Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 11, 2012 11:01:55 GMT -5
Sir, you're a future big time player here in FGA. And by "future", I mean a month or two, really. I'm a Raven mark as well (really, who isn't?) and I totally love your character. I digged every line of the promo and yeah, I gotta say the setting was really good. Thanks, Corey (is it Corey? I can't remember). I appreciate the praise. And yeah, who isn't a Raven mark? - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 11, 2012 9:42:12 GMT -5
Somewhat Raven-esque, without the angst, and with more violence. (I always liked Raven, so please don't take that as an insult. I feel like he was a love'im or hate'im character, hope you don't hate him) Good setting description, which is great for helping people imagine the scene. I'm a sucker for details, and using the surrounding area of wherever an event is taking place, as you'll see in my upcoming RP. Some very minor technical aspects like breaking up Malcom's words and actions so they don't run together in a couple spots, but that's more of a preference on my end, really. I am excited to see more of Malcolm, and clearly meeting him in a dark alley is going to end poorly for anyone foolish enough to try. By the way, was the "Look at me, I'm a punk" directed at me? Thanks for the feedback, Kris! I'm actually a HUGE Raven mark. He is one of my primary influences in Drake. I wanted a lot of his darkness and mannerisms but with less of his "woe is me" attitude and (for lack of a better term) victimization. One thing I thought Raven never did enough of was use the iconography of the corvus family of birds (crows, ravens) as harbingers of doom, symbols of death, carrions, etc. I think that's going to a running theme or symbolism in my RPs. I'm glad you liked the setting. Setting is something I think is often overlooked in RPing (and it's a topic I want to write about in Moonsault), so I try to make my settings pop. The idea here was making the ordinary seem strange. I tried to play with light and dark (both visually and symbolically) without being too heavy handed with it. I also liked the idea of how Drake reveals himself slowly as a character, he still hides his appearance somewhat. I had a lot of fun with that. I was actually struggling with deciding how I wanted to structure my RPs. I think the movie/stage script style is easier to read, but it sometimes pulls me out when I'm reading it. I also like to do things stylistically different. I also imagine all the ellipsis (...) and capitalization will be annoying to some people. I've been trying to find a better way to make the sing-song, up-and-down quality of Drake's cadence more apparent without doing audio RPs. ;D And short answer: yes, the punk line was partially about you. Longer answer: But it was also about the idea that there's a lot of "punk" or "punk-esque" characters in e-Wrestling. I think Thaly's character is definitely a "punk," as well. And of course there's a ton of people using CM Punk as a pic base these days, so it was also a little bit of shooting. Thanks again for the feedback! - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 10, 2012 22:28:41 GMT -5
First full RP is up: The Future is BleakPlease let me know what you thought; what you liked and especially what you didn't like. Drake is a new character for me so obviously there's going to be some kinks. Thanks, - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 10, 2012 22:27:05 GMT -5
The last lingering rays of the mid-winter sun begin to sink below the horizon of the Monongahela River as dusk settles over the city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh sits about three-quarters of the distance between Erie and Elizabeth; the former capital of industry for the the Pennsylvania Commonwealth.
The sunlight searches the shadows of the entrenched darkness beneath the 10th Street Bridge that connects Bluff and Downtown Pittsburgh to the Southside Flats. Beneath the yawning expanse below the overpass bridge, the Monongahela River rushes, running perpendicular to the traffic above. It is amidst the accumulated garbage and graffiti below that the sunset's orange glow finds a unnatural match in the burning embers at the end of a cigarette.
A long, slow final drag briefly illuminates the matted locks, grizzled scruff and facial features of Malcolm Drake. Drake snaps the burning remnants from his lips and haphazardly flicks the butt into the running water a few feet below. A bulky black denim jacket – a size or two too large – hangs loosely from his frame over a black-and-white buffalo plaid shirt and dark denim that frays at the hem above a pair of black combat boots, caked in dirt.
“You're following me, aren't you?” The halfhearted accusation reverberates through the dank, dark seclusion.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.” Drake's tongue clicks against the back of his teeth causing the chastisement to echo in the darkness. “I don't LIKE to be followed,” Drake continues with a sigh, “but I suppose those of us – meant to lead – must... suffer... those who are meant to follow. You follow the battles and the wars and pick the bones of the vanquished like horrible crows...”
Drake stirs from his seat along the bank and makes his way to his feet. He brushes himself off and runs his hands through his hair, messing his unkempt locks and sending the strands of hair askew.
“I see a lot of FOLLOWERS when I look up and down the F.G.A. I see the cookie-cutter personalities of nuclear offspring and it SICKENS... me. Look at me, I'm a punk. Look at me, I'm an outcast. Look at me, I'm a drunk. Look at me, I'm pissed off. Look at me, look at me, LOOK AT ME,” Drake screams as he shoves his face ever closer to the camera before finally backing off a step; his tone lowering back down and reassuming a casual calmness.
“Well I have looked at you. I have looked at all of Frontier and I've seen... nothing. I see a vast wasteland of pretenders. But who am I? Who am I – what makes... Malcolm Drake... so different? The question BURNING in everyone's mind since December first has been, 'Who is Malcolm Drake?' Hmmm. Well on December 15th in Elizabeth, the whole WORLD is going to find out the answer. And I don't think they're going to like it very much.”
Drake begins scratching the raw flesh of his neck and then down to his chest as if trying to free something beneath his skin. He grits his teeth in the scratching before abruptly stopping.
“See what I am is the awakening. I said last week professional wrestling as you know it is dead. And a murder is coming to pick the bones. I am the lead crow; the harbinger. When Plato sought to enlighten the world to the fallacy of their existence he created the allegory of the cave. You sit in your cave and look at the shadows on the wall and think they're real. But I know better. I have suffered the PAIN. The true pain that comes from knowledge. Knowledge that pain is the ONLY truth, and it is a truth that I plan to spread through the wrestling world. Starting... with Jacob Demore.”
Malcolm Drake's lips curls into a smirking sneer as he mentions Jake Demore.
“Jacob Demore. The FUTURE of Wrestling... Hardly. If Jacob Demore is the future, then Malcolm Drake is the apocalypse. When I picture the future, I don't picture it hobbling around on a gimpy leg and suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from the total and complete MAIMING I have planned for Saturday night in Elizabeth, Pennsylvania.”
Drake begins pacing along the bank of the river, slipping in and out of the shadows that mask and unmask his features. His boots squish in the soft mud underneath him.
“You think you're a better wrestler than me, don't you? You must. Otherwise you would be foolish to step into the ring with a weak knee against any opponent. You think your Jiujitsu training and your Muay Thai training and your Greco-Roman training make you better than me, don't you? DON'T YOU? You think you're going to out-wrestle me. A little CATCHASCATCHCAN technical showcase. But here's what's going to happen, Jacob; you're going to go for a knuckle lock and I'm going to shove my knuckles down your throat. You're going to go for a collar-and-elbow tie-up and I'm going to shatter your bad knee. I am going to methodically and systematically take you apart piece... by piece.”
Drake stops pacing and turns a crooked head with a crooked smile towards the camera. His hair cascades down in shadows as he does.
“All that cute little training is fine and good when you're not in a real fight. Unfortunately for you, Jacob, that's exactly what you're in for on Saturday night. You want to apply your fancy holds. I want to rip your leg off at the knee and beat you lifeless with it. See I don't know all these cool little moves and holds... but I know how to hurt people. I didn't need a bunch of guys wearing bathrobes with pretty belts to teach me how to kick somebody's teeth down their THROAT.”
The sun has set now and Drake is barely distinguishable from the shadows.
“All the training and experience in the WORLD can't prepare you for me. Jacob Demore, if you are the 'Future of Wrestling,' then the future... is looking BLEAK.”
A soft cackle reverberates in the spreading shadows as Drake slinks back deeper and deeper into the darkness.
“Memento... mori.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Nov 29, 2012 18:29:52 GMT -5
Vinny's Feedback Disclaimer: One of my favorite parts of RPing is the opportunity to improve as a writer. I have been involved with e-Wrestling since I was about 10, and continue to love reading and writing in this style. This is all to say that I am sometimes blunt in my feedback. I hope none of my comments come off as condescending or insulting, because that is not my intent. I don't claim to be better at this game than anyone else, but I have a strong love for debating the finer points of creative writing and tend to go into a good deal of depth with my feedback. Sometimes it can be nitpicky. If you would no longer like me to provide feedback on your RPs, just simply send me a PM saying so and I will not comment in the future. Thank you. - Vinny Stupid hangover is making my brain hurt, but here it goes... Ever since I had an awesome female tag partner back in the day, I've been a mark for female characters. I also have a personal affinity for punk chicks/suicide girls (my girlfriend has pink hair). So right off the bat I like Akrista. Opening introduction: I'm a fan stating the location so good there. I'm also a fan of a little more description than you gave here. We get a good description of Sasha but nothing for Akrista; she's supposed to be the focus after all, right? (Related: I'm a fan of FGA's hiring policies). Initial exchange with Sasha: A few things are confusing here. Why is Akrista speaking Russian? Last I checked, O'Hare isn't a Russian name, and generally someone who is only part Russian wouldn't be dropping it in casual conversation. I like that you provided the translation, but I really don't see the need for it. I'm also not sure what the relationship between Sasha and Akrista is. This will be a running theme in this review. Aki refers to her as "Sash;" a nickname that implies they know each other and Sash responds by calling Aki a nut. The general implication is that they are friends. This friendly banter is fine, but it stops making sense when Sasha refers to Aki as "Ms. O'Hare." And Aki has to explain how her name is pronounced (doesn't *have* to, but does slip in there) which implies that Sasha wouldn't know that. See where I'm getting confuzzled here? Watching the DVD: Small nitpicky thing is that the match quote is the same color as the general description. That gets a little confusing, so I'd either off-set it with some characters (---------) or make it a different color so it's evident that it's from the match. Or don't include. That's my preference but everyone's got their own style. Nice small details with Aki rocking the AC Slater seat position. Little character ticks like this add up over time and really help flesh out a character into a "real" person. I personally don't like match analysis style RPs. They're very splintered and, frankly, boring. And some of the points that are made can often be a reach. For example, jumping to the conclusion that Chris Q gets frustrated easily because he shows frustration at one point in the match is a stretch. It's an even bigger stretch to get from there to potentially winning by DQ. Some of the other analysis is good; smoking means bad lung capacity, so compound the difficulty of running by going after the legs. That makes sense. But really it's kind of boring to read (or in the fake world of e-W, watch on a promo). So far the dialog is very stream of consciousness which can work as long as its an interesting topic. For me, brainstorming match strategy in this context isn't the most entertaining thing to read. Muscle car: I marked. Mustang owner. What-what. Honestly I'm learning more about Sasha in this RP than I am about Aki. And I'm liking her more. It's awesome to have a cool sidekick, but when the sidekick is getting my air-time than the main character you probably need to shift some focus around. But yeah... pink-haired tech geek who loves muscle cars? I'm in love. ...And apparently so is Aki. I'm back to being confused about this relationship. They're clearly not old friends I think I've got that now... but are they attracted to each other? I'm intrigued (obviously) and if this is the first in a slow build towards that: cool. But without any sort of flirtation the line "That is quite possibly the hottest thing I’ve ever heard" seems weird and out of place. It works well enough, and I'm being nitpicky but that's what I do. The bar: Sasha's a whiskey drinker, too? *Swoon* Fair warning: I'm now planning to steal your sidekick and make her mine. As a Bostonian I enjoyed the digs at the Red Sox, but uh... it's late November. What baseball games are they showing in November when the season ends in October (and for the Red Sox, in September)? They certainly wouldn't be showing highlights from this past season as none are known to exist. *Rimshot* We get a little more Chris Q analysis, which I guess is okay but I'm not interested in Chris Q. This is Akrista's RP. This is her character development section (in theory), and what I'm getting from her in this section is that she likes to drink... but also criticizes Chris Q for drinking. Not to mention she's trying to seduce MY Sasha with alcohol! I'll stop, but seriously: Aki is coming off as a little obsessive with the first match. That makes sense given that it's her debut in a new promotion, but I'm not getting a ton of interesting stuff out of it. And then Sasha recaps it, which is basically the same information for a third time. It's a little redundant for my taste. Aki's final comments are good, but again this is the kind of stuff I'd expect coming later in the match discussion. It's cool to break up the match discussion across the RP if that's your style, but since - like I said - we still don't know too much about Aki I really wanted more of her personality in these earlier parts. Nitpicky, I am. Slainte is how I toast. The "Na zdorovye!" afterwards is odd. Not because it's Russian, we're slowly establishing that Aki drops Russian into casual conversation, but it's in red. We haven't seen any red before. Who is saying "Na zdorovye!"? I already mention the minor hypocrisy of criticizing Chris Q's drinking over a round of drinks, so I won't harp on getting the party started in the bar. Boxing Gym: This is our third different venue (fourth if you include the car/parking lot). For me, that's too many. That's a personal preference but my philosophy is that each venue should serve a purpose. The Gym serves a clear purpose (and possibly a subtler one, more about which in a moment) but I don't really get a sense of purpose from the bar scene. Here's what I like most about the gym scene, it works well with the sense of parachrony that I get from the character. She loves things that are temporally out of place. This might just be a coincidence, but if it's not it is an excellent little character trait that was very subtly inserted there. I lost a lot of my suspension of disbelief when all the old gym equipment was still in the gym. I would've thought it would be sold off or stolen by now, especially prior to a demolition. The power also would've been turned off for safety if nothing else. Stupid Erie DPW. Side note: GOOGLE CHROME IS THE FUCKING BEST. I accidentally closed this window and Chrome saved what I had written. So amazing. I almost cried. Match Discussion: There's excellent flow from point to point here. It's well structured and broken up into nice paragraphs with a little bit of action in between. We also get a nice sense of the character's purpose. Very babyface-y, which is good. The "Gray Angel" nickname seemed to come out of nowhere, but again that's nitpicky. The "For Chris Q" thing seems odd for a few reasons. I'd think the promo would be available for public consumption, and I wouldn't want to leave the only copy with my opponent who - well - could just break it. Also, where is this "Reception" where the promo DVD is being left? Last I checked we were in a gym getting demolished in the morning. Which reminds me, is this the same day as all the other events or the next night? And finally... "the two girls hug, and head into the early morning darkness, to bed…" I'll ignore my minor, minor, minor nitpick with this sentence structure (Catholic grammar school, can't help myself) and ask the question on everyone's mind: To bed... TOGETHER? ;D Phew! That's it. Despite all my comments, I enjoyed reading this RP and I'm looking forward to learning more about this character. Peace, - Vinny
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Chris Q
Nov 29, 2012 12:05:15 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Nov 29, 2012 12:05:15 GMT -5
Glad you liked it.
FYI - David Wright is the name of the Mets' third baseman.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Chris Q
Nov 28, 2012 19:02:14 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Nov 28, 2012 19:02:14 GMT -5
Vinny's Feedback Disclaimer: One of my favorite parts of RPing is the opportunity to improve as a writer. I have been involved with e-Wrestling since I was about 10, and continue to love reading and writing in this style. This is all to say that I am sometimes blunt in my feedback. I hope none of my comments come off as condescending or insulting, because that is not my intent. I don't claim to be better at this game than anyone else, but I have a strong love for debating the finer points of creative writing and tend to go into a good deal of depth with my feedback. Sometimes it can be nitpicky. If you would no longer like me to provide feedback on your RPs, just simply send me a PM saying so and I will not comment in the future. Thank you. - Vinny Hi, Nick. I like your beard. Very festive. First off, this is one of the better RPs I have read in a long time. It's well-structured and moves at a nice pace. There's enough transitioning to keep things from getting stagnant, but not so much that it feels like a goddamn Tarantino film. "[T]wo decent looking strippers and three beautiful bottles of whisky." - I marked for this line. It's beautiful writing, and it's illustrative of the character. Not enough people give their narrator a unique voice. Your's comes out in subtle lines like this and it definitely adds to the RP. - It would be nitpicky to point out the cliche of taking home two strippers, but 1. I wouldn't be me if I didn't and 2. it's nicely balanced by qualifying them as only "decent looking." - Another nitpicky item: 3 bottles of whisky? Even Superman's liver couldn't handle that. Especially on top of the "sea of empty beer bottles" that comes later. The conversation with the guy from the charity is a nice little moment. It allows Chris Q to differentiate himself as a heel, where up to this point he could easily be an Attitude-Era babyface (which I hate). Is the use of the NY Mets' colors and the name "David Wright" intentional or just coincidence? I like that the exchange doesn't drag on too long, but I also think that David Wright jumps to anger a little too abruptly for a guy who works for a charity, and is begging people for favors. Again, it's nitpicky because ultimately the exchange works and ends wonderfully with the "Everyday..." quip. I would've ended that section there because outside of squeezing in the "I'm about ten minutes away from my first drink of the day" line, the dialogue with the stripper is just fluff since we established that Chris is a dick who hates children. My next comment is a personal preference in regards to style. We all have our own styles, but I'm not a fan of the long uninterrupted block of dialog. You do break it up into paragraphs which is excellent and much easier to digest, but ultimately all the talking occurs in a vacuum. I don't know where Chris is, what time of the day it is, and various other minutiae. Ultimately none of these things matter. It doesn't matter if he paces around or does anything with his hands while talking; it's what he says that's important but without a transition into it, it feels abrupt. I do prefer this minimalist approach to moving for the sake of moving or changing scenes for the sake of changing scenes. What's great about the match discussion is I really get a taste of the character. He comes firing out of the gate and doesn't slow down; a perfect compliment to his persona/lifestyle. There's no slow-down or run-on sentences. Just boom. Boom. Boom. Like he's going down the list in his mind, hitting all his marks losing any of the personality. Unlike the narrator he's not trying to be cute and turn a phrase. Exactly the kind of heel I mark for. Excellent dissection of your opponent's RP. You go after her main points without having to fall back on quoting her directly or asking too many rhetorical questions to get there. "I’m the new big bad." - Great line For me, the match discussion is where this character shines. There's even a little hint of underlying melancholy and emptiness that he's trying to fill ("I know that one day this will all kill me."), and it's inserted subtly which adds a lovely layer of depth to the character. This is what I'd really love to see you explore more in future RPs, purely for my own enjoyment. There's a sense that consequences are coming, a sense of foreboding for the future. It's a great background theme and tone running through this RP that's masked wonderfully the Devil-May-Care exterior. So far, Chris Q is my favorite wrestler in FGA.For anyone reading this who remembers Mickey O'Reilly, this is the sort of direction I wanted him to go with his character. That's all I can think of right now, and I'm late for dinner. Peace, - Vinny
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Nov 28, 2012 18:31:00 GMT -5
Vinny's Feedback Disclaimer: One of my favorite parts of RPing is the opportunity to improve as a writer. I have been involved with e-Wrestling since I was about 10, and continue to love reading and writing in this style. This is all to say that I am sometimes blunt in my feedback. I hope none of my comments come off as condescending or insulting, because that is not my intent. I don't claim to be better at this game than anyone else, but I have a strong love for debating the finer points of creative writing and tend to go into a good deal of depth with my feedback. Sometimes it can be nitpicky. If you would no longer like me to provide feedback on your RPs, just simply send me a PM saying so and I will not comment in the future. Thank you. - Vinny Hi, Matt. I may call you "Tony" by accident once or twice. It's not intentional, I'm just forgetful. The first thing I will say about your RP is that it is brief. This is an excellent thing. Far too many people forget that less is more. In the real world, guys shoot quick 1-3 minute promos and they're done; they don't drone on and on for hours on end (like I'm doing now). So we're off to a good start. I'll try not to critique too much since you mentioned this was a "throw away" RP, but I do have to ask one question: If you're not expecting a response from your opponent then wouldn't this be a perfect opportunity to delve more into your character? If match discussion is going to be sparse (which it always will be if there's only one guy in the matching doing the talking), why not spend a couple hundred words talking about who Tony Edison is; where he comes from; and maybe even a little shameless self-promotion if he's that type of guy. I know it sucks when you put out a killer RP and your opponent no shows, because it feels like a wasted effort but I think you should look to this as a chance to expand on your character in the future (if this sort of thing happens again). On a related note: Who is Tony Edison? He's wrestled in Underground X. He's got two sort of similar nicknames, but that's all I know about this guy from this promo. He seems amiable enough. He's polite to the Mr. Staff and he doesn't abuse poor oft-abused Justice Young, so I'm getting the babyface vibe, which is a good start... but that's all I'm getting here. I do like the nicknames that Tony has, even though they are essentially the same thing. They let me know that he's a high flyer. Cool, but I'm not getting a lot of personality to go with that. He doesn't have to be bouncing off the walls screaming "I'm a high-flyin', gravity-defyin', suicide-divin' wrestling machine!" but if he is flashy like a lot of high-flyers are (and he may not be, I don't know), it didn't come across to me in this promo. "Honestly, it sounds like some kind of generic dark character, based on his name alone." - It's a personal peeve of mine when I see comments like this. I know everyone in e-Wrestling is "smart" to the wrestling industry, but these sort of smark-y comments always pull me out of the promo and remind me that I'm reading an RP. It's also dismissive of the opponent, which babyfaces should generally try to avoid as a rule. Other than that, there's nothing "wrong" with this RP but there's also not much to it, either. "Throw away," as you said, is a good way to describe. Man shows up. Man works out. Man cuts promos. Fade to black. Like I said: nothing wrong with that, but for lack of a more polite word, it's forgettable. Hopefully this is the kind of feedback you were looking for, Matt. As a mark for babyface high-flyers, I look forward to learning more about The Man That Gravity Forgot. Peace, - Vinny
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jun 27, 2012 21:35:29 GMT -5
OOC: Not my best work, admittedly. It's been a long week at the office and almost just blew it off entirely. Sorry for the lackluster effort.
A low chuckling is heard against an empty blackness. Then:
“Greetings, True Believers...”
The sound of a light bulb chain being pulled is heard, followed immediately by the illumination of a single bulb on a string hanging from a low ceiling. The light is low wattage and casts a yellowish glow in a circle of no more than two feet in diameter.
Sitting directly under the light on a steel chair, in the midst of the halo is Sean Fallon. Fallon has a black hooded sweatshirt zipped up with the hood thrown over his head, and a pair of black denim jeans over black Adidas Evolutions (with white bars and soles).
As the light weaves back and forth above his head, it casts strange long shadows over his face, and around the surrounding area where he sits. He appears to be in a much larger room, but the only illuminated area is directly around him.
Fallon, speaking in a hush barely above a whisper, continues.
“I'm sure all of you are dying to know just how Sean Fallon is holding up after his first loss ever in North America. I bet you're sitting there expecting a temper tantrum. You expect me to scream and yell until spittle flies from my lips and coats the camera lens. Well I'm sorry to disappoint you... Actually, I'm not sorry because nothing I could ever do would be inadequate enough to bring disappointment to the likes of you. Regardless, you won't see any hysterics from me today for one simple reason.”
Fallon leans forward and lowers his voice to a barely audible level.
“I... didn't... lose.”
He leans back with a smirk across his face, back resting against the steel chair.
“You can scoff and make preschool jokes about how 'Fallon must've really got his head kicked in to think he won last week.' But as always you'd be an idiot. And you'd be missing the point. I never said that I won last week in Edison. I said that I didn't lose. I'm sure the difference is far to grandiose for your simple minds to comprehend so let me spell it out for you.”
“Fact: I physically destroyed Micky O'Reilly. Fact: I ripped his arm to pieces. Fact: I put Micky O'Reilly in an unwinnable scenario; he gets his title match before me, but with a tattered arm too wrecked for him to possibly beat Blaine Harrison. Fact: O'Reilly is stupid enough to pursue his title opportunity even with his arm hanging on by a thread. Fact: He will fail and lose all claim to a title match. Fact: He will also soften up the Shine-Boy. Fact: I still have my title shot.”
Fallon smirks turns into a full-blown grin, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“Is it starting to sink in yet? But wait, it gets better. Fact: I had O'Reilly handcuffed to the ropes and beaten to a bloody pulp. Fact: If the referee hadn't freed him, O'Reilly could've never won that match. Fact: O'Reilly used the outside interference of the referee and cheated his way to a victory. Fact: That is exactly what Mr. Heart, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes O'Reilly had been criticizing me for all week.”
“See, I may not have won last week, but I certainly came out on top. O'Reilly has to live with the fact that I have molded him into a perfect little hypocrite. He has to accept his title shot with one arm and zero chance of winning. Oh, and O'Reilly has still never beaten me one-on-one without someone else's help.”
Fallon can't contain himself any longer and let's out a long, hard belly laugh.
“So you see, there's no reason for me to be mad. And to put the cherry on the top of the sundae of awesomeness which is my inevitable ascension to the top of FRONTIER, I have the week off this week. I mean, yes, I have a match but it's against some jamoke named Damien Spears. Ooooooh. Scary name, bro. Did you get that out of one of those online wrestling name generators?”
“You know I almost wish I was fighting someone of consequence this week. Because a little birdie told me that Mr. August Joyce is supposed to be in attendance, just to scout little ole me for our match at Collision Course. I'll almost feel bad that when I've ripped Spears arm off his torso and am slowly bludgeoning him to death with it, that I couldn't be making a more impressive sacrifice to “The People's Choice.” Almost.”
“Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you could convince your mom to drive you all the way up to New Jersey, buttercup. I'm sure it must be scary leaving that nursery you call a promotion down in Georgia. I heard your champion had to leave Peach Tree Nursery recently. Did he skin his knee? Did someone call him a bad name? Diaper rash? You know, I almost feel a tinge of pride wrestling on behalf of FRONTIER at Collision Course, because for as much of a shithole as this place is, at least it's not in George.”
Fallon pauses a moment.
“Almost.”
“I know you won't be able to appreciate the magnitude of what you'll be witnessing in Monroe, buttercup, since you'll be too busy pissing yourself, but if you live through Collision Course – if I LET you live through Collision Course – and you're not brain-dead from beating, you'll be able to tell your grandkids some day about how you saw a true master work in and out of the ring. Again, that's only if you don't succumb to your wounds while en route to the hospital. You'll get to say you watched Sean Fallon dismantle an opponent all while orchestrating his own meteoric rise to the top of the company. You'll get to say, “See that man? You see that Sean Fallon? He deemed me worthy enough to accept a brutal beating at his hands the likes of which I'd never received before. That man, that TRUE champion, ended my career in the best match of my life.” And your shitty little grandkids will have tears well up in their eyes because that's the closest any spawn of your spawn will ever come to achieving anything of note, Joyce.”
“So I hope you can appreciate all that before you go running for the exits in terror. But as for you, Damien Spears, you won't have such a future. You see, you're already dead. You're just too damn stupid to realize it yet.”
“Deuces.”
With that Fallon pulls the light chord again, but instead of returning to darkness, the room is all of a sudden bathed in light, revealing the much larger room that was hinted at previously. The room is littered with shattered furniture, broken tables, shattered lamps, pieces of glass, strewn garbage and debris everywhere. On the walls, spray-painted in big red letters are phrases like “Kill O'Reilly,” “Kill Harrison,” “Kill Joyce,” “Kill Spears,” “Maim,” “Disembowel,” “Destroy,” “Violence,” and a variety of other unsavory phrases.
Fallon flashes one last look at the camera, smirking, before pulling the chord again and plunging the room into darkness.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jun 14, 2012 0:13:45 GMT -5
'My Heaven Is Creating Your Hell.'
Boston, Massachusetts. 1997.
It is lunch time at a small preparatory high school. A junior high student with long dirty blond hair and a pair of glasses heads toward the cafeteria in gray slacks and maroon sweater uniform with his backpack slung over his shoulder. The student, either through absentmindedness or possibly hunger, walks accidentally into the back of an older, much larger senior.
“Watch where you're walking, Fallon!” rumbles the larger boy before shoving Fallon down into the grass. Fallon mumbles some sort of apology before trying to get back up, only to met with another shove sending him back down and followed by derisive laughter.
Looking up with a blush of anger and embarrassment, and mumbles something much different.
“What did you say?”
“I said: Don't shove me again.”
The older boy laughs and as Fallon attempts to get back up again, he shoves the smaller Fallon back down. Fallon falls back to the ground and this time he does attempt to get back up. Instead, he hauls back and punches the most larger boy directly in his testicles.
The derisive laughter turns abruptly to a howl on pain as the senior falls to the ground; no longer towering over Fallon. It is then that Fallon gets up... and delivers a kick directly to the downed boy's testicles. It would be determined later that it was the kick that ruptured the older boy's right testicle. It would also be determined that the barrage of additional kicks to the boy's head, face and torso should result in Fallon's expulsion.
Power, as they say, corrupts.
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Edison, New Jersey. Present Day.
A few blocks away from the Inman Sports Club in Edison is Molly Maguire's; an Irish pub in the neighborhood of Clark. It is once again right around lunch time, and the timely barroom is sparsely populated with no more than a handful of patrons. Amidst the yellow painted walls and green-cushioned bench seats, seated at the bar, is Sean Fallon. Fallon's dirty blond hair is tucked under a Los Angeles Kings baseball cap and he is attired in sneakers, black jeans and... a green Micky O'Reilly “The Slammer” T-shirt (available at FGA Shop).
Fallon sips on a neat glass of some brown liquor with a Guinness back that sits half-empty. He turns sideways on the barstool before speaking.
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins as always.
“Since apparently it's Impressions Week here in FRONTIER, I figured I'd do my best Micky O'Reilly impression, fella. Granted, when I'm done with these drinks I'll actually be able to stop. I won't destroy my life and crawl up inside the bottom of a bottle like a pathetic waste of carbon molecules. I won't continuously fail at every aspect of my life and fall off the wagon more frequently than stolen electronics. So I guess my impression still needs a little work.”
Fallon takes another sip of the brown liquor and follows it with a sip of the Guinness before continuing.
“They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. So I suppose in some ways I should look kindly on Micky O'Reilly. He's really pulled out all the stops in an effort to be as much like Sean Fallon as he possibly can. All he lacks is... well... everything.
“On the flip side, there are some cultures – rather Draconian in nature – that believe the punishment for thievery should be to severe the offending hand. I fall much more in line with Draco and his ilk. Ironic then, that Micky O'Reilly should choose to steal my words and my idiosyncrasies in a desperate, vain attempt to get himself over. Ironic because instead of taking off your hand, “fella,” I'm going to take your whole, damn, arm off.”
Fallon pantomimes the snapping of a stick between his hands to illustrate his point.
“Delusion is the name of the world that Micky O'Reilly lives in. Desperation is where he lives; slowly drowning in his drink and in his inadequacy. He knows deep down inside, in places he doesn't like to talk about at parties, that he knows he can't beat me. For all his peacocking and for all his strutting and grandstanding about what a tough guy he is, what a great “hardcore” wrestler he is, and how much bigger and better he is than me, the truth remains that Micky O'Reilly is a terrified little boy.
“For as stupid as you look and as stupid as you act, sunshine, I know that there's no way you're actually stupid enough not to fear this match. Or perhaps you've simply forgotten my pedigree; a pedigree that no one else in FRONTIER comes even close to matching. I was thrown out – blacklisted – from the whole damn country of Japan for being “too violent,” “too extreme,” “unpredictable,” “a loose cannon.” I caved in my own tag team partner's skull with a steel chair.”
Fallon absentmindedly punches his fist into his open palm with a clap before settling back and leaning against the bar. He adds, almost as an after-thought:
“Oh, but you wrestled a cute little match here a couple weeks ago. That's adorable.
“Sean Fallon was born amidst the blood and barbed-wire of Japan's most violent promotion. And I was Samurai Pro's certifiable King of Violence. “Street Fights” are for boozed-up, bar room brawlers like you, Mickles. “Street Fights” are for wannabes and pretenders who think swinging a chair and donating a pint or two the hard way makes them “hardcore.”
“This, sunshine, is a Death. Match. Emphasis heavily on the former. Death... is what Sean Fallon was born to do. So while you're whining about how I don't fight fair and complaining about what I say, I'm trying to figure out how to wrap barbed-wire around a baseball bat. I'm memorizing the section of the Grey's Anatomy textbook that deals with the arm. I'm fantasizing about tortures that will make the Dark Ages look easy like Sunday morning.”
A wicked grin crawls across Fallon's lips.
“You say I don't have heart, but that's where you're wrong. Close-minded fools like you think the only way to have heart – to have passion – is in your pigeon-holed, fairy tale, good guy boring old mold. I have heart. My passion is your pain. My dreams are your nightmare. My heaven... is creating your personal hell. What you don't understand, “fella,” is that feeling you get from hearing idiots like the ones here in Edison cheering and chanting your name... is the same feeling I get when I watch the blood leaking out of your body from the wounds I've inflicted.
“So enjoy your cheers, and enjoy your... heart. We'll get to see how much of it you have... when I rip it out of your chest.”
With that Fallon downs what is left of his brown liquor and closes...
“Deuces.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 13, 2012 21:38:19 GMT -5
I know you hate feedback where it's basically people telling you that you did a good job. But, you did a good job. Hearing that don't suck from time to time is nice, too. ;D Thanks for the feedback.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 11, 2012 18:00:51 GMT -5
I decided to try something different this week with Fallon. I wanted to explore more of him coming unhinged outside of the ring, and not just in the ring. Sort of try to display that he's not just an asshole, he's actually a dangerous and disturbed person. At the same time, I wanted to humanize him a bit through his own delusions. There's a paragraph in there that cuts to the hurt of why Fallon is so angry and my hope was that while it showed that he's completely out of his mind, he still thinks he doing the right thing. I wanted to know if that actually came across or if I'm the delusional one. Feedback would be great. Link to the RP is here.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on May 11, 2012 17:56:56 GMT -5
Everything is Broken, and Everything Hurt
Rahway, New Jersey.
Four blocks south and three and a half blocks west of the Rahway Recreation Center – the site for FRONTIER's special Saturday evening DVD taping – is the Rahway Public Library and 2 City Hall Plaza.
The library is exactly what you would expect on the inside: rows of stacks, ample lighting, long tables with chairs and benches, and the occasional computer terminal usually occupied by either a pre-teen student or a perverted-looking, possibly homeless older gentleman.
The last vestiges of the afternoon sun stream through the windows along the western facing wall, lasting long shadows through the stacks and along the work-tables. It is at one of these long wooden work tables that we find – seated in a chair – Sean Fallon.
Fallon is attired rather formally, at least by his standards, in dark khaki chinos and a black pinstriped button down dress shirt, which remains untucked. His usual mop of dirty blond hair was been styled up into a rather ostentatious faux-hawk, giving him more the appearance of a frat boy ready to hit the clubs than a studious library patron. Nonetheless, and ironically enough, a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People is open in his hands.
Fallon's eyes slowly scan across the page before darting up. Catching sight of the camera, he beckons it closer. And then closer still, leaning in to whisper so as not to disturb the usual mausoleum-esque silence of the library. The camera pulls in up-close to Fallon.
“Greetings, true believers,” he begins with his usual opening in a just-above-hushed whisper.
“You find me here in the Rahway library because unlike the cavalcade of buffoons in FGA, I don't need to spend every waking second training. Unlike those green boys, my skills don't need any whether honing or sharping. They're deadly enough as they are. Instead I'm here, because I've been pondering something. Something that's been bothering me since I landed in FGA. I've been thinking about subtly.”
Fallon leans back in his seat, casually tossing the book onto the table, and forcing the camera to follow him back.
“Subtly is a lost art, don't you think? It seems like in order to get noticed you have to do something grandiose to get the attention you deserve. Sometimes you have to send a not-so-subtle message, like for example... oh, I don't know... snapping the arms every half-wit between you and a title shot. Something like making them scream for mercy and pound their hand on the canvas while screaming until they're red in the palm and raw in the throat. And sometimes, you have to add an exclamation point just to be sure that you're still not being too subtle. A chair shot will usually do. Especially if it is effective enough to shatter every bone and rip every tendon in a man's elbow. And once you've done all that, you just have to step back and ask one simple question...”
Fallon abruptly launches the chair he's sitting in back, and as it hurtles toppling toward the floor, he leaps up into the air, landing flat-footed on top of the library's work table with a loud clap of his soles against the wood, echoed by the chair striking the floor. Naturally, every eye in the library turns towards the disturbance. Their fingers at the ready to Shhh.
“HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR YET?!” Fallon screams into the camera, before glowering at every turned face in the room. The meek library patrons turn their gazes away, pretending absurdly not to notice.
“Apparently I have to ask because someone running the show in FGA hasn't gotten the message yet! I guess the FACT that two-thirds of the men I've faced thus far have had to quit this piss-hole promotion to go lick the wounds and tend the broken egos that I gave them. So long, Johnny “Tard-boy” Brave! So long, “Cry” Baby Bling! Good riddance! From the second that Sean Fallon set foot in FRONTIER, I've made my intentions known. I am here for the FGA Heavyweight championship. I am here because every other promotion would kill to have a man of my talents, but none of them have enough balls to take the risks involved. The risk that at any time I could break every bone in any man's body, just... like... that.”
Fallon snaps his fingers and finally hops down off the table. He grabs the sides of the camera and thrusts his face in close.
“But apparently that hasn't sunk in yet. Because for some reason, I'm not in the Main Event. AGAIN! Despite being the only undefeated wrestler in FRONTIER, despite being the most electric man in this promotion and despite being the only person in this company with any real talent, I'm still not Main Eventing. IN FACT, I'm not even the goddamn number one contender! I have to *share* that title with Micky freakin' O'Reilly. O'Reilly?! O'REALLY?! Didn't I snap that relapsing sack of human refuse's arm only a few weeks ago? Hasn't he crawled into a bottle and died yet?”
“I guess the FGA brass wants me to finish the job on pay-per-view. If you were ever wondering when the first televised public execution in American history was going to be the answer is June 1 at the Westchester County Center in White Plains, New York, at All-Star Showdown. Because if O'Reilly has killed enough brain cells by then to actually step into the ring with me again... he will NOT be stepping out.”
A twisted scowl has contorted the face of Sean Fallon, as he finally eases back from the camera, but only a little.
“Until then the FGA thinks they can just toss me in nothing matches with nothing opponents and all will be fine because they've dangled that number one contender carrot in front of me. I am NOT some idiot who will be pacified with empty promises and useless tokens. The number one contendership is mine by rights. I shouldn't have to kill Micky O'Reilly to get my title shot. The brass is just lucky that I happen to enjoy grinding the drunken Irish slob's bones into pixie dust.”
“And speaking of pixie dust, it looks like Tinkerbell is my goddamn opponent this week! Another reject from the Island of Misfit Toys has come to get his parts ripped off at Santa Fallon's workshop of horrors. Matt Shields... a soccer player? A pro soccer player. Ooooooooh. I suppose I'm supposed to be impressed by his athleticism or the B.S. about how soccer players prance – I mean run – however many miles per match. I suppose I'm supposed to be afraid of his powerful kicks, too, right?”
Fallon makes an obnoxious display of rolling his eyes.
“Soccer. The only quote-unquote “sport” that has participation trophies. Everyone's a winner... except they're all losers. Soccer. A sport where flopping on the ground and pretending to be hurt is a celebrated past-time. You know what I think of soccer? The same thing I think about soccer players, and the same thing I think about Matt Shields. They're a joke. Utterly and completely pathetic.”
“Let me promise you this, Tinkerbell, when you flop to the ground on Saturday night you won't be faking an injury trying to draw a penalty... you'll actually be injured. You'll be crying. You'll be screaming. More likely than not, something will be broken. But unlike soccer, there won't be a referee to save you. Just look at what I did to Baby Bling. The referees here in FGA are as useless as... well.. as useless as soccer players.”
Fallon shoulders his way past the cameraman, finally exiting the library and leaving all the befuddled patrons in his wake.
“Another thing you haven't been made wise to yet, Tinkerbell, is exactly who you're stepping in the ring with. Someone out there, someone besides me, must obviously hate you. I'm the goddamn Grim Reaper of FGA. The Career Killer. Micky O'Reilly is the only man I've faced who has survived his time in the ring with me. But that will be rectified on June 1. You're a green-as-gooseshit rookie. You're a “red bull” being sent to the slaughter. You're being fed to the wolves. You're dead already and you're too damn stupid to know it.”
“I don't resent you because you play a little girls' hobby. We all have things we're not proud of. I resent you because you aren't on my level. You don't deserve to be in this match. You don't deserve to share the spotlight with me. You say you earned everything you got in soccer? Well, here in pro wrestling you're already getting more opportunities than me. I had to work my way to the top in Japan. And then I got back-stabbed and politicked out. Exiled back to America with a blacklisted black spot next to my name. FRONTIER was the only back-water stain of a promotion that was low enough to take me. And even then I started working dark matches and killing my way up the card. You? In your first match, you get the rub of facing the rightful number one contender and the future Heavyweight champion in the semi-main event. I hate you for that. I resent you for that. I am going to break and maim and cripple you for that.”
“You say I've got a chip on my shoulder, well you're damn right I do. Because idiotic promoters keep letting candy-ass non-wrestlers like you into my sport. And its left up to guys like me – wrestlers, real goddamn wrestlers – to give you green-ass rookies the rub at our own expense to make someone else a dollar. I'm not a star-maker, Tinkerbell. I'm a star-breaker. Last time I broke Baby Bling's arm. I took away his career. Outside of his plastic bimbo, I took away everything he had to live for. With you this week, I think I'll take away your legs. I'll pound your patellas into paste. I'll tear out your tibulas, and I'll fracture your fibias. Forget about wrestling. Forget about soccer. You should start praying and begging and hoping that I ever let you walk again.”
Fallon stops walking abruptly and turns back to the camera.
“Like I said before, Shields. You're already dead. You're just too stupid to know it."
"Deuces.”
With that, Fallon turns his back to the camera tossing up the peace sign over his left shoulder as he walks off, quite literally, into the sunset.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 24, 2012 16:08:08 GMT -5
Babysitting
Eleven A.M. finds the sun shining brightly off the towering buildings and over the busy streets of New York City. The hustle and bustle of an average Tuesday in this city makes most other cities seem like ghost towns. Pedestrians bump shoulders, taxis bump fenders, and crackheads bump rocks on every corner. There's a smell to New York City. Not exactly a pleasant smell, but it gives the sense that the immense city is living.
Or dying.
On the Lower East Side, where the smell of blows in off the water, sits the Mayor Hotel on Division Street, not too far from Pier 36 and the Basketball City arena that will play host to FRONTIER's next DVD Taping. The hotel is a square, brick building of modest external decoration, affordable rates and unimpressive accommodations. Inside one of the rooms we find Sean Fallon, perched on the edge of an unmade queen-size bed.
The curtains to the room are open, allowing the room to bathe in natural light. A shoe-less Fallon is attired in a simple, blank, black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. His hair is slicked back from a morning shower, and his head is inclined to his left, as he holds a cell phone to his left ear. His brow is furrowed into a look of frustration as he listens to the voice on the other end on the line.
“Well, have they been watching?” Fallon interjects into the conversation, and again after listening to the response. “Well, I'm two-and-oh, Stevie, that's gotta account for... Yeah, I know it's only two wins but... What do you mean 'that bridge is burned?' You and I both know that all Bronco cares about is the money, and who can draw more money than me? Uh-huh... I know I'm banned, but it's not like I'm banned for life, right? Right? Oh come on, Stevie, there's got to be something you can do. I mean you should see the shit-holes they're having me wrestle in. It's embarrassing. Oh, I should've thought about that before? Well maybe you should think about me kicking your fucking teeth in!”
Fallon tosses the cell phone across the room, striking one of the chairs and causing the battery to pop out the back, effectively ending the phone call.
“Prick,” he mutters under his breath.
Some Time Later...
Times Square is the beating heart of New York City. An overwhelming cacophony of lights, sounds, tourists, traffic and enormous advertisements assault the senses. It is here, in the center of it all, that we rejoin Sean Fallon (who has deigned to add a black leather jacket and a pair of black sneakers to his outfit). An increasingly recurrent smirk is plastered across his face as Fallon extends his arms, and takes in the whole scene (in doing so, almost smacking a Japanese tourist in the face).
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins. “It is nice to FINALLY have arrived in a place worthy of seeing the sensational Sean Fallon perform. After my matches in Hicksville and Crackton, it is practically a pleasure to be in the city that never sleeps. Practically, but not actually. Because as bad as the cow fields of Virginia stank, and as much as the toxic fumes of New Jersey made me gag, no stench is more vile than that of wave after wave of unbathed sub-85-IQ troglodytes that cover this city like a bad rash.
“Bad rashes are something I'm sure my opponent, Baby Bling, knows all about considering the two-cent gutter-trash he parades around with. You see, Baby Hewey, this city is a lot like you. It is a white sepulcher. On the outside it is all glitz and glamor. It is flashing lights, neon signs, loud noises. It is a fancy house, fancy cars, stupid-ass jewelry and a life-size Barbie doll to carry around your jock. But on the inside is a rotting corpse. A putrid, stinking, sweating sack of bile, guts and death. It is sewer rats and crackheads. It is the smell of garbage bags lining the streets and waste spilling over in the gutters on a hot summer day. You see, sunshine, you're all flash and pizazz on the outside, but on the inside – where it counts – you're just sh*t.”
Fallon spits out of the side of his mouth, just missing a passing child walking with her parents.
“Make no mistake about this, ghetto-fabulous, I do not like you. In fact, I hate you. 'Why is that?' you might ask, since you're about as sharp as a plastic spoon. It is because you have what I want. You have what I deserve. All the money, all the prizes, all the accolades. Those belong to me. They should be mine. Not yours. MINE. Because, unlike you, I have the talent. Unlike you, I have the charisma. I don't scream unintelligible drivel into a camera lens and lace it with F-bombs to make myself seem intense. I hate it or despite it, I am the genuine article. I am the best in FGA. I am the best in the world. And as long as you stand there, trying to claim that title for yourself, I will keep coming after you.
“I will do to you what I almost did to Micky O'Reilly last week. I will your career. I will snap your bones like brittle kindling. Ask Micky O'Reilly what it's like to be in the ring with me. If he ever stops crying about his poor wittle elbow, he'll tell you that I'm a terror. That I'm relentless. He'll tell you that when I look on that Chimera submission, the only thing that will ever get me to break it... is me.”
Fallon lifts his hands in front of his face and pantomimes breaking a bone in his hands.
“The earliest anyone has gotten a title shot here in FRONTIER is after three wins. You're my third, sunshine. You're the only thing standing between me and where I belong. You're the only thing between me and a Main Event spotlight under which I can kick in Shineboy Harrison's teeth. If I have to kick in your skull, I will. If I have to snap Micky O'Reilly arm off, I will. If I have to turn out the lights of the three remaining brain cells of Johnny Brave, I will.
“The FGA brass have made a big mistake. They've put their shiny new toy in the ring with me. I just hope you're still under warranty after I snap you in half. Deuces.”
With that, Fallon walks out of the picture and the scene closes on the massive television in Times Square.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Vomit
Apr 10, 2012 18:28:50 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Apr 10, 2012 18:28:50 GMT -5
Vomit is Irish Feedback. Get it? Because they drink so much they puke... right? Right? Bueller? Anyway, once again asking for feedback. I appreciate all the positive notes I got last weeks, and thanks for those. Is there anything you didn't like, didn't understand, thought was stupid, etc., from my most recent RP: The Irish Curse. Any notes you guys have would be appreciated. Gracias, - V
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