View Full Version : PORTLAND 2nd: [2p] Sean Stevens vs. [10] Fred Cook

02-19-07, 05:04 PM
Sean Stevens defeated:
Rob Franklin in a play-in after losing to The Canadian Loonie

Fred Cook defeated:

Second round match-up to take place at the Stan Sherrif Center, Honolulu, HI, at Hawaii-Manoa's campus. RP deadline is Sunday, February 25th, at 11:59:59 PM, give or take a second.

02-21-07, 03:24 AM
The scene opened up on the rented G4 jet of the gentleman widely regarded in many conversations as the 'greatest wrestler on the planet' .... the 'blue-eyed badass' Sean Stevens. Fresh off of his return to the win column at the expense of young Rob Franklin, Stevens was borderline exhausted. Not only had he competed in an extra Team Invitational Tournament match-up due to his slip up on the campus of Auburn University against the Canadian Loonie, but he's also carried on with his regular in-ring duties, and appearances for the two promotions he competes in and calls home. The constant changes in climate, as well as the wear-and-tear of life on the road had taken a toll on him, and while this would normally be the time he'd use to study his next opponent .... Stevens was busier counting sheep.

His personal agent/assistant, Mr. Clarence Balde watched through a couple of tapes of Stevens' next opponent, Fred Cook on the plane's 32 inch flat screen, trying to ignore the loud snoring of his client when the plane's telephone, placed behind Stevens' seat, began to ring. Not wanting to wake Sean, Clarence answered, quietly.

BALDE: Hello. ...... Oh! The future Mrs. Stevens, how are you?!?"

The excitement of the moment caused Clarence to raise his voice to a level that could've potentially awaken Stevens. Considering the fact that Sean was often grumpy when he wakes up, that was something Balde seriously wanted to avoid.

BALDE: ...well that's definitely good news. I'm very happy to hear that! Did they give you a specific date yet? Or are they wai--"

Balde was glowing. Outside of his professional relationship with Stevens, Clarence had grown to become friends with him and his entire circle. They had known each other for little over four years now, off the strength of another one of Clarence's wrestling clients, and have formed a bond that has yet to have been broken.

BALDE: I'll tell ya, I for one can't wait. If not only to see Sean's reaction ... he's so Joe Cool about everything, but you can tell he's excited. He's had a really busy couple of days, though. He's been asleep for the past six hours. I know you want to speak to him, and I'm sure he wants to speak to you, I can wake him if you wan--"

Whew. The Future Mrs. Stevens turned down Balde's offer, which was exactly what he wanted.

BALDE: What do you mean how's he doing? Well, I'm sure he can answer that better than *I* ca--"

The Future Mrs. Stevens interrupted him again, before allowing him to speak once more.

BALDE: You want my opinion?"

Balde looked over his shoulder at Sean, before huddling over the phone, trying to prevent his voice from being heard.

BALDE: Well, honestly ... I'm a bit worried. Now, now ... don't get too caught up in my choice of words, because it's not one thing in particular."

Stevens moved, as Clarence paused. After about thirty seconds, he was again settled, soundly asleep.

BALDE: It's just that, he's taking his opponents too lightly. Almost as if he's ... feeling himself. THAT type of attitude is NOT what got Sean to the level that he is currently at. There is NO way he should've had to compete in an extra match, furthermore, there is NO way the Canadian Loonie beats Sean three years ago, when he was still hungry. It's like he's gotten settled ... like he's accepted that the business is not gonna give him his due, so he's not as eager to prove how good he really is.

Balde cleared his throat.

BALDE: I see your point. I guess it does become redundant saying and doing the same thing over and over only to get sh*tted on. But, *I* think this tournament is the perfect forum to open the world's eyes, and I think he's on the verge of blowing it. ...I mean, he already got a second chance, which usually NEVER happens. There won't be any third chances.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Balde took a sip from a glass of Cranberry Juice, before continuing.

BALDE: Maybe he will listen to you, I mean, YOU are the one person he respects more than anything. I say give it a shot, what could it hurt ... I think we're past the point of him leaving you. After everything you guys have been through, I'm sure it'll hurt, but he'll do what he does whenever you give him advice ... he'll apply it, and become a better person as a result.

The voice on the other end continued.

BALDE: Yes, yes I agree. But, whatever you do, please keep this conversation, as well as my opinion in the strictest of confidentiality. I'm not sure how Mr. Stevens would take my criticism.

He took another swig.

BALDE: While I do agree, we'll have to catch up later. I don't want to wake him up. .....have a great night, and I look forward to seeing you when we get back to Orlando. .....Later!"

Balde glanced over at Stevens who was still lying in the same position he was in earlier. He sighed a sigh of relief thinking that he had gotten what he had to say off of his chest, without waking Sean.....

.....not knowing that Sean's eyes were open, and he heard the ENTIRE conversation.

02-23-07, 12:10 AM
"The make-up of a man can be attributed to many things."

FADEIN: 'The Blue-Eyed Badass' Sean Stevens, TEAM Invitational backdrop, seated on a stool, bottle of 'Evian' in his right hand, hair in a pony-tail, clad in one of his now infamous custom made throwback 100% cotton 'Planet Earth's Champion™' t-shirts.

stevens - "I'd never take back anything I've ever done, because even if the act was the most vile, inhumane act of the past ten years, I committed it because I thought it was right. I can tell you 'til I'm blue in the face, but the fact remains the same ... and, the world can't fathom the excruciating hurt I feel waking up every morning, knowing I'm the absolute best wrestler in the industry, only to watch a panel of idiots give my accolades out to other wrestlers."

Sean got off of the stool, and kneeled down, out of the camera's viewing range, before standing tall, with a black baseball bat in hand.

stevens - "I've had to sit back, and not only watch media outlets praise lesser men, but watch while that coverage led to big money contracts in big time promotions, while I had to bust my ass in the bingo halls of America. Now money has never been an issue, I'm a product of success, and I know how to survive. But, I won't sit here and lie, and pretend that it doesn't irk me to see men cashing checks that belong to me."

He sniffed the baseball bat sadistically, then kissed it.

stevens - "A man's gotta eat, and there are wrestler's in this tournament right now, who knew in their heart's that they were being compensated for the ground I broke, and never gave a dime, or lended a hand. That's why I never felt bad about the busted knee caps, about smashing faces in, and breaking noses. That's why this," he pulled the bat in, rubbing it against his chest, "is my best friend. I've never had a friend that righted so many wrongs. I've never met a person willng to fight all of my battles for me, and take out all of my enemies with one swing. This, my friend, is the great equilizer."

"Fred Cook, I don't know who you are, I don't care who you've beaten, and could give a flying f**k about whatever your reputation says you're capable of. Take pride in the fact that you've won a tournament match, because the Team Invitational ends for you, and there are several reasons why. ...because *I* am the 'Greatest Wrestler on the Planet', because the only way I lose is if I'm asleep, and trust me ... I'm wide awake. ...and, because if all else fails..."

He swang the bat, taking out the camera, sending it to the concrete floor, cracked down the middle. His feet were the only thing visible, that is, until he laid down on the floor, for one last face shot.

stevens - "... If all else fails, I'm not opposed to breaking bones, busting lips, and smashing in faces to ensure that I'm the one cashing those checks and eating those meals."


02-24-07, 04:56 PM
Toilet Troubles

Fred Cook was never really a complex man. He always held to his own priorities and agendas without allowing others outside his “mental circle,” as he so kindly put it, into his life-making actions. Whether it was the choice of leopard-pattern thong or classic Levi jeans for dinner wear or if it was the struggle between choosing the right word for the final line of a poem, it didn’t matter—the choices were his and his alone. And when this choice was made, it was final. No ifs, ands, or buts allowed.

If Fred had the opportunity to hear the “terrifying” words from Super Stereotype…I mean, erm, Sean Stevens (I get my double-s names confused sometimes), then I suppose that, more likely than not, he would retort. Of course, Fred would think, Another old-gimmick that takes me back to the nineties. Lame-Jane, without a doubt. But, of course, all this is an if, for it is not the easiest thing in the world to sit in front of a camera when your seat of choice is the W.C.


Explosive diarrhea is a retched, terrible disease that strikes fear into the ass-wielding types of our world. What occurs is that, from your ass, waves and waves of terrible, stinging, sometimes nutty ****-muck will fly out at the fastest of speeds, leaving the stinging feeling at the hole and probably splashes of **** water on your butt cheeks. All creative and expressive ability is lost once your ass is overcome from the plague. If your case is bad enough, expect to lose all hope too.


Instead of addressing Sean Stevens, Fred’s location has been the toilet. For a good two hours, that is. Since 10 this morning, the anus of The Poet has been nothing but a ****-spewing hell-hole. And to top it off, this was no neutral-smelling deuce either. This was a bonafide, rotted-for-days **** smell.

All of it, though, deeply struck Fred (just forget all bad/obvious jokes right now) and moved him to continue. While his colon resisted, Fred’s desire to push more forced the **** to drop. In his mind were poems—thousands of them—that gushed from that dung-soup in the bowl below his butt.

After this session of anus-meshing finished, Fred felt like a new man. The door opened to his bathroom, swung open rather, and there he was, the man we know, standing in the door way.

“I have conquered you, explosive diarrhea, at least for now. You thought you could submit me, no? You believed that, maybe, MAYBE, if I had no chance to speak against that Stevens character…wait a second…Stevens?...”

Suddenly, Fred bust through his apartment, looking for something. When he arrived at his writing desk, papers began to fly all over the place in compliment to a frenzy of hands that swept and swerve through the mess. Finally, Fred found “it”:

"... If all else fails, I'm not opposed to breaking bones, busting lips, and smashing in faces to ensure that I'm the one cashing those checks and eating those meals."

They were the final words so far of Stevens, somewhat lacking the true sting a threat should. It was as if Fred was going up against some sort of illiterate lumberjack; this man was strong, without a doubt, but there’s a good chance that maybe the bulb is a bit cracked for him. While last round left Fred with a man of letters, here we have Mr. Stone Age.

Beyond that thick surface, though, Fred had finally discovered Steven’s ulterior motive to that last line.

“That…that monster.”


The camera fades from black to see Fred Cook, otherwise known as The Poet, standing in a bathroom. He has his back turned to a toilet bowl and his face is looking at the ceiling with his eyes closed shut.

The Poet: Art, I have found, has been avoiding me as of late. While my heart says yes…

He turns his head for a slow-quick glance at the bowl.

The Poet: …My bowels scream no. For days now I have been a slave to the ****-stream that has made home in my derriere. While I yearn to train for Stevens, I am instead a slave to the ceramic. Foul, I know.

The Poet: In my troubles, though, I have discovered something so terrible that I’d prefer to live a thousand lives of non-stop sphincter-spitting. You see, Stevens is not the straight-forward wrestler he’d have you believe he is. While he speaks like a tough man, he is nothing more than the dirt on the bottom of my shoe.

Fred turns towards the camera, shaking his head left and right.

The Poet: For you see, indirectly Stevens has caused my insides to shake. His lack of general character has made me cringe. My stomach fears his desire to be the best, as my gut feeling tells me that he is like all the others. The expensive charters, the boasts of one’s own nicknames…have we not seen this before?

Fred lets out a small chuckle and leans against the while beside him, crossing his arms.

The Poet: Stevens, what I am asking you is to go back and look at yourself. Tell me, what makes you a better talent than my ****? I have drawn inspiration from my feces, and yet I find nothing of originality in your manners and speech. When I heard you voice for the first time I thought I recognized you from the TV. I said, “Wow, I AM facing the best now!” But while my last round opponent scared my heart, you do not. I see your face in the water right there…

He points to the toilet bowl.

The Poet: …Simmering until I decide to flush you away. Yes, you may be causing a fuss now, but you are like…no, let me correct myself…you ARE the **** in my toilet. That’s you and everyone like you. A travesty, I know.

The pants of Fred drop and he sits on the toilet. A one-foot fuzzy mark drops between his legs. (Of course Fred is hung, damn it!)

The Poet: Don’t believe me? Let us look at your final words from your last promo:

"... If all else fails, I'm not opposed to breaking bones, busting lips, and smashing in faces to ensure that I'm the one cashing those checks and eating those meals."

Fred laughs and slaps his knee.

The Poet: A real bruiser, huh? The planets align only on rare occasions, and those words carry true weight with the same level of regularity. And let me inform you, there will be no straight lines in our solar system any time soon.

The Poet: So, Stevens, let me tell you this: it is of unimportance if you know me or give a “flying ****” about reputation. Names mean nothing. IrishRed made the same mistake last round, and now he’s at home. Eat all you like, Stevens, really. I’ll even give you my tournament earnings for a meal or two. Because while you yearn to win for food…

Fred pushes down the lever on the toilet, flushing it.

The Poet: ...I just want to move past you and forget. Should be easy enough, right?

Fred stands up and stretches his arms to the side. Then, he puts his right hand on his heart.

“Sean Stevens.

They lined up, the faces the same.
I did not know who from who,
Too many faces the same…”

02-25-07, 03:02 AM


This promo does not open up in a public bathroom.

In fact, only an idiot ... or ... a total weirdo would even entertain the notion of video taping himself taking a dump. The last entertainer that video taped himself using the bathroom, is now facing charges of having sexual intercourse with a minor, also facing public humiliation for urinating on said minor in the process.

THAT in itself should tell you everything you need to know about Fred 'the Poet' Cook. Fortunately for YOU, the viewer, and the rest of the wrestling world ... Cook's next opponent in the Team Invitation Tournament is none other than Sean 'triple X' Stevens, a man that is known for *****slapping idiots, and as a child, specialized in beating the tar out of the neighborhood weirdo.

It was a pleasure knowing you, Mr. Cook. May your plane ride after your inevitable loss to the 'Blue-Eyed Badass' experience turbulence, ultimately ending in a fiery crash, so we never have to see you, or listen to one of your ridiculous poems again.



The scene opened up in the Ritz-Carlton, Hawaii hotel suite of "Planet Earth's Champion" himself, Sean Stevens.

STEVENS - "Take a good look around, Frederick. This room cost me almost four hundred a night, I'd say it's definitely a step up from the motel EIGHT's your wrestling career has afforded you, eh? Go ahead, get a glimpse of the closets, the empty suitcases..."

The camera panned around the entire room, the closets, were full his suitcases were empty, and it looked as if Sean had no plans on leaving the beautiful island any time soon.

STEVENS - "If a picture is worth a thousand words, what does THIS picture tell you?"

He paused, for affect, not an answer as he'd never receive one.

STEVENS - "My agent sent me a copy of your last promo, and besides the fact that you could easily be the dumbest son-of-a-b*tch I have ever faced, it amuses me that your entire schtick is based on being sorta intellectual. Yes, you beat Irishred..."

Golf clap.

STEVENS - "I'll have my agent send you a congratulations doughnut. But, what you're failing to realize is this is a what have you done for me lately kinda deal, Fred. When I punish you for ten minutes and send you home to your family, the world's not gonna be talking about how well you did against Irishred, one, because Irishred is an overrated bum ass waste of a roster spot, two, because you're an even bigger idiot than HE is for thinking your 'w' over him actually meant something, and three because the things that I'll do to you inside of that ring will more likely than not have the people talking about you because they're worried for your health."

"I'm going to do you a favor, Poet. In one match, I'm going to make you the one thing you've always wanted to be, but because of lack of talent, never could. You're going to be the talk of the industry. Until I wrestle my next opponent, you'll be the one everyone is focused on, and the fan letters, and 'get well' cards will gas you into thinking you're more than you actually are."

"You don't think I'm as tough as I say I am, Poet? That's cool, you're not the first, and you certainly won't be the last to think it. But, as God as my witness, I have yet to meet the man who could say that to me before our match, and say it again after it. Instead of trying to be funny, or reciting a poem, or grasping at straws for material, Fred ... you should really take your workouts serious. Because while watching you sit on the toilet for ten minutes was entertaining, if I wanted to watch comedy I'd go to a show - I can afford it. In fact, if you're a poet, a comedian, and a literary scholar, why don't you go somewhere and write a book. I get a lot of flack for it, but I'm a f*cking wrestler. I can't quote a bunch of Shakespear, the Pathagorean Theorum is a blur, and I don't spend an entire promo trying to sound smart, reciting a bunch of SAT words like Lindsay Troy. And, if that means I won't get the instant respect that she, or somebody like Joey Melton, or Dan Ryan would get? ...so f*cking BE it. I'm not going to adopt their style, or even worse, become them to get to where I should already be in this industry."

"But, let me tell you what I will do, Cook. I'll make believers out of unbelievers. I'll take guys like you, people with other aspirations and life goals, and I'll point them in that direction. I may look like something you've seen in the past, but rest assured, when we meet, every preconceived notion that you had will be different. ...and, when it's all said and done, and the dust has settled, you'll be entered into that long list of men who thought they were better than me, that thought they could hang, that thought they were good enough to breathe my air, who thought it was all talk. And, then you'll tell your kids about the day the best wrestler daddy's ever seen made daddy's punk ass famous."

"Fred, the job gets done by any means necessary."

He positioned his fist in front of the camera lens.

"You'd want to be a good little ***** and take your beating like a man, because anything less ... anything less..."

He froze, glancing over at the television. An old commercial for 'Right Guard' deoderant came on, when the lightbulb in Sean's head went off.

"...would be uncivilized."

His laughter echoed as the camera panned to the TV.


02-25-07, 06:44 PM
OH ****ING JESUS, WARNING~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!

This promo does not open up in a hotel.

While the previous Cook promo did indeed open up in The Poet’s bathroom (sorry, buddy), the artist behind the promo, Fred Cook, had the viewer’s best interests in mind. As he realizes that most viewers catch the recap and TEAM-based late shows, he would feel that opening in a generic place such as The Ritz Carlton would, most definitely, put the viewer to sleep faster than Sean Stevens can miss the point of a promo (*ba-dum, CHING!*). In fact, the last man to open up a promo in a Ritz Carlton had about enough creativity to stand in line behind the other twenty wrestlers before him using the same spot in the same hotel. I think they probably ended up using the same rented jet, too.

Either way, that should tell you enough about Sean Stevens, the opponent to The Poet. Thank the sweet Lord, though, that Sean Stevens knows so much about losses; I mean, considering he barely made it into the second round and had to beat ANOTHER loser…

Anyways, we continue on to find Fred in a sticky situation (thank, Stevens, an apparent psychic!...)


The camera opens to see Fred strapped into a plane seat. He is clutching the two arm rests on the chair, squeezed tightly between two very large Asian women who understand just about no English. Everyone is freaking out as well, as a large siren is going off and the camera is shaking.

The Poet: Well…Mr. Stevens…it seems…AGGH…that your wishes came true…

The camera looks out the window to see one of the wings on fire, and then goes back to pointing at Fred.

The Poet: …My plane is crashing. I am doomed…for a life…GAHHHHHH…of death. A fiery death, rather.

Fred takes a few deep breaths while the Asians next to him are screaming some mumbo jumbo in some Asian-like language.

The Poet: Never again will I be able to brag about my money…never again will I be able to misinterpret just about everything my opponent says…never again will I be made a fool by my own words!

Suddenly, though, the camera stops shaking. The two Asians get up and walk off screen, and the chairs are pulled away. Fred is, apparently, on a set.

The Poet: Oh wait…that was you! My mistake. It seems you are confused, Stevens. You ask me to look at your life of Ritz Carltons and expensive islands, and the only word I can describe that picture is “bland”. You throw names such as Troy, Ryan, and Melton, and all I can think is “who cares.” I am addressed as a man who wants the rich and fame, but to that I instantly question “What?!”

The Poet: Do you not understand, Stevens? I could care less of trivial matters such as dollar bills, fame and fortune. Did I not already offer my winnings? MUST I explain why I am here again?

Fred stands up and walks across the studio. He eventually arrives at another toilet. The camera looks into it to see a nutty alligator, which is when the tip of it is a little above the surface and there are, obviously, nuts in the poop.

The Poet: *from off camera* I did not expect to be teaching English class, but here we go. And I’ll speak EXTRA slow, just in case you miss something—it seemed to be a big problem last time, no? Ok, now, Stevens, see that **** in there? That is you. But not just you; it could be anyone. That is the man who believes the promo path is the better to embark on, a man who finds art in a recycled medium. Really, is there anything that is actually new and inspiring? Besides a few writers, I could line up 10 of your promos and, besides basic speaking style, would find barely a difference. While in my art, the poem or the prose, there is an infinite path for exploration. I am the human being. You are the ****, just the left over waste. There might be different varieties of ****—smooth, soft, hard, chunky, nutty, gooey, etc.—but at the end of the day, a rose is a rose.

The camera goes back to looking at Fred.

The Poet: Now, Stevens, I understand that was a tough and scary analogy to think about, and I find it troubling that you ignore it in your response like you would the plague. In fact, you seem to PROMOTE the idea! I mean, let’s be honest here, you are speaking in a plug-and-play formula: you open up the scene in some room and there is a short insult that bounces with my gimmick; you denounce my previous opponent, citing me in saying I found him to be a “great accomplishment” while, in reality, his only purpose was to be a friendly warning to you; the often-used pseudo favor; the even MORE often-used underdog approach; the nameless list of names of fallen foes that, as I warned mean, mean nothing anyways; and, finally, the final burn. And, of course, you draw inspiration from something as groundbreaking as a Right Guard commercial—I don’t think Collins would be caught dead doing the same.

The Poet: Stevens, I never said you weren’t tough, but understand that they’re all tough. They’ve ALL been through it all. Each man has had that tough road. I find no inspiration in your words but rather Zs. Maybe next time you’re cutting a promo and you are sloppy enough to leave the TV on, one of my own might be playing. Then, maybe, JUST MAYBE…

Fred shakes his head.

The Poet: …No, on second thought, this seems like a case of “Fool me once, fool me twice.” Good luck next year, Stevens. I’ll think about you in future rounds. I think I’ll have to, as…

“When I saw the eyes look back at me,
All 6 billion screamed ‘Please, put me to sleep!’
So I took out my pen, and what did I see?
They were scared of art, not easy to be a sheep!”