Post by TheNewBreed on Dec 17, 2022 21:58:46 GMT -5
I've been in a lot of rings in my time in this industry. Like... a lot. It's no secret I'm getting on in years and in more then two decades inside the squared circle I have seen my fair share of matches, and not one time have I ever been victorious in any form of multi-man match that I have ever competed in.
I've been in Triple Threats, Four Way Dances, Five Man Free For All's, Battle Royal and Rumble Type Matches of all kinds... and not once in twenty plus years have I ever took a 'W' in any of them.
They're my bane... My Exposed Scale... My Kryptonite... My Ruination... My Achilles's Heel...
I don't expect to be the one pulling the surprise pin-fall while three others fighters are outside the ring for four lucky seconds, or stopping a pin-fall just to swoop in and grab one for myself, or even stay out of the way of the brunt of the brawls to save myself for just the right moment to claim a win for myself.
If you think any of those things are why I even entertain matches like this, you haven't been paying attention very well. You see, just a few weeks ago, when pitted against three of the hardest hitters in the company today, I waded into that match and took my shots at EVERYONE. There wasn't a safe space at ringside, and there won't be one in this match either. I wage war inside those ropes, win, lose, or draw... and you get every once of what I bring to bear when that bell dings.
Every single one of you had better bring that same energy come Monday Night BRAWL too, because whoever pulls off this win... will have earned it... no matter who it is.
This one comes with a special little twist of fate attached to boot... a strategy laden little Christmas Gift laid low beneath the tree for the lucky little cherub among our little quintet that pulls of the slickest 3 seconds since Relaunch... if you will.
That's right ladies and gentlemen... the one competitor that pulls the miracle spot on Monday Night gets to choose their entrant position in the West Coast Rumble in the New Year, and therein lies the fated cookie carrot on a string!
Oh! The posturing and preening for the lauded honors of selecting the perfect strategic entrance for the opportunity of a lifetime that is about to commence before the fans of the WGWF this week!
I can just see it now.
* * * * *
The scene shimmers and waves denoting a standard television dream scene beginning complete with the 'wooblydy woop' sound effects of a fantastical nature. As the shimmering washes away we find ourselves magically transported to a wide avenue of perfect cobblestone pavers lined in pristine marble block curbs that rise onto mosaic stonework sidewalks. Above, a massive shower of sparks follows a huge boom as a shower of red, white, and blue sparks explode from a firework and rain down across the darkened night sky. Three more loud booms echo off of the quaint shop walls running along both sides of the wide stone roadway as the WGWF Logo showers across the sky in bright red and white sparks.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the second ever WGWF Event Parade. The last time we gathered for such an occasion, we bore witness to the glory that was the 'New Breed Foundation's Fuck Raziel Parade', and what a spectacle that was! This event promises to be a real interesting event as well, so strap in and get ready for the roller coaster this one is sure to be as we present to you tonight, 'The New Breed Foundation's Parade of Pomp and Circumstance'!” Denise Essex's voice chimes in over what one would imagine would be throngs of people screaming and cheering down near the street below.
“We did expect to sell some tickets to tonight's event, however due to the Television taping of the final episodes of the World Series of Wrestling in New York being this weekend, the number of viewers who have checked out for the Holidays due to viral troll infections on Twitter, and Seasonal Depression related lacks of 'Fucks to Give' as the report relates the information to me, there doesn't seem to be anyone even remotely interested in this particular parade to warrant even a single person showing up here tonight.” she says cheerily knowing she is getting paid for her time no matter how many tickets they sell.
Overhead, several more explosions sound off across the sky, followed by a rainbow of sparks bursting across the night and showering down before fading out. As the last sparks sizzle into oblivion, the guitar riffs of Sevendust's 'Not Today' ring out from a couple of blocks away as a dumpy old farm tractor pulls a flat wooden trailer around the corner a few blocks down the street and barely into view.
“Looks like we are finally ready to get this travesty underway here with our first float of the parade! Coming down this randomly empty dream street to no cheers from the nonexistent crowd, the Mike Angelo entrant in our parade, titled The Epitome of Arrogance presented by the New Breed Foundation.” Denise reads off of her card to introduce the first float in this madhouse.
Built onto the flat trailer surrounding the sides and back spanning up about fifteen feet or so is a collage of mirrors of all shapes and sizes. Some were round, and others rectangular. There were a few small ones scattered around to fill in the precious gaps, and some were huge wall mounted pieces with elaborate frames and fancy moldings. All of the mirrors, no matter their shapes or sizes, were focused towards the center of the makeshift stage of the trailers plywood floor beneath the feet of a man playing a scuffed up guitar that had seen its better days plugged into a taped up and slightly frayed cord that ran down to a bay of mismatched old speakers across the front of the float aimed right back at him. The man's slightly over-sized boots looked like they had been handed down to him, not tailored to fit him the way they would if he had been walking in his own boots instead of a pair he just borrowed for the show. His scratched up leather pants were scuffed in the knees and worn thin around the pockets, and his long leather jacket hangs loosely around his shoulders as if he wanted to be bigger than he was, which was hard to believe with the slightly portly belly poking out of the front of his shirtless attire from beneath his overgrown leather coat as he strums away to no one.
“Here, on display before us all, is a man who obviously is still trying to build on a stage lost to the ages for the sole purpose of not forgetting how important he is to himself. You can tell by the attention to the details in the placement of the mirrors and the speakers that our rendition of Mike Angelo is making direct reference to his love of staring at himself all afternoon and his propensity to listen to himself above all else whenever he can get the chance. What a float folks. Yay.” Denise says, her words full of sarcasm.
As the tractor putters on down the road and the guitar man's ballad fades out, a man carrying a solo Chinese dragon costume over his head shimmies awkwardly around the corner. He holds onto the crossbar rod like a hang-glider pilot and dances back and forth twisting the pole first one way and then the next making the miniature dragon wiggle it's cross shaped scales in a lackluster dance of green shimmering silk as it floated and fluttered overhead.
“I have arrived... and I am terrifying!” the man said in meek little mousy voice from beneath the dragon costume.
“Feel my wrath!” he squeaked out a shout, before drawing a deep breath and puffing out the world's smallest liquor fueled fireball. The orange glow rolled up onto itself and floated upwards for just a moment, failing to realize it's phenomenal potential, but managing to catch the the tip of the dragon's silky nose aflame nonetheless.
“Oh shit!” the man screeched in panic as the silk cloth swirling around his head instantaneously lit on fire in a gout of orange and yellow that lit the night like the dawn for a split second and disappeared in a puff of black smoke as the sooty, ashen remnants of the former silken dragon floated to the ground around his feet leaving him holding a sparse wooden frame of thin twigs above his head attached to the cross bar before him. In his terror and embarrassment, the man darted off of the road and disappeared between two of the shops that lined the street squealing about how he almost died.
“Well... so much for the Mark Cross submission. It was actually kinda cute until it got vaporized.” Denise exclaims, sad to see this one go so fast.
As the wind blows the last vestiges of the ashes away from the center of the street, a rumble can be felt underfoot, and the glass panes shake in he window sills of the store fronts all around. Then, another, and another, shaking the ground as two massive badger-moles come rumbling around the corner dragging a stone platform of living rocks with a grove of massive trees growing right out of the center, framing a lush meadow between them. Growing from the very middle of the meadow tendrils of rock wrapped up around a large flat slab of marble with broken, jagged edges with strange runes carved across it's blood splashed surface. Squirrels and rabbits hopped around in the grasses at the edge of the copse of trees, and a wise old owl sat perched in the hollow of one of the massive oaks. Around the center table of the meadow, a strange anthropomorphic woman undulated and swirled encircling the growing tendrils of rock cradling its marble slab. Horns twisted from her deer faced head, but strangely unlike those of normal deer. These were pointed and twisted around themselves in wide spirals that intertwined around each other. Her hands were slender with long elegant fingers tipped with curved and viscous claws, while her legs were bent in odd backwards angles and tipped with cloven hooves. As the badge moles thundered past with their strange display of fey magic and curiosity, the owl in the tree squawked a loud “WHO?”
“Who indeed, Mr Owl. Who, Indeed. This float is of course the entrant for Samantha Voxx... a newcomer to the WGWF who has yet to stamp her mark in the company or have anyone of note really have any footage to follow of her accomplishments. Supposedly, she is a bottomless well of potential, and given by the theme of the float here, I can see the length they went through to truly nail the mystery of who Voxx really is: Wild and carefree, mysterious and dark, but ultimately, not present and lacking any real impact even if the packaging is pretty cool.” Denise states matter of factly with as much depth as the crater Voxx has made on the roster in the WGWF so far.
As the float of sentient boulders and treants drawn by badger-moles moves along with little to show for it's time with us here, a loud and cacophonous trumpeting of royal horns blares out across the night as bright gold and white showers of sparks rain down from the sky following their strings of booms high overhead. Moments later, from around the corer down the empty street, comes the sound of thousands of booted feet on cobblestones. Rhythmically, the booted feet draw closer and closer until the front line of Chris Page Look-A-Likes wearing comically royal white fur trimmed capes and English Crowns emerges from the corner, and takes the turn, followed by hundreds and hundreds of them, all various Chris Page's trotting down the street. As the army of Page's masses around the corner, behind them, vaulted on the shoulders of several thousand more Chris Pages trotting in time to the marching of the booted Royal Page Kings of England Army, turns a massive mocked model of the Cinderella Castle from Disney World in Orlando. A mini Chris Page walks as fast as his diminutive legs will carry him ahead of the army of Pages, and he carries a small scroll and a Bullhorn in his tiny hands.
“Hear Ye, Hear Ye Peasants and piss-ants aplenty! The Kingdom has ARRIVED! Bow low before your...” the miniature page that was also a Chris Page, managed to shout into the bullhorn before the Army of Page's trampled him underfoot and he was lost to the masses of Page's carrying the castle of the Debonair Kingdom upon their backs just like in real life.
High above the road, elevated on a catwalk stretched between the tallest towers, perched nearly out of sight from all the way down here on the wide open empty street, was another Chris Page look-a-like that was dressed up as Fred Debonair, wearing a bright blue cape with white fur trim and an even larger English Crown upon his head just encrusted with sparkling gems that were encrusted on top of other shiny gems and all wrapped in golden filaments one a blue velvet cap.
“Welcome to the Kingdom that Chris Built! I have had a great time here so far, and I can't wait to see what he builds for me next!” the Page dressed as Fred shouts down towards us, but much like everything he has to say in real life, there's just too much space between us from his ego for the words to quite make it all the way down here in reality.
“And of course, the Fred Debonair Kingdom float, present by Fred Debonair himself, because he didn't trust anyone else to get the accuracy of the float right, so he hired Chris Page to handle it, and this is what we got out of it. I really can't be mad at the decision process here, because the legitimacy here is astounding. The accuracy to the IP is impressive enough to heal the rift between Star Trek and Star Wars factions at Comic-Con or single-handedly assuage every twitter troll in existence into a endless slumber bringing an age of peace we have never imagined before.” Denise says surprised at the attention to detail in the Kingdom float.
The 'Fred' shouting unintelligible things from high above keeps lauding his achievements and telling us how amazingly talented he is, but still, we can barely hear him from the pedestal he placed himself on so high above us all as the winds whip the words away into the void, unheard and unmissed. Some of the Page Royal Army beneath stumbles to the left, and the castle lurches a bit. High above, the 'Fred' Fake Page sways hard to the side and grabs a hold of the railings along the walkway as he shouts obscenities at the men below trying to kill him for sure.
“And just like we expected, when the castle of another is built on the foundation's of other men, the view from the top can be a little wobbly at times. Hopefully they can find a way to come back down to Earth safely, and rebuild on a more solid base in the future.” Denise remarks as the castle sways and wobbles down the street and finally disappears into the night with another massive string of booms and a rainbow colored sparks erupting across the sky signaling the end of the Parade Event.
“Well, once again this has been a weird one. I'm Dream Denise Essex, and this wild ride has been brought to you by the New Breed Foundation and the WGWF. Join us again next time when we do something else extremely weird, and don't forget to like and subscribe down below if you too are here for the Willy Wonka style shenanigans of the Wild World of Wrestling!” Denise signs off excitedly, happy to be done with this one and at least able to cash her check for it.
* * * * *
November 23, 2022
A swirl of black matter popped into existence in the middle of the Kayfabe Airlines Garage that is supposed to house the Prototype Axtgriff to be awarded after the seventh event in the World Series of Wrestling and floated there like a wobbly blob of inky oobleck. Moments passed as the blob floated there in the middle of the empty, dimly lit garage bay, and then a flash of purplish light radiated out of the black blob, and the maelstrom swirled around he entire garage before two Axtgriffs just POPPED into existence in a purple puff of smoke in the middle of the work space.
“WOOOOOOOOOOO!” shouted Cable from the Axtgriff FTV as the R2-ish unit plugged into the back whirred and chirped in it's own excitement.
“Will you shut the fuck up, John!” The Citizen shushed him with a forced whisper from the Prototype Axtgriff as he opened the door after their arrival. “Do I need to remind you we are in a highly secure private place, and the law is definitely not on or side here if we get caught down here?” he says in a soft tone, but the frustration and edge in his voice says everything it needs to say.
“Yeah... Yeah right.” John whispers back across the garage. “Grab everything we left in there and make sure to drop the keys in the drink holder, OK?” John follows up.
“Hey there, IDEA... do you think you could reset the computer in the prototype to just reset to factory state?” he asks over his shoulder to the R2-ish AI from the future.
“Already working on it, John. I had asserted you would wish this to be the state we returned this vehicle as to not leave any clues to our future mission behind and close the loop.” the little egg chirped in his digital tones, and beeped a few times while John went and put a letter in the Prototype.
The Citizen and John climb back into the FTV before flashing out of existence again in a flash of purple lights and a puff of smoke leaving the Prototype right where it belonged.