of a traveling soul. The rosy cheeks of a man who’s facial hair is three days old and rugged in nature attain to the coldness in description. Drawing down, one can see that he’s wearing a dark black pea coat, a simple black beanie, and a pair of what appear to be leather gloves. His jeans do little maintain a comfortable level of warmth.
“A wise man was once quoted as saying, “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.””
Silence fills the area, once more the only sound are the footsteps by the orator.
“Aww, who the hell am I kidding. Friedrich Nietzsche was a closeted homosexual with religion issues who caught syphilis and went crazy. But I gotta tell you, as an analogy to describe the mentality of a professional wrestler, such as myself, I couldn’t have been more spot-on.”
The natural darkness is briefly lit up by a passing car coming up behind the possibly insane night-walker with an affinity for dead German philosophers.
“We are a breed of men who live on a rush attained from having our bodies slammed into the mat, elbows jammed into our skulls, knees driven into our abdomens. Some might call us insane, others might even call us gladiators. However you want to look at it, we’re a unique breed. Some of us are tall. Some of us are naturally smart. Some have battle reflexes of a Greek God. And others… are just miracles of nature.
Anton Chase…”
A slight smirk forms across the chilled face of our hero, Chris Bond. His piercing blue eyes sparkle in the starlight, giving some sense of honorability and humanity to an otherwise potential lunatic.
“Man, oh man, did they break the mold when they made you, boy. You sure think highly of yourself. I feel awful dirty having watched the butchered words that you attempted to sling at me.
As to recap, you called me old, slow, and stupid for underestimating you. I may also have struck a nerve somewhere by allegedly referring to you as a ‘glorified stuntman’ although I have never said that in my entire life.”
Another smirk is noticed, as his lips gloss over from the lick of his tongue. He stops briefly to cross the street, making sure not to wind up dead because of poor planning on location scouting for his debut promotional video for the FGA. Although, what a way to wind up on TV though, yeah? 1,000 Ways to Die, anyone?
“When I was told that I would be facing someone with a resume as padded as yours, I had assumed that I would at least be given an even mental battle. But once more, I find my assumptions about hardcore wrestlers to have been proven true. You opened your mouth, and not two minutes into an abysmal shoot, I found out you couldn’t string two sentences together without sounding like some moderately retarded, would-be Republican politician. In fact, I’m increasingly surprised you’re not related to Michelle Bachmann.
You’re a guy, Anton, who claims to have momentum heading into your first ‘real’ match here in the FGA, but if memory serves me correctly, and I know I’m kind of advanced in age so I may be wrong, but didn’t you lose your debut match? Now, I may be older than most, but when I was a guy trying to make a name for myself in a promotion I had just entered, I didn’t claim to have the momentum heading into a contest on the heels of a loss. And let’s be honest Anton, it wasn’t even an upset. You got your ass handed to you because you were too busy sticking crayons up your nose to prepare for a match with your last opponent. Now, that’s fine training… but only if you’re facing Ralph Wiggum. And at this point in time, I’m fairly certain he would have kicked your ass, too.”
A smile forms as Bond briefly imagines Ralph Wiggum, the son of Police Chief Wiggum of ‘The Simpsons’ fame, beating the unruly fuck out of Anton Chase. Bond is brought back to reality when a dog is heard barking off in the distance.
“I’m going to be blunt here, Chase. I don’t honestly think you know anything about me. I think you pulled out your fancy little smart phone, opened up your Google app, and typed my name in only to find a couple brief postings about me aside from my Wiki-page. And yes, if you’re wondering, I really do despise the movie “Rudy”.
But let me introduce you to something I like to call, reality. I’m not in the FGA because I’m hurting for money. I didn’t poorly invest, nor did I blow it all on painkillers and Johnnie Walker. I don’t need to brag about my personal wealth to try and get over or psyche out my opponent. I came to the FGA to get back to my roots. To reclaim a solid footing in this business after an injury that would have grounded most men permanently.
You don’t need to worry about my ring rust either, because I’m pretty sure what little I have in my pinky-finger would still be more than enough to turn you into a mop and wipe the ring with you.
Now, that may sound harshly arrogant, but after the words you said to me, I have little to no respect for you. I’m already aware that the years you spent training for this business have faired you well. You’ve got a resume a mile wide. But honestly, the fact that you speak like some poorly translated Russian-to-American porno, I gotta say, I’m having a hard time taking you seriously. And no, that wasn’t a euphemism to describe my penis.”
Ahhh, the inevitable penis plug.
“You’re always on about being at the top of your game. In fact, you even called yourself an ‘in-ring general’. Why do I get the feeling you’re more like Petraeus than Eisenhower, Chase? You’re too busy trying to get your rocks off and chasing after some reporter than worrying about your duties and trying to fight the war you were put in place to fight.
Pop culture and current event references aside, congratulations on your championship in, how did you put it? Oh yeah… ‘America’s top Indy promotion, Warped’. Way to go buddy, we knew you could do it.
In all seriousness. If you think I’m just some injured, rusty ring veteran with an affinity for painkillers and scotch-whiskey, well, you’re partially right. I’ve got my demons. I wrestle with them every day, but you show me a person who claims to be free of those and I’ll show you a fucking liar.
This is the FGA. This isn’t yesteryear. This isn’t Warped. This is Frontier. Where we both came to make a name for ourselves.
You don’t have the momentum heading into our contest. You barely have a double-digit IQ. But what you lack in brains you do make up for with a natural athleticism backed by years of training. I wouldn’t trust you with painting my house, but I’ve got to give you credit. You can kick some ass. The only problem is this week, it won’t be me.
I’ve never underestimated you, Chase. I’ve had some formulated opinions based on your recent work, but to say I’m overlooking you is a huge mistake in your book. I may be an arrogant, over-the-hill, addict, but the truth is… I’ve still got it in me to kick your ass.”
Bond stops and lets out a deep sigh. The warmth from his lungs hitting the bitterly cold air shows brilliantly in the backlight of star-lit skies.
“This week isn’t about making friends. This week isn’t really about first-impressions. This week is about making a lasting impression. And Anton, the only impression you’ve made thus far is that of a failure.
By writing me off as some broke, injured, less-talented, unable-to-beat-you, washed-up, generic tagline, you’ve overlooked one important thing: I’m Chris Bond. I’ve spent years training, working all over North America. I've been up, I've been down. I've held my share of gold, and I've had my ass handed to me on many occasions. I've been cheered, I've been booed. And if you think for one second that you’re going to waltz into the Rhode Island Convention Center and beat the ever-loving shit out of me, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not going to let somebody like you make a name for yourself at my expense.
This is my time. This is my game. This is my life.
I won’t let you, or anyone else, fuck it up for me.
My name is Chris Bond, and welcome to my Frontier.”
Bond glares into the camera, his face a stone-cold look of sincerity. He bites at his lower lip before shuddering lightly and placing his hands into his pocket. Chris turns to the left and heads off into the distance, the bitter, cold air flowing in his wake. The sound of crunching snow under his boots, echoes under the silent night sky.
Who will win this battle… this literal and physical war of the words?
Which Gladiator will avoid being thrown to the lions?
It’s simple really. The one who carries the pen.
For the pen is truly mightier than the sword.
Unless of course, you have a laser gun. Then the laser gun will always come out on top. Fact.
