Post by TheNewBreed on Apr 30, 2018 1:43:46 GMT -5
MDK
MDk
Mdk
mdk
md
m
...
Yeah... I said your name.
I did.
Let me ask you a question dipshit...
Go back over all the footage of the lead-up to Wrestlewars... all of it.
Seriously... do the homework you did for your promo for Wrestlewars on this little tidbit... and riddle me this one you son of a bitch:
At what point did it sound like I was headed to Wrestlewars to compete in some bullshit gimmick match against the one and only Murder Death Kill?
At what moment in my promo or in any of the press conferences leading up to the biggest stage of them all did I sound like I was preparing for a mic battle with a goofy, stuttering, buck-toothed bastard like you?
On what promotional propaganda that the WGWF littered the world with in the form of billions of promotional posters and official logo paraphernalia did it one time say that our match was going to be a “Say My Name” event anyway?
I mean... I would think if that was going to be the schtick you were running that you would have at least made mention of it in your work leading up to our 'Epic, and Highly Anticipated' first ever one on one meeting at the BIGGEST SHOW OF THE YEAR... but even YOU didn't make mention of the stipulation that turned this match from a violence fetish show just waiting to happen into a mockery of the greatest show of the planet for the WGWF... on a night of Championships and Legends and Icons and Dreams... On a night that was supposed to be one of the greatest nights of our lives... somehow... some way through Adam Barker or something... you shit all over everything you had coming to you.
On my way to the curtain, upon hearing Masters announce the stip for our fight... I decided right then and there I had no intentions of making you say my name. None. Not one.
I wanted to make sure you never said anything... ever again.
I could care less about you saying my name.
I told you weeks ago you aren't important to me anymore MDK... because there isn't anything about you that makes my legacy any greater by facing you, and you aren't really even a threat to me, on an even footing kind of night, and I proved that at Wrestlewars.
Oh sure... you may have won the fight by technicality... by going to the edge of madness and staring off the abyss like a Lunatic or a Xmyles... but what about being knocked out... stone cold... dead to the world... by a waking nightmare through the ladder bridge at ringside?
I had you dead to rights in any other kind of match... right there... KNOCKED YOU OUT... roll back into the ring and take the 10 count, MDK... and you would have lost.
Your finagled stipulation and your bullshit games are the only thing that kept you from walking away with a loss in your Wrestlewars diary with MY NAME NEXT TO IT... a stipulation... you punk ass British bitch.
A stipulation.
You walk around here with your chest puffed out and run your little slobbery cock sucker about a bunch of shit, but when the real talk is done and the time has come to put your ass on the line and PROVE you're the best in the world... you don't... ever.
You hide behind others... and stipulations... and bullshit... all so the world doesn't really see how much of a pussy fucking bastard you are and so you never have to look at yourself in the mirror and see the empty eyes staring back you from that mirrored glass... the ones who know what you are, and what you're really worth... and that way... you never have to admit to yourself that you're worthless!
Every time you have to show up... do the deed and earn a win... there is the shit storm that is your entire Royal Family to fuck it all up and make sure you walk out of the shitpile smelling like a rose, and you twist it just right so you look sooooooooo fucking good... but you don't.
Fuck you MDK.
I see you... the real you... the one hiding inside that scares the shit out of you... and at Wrestlewars... you might have got that W... but at what cost MDK?
What cost to you made the bullshit and sleepless nights thinking about what would have been if you hadn't worked the system to your favor somehow? Or what if I hadn't said your name, Huh? What then MDK?
And what if the match was just a match MDK... you versus me and no bullshit... and when the dust settled... and you had to admit to yourself that a poe-tay-toe took you to the brink and left you there, heaped up and slobbering on yourself in a pile of twisted metal on the floor where you belong... on the biggest stage of them all?
Even with the technical win notched into your belt... what did you win MDK?
What really did you gain except turning what could have been the match highlight of Wrestlewars into a spectacle of the finest bullshit your throne has ever sat upon?
You disgust me, and fuck you... M... D... K
* * *
State of the art Gym machines stand ready in neat rows, gleaming and shining even in the dim early morning light struggling to shine in through the gleaming glass panes that spans the entire stretch of the front of the gym. Cars stream by outside on the streets of Osaka, Japan, citizens of our foreign hosts going about their daily lives, to and from work and school... living normal lives.
They have families, and jobs, and dreams and goals...
They have stability and successes in their lives. They have aspirations like normal people... to get that raise, or get excepted to the college of their choice. They get to enjoy life like normal people.
Sure, people struggle... because life is struggle. It is not survival for nothing, and living is survival... every day... moment to moment.
That's what it's all about, right?
Surviving...
*CRASH CRASH CRASH*
The sound of plates crashing against each other breaks the silence of the still morning inside of the gym, and we see Johnathan Cable working on a butterfly machine along the far wall of the gym. His black track pants and gray cross trainers his only attire, his muscles ripple across his chest as he sneers the ugly sneer of his disfigured face and sucks in a breath as he pulls the pads towards himself and finishes another set before wiping his face with a towel and drinking some water from a bottle nearby before wiping his mouth again.
Survival is a skill that fewer and fewer people posses in the age of technology and instant gratification. In a day and age where earning the things you find pride in has gone by the wayside and regaling the world with insignificant achievements and baubles of glory attained in some meaningless game where skill means nothing and either the money you pay out to win or the people you know who handed it to you are the real reason you 'earned it... not the time you spent to hone a craft... or the sweat you poured out to better yourself, or the nights of pain and anguish you spent to be the best... just the medal of honor to show for nothing...
To some... survival is just outsmarting everyone around them into thinking they deserve the king's share of everything... either through fear or guile or loyalty... but it's a shit show.
None of those men and women who hold the positions of power they have garnered through glad-handing and social subterfuge deserve the praise or the honor they flaunt in the very faces of the ones who lifted them up to the rungs they cling to in the first place.
Those of us who follow the WGWFInsider Universe know a few of those... don't we?
The type of Superstar who kicks the door in and starts shouting orders, taking control of the entire place with little regard to those they harm in their path. The kind of athlete who takes everything or has it handed to them, but never puts in the work to earn it, and then kicks and screams like a child having his toy taken away when the harsh reality of things rears its ugly head...
Yeah... that type.
*THUD THUD THUD*
The sound of heavy footfalls brings us back to the gym, the Beast now working a treadmill, his arms pumping away as his legs push him forward without moving.
*THUD THUD THUD*
The sound of constant rhythmic footfalls fill the empty gym shrouded in shadows in the hours before they open for the day as John loses himself in his workout. His pants swish swish as his legs speed past each other as he runs against the mill, sweat beading on his forehead and chest as the speed moves up a notch at a time and the incline rises inch by inch with the minutes passing.
*THUD THUD THUD*
Working to EARN a thing to be proud of... now that... that antiquated and novel concept lost to the youth of the globe now... that was a thing to have... to call your own... and to BE PROUD OF.
The perfect thing of it all was that it didn't matter what it was either.
It could be a WGWF World Heavyweight Championship... it could be a degree that took you years to gain and countless nights of lost sleep and study sessions... it could be a medal of honor for being the best dressed Dwarf at the SCA Meetup last June... whatever... just something that you put in time and effort... poured blood sweat and tears into... to EARN...
That thing is what pride is about...
No matter what it is.
It's a thing that can never be taken away from you... not by anyone, because it happened... you earned it... and you own it... it's yours... no matter what.
Sure... a title belt can be lost... but the winning of it... the BEING a champion... can never be taken away from who you are.
Just ask Chris Page, Kyle Shane, and Tristan Slater.
They will happily tell you all about the things they are proud of earning. They will list endlessly the titles and records they hold and where and how they won them, and even the list of obscure things they have done that no one else in the history of the world has been able to accomplish.
Those are things that make them proud men... proud warriors who claim to be the best that ever was...
But what cost does their pride in themselves extol on their souls?
Kyle Shane fights his inner demons on a daily basis, and uses those nightmare fueled visions of shame and ghosts of personal torment to build himself up and give him the edge against anyone who should find themselves across the ring from him.
Tristan Slater has basically sold his very soul to the devil to retain that World Title in a match that should have been a walk in the park for a man who is as good as Slater CLAIMS TO BE...but we all saw what he had to do to retain. He had to take a win over a secondary minion, not take the fight to the challenger and win a decisive victory and set to rest the questions hovering around his reign thus far.
And Chris Page... the cloud of twisted lies and secret lives that surrounds this man has found all new depths in recent months, and everything for a selfish push to have his cake and eat it too...
So for all the work they have poured into their legacies, and have them they do... what exactly is there for any of them to be proud of?
What of all of the achievements unlocked and golden belt laden shoulders and records never set by mortal men... what pride does it bring when all around these men is naught but a Midas level plague of ash instead of gold? Surely the glory has been theirs, but at what cost to they, those who have survived to forge the legacies they have?
Is it pride that swells their egos and their hearts?
Or is it the lie they tell themselves to fill their gullet with a false sense of self worth, unearned and handed to them in moments compiled over years of screwing over anyone and everyone who ever wanted to trust them and share in the life of glory they have built?
*WHAM WHAM WHAM*
The bar slams to the top of the leg press as John slams through another set of calf curls and takes another swig from his water before toweling off and standing up next to the machine. He stretches his arms and legs in turn when the door to the gym swings open and John turns to see who's there.
In comes none other than Terry Borden, WGWF Icon and Legend among Legends.
“Well damn, Brother! When you told me to meet you at your gym when I got into town I definitely didn't expect this!” Borden exclaims at the fancy digs John calls home in Osaka.
“You should see the one in Sapporo. That was a long time coming. A friend of mine from way back was from there, and I set up shop there over vacation one year. Now that gym is really nice. A bunch of guys have come out of there and made a name for themselves in a few different sports, but the one in Yokohama was used by a bunch of National athletes for the Olympic teams a few years ago. I've got a good staff of trainers over here in Japan, and they always come through when I need them.” John says as he makes his way towards the doors and Terry.
“Well... it's pretty nice anyway. At least we'll have a good place to train for the match, right Dude?” Terry says with a chuckle.
“Yeah. That's for sure. Hey... I've got something for you. Why don't you come back to the office before we start, huh?” John says as he motions back towards the back of the gym, and the pair make their way into a small office out of the way and John flips on the lights.
There, on his desk, is a pair of mask.
The red and yellow leather of the old Darian Dream masks that SSP used to wear as Terry's tag partner in the Dream-A-Maniacs shines in the halogen lights of the office.
“I had a couple made up. I thought... maybe we could ear them for the match... you know... for Sebastian?” John says as he shrugs at Borden.
“Brother... these are awesome DUDE! Hell yeah!” Terry says as he picks one up in his hands and looks at it for a moment.
“I know I haven't really been around a lot lately... and I have kinda let you down a lot in the last few months. I just...” Cable starts before Terry puts his hand on his shoulder and cuts him off.
“John... don't worry about it. You spent a few months locked in a cell after being betrayed by that rat bastard Tristan Slater, Dude. You have had a lot on your plate this last year, and with everything... I'm just glad that we get to move forward, and take this match on Monday night to the so called king and queen of the WGWF and show them what's really up around here, Brother!” Terry says with a wide grin on his face.
“Well, OK then. Let's show those bastards what a Potato and a over the hill Legend can really do, shall we?” John asks as the scene fades to black.
* * *
“So, Doc... what do you think?” John asks, looking at a middle aged man in a lab coat in a clinic room.
“John... You know what I think. I've been telling you for years that I think you should hang it up. Sure you're in great shape, but your almost 50, and with injuries like the ones you get, it;s only a matter of time before it's the one that ends you. Go out healthy and on top of your game, John. Don't wait to get put on the shelf.” the man says in a tone that tells you that he has had this conversation and has no hope that this time will be any different than the million other times he's had it.
“Well thanks Doc. When can I take the brace off? I got a match on Monday, you know...” John asks as he pulls his pant leg back down over the massive metal framed brace wrapped around his knee.
“John... you shouldn't even be thinking about a match on Monday with your leg like that. You need a break, and I don't mean your knee.” the man says.
“OK. Great talk, Doc. Take care. I'll see you next week.” John says with a smug smile before getting off the table and making his way out, leaving the doctor in the room shaking his head before the scene fade to black.