Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 2, 2014 17:06:37 GMT -5
Ben was singing your praises (Laz and Max) yesterday, so reading these RPs are on my to-do list. I'll get back at you when I have.
- V
PS. Both your signatures are great. So there's that, too.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Dirt
Jan 30, 2014 17:37:08 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jan 30, 2014 17:37:08 GMT -5
Cambridge, MA
“This is NOT really a good time for me...”
The voice of Malcolm Drake seems faint as it twists in the blustery winter wind that blows through Cambridge, Massachusetts. Drake stands beside the dumpster out behind The People's Republik; his hair is its usual unkempt mess and his leather jacket, hoodie and jeans are in typical disarray. But noticeably absent are the ubiquitous Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship and IGNITE 24/7 Extreme Championship belts that he carries.
Drake slumps against the dumpster, running his hands vigorously over his face and through his hair. His eyes are bloodshot, outlined with thick purple bags. He carries the stubble of several days untouched by a razor's edge.
“Yes,” Drake starts in a panicky tone and rushed cadence, “The Murder walked into Battleground in Pittsburgh. Yes, we made short work of a makeshift team of false idols. Yes, we ran roughshod over Chris Q, the FGA Heavyweight Champion. And yes... we proved once again that The Murder is the most dominant force in professional wrestling today. But no... this is not a good FUCKING time for me.”
Drake mule kicks the side of the dumpster with his heavy black combat boots. The clanging sound echoes through the metal container.
“There are something that don't stay where you put them. There's some skeletons that don't stay buried. There's some demons that don't stay conquered. There's always something... something that comes along to try to SNATCH any inkling of success or happiness I can manage to wrap my fingers around. There are nuances that don't stay DEAD...”
Drake's breaths are labored as he lurches forward, leaning on his knees. Between pants he forces out, “... like the Usual Suspects. How many times does this make? How many times does the point have to be made? The only thing you should suspect from Chris Tryon and Jason Marx is a “B-minus” effort and their receipt of a savage blood-letting. The Usual Suspects are just that... usual. Ordinary. Insignificant. They say that I am crazy, but the definition of insanity to do the same thing over and over and over again, expecting a different result. How many times does The Murder have to put you down? How many times do we need to establish our dominance? How many bones do we have to break for you to crawl back under the rock you slithered out from? TELL ME!”
“Tell me, because I will GLADLY oblige you. You see I've got... bigger... problems than the Usual – fucking – Suspects. You'd think I'd be happy returning to my hometown the conquering champion that I am, but NO. No... What I need is a reprieve. What I need is a distraction. What I need... is a scapegoat. I need a punching bag. I need target practice. I need two miserable, useless excuses for men to slide into the ring with me and be returned to the dust. I need bones to break and flesh to pick. And as sick and fucking tired as I am of seeing Chris Tryon and Jason Marx... they'll do just fine.”
Drake forces a smirk before spitting on the pavement.
“Memento mori.”
*********
Pittsburgh, PA.
A 24-hour diner. The name's not important, you know the type of place. Everything looks faded from the years of grease and smoke from the stoves caked on the walls and furniture. Where $10 feeds three for breakfast and the coffee comes in industrial-sized cans that might be army surplus from several wars ago.
Two men sit in a booth, staring into their coffee. One older, one younger. Both haggard and silent.
“Malcolm Drake,” the older man says, “Malcolm Drake, Malcolm Drakowski... it was that far of stretch. When I first heard it, it sounded like your name. So I went digging and I found you.”
“You found me,” the younger man responds in a sheepish voice.
“I did. After that it was just figuring out your schedule and trying to get a hold of you. And there you were on that bridge as I drove by; like fate was shining a spotlight right on you.”
There is a long silence that hangs in the air. The younger man simply continues to stare into the deep black swirling liquid inside his mug. The older man breaks the silence again.
“Seems like it was meant to be, right? … Son?”
Dishes cling and patrons chatter with waitresses, but silence envelopes the booth like a powerful fingers of strangling hands. Beneath a mane of blond-hair-turned-white, the pale blue eyes of the older man search the younger for an answer. The younger man continues to stare down at his drink. The steam rises and twists in the air.
“Malcolm? Aren't you going to say anything? I came all this way looking for you. I quit drinking, I quit smoking. I... I want to make amends. I want to make things right...”
The young man's eyes move from the mug to the circular scar under the knuckle of the index finger of his hand. He slowly lifts his gaze towards the older man; long, clumped strands of hair separate his eyes from his father's.
“Do you know how I got this scar?”
“What?”
“Do you know... how I got... this scar?”
“I don't remem-”
“When I was seven. You grabbed my wrist, took a lit cigarette, and pressed it into my hand.”
“Malcolm, I'm sorrry. I-”
“You're sorry?”
“Yes, I-”
“I was seven.”
“I know I was a bad fath-”
“It was my birthday.”
“I-”
“It burned.”
“Look-”
“I can still smell the stench of tobacco and blistering flesh and burning hair.”
“Malcolm, I'm sorry. I had demons. I-”
“Do you remember what you said to me? What you said when I was crying for you to stop? When I begged you to let me go?”
“...No...”
“You said, 'Quit whining and rub some dirt on it. You pussy.' Every time... every time I look down I see it. I... I know you, father. I know you like the back of my fucking hand.”
“Malcolm...”
The older man reaches out and offers a comforting touch to the younger man's scarred hand. But the younger man jerks away, pulling as far back as he can in the confines of the booth. The fear of a child is alight in his eyes. With his right hand, he snatches up cup of coffee and heaves it into the older man's face. The scalding liquid catches the older man in the chest, neck and face with a loud splash followed by the piercing screams of a burning man.
The younger man jumps from the bar and stares down at the older man writhing along the cheap, fake leather seats. His hands clawing for napkins, towels, anything. His face is already turning a bright, burning red.
“Rub some dirt on it. You pussy.”
The younger man turns his back on the screaming, shoulders past the waitress and pushes his way out into the cold winter morning.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 19, 2014 18:20:11 GMT -5
Thanks for the love. Eventhough this was another no-show win. I loved the show, The Murder definitely stole it. Bond vs. K-Hard should be really good... I don't know if I should expect some swerve or not Bond becomes the fourth member of the Murder. BONDO, WE NEED TO TALK.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 16, 2014 19:20:49 GMT -5
The sun rises at the horizon, casting long orange fingers over the rippling currents of the Monongahela River that runs through Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The Tenth Street bridge, an unpleasingly off-white suspension bridge, sits in dark silhouette against the rising sun. Pre-rush morning traffic putters along in both directions. A slumber city slowly awakens; but some of its denizens have been awake all night...
Walking along the west-bound side pedestrian walkway of the Tenth Street Bridge, is a man in black, stressed leather jacket. A hooded sweatshirt, worn underneath, protects his head and face from the crosswinds that cut across the bridge. His face is enveloped by the cloud of condensation that emanates with each heavy exhalation. Hit gate is purposeful, his direction is the city. He'd be an unremarkably-pedestrian pedestrian if it weren't for the two large, gold-plated championship belts layered across his waist. The belts bounce off his denim-clad thighs as he walks, but for a man who travels with little more than the clothes on his back, the belts go where belts are supposed to go.
Presently, he stops at a small outpost along the bridge meant for passersby to admire the view. Malcolm Drake turns his back to the river, and pulls the hood off his face. The wind immediately whips his hair around him, like a tangled halo. Several days worth of scruff adorn his cheeks and chin. As he leans back with his elbows on the railing, his belts – the FGA Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt (complete with carved scar) and the IGNITE 24/7 Extreme Championship belt – are on full display. He takes a moment to brush the hair our of his eyes.
“Have you ever noticed,” Drake says before taking a brief pause, “just how many of these arenas are located near bridges?”
He makes a quick sweeping motion that encompasses the city, “Makes you think someone is trying to send you a message. Here's an easy way out. Just spread your wings... and fly. Look,” Drake points off towards the city, “you can even see the arena from here. Not that one. That's the CONSOL. We won't be there. We'll be at some other small, shitty arena. In front of another melting pot of the beleaguered and the mentally deficient. You know the ones I'm talking about, don't you? They're the ones that breathe through their mouths and wear Sean Sands T-shirts.”
Drake smirks before looking back towards the city. He tucks his thumbs behind his belts, his fingers strumming along the gold plates.
“It's funny, though,” he continues, “that we're so close to the CONSOL. Home of the Pittsburgh Penguins and Sidney Crosby. I grew up a hockey fan, you know. I couldn't afford the equipment. That was pushed out of the family budget by Lotto cards and Marlboros. But back when they used to show the games on network TV, I used to watch. And it got me thinking about a few things. It got me thinking about Sean Sands...”
Drake pauses, turning his attention away from the city.
“Sean Sands, you're the Sidney Crosby of FGA. You've got all the talent in the world, but no one respects you because despite it all you still manage to be just... a whiny, little BITCH. I've blown snot into tissues that were tougher than you. You posture like you're some bad-ass, some a wannabe hero. Tell me... who is the last hero that you know that took a run at somebody from behind? That's you, Sands. People say I'm crazy, but you're the one living is a delusional dream world, some parallel universe that exists only in your mind. Some world where Sean Sands isn't a punk-ass little BITCH. Congratulations, Sands, you won a championship. Exactly how long do you plan to coast on that accolade? Yeah, you won the belt. Yeah, you've beat me in the past. But that's you to a T, isn't it? You're the guy that points at his resume. You're the guy that says “Look at my past! Look at what I've done!”
Drake spits.
“Past tense,” he grunts. “That's you wannabe heroes trade your war stories. In the past tense. I guess that makes sense. It's EASY, after all. That's what these fans pay to see, right? A nostalgia act. They certainly don't pay to see the only members of the roster that have PRIDE. The only members of the FGA roster that are still HUNGRY. I'm hungry, Sands. I'm ALWAYS hungry. I grew up STARVING and ALONE, and there's a hunger in me that doesn't go away. See I'm not like you. No one's going to put my face on a poster. No one is going to use my abdomen to sell tickets. Yeah, maybe I carry around a little extra weight around the middle than you do, Sands,” Drake pauses, looking down, “But... most of it is in titles. See that's what happens you're hungry... you gain weight. You and I, were on opposite ends of the eating disorder scale. I'm a glutton... I admit it. I see something that I want and I go and I get it. You? You're... what's that phrase they use? Manorexic. You're the living embodiment of vanity. A pretty box with nothing inside. Oh sure, they gave you the PUSH that I never got. And you got the rub for getting a fluke win over me. But if you want to point at the scoreboard and tell me it says 'Sean Sands -1, Malcolm Drake – 0” that you're not keeping score right.”
Drake unstraps both belts and holds them up.
“It's Malcolm Drake – 2, Sean Sands – 0,” Drake places a belt on each shoulder before continuing, “The smartest thing for you to do is to avoid getting involved in this match altogether. It doesn't suit you. You're not a team player. Hell, you're barely still even in the game. In fact, why don't you do what you do best instead: feather your Bon Jovi hair and snarl at the mirror. Really play it up for your reflection. After all, he's your biggest fan.”
“You like to strut around and smile and run your mouth. That's FINE. That's not my game, but that's fine. You know what is my game, Sands? You know what it is I like to do? I like to break people legs, so they can't strut. I like to kick people's teeth in, so they can't smile. And I like to rip our their tongues, so they have nothing left to fucking say. And that is what I'm going to do to Sean fucking Sands if he gets in that ring with me. As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Sands... you're already dead.”
Drake turns on his heel and keeps walking towards the city. A van drives by, slowing to take a gander at the odd pedestrian before continuing along. Drake keeps walking.
“And speaking of people who have over-stayed their welcome... The Shoot Kings,” Drake scowls, “Haven't we embarrassed you enough? What impossibly small, infinitesimal level of hope could you possibly still be harboring? People like to talk about how GREAT the FGA Tag Team division is. You know what I say? I say it's top heavy. There's The Murder on top, and all the carrion below us. Run through the list with me. Usual Suspects: beat 'em. Bloodbath & Beyond or whatever they're calling themselves these days: beat 'em. The UK Dragons: beat 'em so bad they never came back. The Shoot Kings: we've beat 'em so many times I'm losing count. The only team left for us to beat is the cartoon characters, the toughest guys on Twitter, the Super Mario Wrestling Brothers. You know what's an accomplishment? That I was able to say that without laughing. As far as FGA goes, there's The Murder and there's the victims.”
Drake continues walking towards Pittsburgh, the city slowly rising to meet him.
“Why am I even wasting my breath on the Shoot Kings? In fact, why are they even in this match? Why is The Murder being forced to share the ring with a trio of has-beens? Last I checked it was still illegal to show an execution on television, even if it is cable. Well that's what people are going to see when if they tune in to Battleground: an execution. A ritual killing. And... a statement. A statement that will be made loud and clear to all of professional wrestling from the new pulpit that FGA has arranged for us. A simple message... you don't cross The Murder.”
The suspension cords of the bridge become further and further spaced apart as Drake approaches the end of the bridge where the walkway melts into the sidewalk. The sun has risen, but the long shadows keep Drake in the darkness.
“On Saturday night, we stake our claim. We plant our flag at the top of the FGA mountain. Cross the barren sands, and step over the bodies of broken kings if you want war... but it is a war you will not win. War feeds the crows, and the crows live on.”
“Memento mori.”
Drake turns his back and begins walking off into the city. At the edge of the bridge, pulled over to the side is the van that had driven past. Standing outside of it, in a light gray hoodie is an older man. His hair is that once-blond shade of gray. The man's eyes are fixated on the approaching figure of Malcolm Drake. Drake continues on obliviously. He walks right by the man.
It takes him a moment, but the man turns and, in an unsteady voice...
“Malcolm!”
Drake stops.
“Malcolm,” the man repeats before hesitantly moving closer. Drake is still in his place, the only sign of life is the occasional puff of warm air from his breath. Drake turns. Slowly. His shoulders first, his head following. His face no longer carries its default scowl, its sneering scorn or its self-righteous smirk. Drake's face is soft. Boyish. Apologetic.
The man to within five feet of Drake, who has only turned half-way, looking over his shoulder. The man repeats his name, “Malcolm.” A slow smile moves across his face. His blue eyes light up, and sparkle as if ready to release long-held tears.
Drake blinks. He stares at the man's face, and blinks again.
“Daddy...”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 22, 2013 13:34:16 GMT -5
The opening fire on them thing was a joke - I'm from Boston so my view of NYC is tainted.
Fucking yes. That is fantastic, but that's what I mean when I say the tone came off flat. I didn't get that in reading Blayze's sermon. Maybe it's just me (I've been told it's me by many ex-girlfriends). It all makes more sense in hindsight but I still think the message gets muddled in the rhetoric.
But like I said, it could just be me.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 22, 2013 13:24:57 GMT -5
Heel party at Chandler Scott's place. Let's get white-girl-wasted!
Awesome show. Just awesome.
-- THIS, but with "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."
The whole show just... yes.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 21, 2013 17:51:14 GMT -5
Sorry, I'm not good at phrasing a lot of my critiques. I hope you take in the spirit in which it was meant. I think you're a talented writer and I think there's a lot of potential for TCoB, but this RP didn't do it for me. I know it's tough to set up for a joint RP and then try to tailor it down.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 21, 2013 17:35:27 GMT -5
What did everyone think of Beyond Friday? Hopefully this doesn't come off too harsh, but to be perfectly honest, I thought it was a little much. The idea of TCoB setting up some little rally outside of a Black Friday line just seems so staged and forced. Black Friday was over a month and 2 shows ago, why would we be seeing this footage now? Was the tag title match even announced before Black Friday (I honestly don't know, but I think it was the 11/26 update so probably)? I think the tone comes off pretty flat, too. What is new about this whole spiel from Blayze? It sounds like the same message with different window dressing. Which isn't to say it is bad, it's just boring. And the crowd getting into it? In NYC? They'd be more likely to open fire on TCoB than to listen to anything Blayze has to say. Also, the crowd starts chanting "BLAYZE!" but Blayze never introduced himself. My biggest issue with TCoB is I don't "get" the message. What are they fighting for? Blayze has a lot of little catchphrases - the beast will be fed, you will fear the dark - but what does that mean? TCoB puts up this front that they are a Church, or a religion (both?) but everything in Blayze's rhetoric returns to pro wrestling. Not a hell of a lot of people care about pro wrestling. If they were truly looking for answers in TCoB, the "truth" they're spreading would need to be more universally applicable. And that's where Beyondism - and Blayze as a character - loses me. It's not a religion, it's a gimmick, and I think that comes across really clearly in this piece.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 18, 2013 18:29:21 GMT -5
I'm posting this from the train, so no link, but I'd love to hear what you guys thought of "Good Forever."
Sorry for no selling Christmas.
- V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 18, 2013 17:45:16 GMT -5
New York City, NY.
Rockefeller Center sits on West 51st Street, halfway between Fifth and Sixth Avenue in downtown Manhattan. On any given day, Rockefeller Center is overflowing with a critical mass of wide-eyed tourists, bumping into one another and bumbling into the background of staged photographs. This is never more true than Christmas time, when Rockefeller Center becomes the unofficial focal point of all things Christmas in the world's biggest city.
A 76-foot tall Norwegian spruce tree towers over the plaza, awash in a dazzling display of bright lights in a myriad of colors. Reflections of the tree's bulbs flicker and dance on the surface of the Rockefeller Center ice skating rink; a holiday tradition in its own right.
Earlier in the evening the foot traffic through the plaza would've probably rivaled a small state, but as the bitter chill blows in off the Atlantic and the swirling snow begins to drift in heavier spurts, the plaza sits largely deserted. The ice rink boasts no skaters, and as the clock ticks over to 11:30pm, the lights on the monolithic tree shut down for the night. Though the “city that never sleeps” is far from plunged into darkness, its luster has slightly dimmed.
Amidst the small – and now further dwindling – crowd, a man in a black winter coat sits alone on a bench. His long blond is matted down and peppered with soon-to-dissolve snowflakes; a thin layer of them have also accumulated and taken residence upon his shoulders. His pale blue eyes are fixated on the luminosity of the tree, and the color almost seems to drain from them as the lights go out. As if he had been holding his breath, the man exhales visibly against the cold. He continues to stare at the tree, focused and intent; a lingering look that portends an unspoken hope that if he tries hard enough the light may return.
“When I was six,” he says to no one, “I used to watch the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles every day after school. I loved them - the mutated, disrespected, and misunderstood heroes of my youth. They would save the world every week and then be forced to return to their home in the sewer. No matter how much good they did, no matter how hard they tried... they went back down into the sewer. They didn't belong on the surface. No matter what they did, they'd always be different. But that never stopped them. They continued to do the right thing, regardless of the fact that it never brought them any closer to acceptance.”
Malcolm Drake lets out a long sigh that shoots a trail of vapor from his lips into the crisp night air.
“When I was six,” he continues, “I wrote a letter to Santa Claus. I told him how good I'd been all year and that all I wanted for Christmas was a Ninja Turtle action figure. I wanted Michelangelo, the orange one... because he loved pizza... Pizza was my favorite food.”
Unblinking, Drake continues to stare at the tree.
“That Christmas I went down stairs and there were two presents waiting for me. One was the Michelangelo action figure I had asked for, and the other was a 'Foot' soldier for him to fight against. It was more than I had asked for. When I was six, magic was real. The world was perfect.”
Drake pauses. The pause drags on, and on longer still. He blinks.
“When I was seven,” he says, his voice cracking slightly, “I wrote Santa another letter. I didn't tell him how good I had been; instead I begged, I pleaded, and I promised my undying dedication to being good if he would bring me the one thing – the only thing – I would ever, ever, ever ask him for again. I would be good... FOREVER... if he would just bring my mom back.”
New York City seems quiet enough to hear the snow fall to the ground.
“When I was eight I asked my father for some new sneakers. I didn't ask for anything fancy. The ones I wore had holes in the bottom, and the rain would get through. In the winter the snow and slush would seep through and make my feet hurt. Do you know what I got for Christmas when I was eight?”
After another pause, Drake turns his head abruptly.
“Duct tape. A roll of... fucking... DUCT tape. With a fucking bow attached. My father took a drag off his cigarette and said to me, 'So you can fix your shoes.' And then, like some after-thought, he added, 'Merry Christmas.' Merry... Christmas...”
Malcolm Drake rises to his feet, and with gloved hands, brushes the snow off his arms, shoulders and legs. He takes one last, lingering look at the towering tree before turning his back to it.
“I get it,” his voice a rising crescendo of agitation, “for the rest of YOU... this is a joyous time of year. It's all about love, and goodwill, and hope and the promise of a better future. Well not for me! This is the time of the year I had EVERYTHING taken from me! While you sat around the fireplace and sang 'Jingle Bells,' I played 'Dodge the Beer Can.' While you had snowball fights at recess, I'd pack the snow and hold it up to a busted lip to bring the swelling down. While... all of you... celebrated... I learned how to SURVIVE. I learned the TRUE meaning of Christmas.”
Drake begins pacing, his black boots clapping loudly against the pavement and grinding when he turns to reverse direction.
“This year,” he continues, “this year marks twenty years since I had last celebrated Christmas. This year... I'm going to celebrate again. But I won't be bringing love, or goodwill or hope of the promise of a better future. NO! I'm going into Final Battle on Saturday December 21st at the Manhattan Center and I am going to the HATE that boils the blood that courses through my veins. I will bring the malevolence I feel for each of you INSECTS that step into the ring with me. I will eradicate all of your hopes, dreams, and aspirations. I... will rain... an UNGODLY fury upon you that will SCORCH your very soul... and then I will raise the Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt above my head and I will show the BLEAK... INESCAPABLE... future that The Murder has in store for you.”
Drake stops his pacing to slowly pantomime raise the belt high above his head. He slowly lowers him arm back down to his side and begins pacing again.
“Those titles, are rightfully MINE. This entire division EXISTS because I ALLOW it to. The Murder built the FGA Tag Team division. Before we came along, tag matches were filler. A few teams no one cares about bumbled around like flies with their wings torn off. Then we came. And much like we've slowly built FGA into a respectable promotion, we built the tag team division into the envy of every damn wrestling promotion on the planet. We made those titles - that sit around the waist of unworthy usurpers – relevant. And oh how the pretenders have lined up.”
Drake spits.
“You can stand on the shoulders of giants... but you'll never reach the heights of crows.”
With a snarl, Drake continues.
“Lest any of you ignorant troglodytes think I am being disingenuous, let's run through the facts. The Murder is the only team in this match that has defeated all the others. Bloodbath & Beyond, better known as The Murder Lite - great fakes, less talent – have been left licking their wounds and rewriting their phony prophecies. Johnny Blayze may have stolen everything he is from me, but he isn't even the biggest thief in this match. It seems like everything you do, Mr. Blayze, you're never all that good at it. That group of miscreants you've assembled wouldn't make it through the initiation of The Murder. If Reagan Clarke is still breathing, maybe you can go and 'convert' her, too. Add another pathetic, broken trophy to your collection of oddities. You and Mr. Chaths aren't even on the level BELOW the level that Robert and I are on. Perhaps after you're done healing from the SAVAGERY that The Murder unleashes on you, you can slither around and convert a couple of the ushers and backstage attendants to join your pathetic, little cause.”
“If the Shoot Kings had ever accomplished anything worthy of having pride, they would be embarrassed by the way we decimated them. The fact that they are the GFC Tag Team champions is just further proof that every night is Amateur Night over in the lesser FRONTIER. You parasites want to 'shoot?' Your entire gimmick is that you can smoke weed and still compete, so what is left of you now that we've proven that you CAN'T compete with us? You're just a pair of underachieving burn-outs, bumbling their incoherent, drug-addled promos. You're worms collecting a meager paycheck to get stepped on by real competitors.”
Drake takes his index finger and thumb and pantomimes the shape of a handgun.
“Bang... bang,” he puts his 'gun' away and smirks, “The Super Mario Wrestling Brothers have a better chance of rescuing Princess Peach from King Bowser than you do of EVER becoming Mid-Atlantic tag team champions. Graham Clauson, I insulted your manhood. I belittled you. I said you were an insignificant waste of matter. A drain on the oxygen supply of people who contribute something. A burden on society. And you huffed and you puffed, you shouted and beat your chest, but when it came right down to it... you did nothing. You know why you did nothing? Because you ARE nothing. You are not CAPABLE of doing anything more than nothing. I called you insignificant... and you proved me right. You and Mr. Szaliski are the worst kind of pathetic cretins; the kind with delusions of grandeur. So keep strutting around like you're relevant and maybe you'll fool someone, but The Murder will always be there... above you... like the piss test you can't pass.”
Drake stops pacing. He pits down on the cold pavement, with his legs folded underneath him and runs his hands through his hair, tugging hard at the end as he rocks back and forth.
“And that leaves the Usurpers,” he says before letting out a hollow cackle, “I have a lot of nightmares. I have a lot of things that keep me up at night. I have a lot of demons that haunt me. But I can't think of anything my career that haunts me like the fact that I allowed you pitiful, putrid wretches pin Robert and STEAL our Mid-Atlantic titles. I could sit here and make excuses; but I'm not Mr. Tryon. I could prattle on for days; but I'm not Mr. Marx. I'm above mentioning that it took the Usual Suspects being granted a no disqualifications to... defeat... The Murder. I don't need to reiterate the numerous times The Murder has trounced the Suspects, or that they've never beaten ANY of us without breaking the precious rules that they hold so dearly. What I will say is that every second that the Mid-Atlantic championship belts remain around their waste, the legacy that we worked so hard to build diminishes. It SICKENS me to see those belts around your waists. What's worse is that you know that you're undeserving champions. Look at Mr. Tryon. Racked with guilt he attempted to surrender his ill-gotten gains back to their rightful owners. I'd like to say I'm surprised that he was too much of COWARD to go through with it, but there is no level to switch the Usual Suspects can sink that can surprise me.”
“Do you know what the Usual Suspects are? They're less than insects. They're mites. They're the insects OF insects. There is no lower, more parasitic form of life. For the sake of the Mid-Atlantic championship titles that WE brought prestige to; for the sake of the tag team division that WE built; and for the sake of FGA, the promotion we lifted out of the gutter... The Murder will exterminate these... PESTS... once and for all.”
Drake pushes himself back to his feet and brushes himself off.
“When the New Year dawns it will do so with new Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Champions... The Murder. I don't expect you to believe it... but the things we believe in... they never save us from the Truth.”
“Memento mori...”
Drake turns to leave, and then adds, as if an after-thought: “... and Merry Christmas.”
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Dec 2, 2013 16:50:35 GMT -5
In lieu of the holidays and the lack of responses (myself included), I have extended the deadline until Sunday 12/08/13.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Nov 24, 2013 18:00:11 GMT -5
List updated. Shaun is up this week.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Nov 24, 2013 17:57:37 GMT -5
Character Study explanationJohnny Blayze BioDue Date: 12/08/13 (midnight EST) Johnny Blayze, In Brief:Johnny Blayze is handled by Shaun, who has been active since Jan 2013. Johnny Blaze is one half of the tag team, BLoodbath & Beyond (w/Chaths) and is the leader of the nefarious stable, Bloodbath & Beyond. Shaun's Curated RPs and Segments:- None at this time
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Nov 23, 2013 23:24:09 GMT -5
Spoiler Free: I really liked this show. There was a lot of interactions that we don't usually get to see: Q and Cami, Q and Dom, Justice Young and Tiffany, Karma and Page. I thought that added an interesting dynamic to a card that had a lot of interesting matches, especially the tag matches.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Nov 21, 2013 15:51:09 GMT -5
Elizabeth, NJ.
A low winter sun hangs over the Outlet Collections at Jersey Gardens, in Elizabeth, New Jersey. The mall is relatively empty, even for a weekday afternoon, with only small handful of pre-holiday shoppers meandering between the corporate storefronts.
Nestled between a Coach Factory outlet and a Foot Locker is the large black façade and jagged read signage of Hot Topic. Neglected even by the after-school crowd, the store is vacant save for a half-sleeping, half-stoned register attendant and a lone customer perusing the aisles. The customer looks the part. His hair is a disheveled, dark shade of blond that flows down to the shoulders of a blue and grey buffalo-plaid flannel shirt over dark blue jeans and black combat boots.
The customer turns to his right, eyeing some merchandise on the wall. As he looks up, the hair falls back from his face. His face is painted, from the middle of the nose up, in black and white calavera-style paint. Deep black pools surround the eyes of Malcolm Drake, but the lower half of his face remains unpainted.
Drake reaches up and pulls down an over-sized black T-shirt. On the shirt the words “My Chemical Romance” are written in white font over a red heart. Drake smirks.
“Is this the tired trope we're going to roll out this week?” he asks to no one before returning the shirt to its place on the rack. “Hmmmm.”
Drake continues to pace the aisles, slowly and aimlessly.
“People,” he says as his hands graze another set of T-shirts, “Are a disgustingly predictable lot. They see someone with long hair, or,” Drake indicates the area around his eyes, “face paint, or clothes that aren't from some Italian designer’s Spring collection and their prejudice takes over. You see for most people the part of their brain that processes logic is so under-utilized, so why risk the headache of engaging it when it is so much… simpler to be a simpleton. When people see me coming, they don’t just cross the street… they leave the county.”
Drake grins, “Survival instinct. But those that pretend to hide their fear… to MASK it… they stand there and they listen to my words and they run down their list of labels to see which one fits. Anarchist. Nihilist. Counter-culture. No, none of those really work; let’s just slap ‘crazy’ on him… or FREAK… and call it a day.”
“But The Murder is not counter-culture. In fact, we are the architects of FGA's current culture. People look at us and label us ‘the bad guys.’ These are the same people that look at a store like this one, and toss around labels like ‘sell-out.’ LOOK at the so-called heroes of FGA. Look at your current champions. Look at those that hold the belts ransom, and ask yourself who the real sell-outs are. The work ethic, the 'code,' the morality... that got them nowhere. So they sold out. They cashed in their high horses for shiny new gold. The Usual Suspects had to resort to a no disqualifications victory to achieve something they were never able to achieve within the rules. Sean Sands has STOLEN Chris Q's championship and is parading around in some pathetic facade that he is actually Heavyweight champion. And the Pride title... well what pride is there in a title that no one feels too compelled to retain?”
“What kind of a promotion does that make FGA? What kind of world does The Murder envision if this what we hath wrought? Simple… An HONEST one. When I walked into FGA I said I would bring... the Truth to this promotion. I said I would kill professional wrestling as you know it. Look around you. Your heroes and champions are cheaters; these are the men who you cheer, and who you root for. YOUR true nature is naked and exposed. You eschew those that come to you as HONEST men and cheer for cheats and liars and thieves. The Murder has never hidden who we are. We are the change. The change you refuse to believe in.”
Drake stops to inspect another T-shirt; a black shirt with a white decal of Bob Marley smoking a joint.
“How appropriate,” he sneers, “So let’s look at the flavor of the week… the Shoot Kings. The new darlings of the fans. Everyone seems to think that these… insects… are going to scurry into the Fleischer Athletic Center in Newark on Saturday night and simply handle Robert and myself. That’s a lot of hype. Everyone wants to test their mettle. Everyone wants to see how good they are; if they can live up to their own hype. And YOU are all about hype, aren't you, Mr. Szalinski?”
Drake scowls at the name.
“The UK Dragons, the Super Mario Wrestling Brothers, Bloodbath & Beyond, the Usual Suspects and you... where were these teams before the Mid-Atlantic titles were introduced? Where would this division be, where would those belts be without The Murder? The Mid-Atlantic championship belts currently perch on the shoulders of unworthy champions, but they are still the most important belts in this sport because WE made them that way. You want to TALK about hype… The Murder builds it. We build it like we built the Mid-Atlantic championship and like we built FGA. And now you and your ilk slither in here and try to ride the coattails of OUR accomplishments.”
“Wave after wave crashes against the rocks, and occasionally a stone with tumble but the cliff remains. Unmoving. Impassible. Monolithic. We are the monolith of tag team wrestling. We are the measuring stick. You call yourselves kings, but we are the ones who wear the crowns. If it was competition you were after, if it was a TEST you sought… we were here. We’ve always been here and have always obliged any fools stupid enough to come within the grasp of our talons.”
Drake’s scowl twists, and turns to a dismissive smirk.
“But that’s not what is about for the Shoot Kings or any of these other teams. While The Murder ELEVATES Frontier Grappling Arts, while we ELEVATE tag team wresting, and ELEVATE the sport of professional wrestling with each and every match… these teams… these HEROES seek only to pad their resumes with shiny trinkets. Those Global Frontier Crown tag championships? They might as well be participation trophies. You come after The Murder and you come after OUR Mid-Atlantic titles because WE are relevant. It must be nice not to have that burden. It must be NICE to have that carefree, drug-hazy attitude that comes with IRRELEVANCE. You might parade around with those GFC belts like they mean something, but let's be frank: you've been picking on the kindergartners. Outside of a victory over the UK Dragons - a team The Murder dismantled - there's nothing on your resume that even sniffs at importance. For you, for this entire division, for this entire SPORT, we represent relevance. Because even when you inevitably fail to defeat us, just stepping in the ring with The Murder is an accolade. While death without purpose is suicide. Death in pursuit of a noble goal is martyrdom… and The Murder excels in manufacturing martyrs.”
Drake runs a hand, slowly, through his matted blond hair, giving it a sharp tug at the end before continuing.
“But hurting cowards is nothing new for us. We punch our clock, cave in the craniums of cowards, and punch out. But you… the Shoot Kings… you’re different. And it is not for any bullshit retroactive continuity that you want to try to spew from your mouth-breathing maw. It is about one thing…”
Drake pauses.
“Disrespect,” he says emphatically, “Mr. Szalinski walked into a match with Chris Q waving a white flag and Q used your bloated carcass like a heavy bag. And yet you have the gall, the audacity to flap your facehole at me? At ME?! There is one man in this promotion that could even claim to be my equal, the FGA Heavyweight Champion, Chris Q. You can ask him, if you can resist the compulsion to piss yourself, who his toughest opponent was. Who left him the most, bruised, battered and bloodied. And when he’s done emptying his stomach and his liver into a toilet, he’ll wipe the vomit from his beard and tell you: ‘Malcolm fucking Drake.’ Remember that name and learn to say it with the REVERENCE it deserves… Malcolm. Fucking. Drake.”
Drake continues down the aisles of the store, pausing briefly to stare at an elaborate glass bong.
“Let me,” he says as if addressing the bong, “put this in words your full-baked, desiccated pound of goop that used to be a brain can understand: you… are Funyuns. You're empty calories. You are a lot of talk, talk, talk and a bright shiny package but you have the nutritional value of dirt. You’re empty and sad and pathetic. You're the refuge of the truly reprehensible. Funyuns are to food what you are to wrestling. You’re a cheap imitation of what a wrestler is supposed to be. And you want to call The Murder unoriginal? Our goal isn’t to be unique. It is to be the BEST. To lay waste to people like YOU who don’t deserve to step into OUR ring, stand in OUR presence and breathe OUR oxygen.”
Drake inhales deeply through his nose to punctuate the point.
“Your existence is the primary argument in favor of abortion. Now whether your mother was stupid or negligent, I don't know or care. All I care about is cleaning up the five-foot, eleven-inch, one-hundred eight-seven pound mess that she left. You are a stain, Mr. Szalinski. And I'm not soap and water; I'm not detergent; I'm fucking sodium hypochlorite. I won't just remove you, I will erase any evidence that you ever existed. Even your putrid stench won't remain. You’ll find that those that stand against The Murder don’t often retain the luxury of standing.”
Drake pauses.
“Graham Clauson,” he says after a beat, “I mourn for the brain cells I dedicated to remembering your name. You're an insignificant little insect, and you will be squashed. You're not worth another second of my time or ounce of my breath.”
“Whatever legacy the two of you thought you were building in this company and in this sport; consider it DEAD. On Saturday night in Newark, We – The Murder – are going to eviscerate it. We are going to slice open its belly, RIP out its intestines, tie them into a noose, and hang it in front of you. On Saturday night, the Shoot Kings will learn the meaning of the word ‘regicide,’ and that Suicide by Crow... is a most painful way for a martyr to meet his end.”
“Memento mori.”
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