Post by paulmontuori on Dec 31, 2022 11:56:39 GMT -5
Dear Diary..
I’m going to be a Pops!
And before ya said it, yeah I know this is gonna be my third kid. But this one feels different.
Not like in a bad way tho..
In a dope ass way.
See, my oldest kid, Madison, I only recently discovered she was my daughter. Like in the last year or so. Time’s weird.. Her Mother, Miss Machelle, was an old fling from over a decade ago who decided not to tell me she was pregnant. Out of spite for sure. So she came into my life already a tween. Which sucks because I wasn’t there for all the fun. From the first ultrasound to the birth to her first steps. First words. I missed it all..
My second kid, Ezra, is a bit uh.. The story I would say is a bit non-traditional. Ezra I also only recently found out he was my son. Like earlier this year. His Mother is Miss Michelle, the Riggs one. Yeah I knocked up two broads with essentially the same name who essentially are the same person. Just don’t tell Michelle I said that, she hates Machelle. And that backstory is like an episode straight out of Springer. While I was sort of there for the first ultrasound and the birth and first steps, I wasn’t there as the Father but as the Godfather. I thought the baby was my old running partner Brandon Moore’s. I told you this was some Springer ish. So I didn’t have that same level of excitement as if I thought the kid was my own. Plus, I think I was under the influence during most of that pregnancy so it’s a blur..
This kid, this baby, this one is different. I’m going in KNOWING I’m the Father at least I hope. So there’s a different level of excitement. I get to be there as the Father from conception to watching the baby pop out of Michelle’s vag. I’m so fucking hype..
“Michelle!” I scream as I lean into the window of my new, sweet ride and lay into the horn. “Michelle, come on! We’re going to be late!”
“Geezus P, relax!” Michelle says as she steps out of our palatial estate in the Hills of Hollywood. “We’ve got plenty of.. What the fuck is that?!”
“What’s what?” I reply, knowing damn well what she’s referring to.
“Why are you leaning up against a hideous minivan in our driveway?”
“Oh this thing?” I reply, slapping the hood of the van I’ve been leaning against. “This is the new family ride.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Fuck no!”
“I don’t under..”
“P, I’m not riding in a fucking minivan.”
“Why not? This thing is the safest van on the market.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a minivan.”
“Wha? Bruh I even put some dubs on there,” I say as I lean down to show her the rims. She gives me a look like she knows I’m lying. “Aight damn they 17s but I keep’em clean.”
“No P. Let’s take one of the convertibles. It’s nice out.”
“My future daughter is not going to be riding around in a fucking death trap.”
“P this fuckin.. Aww did you say your future daughter? You think it’s a girl?” She asks as he steps towards me. I pull her into a bear hug and give her a bunch of kisses.
“Bruh, who’s the Swaggiest of Them All?”
“Well, you know you are.”
“So fucking trust your boy!” I say as I let her go and slap the hood of the van. “We bout to be stuntin on these hos.”
“Ugh at least the windows are tinted,” she says as she reluctantly walks around and gets in.
“That’s my boo! Let’s ride!”
Yoooooo..
Michelle was right.
Minivan is trash.
You can’t really whip it around the turns coming down from the Hills of Hollywood.
Pretty sure my poor boo might’ve swallowed some coffee that the baby puked up in her stomach..
But don’t tell Michelle I hate the fucking van. Caught a reflection of myself while we were cruising down Rodeo, I don’t look good in a van. And I look good in anything. And the looks people gave me. Like these people ain't seen a brown skin man since their grandparents bought one. Fucking bananas.
“P you’re gonna miss the turn!” I hear Michelle say as I whip the van, hopping over a curb and this would be one of the moments we’re a hubcap would roll off but ya boy got them 17s he keeps clean.. “What the fuck?! Please don’t tell me you were cutting a promo in your head again! All that shit you talked about having to drive in this lame fucking van over safety and you’re living in your fucking head.”
“Nah boo chill,” I say as I pull up to the valet.
“Oh no, you’re not valeting this thing. Not with me in it.”
“What? Don’t be silly, we’re already here.”
“No P. There’s fucking paps out there. How did they know we were going to be here?” she asks as she locks her door. Silly rabbit, has no idea as I roll down her window.
“Yo fellas, we’re here,” I say as she instantly turns and glares at me. “Wha? Didn’t think I wouldn’t document my first ultrasound?”
“P..” She starts to say as I lean over and give her a kiss before hopping out of the van. I toss the keys to the valet and walk around to open the door for Michelle. I motion for the crew to start filming as I open the door for Michelle who looks mortified. “P..”
“Come on,” I say as I hold my hand out. She reluctantly grabs it as I pull her out. She tries to cover her face as I led her into the office.
“Sir, they can’t film in her,” I hear as I turn to the receptionist who’s come behind her desk and has stopped us from walking in.
“Oh thank Gawd,” Michelle says.
“I don’t understand,” I start to say.
“You can’t film in here.”
“Really? Pretty sure I saw one of the Kardashains in here,” I start to say.
“You’re not a Kardashian,” the receptionist replies as I hear Michelle snort behind me.
“P, please. Enough,” Michelle chimes in. I start to fight but I see the look in her eyes. My sweet baby. Whatever to make her happy. I dig into my pocket and pull out a wad, handing it to the camera crew.
“We’ve already been pa,” the crew starts to protest.
“It’s all good. Thanks for coming. Make sure ya tag me tho,” I say as I start to push them out. I could’ve sworn I saw Michelle swipe the wad back from them when I wasn’t looking..
I remember being here a little over a year ago when Michelle was pregnant with Ezra. Everything this time, feels different. So much more love and excitement. I’m gonna be a fucking Dad again. How fucking awesome is that?
I don’t remember it being so hot in here though. Which I guess is normal seeing as Michelle’s sitting, wearing a paper gown. The room they ushered us into smells weird. Like a horrible mix of vanilla and lavender. They should get Atara to bring some of that Greek shit in here. Spruce up the place. I don’t know if the scent is supposed to be calming, but bruh it ain’t working. Feel like I’m sweating through my James Raven tee as I fiddle with my fingers, picking at the skin of my dried ass cuticles. Bruh I need to get a mani ASAP..
I find myself standing, pacing back and forth in the room. Like wha the fuck is going on? We got health insurance, and not the shitty kind WGWF offers.. I keep stealing glances over at Michelle who sits in that hospital gown. It took everything in me not to try and stick it in when she dropped her panties and put the gown on. Took even more not to jump her bones with the sexy eyes she keeps giving me. I ain’t falling for it though, don’t want to end up implanting another fucking fetus in there. Lord knows the Monty Python needs a break. Poor fella hasn’t seen this much action since Vhodka was a Dyamond.
"P! Would you relax? They're going to make us pay to replace the flooring." Michelle says all sarcastically and shit. She's right though, I've almost paced a hole right through the hardwood. "Why do you keep looking out the window? Waiting for that bitch ass nurse to come back so you can stare at her titties some more?"
"Nah, waiting to see if a heroin addict is going to barge in on us like last time." I reply, almost too fast. The look of surprise on her face makes it hard to keep a straight face.
"Oh you mean your best friend?" She retorts. I got a good ass response but before I can get it out the door swings open and in comes the nurse.
"Are you guys ready to see your baby?" She asks as she walks over and turns on the big ass monitor next to Michelle.
"I am," Michelle replies and I start to make my way over next to her. "My fiance wants to fuck you first tho.."
There it is. I mean.. OK I might’ve glanced at her tig o bitties when she came in, but I’m here f.. Who am I fooling, I’d beat..
"Excuse me?" She says.
"Nothing!" I blurt out before Michelle can stir more shit up. The nurse rolls her eyes and continues to set up as I lean over to Michelle. "Don't make this worse and we can go to Starbucks after.."
I was fucking speechless, for once in my life, as the nurse showed me my baby’s organs. The fucking heartbeat. That heartbeat. Right then and there I knew something had to change. I had to change..
Right then and there I knew I couldn’t go into 2023 riding the same streak of mediocrity I’d been stuck in most of 2022. Fuck, less than mediocrity. I’m better than putting people over. I’m better than opening up for doods who’s whole gimmick is having a mustache or telling lame ass jokes or cleaning toilets. I’m Paul motherfucking Montuori, it’s about time I reminded the whole fucking world about who I am.
Who I really am.
Oddly enough, just so happens I have one shot, one opportunity to completely reverse the catastrophic trajectory my career has been on before I end up a bigger joke than the Punisher. How fucking original.
That shot, that opportunity happens in WGWF.
In my first official appearance, match, whatever the fuck.
At the West Coast Rumble.
January 2nd from the Velvet Rabbit in Vegas.
Funny, I had no plans on signing up. I thought I was above taking part in some lame ass Rumble. Always hated those fucking matches. Starting with the very first match in FIGHT where I came up short against Dickie in their weird version of a rumble. That match, that free-for-all set in motion a chain of events in my career that as hard as I’ve tried I haven’t been able to reverse. Not all year..
But fuck, this is my opportunity to change all that. Change the perception people have of me. Have of my career. My in-ring abilities.
The West Coast Rumble is my do or fucking die moment.
The moment, the opportunity is my only chance to do a 180 and catapult myself back to the top where I belong. I won’t have to start at the bottom and scratch and claw my way back to the top. Won’t have to face Warluigis or social media heauxs who have no business stepping in the ring with me. Nah, this is my opportunity to claim what’s always been mine.
Status as being Thee Top Fucking Dawg..
“I uh.. I think I gotta head to Vegas,” I finally say as Michelle is putting her clothes back on.
“For the Rumble?”
“How’d you know?”
“A car’s waiting for you outside. They’re going to take you to the airstrip. You have press appearances tomorrow for the Rumble.”
“Wait, I’m already booked for the Rumble? Bruh,” I start to say as I look over at Michelle who has that devilish smirk on her face. “Did you have something to do with this?”
“Merry Christmas baby. You’re all going to make us proud!” She says as she leans over and gives me a kiss..
Gawd I love her..
☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️
Might as well get this shit out the way.
My name is Paul Montuori.
Win, lose or draw, none of you lame fucks will ever be as dope as me.
It’s fucking life.
Deal with the hand you’ve been dealt.
Now I’ve come to Dubbya Gee Dubbya Eff for one sole reason.
To fuck up the fairy tale life Chris Page and Joe Montuori want you all to believe they live.
Love ya Voo but fuck Chris Page.
And y’all already know my feelings on my half wit of a cousin Joe.
Fuck Joe Montuori.
Paybacks a bitch.
See Chris, Joe should’ve told ya before you put your hands on Michelle that I’m a spiteful bitch. The fuck ya think I’m still a Montuori? I don’t let shit go. Not without a receipt. Might take me a day, a month.. This case almost a fucking year but Paul Montuori always makes his bitches pay up.
So what better way to have Chris Page and his pathetic troupe of has beens and never were gonna be shits Except you Sahara darling, smooches pay than to come throw a grenade that is Paul Montuori into his life’s work, the WGWF.
Page, I know you’re tryna stay neutral, behind the scenes. Let my homie James Raven be the man in front. So I know my payback isn’t gonna come in the form of putting my hands on your old ass. Nah, those dry ass split ends are doing you enough physical harm. I’m gonna hit ya where it’s gonna hurt the most
You’re looking at WGWF’s new World Campeon!
Might as well make the custom ID plates up while I speak. Better be something beautiful..
Hear that Page?!
I’m here to be your first fucking World Champion.
You’re welcome.
I know you’ve been praying for someone dope. The way the WSOW played out, sure you’re worried your next Champ might’ve had to pull double duty and have to clean up double doody after the show. And from what I hear, that Samantha Vox would’ve kept the janitor hella busy.
But have no fear I’m head to bail you and your fucking promotion out.
Add some fucking swagger to the place. Lawd knows you got enough fucking janitors on the roster..
Now I know everyone’s going to rundown everyone that’s been announced for the Rumble. Go one by one, picking them off. Giving their thoughts, like they have a fucking clue. But I’m not gonna do that. I don’t need to do that. See, everyone else in the Rumble is insignificant. Their names are insignificant. None of them matter.
Cause this isn’t about them.
This isn’t about a Cholo or a Janitor wanting to claim another World Title. Or a fake ass Punisher.
This is about me..
Paul Montuori!
Your fucking hero!
This is about WGWF having a World Champion they can be proud of.
That’s the fucking story the West Coast Rumble is going to tell.
Not WGWF having it’s first Cholo Champion. Or first Champion with their own designated plunger. Let’s be honest, no one gives a fuck about them. About a bunch of overrated hacks. Especially not now that my fucking name has been announced as a participant. Everything’s fucking changed. The fucking feeling, the hype, the excitement suddenly skyrocketed once I was announced. A real fucking STAR. Not a pretender. Not someone putting a facade on, trying to put on a front so people believe some tale of how great they are.
You’re fucking looking at it!
Greatness!
In the flesh and blood!
And handsome as fuck.
What can I say, don’t blame me. Blame Gawd.
He made me this amazing..
And he made me humble.
I’ll pause for you haters to snicker amongst yourselves.
Yeah, Paul Montuori is humble, ya heard that shit out of the Wrestling Gawd’s mouth himself.
See, as amazing and awesome and handsome as I know I am, I’m not fucking delusional. I haven’t rewritten history for myself, given myself accolades unwarranted, unearned like the majority of people in this business. I could sit here and rattle off no named promotions no one’s ever heard of, spouting Championships no one’s ever heard of and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference..
None of it..
Not to me at least.
Not to your humble Wrestling Gawd.
It would be pretty silly of me to sit here and brag about championships when I’ve never been a World Champion.
I’ve never been officially the Top Dawg of a promotion.
At least not in the traditional sense of the term.
Now I’ve always been the dopest kat in the room, whether in this business or in Hollywood or when I was banging on film under a lucha mask. Always the dopest. I’m the guy you all pretend to be when the red light’s on.
But being this amazing comes with its own consequences. See the fucking hate hate hate multiplies for every level of awesomeness you obtain.
Like, I’m on my own plane of existence of dopeness. Like y’all need to use a fucking telescope to put eyes on me as I wave down at you peasants, looking smaller than John Cable’s chances of winning the Rumble.
With the amount of hate for being on such a Gawd like level of awesomeness, your boy fell victim to the backstage politics. It didn’t help that I was a self-centered asshole. Toxic as fuck. And being so young and dumb, I actually thought I was cool for it. So the more toxic I became. Which ultimately led to either getting my fair share contracts bought out or having promotions close entirely..
I started to carry a certain reputation most promotions didn’t want to deal with. And the ones that did, I knew I’d be relegated to the mid-card if I wanted a job. Year after year, promotion after promotion I did my thing until I finally started to wear the badge of King of the Mid-Card proudly. So proudly that over the years I started to believe that’s the best I’d be.
King of the Mid-Card.
After FIGHT, after Dickie Watson, I thought that’s the most I’d ever be. I especially never thought I’d be anything more than that after my run in Level Up Wrestling, even though I’m up for a shot at a title if the promotion ever comes back.
All the Paul Montuori hype I had after FIGHT closed started to fade. Replaced by the talk of being overrated, overhyped, only able to win in my bubble.
And honestly, I tried acting like I didn’t hear the noise. That it didn’t faze me. I couldn’t have them knowing that I believed what everyone thought about.
That I can’t win the Big One.
For all the talk. For all the bravado. I couldn’t win the Big One.
That all changed the moment I saw my baby’s heartbeat for the first time.
In an instant my entire existence seemingly flashed before my eyes. My childhood. My career. The struggles. The achievements. Highs and lows. The rollercoaster that’s been my fucking life. All culminating in that moment..
In that moment I knew being Paul Montuori, King of the Mid-Card wasn't going to be enough anymore. How could I honestly raise my beautiful kids to believe they could grab life by the balls and do whatever they wanted in life if I couldn’t honestly say I’d done the same? What kind of an example would I be leading as a Father if I didn’t give an effort?
A real effort.
That all changes at the Rumble.
The name, the reputation of Paul Montuori changes at the Rumble.
This isn’t just another debut match for me. This isn’t just another Rumble for me. Another shot at a World Title.
THIS IS IT!
This is my last chance at redemption. My last chance to prove everything that I’ve said the last couple of years has been true.
That I’m better than everyone of you.
That no one is on my fucking level.
That I belong in a league of my own.
This is my last chance to prove that I belong in the same breath as Stephen Stratford and James Raven and Dickie Watson and Vincent Black. This is my last chance to prove that I’m not all talk, not all hype. My last chance to prove that I can win outside of the FIGHT bubble. There is no tomorrow, there is no second chance. This is it. My last shot.
I spent the entire year recycling this notion that I’ve finally woken up the beast inside myself. From going into Level Up and thinking I was going to run straight to the top to losing to the dood with a mustache in PWE, effectively ending my run there..
There’s a reason why I left PWE and there’s a reason why I haven’t been seen since Level Up’s last show. I couldn’t bear to show my face again. Not after all the losses. Not after all the disappointments.
This time feels different.
I have another human coming into this world that’s going to depend on me, that’s going to look up to me as their hero. I can’t let my family down. Not again. I can’t walk out of the West Coast Rumble without that World Title. Without my first World Title. I can’t see the look of disappointment in Michelle and Madison’s eyes again. I can’t stomach having them try and cheer me up again, pretending like they still love me even though I let them down again..
Nah see, this is my time. Paul Montuori’s time.
Time for the rebirth.
Time for the Christening of Wrestling’s Gawd.
So Ladies and gentlemen allow me to apologize in advance to any of you that are coming to the Rabbit expecting to see the Janitor raise his golden plunger in victory. Or Bam drink some celebratory Keith Stones.
Nah, January 2nd won’t be their night.
January 2nd is the night I’m going to surprise and shock that goofy Demon. The night I’m going to fulfill my fucking destiny that’s alluded me my entire life..
January 2nd is the night Paul Montuori finally becomes a World Champion!
And the gift to the masses cannot come soon enough for I know you all woke up extremely pissed off at Santa for not rescuing you from your miserable lives.
John Cable still woke up ugly as fuck.
The Janitor still woke up with shit under his fingernails.
Damage is still one tall, goofy looking fuck.
Yet I continue to be blessed to be Paul Montuori.
But have no worry, I’m no fucking Grinch. I’ll be sure to bring that holiday cheer into each and everyone of your miserable lives on January 2nd.
I’ll make sure each and everyone of you start off the New Year on the right foot by cheering for your fucking hero, yours truly.
Paul mofuckin’ Montuori..
You’re fucking welcome.