S02E06
Jul 1, 2013 16:26:46 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jul 1, 2013 16:26:46 GMT -5
"Can it be?" I ask as the camera steadies with a shot of my upper body. "Have we, The Murder, ran through the best that FGA has to offer? Has it reached a point where they've had to take to importing them from elsewhere? The U.K Dragons come in from across the pond, from the other Frontier. The Super Mario Wrestling Bros have been thawed from their cryogenic stasis. Bad Attitude have decided that PWX doesn't offer enough competition so they've got to try their hand here too..." I smirk. "...we all suffered through that Fairchild/Pariah showcase match, I understand that one..."
The smirk fades nearly instantly, replaced by an expression of contempt and anger. A snarl forms upon my lips, my brow furrowing as I glare at the camera. "And one -- who knows who, who knows where they come from -- that must have the worst luck in the whole goddamn world." And that's coming from me. "The team with the misfortune to face two of the most dangerous men in professional wrestling. Malcolm Drake and myself."
A sinister chuckle escapes my lips as I rub the palm of my left hand along my stubbled jaw; it has more than the usual designer stubble today, mainly because I haven't felt like shaving since Heather broke up with me. Or dumped my ass, as people like to say. My hair remains unstyled; again, I couldn't be bothered today; the blonde streak lays ruffled amongst the untidy mess atop my head.
"You see, for the last six months we have rained destruction down upon this promotion. We took your idols and made playthings of them, we proved that we could take the top title..." despite how forgettable a reign it was "...we pulled the wool over the eyes of each and every fan, every wrestler in the back. We broke Junior, we broke Kidd. We have left a pile of bodies in our wake since day one..." another chuckle, "...it only makes sense that you want to remain hidden."
I put my arms out to either side; I'm wearing the hockey jersey that Heather bought for my birthday again, the black one with a crimson stripe across the chest and a picture of a crow holding a scythe in the middle. "You want a fighting chance." I shout.
"You want us unprepared." Said in a raised voice.
"To try and catch us by surprise." I exclaim before chuckling to myself, running a hand through my hair. "It doesn't matter. Not a damn bit! I mean, when this tournament was announced -- The Dynamic Duos -- one name was on the lips of every fan." I hold up my right index finger to the camera. "The Murder." I say in a hushed tone.
"Everybody wanted to see The Murder." I state, confidently. "What The U.K. Dragons won't tell you, what Bad Attitude won't admit to is that they came to FGA, they entered this tournament to see us, to face us. For the chance to step into the ring with Malcolm or Bob or myself. The Usual Suspects, KoolStorm, The Super Mario Wrestling Brothers, even Halliwell and Carruthers..." especially Heather ..."want the chance to test their mettle against us. To say they fought against The Murder, to say they were in the ring with the greatest tag team to ever grace FGA."
"And that includes you, Harvard Connection." A dig I only make because of Preston Blake's attitude towards me over the last week; his constant digs about Riley, which became worse once Disclosure aired on Thursday night.
I start pacing back and forth in front of the white gym corridor wall. "You see, I'm no stranger to tag team wrestling, myself. Way back when I started up in Simcoe, I managed to win the prestigious, highly coveted tag titles there. My partner and I defeated Jace Parker Davidson and Tara Michaels -- no easy feat, believe me. But we did it. And in the UWL, I was one half of the World tag champions; a title I won with a man I met for the first time that night. No, you see, I know this game like the back of my hand..." I stop pacing, standing side on to the camera with my arm extended towards the lens. "...this time, however, I know the man I'm partnered with. I trust him far more implicitly than I did either of my previous partners."
"Malcolm Drake." I say with a wry smile on my face. "The name itself should strike fear into all of your hearts. The finest brawler the world has ever seen. The most dangerous man in pro wrestling today. The mastermind behind the Murder, the head crow. And you have the have the honour to step into the ring with him. You're lucky enough to be able to say you wrestled against Malcolm Drake. Unfortunately, the flip side of the coin, you have the misfortune to be walking into your inevitable demise. Your doom. Your destruction."
"The first time Malcolm and I teamed together here we left Junior as a stain on the mat. The next time we took apart him and Kidd - Hardaway put up some fight, but not enough..." I snigger. "...never enough. And this time will be no different!"
I suddenly turn to face the camera, getting in close as I, once again, run a hand though my hair. "It doesn't matter to me who you are. We don't need to know until the moment your music hits and you walk down the aisle. The moment when the hundreds of fans in Ballroom B see you and cheer for you, hoping against hope that you can topple us." I laugh. "Hide behind the mystery, grasp onto what leverage you think you have over us. And dream that impossible dream because the outcome of this match has already been decided." I state matter-of-factly, a crooked grin spreading across my face. "The outcome of this tournament has already been decided, ever since The Murder were announced as participants, the outcome has been plain to see."
"The Murder: FGA Mid Atlantic Tag Team Champions!"
"So this Saturday in Hartford, Connecticut, give us everything you've got." Said in a demanding tone. "Bring your damn a-game! Even your best will not be good enough, but we want a challenge--" I just want to beat the shit out of someone, but that remains unsaid, "--otherwise this match will be a slaughter. The mat will be painted with your blood. And you both will have learned a most valuable lesson: you do not cross The Murder!"
I wrote down what Georgie said to me on Twitter, this note is currently stuck to the front of my fridge with a tiny little four leaf clover magnet. At the bottom I can physically pull your head outta your ass and shake you so hard you could sue for whiplash is scrawled in my chicken scratch writing. She was right, she is my foul-mouth Jiminy Cricket.
When I was wrestling in Simcoe I damn near idolised 'The Rebel Child' Georgie Nickles; I watched her matches if I had them on DVD; if I didn't I just watched them on YouTube. Watching her brawling style while I was still trying to define myself, especially back then, was always an eye opener. Being in the same promotion as her, no matter how briefly, that was a privilege for which I am eternally grateful. I got to meet an idol. But, as they do, things happened and we drifted apart, lost touch. Until the miracle of Twitter allowed us to reconnect after all these years.
And just in time.
Just as I managed to make a real mess of my life; I recently got exposed for my indiscretions; Heather found out that I had been lying to her for the length for our relationship about whether or not I had slept with Riley Lynn, a fellow PDW wrestler. That I made repeated attempts to cheat on her with Riley. That I was a despicable, low-down, good for nothing rat bastard. That her friends were right about me. Worst of all, though, was that Heather had begun to doubt if I ever loved her...
Maybe Malcolm was right, maybe my relationship with Heather was making me weak. Maybe it was the distraction of her being at ringside that caused me to lose focus in my title defense against Chris Q; God knows I couldn't give two shits about Hardaway returning, he wasn't my problem. But the ruckus, the possibility of Heather being a target? Maybe she was my greatest weakness, without her I could achieve more success ... Maybe.
I sought the advice of what friends I could gather in the aftermath of the revelation, Malcolm, Bob, Brandon Banks, Julian Dark, Viviana Amato, Gordon Fury and Dan Herrera. They all told me to give her time, give her space. Let her think about the good times and realise, on her own, how much she misses you.
It seemed like good advice.
Of course I ignored it. I phoned Heather, lost my temper and shouted at her until I was on the brink of calling her a bitch for some things she said before I hung up. Then took to Twitter to air our dirty laundry and continue the argument.
This whole incident is beginning to diminish my happiness over recent successes. My FGA title reign, no matter how brief, was a great joy for me. Winning the Steel Cage Mayhem at All Star Showdown was an achievement of which I am proud. I have recently won the PDW Bloodshed championship and successfully defended it against a woman whom I despise. But the shimmer of all these has been marred by the events with Heather. The loss of our relationship.
So, as I said, Georgie arrived back in my life just in time. Because as much as I admire her, I fear her just as much. So when she says she's within driving distance and is willing to kick my ass, I take her word on that.
"Come on, sug, how long does it take to fetch some beers?" says the female voice from behind me before I turn to meet her stare; my acquaintance from back in Worcester has made the trip down to my new home in Philadelphia to take her turn as a shoulder on which to lean.
"Sorry," I reply, shaking the cobwebs from my head. I've been staring at the note on my fridge for about five minutes, reading and thinking, forgetting all about her and the two bottles of Coors light I have in my hand. Piss water, but it's what she asked for in exchange for making the four hour drive down here. "Here we go..."
She walks over and takes one of the beers from me, opening it with her teeth before spitting the cap down into one of the empty pizza boxes on the round wooden kitchen table. Classy.
"Thinking about Heather?" she asks before taking a sip.
"Yeah..." I say, forlornly. My acquaintance kisses me gently on the cheek and wraps one arm my neck, her other arm still free to drink her beer. I follow suit, placing one hand on the small of her back in a hug attempt.
"I know you love her and miss her, sug..." she says playfully, "...but you're not playing grabass with me, y'hear." And I laugh. Genuinely.
"I wasn't..."
"Kidding!" she interrupts my feeble attempt at an apology, breaking the hug with a gentle shove against my chest. She flicks her raven hair back her ear as she speaks again. "Now come on, we've got last night's Dexter to watch..." she says, grabbing me by the hand to lead me back into the lounge. Dexter, followed by pouring my heart out. What better way to spend a Monday evening.
The smirk fades nearly instantly, replaced by an expression of contempt and anger. A snarl forms upon my lips, my brow furrowing as I glare at the camera. "And one -- who knows who, who knows where they come from -- that must have the worst luck in the whole goddamn world." And that's coming from me. "The team with the misfortune to face two of the most dangerous men in professional wrestling. Malcolm Drake and myself."
A sinister chuckle escapes my lips as I rub the palm of my left hand along my stubbled jaw; it has more than the usual designer stubble today, mainly because I haven't felt like shaving since Heather broke up with me. Or dumped my ass, as people like to say. My hair remains unstyled; again, I couldn't be bothered today; the blonde streak lays ruffled amongst the untidy mess atop my head.
"You see, for the last six months we have rained destruction down upon this promotion. We took your idols and made playthings of them, we proved that we could take the top title..." despite how forgettable a reign it was "...we pulled the wool over the eyes of each and every fan, every wrestler in the back. We broke Junior, we broke Kidd. We have left a pile of bodies in our wake since day one..." another chuckle, "...it only makes sense that you want to remain hidden."
I put my arms out to either side; I'm wearing the hockey jersey that Heather bought for my birthday again, the black one with a crimson stripe across the chest and a picture of a crow holding a scythe in the middle. "You want a fighting chance." I shout.
"You want us unprepared." Said in a raised voice.
"To try and catch us by surprise." I exclaim before chuckling to myself, running a hand through my hair. "It doesn't matter. Not a damn bit! I mean, when this tournament was announced -- The Dynamic Duos -- one name was on the lips of every fan." I hold up my right index finger to the camera. "The Murder." I say in a hushed tone.
"Everybody wanted to see The Murder." I state, confidently. "What The U.K. Dragons won't tell you, what Bad Attitude won't admit to is that they came to FGA, they entered this tournament to see us, to face us. For the chance to step into the ring with Malcolm or Bob or myself. The Usual Suspects, KoolStorm, The Super Mario Wrestling Brothers, even Halliwell and Carruthers..." especially Heather ..."want the chance to test their mettle against us. To say they fought against The Murder, to say they were in the ring with the greatest tag team to ever grace FGA."
"And that includes you, Harvard Connection." A dig I only make because of Preston Blake's attitude towards me over the last week; his constant digs about Riley, which became worse once Disclosure aired on Thursday night.
I start pacing back and forth in front of the white gym corridor wall. "You see, I'm no stranger to tag team wrestling, myself. Way back when I started up in Simcoe, I managed to win the prestigious, highly coveted tag titles there. My partner and I defeated Jace Parker Davidson and Tara Michaels -- no easy feat, believe me. But we did it. And in the UWL, I was one half of the World tag champions; a title I won with a man I met for the first time that night. No, you see, I know this game like the back of my hand..." I stop pacing, standing side on to the camera with my arm extended towards the lens. "...this time, however, I know the man I'm partnered with. I trust him far more implicitly than I did either of my previous partners."
"Malcolm Drake." I say with a wry smile on my face. "The name itself should strike fear into all of your hearts. The finest brawler the world has ever seen. The most dangerous man in pro wrestling today. The mastermind behind the Murder, the head crow. And you have the have the honour to step into the ring with him. You're lucky enough to be able to say you wrestled against Malcolm Drake. Unfortunately, the flip side of the coin, you have the misfortune to be walking into your inevitable demise. Your doom. Your destruction."
"The first time Malcolm and I teamed together here we left Junior as a stain on the mat. The next time we took apart him and Kidd - Hardaway put up some fight, but not enough..." I snigger. "...never enough. And this time will be no different!"
I suddenly turn to face the camera, getting in close as I, once again, run a hand though my hair. "It doesn't matter to me who you are. We don't need to know until the moment your music hits and you walk down the aisle. The moment when the hundreds of fans in Ballroom B see you and cheer for you, hoping against hope that you can topple us." I laugh. "Hide behind the mystery, grasp onto what leverage you think you have over us. And dream that impossible dream because the outcome of this match has already been decided." I state matter-of-factly, a crooked grin spreading across my face. "The outcome of this tournament has already been decided, ever since The Murder were announced as participants, the outcome has been plain to see."
"The Murder: FGA Mid Atlantic Tag Team Champions!"
"So this Saturday in Hartford, Connecticut, give us everything you've got." Said in a demanding tone. "Bring your damn a-game! Even your best will not be good enough, but we want a challenge--" I just want to beat the shit out of someone, but that remains unsaid, "--otherwise this match will be a slaughter. The mat will be painted with your blood. And you both will have learned a most valuable lesson: you do not cross The Murder!"
- Women are evil for the most part, so it's really not good to cheat on them, at all. Ever. Because the one you cheated with is going to look for something afterward. The one you cheated on is going to be looking for your ball sack to decorate their rear view mirror.something afterward. The one you cheated on is going to be looking for your ball sack to decorate their rear view mirror.
- You might need to do a li'l bit of growing up before you try another relationship. I don't say that as meaning you're an immature little boy, and you know that. But I don't think you truly understood the width and depth of your actions until you got found out. And I think maybe that makes it worse.
I wrote down what Georgie said to me on Twitter, this note is currently stuck to the front of my fridge with a tiny little four leaf clover magnet. At the bottom I can physically pull your head outta your ass and shake you so hard you could sue for whiplash is scrawled in my chicken scratch writing. She was right, she is my foul-mouth Jiminy Cricket.
When I was wrestling in Simcoe I damn near idolised 'The Rebel Child' Georgie Nickles; I watched her matches if I had them on DVD; if I didn't I just watched them on YouTube. Watching her brawling style while I was still trying to define myself, especially back then, was always an eye opener. Being in the same promotion as her, no matter how briefly, that was a privilege for which I am eternally grateful. I got to meet an idol. But, as they do, things happened and we drifted apart, lost touch. Until the miracle of Twitter allowed us to reconnect after all these years.
And just in time.
Just as I managed to make a real mess of my life; I recently got exposed for my indiscretions; Heather found out that I had been lying to her for the length for our relationship about whether or not I had slept with Riley Lynn, a fellow PDW wrestler. That I made repeated attempts to cheat on her with Riley. That I was a despicable, low-down, good for nothing rat bastard. That her friends were right about me. Worst of all, though, was that Heather had begun to doubt if I ever loved her...
Maybe Malcolm was right, maybe my relationship with Heather was making me weak. Maybe it was the distraction of her being at ringside that caused me to lose focus in my title defense against Chris Q; God knows I couldn't give two shits about Hardaway returning, he wasn't my problem. But the ruckus, the possibility of Heather being a target? Maybe she was my greatest weakness, without her I could achieve more success ... Maybe.
I sought the advice of what friends I could gather in the aftermath of the revelation, Malcolm, Bob, Brandon Banks, Julian Dark, Viviana Amato, Gordon Fury and Dan Herrera. They all told me to give her time, give her space. Let her think about the good times and realise, on her own, how much she misses you.
It seemed like good advice.
Of course I ignored it. I phoned Heather, lost my temper and shouted at her until I was on the brink of calling her a bitch for some things she said before I hung up. Then took to Twitter to air our dirty laundry and continue the argument.
This whole incident is beginning to diminish my happiness over recent successes. My FGA title reign, no matter how brief, was a great joy for me. Winning the Steel Cage Mayhem at All Star Showdown was an achievement of which I am proud. I have recently won the PDW Bloodshed championship and successfully defended it against a woman whom I despise. But the shimmer of all these has been marred by the events with Heather. The loss of our relationship.
So, as I said, Georgie arrived back in my life just in time. Because as much as I admire her, I fear her just as much. So when she says she's within driving distance and is willing to kick my ass, I take her word on that.
"Come on, sug, how long does it take to fetch some beers?" says the female voice from behind me before I turn to meet her stare; my acquaintance from back in Worcester has made the trip down to my new home in Philadelphia to take her turn as a shoulder on which to lean.
"Sorry," I reply, shaking the cobwebs from my head. I've been staring at the note on my fridge for about five minutes, reading and thinking, forgetting all about her and the two bottles of Coors light I have in my hand. Piss water, but it's what she asked for in exchange for making the four hour drive down here. "Here we go..."
She walks over and takes one of the beers from me, opening it with her teeth before spitting the cap down into one of the empty pizza boxes on the round wooden kitchen table. Classy.
"Thinking about Heather?" she asks before taking a sip.
"Yeah..." I say, forlornly. My acquaintance kisses me gently on the cheek and wraps one arm my neck, her other arm still free to drink her beer. I follow suit, placing one hand on the small of her back in a hug attempt.
"I know you love her and miss her, sug..." she says playfully, "...but you're not playing grabass with me, y'hear." And I laugh. Genuinely.
"I wasn't..."
"Kidding!" she interrupts my feeble attempt at an apology, breaking the hug with a gentle shove against my chest. She flicks her raven hair back her ear as she speaks again. "Now come on, we've got last night's Dexter to watch..." she says, grabbing me by the hand to lead me back into the lounge. Dexter, followed by pouring my heart out. What better way to spend a Monday evening.