View Full Version : [ToC] The Official Pre-Game Trash Talk Thread

06-11-07, 07:56 AM
Let the games begin! This thread is for talking trash on your fellow ToC competitors outside the confines of the RP arena. This thread will be open for the duration of the tournament. There is no limit on your posting in this thread, and the stacking rules do not apply. I only ask that you keep everything IN CHARACTER (I hope this goes without saying). Anything posted in this thread does not count towards your ToC showing. This thread is here to blow off steam, have some fun, and most importantly, build towards your Round 1 RP. As an aside and a piece of advice to everyone in the tourney, please utilize this thread to help you build heat to use in your first round RP.

As they say in Indianapolis on Memorial Day weekend... gentlemen (and ladies)... START YOUR ENGINES!

06-11-07, 01:16 PM
“Allow me to introduce myself.”
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[The voice, deep and booming, reverberated throughout the enormous room that we found ourselves in. The room was cylindrical in shape; the ceiling was at least seventy-five feet above us, the opposite side of the room was about fifty feet away, and every surface was made out of pure, white marble. Behind us lied the colossal entryway, an arched doorway made out of two dark red solid oak doors about four inches thick and fifty feet high. The doors featured black metal strips every ten feet upward that accented the door, nailed in place by large, thick bolts. The center of each door bore an elaborate, fancy-scripted black “M”, which was enclosed in an equally elaborate circle of matching color. This was commonly known as the Mandrake Crest. There were two sets of stairs on the right and left sides of the room straight ahead of us that curled towards each other alongside the wall to their respective doors about fifty feet above the floor. Directly below the middle of the space between where the two stairs meet the doors, there was another smaller set of about six stairs that went down into another door. Embedded within the ceiling above us was a giant circular skylight, approximately twenty-five feet in diameter. It was through this skylight and the inky darkness that we see through it that we knew it was nighttime. The enormous floodlights that were affixed in the corners where the walls and ceiling meet bathed the room in light. The light shone radiantly off of the intricate floor design that was lodged into the marble. The design featured various geometric shapes that were cast in gold. Carved within the gold itself were intricate and oddly shaped runic symbols. The symbols themselves were made out of obsidian, a black, glassy igneous rock that is most commonly found near volcanoes. All of these patterns seemed to encircle a golden pedestal, where a big, perfectly spherical piece of obsidian rested. It’s smooth, pitch-black surface was marred only by a crimson engraving of the Mandrake Crest, which stood out like blood against the night sky. It was here that we found him as he rested his gargantuan hands upon the black orb.]
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“My name is Victor Mandrake.”
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[Victor, or, “The Immortal One” Diablo as he was formerly known by, stood with a mischievous smirk on his face in the foyer of his home. His 7’4” 375 pound frame was dressed in a pair of black jeans and black combat boots. He remained shirtless, which revealed the gothic and macabre images that were tattooed on his entire upper torso. The tattoos extended from his neck, to his waist, and all the way down to his wrists. Below the tattoos lied well-defined muscles. Michelangelo’s David comes to mind if one were to observe the muscle definition; nothing freakishly ripped like hardcore bodybuilders, but not flabby by any means either. Icy blue eyes peered from behind long, jet-black hair that extended to the middle of his back. He scratched at his well-groomed goatee before he continued.]
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“Of course, I don’t expect a good majority of you to recognize that name,” Mandrake said. “But, given enough time, and perhaps a match or two, I just might be able to make a strong enough impression so that a good portion of you may never forget. Whether that impression is a repulsive one, as it tends to be, or a positive one, has yet to be determined.”
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“First and foremost, I welcome you to my home,” he said as he gestured with his arms around the room. “Though you couldn’t possibly know from just being inside here, my home is actually a castle. Some of you may find that cliché, given my appearance and general interests, or good material for mockery, but quite frankly, I could care less. If you people wish to waste your time spewing insults at me that have already been spewed countless times before instead of preparing yourself for the trials that lie ahead, then that’s your prerogative. Just don’t complain to me if I happen to break a bone or put you in a coma.”
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“For those of you not in the aforementioned group, congratulations, you’re already one step ahead of the game. Be that as it may, you still have quite a ways to go. And so do I. A tournament of this magnitude brings with it the best and the brightest in our industry. Of course, I wouldn’t be in this tournament if I wasn’t one of the best. So, lend me your ear, if you will, and I’ll tell you a little bit about myself, and why I deserve to be in this tournament.”
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“My name, as I already said before, is Victor Robert Mandrake. I was born on May 13<SUP>th</SUP>, 1977. Through a series of unfortunate events, I happened upon the sport of professional wrestling in 1999. I won’t subject you to the endless amount of titles and accolades that I’ve acquired, but I’ll focus on the most important.”
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“I am the three-time former World Wrestling Alliance World Heavyweight Champion. For those of you unfamiliar with the alliance format, allow me to elaborate upon the importance of this title.”
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“There is a vast difference between being the World Champion of an independent federation and being the World Champion of an alliance. That difference is the amount of competition in the form of several federations’ worth of wrestlers. I wasn’t just the best out of one federation; I was the best out of five or six. Three times. With the level of competition as it was, you can imagine how many people wanted to dethrone me. Many tried. Three succeeded. You won’t find those three anywhere in the alliance any more.”
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“I, however, have been here since the alliance’s inception, and still remain today. Everything else that I’ve done pales in comparison.”
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“So why am I reciting title wins as if you all truly care? It’s not to try and compare accomplishments with all of you. Mainly, it’s to show you all that I’ve been through something like this tournament before, and have risen to the top on three separate occasions. I’ve spent my professional career fending off the best to be the best, and I’ve done so in ways that most would find unscrupulous and downright evil. They see it as dastardly. In actuality, they’re just afraid to take what they truly desire. I’m not. I don’t bind myself to a moral code or law provided by a society that’s as corrupt as the people that it intends to correct.”
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“That is why each and every one of you that steps into the ring risks their lives.”
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[He chuckled.]
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“Yes, I know, you’ve all heard that one before too. But, if you bothered to do a little research about me, you’ll soon realize that this is not an idle threat. In fact, one of our fellow tournament contenders, Christian Light, can attest as to what lengths I’ll go to obtain something that I desire.”
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“Winning this tournament, gentlemen, is something that I desire greatly.”
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“So now, it all comes down to two simple questions. Is someone here going to be like one of those three that managed to dethrone me for my World Championship? Or are you going to fall like the countless others in between?”
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“We shall see.”

Khalid Jad
06-11-07, 03:44 PM
[Standing on the balcony of his fifth floor apartment, on the outskirts of Los Angeles, an olive skinned man leaned upon the cold, steel railing. He was dressed in a pair of off-white walking shorts, a white-and-black striped button up t-shirt, and brown sandals, none of which was remarkable, but the simplicity of the outfit gave a hint to his humble beginnings. He gazed out over the city, his eyes staring off into the quickly setting sun, but his mind focused exclusively on his wrestling career.]

"Here I am, on the cusp of a tournament that could propel my status to legendary proportions, and the only thing I can think about is, how badly will I get screwed over?"

[He laughed. But there was no mirth in the laughter. It was bitter-filled, almost self-deprecating. And who could blame him? A month ago, he was on top of the world. He was the reigning World Wrestling Alliance World Heavyweight Champion, the number one ranked wrestler in the entire WWA, the man who every fan admired, and every fellow wrestler was jealous of. And now?]

"They stole it from me, you know. To this day, I should still be the reigning World champion. Nobody beat me for that belt, nobody made me submit, nobody held my shoulders to the mat for a three-count."

[Technically, that's not true. He was pinned. But that's where the screw job comes in.]

"What had happened was an over-the-hill, self-centered, egotistical man, who can't stand the sight of anyone else enjoying success, orcharstrated my demise, all because he wanted the spotlight for himself. I won't go into specifics, since I realize no one will care, but suffice it to say that the man currently parading around with my title has to live with the fact he didn't earn that belt. He was handed it. Gift-wrapped."

"Do I blame him? No, of course not. He was as much a victim as I was. But he's not the real champion, and the sooner he realizes it the better off he'll be. I suspect he already knows this. He realizes that his win over me will forever be tarnished by the actions of one sick, self-adoring individual. And that man I do hope burns in eternal hell."

[Stepping back from the railing, he lifted his head to the sky, holding his arms out wide. He let loose a chilling laugh, this one bordering on the maniacal. To those who don't know him well, it would appear as though he was insane. To those who do, they'd recognize it as the moment he'd reached his breaking point.]

[And that wasn't good news for those who had to face him in the ring.]

"Why am I telling you this? None of you know who I am, and who these individuals I've spoken of are. I could replace their names with the letters X, Y, and Z, and they'd have just as much meaning to my fellow competitors in this tournament. No, these words I've spoken aren't to impress you. I merely wanted you to understand what has motivated me to win this tournament. And that one thing is this."


[He paused, as though to let the word and its meaning sink in.]

"To think, I'm a mere five months into my wrestling career, and I'm already thinking about redeeming myself. But that's exactly what I must do. My loss, which still pains me greatly, has taught me that in this business, everyone is your enemy. You can't trust anyone, and you certainly can't rely on someone else to hand you something on a silver platter. And in many of those situations, those are the people that will steal something from you that you hold near and dear."

[He smiled his first genuine smile in days, weeks. Turning, he started for the glass sliding doors, pausing a stride away. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. But his words were unmistakably clear.]

"My chance at redemption comes soon. Very soon. And I won't let anyone steal it from me."

06-11-07, 04:14 PM

06-11-07, 06:48 PM
[The scene fades in. A tan man wearing a black pair of jean shorts and a red tank top with a moderatly ripped physique answers his door. It is JP Severs. There in front of him on his doorstep, is Jim McKenzie, editor of the 'Ringside Journal'.]

Jhonen: You know, not for nothing, but you got gall coming here. Just because in some twisted way you work for me now, doesn't mean you can show up to my house uninvited.

Jim McKenzie: But you would never invite me.

Jhonen: Can't see the hint in that huh?

Jim McKenzie: ...I'm not here to talk about our personal differences-

Jhonen: Personal differences? You've publicly bashed me and tried your damndest to stuff my name into the ground. And now, if not for me, your column would still be defunct. You'd be out of a job. I suggest you leave me be.

Jim McKenzie: I just wanted to get the exclusive on your comments to the ones already made by a few of the fellow combatants in the Tournament of Champion.

[Just as JP was about to slam the door on his employee, his interest has peaked, well, slightly.]

Jhonen: You never give up, do you?

Jim McKenzie: No. One of the reasons you bought my column, I'm sure.

[JP chuckles under his breath.]

Jhonen: So, what have YOU heard?

Jim McKenzie: That Victor Mandrake-

Jhonen: Stop. Stop right there. Right off the bat, Victor Mandrake can kiss my ass. The piece of crap has the nerve to bore everyone with his history, as if he's feeding himself into this trap of false intimidation. Frankly, none of us have to gloat about what we've done and what titles we've won; we're all Champions-or were-as the case may be. So Mandrake spinning his lips for his propaganda, is needless. A foolish waste of time. And you know, it goes to show the kind of person he is-someone I used to be. Self-involved...petty. I know the type having been in the place that Mandrake is in currently. But hey, we don't all evolve at the same time now do we.

Jim McKenzie: No, no we don't.

Jhonen: That was rhetorical.

Jim McKenzie: Sorry.

Jhonen: And for now, that's all Mandrake has earned, having me speak of him. Next.

[There is a pause from Jim, caught off-guard by JP's decision mentally to leave everything else Mandrake has said, into the wind, at least for the moment.]

Jim McKenzie: Well, um, there's Khalid Jad-

Jhonen: Now THERE is an interesting character. Even though he's not quite on 'Ring 9' anymore, he's certainly still has the taste of it in his mouth, and still ever so hungry because his career has all but just started. Perhaps success too quickly too soon it seems though. Instead of acting like a veteran, the green in him shines through; blaming others, getting screwed and such, as if he didn't already know that in this business; s*** happens. Whining and crying, is all well and good, as long as it's done constructively. The problem is, these rookies with a glimpse of fame and recognition, they feel the world already owes them a lasting run. Doesn't work that way.

Jim McKenzie: You're quick to judge Khalid-do you know him personally?

Jhonen: Conveniently, I don't have to. It's written all over his face and how he speaks. He *****ed about getting screwed by an 'over-the-hill' hack job, and instead of doing something about it, he's complaining at us as if doing so could actually change how everything's turned out. Not only is it not professional, but like Mandrake, a damn waste of time.

Jim McKenzie: As he put it, this is his chance for redemption, even after only five months in the business. Does that worry you at all, that he's jumping in head first with guns blazing?

Jhonen: The only guns blazing, involving Jad, would be if he was sitting down to watch 'Blazing Saddles'. He's having a *****-fit because life's not always a bowl of cherries. I've got real problems, but am I explaining everything? Am I wasting time with it? No, because there should be more important things to talk about, related to-you know; the actual business. Everybody tries to add their drama into the mix as if it gives them some warranted slash justified feeling to be doing what they're doing, and that no matter what they do, they're doing it for the right reasons.

Jim McKenzie: What about you, JP Severs, what is your reason for being in this tournament, if not obvious enough by the title of the tournament...

Jhonen: That right there. Champion. I am a Champion, and I've held other credited Championships as well. You can't have a tournament like this without involving the best-hence my entry. But I know what you're thinking... I want to win this thing, just to gloat and rub it in everyone's face.

[Jim tries to shrug innocently, but fails miserably.]

Jim McKenzie: Then why are you?

Jhonen: For the sake of the winner, period. I couldn't stand by anymore, in my own section of the wrestling business, and let others hold tournaments to decide the best of the best, without proving it to it's prototypical son, me. So now, when the tournament is over, and the winner's arm is held up, because I am in it, they can actually they are the best. Without me, this tournament means nothing to anyone on the outside-or the inside for that matter. Even if the winner is not me, Jim, the winner will have beaten the next best thing.

[Jim has a peculiar expression on his face.]

Jim McKenzie: So...while you used to think you were the absolute best, maybe you're not, but want to add to the credibility of the winner of the tournament by being in it, so that there's no false-Champion of Champions?

Jhonen: Exactly. You *do* catch on.

[Jim rolls his eyes.]

Jim McKenzie: Yes, I do. And JP, you're one of the best minds in the business, you are, but I'm wondering when enough is enough. You've got a lot on your plate right now, and I'm not sure that a tournament is the key.

Jhonen: It's exactly what I need, Jimbo. It's a distraction. A mere distraction that holds more than one purpose in it for me-and for everyone else, both in the ring and the fans watching it. Everybody wants a show-so I'm just the guy to give it to him. That much I still know.

[He looks confidently into Jim's eyes.]

Jim McKenzie: Ok.

Jhonen: Good. Are we done?

Jim McKenzie: Er, yeah. I-

Jhonen: Bye.

[JP nonchalantly closes the door in Jim's face. But do not feel bad for Jim, for he has in fact done some dirty deeds to keep his column afloat, at JP's expense. Jim knows this, and it will take time before there can possibly a reconcile. The scene fades to black.]

06-11-07, 07:51 PM

06-12-07, 07:49 PM
Inside a training room of a gym, somewhere. There is a squared circle, front and center, with some free weights, heavy and speed punching bags outside of it in the room. Other than that, the four walls and two men. One departing the room with a wave to the other, still in the ring. The second exits the squared circle shortly thereafter, and makes his way over to the speed bag, where around the rig it is attached to is draped a black towel. The man runs his hands over his clean shaven face, then up and through his sweat-ridden, chin length, golden blond hair before grabbing the towel off the rig.

It has been a little while since Larry Tact has felt this good. It has nothing to do with his progress, either. He has been going into every match, no matter the venue or promotion, with the confidence he could walk away a victorious man. And it has nothing to do with his regimen, for if he takes pride in anything, it is to work as vigorously each day as if his career were dependant on it. In a sense, it was, because the places he competed in were only getting more competitive. New ERA of Wrestling was about to get a shot in the arm with its joint extravaganza, in conjunction with Empire Pro Wrestling-- an event in which he would compete in the former's World Heavyweight Championship match. Additionally, despite its being somewhat shrouded in some back-and-forth, World's Finest Wrestling would be rising out of the shadows again soon. And the competition there, he felt, could be downright ravenous to reassert themselves, when the time came. Legacy of Champions was... a more personal mission, of course. And with what happened during the TEAM Invitational, there were some complications. And then there was TEAM itself...

Wiping his face off with the towel, Tact whipped it over a shoulder and made his way to the locker room. He had kept an eye on the TEAM Invitational Tournament... watched it through to its conclusion. The Finals had been one to remember, with Dan Ryan and Ulysis Solian putting on something remarkable in the ring. Larry looked down at his hands and, thinking of the particular impression it had left with him... he ripped off the velcro straps securing his fingerless gloves, removed them from his hands... walked into the hallway between the training and locker rooms... smacked open the locker room door he held occupance in.

And somewhere within his mind, unwelcome echoes reemerged. That could have been me.

Pulling the curtain closed, first there was a spritz of water, then a steady stream flowed over his tensed muscles, washing anticipated relief over his body in the shower. Larry knew hard work deserved rewards, and this was his for a day's training. He was no old man at twenty-seven. In fact, he still considered himself in the heart of his prime. But in wrestling, age was something lucid, transparent. He'd seen men over the age of forty take down twenty-somethings. He had been one of those twenty somethings, in fact. It was a constant reminder to never underestimate, and to never give anything less than your all-- a mantra of sorts, for him.

Which made the past few months such a conundrum. For the strides he had taken in the past year, he had suffered a couple of stinging setbacks in this new one. They made him take a step back, look in the mirror.

One of those had been in the TEAM Invitational Tournament. It had nothing to do with the opponent; Ulysis Solian was no one to be ashamed of losing to, and Tact would never harbor such feelings about the man. But it was the way he had lost, the feeling afterwards, that lingered.

There was something lacking, he remembered thinking. Not physically, as he had given his best effort. But he couldn't block a voice within, contesting that there was something more he could have done. In truth, he found himself agreeing.

Working the shampoo into his hair, he knew it hadn't been that match alone, either. That's why the voice lingered within him. This year had started with a stagnance in him... complacence? Perhaps... and he recognized it a few weeks ago. It caught up to me, and the Invitational was the price I paid for slipping... just as the NEW World Title had been back then, he had concluded, weeks ago. And then he was put on the shelf, shortly after losing the belt, turning his complacence to regret. His chance at a rematch robbed from him, all he could look back on was that feeling, the disgrace, until he was able to begin making his way back.

It isn't that way this time, though, he thought, smiling, rinsing off his head. Watching the Finals of the TEAM Invitational Tournament, seeing the match Ryan and Solian put on and, ultimately, Ryan hoisting the Merritt Trophy... yes, it had made a particular impression on him.

One that had driven him here, for the past few weeks, with one purpose in mind. He had left all other business on hold in order to begin reconditioning himself, physically and mentally. And I will not be denied.

Unlocking the door of his high-rise, Manhattan apartment, Larry walked in with the usual few letters of mail in hand. He had leafed through them on the way up the elevator; nothing too interesting. TEAM had sent a letter about the Tournament of Champions, but he hadn't looked at the list of names at the bottom. Just another reminder, he thought. Tossing the mail on the end table near the black, vinyl sofa, he moved to the minibar and fixed himself a drink. Sitting on the sofa and clicking on the news, he took a sip of the drink and glanced at the letter, unfolded on the table. He picked it up.

They'll be announcing it soon enough, anyway, he considered, perusing the list of eligible competitors, spanning circuits. So many champions... so many challenges... He puts the glass to his lips and takes another drink, not swallowing immediately, savoring the flavor. I can't deny, it would have been nice to get in the ring with-- And then his eyes settled on the name: Larry Tact.

His thoughts cut off like a knife slashing through a taut cord.

Fresh adrenaline flooded his supposedly fatigued body.

And his drink sprayed out of his mouth, onto the letter.

06-12-07, 08:36 PM

06-13-07, 02:30 PM
[A message appears onscreen over a black background.]

The following is paid for by the friends of Christian Light. Christian Light did not authorize this or have any part in its production or airing.

[The message fades into darkness and we fade up.]

[A non-descript blue wall is the backdrop for a single man sitting at a pine-colored wooden desk, holding a stack of papers in his hands. The man is dressed in a ridiculous-looking black wig, black suit jacket, and plain blue tie that is the exact same color as the backdrop.]

[And after half-a second:]

V/O: It’s Time for “Why Christian Light Is Better Than You!” Here’s your host, President B. Dazzle!”

[The man, now identified by the ridiculous name of President B. Dazzle, shuffles the papers in front of him briefly before setting them down in front of him Anchorman style.]

President B. Dazzle [PBD]: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the show “Why Christian Light is Better Than You.” On this show, we’ll examine exactly why Christian Light is the best wrestler in the alliance, rankings be damned. And, unlike other so-called news shows, we’re actually going to show you video evidence of why he is so great. And I can think of no better way to prove my point than by showing you in-ring performance.

[A fancy graphic flashes up on the screen. It shows the words “In-Ring Prowess” in gray canvas-colored letters. The graphic fades, leaving us with Mr. Dazzle once more.]

PBD: In this business, many people say many different things about how good they are in the ring. Aside from the occasional incoherent rambler or talentless brawler...

[Over Dazzle’s shoulder, we see a picture of HRW’s Frank Dylan James, eating something off of the Hudson Valley Championship. This is from a previously-aired promo.]

PBD: ...everyone trips over themselves talking about how they’re the greatest thing since the wheel. Everyone, that is, except Christian Light. See, Christian doesn’t have to tell anyone that he’s the greatest of all time. He just shows up, whoops dat ass, and leaves with his hand held high. Let’s go to the videotape.

[President B. Dazzle disappears from our screen, and is instead replaced with a frozen image of a match. Off to the side, we see a small man with long blonde hair standing on the apron holding the top of his head. In the ring, we see a goofy-looking guy with long black hair wearing a black T-shirt with “BACW” written in white letters on the front. He seems a little lost and he’s holding his abdomen area.]

PBD[v/o]: Watch the impact from this spear.

[And right on cue, a taller, well-built young man wearing blue tights and sporting a blonde flattop haircut comes charging into the shot and cuts the first man in half with a vicious spear.]

PBD[v/o]: That’s the kind of impact that a spear can have when it’s thrown by a man who is the greatest wrestler of all time. Namely, Christian Light.

[On the video clip, Light stands up and stalks his opponent. People come in from behind Light, off-shot, but they quickly move across the ring. One of the three punches the man on the apron that was holding his head and then follows him out to the floor. In the ring, we see the man with the blonde flattop, identified as Christian Light, kick the other man in the stomach, lift him up in a front body press, and then spin his body around and fall, catching the other man in an Ace Crusher position.]

PBD[v/o]: BAM! That’s the Danger Strike, folks, and if you get hit with it, it’s all over but the shouting.

[Light covers, and sure enough, gets the pin on this man. We cut back to the Pres at the desk.]

PBD: Okay, I know what you’re all saying, “But President B. Dazzle, Sam Natas’ middle name is ‘suck’. What does that prove?” Okay, fine, doubting Sallys, let’s show you another clip on someone you all might recognize. Let’s go to the videotape.

[Again, cut to the footage, and we see, this time, Light is on the left side of the screen, rising from the canvas, and TEAM Tournament competitor and all-around asshole Victor Mandrake, frozen in mid-run, charging in from the right. Both men are sweaty, and Light’s back is all red.]

PBD[v/o]: Now we’re gonna talk about a massive display of power. Watch this footage from WWA’s Summer Games Seven, where Light’s team fought against Mandrake’s team. Watch Victor Mandrake, also knows as Mr. Hostess, get what’s comin’ ta him.

[The video resumes. Mandrake, who was then billed at four twenty-five, charges at Light full speed, but Light ducks down, hooks both of Mandrake’s legs, deadlifts his ass off the ground about five or six feet straight up, and then drills him with a spinebuster, shaking the ring.]

PBD[v/o]: We call that pure, limitless power. It takes some strength to lift that fatass up into the air.

[The screen cuts back to President B. Dazzle, who’s still in the same newscaster getup at the same desk.]

PBD: Standing six foot seven and tipping the scales at two eighty of pure muscle, Christian is a power machine, able to deadlift the heaviest of competitors at any given time. Doubt me? Well, then...let’s go to the videotape.

[And once again, we go to footage. Christian Light is standing on the top turnbuckle of a ring surrounded by a cage, hooked on the receiving end of the suplex position from another man. The footage is rolling as we cut in, and we see the other man lift Light for the superplex, but Light counters by grabbing onto the cage with one hand.]

PBD[v/o]: This is Christian’s third match in one evening, folks. After he got done throwing Mandrake around like a rag doll and going toe-to-toe with Thomas Bane, he still has enough power to resist a top-rope Ego Check attempt from Jimmy Riley.

[After the man, now identified as Jimmy Riley, is forced to put Christian back down, Light releases the cage and quickly elbows Jimmy Riley in the ribs.]

PBD[v/o]: And you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

[After a couple more short elbows, Light shifts position and presses Riley, no small man, into a torture rack position while standing on the top rope.]

PBD[v/o]: Oh, by the way, y’all better watch out for this move, too. It’ll knock you the (no audio) out.

[After a second delay, Light leaps into the air and brings Jimmy Riley crashing down head-first in a piledriver position. Riley’s neck compresses into the mat as Light flops onto his back as well.]

PBD[v/o]: That’s called the Sledgehammer, and that’ll kill a ho. But that ain’t all he’s got. Check this out.

[The clip pauses for a second. Then we get an abrupt cut to a new clip, this one of Light, in mid-air, holding another man in powerbomb position. The man frozen in the receiving position is bald and has a spiderweb tattoo on the top of his head. The clip rolls, and Light and the other man come crashing down to the mat. Light, however, is right back up, and he moves to the legs of the punk-rocker-wrestler before wrapping them in a Texas Cloverleaf and turning him into the elevated position.]

PBD[v/o]: Oh, oh, OH! Damn, that’ll snap a brotha’s back in three diff’rent places, homey! That’s called the Light Leg-Lock, for those who ain’t down with it, and it’ll make you tap like a little b(no audio) in no time flat. But that ain’t even the deadliest move in his arsenal. Check out this next clip.

[And now we cut to a clip with the Outlaw Championship Wrestling logo in the bottom-right hand corner. We see a smaller wrestler stumble to his feet and turn and walk towards Christian. The Last Nighthawk lifts the wrestler into a Gorilla Press position before throwing the man’s feet forward, hooking the man’s head under his arm, and driving him into the mat vertically with a DDT-type drop.]

PBD[v/o]: He calls that Realizing the Dream. I call it you’re getting pinned. Christian’s hit so many people with this move and, almost every time, it means game over. Just a few of the names that have dropped like five-dolla hos to this move include...Byron Tanis...

[The clip switches to an old clip with an NWA logo on the bottom of the screen. Light is lifting another wrestler, most likely Byron Tanis, over his head with the Gorilla Press before bringing him down on the top of his head.]

PBD[v/o]: ...Mitsuya Li...

[Another shot, this one with a CAL logo on the bottom. Light holds up The Crocodile before spinning his legs forward and driving him head-first into the ground.]

PBD[v/o]: ...and The Widowmaker.

[Cut to another clip, again with an NWA logo on top. This one’s of a man in a bondage suit, complete with bondage mask, being lifted high above The Last Nighthawk’s head. The man is by far the biggest man of the bunch...only Victor Mandrake compares to this man in sheer girth. Light presses him in the air with a small modicum of difficulty before dropping him head-first with the deadly move.]

PBD[v/o]: Okay, that’s enough.

[And the picture cuts, putting us back in the studio with the newscaster-dressed President B. Dazzle.]

PBD: Now, I can hear some of you asking, “Why doesn’t Christian come out and show us this himself?” Truth be told, he’s too damn nice to. If he came out here and was told to promote himself, he might refer to himself as “just another wrestler.” And that’s fine to a point, but sometimes you have to be an ass to get your point across. That’s why we cut this promo right here. And speaking of which...

This weekend, Christian returns to All-Star Wrestling Association in his first match in over a month. And unfortunately for you, Param Vars, you’re the unlucky asshat that’s in the way. And here’s the best part...Christian told me, personally, that he has a new finisher to try out on Mr. Vars. He even went as far as to tell me it’s as deadly as The Sledgehammer, if not more so. So Mr. Hightower, I’d prep the medics with some spatulas, because you’re gonna hafta peel ol’ Flash off the canvas when Chris gets done with him.

And for those of you watching this that happen to be in the TEAM Tournament of Champions? Make it a point to get a copy of that broadcast, because that’s what ‘cha got comin’ for ya.

Until nex’ time, Slapaho tribe representin’. Pimps up, hos down.

[Cut feed.]

06-13-07, 02:30 PM
Not sure why this appeared twice. Bad boards!

06-13-07, 06:33 PM
I came here last year a relative newcomer. I barely made eligibility. I knew nothing of my opponents, save for my NAPW counter parts. I was a bit out of my league. Now, some people would just go home after they were beaten in the first round, and never come back. But I've never been one to take a loss. So I signed up for the first TEAM Supershow. And the Second. And the Dupree Cup. And the TEAM Invitational. And I finally start to win some matches. People take notice. Sure, I had setbacks. But that's the nature of the business. And now? Here I am:

The NAPW Champion. The longest reigning champion in its history. More defenses of this title than anyone. And yes, that includes D!, last year's Champion of Champions.

I am the TEAM Challenge Champion. Two defenses so far and counting.

And now I've come for the Tournament of Champions. And the names are a bit more familiar to me. And the history? ... I have so much to make up for this year...

Professor Tremendous. You eliminated me in the first round last year. I'll be looking for you.

Big Dog. We met at the Dupree Cup. You made me say I Quit. While my humbling was appreciated, the loss was not. I have to make up for costing NAPW the Dupree Cup.

Jason Payne. You eliminated me from the first Free For All Title match. I could have been the Champion that night. One more belt. One more honor. But no. You cost me that.

Rex Caliber. You won't be the boss here. You won't have anyone to hide behind. If you and I meet? I'll beat you within an inch of your life, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

And as for the rest? I look forward to crossing paths with all of you. I've spent a year working to be the best in this business, and God help me, I'll reach that level at the Tournament of Champions. And to all you who fall at my hands?

Nothing personal. Just Business.

Irish Fire
06-14-07, 06:53 PM
"Greetings, my name is David Paige. I am the Emerald Isle Champion of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Wrestling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Republic</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and competitor in the TEAM Tournament of Champions, much like the rest of you. This is an interesting scenario for me, as it has been awhile before I have had to speak to an audience who does not have even the slightest idea of who I am, and what I have accomplished. Indeed, it is an honor to be before the presence, and soon to be in direct competition with so many champions, from all across the world. <o:p> </o:p>
"It is an interesting condition to be a champion. Being a champion means not only the ascension to highest peaks of the spectacle that is Sports Entertainment but also becoming the icon of the spectacle itself. A champion is not merely an individual, he is culmination of the narrative, the protagonist of the greater legacy that is the spectacle. His relation with his federation is far from superficial, but rather becomes total. While a competitor may earn a win via his own physical traits, it is in fact his relation to the spectacle which will earn him a title. Victory alone does not grant a championship; rather, it is the prestige of narrative synthesis.
<o:p> </o:p>
"Because a champion is eternally tied into the narrative which brought him to the title, there is always a limitation towards his own greatness. What I mean by this is that there is no such thing as, one would say, an ‘objective champion.’ Because the narrative of the spectacle is limited to the particular spectacle, the greatness of said champion will always be limited by that boundary. How often has a champion of another federation come a new home and soon found himself floundering at the midcard or lower? Indeed, a champion of one spectacle, one narrative, might find himself painfully alienated should he enter into another.
<o:p> </o:p>
"Thus, the concept of a tournament of Champions takes on a very interesting perspective in this relation between champion and federation. It is essentially an attempt to objectify the subjectivity of the champion/spectacle relationship and to establish a grand champion. One might argue that such endeavors have already been made, and moreover accomplished. Take my own federation, the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Wrestling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Republic</st1:placetype></st1:place>. It is in fact a greater part of a larger coalition of federations, known as the WWA. This greater body offers to all competitors within the individual federations three titles by which the unity of the coalition can be determined: The World Heavyweight Championship, The Double Crown Championship, and the World Tag Team Titles.
<o:p> </o:p>
"One might be tempted to consider these titles to be in essence similar to the proposed culmination of the Tournament of Champions, but this is a viewpoint with which I would vehemently disagree. As the WWA is a body of federations, there must be an implied consensus within that unity, a general philosophy. When a champion emerges, and a contender is selected, that grand unifying philosophy will be the body of the spectacle under which they compete. Therefore, they are not so much fighting without the prejudice of subjectivity, but rather a more vague and generalizing subjective philosophy that unifies the federations of that one body.
<o:p> </o:p>
"This is where the Tournament of Champions is noticeably different, but unfortunately, also painfully similar. Where as the average contender for a World Title in the WWA will already have proven himself acceptable by the unified spectacle of the coalition, in this tournament, the contenders have joined with no such assumption of narrative synthesis. Rather, they are invited due primarily to their role as synthesized icons of the spectacles from which they come. There is little prejudice in the selection of contenders, rather a trust in the pre-existing prejudices of their home federations. However, this is not to say that in selecting competitors without prejudice, that the end result will find an objective Champion of Champions.
<o:p> </o:p>
"Because of the nature of Sports Entertainment, there can never be a competition without the prejudice of the spectacle. We must not delude ourselves into thinking we are the sort who might triumph on athletic ability alone. Sports Entertainment is about narrative as much as it is about competition, and without the narrative, the competitive element becomes almost trivial. Therefore, within this competition a new narrative will be established, a metanarrative of the all the federations we represent. This narrative, this meta-spectacle will place upon us the same restrictions and prejudices that the spectacles of our home federation bound us by, and some of us will find ourselves greatly limited by such new philosophies.
<o:p> </o:p>
"In effect, our championships become almost entirely superficial here, as even the prestige and importance of a title belt is lost within the confines of the tournament spectacle. As mentioned above, being a champion is about being an icon. As part of this iconic status, a certain prestige is associated with the booking. A champion never, for example, is necessarily meant to be overcoming a foe, but rather the challenger is the one expected to overcome. There are certainly cases of champion as underdog, but in observation one will usually notice that these cases take on a roughly similar form to a challenger chasing champion narrative, only with the title on the other’s waist. Even after having the lost the title, the belt stands as an icon of the potential of the Sports Entertainer. He was once the icon of the spectacle, could he be again?
<o:p> </o:p>
"This is why I have joined this tournament, as a champion and high ranking contender for the World Title at the WWA, I am part of a grand narrative and spectacle which reaches far beyond myself. However, within the Tournament of Champions, I find my own narrative effectively rebooted as I enter this new spectacle. Here, I will see if I might manage to adapt myself to a variety of narratives, and be a champion under an entirely new spectacle. Am I truly a great competitor, or do I merely find myself isolated in a contingent that has selected to appreciate me? I do not see this as a test of my athletic abilities, but rather as a test of my ability to narrate myself. My success depends almost entirely on this.
<o:p> </o:p>
"Good luck to the rest of you. You will find this battle to be hard-fought."

06-14-07, 09:58 PM

"Yeeeeeaaaaah, I'm gonna need you guys to take everything you're saying, and just shove it right back up your asses, mmkay?"

Bryan Storms, dressed to the nines in khakis, a blue striped shirt, a navy blue blazer and his ever-present blue tinted sunglasses, sits at a winged-back desk chair in the small office inside his New York City apartment. The former MCW World Heavyweight Champion is noticably confident, and he smiles at the camera before he pulls off his sunglasses, sets them on the desk beside him, kicks his feet up on that desk, and looks at the camera.

BS: God, you people just talk and talk and bloody talk, don't you?

"I won this championship!"

"Screw you, I won this championship!"

"Screw all of you, I was the Mega Double Monkey Funland Universe Gauntlet Champion 9 times in the last seven months!"

It just goes on and on and on, doesn't it? By this point, I've heard enough verbal vomiting in the past 72 hours or from people I've never heard of before and will never hear from again after this shindig to make me want to blow a few chunks of my own. Hey, the only one of you who's sent a tape to TEAM that I've even remotely heard of is Larry Tact, and he showed us all the rabid excitement of reading one's mail.

Other than that, we've got a bunch of jokes who've won this championship or that tournament or such-and-such Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes that, before anyone steps in the ring, automatically makes them better than the people in this tournament that people who pay attention to the wrestling world have actually paid attention to in the past decade.

Gents, you're all gonna have to face facts when we get underway in Volume 2of the Grand Ol' ToC. It doesn't matter what fancy names you have for the championships you've won. It doesn't matter if you're an eight foot three, seven hundred ninety pound albino freak of nature with the agility to pull off a corkscrew shooting star press. It doesn't matter which laws of physics and logic you defy by being the complete morons that you are.

What matters is that you bring it when you get inside that squared circle, and on a night in, night out basis, I do that as well as any man in this industry, kids.

I'm not a multi-dozen time champ, I don't come in here with top billing. I worked my ass off for one world championship, and as of a few weeks ago that place doesn't even operate anymore.

I'm not here, like the rest of you, to show off my resume. I'm here to make a resume, and I plan to do it in the ring, because I guarantee that when the bell rings on this tourney, I'm gonna show that you don't need to have gold strapped around your waist at the present time to be a true champion.

You've just got to be tough enough, smart enough, and have enough willpower to hold out through the most grueling night of your career.

I kicked cocaine and won a world championship two months later. I don't think one night against a field of massive never-will-be's stands to be that much of a greater challenge. And gents, when the time comes, there's not going to be a single man, woman, or supernatural creature that can call himself champion that'll be able to out think and out strategize me.

Any more of this B.S. and I'd have to kill myself, so I'll see all of you when everything is on the line.

I hope, for the oddsmakers sake, that the rest of the feel presents something more than the disorganized rabble thing we've got going on right now.

Otherwise, the fans laying down the big bucks for primo seats are going to be in for a very short night for all that hard-earned cash.



06-14-07, 10:00 PM
Show up, damn you!

06-15-07, 01:38 AM
The only one winning this thing is going to be a woman...me...Ashley Scott. Now lick my bootheel you insignifcant dogs!

Jason Payne
06-15-07, 02:50 PM
Fade In on Jason Payne standing in front of a TEAM banner with his arms folded over his chest.

Payne - "Yeah I'm supposed to trash talk or whatever, the other particpants in this Tournament of Champions. So, seeing so many blowhard wannabes have already wasted enough time blowing smoke up everyone's ass...I guess it's my turn. So what I have to say to my opponents in this is a simple message."

"****. You. Get in your rental cars and head the **** out of dodge right now, because I'm here to tell you, that over half of you *****es don't have a ****ing prayer whatsoever. I ain't going to waste time explaining why, because the longer you guys open your mouths, the more you will explain that all yourselves."

"So in closing, go **** yourselves."

Jason Payne holds up a middle finger for the camera as we FTB.

06-15-07, 06:46 PM
::::Watching the last trash talk segment by Jason Payne, a view from a television quickly backs out to the burns on the back of Jay Smash. Turning to face the camera, he looks confused, as if wondering just what in the world he just watched.:::::

Jay Smash: What in the world did I just watch? Was that supposed to be serious? Really? Really?.... REALLY? Apparently years of wrestling, you've lsot yourself somehow my young friend, because inside of that ring in a tournament of this calibur, there are no wannabees, there are no jokes, no smoke going up anyone's ass.

This is a moment for all of us. You call that piece of sh*t trash talk? Now explain to me how we are supposed to have time to trash talk one another if we aren't opening our big ass mouths. I could always flick you off, right here on camera, possibly prove to you how great I am by hurting someone much smaller and innocent, but really, woud that frighten you? A champion?

And do the words coming out of your mouth, are they threatening anyone in any way? Do you believe that saying I as well as the rest of us have no prayer whatsoever is going to stop us, make us turn around and send us back where we came from? NO. We were invited here to talk some sh*t, kick some ass, and win the tournament of champions!

So if you don't mind, continue to damn trash talking because none of us are leaving. Rephrase... All of us are going straight into the history books, and one of us, that includes you too "Payne" will win this and be crowned the champion... of champions.

My name is Jay Smash, it's a household name, George Foreman grills got nothing on me. So if anyone in this tournament is gonna pack there bags and go home, then it would most likely be the very men I'm threatening to take down, and that's you Jason Payne. Now I need a warm welcome, I'm here, the party has started, it's only getting better.

In closing, to steal a quote from the terrible cheerleading movie Bring it On... "BRING IT ON!" Thank you, god bless.

:::::Smash smiles at the camera then pushes it aside as he walks out the door.:::::

06-15-07, 06:47 PM
Man... these boards are sucking. What's going on?

06-18-07, 01:28 PM
[The scene fades in and JP Severs is leaning against his trademark ride, the Nissan 350 Z, traditional orange, with the Arizona license plate reading "PHOENIX".]

Jhonen: So some more voices have spoken, yet not a lick of truth among them. Each of them exhibiting nothing different than anybody before them excluding myself. Speaking of the biggest clich&#233; in wrestling; new era bull****. Others singling a guy out to praise, and others all singing the same tune of redemption and otherwise admitting failures with their successes. Now look, I've lost here and there. It happens. But I've got an impeccable record. And while many of you share the same, I've got to start wondering just how competitive you guys really are, or if at all. I've been around this business for a few years now, and I've not seen anyone climb to the top as quickly as I have. But on the same token, some these guys running their mouths, it seems they weren't pushed at all. Like the competition was so bad, they'd win by default. Which is sad. I hate to see egos rise on account of poor competitors they're in the ring with.

[He looks deep into the camera.]

Jhonen: There's a difference between being true to yourself and the wrestling fans, but it's another to exploit yourself for cheap pops, or even some sort of mental boost. Fact is, if you need it, you don't belong in the ring with me. Guys like Jason Payne, who through the vine seems to be a favorite to win. A guy with so little to say, tries to flip it, only to excuse his inability to retaliate any threatening words to him personally, or to the masses in this tournament. Either way, Payne, is a prime example of such men and women held up on fake pedestals. Incapable of complete thoughts, spill their sewage in a moment's notice, and quickly then dismissed thereafter.

[He smirks delightedly.]

Jhonen: In a setting like this, I can let it all hang out, and if need be, I'll show. Because I can. Gut check. Ball check-whatever. I can talk a lot, or few words. Doesn't matter. Payne proves ignorant when gospel goes through his ears, he turns a blind eye. That's fine. In all truth, that's what I want you to do. I want you to think you're in control. That way when the tournament gets here and you're all left in the dust, you think back and realize why it happened. Some of you won't figure it out and that's ok. People grow up at different stages. As it is, I'm leagues ahead. But don't worry...

[His smile gleams now.]

Jhonen: That's why I'm here. To show you the way. To do what you couldn't, if I didn't say a thing at all. And more importantly though, you would get there...if I hadn't entered the tournament at all. But that's where I draw the line. I show it to you, but I'm the only one that's going to cross it. What a tease right? I know. I do it all the time...

[He is amused and discouraged by the truth he has been chosen to lead. But he accepts it, with honor and with as much poise as possible, when it allows. JP understands that some of this business means stepping over that guideline and into a realm of the contrary. Again, something he is willing to do for the greater good, even if he does not always agree with even his own methods, though there is not much to argue since there has been countless evidence to show its effectiveness.]

Jhonen: In this tournament, I ain't going to play favorites nor kiss anyone's ass. As you expect me to bring my A Game, I'm expecting the same from you-even though as of yet I'm scarcely disappointed.

[He has a look of shame on his face as he shakes his head from side to side.]

Jhonen: Those watching this, that do know who I am, are expecting me to perhaps keep my composure and even to an extent do some ass-kissing. See, I've been on a new kick of my life, doing things the right way, above board and otherwise following the rules... But in this setting, there are no alliances. Nobody that I have to hold up on a pedestal that doesn't have the name JP Severs. So I won't. I'll make it perfectly clear. This tournament is of many, but from a single point of view, it's about that one person. And in my case, it's me. I don't require to give anyone any praise here. You've all gotten yours from wherever you hail from. I owe you nothing. As a result, I give you nothing, but me. And that kids, is surely-SURELY-enough.

[He smirks with subtlety.]

Jhonen: And hey, I don't want to get off on a rant, especially since there seems to be someone who finally sees things for what they are. We're here, giving our time-not just for ourselves-to prove whose the best. That means more than any one of us, to this business. Just that we're getting the opportunity as others have had, is still astronomical. I am honored to take part in this, even if everyone sees me the fool. Well I can tell you this...this fool here, will have the last laugh.

[His eyes widen playfully and his mouth extends open to gesture a silent HA for emphasis.]

Jhonen: Love me, like me, dislike me or hate me, you'll remember me. Jason Payne? Larry Tact? I'll forget about those *****es the moment this tournament is over. I don't have to play fair, nice or respectful. I'm here to prove I'm the best...nothing more, nothing less. ...May Peace Find You Before I Do.

[He smirks as he takes a step forward to open his driver door. He gets in it, turns it on and drives away as the scene fades to black.]

06-18-07, 01:30 PM

06-18-07, 01:52 PM
[FADE IN... to a written message, beneath a TEAM logo]

Dear Everybody Else in the Tournament of Champions,

I'm better than you. Live with it.



Mister Entertainment.


06-18-07, 11:22 PM
(FADE IN : Team Tournament of Champions Banner. A message plays on a screen below it.)

"Dear Mister Entertainment,


Up Yours,
High Flyer.


06-19-07, 04:10 AM
[FADE IN. A choir is standing on the stage at a fancy up-market concert hall, as the conductor counts them in...]

Choir: [Singing] Dear High Flyer, don't do it friend, don't leap from heights unknown

Although you know that he's the best, no need to kill yourself.

[ENTER FROM ABOVE a giant foot]


[We zoom in, avoiding to groans of the SQUELCHED!! choir, to see some writing on the giant foot]

Signed: ME

Mister Entertainment.


06-25-07, 06:12 PM
[The scene fades in. JP is standing mid court of his personal basketball court located on his humble-yet properly proportioned-home. He bounces the ball once and snatches it and stuffs it under his right arm, looking both amused and seemly disappointed.] ffice:office" /><O:p></O:p>
Jhonen: There's a lot of talk. A lot. From all sides. We got people that think that that the wrestling world is built around them and that without their presence, all would fail. Sounds familiar. But you know, even with my high opinion of myself, I would be nowhere if not for the opinions of so many others...who awarded me those title shots that I seized. Those Championships I displayed around my waist and over my shoulders. Having confidence isn't enough. Never was nor will it ever be. It's what that confidence is derived of that matters. Some are even hinting that they, in this tournament, haven't held the big one yet...which means, they haven't reached the top yet. And now they have a chance to skip a few fields? Hm. Which means, any old fool with a jobber title can walk into this with the idea they got what it takes to shoot straight for the top-literally. Because in this setting, a tournament of Champions, the very "best" are here. In one foul swoop, someone walks away the very best...of all. And I know some of the past winners are not in the tournament this year and have chosen some backstage rolls, but if they deny their chance to come and "defend" their being the best, they deny they are anymore. Forfeit, I believe, is the correct term here. And hey, that's fine-that's their given choice. <O:p></O:p>
[He appears genuine.] <O:p></O:p>
Jhonen: But then there are others who concern me...and-heh-not because they're a threat. Not because they're better than I am, but that they THINK they are... Or the opposite. First, Dove...speaking for Ken Hiroshi, for oh-'bout nine minutes and fifty-three seconds-was a waste of time. Not to mention, this joker is under the impression that he's actually a good manager. Not to mention, he was a bit...oh how do you say..."contradicting". First, he claimed that the Tournament of Champions would be his first real title. But went on later to say he's already got one, which is what justifies him in this tournament. Hm. Frankly, this pissant has a lot to learn. Explaining for ten minutes why the rest of us don't have a chance, is exactly why we have the greater one... Ken Hiroshi, a supposed man to beat of stature, is managed by some second rate jawbone from the suburbs... His office is run out of his house, people. ...Right here is where I would make some Jerry Maguire joke, but the ***** had the blind sight to do it himself. What more evidence do you need? Ken was hurt somewhere in the last few days, and then we find out he's got another match tonight in spite at the time being laid up in some hospital bed. How "heroic" right? Sooo honorable. Fact is, I think Ken by way of Dove, are strugglers. They overbook just to get by. That perhaps Dove's cut of Ken's winnings is a bit too high-especially for the lack of effort that Dove puts forth. Dove can't even manage getting out of his bed and going more than a few feet to his ****ing desk. <O:p></O:p>
[He looks rather annoyed as he glares into the camera, maintaining with some deep breaths.] <O:p></O:p>
Jhonen: While I, will be donating any money I get for this, to the St. Jude's Research Hospital. For me this tournament is about pride, and honor-the real kind. Not to brag, but to prove. ...Yes, we all have something to prove. As we ALWAYS do by stepping through those ropes. I got news for ya, if you DON'T have something to prove, you don't belong in this business. People ***** or complain that they've done everything and that there's nothing left for them...the very MOMENT you think or say that, nobody should ever see or hear from you again. I have my selfish reasons for this tournament. To prove to myself where I currently stand. But on my own terms. I would not speak as though I were writing a damn book to present a promo to you. I'd just-you know-cut the promo. No fancy wordplay. I give it to you straight, how it is and how you should all see it. I may be young, but wisdom is no dime a dozen. False prophets and dreamers, is the stronghold of this business, where as I and you alike, are fortunate to have me around. For this, for the first time. The first of many...because I here, am declaring that when I win this Tournament, I will be back next year to "defend" the crown. From and to it, there is prestige in being the Champion of Champions. <O:p></O:p>
[His demeanor is humbled, feeling how gratifying it would be to literally stand upon the top of the wrestling industry.] <O:p></O:p>
Jhonen: As I've admitted, I have selfish reasons for being in this tournament. I'm not going about this pretending this to be JUST about the people and giving them their Best of Champions. In simple truth, I want to be that Best of Champions at least once, where I can say I've reached the top. No old crap of new eras, or of new dawns. Just my day in the spotlight. And you guys will be there, along for the ride. And I appreciate it. Without the names involved, my name beating them would mean nothing. <O:p></O:p>
[His head lowers a moment in pondering atmosphere. His head suddenly lifts back up, and in a split second, his feel has done a one-eighty.] <O:p></O:p>
Jhonen: But I wouldn't be me, if not for at least a little controversy... So with that said, I bring up Jason Payne... A man who truly realized he wasn't up to snuff. A man who realized the opposition and failed to see him at the end of the tunnel towards the bright light. He knew he couldn't perform. Can't picture that he ever could. But I've never been one to rely on first impressions. And besides, no matter what I think of anyone before we get in that ring, will do a damn bit of good, until we actually get in that ring. So to say I'm happy or sad that Jason has subtracted his entry because he couldn't stomach the PAYNE and anguish of losing. Knowing that he would, subjected to real life lessons of false granger and worthless self-depiction of being worthy. Anyone not willing to gut it out and go the distance-you're right-doesn't belong in the Tournament of Champions. By leaving, that's an automatic loss opposed to the one he would have gotten anyway, had he met up with me in that ring... And I know what you're thinking...big talk from a position where Jason now can no longer defend such accusations. The fact that he can't however, is the proof he couldn't... No matter the odds, and no matter what happens, I-JP Severs-will see this all the way to the end. <O:p></O:p>
[He smirks lightly, nodding his head subtlety.] <O:p></O:p>
Jhonen: But back to a matter that is, well, still of note...by the end of this tournament, I'll send a Prince CD over to Camp Ken Hiroshi, so that when my hand's the one raised at the end of this Tournament of Champions, they'll sing along to "When Doves Cry"... May Peace Find You...Before I Do. <O:p></O:p>
[His eyes shut and the scene fades to black.]