What's his name?
Apr 16, 2012 18:18:14 GMT -5
Post by The Rogue on Apr 16, 2012 18:18:14 GMT -5
The city of New York was lit up around me. I took in the lights and felt it’s majesty. My breath hung in my chest for dear life. To say it was awe inspiring at night; an understatement. Last time I was anywhere near here was a morning I would rather forget. Though she hadn’t admitted it to me, I was sure Grace was the person behind it. I awoke in a drugged state, having lost several days of my life. I didn’t have a chance to take in the beautiful city. It took my mind off of the days events. Jessica wasn’t at the last show, but she had purchased the DVD. She had seen me turn up, with my ribs damaged. She saw the rookie, Johnny Brave try and work on them. Try and fail. I felt fine. Try telling her that. Yes. I was still in a recovery period. I was still hurting. But I was getting better. In the mean time, although I shouldn’t technically be wrestling, Tim was in my corner. He had my back and I was doing what needed to be done. I was making the show about me again. I was notching up the wins once more so that I will get my shot at Blaine Harrison. So what was the big deal? She’d already had her say in regards to the last Supershow. The Street Fight putting my whole career on the line. Yet despite not coming off victorious, a fact I had foreseen before hand, I walked away from it. Walked away with a concussion and damaged ribs, I’ll admit. But that was nothing next to what could have happened against the most dangerous man in wrestling. Jess wouldn’t have any of it. She screamed. I screamed. Then after I was fed up and she had nothing left to say, I took my leave and headed for the city. I wanted to get a real feel of the place before I perform against Jacques Mercier in a few weeks.
Shops and bars lined the road, either side of me. I still had not trained myself to be “one of the men” as Tim had told me before. “Wrestling is a man’s game. Men drink.” So, what with my recent quarrel with the future Misses, I figured I would find a nice sports bar and get some practice in. The night was young. When I found SNAP Sports Bar on 248 West 14th Street, I was greeter at the door by two lovely ladies that I did my best to ignore. I couldn’t help but turn my head, though, to see the view from behind. The place was crowded, and I knew it would take me a while to get a drink from behind the long bar on the right hand side. Lucky for me, the baseball was on every screen behind the bar. Though I was peering from shot to shot, The Rays facing Detroit was the main match interesting me. As a kid I had always associated Florida with Disney and because the Mighty Ducks was one of my favorite films back then, I favored all of the Florida teams. Though, for some reason, I didn’t care too much for Miami. Eventually, I squeezed into a position where I could be served and decided to get a bottle of scotch to save further effort of wrestling my way to the front of the bar. After about ten minutes and two quick glasses, the rest of the night became a blur to me.
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Cruz: Here is your Chase for the Crown tournament winner………………… And NEEEEEEEEEEEW FGA Heavyweight Champion, MICHAEL TOMKINS!
Clement: Tomkins has done it! He defied all odds tonight and now is the Champion!
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I awoke to find myself laying comfortably in bed. The remnants of my dream still lingered. The feeling of ecstasy as I was crowned the first ever Champion here in Frontier. But that was over. That was the past. If I would ever regain that, I…. My head screamed at me as I tried to sit up. I remembered this feeling all too well. My hand clasped up to my head, and with every ounce of will I had, I pulled myself out of bed. Jessica’s side of the bed was empty and undisturbed. She’d not spent the night. Normally I would care, but I think I was still annoyed at her for some reason or other. It wasn’t too important. The trip to the familiar kitchen was a painful one. My feet weren’t exactly working cohesively with my brain. My shoulders smacked heavily against the wall either side of me a good few times in the hall. Sitting alone at the table was Tim. He had his head in one of the local rags and barely acknowledged me as I took a seat next to him. I waited for a moment, trying to work out if the ticking clock on the wall behind me was too loud for me to risk speaking. I felt as though it couldn’t hurt any worse.
Mike: Where is everyone?
Tim: Everyone i.e. Jessica? She went out early.
Mike: Doesn’t look like she slept in the bed.
Tim: You should be a detective.
Mike: What gives?
Tim: Guess she’s still pissed after your little tiff last night. You disappearing and coming back rat assed didn’t help your case any.
Mike: No, I guess it didn’t.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Jessica had been over bearing over the past few weeks and I could use a break from her nagging. Especially with my head in less than perfect conditions as I wait for myself to sober up. Tim took his head out from behind the paper and took in my personal state.
Tim: The FGA posted the next match card for the next DVD taping.
Mike: Yeah? Have they given me Blaine?
Tim: No. I warned you not to do anything.
Mike: What? I figured my actions would get me straight to the top.
Tim: You thought wrong. They have given your latest victim a chance at retribution.
I had to think. After last night, my mind was running a little slow.
Mike: Johnny Brave? I beat him fair and square.
Tim: Not him. The other one. Jacques Mercier.
Mike: Again? What the hell. He just lost a Title match so he’s back at the bottom of the heap. That’s practically like keeping me with the middle card.
Tim: It’s exactly that. You are the middle match of the card.
I froze. I felt my whole body shake. My blood was heating up and I felt a hot flush wash through me. Mercier. Middle card. An insult.
Mike: This is a joke. They can’t do this to me!
Tim: I warned you.
Mike: The FGA is the Michael Tomkins show. Has been since I started. I have dominated the competition and was the first Champion. Now they have me grounded with the normal folk when I should be flying high above them. Why the hell am I being subjected to such ill treatment. I don’t deserve this injustice. I deserve Blaine.
Tim: I have a feeling you will have him. But whether or not he’ll still be the Champion by then is another thing. After your stunt last week I imagine they’ll be building up to another Supershow encounter.
Mike: If that’s the case and somehow one of these unworthy inferior wrestlers dethrones him, he’ll be easy pickings for me. And at least then they will have to give me my Title shot. In fact they should more or less just hand me the Title. No one else on their best day could beat me on my worst. Blaine is the only one to do that and that is the way it will stay. Fucking Jacques Mercier!
Tim: How about you stop ranting to me about this. Save it. Say it to the camera when you can stand up straight and let him know exactly what to expect when the two of you meet on the next show.
Mike: Fine by me.
I go to stand, then think better of it.
Mike: I’ll need a couple of minutes.
Tim: Hours you mean.
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The scene opens to Michael Tomkins sitting on a fold up steel chair in front of the white FGA back drop in Timmy Brown’s camera room. He is wearing a pair of black pants and a white top with “3 Seconds” written in red on the front. His body shows clear dejection as he sits low with his face in his hands. For a few seconds he remains like this before letting out a long sigh. Then he lowers his hands slowly, looking at the camera with a look of pure disdain. With an intentional slowness, he sits up straight in the chair, remaining still for a further couple of seconds.
Mike: Are you serious?
A brief pause.
Mike: I know I damn near kicked Jacques Mercier’s head off last week but that didn’t mean I wanted a piece of him on the next show. I was sending a message to Blaine. I didn’t need to touch him to get in his head. He knew right there that I have one intention. I must right the wrong that happened the last time we faced. The night my seven match undefeated streak was ended by the man himself. He looked me in the eyes. Saw my smile and realized that I was gunning for him. And his look showed me that he finally saw a serious threat to his Title. I said it myself. Jacques Mercier and Preston Blake did not have what it takes to beat him. Not right now. Blaine is on another level of self assurance. He’s ascended above the average wrestlers and gone to a place where only one man in Frontier has what it takes to take that Title from him. Michael Tomkins. So instead of booking that match for this week, the brain boxes upstairs thought you’d hand me Jacques Mercier on a plate. What fucking genius thought of doing that? I mean, really. It seems as though I am either being punished for my indiscretions or that they really want me hot for when they finally give me a piece of their Champion. So the man coming off of a loss against the second best wrestler in Frontier now has to face the best wrestler. That’s not fair on Jacques. This means he is the second wrestler in a row that I will cause to have a two match losing streak, proving that they are not an uncommon thing here. But do you know what is uncommon? Seven wins. In. A. Row. How many times do I even have to say it until my point gets across? I shouldn’t have to say it at all. This is a joke, to be perfectly honest. Mercier is not in my league. Yeah, he is the Wildcard. I have said that myself. He is the most unpredictable wrestler I have ever come across. One night he will perform magic in that ring and the next week he will be totally dominated. But even on a day where he brings the magic; despite what the cards say, he just can’t beat me. I proved that the last time I beat him. I also proved that when I won the Chase for the Crown tournament and he lost in the first round.
He pauses again, taking a breath to get himself under control, before continuing.
Mike: But the FGA can’t be completely to blame. They have been lost since my Title reign ended. Without me as the poster boy, any decision they make becomes much harder. So that brings me to my opponent then. Hello, Jacques. How are you doing? Pretty sore I’d imagine. How’s your jaw? Smarts a bit, I’ll bet. And that fall you took when you practically fell out of the ring. How’s that for adding insult to injury? You lost your first official Title match only to be cleared out of the ring by someone else? Well, I found it funny. Ironic too. I mean one minute you’re in the main even picture and the next your on your ass not knowing exactly where you stand. I have to say, I know that feeling. But for me it was more shocking because I know what it is like to consistently perform at that level. You get a brief glimpse at opportunity and then have absolutely no idea how to grab it. It’s not the first time. If you beat me when I was the Champion, you would have jumped queue to be the first in line. But you didn’t. Why is that, Jacques? I know why. I’m just trying to work out if you do? It was “The Finishing Touch” that night. And now you have had “A Taste of Greatness” too, I expect you should know that “The Defector” will probably be my weapon of choice at the next DVD taping. Three solid weapons to take you down. Funny coincidence, right? Three moves gives me three seconds. The three seconds that you know I own.
Michael stops to laugh. He milks it, clearly enjoying his negative comments.
Mike: So Mr. “Black Magic.” I’m sort of waiting for that disappearing act that I know you are so good at. Don’t think I don’t pay attention. My brain is an asset and I do my homework. Your tarot cards, even if you don’t fully believe in them, must have warned you already. When you draw “The Rogue,” things just aren’t good for you. And it really is a shame because we do have as many things in common as we have differences. Like you, I need to be Champion. It was mine and I feel as though my possession has been taken from me. Almost like it was stolen. But, unlike you, me actually winning the belt is a realistic idea. It has happened before, and you know as well as I do that it will happen again. You just don’t have the big game in you. You talk a big game. You like to believe you can play one. But your execution lets you down. And I’m not misunderstanding anything. If you really have the desire you say you have, I expect more from you. Walk the walk. Not like your regretful dismal attempt last week. I was actually embarrassed for you. I did you a favor, preventing you from completely the walk of shame after your match. The fans had all left when you finally had the legs to walk out. How’s that for my good deed for the month? But last week aside. I said we had things in common and I have only named one. Like me you are young. That’s not that big a deal. The thing that I do notice is that you have a strong heart. The desire is there. But you fucking dying inside every time you lose the big game won’t do you any favors now. You said on tape that you died a little inside when I beat you last. If you live and die every big loss, you die a lot. My advice for you right now is that after I beat you for a second time and add the second notch to my new winning streak, you simply pick yourself up off of the ground, dust yourself off and count it as a lesson. Losing is a lesson. It teaches you that losing is not a good feeling so to prevent it, next time you go to that ring, you make damn sure you don’t lose again. You did try and correct yourself, saying it was the old you that died. The quitter. The loser. But that’s the part I didn’t buy into. I know you’re a good showman, Jacques but that doesn’t make you genuine. You’re all about playing the game, not living it. You can try and convince the whole world that you’re the new improved “Renascence Man” or whatever the hell you’re going to call yourself this week. But if you think you can convince me, you have another thing coming. You can’t even convince yourself, or else how do you explain you sketchy record. Half the guys you have lost to, you were capable of beating. Not me or Blaine, but everyone else, sure. You beat yourself then. But rest assured, that won’t happen this time. I will be the one that beats you.
Tomkins laughs once again, covering his mouth with his right hand as he does so, trying to rub in his unkind words, with a mocking tone.
Mike: I just thought of what I said to Brave last week regarding speech impediments and just realized that you seem to have one too. With you it’s Thompkins or Tompkins every time. It actually annoys me. Tomkins. Plain and simple. Though, this week if it happens I’ll assume that my left boot connecting square on with your jaw is the reason you can’t pronounce things properly. It’s called “A Taste of Greatness” for a reason. Unlike any other kick anyone will give you. If it lands this week and you manage to not fall out of the ring, it will secure my three seconds just like it has against multiple other opponents. For you see, Jacques. Aside from Blaine Harrison, you are just like every other generic wrestler in this company. Yeah, you are good. You are entertaining. You put on a good effort that gets the crowd all pumped for the main event. But the reality is, all those seats are filled and all those DVDs are purchased for one reason. They want to see the Bar Raised. Michael Tomkins is the main event, even when he’s mid-card. It’s a proven fact. And the legend that is Timmy Brown will be in my corner making sure you don’t pull any of your cheap tricks to try and steal a victory off of me. So essentially, your shot at payback will fall short, so the whole reason people are buying into this match card is because once again, Blaine Harrison and I will be in the same building. The question now, “what will Michael Tomkins do next?” I’m sure you are dying to find out too. Alas, you’ll have to wait and see. You know, if you’re not too concussed after our match to see the end of the show. I guess we’ll have to wait and see on that one too. Anyway, “Renascence Man,” I can not wait to hear from you. I could use a laugh.
Tomkins smiles arrogantly for an instant, before letting out the fakest laugh in the universe.
Mike: That’s all you are to me, you see. You’re a mild amusement that might hold my interest for all of twenty minutes, but after the bell rings and my hand is raised, I no longer give a crap about you. I will be ignoring the spatula that scrapes your pathetic carcass off of the ground. The gasps from the front row of the crowd as they see what is left of Jacques Mercier won’t mean anything to me. The cries from the small children that spy a glance at your messed up face will not sync with my ears. No. All I will see after that bell rings is the FGA Heavyweight Championship that I will be one step closer to. I hope you don’t mind being an after thought, Jacques. An unimportant bystander being pulled in the way of two Titans ready to face off. That seems to be all you are good for these days. Getting in the way. Rest assured though, you won’t be in my way for very long. Just give me three seconds.
Tomkins turns on the spot and walks out of the shot before the scene fades into nothing…
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Shops and bars lined the road, either side of me. I still had not trained myself to be “one of the men” as Tim had told me before. “Wrestling is a man’s game. Men drink.” So, what with my recent quarrel with the future Misses, I figured I would find a nice sports bar and get some practice in. The night was young. When I found SNAP Sports Bar on 248 West 14th Street, I was greeter at the door by two lovely ladies that I did my best to ignore. I couldn’t help but turn my head, though, to see the view from behind. The place was crowded, and I knew it would take me a while to get a drink from behind the long bar on the right hand side. Lucky for me, the baseball was on every screen behind the bar. Though I was peering from shot to shot, The Rays facing Detroit was the main match interesting me. As a kid I had always associated Florida with Disney and because the Mighty Ducks was one of my favorite films back then, I favored all of the Florida teams. Though, for some reason, I didn’t care too much for Miami. Eventually, I squeezed into a position where I could be served and decided to get a bottle of scotch to save further effort of wrestling my way to the front of the bar. After about ten minutes and two quick glasses, the rest of the night became a blur to me.
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Cruz: Here is your Chase for the Crown tournament winner………………… And NEEEEEEEEEEEW FGA Heavyweight Champion, MICHAEL TOMKINS!
Clement: Tomkins has done it! He defied all odds tonight and now is the Champion!
--------------------------------
I awoke to find myself laying comfortably in bed. The remnants of my dream still lingered. The feeling of ecstasy as I was crowned the first ever Champion here in Frontier. But that was over. That was the past. If I would ever regain that, I…. My head screamed at me as I tried to sit up. I remembered this feeling all too well. My hand clasped up to my head, and with every ounce of will I had, I pulled myself out of bed. Jessica’s side of the bed was empty and undisturbed. She’d not spent the night. Normally I would care, but I think I was still annoyed at her for some reason or other. It wasn’t too important. The trip to the familiar kitchen was a painful one. My feet weren’t exactly working cohesively with my brain. My shoulders smacked heavily against the wall either side of me a good few times in the hall. Sitting alone at the table was Tim. He had his head in one of the local rags and barely acknowledged me as I took a seat next to him. I waited for a moment, trying to work out if the ticking clock on the wall behind me was too loud for me to risk speaking. I felt as though it couldn’t hurt any worse.
Mike: Where is everyone?
Tim: Everyone i.e. Jessica? She went out early.
Mike: Doesn’t look like she slept in the bed.
Tim: You should be a detective.
Mike: What gives?
Tim: Guess she’s still pissed after your little tiff last night. You disappearing and coming back rat assed didn’t help your case any.
Mike: No, I guess it didn’t.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Jessica had been over bearing over the past few weeks and I could use a break from her nagging. Especially with my head in less than perfect conditions as I wait for myself to sober up. Tim took his head out from behind the paper and took in my personal state.
Tim: The FGA posted the next match card for the next DVD taping.
Mike: Yeah? Have they given me Blaine?
Tim: No. I warned you not to do anything.
Mike: What? I figured my actions would get me straight to the top.
Tim: You thought wrong. They have given your latest victim a chance at retribution.
I had to think. After last night, my mind was running a little slow.
Mike: Johnny Brave? I beat him fair and square.
Tim: Not him. The other one. Jacques Mercier.
Mike: Again? What the hell. He just lost a Title match so he’s back at the bottom of the heap. That’s practically like keeping me with the middle card.
Tim: It’s exactly that. You are the middle match of the card.
I froze. I felt my whole body shake. My blood was heating up and I felt a hot flush wash through me. Mercier. Middle card. An insult.
Mike: This is a joke. They can’t do this to me!
Tim: I warned you.
Mike: The FGA is the Michael Tomkins show. Has been since I started. I have dominated the competition and was the first Champion. Now they have me grounded with the normal folk when I should be flying high above them. Why the hell am I being subjected to such ill treatment. I don’t deserve this injustice. I deserve Blaine.
Tim: I have a feeling you will have him. But whether or not he’ll still be the Champion by then is another thing. After your stunt last week I imagine they’ll be building up to another Supershow encounter.
Mike: If that’s the case and somehow one of these unworthy inferior wrestlers dethrones him, he’ll be easy pickings for me. And at least then they will have to give me my Title shot. In fact they should more or less just hand me the Title. No one else on their best day could beat me on my worst. Blaine is the only one to do that and that is the way it will stay. Fucking Jacques Mercier!
Tim: How about you stop ranting to me about this. Save it. Say it to the camera when you can stand up straight and let him know exactly what to expect when the two of you meet on the next show.
Mike: Fine by me.
I go to stand, then think better of it.
Mike: I’ll need a couple of minutes.
Tim: Hours you mean.
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The scene opens to Michael Tomkins sitting on a fold up steel chair in front of the white FGA back drop in Timmy Brown’s camera room. He is wearing a pair of black pants and a white top with “3 Seconds” written in red on the front. His body shows clear dejection as he sits low with his face in his hands. For a few seconds he remains like this before letting out a long sigh. Then he lowers his hands slowly, looking at the camera with a look of pure disdain. With an intentional slowness, he sits up straight in the chair, remaining still for a further couple of seconds.
Mike: Are you serious?
A brief pause.
Mike: I know I damn near kicked Jacques Mercier’s head off last week but that didn’t mean I wanted a piece of him on the next show. I was sending a message to Blaine. I didn’t need to touch him to get in his head. He knew right there that I have one intention. I must right the wrong that happened the last time we faced. The night my seven match undefeated streak was ended by the man himself. He looked me in the eyes. Saw my smile and realized that I was gunning for him. And his look showed me that he finally saw a serious threat to his Title. I said it myself. Jacques Mercier and Preston Blake did not have what it takes to beat him. Not right now. Blaine is on another level of self assurance. He’s ascended above the average wrestlers and gone to a place where only one man in Frontier has what it takes to take that Title from him. Michael Tomkins. So instead of booking that match for this week, the brain boxes upstairs thought you’d hand me Jacques Mercier on a plate. What fucking genius thought of doing that? I mean, really. It seems as though I am either being punished for my indiscretions or that they really want me hot for when they finally give me a piece of their Champion. So the man coming off of a loss against the second best wrestler in Frontier now has to face the best wrestler. That’s not fair on Jacques. This means he is the second wrestler in a row that I will cause to have a two match losing streak, proving that they are not an uncommon thing here. But do you know what is uncommon? Seven wins. In. A. Row. How many times do I even have to say it until my point gets across? I shouldn’t have to say it at all. This is a joke, to be perfectly honest. Mercier is not in my league. Yeah, he is the Wildcard. I have said that myself. He is the most unpredictable wrestler I have ever come across. One night he will perform magic in that ring and the next week he will be totally dominated. But even on a day where he brings the magic; despite what the cards say, he just can’t beat me. I proved that the last time I beat him. I also proved that when I won the Chase for the Crown tournament and he lost in the first round.
He pauses again, taking a breath to get himself under control, before continuing.
Mike: But the FGA can’t be completely to blame. They have been lost since my Title reign ended. Without me as the poster boy, any decision they make becomes much harder. So that brings me to my opponent then. Hello, Jacques. How are you doing? Pretty sore I’d imagine. How’s your jaw? Smarts a bit, I’ll bet. And that fall you took when you practically fell out of the ring. How’s that for adding insult to injury? You lost your first official Title match only to be cleared out of the ring by someone else? Well, I found it funny. Ironic too. I mean one minute you’re in the main even picture and the next your on your ass not knowing exactly where you stand. I have to say, I know that feeling. But for me it was more shocking because I know what it is like to consistently perform at that level. You get a brief glimpse at opportunity and then have absolutely no idea how to grab it. It’s not the first time. If you beat me when I was the Champion, you would have jumped queue to be the first in line. But you didn’t. Why is that, Jacques? I know why. I’m just trying to work out if you do? It was “The Finishing Touch” that night. And now you have had “A Taste of Greatness” too, I expect you should know that “The Defector” will probably be my weapon of choice at the next DVD taping. Three solid weapons to take you down. Funny coincidence, right? Three moves gives me three seconds. The three seconds that you know I own.
Michael stops to laugh. He milks it, clearly enjoying his negative comments.
Mike: So Mr. “Black Magic.” I’m sort of waiting for that disappearing act that I know you are so good at. Don’t think I don’t pay attention. My brain is an asset and I do my homework. Your tarot cards, even if you don’t fully believe in them, must have warned you already. When you draw “The Rogue,” things just aren’t good for you. And it really is a shame because we do have as many things in common as we have differences. Like you, I need to be Champion. It was mine and I feel as though my possession has been taken from me. Almost like it was stolen. But, unlike you, me actually winning the belt is a realistic idea. It has happened before, and you know as well as I do that it will happen again. You just don’t have the big game in you. You talk a big game. You like to believe you can play one. But your execution lets you down. And I’m not misunderstanding anything. If you really have the desire you say you have, I expect more from you. Walk the walk. Not like your regretful dismal attempt last week. I was actually embarrassed for you. I did you a favor, preventing you from completely the walk of shame after your match. The fans had all left when you finally had the legs to walk out. How’s that for my good deed for the month? But last week aside. I said we had things in common and I have only named one. Like me you are young. That’s not that big a deal. The thing that I do notice is that you have a strong heart. The desire is there. But you fucking dying inside every time you lose the big game won’t do you any favors now. You said on tape that you died a little inside when I beat you last. If you live and die every big loss, you die a lot. My advice for you right now is that after I beat you for a second time and add the second notch to my new winning streak, you simply pick yourself up off of the ground, dust yourself off and count it as a lesson. Losing is a lesson. It teaches you that losing is not a good feeling so to prevent it, next time you go to that ring, you make damn sure you don’t lose again. You did try and correct yourself, saying it was the old you that died. The quitter. The loser. But that’s the part I didn’t buy into. I know you’re a good showman, Jacques but that doesn’t make you genuine. You’re all about playing the game, not living it. You can try and convince the whole world that you’re the new improved “Renascence Man” or whatever the hell you’re going to call yourself this week. But if you think you can convince me, you have another thing coming. You can’t even convince yourself, or else how do you explain you sketchy record. Half the guys you have lost to, you were capable of beating. Not me or Blaine, but everyone else, sure. You beat yourself then. But rest assured, that won’t happen this time. I will be the one that beats you.
Tomkins laughs once again, covering his mouth with his right hand as he does so, trying to rub in his unkind words, with a mocking tone.
Mike: I just thought of what I said to Brave last week regarding speech impediments and just realized that you seem to have one too. With you it’s Thompkins or Tompkins every time. It actually annoys me. Tomkins. Plain and simple. Though, this week if it happens I’ll assume that my left boot connecting square on with your jaw is the reason you can’t pronounce things properly. It’s called “A Taste of Greatness” for a reason. Unlike any other kick anyone will give you. If it lands this week and you manage to not fall out of the ring, it will secure my three seconds just like it has against multiple other opponents. For you see, Jacques. Aside from Blaine Harrison, you are just like every other generic wrestler in this company. Yeah, you are good. You are entertaining. You put on a good effort that gets the crowd all pumped for the main event. But the reality is, all those seats are filled and all those DVDs are purchased for one reason. They want to see the Bar Raised. Michael Tomkins is the main event, even when he’s mid-card. It’s a proven fact. And the legend that is Timmy Brown will be in my corner making sure you don’t pull any of your cheap tricks to try and steal a victory off of me. So essentially, your shot at payback will fall short, so the whole reason people are buying into this match card is because once again, Blaine Harrison and I will be in the same building. The question now, “what will Michael Tomkins do next?” I’m sure you are dying to find out too. Alas, you’ll have to wait and see. You know, if you’re not too concussed after our match to see the end of the show. I guess we’ll have to wait and see on that one too. Anyway, “Renascence Man,” I can not wait to hear from you. I could use a laugh.
Tomkins smiles arrogantly for an instant, before letting out the fakest laugh in the universe.
Mike: That’s all you are to me, you see. You’re a mild amusement that might hold my interest for all of twenty minutes, but after the bell rings and my hand is raised, I no longer give a crap about you. I will be ignoring the spatula that scrapes your pathetic carcass off of the ground. The gasps from the front row of the crowd as they see what is left of Jacques Mercier won’t mean anything to me. The cries from the small children that spy a glance at your messed up face will not sync with my ears. No. All I will see after that bell rings is the FGA Heavyweight Championship that I will be one step closer to. I hope you don’t mind being an after thought, Jacques. An unimportant bystander being pulled in the way of two Titans ready to face off. That seems to be all you are good for these days. Getting in the way. Rest assured though, you won’t be in my way for very long. Just give me three seconds.
Tomkins turns on the spot and walks out of the shot before the scene fades into nothing…
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