View Full Version : [ToC] Round 1 RP Thread

06-15-07, 07:20 AM
Yes yes yes, the official proceedings are finally underway. Please post your first round RPs in THIS thread and THIS thread ONLY. The rules:

- Your task for this round: writing a wrestling promo/trash talk/FW styled RP. This RP must be written as if it were to appear on television (ie, it must be in front of a camera), talking to a person or a group of people. This RP must be topical to the Tournament of Champions and other competitors in the Tournament of Champions. You may write it in any style you'd like as long as you convey clearly that it is a wrestling promo being cut in front of a camera. You are free to set the promo wherever you please.

- You have a 1 RP limit, and the deadline is Sunday, June 24th at 11:59:59 PM, give or take a second.

- All normal rules apply; ie, if you use any other characters that aren't handled by yourself, you need explicit permission to use them. No shooting; keep everything in character. All work must be written by you and it must be an original piece (no recycling!). You'd think these would go without saying, but you'd be surprised.

- The Pre-Game Trash Talk thread will remain open during this time. Anything is fair game for material for your promo, especially what is posted in the TT thread.

Alright ladies and gentlemen... let the games begin!

Irish Fire
06-17-07, 04:45 PM
David Paige is in the locker room, which locker room? Who cares. Its location is a mystery, an enigma unimportant to the following. All that is important is that it is in fact, a locker room, without any difference that might cause it to seem unique from the locker rooms one has seen before, or will see again. He looks towards the camera, and then beyond it, to the camera man himself.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “So here we have it, the promo. As one can notice, all the necessary tools and scenarios are in place for just such a performance. Behind me, as you see, we have a locker room, which is very much the stage of the promo. Perhaps the locker room is second only to the ring in terms of sheer time spent. The spectacle has a very particular eye, choosing to narrow its attention solely on those details which most affect it. Considering where the spectacle unfolds, here, within the stadium, I suppose it only makes sense for most of the setting to take place in roughly the same area. But there are other details too, important ones which most be in place in order to perfectly reflect the ‘promo atmosphere’.
<o:p> </o:p>
David Paige pulls a black t-shirt out of his gym bag. He unfolds it, and slips it over his green and black wrestling uniform. On the front of the T-shirt is The Celtic Cross, which the circle acting as a ball of green flame. He flattens it out, and returns his attention to the camera.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Dress is also a very important factor for setting up the proper atmosphere. There are certain materials which are part of the spectacle. In being Sports Entertainers, we become characters, and all great characters are defined by a uniform, a certain key set of material belongings that make up the persona. One of these is the wrestling uniform itself. When one enters into the spectacle of Sports Entertainment, one must always be wearing the appropriate uniform, less they might seem out of place. The uniform in essence becomes a second skin, an organic part of the body that is as inherently a part of you as your face or hands. There are, of course, notable exceptions. However, one will usually notice that these exceptions are often part of the same organic sameness that make the uniform so important.
<o:p> </o:p>
“If a Sports Entertainer has narrated himself to be wealthy, or upper class, then he will be permitted within the spectacle to adorn himself in clothing representative of his prestige. If an Entertainer makes himself to be a blue collar guy, a redneck, a legitimate tough man, leather and torn jeans will be appropriate for back stage and in-ring wear, as an alternative to his normal attire. However, no Sports Entertainer will ever be allowed, within the perception of the spectacle, to dress in a way which is not symbolic of his particular narration. The millionaire cannot wear jeans, and the tough guy cannot wear a suit, to do so is to do damage to prestige and order of the spectacle, and of the solidity of ones own nature therein.
<o:p> </o:p>
“However, as you can see, there is a special accessory to the wrestling uniform, especially popular for promos such as the one you are about to see. That is, of course, merchandize. A Sports Entertainer, if he is to wear anything overtop his wrestling uniform, will always, always, always, wear a product of his own, or, if such a product is lacking, the product of his home federation. I have reflected of the role of this within the spectacle, and strangely enough, cannot really find a cohesive narrative reason for such attire. Usually, the wearing of a product symbolic of an individual or organization denotes an expressed desire to demonstrate loyalty to that body. However, in wearing the product of yourself, what is the message? I like me? Regardless, it is a part of the overall narrative, and therefore I find little reason to go against the tide.
<o:p> </o:p>
“Now, we find ourselves with the final crucial element of the promo before me: the camera. Within all the portrayed events of the spectacle, the camera is ever present, although, commonly, the role of it is drastically different. Within a promo, the camera is a part of the action, an acknowledged and understood player within the drama, the understood observer. Thus, I am allowed to make reference to his presence without damaging the narrative. Isn’t that right Hank?”
<o:p> </o:p>
The Camera visibly appears to nod.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Oh, I almost forgot. While not necessarily a requirement for the promo to occur, there must usually be a secondary figure acting as the catalyst, for example, an interviewer, or another entertainer. For the sake of argument let’s say that the catalyst individual is in fact Hank here, behind the camera. Would you mind helping me out with this?”
<o:p> </o:p>
The camera nods again.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Excellent. So, the necessary elements are in place to create the setting of the traditional promo. All that is left to do now is to actually get to the bread and butter, the narrative of the promo itself. Within the spectacle, the promo is a very important tool as both a construction of self, and a strategy towards victory. As mentioned before, athletic ability and victory are only a very small part of the over-arching law of success within Sports Entertainment, there must also be characterization. How many people within Sports Entertainment have failed to earn a championship not because of their win/loss record, but rather because even in victory they failed to excite the crowd?
<o:p> </o:p>
“Thus, first and foremost, the promo must act as a method of exciting the crowd about the performer. Through the expression of personality, an alliance is built between the performer and the crowd. They will want him to win because they find themselves able to associate with the character presented, and should the performer lose, that association will remain relatively untouched. It is a form of security to both a reputation and a future, an insurance policy against the sort of unforeseen losses that might damage the legacy of athletes in other sports. Indeed, a performer truly skilled before the microphone will often find himself invincible towards apathy and eventual release, as the tongue is the true testament to a Sports Entertainer’s ability.
<o:p> </o:p>
“That is not to say however, that the promo does not carry with it certain advantages when considering the actual physical competition. You see, promos come in essentially three fundamental forms, expressing three primary methods of assisting victory. They are declaration, intimidation, and humiliation. A performer can often make himself quite a reputation through the mastery of one of these forms, and the truly great, the awesome legends, often find themselves being able to utilize all three for the proper scenario. You see, each form carries with it certain advantages, and must be utilized in the proper context to that particular opponent.
<o:p> </o:p>
“Declaration is mostly a defensive form of promo, usually used against an opponent who is launching a heavy verbal campaign against the performer. This is a historically minded form of retort and response, evoking the history of the performer himself as a defense against the threats of his opponent. Feuds with big names in which the performer came out the winner, championships won, and other sort of athletic glories are often evoked here. Essentially anything that can make the performer appears to be the superior to his opponent is recited and utilized. This works in the actual ring by weakening the confidence of the opponent, who will be undone by the failure of his assault to make a considerable impact on your determination. Of course, the difficulty with this is in not appearing to be an empty braggart, who is all talk and yet little action. Even worse, there is always the danger of never actually having accomplished much in the ring anyways. What is one supposed to claim then?
<o:p> </o:p>
“The second format, intimidation, is by far the most bluntly aggressive method of cutting a promo against one’s opponent. This utilizes the least amount of intellectual skill, but more than makes up for it in the appropriation of one’s physique and athletic skill. Essentially, you wage an entire physical battle against your opponent in a purely narrative sense, fighting with them in a chronicle of how you expect the battle to go. Obviously, the benefit to this method is that it creates fear in the opponent, making them wary about wishing to do actual in-ring combat with you. The downside to this method is uniquely tied in to the upside, as ones physique and prowess is the sole determinant of how well this promo style will work. An undefeated champion, a big man, a genuinely intimidating looking performer will excel at this sort of style, while a luchador or similar small man will look only ridiculous in any such attempt.
<o:p> </o:p>
“Then there is, of course, my personal favorite method of cutting a promo, and that is humiliation. Where as Declaration acts as defense, and Intimidation acts as offense, it is the utilization of humiliation which seeks to act as a sort of counter-offense, a defense motion turned into an offensive strike. Here, the performer takes what is said, or what has been historically done by a competitor, and twists it in such a way that the assault is then turned back towards the opponent. The benefit here for the performer is the causation of frustration in the opponent, which can lead the performer to outsmart the opponent, who may no longer be thinking clearly. The downside to this is that it requires a very sharp tongue, and a much faster wit, for if one fails at the humiliation gambit, that humiliation will then affect them, and not their opponent.
<o:p> </o:p>
“So, now that the setting and the law of narration for the promo are established, all that is left is to cut our promo. For the sake of the audience, and to further solidify my point, I will now attempt to utilize all three as separate examples of how these formats work. Now Hank, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “Yes, Mr. Paige?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Could you please play the role of the catalyst, and ask me about three of my opponents, one at a time, so that I might demo the different styles.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank “Certainly.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Give me your best shot.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “Alright champ, what do you think about… let me see… Jason Payne?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige pauses for a moments and collects his thoughts.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “A perfect demonstration for declaration. He has made a brief but extremely aggressive assault on all other competitors, attempting to clarify himself through intimidation as a bad ass. Thus, the response to that aggression is clearly a declarative defense. Observe.
<o:p> </o:p>
“Jason Payne, consummate bad-ass. After all, what other sort of man in the TEAM Tournament of Champions doesn’t even need to introduce himself, to cut a promo. No, all Payne has to do is walk right up, and tell us to leave, because let me tell you something Mr., if you don’t listen to Payne, Payne will make you regret it. But you see Mr. Payne, there is a problem that I cannot help but notice, sitting here from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region></st1:place>. And that’s this, whatever back-water federation you came from, your bravado might be the next big thing since they figured out how to have running water, but over the at WWA, in the Wrestling Republic, people like you are a dime a dozen. Brag all you want Payne, but I am not impressed.
<o:p> </o:p>
“Just get out, you don’t stand a chance. Believe me Payne, I have heard that before. I heard it when I came back to the WWA after my early retirement. I heard it when my very first match back was a battle royale. I heard it when I faced former Emerald Isle Champion and WWA Legend Chris Egerton. But you know what, I came back anyways. I came back, and I won that Battle Royale even with a year of ring rust. Within two months I was tag champ, and a month after that I had the Emerald Isle title around my waist. And what of Chris Egerton? I pinned him 1,2,3 at the center of the ring and ran his ass out of the federation.
<o:p> </o:p>
“I have had my share of bad asses with egos that were bigger than their records, and I have beaten then all. I am the Emerald Isle Champ, and you had better believe that I beat bigger and better men than you to earn it. So no Payne, I am not going to run, I am going to stay right here. And then we will see who is trying to escape.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige pauses for a moment.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “I am not particularly a fan of declaration honestly, but I feel that makes an acceptable enough demonstration of its role.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “Alright, what about former World Heavyweight Champion Khalid Jad.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “See, here, declaration is almost entirely valueless, as his career has earned himself a title belt that I have yet to win, thus making it hard to brag over his accomplishments. However, he is considerably smaller than me, and therefore sets himself open for the potential for physical intimidation. You see, a smaller man in Sports Entertainment thrives on being the underdog, its his narrative. Especially when he is a high-flier like Jad. A good opponent of such a competitor uses that status to his advantage as well. Like so.
<o:p> </o:p>
“And then we have Khalid Jad, the Little Iraqi that could. What could he do? He could only hold on to the World Heavyweight Title for a month. That’s what. Let’s be honest here Jad, we all know how you got that title. You went up against Christian Light, and he underestimated you, he did not give you the credit you deserved, and you showed him up for it. But, that title was just a little too heavy for you wasn’t it? The second you had that pressure, that precious and all-important title of champion, you were exposed for what you really are. A kid who got lucky. But that luck ran out the second you faced a real challenge, a real champion. Honestly, I bet you thank God every day that Eric Dane interfered in your match, cost you that title, because we could all see it backstage Jad. What could we see? We saw a man who was outclassed. I bet you thank Eric Dane everyday, because he at least let you save some face, claim you got ‘screwed.’ But we know the truth, don’t we Jad?
<o:p> </o:p>
“But you see, I have been itching to step into the ring with you, because believe me, I am going to give you the credit you deserve. Even lucky, you did beat the World Champ, and you get some respect for that. But see, I know you Jad, just like I know every single person in the WWA. You might be fast, but I am smart. You take to the skies, you had better believe I will have seen it coming, and already be prepared to take you back done. A bird with a broken wing is just an easy target, and trust me, I am not about to let you fly away. You’re fast, but that ring is only so big Jad, there are only so many places to go. All I need is to get my hands on you once, bring you to the ground, and lock in that Final Paige. You can struggle, you can squirm, but you will tap. You had your moment Jad, and I am just starting to shine. In that ring, you better bring a whole new man Jad, because I got you all figured out.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige again breaks out of character and looks out towards the camera man.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “What do you think? Scary enough?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “I couldn’t say, I am just the camera guy.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Fair enough, so, who is last?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “Oh, how about Victor Mandrake.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Excellent choice. Victor Mandrake is a WWA legend, and therefore its almost completely impossible to try and outclass him with personal history. I mean, that guy has won more titles than I have breathed. Also, I am not the dumb bastard that is going to try and intimidate him. I mean, Jesus, the man is 7 foot 4. What am I going to say to a guy like that to try and scare him? Watch out Vic, I go for the knee caps. Thus, the first two options of promo are almost comically inefficient, but there is hope.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “What’s that?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “He is amazingly serious, morose even. The guy has no sense of humor, and runs on his own narrative of being a dark and sadistic monster. Therefore, that history can be turned against him. His own virtues can be utilized as new narrative weaknesses. Allow me.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige clears his throat and turns away from the camera. After a brief pause he comes back, almost manic.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “And holy **** we have got the big man himself, Victor Mandrake, the man so goth that he ****s bats and makes The Devil throw up his hands in digust and say ‘enough already.’ I mean, the man owns an island, probably because it’s the only place on earth that could fit his ego. Then again, I could not blame him for wanting to live in solitude for the rest of his days. If I looked like a seven foot plus inbred son of the Predator and a Vampire Bat too I would hide myself off somewhere in the Mediterranean munching on Hagen-Daas Ice cream all day too crying myself to sleep in my Dani Filth pajamas asking “Why oh why doesn’t everybody like me?” But its ok big man, I understand how you feel. Cheer up though, I hear Blind Guardian has a new album coming out and its supposed to just be rocking.
<o:p> </o:p>
“Now look Count Chocula, when you and I step into that ring, after you take off that trenchcoat you got for sale from Hot Topic for 34.99 and show off the tattoos you have that you picked out of a bargain bin copy of Aleister Crowley’s ‘Satan n ****’, I have a favor to ask of you. Please, please, please, for the love of God, lay the **** done and just let yourself get pinned. Now, I am not saying this for my own good. I am saying this for the good of the WR, the WWA, and the TEAM Tournament of Champions, because seriously, I do not think anyone could survive more than a single round of your Marilyn Manson, black eyeliner, fishnet stocking, spiked braceler, I hate my daddy, get into a fight with the mall security guards because the world just doesn’t understand bull****. Honestly, how the hell can you manage to have so much money and yet not even have a clue about where to buy some dignity?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “You realize he is probably going to kill you for that?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “He was probably going to try and kill me anyways. Might as well have some fun with it.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “Should I do another?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “No, I think I made my point. Good job though, seriously, round of applause, golf clap even.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Hank: “So are we done here?”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Almost, you see, any good promo needs to end definitively, with something that summarizes the entire context of the message given. For some Sports Entertainers, this simply might be the use of the trademark catchphrase. Of course, seeing as I do not have one, it appears that I will need to think of another win to bring this particular promo to a close. Let me think.”
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige pauses for a moment, bringing his hand to his chin.
<o:p> </o:p>
Paige: “Let’s try this. Wrestling is just not about competition, its about the spectacle, the narrative of Sports Entertainment. Those who delude themselves into thinking merely the benefit of their strength will see them to victory fail to understand the complex mechanics of the theatre of which they are part. I can assure those that will enter the ring with me, that they have never faced a competitor like me before. It will not be merely a battle of the body, but of the will, of the mind as well. There is nothing, nothing you can throw at me that I will not see coming, there is no option I have not considered. This world is a stage, and we are all merely players, but I am the star attraction.”

06-17-07, 10:56 PM
:::::On camera live to an entire national audience, no different from any other night. It’s <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:time Hour="22" Minute="0">10:00 pm</st1:time> on a Sunday night and school’s out. There isn’t a direction you can look where kids aren’t outside in the summer night going crazy. The streets are crowded, the beaches are filled, and arenas are packed. This isn’t the case for one arena just yet, as we meet with the back of a legend inside his locker room. Those scars that crisscross in his skin, and the burns that go neck to tail bone. He throws on his coat, fixes it on his shoulders before turning to the camera and meeting the audience through the lense.:::::
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: Tournament of Champions. Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten my title on Nero’s shoulder but no matter, because what I have here right now, is going to make me a much stronger… much better person in the end. Where my title is right now is not weighing me down as I enter this tournament, a third invitation to a TEAM event. My luck in the past has not been great; though I have become a changed man since then, of course for the better; always for the better. I can’t tell you enough how grateful I am for having been part of a TEAM invitational in the past. It’s a chance to bring EUWC and myself to a much larger scale when entering a place like this and facing opponents whom I have rarely to never have faced before.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::Smash points to a wall with his left hand as he proceeds to push the camera with his right towards the direction of a wall covered in picture frames. The frames in which show several champions of many federations. Smash points to a few as he continues.:::::
<o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: There have been battles with some of you in that ring while I went through many wars within myself. I’ve overcome those obstacles, that voice, that part inside of me that said in did things I will never forget, but hopefully forgive myself for. I believe the big guy upstairs has forgiven me for the cruel deeds that I’ve aired in front of the world many times then, and making sure that ring will see a champion well deserving now. My goals are directly in my sight, I am planning on taking this tournament through every level of hell that it must go through to keep it known that I am here to fight a good fight.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::Smash removes a picture frame from the wall, stares at it for a moment, then places it back up on the hook it was hanging from. He takes a strong look at each and every superstar on the wall till he points out certain stars up on the wall.:::::
<o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: You’re hopeless Rex, you’ll never amount to anything John Henry, how for does Mr. Entertainment expect to go what entering the ring against some many superstars, including Jay Smash? Is this what we have come to? Telling others they will never make it, that they will never amount to anything? A tournament of champions and yet we continue to talk trash as if the others have never entered that ring before. What do you think Jason Snow or Nova would say if I told them that they were the least of my problems? What if I told Jay Phoenix there is only one man coming out of this tournament a champion, and it’s not you? How about Chad Curtis, can he really make a name for himself with stars at much higher status than him? These are just things we can’t say here, they don’t work.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::His hand gestures are huge as he points at images, places his hands together, and even acts out many words he says as he speaks out to the nation wide audience.:::::
<o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: I could continue with dropping bombshells on Professor Tremendous or even go as far as drive harsh words down upon those whom I’ve entered the ring against several times such as Rocko Daymon or Nero. So when you decide to go ahead and speak on behalf of yourselves, just know that I am not here to call you a loser. I’m not here to tell you how weak you are, no matter if you believe you are or not. I’m here for proof. When it’s time to enter that ring, I am here to prove to those federations out there, that I am here to stand strong, and make it to the end, and walk out from a long list champions and former champions and the Tournament of Champion’s… Champion.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::With his final gestures of his hands at his waist, he makes it known he has that feeling of becoming a champion once more. No matter the first time or if he has held it many times in the past, it is not with him now. The title he fights for day after day. So here he is to prove that the EUWC isn’t the only place he can be champion…:::::
<o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: And for those of you listening, for everyone that has taken the time to watch, those of you that I may have spoken ill to in the past, I can not take back things I’ve said, or things I have done, but I do know that I can apologize for it, and you may take it however you want. I am sorry for the rudeness, sorry for the cursing, sorry for the pain and suffering, and sorry for the pain and suffering that just may continue in that ring once I’ve suited up, wrapped my hair back, strapped the boots, and done my prayers. And as I kneel down, hands together, eyes shut, head held up high, I will pray for you. I will pray for Larry Tact to stay in good health, for Harley Douglas to make it to the arena on time, for Big Dog to get his shots and prepare himself for a good fight, and even for High Flyer to bandage any wounds and throw some ice packs on those bruises, because I know the effects of leaping off the top turnbuckle, landing and missing.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::Smash takes a look at wounds on his own body, then back at the camera where he pauses for a moment to catch a breath. He shuts his eyes, directs his face towards the sky and raises his hands in the air before he opens his mouth to speak once more.:::::
<o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: And as I finish my prayers for them, I will not forget champions like Troy Windham, Shawn Jackson, the beauty of Ashley Scott, and especially Jason Payne. How can I forget you, the best trash talker here? It only took that middle finger of yours directly on camera to give me the push, that high energy feeling, the boost that I needed to get myself going towards the Tournament of Champions. Sorry that it wasn’t anyone or anything else that got me going, but I’m just being honest. Thank you Jason Payne, for giving me what I needed to enter that ring, because now I know for sure what I am expecting and who I am going for first.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::Smash pulls Jason Payne’s picture frame from the wall and carries it roughly. He seems to have trouble holding onto it, then with the slip of both hands he drops the picture and falls forward, stepping on the image, cracking the frame between his right foot and the floor. Smash sticks his hands over his mouth, and nods, heading towards an apology for dropping it, but it doesn’t seem to come out.:::::
<o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: Hmm.. Well hey, go ahead, keep those cameras rolling cause I can go on. Unless of course you think I’ve said enough… No? All right then, what more can I say? I think I’ve said all I had to say… Let me go to the check list. Let’s see… I’ve made sure you all knew I don’t exactly have a title at the moment, I’ve made it clear I have all good intentions and absolutely no hard feelings about the past, just in case it is brought up. I have mentioned a little bit about my mental condition, but that’s nothing to be alarmed about anymore. I’m fine, and there is nothing to worry about. I’ve said what I could to make sure nobody is put down. Not one person is here for the wrong reasons. We are here for a good match, and no matter the numbers, or how long the fight must go on, we will all be entering that ring a champion… a former champion… A superstar that didn’t stop when it counted the most, and will certainly not stop now.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::Smash takes a few steps through the room and looks around patiently as weapons that seem to be in every direction. He stares a steel chair, followed by a baseball bat. Moments later a sledge hammer comes into view. Smash picks the sledge hammer up from the corner in the room and practices a swing with the hammer slowly, aiming for nothing in particular.:::::
<o:p> </o:p>
Jay Smash: I will pray for you and slandering is not my intention here. You know what you can do. I know what I can do. When worlds collide, we will show the rest watching what we are willing to do to be a champion. So it begins here. I’m ready, it’s not my job to prepare you for what is in store, I’ll be ready for whatever you’ve got. For those of you that know me, then you know what is coming next, and anyone else willing to sacrifice themselves to enter that ring for the Tournament of Champions, you’ll be happy to hear that it’s still my time…. Yeah, so know need to worry about that, it’s my time, it’s smashing time! “The disease” has spoken. Good luck and god bless.
<o:p> </o:p>
:::::Smash now stands at the wall smiling with the sledge hammer still in his hand. Given a few seconds later, Smash raises the sledge hammer and slams it directly into the wall causes a massive hole through to the next room. The shaking from the blast removes several picture frames from the wall. Smash tears out the sledge hammer and continues to swing into the wall, smashing every image till there is nothing left. When the wall has been destroyed, Smash drops the sledge hammer down, and looks away, where there is nothing left to see.:::::

Khalid Jad
06-18-07, 05:25 PM
He couldn't help but be restless. To those that had to watch him stride back and forth, as if he was a security guard following a predetermined route, it could get annoying. But to Khalid Jad, pacing back and forth was his silent crusade against nerves that threatened to send him into vomit-inducing convulsions.

"Five minutes until you're on, Mister Jad."

He nodded at the stage hand. He looked like a nice enough fellow. He was around mid-thirties, long black hair, which he tied back in a pony tail, balding at the top. And he always wore t-shirts with those cheesy slogans on the front, such as 'Where's the beef?', or 'Don't Worry, Be Happy'. Khalid thought of the description Americans used for that type of individual. He recalled it had something to do with living in their parents' basement.

"Thank you."

Interviews were such a bother. It was a strange thing to get nervous about, really. Khalid was perfectly fine competing in front of thousands of screaming fans, but if you put a television camera in his face, suddenly he adopted a deer-in-the-headlights look, and wished he was anywhere but here.

But he realized -- after he'd been scolded about it numerous times -- that interviews were just another part of the business. Interviews sold tickets, sold merchandise. Interviews made people give a damn about the wrestlers, and about the matches they were competing in. Khalid wasn't sure why that would be the case. After all, shouldn't a finely wrestled match leave a lasting impression upon the fans? But he'd long since given up arguing against it.

"Who is conducting the interview?" Khalid asked the stage hand.

The pony tailed man glanced down at his clipboard, scanned the page for a couple of seconds, then looked up at Khalid. "No one, sir. You're doing this thing solo."

"Solo?" Khalid asked.

The man nodded. "Yep."


Those were the type of interviews Khalid abhorred. It was bad enough when he had to sit in front of the camera, with an interviewer force-feeding him questions, prompting him for obvious answers. But to stand there and talk without any sort of prompting, and make it so that you don't end up appearing like a rambling fool, that was something entirely different.

So Khalid began pacing faster.

Lowering his head, he began to go over in his mind what he wanted to say. After all, this tournament was a new experience for him. Sure, he recognized some names, such as Christian Light and Victor Mandrake, who were fellow former WWA World Champion. But his history with many of the names he could potentially be facing was extremely limited, or none at all. So he'd have to be quick on his feet, ready to improvise if a new idea hit him at a moment's notice.

"You'll do good, sir."

"What?" Khalid asked, shaken from his thoughts.

He looked up to see the stage hand looking at him. Staring, really. Like a fan who was in the company of a celebrity they admired. It was an odd feeling, that. Being seen as larger than life by someone, even as insignificant as this stage hand. It was something he wasn't sure he'd ever be accustomed to.

"You'll kill 'em in the interview, Mister Jad," the stage hand said, an adoring smile plastered on his face.

Khalid smiled back. "I know I will." He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

But the stage hand seemed satisfied with that answer. He nodded, smiling wider, then ducked his head through the door to the recording studio, where the previous interview was drawing to a close.

He looked back at Khalid. "One minute, sir," he said, holding up one finger as though Khalid needed the visual translation for what he'd said.

The grappler from Iraq merely nodded.

This tournament was going to be a huge deal. No matter how much the various competitors may want to shrug it off as inconsequential, the tournament was anything but. The fact that so many talented men and women were being pitted against one another, with a chance to prove who truly was the best was enough to make any arguments to the contrary irrelevant.

Khalid knew better. Even now, as he struggled to piece together what he would say when the cameras were rolling, he knew that he'd avoid discounting the importance of winning the tournament. This was his chance at stardom, his chance for men, woman and wrestling promoters outside the World Wrestling Alliance to see what he was truly made of. He was determined to show the world what he could do.

"You're on, Mister Jad."

Time to put his game-face on. It was showtime.

~ * ~ * ~

"Let the games begin. Isn't that the popular catch phrase?"

[Wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, and a thin, white button up short sleeved shirt, he was dressed like any other young man you'd find on the street. There was nothing flashy about his dress attire.]

"As I look at the names of my fellow competitors, I see one thing in common: you're all former champions of some sort. Whether it be World champion, regional champion, or any of the literally hundreds of other titles floating in the vast wrestling ocean, each and every one of you has at one point or another tasted championship gold."

[The backdrop was just like the wrestler, plain, indistinguishable. It was a simple black banner, hanging on a white wall, with the word 'TEAM' in red font written on it.]

"So I'll save you the monotony of bragging about what titles I've won, and who I've beaten along the way. Instead, I'll focus on the individuals standing in my path. To a man, you all believe you have what it takes to win this tournament. Maybe you're right. That's not for me to say. But believe it when I say that I'm just as capable as any of you of walking away as the Tournament of Champions winner. Underestimate me if you will, but it will be to your own peril."

[He stood with his arms at his sides, fists clenching and un-clenching, a nervous gesture he'd adopted since the first time he'd been in front of a television camera. His hazel eyes stared straight into the camera, a look of defiance, like a child staring into an eclipse even after being warned not to.]

"I've been in this business for only a short time, but in that time I've learned a couple of valuable lessons, ones that I intend to keep with me for as long as I'm physically capable of stepping foot in that ring."

[He paused.]

"The first being, don't ever expect things to be handed to you on a silver platter. You have to work for your title shots, and even then, you need to scratch and claw if anyone tries to take that shot from you. I've learned that in many ways, the people in this industry are like predators. If they sense weakness in you, they'll attack."

"The second being, let the braggarts be braggarts, and the egomaniacs be egomaniacs. There is no sense getting bent out of shape over something someone else says about you. If you do, you're playing right into their hands. The moment you allow someone's words to get you off your game plan, that's the moment you'll find your shoulders pinned to the mat for a count of three."

"So with that said, let's talk about my fellow competitors."

[A smile creased his lips then. It wasn't the kind of smile you would find on a Hallmark card, however. It was, ironically enough, the smile of the very thing he warned against just a moment ago. The smile of a predator who has his prey in his sights.]

"It seems David Paige claims to know me, the real me, despite the fact he bases his wild assumptions on second-hand knowledge. His 'theories' are nothing more than a wanna-be scholar, who spends his time flipping through a thesaurus, picking out random word phrases, and mixing them up to appear intelligent. Sad, really."

"But what can you expect from a man who always has too much to say about nothing at all? It's men like him, that believe just by tossing about fancy words, that means he's actually got something worthwhile to say. But he doesn't, really. Let's break down his comments about me as an example of how he's blowing nothing but hot air."

[He paused, lifted his right hand up, and began counting off each finger.]

"My loss to Thomas Bane, he shrugs off as inevitable. Really? Which match tape was he watching? Because just prior to where Eric Dane made his 'fast count', I was in control of the match. Bane was no closer to defeating me, than David Paige is to winning anything of relevance. Yet, to borrow his own method of denunciation, he's using one of the cheapest, oldest tricks in the book; that is, discount the facts, and put a negative spin on events, just to prove your weak, and often time flawed, point."

"But I'll grant him the loss for a minute, because the fact is I lost in a match that David Paige has never even been in. How many World title shots have you received, Paige? How have you faired in those matches? What, you haven't been given a shot yet? You've never won a World title? That's surprising, considering you went out of your way to downplay my accomplishment, citing it as a fluke. So naturally one would assume that being granted a World title shot, and winning said title must come about quite often, since it's hardly worth mentioning, right?"

[He smiled.]

"I look forward to our inevitable battle, Paige. I welcome the opportunity to prove to you how 'fluky' I can be. Maybe when I beat you in the middle of that ring, you'll change your 'theory' about me. Or maybe you'll be inspired to write a prose entitled, 'Khalid Jad is better than me'."

[He glanced down, taking deep, steadying breaths, collecting his thoughts. His lips ran over dried lips, his fingers clenched and unclenched nervously at his sides. Finally, he looked into the camera once more, business-like.]

"Aside from Mister Paige, there are many names in this tournament I look forward to meeting. Even though his physical prowess is enough to scare people away, I'd welcome a chance to face Victor Mandrake, to see whether he's as much of a monster in the ring as rumor suggests, or whether I can pull off the role of David to his Goliath."

"Victor, I think the reason you always view yourself as this unstoppable force is because everyone views you as such. It's gotten to the point where you have a superiority complex about it. And I think this stems from your physical stature. People see you walk in the room, and instantly they tremble. But appearances can be deceiving. Everyone, even you, can be defeated by a smart game plan. So while I'm not foolish enough to trade body slams and punches with a monster like you, make no mistake about the fact I will defeat you with my wrestling ability."

[Another pause, this time broken up by a brief smile, that winks out before it has a chance to gain hold on his expression. It's a constant battle for him, to keep grounded, while at the same time remaining confident in his ability. It's something he will probably always have to work on.]

"Of course there's also Christian Light, the man I defeated for my one and only World title. Was my win over you a fluke, Christian, as David Paige suggests? Do you believe that your four month title reign, which saw you turn aside challenges from the best the World Wrestling Alliance had to offer, came to an end because I got lucky? I hope you're not one to fall for Paige's false assumptions. You have more honor than that, right Christian?"

"I suppose there's only one way to find out for certain. If you defeat me handily at this tournament, then perhaps Paige is right, and that my win over you was nothing but a one-in-a-hundred anomaly. But if I were to defeat you for a second time, then that would erase all doubt. And that fact will be weighing on your mind when you face me. If I lose, our personal battle is tied at one win a piece. But if you lose..."

[He let the thought linger with a smile.]

"Jay Smash, is it? Is that your name, or a description of your speech pattern? Because from what I've seen of you, you're the polar opposite of David Paige. Whereas he presents himself as intelligent, sophisticated, you come across as what you Americans call a mindless thug. Whereas he speaks with a cultured tongue, you speak as though grunting and snorting is your native language. So for your sake, I hope just as with Paige, appearances are deceiving. Otherwise, I'm going to feel awful beating up on someone who likely should have been aborted before birth."

"But of the things you said that I could actually decipher, you seem to share something in common with many individuals in this tournament: a sense of entitlement. You believe that this tournament is yours to lose, and that it would take something unforeseen for you not to walk away with your hand raised high. And for that, I pity you once more."

"You see, I've often found that the ones that act like they deserve this and that, are actually the ones that don't, and are thus rationalizing their fears. When the time comes that we face in that ring, Jay Smash, the best you'll be taking out of the match is the fact you learned first hand that I take a backseat to nobody when it comes to natural ability. And unlike you, I'll let my actions speak for me."

"Jay Smash? Khalid Win."

[Folding his arms over his chest, his confidence seemed to grow the longer the interview went on. No longer did his doubts cloud his words. He was finally in his element, where he'd completely transformed into 'The Warrior', and left behind any compassion and humbleness that he'd had before.]

"For the rest of you, from the likes of Larry Tact, to Bryan Storms, to Ashley Scott, to JP Severs, I look forward to facing any of you, should our paths cross. I promise not to bore you with a long-winded diatribe of a David Paige, or the holier-than-thou dogma of a Christian Light, or the homicidal ramblings of a Victor Mandrake, and certainly not the Neanderthal-like grunts of a Jay Smash. All I'll do is allow my wrestling ability to speak for itself."

"And may the best man or woman win."


06-19-07, 08:27 PM
The Following is a DVD Extra on NAPW's "Winning Is Criminal" Card. The main event is over. Everyone has left the ring, except for Ravager. He stands in the ring, still the NAPW Champion. Rex Caliber has just announced that Ravager will put his title and career on the line next week. So things are on his mind when he asks for the mic.

So. As if I didn't have enough to worry about. My NAPW title. My NAPW career. I have one more thing to think about. The TEAM Tournament of Champions rapidly approaches. I've tossed my name in there again. Hopefully I can last longer than one round this year. I mean, when it comes to tournaments, I never seem to have much luck, do I? Last year's ToC, The Dupree Cup, the TEAM Invitational. All saw me make an early exit. So why do I think this year will be different?

He looks to the crowd for a response. They have no answers. Luckily the champ has an idea.

Well first, let's consider the list of competitors. Last year? I didn't know anybody. I was in it for the experience. This year? I'm going in a double champion. I have people I need to settle scores with. And the NAPW owner. The REBEL Pro Champion. The douchebag who thinks he'll end my career next week. Rex Caliber is in it as well.

Boos from the crowd.

Now, you all know my goals in life. Win at all costs. Be the best in the business. Defend every title like it's a firstborn child. And my latest goal:

Make life miserable for Rex Caliber.

Yeah, that gets a pop.

In TEAM, Rex, you're not the big man there. You're the guy with something to prove. I'm the TEAM Challenge champion. I'm the guy who's fought on every Supershow. Now, I'm not going to make the same mistake I made at the Invitational. I'm not going to lose focus of anybody else in the tournament. I mean, Jason Payne stole the Free For All title from my grasp. Professor Tremendous was the guy who knocked me out of last year's ToC. Then I sit and listen to guys like Khalid Jah, Jay Smash and David Paige, who go on about how they're going to beat the best this tournament has to offer, but forget to mention my name. I've worked for a year to be a competitor people worry about. As much as I appreciate the attention I've gotten in NAPW, I'm still a bit of an unknown quantity in TEAM. Even with the Challenge title. Even having turned back top contenders, I'm off the radar. So what's a man to do?

Break some bones. Drop a few guys on their heads. Change attitudes by any means necessary. become the second NAPW star to come out of nowhere to win it all. I've already eclipsed all of D!'s NAPW records. Now it's time for me to take his TEAM legacy as well. I am not someone who needs extra motivation. I learned early on that every match I'm in is as important as I make it. So anybody who faces me? You've made the main event, because I'll fight you like I'm defending every title that's possible to achieve in wrestling. Because I want to win that badly.

I am the All Business Ass Kicker. The White Collar Assassin. The first TEAM Challenge Champion. The longest reigning NAPW champion. I am a force to be reckoned with on ANY stage. And it doesn't matter who the TEAM officials put up against me,

I will be the man with my arm raised at the end of the night. I'll do it for the NAPW fans. I'll do it for the TEAM fans. I'll do it for myself. But most importantly:

I'll do it because it'll piss off Rex Caliber.

To the rest of you in TEAM?

Nothing personal. Just business.

Ravager tosses down the mic as his music plays and the fans cheer.

Fade to black.

06-19-07, 10:47 PM
Backstage at the arena, a man sits on the bench in his lockerroom. The perceptive eye can spot the slightest hint of gray near the ears in the blonde crew cut. Slowly, the man wraps tape around his left wrist. Without looking up at the camera, he slowly starts to speak.

Voice: Four years ...

Another pass around the wrist with the roll of tape.

Voice: It's been four years since I last held a singles title.

Back then, I was the dominant force in all of A1E. I held the World Heavyweight Title for a year back when that kind of thing actually meant something. Night in and night out, I defended that belt against the best competition the federation had to offer me.

In that environment, you learn a lot about what it means to bring your very best every single time you step into the ring. To you, it might be just another title defense against the opponent of the week, but it's the absolute most important match in the world to the guy across the ring from you. He's willing to do anything to take that belt away from you, and so you've got to be willing to do anything to stop him.

That kind of intensity is hard to maintain. So, not surprisingly, I eventually dropped that title. After a reign that long, you can imagine I expected that stumble would be just that ... a stumble.

And yet, time continued to march on. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years.

In that time, a man starts to question himself. What was once an impenetrable vail of confidence now has all the consistency of a block of Swiss cheese.

It's taken me quite a while to rebuild what once came so naturally. When you're young in this business, confidence is pretty much a prerequisite. You've got to have it, or you wouldn't even bother trying. There is a necessary belief that you can be the best, that you will be the best, and inevitably that you are the best.

But as you get older, as you add your share of losses to all those wins you've accumulated, the doubt starts to creep in.

Doubt is a persistent bastard. Let me tell you that. It requires a neverending defense to keep it at bay. In the darkest hours of the night, after you have left every ounce of strength in the ring, that's when the doubt is at its worst.

The man rips the last strand of tape from the roll and finishes his wrap job on his wrist. Looking up, we finally get to see the face of the man. A small scar above the right eye has become almost imperceptible over time, but the memory of it will always be with him. In his goatee, there are a couple more of those stray gray hairs. He could pull them out, of course, but he likes to leave them there in case it causes some opponent to underestimate him, thinking he has gotten too old to compete at the highest level.

BigDog: For those that don't know me, I am "BigDog" or Paul if you prefer.

You might be asking yourself, why this little trip down memory lane? Shouldn't I be telling all this to a therapist instead of a television camera?

The answer is simple. No therapist can provide the type of curative that this ...

BigDog turns and pulls the A1E World Heavyweight Title out of his gym bag, holding it up for the camera.

BigDog: ... has brought me.

Everyone in this tournament knows what it's like to proclaim themselves the very best. They either have held or now hold a singles championship of some sort. Holding this title, no matter my feelings of its relative place among all the other "world titles" out there, does not set me apart from the other tournament participants.

That's the second reason I told that little story.

Most everyone I've listened to so far has talked about how they are looking at this tournament as an opportunity to make a name for themselves. They are all in the same position I found myself four years ago. Either riding the wave of their first major title, or coming off a recent title reign and looking to get right back on that horse.

I have been where you all are now.

The difference between us is quite simple. While you are at the beginning of what undoubtedly looks to be a promising career, I am equally undoubtedly approaching the end. You are looking to make a name for yourselves while I am looking to cement my name among the legends of this sport.

The question that is left in front of us tonight is ... which one of us wants it more?

Most of you are on the upswing of your careers. You have never had to deal with adversity or the doubt that can creep in around the edges. And so you've never had to reach inside yourselves to overcome it.

While you may know about the depths you need to reach into to find your second or third gears, none of you realizes just exactly where that next gear is. That is where my advantage lies. While you have strength and youth on your side, I have the wisdom and experience of knowing how to pull myself up from the absolute worst depths you can imagine.

Before this tournament is over, one of us will need to find that extra strength. My money is on the man who already knows where to find it.

06-20-07, 02:32 AM
(The backdrops are two flags hanging on a tall mesh fence. The two flags are one of New Alberta Pro Wrestling, and one of REBEL Pro Wrestling. We see nothing behind the flags and the fence but blackness. We see a title belt laying on a steel chair. The camera zooms in and the belt is of the REBEL Heavyweight, some have called World championship. Rex Caliber can be heard, but not yet seen. The camera just stays on the flags and the belt.)

REX: Two thousand and seven TEAM Tournament of Champions! You see that belt laying on that steel chair? That is my ticket... my way in so to speak. Last year, I didn’t accept the offer, had to much going on in my business life... so I thought. Now, I own the NAPW, and I am champion of REBEL Pro. Things change big time, just the way things are. Now... the reason I’m addressing the Wrestling World today... the NAPW audience, the REBEL audience, and the TEAM Tournament of Champions competitors, is very simple. Let’s take a trip down memory lane.


The night that will live in infamy. Bob Ravager wins the NAPW title, over D!. That match placed me and Ravager on a collision course. The night that makes this tournament all that more important. Ravager had to use slightly underhanded tactics, and planned it! But I’m no hypocrite, I’ve been there... but, there’s one difference. That win... THAT WIN HAUNTS BOB RAVAGER!


The very next week, I defeat Billy Kryenik to win the Canada Cup, and a title shot at any belt in the promotion. Which belt do I choose? Bob Ravager’s of course, because business is business, and he was the man.


A man that Ravager can never beat... will never BEAT, passes out in the midst of my Rings of Rex submission hold. That match was a triple threat, and Ravager wasn’t involved in the finish, but he DID LOSE THAT MATCH! I took his belt.

June 2006

Two things happen that month. Two things that make Bob Ravager change from the hero that he became over the previous two months... too something all together different. I win my second NAPW Title, beating a man that Ravager couldn't beat for the belt. I was a champion again. I was more cheered. And then the man he hated worse than anyone... D!, wins the Tournament of Champions.D! won a tournament that Ravager also entered, and it solidified D! as one of the best ever. EVER! D! was always more popular than me by a hair, but we was always leaps and bounds more popular than Ravager ever was or has been. Ravager once again, in shadows of others, in the minds of the fans, in the minds of other wrestlers.


I wrestled a Street Fight only to get knocked out by BOB RAVAGER! He wants revenge for the spotlight he says me and D! stole. He wants me in a Street Fight on the show outdoors. The match is set, but what went down... CHANGED WRESTLING FOREVER!


A riot. A riot caused by handcuffs, a chair, and man trying to kill me. A cowardly man who couldn’t pin my shoulders to the mat without handcuffs and a whole bunch of men beating me down. That’s what Ravager calls his rebirth. A man hated throughout wrestling. I retire soon after, do to a family problem, one that no longer is a problem. Bob Ravager goes on to dupe the NAPW audience and they cheer him several months later, after D! stops caring about them, and leaves too. So this leads to 2007.

NAPW COLD SNAP 02/07/2007

Ravager finally, after almost one year... he regains the NAPW title. But, that night... I emerged the biggest winner, I won the NAPW ownership from the very corrupt Joey Malone. That spotlight that kept getting stolen... got stole once again. Now the chance to get Ravager back was in front of me. But... he was selling merchandise, selling tickets, and making me money. But then I saw that he entered REBEL Pro. A sister fed, to my own NAPW. And, I get some chatter wanting me to return to my home state, and wrestle in that promotion. Ravager doesn’t do much, but I win their belt, I am their main event, I AM THE GOD DAMN MAN! Ravager wanted to play that hero role so much. I had my plan in place, and when he finally came to be the hero... I GOT HIM!

REBEL Culture Clash 05/08/2007

My new Crimes partners dressed in masks, come to set up the trap for the third time. He fell finally, he showed up to even the odds of the main event, and Bob Ravager got his handcuffed receipt! The blood, the dented chair, the aftermath... it wasn’t good enough.

(Rex picks up the belt, and sits down in the chair. He is dressed in a Crimes T-Shirt, and shorts, with Wolverine Boots.)

REX: Bob Ravager is the champion of my promotion, and he makes me money. But I can sell tickets and put him through hell. The reaction he is getting is not what he thought he would get. A simple act of aggression nearly a year ago, is haunting Bob Ravager.

He wants to claim this and that, but one thing remains on his path. He HAS TO WIN THIS TOURNAMENT! He won’t let on, he states simply he wants to win for the money, and the glory. But D! having it and him not having one... THAT EATS AT BOB RAVAGER!

This is where I come in. I will not screw him out of a match in TEAM. I’m above that. But I will make sure, MAKE DAMN SURE, that he won’t win. Be it the first round. Be it in the finals, or somewhere in between... if he faces me, I KNOW HE WON’T BE CHAMPION OF CHAMPIONS! I’ll give this tournament my all, but winning matches is secondary in my priorities. I want to make sure Bob Ravager doesn’t win. Simple. He walks in the shadow of D!, and without this glory, he always will. And that will make Bob Ravager more pissed off than anything I can do to him as my champion.

That’s how things are. Mr. Entertainment... he has felt defeat before to the hands of Rex Caliber. Jason Payne, Larry Tact, Nova, Slappy the Squirrel, Ted the Tree hugger and whoever the hell else TEAM has in the Tournament... IT DOESN’T MAKE A DAMN TO ME!

The thing is, I’m a wrestler first, business man second, and a party animal third. You can bring on every damn body, and in the end... I’ll be Tournament of Champions winner, and if by the slimmest of margins, that doesn’t happen... I promise, NO HELL... I GUARANTEE THAT BOB “SON OF A *****” RAVAGER WILL NOT WIN!

Eventually, one way or another... he has to face his fear. Bob Ravager fears me because he is a champ of MY PROMOTION! He hasn’t wrestled anyone my, pun intended, Caliber! This is the one thing that man has to do to live without a feeling of failure. I’ll beat whoever, fight whoever, I’ll DO WHATEVER, to make damn sure that feeling remains inside him. He will not get vindication, he gets no validation, and he gets no day outside of D!’s shadow... he doesn’t get any of that, on MY WATCH!

All those men entered, and no one comes close to the motivation that I HAVE! Bring on everyone, bring the best you have, and watch in amazement as REBEL Pro’s Heavyweight Champion... WINS! But the only thing that really matters, is that at the end of the tournament...



(Rex Caliber stands up as a flag advertising his stable, The Crimes, drops down in front of the other two flags. The scene fades as Rex walks off.)

06-20-07, 11:37 AM
Rocko Daymon
What does it mean to be “champion” these days?

(Fade in on a TEAM backdrop. Wearing only jeans and a black ‘Neurosis’ t-shirt, Rocko Daymon stands on stage before the camera, arms crossed over his chest and the A1E Cyber Title hanging over his shoulder.)

Rocko Daymon
By nature, we recognize a champion as the very best of what he does. In the professional wrestling industry, they’re a top-notch athlete with a knack for going into that ring and beating the hell out of his opponent while keeping the fans entertained. On top of that, a champion also represents his federation, serving as a kind of poster-child for that federation’s regular talent.

When you think of all that, a man with bulging muscles and a shiny gold strap to go with his physique would look like nothing short of God…

But champions are not immortal. Time goes by faster than we think, and eventually, it catches up with them…

The average human life expectancy is 67 years… which is a relatively short amount of time. The average span of a professional wrestler’s career is significantly shorter, and only those lucky and dedicated enough to stay injury free and go the whole way make it past the ten year mark.

Sadly, the average professional wrestler is aware of those numbers, and knows that his time in the spotlight won’t last forever. So he becomes obsessed with defining his LEGACY, pushing himself to win as many titles as possible and to take as many names, driven by this unspoken fear of being forgotten by the masses. In essence, he wants to accomplish as much as possible in attempt to immortalize himself.

But all things are inevitably forgotten, champions, legends, and curtain-jerkers alike. Once, I myself was a World Champion in a very prestigious federation that in the present day most have either forgotten or never heard of. I’m sure nobody in this tournament cares that at one point in my career, I once drew audiences from across the world to see me compete in that ring. In the near future, I may very well reclaim that place. But as time passes by, nobody will give a damn about the things I’ve done and the things I will do. And, in time, nobody will give a damn about any of you either…

Do you think in a hundred years, anybody’s going to know what TEAM was? Do you think anybody will even remember the very industry we live for?

As the years pass by, and people begin to forget… is being a current or former anything really make a difference in the grand scheme of things?

I think not.

I know not.

And this…

(Rocko holds out the A1E Cyber Title to be seen by the millions of fans watching at home. It’s a unique-looking belt by all means, glimmering beneath the studio lights with a striking metallic green luster.)

Rocko Daymon
This is what gives me my invitation into this tournament. It doesn’t matter who I am, or what I’ve done, or what I represent… because the overwhelming majority of you will never look past this title.

But I’m not here only to be known as A1E’s Cyber Champion…

(As he says this, he holds it out to his side.)

Rocko Daymon
I’m here to be Rocko Daymon.

(Rocko drops the belt, and it falls out of frame. His audience may now only focus on him.)

Rocko Daymon
With all due respect to all the champs, ex-champs, and legends in this tournament… I feel that a man’s legacy be defined by WHO HE IS as opposed to what he’s done.

That being said, I could care less where any of you come from, who you’ve beaten, what titles you carry now, your past accomplishments, or just how big and bad and unstoppable everybody thinks you are back home. Once you step into that ring across from me, I look beyond all the insignificant gold, glitter, and hype many of you typically hide behind, and see the man that lies beneath.

And when the bell rings, we’ll see if that man truly lives up to the title of “champion”…

(Standing stern before the camera, the corner of Daymon’s mouth begins to strain slightly, indicating a thought of disgust.)

Rocko Daymon
I’ll be honest with you… I don’t believe for a second that just because the majority of you are recent title-holders that you are the “best” this industry has to offer by any means. Title reigns are shorter than ever in the industry of today. One thing I learned early on in my career is that those who are good at what they do typically know that they’re good… and therefore see no reason to brag and boast as a way of convincing themselves.

Yet all week, many of you have been flapping your gums on camera… promising the impossible… pumping yourselves up to exaggerated extremes… doing everything a typical champion wouldn’t do back in the fed he represents, because here in this tournament, many of you think you have something to prove.

Everybody thinks they’ve got all the right ingredients to walk away from this tournament as the Champion of Champions… but can everybody be right? No, because only one of us can walk away the winner. This would lead me to believe that many of you really aren’t as great as you claim to be.

So how am I any different?

Well, I guess there isn’t much I can say to separate myself from the rest of you that hasn’t already been said or will be said later on. On top of that, I have absolutely no interest in verbally stroking my ego, as many of you have already partaken to. I find the act pointless, considering just about everybody here thinks they’re the only one with the right amount of talent and motivation to win this tournament…

But those of you who know me know exactly what I’m capable of. I’m sure most of you will draw your own assumptions, and that will ultimately be your own downfall… cause if there’s one thing I do on a consistent basis, it’s soar beyond all expectations.

For those of you who don’t know me? Well…

(A smile crosses his face.)

Rocko Daymon
I guess once that bell rings, I’ll let my fists do all the talking, and you’ll come to find out soon enough.

Let it be known, I’m not here holding any personal grudges. It’s not my intent to win this tournament just to make a name for myself. Nor is it my intent to prove myself the biggest and best out of all the champions in this great industry. I have no desire to represent the federation of which I am a champion. I’m not here for the money, or the fame, or the bragging rights.

My reason here is to remind you all of what a TRUE champion is… defined by a TRUE professional wrestler.

I know the name “Rocko Daymon” will likely be forgotten in ten, or twenty, or fifty years… but what I do in this tournament I do not do for my legacy of tomorrow. I do it for the legacy of today.

(Rocko Daymon steps off camera and we go to black.)

06-22-07, 12:10 PM
An anonymous interviewer, in the center of a TEAM ring, stands with a microphone in his hands. He is dressed casually, with a TEAM t-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of black high-tops. He's new at the job, as can be told from his mild quaking in his voice as he first speaks into the microphone...

"Alright fans... With the TEAM Tournament of Champions about to get underway, we have a slew of new talent making their first-ever appearance in our ring... Some of them, you may recognize... Some of them, not so much. But each and every one of them is a champion from their respective organization. Here, tonight, you will get to meet one of them... Take a look at the 'tron..."

The lights dim slightly in the arena, and the jumbotron begins to play a video montage, set to the song "Welcome Home" by Coheed and Cambria. The song builds slowly, with the first 12 seconds consisting of accoustic guitar and nothing more. During these seconds, the name "Trent Lawless" and the ACW logo appear on the screen, and those who know the name cheer in appreication.

Then, the song gets louder, bulding into a driving rock song, and the imagry on the screen changes to match, showing footage of many of Trent's more aggressive matches...

In one instance, we see Trent Lawless deliver a Vertebreaker to a man larger than him... From the top rope...

In another, Trent takes a chair shot, but rather then going down, grabs the man by the throat, and roars in his face before chokeslamming him onto an open chair...

In yet another, we see Trent leap nearly the entire length of the ring from the top rope, spearing a man...

More and more footage plays, all of it focusing on the aggression, strength, and seemingly superhuman abilities of the man...

The final image is of Trent Lawless with one of ACW's biggest competitors on his shoulders, in a torture rack position. Trent yells, then flips the man around, the man who weighs over 100 pounds more than him, into a powerbomb from this position... This is Trent's finisher, the Lawbreaker. And with this footage, the song ends, and the lights come back up in the arena. Our attention is brought back onto the man in the ring.

"Now, it is my pleasure to give you this man... From Toronto, Ontario, Canada... Weighing 250 pounds... Represnting ACW, he is the ACW Heavyweight Champion, Trent Lawless!!!"

With this, our lights dim again, and Trent's theme music begins. He appears on the entrance ramp, and receives a significantly larger pop from the fans then the video received. He stands there for a moment, in black leather pants, an ACW t-shirt, black combat boots, and the ACW Title draped across his shoulder. He has a slight smile across his lips as he walks toward the ring.

He slides beneath the ropes and in one deft move bolts to the turnbuckles, where he leaps to the second turnbuckle, strecthes his arms out, and roars at the crowd. He is answered by a cascade of flashbulbs, as every fan with a camera frantically rushes to capture the image.

Trent drops down and repeats this action on the other side of the ring, and is again met with the flashbulbs, all of the lights flashing as if an army of fireflies had replaced the fans in the arena.

Finally, Trent drops from the turnbuckle, and walks to the man in the ring, who hands him the microphone. The music fades out, and the fans quiet down as Trent Lawless begins to speak...

"Alright... Odd ball question... Who here knew who I was before that little video?"

Trent eyes go wide, as this question receives more applause and cheering than he was expecting. He smiles, and nods at this. Trent goes to speak, but an "ACW! ACW!" chant breaks out, making his smile even wider. He throws his arm outward, extending the microphone toward the cheering fans. The chant continues, as Trent nods in approval. Finally, Trent reels it in, putting the microphone back toward his face, and the fans quiet out of respect, letting the man in the ring speak...

"So, it's nice to see people know who I am out there... Now, there's the people who don't know me... So here's an intro... I am Trent Lawless... I am the ACW champion. I have yet to be pinned in a singles match there! And I'm damn proud of that, not to mention damn proud of ACW!"

"And you see, that brings us to why I'm standing here now... In a non-ACW ring. You see, every champion there, we all got this email about this tournament of champions... And I'm gonna just say it: I think I can win this. I'm not gonna get so arrogant as to say I will win this, but I seriously think I can... And even if I don't, I think I'm gonna turn some heads, and represent ACW as best as I can. We are not pushovers there, and I have been a fighting champion. And now I bring that fight out to the masses, to the TEAM Tournament of Champions!"

The crowd pops again, this time in reply to the mention of the upcoming event. Trent continues as the applause begins to die...

"I thrive on challenges... I thrive on new opponents... So this is heaven for me! And I see a lot of familar faces on this roster, too... A lot of WWA folks. A lot of people who have only had the chance to see Trent Lawless from a distance. Well, at this event, we're gonna get to see just how I stack up to the rest of them! And I, for one, can't wait!"

"So for those of you that cheered me and ACW when I walked out here, you have my thanks. And for those of you who aren't familiar with me yet, stay tuned... I'm sure there's gonna be something you like... Because Lawlessness is alluring, people..."

Trent smiles darkly as he speaks one last time...

"...and so is violence..."

With that Trent drops the microphone, and his music begins to play again. He points toward an ACW sign in the crowd, then exits the ring, heading back toward the backstage area. He smiled to himself. He had made his pressence known, and that was enough for this day...

He'd save the chaos for the ring...

06-22-07, 02:08 PM
[Scene opens up with a Tournament of Champions backdrop against the wall but no person is there. There seems to be some yelling nearby as a few people are arguing till someone comes into the camera frame. Representing EUWC Mainframe is the World Heavyweight Champion, The Great & Almighty Nero holding in his hand a slice of toast.]

Nero: I do NOT f*cking believe this! You haul my butt out of bed in 3 f*cking PM! Your assistant then has the nerve to tell me that I overslept! You drive my @$$ off to whatever GOD knows where for some lousy interview for some lousy wrestling special, and there’s not even any cream cheese!

[Nero intently looks towards the camera as if the cameraman is trying to say something, then Nero looks behind at the ToC backdrop.]

Nero: “Tournament of Champions 2007” yeah so whatever name you wanna go with! Its still a who’s who of “WHO CARES” that couldn’t get anywhere and decided they needed at least one, just ONE real champion that could make this look credible! I hate bread without cream cheese.

[Nero heads towards another wall and looks at a few photos, of last years Tournament of Champions. Just then he hears a yell and looks up.]


[Nero extends his hands and catches the pack of cream cheese. He opens the lid to look a little confused.]

Nero: HEY WAIT! This damn stuff is pink! [looks at the pack] “Strawberry flavoured”?! Oh well, made in America I guess.

[Nero is pouring some of the cheese on the slice of bread while he looks at the pictures on the wall.]

Nero: Oh yeah, I remember that! That was last year when the EUWC had CLASSY MIKE CEEEE as World Champ! No wonder the EUWC didn’t win. Out of the three guys that represented the EUWC, Classy finished 3rd in EUWC ranks and 15 overall! That’s nice and dandy till you see who finished in the top 10 and 1st in the EUWC. ME, that’s who! The Great & Almighty World Heavyweight Champion; The Great & Almighty Nero!

[Nero takes a bite off the strawberry cream cheese covered slice and then spits it out!]


[Nero puts the cheese and slice away and looks at the camera, cleaning his mouth along the way.]

Nero: So...*spit* anyways, yeah I remember this sh*t. Last year, when I was “N-Style” Champion. And this year I’m the World Heavyweight Champion, one of the elite, the top dogs in the whole tourney. The guy that’s a natural shoe-in to win the whole thing cause quite frankly everyone knows that Blackout’s Queer-eye is not!

A new year, a new tournament, new champions, new faces. I wouldn’t know though ‘cause I didn’t notice the guys last year and I sure as hell am NOT goin’ to spend any amount of my time getting to know them or what they’ve ever done or what Championship they got. There’s gonna be just two things said; “Hey dude, howya doin?” first, and “Thanks for being here!” next. That’s all there is to it.

There was a reason that the bookers picked guys like Queer-eye, Dan Ryan, Smash and all those other loons because obviously they didn’t want to hurt everyone’s feelings by just picking me. Just because you guys have gold straps doesn’t mean squat. Of course its got nothing to do with the gold straps. It’s the guy holding them.

Queer-eye, were it not for the fact that Blackout gives me the creeps because yeah, it would be too dark and I’d get lost, that EUWC Championship would be in the hands of a real Champion. Yeah that’s right, R-E-A-L Champion. Oh wait, that’s C-H-A...you know what, it aint worth explaining it to you. Sevyn, same thing goes for you, and did if you were champ last year. Dan Ryan, how’s that U.S. Title hanging? Take a good look at last years tapes, because that’s a pinnacle you would never reach. That title had a lot more importance and grace when it was the N-Style title, and while I don’t remember why I let it go in the first place...oh wait...

[Nero goes out of frame for a few seconds and comes back with the World Heavyweight Championship belt on his shoulder.]

Nero: That’s why [taps the title] Oh and Danny boy; Mainframe, Buzzcutter, 1..2..Three? Get used to it roid-boy. And... wha-?! JAY SMASH! [looks at the cameraman] Why? [pause] You’re kidding? Last World Champ? Jay Smash!? HAHAHAHA—oh yeah, right. No jokes, I know. How could I forget? Winning this World Title wasn’t just about becoming the best, it was making sure that there was indeed a world that had a World Champion that wasn’t Jay Smash. Why? You should know, right Jay?

So you see, this belt right here was the mission; to make sure that it was held by the only person that could actually fill the shoes of whatever’s written on the gold. This says “World Heavyweight Champion” and without a shadow of a doubt it’s the guy whose name’s written right under it. EUWC Champion? I AM the EUWC b*tches! It doesn’t matter what title you have, EUWC, A1E, WFW... you name it! Sure all those other guys worked their @$$es off, sacrified everything, put their bodies on the line yadda yadda!

Here’s a simple question? How are ya feeling? Excited? Nervous? A little scared? Looking forward to it? You damn better be! All of you are the best of wherever you come from or whatever you represent or whatever you do best. All of you are on probably the largest stage put together with your own equals just to get a glimpse of the grass on the other side and if its worth anything. Clash of styles, meeting of minds, dream matches, watching poetry in motion. This is what its all about. A chance to show just about everyone else you think equals you out... that they can’t! That you’re the one that’s better than them. That no matter what other company there is or whatever Champion that other guy holds; you’re the one who’s gonna be the guy he never beat! You’ll be the reason he will never be the same. And after that, it wont just be you that’ll be proud of holding your title belt; but its gonna be that title belt that’s gonna be shining brighter than ever to be around your waist. That’s when you realize that the two of you are the best there ever will be, the best there ever can be. You and your Championship.

[Nero shifts his title belt onto his other shoulder.]

Nero: And when its all said and done, you’ll all have the honor of witnessing that pair before your very eyes. None other than the The Great & Almighty World Heavyweight Championship, held by the Great & Almighty Nero.


[Nero walks out of frame as the camera zooms into the ToC07 Backdrop. Fade to black.]

06-22-07, 04:09 PM
(CUE UP: "Beverly Hills" by Weezer.)

(CUT TO: Troy Windham posing, smiling a very phony million dollar smile, as he holds up a tube of AquaFresh brand toothpaste in front of a white background as various female model "runner-ups" from Season 2 of America's Next Top Model pose with him.)

(CUT TO: Troy Windham dressed as a sexy cop on a billboard in front of a busy LA freeway. Next to his face reads SOUTH BEACH SUN COPS STARRING TROY WINDHAM CW NETWORK 11:30 PM SUNDAYS.)

(CUT TO: A rolling cherry red Benz convertible with a minority driver and Troy in the back seat between two America's Next Top Model rejects next to him, one holding Variety and the other holding Fortune.)

(The music fades. CUT TO: Troy Windham in a hot tub with the models. The camera zooms in on him as he makes talk with the two of them. He looks at the camera and shakes is head to show he won't be talking to the camera. Instead, the camera pans out to show, standing watch, is Z.!, Troy's baldheaded, oiled, muscled Eurotrash enforcer, wearing a white ruffled tank top with dayglo pink spandex fringed with gold as he flexes The World's Greatest Calf Muscles. The camera then pans left and shows, sitting in a folding chair, Troy's chosen mouthpiece and social moralist August De La Rossi, his dreadlocks dyed in a multiple of colors, lip ring, star tattoo on the base of his neck wearing an ARCADE FIRE T-Shirt.)

AUGUST: First, let me set the record straight for TEAM officials, competitors and the eight-to-nine people watching this at home on a stolen Direct TV signal... no, Mister Troy Windham will NOT be talking to you directly. First off, as you can see in the hot tub (one girl is starting to take off her tob while another's hand is down Troy's shorts) Troy is pre-occupied. And second, honestly, who do you think you're kidding? Do you think Troy Windham is going to waste HIS time to talk to some retards connected with a fly-by-night gimmick promotion? Do you think Troy Windham CARES about this? No, he doesn't. This is an easy paycheck. A six figure check cut to him so the slope-foreheaded imbecille running this thing can get a name to put on the marquee. You think people at home are going to buy this thing because of JAY SMASH? Or BigDog Paul If You Prefer? Not a single person out there, save for their retarded homeless children, cares about them. But people DO care about the man behind me. Why?

Because, simply, he is the greatest professional wrestler to ever live. The biggest draw of all time. The last champion of the CSWA, the greatest and most important league in this sport's history. Troy Windham is the best of all time... and each and every single one of you knows it.

So Troy agreed to the paycheck and he agreed to show up on camera and he might even show up to this card, if his busy and hectic television and promotion schedule allows. But he has not agreed to speak to the audience and he won't because, frankly... you don't deserve him.

But my boss, the great man that he is, he said that if I spoke on his behalf that I would be free to say whatever it is I wanted to do during his leased camera time. And I took him up on the offer, because, frankly... you people need me in your lives.

Allow me a proper introduction to you, the wretched refuse of our teeming sures. I am August De La Rossi. I am 22-years-old, I am the greatest light heavyweight in this sport today, and I am 1/3rd of Troy Windham's Entourage, the greatest stable in the sport today. But most importantly, I am an artist and an activist whose ideals and virtues SHOULD BE MIRRORED by you people.

You see, I KNOW WHAT'S COOL. I KNOW WHAT'S GOOD. While you people will flock to see Live Free Or Die Hard this week... I'm going to be renting French films. Because that's what smart INTELLECTUAL people do. When you people are going to be going to your local Wal-Mart parking lot to see the Kelly Clarkson tour... I'm going to go see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Because that's what INTELLECTUAL PEOPLE listen to. When you people are busy driving in a SUV, wasting precious fossil fuels taht emit CO2 into the atmosphere leading into global warming, I'll be listening to an alternative energy expert talk on NPR... and I'll be listening to that via podcast on a new iPhone.

No, I'm not like you people at all. I didn't go to an AmeriKKKan propoganda machine public school. I went to an expensive prepatory school... the one good thing my father, who never understood me, ever did. I became EDUCATED. And now I'm going to use that education to LIBERATE you, since you need someone to guide you through your mundane lives.

There's a reason why George Bush is president. There's a reason why gas is $3.25 a gallon. And there's a reason why you're fat, mustachioed and lonely. IT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO DUMB TO UNDERSTAND WES ANDERSON MOVIES, YOU'RE TOO DUMB TO APPRECIATE THE ARCADE FIRE AND YOU'RE TOO DUMB TO MAKE SOMETHING OF YOUR LIVES. You're a bunch of spoon-fed sheep willing to do the bidding of the AmeriKKKan military-industrial complex... you call the American forefathers heroes but you label the Hamas liberators as terrorists.

But now, I give you a chance to free your minds and embrace a new leader, a new hero.

I give you a chance to listen to my words.

Because I am August De La Rossi.

I am The REAL American Idol.

And I endorse Troy Windham as this promotion's champion...

Even though you're too dumb to have him talk to you.


06-22-07, 04:29 PM
Berlin Germany:
Inside an empty dark UTA ring

'American Witch' is playing softly in the background as the resident and reigning UTA World Champion, The Heartbreaker, Ashley Scott sits in the middle of the ring with the title draped over her shoulder. At 5-11, 140 pounds she is probably the smallest competitor in the 2007 TEAM Event, but don't let her size fool you. Here lies one of the most crazy and sadistic performers in the history of the industry. And now it is her time to shine, to blaze the trail of history by knocking off champion after champion to prove without question, the greatest performer and athlete of all time....is a woman.

With head tilted down, her reddish blonde hair flowing past her shoulders. Her moist cherry blood red lips licked by her delicate tongue. She should be on the cover of Vogue and Cosmo world wide, yet she is here. She choosed to be here, putting her body and her life on the line every night for the sake of sports entertainment. And so now it is time, time to address what the industry is waiting for. The 2007 TEAM Event. The UTA and local german camera crew pan on her lovely face. The face of beauty, but the ice cold blue eyes tell a much different story. A story for the masses.....

"The pain...and the suffering...of a childhood lost. (camera moves to Ashley sitting on a chair). An empty chair, an empty promise. A broken dream, a broken home. It's strange, how laughter looks like crieing, with no sound & rain drops taste like tears, without the pain. All of you so-called champions, you will relive, the turmoil & anguish of an uncertain youth.

"I hope you understand that all of you are going to get hurt tonight because my words were not getting through to you. A show of force, unfortunately, became necessary. But I pity you, all of you lying there in a weakened state because I didn't realize just how into your brain these fans had gotten into you. I took it for granted that one show would be enough. That you'd see the way and walk down the path of righteousness. So I don't blame you for the sins that they've committed. For the way they've clouded your mind. But you will be hurt. I don't think the people fully understand what I'm going through here. I don't think the people understand what crosses powerful people like I need to carry."

"But as I wipe the visons from my eyes I realized it was not these paper champions holding those belts, they were exact REPLICAS! How long do you think the higher minds at EVENT 2007 were gonna wait for you? They are the big boys in our sport for a simple reason. When they see something the like, they go after it. And if they can't get it ... they'll create their own. But that very thought is the thing that keeps me going. You see it's not all through for you. Because all the magic those minds can weave. You see what your mothers and fathers all told you about being anything you want in this world, well, it may not always be true most of the time. But in the magical land of EVENT, you truly can be anything you wanna be! I've seen it all a hundred times my fellow competitors. I've seen a tough kid from Brooklyn become a black man from Macon! I've seen a farm kid from Nebraska become an overnight pop star sensation! I've seen a kid from New Hampshire become a Frenchman. And several wrestlers here who went through 5 different incarnations before finding himself heavyweight champion of the world. And though he may be that champion in an entirely different federation, I think if you ask him he would say it was the love, compassion, and monetary compensation he received that got him where he is today!"

"I'm not going to underscore the people because there are some dramatic changes that go on there as well. Oh, yeah. Take Khali Jihad and Irish Fire. Two naive kids with fake English accents suddenly becoming scarred for life mutant freaks! Where are they now? They don't even have a job other than some bingohall freak show. Take your beloved Sean Jackson. Sean went from one of the nicest people I'd ever met to a bumbling fool! You want a challenge in your life then I challenge you to have a meaningful ten word conversation with Mr Jackson. It can't be done! He's had too many concussions! His brain has turned to jello and though it might be real cute now to root for underdog Sean on his quest for the championship, but wait five years! When he can't hold a job, 30 year old Sean. 40 year old Sean. Senile old Sean.And the fans are causing his demise!"

"You want proof of what hardcore wrestling can do? And you ask me, well if you love the place so much why don't you go back? I can't. It's all over for me. I'm trying to save you. Can't you see that once this business gets ahold of you for too long you become ruined merchandise. You're no longer marketable,they don't want a scarred freak like you all with emotional baggage. It's not those people chanting for your blood."

"It is I, Ashley Scott chanting and delievering all your blood. The championship showcase turned into genocide. Ashley is coming and you will feel my wrath, my pain, my blood, my torment....my all.

06-22-07, 04:51 PM
[FADE IN – to RAUCOUS, RAPTURE-ous applause. We pan over a studio audience, a throng of cheering, clapping, hooting and hollering people wearing various merchandise T-shirts – and is that a “Lindsay Troy-Windham” sign we spot? We can also hear some kind of theme… as we strain to hear, it becomes clearer as “That’s Entertainment” by The Jam. We continue panning round, to see the stage, set out like a chat-show – there’s the sofa, and there, angled but facing the audience, is the snazzy desk. There’s also a large entrance-way, black curtains hanging across it, as a voice announces something over the PA system]

Announcer: And now… the moment you’ve all been waiting for… he is the ON TV Champion, and the ONLY man in professional wrestling worthy of holding the WHADAHTT Title… semi-finalist in the two thousand six Chad Merritt Trophy… the man who SINGLE HANDIDLY made the Chad Dupree Cup exciting… ladies and gentlemen…


[And with that, there’s a burst of pyro above the curtains, as a lone spotlight focuses in on the man himself – Mister Entertainment. The man who is the most ENTERTAINING man on the planet of his mind. He’s dressed as you’d expect – a white T-shirt underneath an open biker’s jacket, and some stone-washed blue jeans. He takes a few moments in the spotlight to soak in the adulation from the crowd, before walking over to the desk – where we see a hand-held microphone has sprouted. Picking it up, he signals for the “EN-TER-TAIN-MENT!! *clap clap clapclapclap*” chants to quieten down, before speaking as only he can]

ME: …


[CUE cheering!]

ME: It’s great to be back here again on THIS IS ENTERTAINMENT!


ME: An’ lookie what time o’ year it is? Time fer the ol’ Tournament of Champions! TWO THOUSAND AND SEVEN!!

[do I even need to say it? CHEER!!!!]

ME: Now… last year, I, sadly, hadn’t yet won the only title worth SQUAT… THE ON TV TITLE!!

[A smattering of cheers and boos – the cheers for the mention of the title, the boos for the fact he hadn’t won it to qualify by the time the last ToC started up]

ME: Yeah, I know. Shame. But… I had ta leave off winnin’ the strap so people’d care abou’ Emily Wilbur Gunnerslag or whatever his initials stand fer. But when I did win it? Oh, the good times fer New ERA of Wrestling, did they EVER start to roll!

An’ by stayin’ away from the ToC… that’s Tournament of Champions, not Table of Contents… I was able ta let someone else take the spotlight! A fruitcase called D exclamation mark!

[Crickets chirping]

ME: No? I’ve not heard o’ him outside that win either, I hear he beat the Snoragon at some point, but other than that, nope. But hey, he’s from Loserville, aka NAPW, so not like ANYONE’s heard o’ him. He’s not like ME

Mister Entertainment

A household name. None of the guys in this tournament are ta be honest with ya – an’ that’s OK – we all gotta start at the bottom.

I mean – Big Dog? Who the hell is this guy? From A One E? That company that LOST to New ERA in the Chad Dupree?


Got a tonne of people I’ve never heard of all vyin’ fer the chance that, if I wanna make the tournament seem more… unpredictable, I’ll let ‘em get a pin over myself.

Which might happen. It all depends how I think the crowd’ll suspend their disbelief an’ believe that someone can beat ME

Mister Entertainment

Cleanly in the middle of the ring. Because lookin’ at the list of participants? Well, they’re all championship calibre – but that don’t exactly mean much in this day an’ age, where every tin-pot feeder fed like A One E or NAPW or REBEL or Empire Pro or EUWC has abou’ three or six singles titles. Hell, somehow, someone called… Scooby Doo has made it into the tournament!

Fer those who don’t know, he calls himself the Rexellence of Rexecution… Rex Calibre!!

ME: I know, I know. I thought he’d retired after that GREAT send-off match I let him have back in the Dupree Cup… I mean, I know the royalty cheques I get from that match are IMMENSE, an’ I told him ta make sure his agent got him forty per cent of the take, same as I got. I knew full well his lil’ night-club endeavour wouldn’t pay the bills, so I told him – “Make sure ya get an agent who can get ya the big bucks this match is gonna bring!” An’ what’s he go an’ get?

Forty per cent off a box o’ Scooby Snax!

BUT! If he’s said anythin’, I’m sure he’s made it sound, in his mind, like it was a cake walk. Probably said somethin’ like “has felt defeat” or some crap I know he likes ta spout. As if losin’ is somethin’ ta fear?

Hell, I lose ON PURPOSE! If I went all Goldberg on my opponents, it’d make fer bad TV. I mean, can ya imagine if I’d never lost a match like I’m capable? Boy would the rest of the boys be smartin’.

BUT, when you get this collection of EGOS like ya do in this kinda tournament, ya expect people ta make some wild claims. Hell, I’m sure someone, somewhere, will say that God’s on their side, that they’re gonna win because of that.

Which gives me GREAT pleasure ta announce my musical guests tonight, ta tell EACH AN’ EVERY ONE of my opponents in the Tournament of Champions EXACTLY where God is…


[The crowd go BALLISTIC as the camera switches to the music stage – where Lemmy and the boys are indeed in attendance! With an acoustic guitar? Is something wrong Lemmy?]

If the stars fall down on me,
And the sun refuse to shine,
Then may the shackles be undone,
May all the old words cease to rhyme.
If the sky turn into stone,
It will matter not at all,
For there is no heaven in the sky,
Hell does not wait,
For our downfall!

Let the voice of reason chime,
Let the friars vanish for all time,
God's face is hidden, all unseen,
You can't ask him
What it all means.
He was never on your side,
God was never on your side,
Let right or wrong,
Alone decide,
God was never on your side.

See ten thousand ministries,
See the holy, righteous dogs, [An image of the participants in the ToC, minus Mr Entertainment, appears on screen briefly]
They claim to heal,
But all they do is steal,
Abuse your faith,
Cheat and rob.
If god is wise why is he still,
When these false prophets
Call him friend,
Why is he silent,
Is he blind?!
Are we abandoned, in the end?

Let the sword of reason shine,
Let us be free of prayer and shrine,
God's face is hidden, turned way,
He never has a word to say,
He was never on your side,
God was never on your side,
Let right or wrong,
Alone decide,
God was never on your side!

He was never on your side,
God was never on your side,
Never on your side!
God was never on your side,
Never on your side...

[i][The crowd are still going BALLISTIC as the song ends, and a graphic tells us it’s on the [b]Kiss of Death album, in stores now!]

ME: Oh… my… never on YOUR side… GOD! Thank you, Lemmy!

Because what he speaks, that God of Rock, is TRUE!

The only chance you people have in this tournament is if God is on yer side.

An’ what did Lemmy say?

God was NEVER on yer side.

But… somethin’ tells me, most of ya, if not all of ya, are harpin’ on abou’ havin’ this title or that title or whatever title ya happen ta have. Ya know what I think? Let’s turn the camera round a bit…

[The camera pans round, showing us… a skip? We shift up, looking in, and see professional wrestling title belts! Is that the A1E World Championship? And there, the REBEL titles? And there’s Jonathan Marx’s New ERA championship, right next to Lindsay Troy’s EPW strap! And of the lesser belts… yep, they’re all there, except the New ERA ON TV title, and the WHADAHTT Title!

But wait… something’s odd… don’t they look a bit foamy to you? A bit small? And no, I’m not talking about grey squirrels from popular internet flash cartoons. Explanation please!

It’s forthcoming, as Mr Entertainment walks over, reaching in and grabbing a random belt – incidentally, Big Dog’s A1E strap, which, on closer inspection, is one of those foam and plastic kid’s belts. Now it all makes sense.]

ME: Ya see, each an’ every single one of us holds or recently held one of these – though in some companies, recent means abou’ two years ago. [He reaches in, pulling out the copy of Lindsay Troy’s EPW World Title, and Karl Brown’s Intercontinental Championship]. So, titles YOU people have held? Dime a dozen.

In fact, it’s closer to abou’ two hundred dollars the lot. NONE of your belts are worth a thing. Worthless iron pyrites against the gold that is…

[He reaches round, behind the skip, to produce two proper title belts, one of which has an exact replica of half of the other, and half of a World Title belt]

[b]ME:[b] THESE! The New ERA of Wrestling ON TV Title, an’ the World Heavyweight, Actually Defended, Actually Held TV Title! All yer other belts are worth doin’ with?

[WOOSH! FIRE! It’s OK though, as it’s controlled – but doesn’t the skip full of foam and plastic look pretty as it’s burning?]

ME: Makin’ a bonfire out of.

Don’t understand? Lemme make this clearer. Ya may have heard of a lil tournament held called the Best of the Super J – it was an eight man tournament ta see which title holder was the BEST. The winner of each match got the loser’s belts, until one man had all EIGHT in his possession. Now… why do ya think TEAM hasn’t even bothered askin’ each company ta put their straps on the line properly ta make it more of a SPECTACLE?

Because your titles are CRAP. They make Rex Calibre an’ Rocko ‘What’s My Story Today?’ Daymon look good.

If anyone’s thinkin’ abou’ goin’ down the whole “My belts better than your belt” penile measurement method, lemme remind ya’ll of somethin’ that Highlander and the Super J made clear.

There can be only one!

Roll the tape!!

[The scene changes, to a story – vivid images on screen, matching the words of the narrator, who speaks in a deep, luscious voice, perfect for story-telling. The images range from a wide, desolate, grey landscape, where, rising in the middle, is a sand-stone circular building. There are also scenes, graphic scenes, of violence, some with weapons, others hand-to-hand. There is much blood, and much shouting, the screams of the weakened, the dieing…]

Long ago, in a distant land, there stood a Coliseum, its ornate walls rising like cliffs out of the otherwise barren landscape. For barren the land was all about the Coliseum, and throughout the world, as the countless battles between the nations of the world for dominance had ravaged the once fertile soils and rolling fields, had polluted and dried up the fast-flowing mighty rivers and docile streams, and had decimated the populace.

Thus, it was decided, that the Coliseum be built, on what was once the capital of the first civilisation. For too few were the armies left to any nation; it had rained, but the rain was the blood of the hundreds of millions of youths sent out to fight. The Coliseum, then, was to decide squabbles, to settle differences, and see which nation truly was the strongest; by pitting champions against champions, it was hoped that the need for useless bloodshed would be avoided.

But alas, there was not parity amongst the champions. Whilst champions they were, without their brethren fighting alongside them, they were not the powers they believed themselves to be. And so did many fall by the wayside, on the way to the Coliseum. And thus were called upon those, former champions, who had at length held the honour of being called champion, and had passed on that mantle to others.

Thus, on one fateful night, annually, do the champions approach the Coliseum. And each year, they do battle, cruel, hideous battle – limbs torn from sockets, muscles sliced from flesh, the screams of the fallen and the vanquished as they realise that, whilst champions of their nation, they are not the true Champion.

For only one can walk the stairway out of the Coliseum, up into the monolithic stands, to the centre box, where the assembled nobles of each nation sit. Only one can have bestowed upon them the honour of being the Champion.

The Coliseum is a cold and lonely place for the champions. Some vaunt aloud, claiming greatness. Others, have their weaker comrades vaunt for them. But only one can have true Greatness.

For the Coliseum is not purely a test of strength, neither a test of speed, nor a test of endurance. It does not simply test the body, nor simply the mind.

It tests the Greatness of all the champions, to see whom the people choose as their Champion for the coming year. Skill, speed, stamina, strength – these are mere momentary devices used by those who do not have what it takes to be truly Great. Money, power, fame – these things too, are merely playthings, meaningless baubles like the pendants each champion must possess to be invited to attend the Coliseum.

What makes a true Great, and the true Champion, is more. It is the ability to keep fighting, to show the crowds the struggle and strife that a champion goes through for the sake of their people, their nation, their kingdom. It is the ability to awaken deep within the spectators of all nations the emotions, the fear and anguish, the joy and sadness – to show them what it is to be alive.

This is the task of the Coliseum. To hold the wars of ages in a single, annual night. To remind people that wars are bloody, that conflict only breeds more suffering.

But he who can control that suffering, that can accept it and come back time and again, to show courage to back up their words, and admit when that suffering is great…

That person… is the true…


[The scene comes to an end, as the audience in the studio sits stunned, breathless, still hooked in the story. Mr Entertainment himself, is simply sitting, leaning back on his desk, with the two title belts either side of him, resplendent. He lets the story sink in, before speaking again]

ME: Ya see, that’s the difference between ME

Mister Entertainment

And the so-called ‘competition’ in this year’s tournament. Having looked through the roster assembled, ya know what I see? A bunch of whiners from EUWC, who couldn’t even get the job done in the Chad Dupree. I see some never-have-beens from A One E, trying to make a name for themselves somewhere that counts. I see there’s at least one guy from a company that hasn’t put out a show in over a year… a guy who I’ve seen before, an’ he ain’t no problem. I mean, if his lackey has the same musical taste as when he an’ his chain-wearin’ partner lost in record time ta a pair of guys who’re more juiced than Dan Roidon, then I know the man himself ain’t got nothing. Though… I also know if that guy cuts a tape, his little lap-dog teabaggin’ partner number one, will probably do the talkin’ an’ say the boss is too important ta talk ta low-lives like Nero, or Daymon, or Paul, or Troy Windham…

I see a bunch of losers. Guys who like ta talk tough, but can’t back it up in the ring. Guys who like ta claim easy wins when we all know, it was the toughest fight of their lives.

Because that’s the nature of the con-artist. The people who take yer money, an’ run. The people who don’t care about others, who’re only out fer one thing – themselves. It all boils down to themselves. Some’ll claim that others are simply losers, bobbin’ aroun’ in a sea of nothingness. Others’ll claim ta be the greatest thing since sliced bread, when they’re nothin’ more than cheap Ric Flair knock-offs. Hell, some’ll try an’ be clairvoyant or psychic an’ say that the rest of us don’t even have the motivation they do.

Those guys, they’re nothin’ more than carnies tryin’ ta make a quick buck. But ME?

Mister Entertainment?

I’m the real deal. I go out there, put it all on the line – an’ yeah, makin’ the other guy look great, can bang a guy up. When I let Snoragon get the pin, I ached. When I bumped fer Crocko-**** the time I beat him, throwin’ myself aroun’ that much, it hurt.

But I get back up again, because I wanna give you guys the show of a LIFETIME!

An’ what better place ta do it than the TEAM Tournament of Champions?!

No, not Russian Roulette. Not Can Show Work Again’s Gold Rush, or NFW, or REBEL, or EUWC. Not in NAPW, or A One E, or MBE, or ANYWHERE ELSE.

But here in TEAM, where the New ERA is KING.

Because as much as the competition is gonna say it’s about them? It’s all about givin’ you guys a show, gettin’ ratings, keeping people like my competition in work, gettin’ ‘em decent pay cheques, an’ makin’ headlines.

In short… it’s all about ME.

Mister… Entertainment.

An’ now, ta play us out, with another GREAT song from Kiss of Death, a truly legendary band… MOTORHEAD!

[The screen turns back to Motorhead, who’re just starting their brilliant song, “Sword of Glory.”]

Where are we to go from here in time,
Do you see the future, do you know,
What can you expect from years to come,
And what can you do now to make it so,

All of history is there for you,
All the deeds done in the world of men
If you don't know what has gone before,
You'll just make the same mistake again and again and again.

Soldier, soldier, see where we were,
You have to know the story,
Older or colder, life isn't fair,
Got to grab the sword of glory,

If you can't see what bloody fools we were,
Then you were also born a bloody fool,
Listen to the hundred million dead,
They didn't know it, but they died for you,

All you know is that you're young & tough,
Don't you think those millions thought the same,
If you don't know where it all went wrong,
You'll just make the same mistake again and again and again.

Soldier, soldier, see where we were,
You have to know the story,
Older or colder, life ain't fair,
Got to grab the sword of glory,

Read the books, learn to save your life,
How can you find the knowledge if you don't,
All the brave men died before their time,
You'll either be a hero, or you won't,

Don't you realize the ony way,
Is see why all those brave men died in vain,
If all that slaughter doesn't make you sad,
You'll just make the same mistake again and again and again.

Soldier, soldier, see where we were,
You have to know the story,
Older or colder, life ain't fair,
Got to grab the sword of glory.


06-22-07, 05:44 PM
[The scene fades in. You hear "Apostles Of Darkness" by DragonForce kick on. You see a sun moving at twice the normal speed. After about ten seconds of the song, it fades to a subtle level, barely able to hear it now as the narrator begins. The voice makes you think of that of Scott Levy.]

Narrator: Once, a man who was hated and despised by fans and colleagues alike... Once a plague upon the industry... Once a man so vile, none would believe a single word he said. A man so treacherous, has gone on record in betraying and ruining the careers of an entire stable which he created, to put the spotlight back on himself.

[You see clouds overcome the sky, hiding the sun from plain view.]

Narrator: Then greed took over, cursed by a title, kept him from one grander, which he would eventually purposely give up in his persuit. Also joining one of the more dominating stables in the history of the business, who turned their back on him to destroy what he possessed that was the very reason he had originally joined for...power.

[You see a rapid yet slow shot of a sun setting over the waters of the pacific ocean.]

Narrator: Once a playboy, an entrepanuer...now replaced with a more traditional roll. A father, a business man, and was a loving boyfriend... Man of heart and compassion. Intelligence as well as assurance. This man has done many wrongs in his life, and now, vows to turn the scale. A man turned onto himself, has faced many demons in this past six months, fate pushing him into the destiny that was ultimately necesary for his own salvation, as well as the benefit of many of those around him.]</B>

[You see a bird zip by thanks to the sped-up film of the sun, so close to the recording camera as to almost give an eclipse. As the bird flies by, it slowly disappears into the distance.]

Narrator: He has suffered great personal loss and recovery, now with but one thing broken...his heart. He holds one of the deepest minds, and the simplest of desires, matched with his complex expectations, where a clan of people are too unfamiliar with to comprehend it to its fullest potential. A task of determination and focus, stands upon his own shoulders. Only one man fits the bill in such a quest, when there is a world to stand upon, being the example for everyone else...

[The sun falls still at twice the normal speed, now into the horizon of the pacific coast, disappearing, creating a pitch black effect.]

Narrator: But now...

[As you see light begin to beam across the screen, you see a new sun rising, as you see the sillouettes of birds flying by and the clouds beautifully forming a hug around the morning sky.]

Narrator: He is a man of honor. Respect. He has put away his childish things. He has earned the admirations of those who never thought they would. He has shown now, time and time again, each and every week that his heart is true. That he will stop at nothing to bring justice to where it belongs. He has shown the world his value, both in the ring and of this Earth.

[You see birds soaring through the skies, flowing so beautifully.]

Narrator: He has embodied the spirit of those who have fallen and has chosen the path of righteousness. Through every down, he sought up. And now, with his entire career perhaps riding on a single evening of dubious battle, he asks only where to sign... So prepare, for the now inevitable has occured. The Tournament Of Champions is one man strong...when you look into the eyes of one...

[The screen fades into white.]

Narrator: ...JP Severs.

[Eyes open, and as the rest of the scene fades back in, you see JP standing on top of a beautifully green mountain overlooking many others, in a beautiful arrangement of clouds and sunshine. He is wearing a pair of naturally faded blue jeans, a white sleeveless shirt and a blank red baseball cap on backwards. You see that he is well tanned, and as such, his muscles are further glorified. He has a thin layered goatee & mustache. His facial features are appealing to the look. His confidance is staggering. The music fades out completely at this point.]

Jhonen: So the very best, from around the world, gather all in one place, for one night-one man leaving as thee very best the world will know. I dig that, for it only means one person, even as I stand here in front of you in many ways a broken man. It personifies my deep belief in myself and my abilities to know that this is not my tournament to lose. It's your tournament...to beat ME. My qualifying component, the Revolution Wrestling Network World Championship, has been around this waist for about a year, if not 'and some change'.

[He pulls the gold belt up into few, planting over his left shoulder comfortably.]

Jhonen: And the man I defeated for it, was once a rival, now has a place of peace in a corner of my soul, for he is no longer with us, and for that being only coincidentally the case, I learned too late what a great man he was and how even greater he aimed to be...

[In shame, he lowers his head slightly, disappointed in himself. But under it all, he knows nobility in admitting fault, for he has for so long kept up the image that he was untouchable in more ways than the one in question.]

Jhonen: But he was stubborn...a trait I have aimed to kill that's inside *me*. And while it's been a long road, there is light at the end of the tunnel. And through this tournament, one way or another, I find out the truth. Either I live up to every single thing I've said in the past...or I'm humbled. Either I prove I'm on the right track, or I prove that I have further to go. So again, either way...I win.

[JP's eyes squint as he looks into the distance towards the sun, then looking into the valleys beneathe.]

Jhonen: There are a world of mountains out in the world, and upon them, each stand a man who has climbed to the top of it, with his and her arms raised proudly, reigning victorious. But in this instance, when you reach the top of the mountain, you stand alone on a single one, but that there are many mountains. Here, in this Tournament of Champions, we will measure the mountains and see whose is highest. From where I'm standing, even humbly, seems to overlook the rest.

[As he looks far away, able to see nothing to his level, only mountain tops at smaller scales. None as green as the one he is standing on. In fact, many of the other mountain tops have lost their green altogether.]

Jhonen: I've heard a lot of talk from some of the others. I say some, because there are many, not speaking at all. Maybe my reputation has indeed proceeded me. Nevertheless, I hope when it comes time to fight they'll show more than they have now. And heh, that goes for the ones who have as well. Because I'm seriously not impressed. Some even forget to tell us who they are. Coming from a man in a new environment, I can't tell most of these guys apart. I guess that'll make it easier when I weed through the men, seperating them from the boys. No reputation. No face...no name. Simply me versus the rest, the way I like it. See I know where loyalty lies...with each individual. There's not a man here who won't do what it takes to win. I am no different to a point. I won't cheat though. That should be clear. Fact is...I won't have to. Some spout ****ing poetry, others go into long tirades that nobody gives a **** except themselves, while others make it short and boring. That's where I have come in...

[He oozes confidance.]

Jhonen: Some have claimed that they will use their hands and fists to do their talking... Good. So that when I use my brain and watch their fist become worth no more than an ounce of ****, it'll amuse me deeply. So let 'em clobber their opponents all they want. Me potentially being one of them, can take more than any of them can dish out. Believe that.

[He glares into the camera a moment with a light smirk.]

Jhonen: ...And while I'm so confidant of my chances, the lot of my combatants have never heard of me, or will pretend they have, or even the clich&#233; of 'not needing to know me for they have already surpassed my talents' type ****. Irrelevant. The point is, I'm not out, until I'm beaten, and from what you see here, you'll have to look no further than I as becoming the Champion of Champions. As Kid Rock said, 'I don't mean to brag, but I like to boast' seems all too appropriate, even with my spirits having been shattered recently. Although, things are getting better, and the addition of my brother coming back suddenly, doesn't hurt either.

[He shrugs modestly.]

Jhonen: And hey, if you want to know more about me, tune into the rest of the tournament...the story of JP Severs is only getting started.
[He takes a step towards the edge of the cliff and leans down into the seemingly bottomless abyss of the valley beneathe him.]

Jhonen: You know, I realize that my name is not even on the poll of the potential winners for the Tournament of Champions...

[As he continues to look down, a half-hearted chuckle emerges, getting a somewhat bad taste in his mouth.]

Jhonen: And you know, that's fine. Because you know what-everybody who is going to bet on any of those people...are going to lose. In fact, just for bragging rights, when I win, I aughtta be given the balance, and donate it to charity since none who can be voted on of the eight selected have a damn prayer.

[He rolls his eyes quickly and without a second thought about it. Then again, he does see an opening for a little clarification.]

Jhonen: But hey, I don't want you all thinking that I'm nothing but an inflated ego and a sense of awareness, and a man of such assurance backed by evidence shown in record books...no, no. I've got an eye for talent as well, and there are some I'm looking forward to getting in the ring with, out of respect for them AND this business. I got no animosity with anyone, but who knows how things'll fly the night of, right? That's cool. Temp rises, egos get bruised and then I win. It's how it's done when I'm around. I don't see a need to change that now-it works for me, heh.

[He winks into the camera and grins.]

Jhonen: May Peace Find You Before I Do.

[JP turns his back to the camera and takes in the air and the beautiful sights, as the scene fades to white.]

06-22-07, 07:27 PM

We open on a dark room of unknown size and origin. The room is very nearly pitch black, except for a few flickers of light near the back wall that appear almost like starfield amongst the void. From the darkness comes a quiet, twangy sound...

Banjo music?

Not just any banjo music, but the introduction to the Eagles hit "Journey of the Sorcerer". The music continues to play, a number of notes played off key, until it crescendoes to a chorus

VOICE: Dun dun, dundundundundun, DUN DUN, dundundun! Dun dun, dundundundun, DUN DUN, DUNDUN--

OTHER VOICE: For chrissakes, Matt, what the hell is this?

The lights are abruptly switched on as we see the two men who previously acted out this strange tableau in total darkness. Matt Johansson, holding a banjo and grinning fiendishly, sits in front of a closed bay window of a nicely appointed apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. His tag team partner, Bryan Storms, is standing on the other side of the room, wearing khaki shorts, a light blue shirt, and an incredibly exasperated facial expression.

MJ: It's your grand entrance for your Tournament of Champions promo! I sent you a text message last night!

BS: This is exactly why I delete every text you send me.

MJ: I thought that meant you were okay with this!

BS: Nope.

MJ: Rats. Foiled again in my attempt to jumpstart my banjo career.

BS: Thank god. Now, I'm going to try and do this without the strange, cosmic B.S., so please, Matt, go back to Long Island until the ToC is finished. Banjo music makes me nauseous.

MJ: Fine.

BS: And Matt? No more sending me text messages while you're drunk and watching "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". This is the fifth damn time you've done this to me. At least this time you didn't make me go out and buy you an entire WalMart's worth of bath towels.

Johansson reluctantly picks up his banjo and sulks out of the room. Storms waits a few moments and walks off screen. We can hear a short, muted conversation with the TEAM field producer before Bryan walks back into the frame. He collects himself for a moment, flashes the universal symbol for "OK", and shows the camera a quick smile before focusing his stare directly into the lens, but not in a creepy way.

BS: Now that all the previously filmed weirdness is behind us...

And I do hope it truly is behind us...

Let's get down to the business that we find ourselves currently immersed in. Folks, get strapped in, because TEAM's Tournament of Champions v2.0 is about ready to shift into gear. And this, kids, this one is a big one.

Nah. Not a big one. The big one.

Why, might you ask?

Well, a lot of tournaments advertise having hot prospects filling out the brackets. Some tournaments, they say that their field is chock full of stars. Others still, can make the rare claim that they've got true legends among the competitors.

But not one tournament in this industry can make the claim that this one does. No tournament in the world of professional wrestling brings together a fraternity as exclusive as this one, no tournament has requirements as strict as they do here.

You see, to be a part of this, you've got to have that most treasured word in all of professional wrestling attached to your resume.


To get here, just to get here, you need to have shown your superiority over everyone else in the company you call home just to have the right to sign your name on an RSVP. You've got to wear championship gold just to have the chance to be a part of this, and then you've got to wade your way through an entire field of fellow champions in order to make it to the other side of that rainbow and be the first to snag the pot of gold.

Of course, that means you have to believe that the word "champion" still means what it used to in our business.

Because until about three days ago, when I got a stack of tapes FedExed to me from TEAM HQ in Philadelphia showing my fellow competitors attempts to tell the world why they're the real cream of the crop and a Web link where I could see more as they come in, I really did believe that being a champion was still a mark of something special.

Then, I watched tape after tape, clip after clip of long, boring diatribes by a tremendous combination of has-beens and absolutely spectacular never-will-bes.

Sure, there's been the odd exception here and there. Big Dog, Rocko Daymon, Mr. E, those two girls in the hot tub with Troy Windham. They deserve at least a modicum of respect, a measure of dignity thrown their ways because they are the people who actually have set a standard in this industry.

Those are the kind of guys who, when I was 18 and going to college not to far from here, that I longed to emulate. Those are the kind of guys who, when I broke into EPW in 2004, that I hoped to live up to. The kind of guys who, when I was laid up in rehab 18 months ago, that I strived to get back in the ring and test myself against.

The kind of guys who, ever since I won the MCW World Heavyweight Championship almost a year ago, set the bar for a reputation I hoped to create.

The kind of guys who, now that we're all grouped together in ToC Redux, that I will finally defeat. That's right, America. The fresh faced kid from Orlando who walked into EPW's Black Dawn with a boatload of talent and half a thimbleful of common sense, is going to walk out of the Windy City with his name etched in the history books as the second ever ToC winner.

Because, even though I may not currently hold my MCW World Championship or my UCW United States Championship, you can't say I'm not every bit as much as champion as some of the assembled huddled masses that have happened upon this tournament and overtaken it like some constantly expanding gelatinous blob.

Folks like David Paige, JP Severs, Khalid Jad, and especially that strange lady with the evil mind control serum.

Speaking of that, I've got to make a note to myself to stay the hell away from her. Not that I think you've got a snowball's chance of beating me, Ashley, but let's face it, I'm a recovering addict, and I don't need to spend any more time around freaks who get their kicks by sticking needles in other people.

By the way, Ashley? Is that your new finishing move? Injecting people with your "special sauce" and turning them into zombies?

If so, I've got the perfect name.


Bryan cracks up hysterically, slapping his knee and acting like an idiot in a rabid laughing fit before calming himself down.

BS: Sorry for the little spasm there, folks. But, you've got to admit, that was f**king hilarious.


Moving on. Like I was saying, the atrocious level of competition that's walked into this tournament and acted like they own the place makes me sicker to my stomach than banjo music. I mean, even though I could walk into your home promotion at some VFW Hall or National Guard Armory in Sheboygan, Binghamton, Provo, or wherever the hell else you mongrel horde operate and beat the bejesus out of every one of you doesn't mean I will.

But, when you come to a place like TEAM, a place where I do my best work, and you come in, stick your feet up on the table, start eating our food, drinking our beer, and bringing your vermin into our house, I start to get slightly annoyed.

Now, I don't want to turn this into some foolish turf war, but I do want to let you freaks know that if any of you are unlucky to step into that ring against me, I'll send you very quickly back to the sewers, gutters, and dark alleys you generally habitate.

But, let's be honest, folks. That goes for everyone. Because when I get into the ring with any of you, I won't be looking at who you are. I'll be looking at how I can beat you. I'll be looking at each and every one of you in the exact same way.

As another rung of the ladder to be stepped on and passed over on the way to the top.

Not because its my destiny. Not because the fates have deemed it so. Not because I'm the biggest star, the biggest legend, or the most glorified champion.

Certainly not because I can take over the BRAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNS of my fellow combatants.

Other people can make those claims. Not me.

I'm winning this thing because, when someone steps into the ring with me, they're just f**king outclassed. Because I've still got the boatload of talent I walked in with four years ago. But that thimbleful of common sense?

You couldn't fill the Titanic with it now.

Good thing, too. Because we all know how that one ended.

Outthink you, outwrestle you, flat out outclass you. I'll take whatever opportunity presents itself.

The rest of you rabble are just going to have to deal with it.

Sucks for you, kiddies.


06-23-07, 12:55 AM
The following was filmed on the weekend of June 9<SUP>th</SUP> & 10th, during Matt Ward’s (better known to wrestling fans around that world as ‘Tchu’) suspension from PRIME Wrestling. It was intended to be coupled with the superstars greatest matches and moments, and was scheduled as a look back at the life and career of Tchu, with commentary from friends and family, as well as a guided tour of his hometown from Ward himself. Saturday was a trip around the city with The Inhuman Being. Sunday, numerous interviews were recorded, including comments from Matt’s wife and Matt’s brother, leading up to a one-on-one conversation with the man known as PRIME’s Wrecking Ball.

The weekend-project was filmed by a contracted group to be the core of a DVD to be released by PRIME this August, entitled Something Inhuman. What resulted, was not as intended. The footage was quickly spliced together for presentation. Upon viewing, PRIME officials immediately rejected the footage and pushed back the release date of the planned DVD till the fall.

This is the video package PRIME wanted no part of.

* * *

Scott Ward: My brother is… an interesting guy.

The younger brother of Matt Ward shakes his head and laughs to no one in particular.

Scott: The thing with Matt… I love my brother to death… but he’s a bit of a hot head… and you have to remember one simple fact when dealing with him. He’s big on respect and short on temper. Real short. You don’t want to push those buttons. And sometimes, it’s hard to know what those buttons are. But if you light his fuse, you’ll be blown to bits in the middle of an explosion before you even realize there was a bomb in the room.

Scotty stares directly into the camera and grins from ear to ear.

Scott: That’s what I love about him.

The image slowly vanishes.

* * *

An image replenishes the screen… Tchu seated in the comforting confines of his own home. A simple living room sprawls out behind his broad shoulders. The center of the backdrop is a set of French doors that open into the back yard, giving a hazy view of a small lake just off the property.

The 2007 Dual Halo Winner’s eyes gaze just left of the camera, locked on the man who’ll be a ‘floating’ voice to guide the interview.

And from that direction, a simple lead-in remark, designed solely to start the conversation and allow Tchu to ramble, is fired off.

"Describe the moment you knew you wanted to be a professional wrestler."

Tchu: Can’t really say. I always loved watching it on TV and always wanted to be there, in the middle of the ring, listening to the fans scream. I don’t think there was really a moment when it all of a sudden hit me, and I knew that’s what I wanted to do with my life. I was probably in my early teens when I first started seriously discussing it with my parents.

"Were they supportive?"

Tchu: Not really. They were never wrestling fans. They didn’t watch it, didn’t get it. But… they never tried to dissuade me either. If it was what I wanted, it was what I wanted. I think it was really that simple for them. They raised me well… taught me that I didn’t need other people’s support. If I wanted to tackle something, then I should go ahead and tackle it, not wait around for everyone’s approval.

"So even though they weren’t in love with your chosen profession, you carried with you bits of their wisdom?"

Tchu: Absolutely. To this day, I’ll still talk to my Dad… go to him for advice.
"You’ve had a lot of success in PRIME. How much of that do you attribute to things you learned in your youth?"

Tchu: " A lot of success in PRIME"?

The Inhuman Being shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Tchu: In PRIME?

The laid-back composure of the interview quickly erodes, and as The Inhuman Being leans closer, in one moment, everything changes.

Tchu: I’ve had a helluva lot of success my entire career. N4O, tU, R4W… it’s not just PRIME I’ve dominated. Or do those other feds not count? PRIME counts? If it didn’t happen in a PTC or FW fed or whatever, then it didn’t happen? For the last six years, I’ve dominated a lot of names. I’m one of the best in the business, and you want to just call it ‘PRIME success’?

The two-time Universal Champion turns away, biting his bottom lip. The camera keeps rolling, like eyes locked on a grotesque car crash, and the interview continues, though its intended form has given way to one man’s mess.

"I thought this interview was going to be a good time."

The Inhuman Being leans back and folds his arms across his massive chest. Turning his head back towards the camera, a deep breath fills his lungs, but takes none of the venom with it.

Tchu: For a minute, it was.

* * *

A long, low brick building sprawls across a titanic lawn, looking like an overgrown Hershey’s Dark Chocolate bar lying in the middle of a field. A series of glass doors at the main entrance reflect the red, white and blue of typical patriotism flapping thirty feet above the ground atop the flagpole that sits on the property. Those doors are the extent of any connection between the world outside the building and that within. Only a very few and tiny windows can be seen hiding in the infinite amount of bricks.

"This was my high school."

PRIME’s two-time Universal Champion stands in a simple black polo and a pair of jeans, his finger pointed towards the building, sweeping his arm in front of him, just in case someone might be confused as to whether the whole structure was his high school, or just the glass doors.

Tchu: We called it ‘The prison’ since it didn’t have any windows. Apparently, the architect must have read somewhere that natural light was harmful to intelligence. We hated the place. Nothing unusual, I suppose.

Taking a few aimless steps to his right, PRIME’s Wrecking Ball heads in the direction of a state-of-the-art football stadium.

Tchu: They didn’t build that till the year after I graduated. I had to play my one year of football at a rundown, crumbling stadium in the middle of one of the town’s bad neighborhoods. Everything about Wertz Field smelled like urine and failure.

He stops dead in his tracks and turns to his right.

Tchu: Wasn’t really my thing. So, I played my freshman year and was done.

The Inhuman Being casts a long gaze across the large parking lot that rests in front of the high school, though he makes no advances towards the focal point of his stare.

Tchu: On a lighter note…

A twist of the neck and flinching of the shoulders escape his body.

Tchu: …that is in fact a graveyard across from the parking lot of the school. The only thing that separates the property lines is route 26, which everyone flies up and down at about 80mph because cemeteries make everyone almost as uncomfortable as high schools. I actually have a plot there. My parents bought it for me years ago, near a couple of their own. Not the best present I’ve ever received, but oddly enough, not the worst.

The PRIME superstar runs a hand through his hair as he stops to realize something.

Tchu: Turns out, not only is there a cemetery across from the high school I attended, but I went to college at Bowling Green State University… and the first thing anyone who goes there notices… is that the campus actually includes a graveyard. Right smack dab in the middle. The cemetery already existed, and when they wanted to build a university, they had to build the campus right around it, or go somewhere else entirely. They chose the former. So basically, high school, college, future spot picked out for me… it’s like a running theme… people trying to bury me or something.

There is pause, just long enough to let the sound equipment pick up on mild breeze that Tchu’s words had otherwise hidden the existence of. The next syllables that fall from his lips don’t drown out the wind; instead, they fight through its static.

Tchu: …always try to bury me.

Another bit of silence showcases the wind, then, with a quick snap of his head, Tchu turns to the camera, or more specifically, the men behind it. This time, the volume has returned to voice.

Tchu: So… sit-down interview is tomorrow?

"Yeah. One o’clock." A voice shouts out from somewhere behind the lense.

Tchu: Should be a good time.

He gives a quick thumbs up to the camera.

* * *

"He’s always been passionate."

Staring through the lens of the camera at something inside, Mary Ward smiles one of those smiles that makes everyone else in the room shake their head.

Mary: Just not always about the right things.

Her smile fades before the scene does.

* * *

The scene returns to the living room of Ward. Still seated firmly in his chair, Tchu continues a rant that was born from an apparent simple mis-wording.

Tchu: Sometimes, it just eats a hole in my f*cking stomach… this narrow-minded, longing for the past garbage. In this business, there’s a handful of individuals, and they’re legends; and people just sit around and praise those names and half the time, nobody can even tell you what exactly it is they accomplished that made them legends. It all makes about as much sense as a Facey promo, but I’ll be damned if that stops people from lovin’ them! But no matter what I do, I always seem to fly under the radar.

The Inhuman Being shakes his head as he shifts in his chair.

Tchu: Well, I’m done with that. I’m done making honorable mention lists. This time, I’m gonna do things different.

"This time?"

Tchu: In strict violation of my PRIME contract… and it’ll probably cost me my job, but seeing as I’m on suspension anyways, I don’t really care… I’ve confirmed my participation in the Tournament of Champions. And unlike the past, when I’ve quietly won Dual Halos, Jewel in the Crown tournaments, Universal titles… this time, I’m gonna stand at the top of the mountain, pound my chest, and demand people take notice. I’m done wrestling in the shadow of people who I out-wrestle. Take a guy like Jason Snow…

PRIME’s Wrecking Ball stops to rub the stubble of his beard, though it’s only a moment’s pause to allow him to take a rare breath.

Tchu: Infinite Gauntlet Champion, PTC Unified Champ, GTT 6 winner… it’s about impossible to argue he’s not the hottest thing in pro wrestling today. But you can certainly argue whether or not he’s the best, because Jason Snow hasn’t accomplished a single thing of merit in my backyard. Ask Jason how many titles he’s won in PRIME. Ask Jason how he faired in the Dual Halo. Ask him who it was that dropped him on that goofy little ponytail on top of his head and pinned him in the middle of the ring.

Tchu leans forward in his seat and holds up a single finger.

Tchu: And don’t think for one second that it’s a coincidence that Jason Snow has wracked up so many awards in PTC, yet hasn’t done anything in PRIME! There’s no coincidence in this business.

As quickly as the tirade had begun, it seems to come to an end. Tchu sits back in his chair, looking down to the floor. He leaves his eyes there as he once again speaks, this time, a softer tone prevailing.

Tchu: Ya know, I’d like to sit here and claim some sort of noble intentions for entering the ToC. But I’m doing it for one reason. The Tournament of Champions is the best of our business. Champions from every region, every fed… it’s the kind of event that brings that one thing I crave… immortality. That desire, to never die in the minds of millions… has consumed me.

Taking in a deep breath through his nose, Tchu lifts his head, staring directly into the camera perched in the middle of his living room.

Tchu: The greats in this industry aren’t the superstars who never lose… their the ones who’s losses are few and far between and when they lose, they never fall, they only stumble. I’ve fallen a lot of times away from the ring, all in an effort to make sure I never more than stumbled between the ropes. It’s been a sacrifice I’m neither proud nor ashamed of. But it’s a sacrifice that’s led me to this point. I’m at the very end of my career. I’m not nearing my last year or two. I’m down to the last month or two. I could look at it like I’ve got nothin’ to lose, just one more for the helluva it before I call it quits… but I don’t see it that way. I don’t look at it that way at all. The ToC will likely be the final tournament I ever compete in. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care who I have to step over or run through. This is my last chance to grab that little piece of immortality that for some reason isn’t already in my hands. This is one last opportunity to drink from that fountain of youth… and to be honest with you… I’m dying of thirst.

Without any hesitation, before the final syllables are even out of the back of his throat, Tchu unclips the microphone from around his collar and leaves his seat, disappearing off screen.

A few seconds of silence follow, then someone can be heard off camera saying "Let’s pack the stuff up".

And in a fraction of a second, the screen goes black.

Yori Yakamo jr
06-23-07, 02:03 PM
You did it. You stopped the rampaging Cyberdildos from assasinating Queen Elizabeth and bringing an end to the British Empire and Western Civilization as you know it.

I also deflowered your daughter, and your serving wench Helga.


Nevermind. I must be off now.

Wait, I never did get your name.

I'm the Doctor.

He's the pervert.

I'm the Doctor....Pervert.



Yori Yakamo, jr, intergalactic time travelling sextoy magnate, NFW East Champion, and BBC aficianado is relaxing in his gigantic Time Travelling Intergalactic Dildo prototype, The YARDIS, along with his companion, Smitty, and his tin dog...I mean, ROBOYORI.

YORI: Well, that went smashingly well, I thought.

SMITTY: Seriously, you need to stop the fake British accent.

YORI: But how else am I going to get the girl from the Orbitz commercial to have dirty, dirty sex with me, Smitty. How I ask you?


YORI: The YORobot may be onto something, Smitty.

SMITTY: No, no more drugs. You have the Ultratitle Final to prepare for, not to mention the TEAM Champion of Champions Tournament.

YORI: Bollocks!

SMITTY: Stop it.


SMITTY: I think you are mixing science fiction geek cultures, there.

YORI: Wait a minute, what is this Champion of Champions thingamabob?

SMITTY: Well, as the NFW Eastern Conference Champion you are eligible for the TEAM Champion of Champions Tournament. Or so says the Sex-o-gram that came into the YARDIS last week.

YORI: Sexcellent. It's about time the Cerebral Cocksassin got back into the ring.<SCRIPT><!--D(["mb","\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: It's true, I sometimes forget you are actually a wrestler. \u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: I'm as good a wrestler as I am a lover. Just ask Jason Payne. And his mother.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: That probably didn't come out quite the way you planned.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: I'm a shoe-in to win this thing, Smitty. No one can match my combination of wits, grappling ability and dildo craftsmanship.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: Probably not, but unless one of the stipulations is pouring 11 inches of hard silicoln into a mold shaped like a two headed dragon.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: If that dragon was my penis...\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: ...yes...if that dragon was your penis, you might have some problems.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: Well, we should call Chapel and get on that right away...hey, wait a minute. Are you impugning my wrestling ability, Smitty.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: I might have been.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: I am the NFW Eastern Conference Champion. I beat Michael Manson and Felix Red. I beat Dan Ryan and Maggot. I beat Jason Payne multiple times and made his mother orgasm multiple times. I can beat any man put before me, and beat off any mother of any man put before me.\n\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: Charming. You know, TEAM is likely to let you use a flamethrowing dildo and army of sex robots to help you win your matches. Not to mention Apeman Hitler erecting a giant dampening field across the North American continent to prevent your posession by Hulk Hogan or Dr. Sam Beckett.\n\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: Well, we should give Chapel a call about that, too. I generously allow him use of my Hotel, Casino, and DILDO PALACE~! the least he can do is lend me the scratch to build a dampening field eradicating dildo. Or let the sexrobot and me team up for a few rounds. After all, his legal name is Yori Yakamo, jr, for..you know...legal purposes.\n\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>ROBOYORI: ROBOYORI AUDITED AGAIN?\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: I don't think that is too likely.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: Well, can he at least let us tag team Jason Payne's Mom.",1]);//--></SCRIPT>

SMITTY: It's true, I sometimes forget you are actually a wrestler.

YORI: I'm as good a wrestler as I am a lover. Just ask Jason Payne. And his mother.

SMITTY: That probably didn't come out quite the way you planned.

YORI: My phraseology is impeccable. As is my greco-roman grappling artistry.I'm a shoe-in to win this thing, Smitty. No one can match my combination of wits, grappling ability and dildo craftsmanship.

SMITTY: Probably not, but unless one of the stipulations is pouring 11 inches of hard silicoln into a mold shaped like a two headed dragon...

YORI: ...if that dragon was my penis...

SMITTY: ...yes...if that dragon was your penis, and then judged on both speed and artistic originality, you might have some problems.

YORI: Well, we should call Chapel and get on that right away...hey, wait a minute. Are you impugning my wrestling ability, Smitty.

SMITTY: I might have been.

YORI: I am the NFW Eastern Conference Champion. I beat Michael Manson and Felix Red. I beat Dan Ryan and Maggot. I beat Jason Payne multiple times and made his mother orgasm multiple times. I can beat any man put before me, and beat off any mother of any man put before me.

SMITTY: Charming. You know, TEAM is likely to let you use a flamethrowing dildo and army of sex robots to help you win your matches. Not to mention Apeman Hitler erecting a giant dampening field across the North American continent to prevent your posession by Hulk Hogan or Dr. Sam Beckett.

YORI: Well, we should give Chapel a call about that, too. I generously allow him use of my Hotel, Casino, and DILDO PALACE~! the least he can do is lend me the scratch to build a dampening field eradicating dildo. Or let the sexrobot and me team up for a few rounds. After all, his legal name is Yori Yakamo, jr, for..you know...legal purposes.


SMITTY: I don't think that is too likely.

YORI: Well, can he at least let us tag team Jason Payne's Mom.<SCRIPT><!--D(["mb","\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: You are aware there are wrestlers in this tournament other than Jason Payne?\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: Yeah, but that would require my updating the Jason Payne INSULTATHON 300 chip in the YARDIS to include like other wrestlers. And that would require research. And when you are the saviour of mankind, the NFW East Champion and, of course, the LIGHT OF YORIOLOGY~!, not to mention, soon to be tamer of the ONE DILDO, you don't need no stinkin' research.*You just hit them with the dildos.\n\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>SMITTY: Again, I don't know if Chapel is gonna let you do that.\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>*\u003c/p\>\n\u003cp\>YORI: Oh don't worry, I have my ways, Smitty, I have my ways.*\u003c/p\>\n",0]);D(["ce"]);//--></SCRIPT>

SMITTY: You are aware there are wrestlers in this tournament other than Jason Payne?

YORI: Yeah, but that would require my updating the Jason Payne INSULTATHON 300 chip in the YARDIS to include like other wrestlers. And that would require research. And when you are the saviour of mankind, the NFW East Champion and, of course, the LIGHT OF YORIOLOGY~!, not to mention, soon to be tamer of the ONE DILDO, you don't need no stinkin' research. You just hit them with the dildos.

SMITTY: Again, I don't know if Chapel is gonna let you do that.

YORI: Oh don't worry, I have my ways, Smitty, I have my ways.

SMITTY: Can I at least check the internet for information on the other wrestlers?

YORI: Oh naive Smitty, everyone knows the internet is only for teh p0rn!


YORI: Calm down their old buddy. I forgot I put in that subroutine after those stupid hax0rs changed the yorilove.com splash page to a picture of ROBOYORI masturbating that goat.

SMITTY: So are you ever going to get MBE back on TV?

YORI: Well, hey after I win this tournament, I will be flush with cash again, and won't have to escape my creditors by means of a giant time travelling dildo shaped phone box.

SMITTY: I still can't believe how much bigger it is on the inside.

YORI: It's a grower, not a shower, much like myself.

SMITTY: But I think you only get some sort of belt and or trophy for winning this tournament. No hard currency.

YORI: But I can melt down the title and smelt some sort of crazy dampening field eradicating dildo out of the core elements, right?

SMITTY: I wouldn't...bet against that...I guess.

YORI: Well, that's something, then.

SMITTY: Uh-oh, ye olde interweb says Jason Payne pulled out of the Tournament.

YORI: There goes all my material. Wait...hold on a minute...I suppose it is a good thing I didn't pull out of his mother, then. Okay, now I'm out of material. I will just have to let my in-ring escapades do my speaking for me.

SMITTY: Sadly, I don't think the general public speaks retarded hobo monkey.

YORI: I will not have you contiuously assault my awesomeness. And what the heck is retarded hobo monkey?

SMITTY: It's the language of your wrestling, apparently. Or the best I could come up with on short notice.

YORI: My wrestling is the language of love. A love that can only be expressed by one man hitting another man in the head with a dildo, and then dancing a drunken qualllude-tinged conga line around his felled body. And then...SEXY PARTY! And what exactly have you done for me lately, anyway, Smitty?

SMITTY: I convinced you to convert the Thai Hooker Marching Band into a Thai Hooker Minimalist Electronic Act.

YORI: That did work out pretty well, I am the new indymedia darling. MP3 blogs love me.

SMITTY: Now we just need to work on the wrestling blogs.

YORI: Well, they have to love their Champion of Champions. I will be like their King.

SMITTY: You already get to sleep with all their virgins of the village first, anyway.

YORI: See, I'm already halfway there. TO THE YORIMOBILE!


YORI: Well...then....I got nothing.....umm...Jason Payne kills hoboes and eat them.

SMITTY: That's neither true nor original.

YORI: This is gonna be hard.

06-23-07, 05:52 PM
(FADE IN: Nova sits in a plain black folding chair. Two banners hang down the wall behind him, one black with PRIME’s logo in blue across it, and the other crimson with the golden NFW shield adorning it.) The Risen Star looks away for a moment, then pulls a joint from behind his ear and sparks it, thick white smoke shooting out of his nostrils as the end catches fire.

NOVA: (Coughing slightly) I know what you’re probably thinking: “Geez Nova, where is the giant blown-up photograph you doctored of the Queen from Alien Resurrection banging the sh*t out of Sigourney Weaver, only instead of the alien’s eye-less, two-mouthed mugshot it’s Toni Collette’s face, which is the part that you doctored? Where are the hookers shooting heroin into their colon veins underneath the giant blown-up doctored Alien Resurrection photograph? Where are the celebrity cameos doing lines of blow off the heroin-swollen asscheeks of the hookers?”

He takes a long pull from the spliff and leans his back, pausing for several awkward seconds before blowing the plume out into the air and coughing loudly. Sitting up, he rubs his eyes and stares back into the camera.

NOVA: And you’d be right to ask those questions. Allow me to provide an answer. See, I’ve basically dicked around in every TEAM event I’ve participated in. It’s true. Not to spit in anyone’s face or downplay the importance of the shows I’ve been allowed to be a part of or anything like that, but I have taken literally nothing in regards to TEAM very seriously…and amazingly, it worked for a while. I don’t mind saying that I kicked f*ckin’ ASS in the Dupree Cup last year. Peep it. Team NFW made it to the final four and then got canned, but it wasn’t on my account. I stomped through Jaco Patterson, Derecho, and Yori Yakamo Jr. on my way to not losing at all, despite our collective elimination. It rocked.

The Risen Star puts the joint to his mouth again, inhaling deeply, and then snuffs it out in the ashtray next to his chair.

NOVA: I’m lit, I don’t need any more of that. Anyways, then something happened, something specific to TEAM and my, I dunno, stint here, I guess you could say. I stopped winning. Tom offered me a shot at the Challenge Championship against two schmucks, one of which didn’t even show up to hype the thing – which makes him a SUPER schmuck – and I got my ass kicked. That one I could deal with. What-ev, right? Everybody takes a dive sometime. Then I got another booking, this time for the #1 contendership to the Championship of Champions, against this cat James Irish…and I got my ass kicked again.

Nova lights a cigarette.

NOVA: That one hit me like a ton of bricks for some reason. I’m not sure what it was. Maybe it was that I actually really cared about getting a shot at Troy and the strap around her waist, you know, because she’s a god in these parts and that would be big news for me. Maybe it just hurt to get deflated a little. I mean, like I said, I lost that other TEAM match, but I didn’t give a flaming sh*t about the Challenge Championship, and it showed. Other than that, I’d been hot…I mean f*cking HOT. I was PRIME’s Universal Champion, breaking just about every record for the strap that existed. I overcame the entire NFW Western Conference roster, which in case you were wondering reads like a Who’s Who in the industry, and defeated Eli Flair in the proclaimed last match of his career and possibly the most brutal one of mine to become Western Conference Champion, a moment that will probably remain on my Top Five Career Moments list until they put me in the ground.

He takes a drag and his eyes wander for a moment, probably reliving the moment.

NOVA: I was a wrecking ball in every promotion I dipped my fingers into. Even after losing the Universal Title to the Queen of the Ring I went on to lead – pardon me, drag the stable I championed to victory at PRIME’s most recent pay-per-view, Overkill, eliminating three of the other team’s four competitors, including Ms. Troy and fellow Tournament of Champions greenhorn Tchu, to stand alone as the victor. So I’m good on that front, at least as far as momentum is concerned. But in TEAM…in TEAM I’ve gotten f*cking mopped. And it’s irked me worse than dropping the strap in PRIME, worse than basically forfeiting GTT6 and later the PTC Extreme Title…

Another drag of the cigarette, accompanied by a satisfied scratch of the back of his head. Ahhh, that’s the spot.

NOVA: …and it’s because those people know that I’m a great competitor, a superstar. But here, I’ve done f*ck-all and devoted no energy to crafting a legacy, and as a result have looked like a jackass wasting shot after shot. So after I wiped Irish’s muddy bootprint off the back of my head, I sat down, thought it, and decided to forgo the bullsh*t, at least for one interview, and do something I’ve never done before in TEAM…give anyone listening the lowdown without the random insanity that I usually pipe in to cover up the fact that I’m out of my element and can’t find anything to say, which if you know me you’ll know is a genuine f*cking rarity.

A hand reaches in from off-camera and offers Nova a bottle of water.

NOVA: No booze?

VOICE OFF-CAMERA: Not after the ‘cocaine in the coffee’ thing…they’re keeping you on a short leash.

NOVA: (Snatching the water bitterly) I guess I can understand that.

He takes a swig of the bland, lifeless, non-alcoholic water and stares back into the camera lens.

NOVA: So here I am, competing in the Tournament of Champions despite the fact that I’ve got no belt. And it’s going to be my last TEAM event. Yup, Holzerman’s been a real dreamboat letting me compete here, but I think my foray into this interfederational goulash of talent is coming to its conclusion. What better way to go out than this, right? I mean, this is kind of the biggest thing TEAM does all year, isn’t it? At least for half the year, I think. So I’m taking a stab at it. I’m not promising some amazing success or unheralded domination or any bullsh*t like that. There are some really amazing athletes slobbering over this thing, and I’m another name on a list of ballers about a mile long. However I can promise that I’ll do better than that David Paige prick who spent about ninety minutes describing, in the most uninspired, textbook-ish of terms, what a promo is…as though he isn’t talking to the CHAMPIONS of each fed participating. I think we all know how to cut a f*cking promo. It kind of comes with the whole ‘being the best in your respective corner of the wrestling world’ thing that this tournament is trying to vibe from.

The Risen Star hits the cigarette again before putting it out and checking his watch.

NOVA: Okay, I’ve spilled my guts. Hope everyone got their rocks off on it. Next time I promise I’ll bring back the sex, drugs, and mid-90s slow jams.


06-23-07, 08:51 PM
Thursday June 21st, 2007 4:30 PM EST
Location Unknown

[A man-in-the-box?]

[Well, sort of.]

[The centerpiece of the current scene is a large rectangular prism-like structure. This structure’s walls, comprised of what looks like glass, stand about six feet high, and while there is no ceiling on the structure, there is a steel-colored floor about six feet squared that serves as the base for the four walls. The rest of the room is a simple, dull gray-colored steel masterpiece. A trickle of sunlight trails into the room from the right, feeding the floor with its rays. This sunbeam could also light the inside of the glass case, too, since it touches the glass wall of the structure on the right hand side of our screen. However, the contents of the casing prevent the light from reflecting any further.]

[The most obvious element present in the structure before us is white paper. Mounds of paper, piled approximately five and a half feet high in a messy pile, fill the case. Standing in the middle of this pile of paper, buried to his armpits, is a man whose blonde hair is cropped close to his skull in a flattop haircut. Wearing no shirt allows us to take in the muscular definition of his upper-body. However, in this shot, the thing that stands out most are his eyes. Two matching spheres of white with deep blue pools in the center look at you, almost cutting you to the core and staring into your soul.]

Man: It’s a little talked-about fact that I used to own and operate my own wrestling federation.

[The man shifts his weight, causing the paper pile to shift a little bit with him.]

Man: It was a small company called Carson City Wrestling, which I picked up and kept going when the ownership at that time flaked out of their responsibilities. As part of the start-up package, the World Wrestling Alliance sent me this...

[The man uses his hands to motion all around him at the pile of paper.]

Man: ...pile of paper.

Boxes and boxes of paper, all resumes of wrestlers looking for jobs. Most of them were trying desperately to separate themselves from the rest of the pack.

[The man picks up one piece of paper.]

Man: Take this one, for example. This guy’s never wrestled a match before in his life, but he says on his application that he’s willing to eat anything to get a reaction from the fans.

[Dropping the first piece of paper, the man picks up the a few more pieces of paper and glances at them while he speaks.]

Man: Or how about this guy, who claims that he’s the illegitimate son of Victor Mandrake, mothered through Courtney Love? How about this person, who wrote a two-page cover letter about why people want to see a guy who portrays a wrestling garbage man?

[The man shrugs his shoulders as he flings the pieces of paper up in the air. After they fly upward in a short arc, they come floating back down and land back in the box amongst the sea of white.]

Man: As wrestlers, this is something we’ve all been through. We’ve all been stuck in this sea of never-ending names. We’ve all screamed at the top of our lungs, hoping some wrestling promoter would hear only us and give us a chance. After all, deep down, we knew that if we got that one chance, that one break...then it’d all be easy going from there.

[The man pauses in his speech. He reaches back with his right hand and scratches the back of his head as he continues to speak.]

Man: I look back and I can’t help but think it’s funny how that kind of youthful determination works. If I picked up any ten of these resumes, the odds say that maybe three of those guys become known. Out of those three, one might become a superstar. Make no mistake about it; this is a cold, cruel industry that will chew up and spit out anyone who it deems unfit to be a member of its fraternal order.

As for me, I consider myself fortunate. Like many of the men whose resumes lie in this pile, I struggled tremendously at the beginning of my career. I yelled, I screamed, I challenged everything with two legs and a pulse to fight me, and all my pleas fell on deaf ears. Everyone was wrapped in his own agenda. And they all had the same critique about me.

All I do is fight matches.

[A chuckle escapes the man’s lips, and the movement of his chest causes some of the papers to shift slightly.]

Man: But after what seemed like an eternity of phone calls, E-mails, open-challenge promos, and double-shifts working at “Pizza Pizza” to make ends meet, I finally got my break. I got my first match. Man, I was pumped. I didn’t even care that it was against local joke Mr. Sinsation...I was just happy to be on TV. From there, it was match after match. Yeah, I got beat a few times, but management was happy to have me on TV, since I had a legit beef against one of the local heroes and management was happy to exploit it for their financial gain. But just being in the ring with these guys that had “made it” made me a better wrestler. Not only did I have to bring my A game every night, but I kept learning valuable lessons from the rare veteran who had advice for a rookie. But all around the locker room, all I heard was the same thing.

All I do is fight matches.

[Light shakes his head.]

Man: But that winter, something changed. After banging my head against the wall over and over again, somehow something clicked. Suddenly, matches and situations where I’d usually come out the loser, I was coming out the winner. Suddenly, moves I never saw coming I was able to counter into moves and holds of my own. Suddenly, instead of dismissing me, people started getting scared. I used to be dismissed, as all I used to do was fight matches. The new cry?

All I do is win matches.

[Once again, Light can do nothing but shake his head and shrug his shoulders at accusations past.]

Man: That was their rallying cry. They said I had no charisma, no touch, no backstage presence, not enough hair, or any other excuse possible to keep me down. But the speeding train was in motion, and its brakes had been cut. Every man they put in front of me, I put down on the mat for the three count. One by one I clawed my way to my first regional championship, making the longest-reigning champion in the promotion’s history tap out in the middle of the ring. One-by-one, I fought through the forces fighting against me, aligning myself into position against one of the most dominant World Champions in our umbrella alliance’s history. And in one big swoop...

[Pausing in his speech, the man balls up his right hand into a fist. Winding up, the man uses his fist to shatter the glass pane standing between the camera and him. This causes the pile of papers to tumble out of the glass box and fall to the floor, mixing with the remains of the glass pane. We can now see that this man is shirtless, revealing his toned physique, and wearing a pair of blue jeans. As he stands in the small remaining pile of paperwork, he checks his fist, which now sports several cuts and several small pieces of glass poking out of the skin in his right hand. He then looks back up at the camera and continues.]

Man: ...I dropped that dominant champion on his head and pinned him. That shot, that Realizing the Dream I hit that night, forever shattered any invisible walls holding me back. I was no longer some guy who was trying to make a name for himself. I was Christian Light. Within the wrestling community, I now had a name and a voice. But there were still those that kept clinging to their argument, however ridiculous it sounded.

That all I did was win matches.

[The man, now identified as “The Last Nighthawk” Christian Light, shakes out his right fist, sending several small pieces of glass flying from his skin. Some make a “ping” noise as they bounce off of the other glass walls.]

Light: Fast forward to the summer of two thousand and six. I made my appearance in White Mountain Wrestling, a subsidiary of the World Wrestling Alliance, with little fanfare and the same critics dogging me at every turn. Sure enough, when I started winning one match after another, everyone kept chiming in that I could never carry a major title over the course of several months. Some even went as far as to say that I’d never again get the chance to try.

Me? I didn’t care what they had to say. I was focused on moving up the card. One by one, and even sometimes two and three at a time, I dispatched anyone who stood in my path. Just like my last World Title, I won a major multi-man event to earn myself a title shot. Just like my last World Title, I positioned myself to challenge against the strongest World Champion the World Wrestling Alliance has ever seen. I took the World Title from his hands and lofted it into the heavens, just as I’ve done before.

[A small smile creeps up on Christian’s lips.]

Light: Those critics, though, are restless. They said that, just like last time, I’d have a short, uneventful reign as champion. I spent four months and nineteen days proving those critics wrong, turning back challenger after challenger, including both Victor Mandrake and Corey Ashton. Through it all, I did it my way. No fireworks, no frills, and no cheating.

All I did was win my matches.

Which brings us here, to the Tournament of Champions two thousand and seven. Even though the pack is considerably smaller here than it is out in the wide world of professional wrestling, I find myself shouting once again, trying to be heard over the group of champions that has filled the brackets of this tournament. Because everyone here has tasted the sweet golden fruits of their labors, winning a championship no longer separates you from your peers.

[The Last Nighthawk smiles a toothy grin.]

Light: I don’t mind, though. I’m in the best shape of my life and am just as hungry to win as I was ten years ago. When the Tournament of Champions commences...

[As he speaks, Christian lifts his right foot, covered in a tan work boot, and steps forward. Two or three steps later, and Christian has pulled himself out of the remains of the glass box and paper contents. He now stands alone, just to our right of where the paper spilled from.]

Light: ...I’m going to, once again, separate myself from the pack. Once more I’ll step into the ring and eliminate the competition, one at a time. Sure, I may not be the college-lecturer-in-training that David Paige is. I’m not the hot young phenom that Khalid Jad is. Motorhead will never play their songs in one of my promos. Nor will I ever be as scary as Victor Mandrake makes himself out to be.

So how do I plan on winning a tournament where everyone else is screaming loud enough to drown out the world?


Light: It’s simple, really. When push comes to shove and the pressure is on, we all fall back on what we do best.

After all...all I do is win matches.


06-23-07, 11:44 PM
(A lonely microphone stand poses in front of a TEAM Tournament of Champions banner.)

(...and it just stands there...)

(...and waits...)

(...for what seems to me an interminably long time...)

(...before Professor Tremendous races in and skids to a stop as he reached the mic. His body is adorned with his one CWSA UNIIFED* World Title Belt and three Monkey Championship Wrestling Belts.)

PROF: We're going to have to make this quick. I have a drunken starlet passed out in the back of my Tiburon out there and I need to get her back to her hotel room before her entourage realizes she is missing.

OFF STAGE ROAD AGENT (OSRA): Professor. You were supposed to me here two hours ago.

PROF: Hey. Don't blame me, blame the Afghani lesbian hookers.
(tapping the mic)
So is this thing on or what?

OSRA: We're ready whenever you are.

PROF: And I am always ready.

OSRA: Well, let's go then

(Professor Tremendous clears his throat. He fixes his hair and purses his lips before hoist his four title belts high into the air - two in each hand.)

PROF: TROOOOOOOOOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Look at these belts, Lindsay Troy. The Four Most Prestigious titles in all of sports. Not like your meager little EPW Pro World Title or whatever it is that I will be taking from you this week at WrestleStock!

Oh what's the matter, little girl? Afraid of what it might be like to have to defend your tawdry little bauble against a real man...

OSRA: Excuse me, Professor.

PROF: Yo man. Uncool. I was totally on a roll there.

OSRA: Uh yeah, sure you were. But we are cutting promotional spots for the TEAM Tournament of Champions not WrestleStock.

PROF: Really?

OSRA: Yeah. Check out the banner behind you.

(Prof checks out the banner. He sighs slightly.)

PROF: No matter. I can adjust.

(Professor Tremendous clears his throat. He fixes his hair and purses his lips before hoist his four title belts high into the air - two in each hand.)

PROF: TROOOOOOOOOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OSRA: Um... Lindsay Troy isn't in the ToC this year.

PROF: Damn.

(Professor Tremendous steps away from the mic for a second. He paces around in a little circle before returning to the mic.)

PROF: Okay. Give me the name of someone I actually might be facing this week.

OSRA: Well there are forty-some champions from around the globe...


OSRA: Okay, okay. Jay Smash. There's a name.

PROF: Great. Jay Smash. Got it.

(Professor Tremendous clears his throat. He fixes his hair and purses his lips before hoist his four title belts high into the air - two in each hand.)

PROF: SMASH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Look at these belts, Jay Smash. The Four Most Prestigious titles in all of sports. Not like your meager little blah blah blah Title or whatever it is that I will be taking from you this week at the TEAM ToC!

Oh what's the matter, little girl? Afraid of what it might be like to have to defend your tawdry little bauble against a real man. Because that is exactly what I am, Jay Smash. A real man.

(Professor T grabs the microphone out of the stand and leans in towards the camera as he speaks into it.)

How's that make you feel, Jay Smash?

Does it make you a little moist, Jay? Does it make your sweet angel's heart go pitter-pitter-pat just a tad quicker than normal knowing that you are in the presence of tremendousousness this week?

Don't feel bad though, Jay. I have made tougher women than you swoon over me. Hell, Madonna, Grace Jones, Millie Pearl...all of them have succumb to my charms and my prowess in the ring.

Okay, so maybe I needed a little help from my team to handle Grace Jones. But then again, Jay Smash, you are no Grace Jones.

And this week the Good Professor shall prove just that when he pins your pretty, little shoulders to the mat for the...




(Professor T places the mic back in the stands and heads back out.)

OSRA: Um...Professor.

PROF: What now?

OSRA: Do you have anything that you want to say to the rest of the field.

PROF: Oh yeah. Sure.

(Prof walks back over to the mic)

PROF: Okay folks. You know what I said about Jay Smash there? It goes double for the rest of you.

(Prof kicks over the mic stand and strides out towards his awaiting Tiburon.)

06-24-07, 02:50 AM
OOC: John normally talks like this. I misspelled things semi-phoenetically on purpose. This is my rendition of a southern accent.

(The camera suddenly cut on, having been edited down from a longer, more elaborate introduction to the dingy little locker room. And dingy it was. A ****hole, with water surrounding a drain set into cheaply poured concrete, rusted old lockers, some that have just been punched and kicked in by 'roid-raging wrestlers, and a few chunks smashed out of the floor.)

(This was typical, for any professional wrestler. ****ty locker rooms with the slightest hint of a tetanus infection just a-waitin' for you were the norm, especially in the South.)

(And that's where John Henry was from. You honestly expected him to be from Quebec?)

“Gon' die wif a hammuh in mah han'...”

(Yes, one of the two biggest men in the tournament was singing softly to himself, as he sat on one of the two unbroken benches. A towel hung over the big black man's head, hiding his face from the camera. Hands were clasped, hanging before his lap, as if the big, muscular guy was praying in the dark of his towel-made hidey hole.)

(A white t-shirt on his massive shoulders, a pair of ragged, worn, likely very comfortable overalls hanging from twin, frayed, shoulder straps. At his feet, wooden haft laying on the ground, lay something very, very dangerous. Something unmistakably both a tool, and a weapon of war. A steel-headed sledgehammer, its sheen of metal dulled with age.)

(But the big black man wasn't the only person in the room. That was obvious from the fact that a cameraman was in the room as well. However, three men sat on a bench matching the one under the tuckus of the big black man. One, was fair-skinned, his hair a shock of bright auburn. An electric green, day-glo visor on his head, upside down. A football jersey for the Hackensack Thundersheep, and a pair of baggy, patch-covered jeans. All in all, the consummate thug Irish kid.)

(Sitting on either side of him were a pair of black men. One thinner, and more sleek, rather than muscly. He was attired simply, a black wifebeater, low-riding jeans, boxers with dollar bills exposed by the lowness of his jeans. The man on the other side of the scrawny white fella was huge. Some would say swoll. He looked so bulky, that he either did copious amounts of steroids, or exercised by punching holes in cinderblocks. The three men sat, watching big ole' John Henry.)

“Mr. Henry? Camera's rolling.”

(The thinner of the two black men grinned brightly, waving a hand through the air.)

“Yee-yee, my boy's gonna cut one hell of a promo! GANGSTA style! Don't worry, homie, you got Lil' Dolla, Swoll, and Reddie backin' you up. You jus' do your thang and we'll make ya look tough!”

(John grabbed at the towel, tossing it to the floor. Eyebrow lifted, as he looked back to the other, a look of some confusion on his face. Shaking his head in disbelief, John looked back to the camera's unblinking, glassy eye.)

“So. Big, big turn'o'mint. Somethin' lahk aye-tee-sev'n felluhs, an' me. An' we's 'spected t' tawk **** 'bowt all o' dem.”

(A big hand scratched at his chin, as he thought for a moment. Eyes rolled skyward, as he considered. The big fella sitting a little ways away from John threw a hand through the air.)

“You talk dat ****, yo. 'Bout all o' those suckas.”

(John blinked, glancing back to the three members of his cheering section. He lifted that eyebrow again, that look of confusion appearing on his face. However, business came first, so he looked back to the camera.)

“Well. Lemme 'splain why Ah's in dis turn'o'mint, asahd from bein' big an' suchlahk.”

(The big man nodded some, drywashing his hands before him as he scooted forward, looking down to his feet, then up at the camera.)

“Ah wuz th' Dubya-Arr Emeral' Ayl' champeen fo'...”

(The big man ticked off on his fingers for a few moments, thinking. An eye scrunched up as he debated.)

“Two months o' so. Ah wuz th' las' top champeen o' th' cump'ny. Alla y'all's met th' fella who dun beet me. Dayv'd Payg, th' thinky Ahrish felluh. He dun beet me aftuh Ah beet th' two tuffes' peepul Ah cud'a fac'd fo' th' tahtl. Sum say it wain't fayuh, but 'e dun beet me. Aftuh dat, Ah tuk sum tahm off.”

(A nod of the big, heavy head, as John smiled. The scrawny white fella, Reddie, threw a hand towards John, seemingly alight with electric energy.)

“You's gon' get it back, John! Paige only beat you on a fluke! You're gonna get that belt back, man!”

(John blinked, looking back to the scrawny Irish redhead, and smiled softly. The big man shrugged helplessly.)

“Mebbe. Mebbe Ah will. But. Mo' impo'tant lahk t' th' turn'mint, Ah wuz th' las' active champeen fo' th' Dubya-Arr, which dun counts me int' th' TEAM turn'mint. So, dat's how Ah dun qual'fayd fo' dis. Ah join'd th' Dubya-Arr, piddled 'roun' fo' two months, an' took th' tahtl.”

(Big Swoll shook his head, jabbing a fist into his open palm. He pointed at the camera with a finger.)

“That ain't th' first time John's been a champ, yo. He joined two other feds, first th' C2W, and won the title. When the fed closed, he was still champ.”

(Lil' Dolla giggled neurotically, as he slapped the wood of the bench.)

“Yo, yo, yo, he joined WMW, and took the title there, too! He eventually had to just let go of the title, because nobody could beat him! Every major fed John's been in, he's won their top belt!”

(Reddie grinned, hands waving, fingers contorted awkwardly in faux gang signs. He looked for all the world a teenager from a Connecticut suburb who made it onto an MTV show about thug life.)

“He's from the streets! Thug life, for real! He's worked hard since he was fourteen, and he's the most unstoppable force in wrestling today! You could hit him with a freight train, make him fight the antichrist, shoot him in the kneecaps, and he'd still hit you in the face and knock your ass out!”

(John's cheeks burned, and he chuckled, shaking his head softly. Turning back to the three, John waved a hand over his throat, in the universal “Cut it off” signal.)

“Ah kin alreddy heah th' othuh felluhs now. Talkin' bowt how those tahtls doan' mattuh, an' those comp'nies doan' mattuh, becuz they ain't they. So...”

(John turned back to the camera, hands resting on his knees. He took a breath, to steady himself, and looked up.)

“Ah's th' bes' wrestluh in dis turn'mint.”


(John blinked, looking down. A shake of his head, and he shrugged, as helpless as a babe. He couldn't lie to the other wrestlers, to the fans. He wanted to correct that statement.)

“...Aw, hell. Ah cain't say dat. Ah ain't nevuh held th' Dubya-Dubya-Aye tahtl. Ah's got two othuh felluhs from th' Dubya-Dubya-Aye in dis turn'mint, an' both's held th' Big tahtl. Sho', Ah's been th'top dog o' three 'rastlin' comp'nies, but Ah ain't nevuh been a worl' champeen...”

(A shake of John's head, as he looked down. The three on the bench beside John looked at one another, and looked forward to John. Reddie leaned forward, patting John on the shoulder.)

“Dude. You've been the champion of all of Ireland, all of New Hampshire, and all of Nevada. That's, like, enough to qualify to be a world champion to me. Don't take the fact that you've gotten jus' one title shot to heart, bro.”

(John blinked, and looked up. A soft smile eased across his big, honest face, and he nodded.)

“Ah' 'preciate dat. So... Lemme try t' tawk sum trash.”

(John turned back to face the camera, eyes staring into the camera, all serious-like. The big man's brow furrowed some, as he placed his hands on his knees.)

“Ah's th' bigges' felluh in dis turn'mint.”


“...Er... Well, mebbe not. Ah's as tall as Victuh Mandrayk, but he dun be heaviuh.”

“He's a fat bastard!”

(John shook his head, sighing a bit as he looked up. A bicep tensed, rippling his tee-shirt's armhole. He stretched the darn arms on his shirts almost to the breaking point. John Henry, the Steel Drivin' Man, was jacked.)

“Nah. 'E's musc'lar an' suchlahk. Lemme trah sumthin' else. Ah's th' mos' MUSCULAH felluh in dis turn'mint!”


(A shake of his head.)

“Ah jes' said dat Mandrayk dun has mo' muscle den me. Ah's th' bes'... wrestluh... Ah ain't even gon' finish dat. Ah doan' know a 'ristlawk from a 'ristwatch.”


“...Thanks, felluh. Uh. Ah's th' mighties' felluh involved?”


(A shrug of John's big, heavy shoulders, hands helplessly rising to his sides. He shook his head, and repositioned his feet with a scraping sound.)

“Ah' cain't say dat. Ah doan' know who half o' m' comp'tishin is. They's Kah-lee Jad, who dun has 'bout as much haht as me, an' they's Dayv'd Payg, who dun has th' smahts all 'rapp'd up.”

(John Henry, former WMW, C2W, and WR Heavyweight Champions, undefeated in two of those federations, and nigh unstoppable in the third, turned, and lay down on the bench. Hands pressed to his face, as he lay, feet hanging off of the end of the bench. John sighed deeply, as he lay there, face hidden.)

“Ah doan' know 'bout mos' o' m' comp'tishin. One's a girl. Ah cain't evuh hit no girl! Ah's tot'ly imcap'bibble o' hittin' a girl. An' we got fantastick 'rastluhs! Ah ain't nevuh seen Jasin Pain, but 'es th' bes' sumwheah! So, dat almos' automagickally makes 'im a bettuh 'rastluh den me. An' Jay Smash! 'E's got t' look lahk th' Incred'ble Hulk, wif a naym lahk dat! 'E's pro'bly sum eight foot tall, seven hunderd poun' wreckin' ball wif feet!”

(John glanced to the three men sitting over on the bench, hands coming up, before him.)

“An' who in th' hell is you three, anyhow?”

(Big Swoll, Reddie, and lil' Dolla looked to one another, sheepishly. Reddie pulled his visor off, holding it before him, a plaintive look on his face.)

“Sorry. The WWA hired us to try and help psyche you up. I'm an actor, and so're those two. We were just trying to help you out, dude.”

“Yeah. Uh... We'll just let ourselves out.”

(The three stood, and shuffled quietly out, the door clicking shut behind them. Reddie leaned back inside, pushing the door open with a shoulder, smiling softly.)

“If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Henry, my kids love you.”

(And just like that, all three were gone. John just blinked, and sat slowly up, looking to the camera. A hand stroked over his big, bald head, shining with sweat.)

“Well. Ah'm jes' gon' say dis, then. Ah's big an' musc'lar. Ah's beet Mandrayk befo'. Ah's been a top contenduh fo' a lot o' thangs. Ah's beetin lots o' felluhs, an' Ah's been put into a lot o' tuff sit'y'ashuns. Somehow, Ah oftin come out awn top.”

(The big man swung his feet down, to settle them flat on the floor below. He rubbed at his chin, and glanced up at the camera. Eyes focused on it.)

“Ah's not garan-tee'in' nothin'. Ah ain't a braggard, lahk mos' o' th'othuh felluhs in dis turn'mint. Ah's jes' a big, musckly, hones' felluh who dun been offer'd a spot in th' turn'mint, an' a paycheck. So, Ah's gon' go out they, fays some o' th' bes' 'rastluhs in th' worl', dat Ah'd nevuh get t' see iffin Ah only stay'd in th' Dubya-Dubya Aye.”

“Ah's gon' be thankful fo' th' chans. Ah's gon' do m' bes' t' win. An' dat's all anybuddy kin do.”

(The big man rose, knees popping some. He bent down, hand tightening around the neck of the massive, steelheaded sledgehammer. Lifting the weapon of brutal war over his shoulder, he shrugged some, and cracked his neck. A smile broke across his lips, pearly whites gleaming.)

“They bes'.”

(The camera feed clicked off. John Henry had said what he wanted to say.)

06-24-07, 08:58 PM
(OOC: I'm posting this on behalf of Jay, who's having trouble logging into the forums.)

Jay Phoenix
Behind the Scenes


“Are you sure that you really want to do this?”

The studio lights were blinding white, dazzling and hypnotic, and as Jay Phoenix sat back in his seat he kept his eyes locked onto them as if somewhere in their glow he would find more than physical illumination.

“Jay, I said …”

“I heard you Rick,” Jay said with a small sigh, bringing his gaze back down from the heavens and looking around at the mass of people around him. Like ants in a hive each one seemed to know exactly where they were meant to be, what they were meant to be doing, as they moved from place to place in a seamless dance of energetic chaos. Cameramen were busily checking the room through their viewfinders, gaffers were busy with cabling, and the stage manager was frantically looking around the room as if the World was about to end – then, as he caught sight of an approaching man … sharply dressed in a pristine grey Armani suit and blue shirt … he fixed a large, glassy, smile on his face.


“So, what?”

“So, do you really want to do this?”

As Jay Phoenix watched, ignoring the question for a second time, the stage manager and the expensively suited man stood close together and peered at the clipboard that the stage manager held as if it were the Holy Grail itself. Lips, moved, heads nodded and then – as if sharing one mind – both men looked up and stared directly at Jay Phoenix.

“No,” Phoenix said with another sigh as he looked up to where his best friend, Rick James, stood beside him, “I am not sure that I want to do this.” The lights above him started to dim slightly while others, placed around the studio, brightened and Phoenix flushed as he felt the heat of the lights hit him fully. Fidgeting with the microphone that was attached to his black shirt he tried to get comfortable in the mirror of the empty seat in front of him. “… but it was your idea and we are here now anyway.”

Rick James blinked once, and then and, and actually had the decency to look a little abashed as the words hit him.

“I know it was my idea,” he said softly, leaning closer to Phoenix so that his words wouldn’t carry, “but when I suggested that get out and put your side of the story out there I didn’t realise that you would do it on a programme that goes out to millions of people!”

“What were you thinking then?”

“I thought that you might put it on your site,” Rick stated tersely, ignoring the sarcasm in his friend’s voice, “maybe even put out a press release – but I wasn’t expecting this!”

“Expecting this?” Phoenix said with a short laugh, no humour evident in his voice. “I think that you would have to have to be insane to expect this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing would that be Mr Phoenix … or do you prefer Jay?”

Rick and Jay both did a double take at the same time as they realised that two men were standing only a matter of inches away from them. The stage manager was clipping a microphone onto the lapel of the Armani suit as its owner – a smile framing a set of perfectly white teeth - sat down in the chair opposite Phoenix himself.

“… erm … Jay, Jay is fine,” Phoenix stuttered as he tried to regain his composure, “and I just meant that I wasn’t expecting all of this I suppose.”

“Jay it is then and, please, call me Tony” the man said with another practised smile, “Mr Peterson is my father.”

Taking a quick glance around the small studio himself Tony Peterson shook his head before locking steel blue eyes onto Phoenix’s own gaze.

“… and I would have thought that you were used to this sort of thing, Jay,” he said smoothly as a young woman brushed some powder across his nose and forehead, “a man with your experience in show business.”

“Show business?”

“Sure thing Jay,” Peterson said as the woman finished up with his final make-up touches, “you know – wrestling.”

“Oh yeah, that,” Phoenix said with tight lips, “well lets just say that it has been a while since I have found myself doing one of these interview things like this.”

“Can you come with me please?”

The stage manager placed a hand, softly, on Rick James forearm and started to lead him away from in front of the cameras.

“Are we about to start rolling?” Phoenix asked as he shot a small smile as Rick followed the stage manager into the now darker area behind the cameras.

“Start?” Peterson asked with a laugh. “We have been rolling since you sat down Jay.”

“What?” Phoenix asked as he tried to think back to everything that he had done and said in the last ten minutes while waiting for the man in front of him to arrive. “… but the interview hasn’t even started yet!”

“Oh I know that,” Peterson stated calmly as he picked up a glass from the table between the two chairs and took a small sip of the water within it, “but this way we get to test for light and sound without bothering you.”

“… but I didn’t know that you were filming.” Phoenix said softly.

“Well, that isn’t a problem is it?” Peterson asked with a sharp smile. “I mean it is not like you have anything to hide now, is it?”

“No,” Phoenix said, a little too quickly, “I have nothing to hide at all!”

“Well that is great,” Peterson said as he reached over and tapped Phoenix’s hand, “so why don’t we get this show on the road?”

Before Phoenix could answer the hive of activity, as if sharing a group mind – or perhaps a group radio – stopped as everyone got into their prearranged positions and behind the two seated men … Peterson and Phoenix … a large image of Phoenix himself – a promotional shot in full wrestling attire and war-paint – is superimposed onto the wall. Music plays in the background as Peterson turns away from Phoenix to stare directly into one of the cameras; Phoenix, though, sits bewildered.

“Good evening folks,” Peterson said with a honeyed voice, “and welcome, once more, to ‘Behind the Scenes’ with me, your host, Tony Peterson and my very special guest – multiple World Champion in the World of wrestling - Jay Phoenix!”

Taped applause rings out around the studio and Phoenix blinks as Tony turns to stare directly at him, reaching out a hand in welcome as if they have only just met that moment. Reaching out a hesitant hand, Phoenix shakes his hosts hand.

“Thanks for joining me tonight Jay”

“… erm … you are welcome Tony, it is a pleasure to be here.”

“So, Jay, how have you been?”

The question was innocuous enough, asked by a smiling man with no overt emotion in his voice but as soon as the words came out of the host’s mouth Phoenix felt his mouth drying up and simply sat staring at Peterson.

“Well, folks …” Peterson said with a large smile to the camera, “I thought that I was starting off with an easy question but obviously I have stumped Mr Phoenix with that one!”

Canned laughter booms out around the studio, mixed in with the real thing from some of the crew, and Phoenix visibly cringes as he tries to slink down further into the seat – perhaps hoping that it would swallow him up.

“C’mon Jay,” Peterson prompted, leaning forwards towards Phoenix, “I am just wondering how you are …”

“Well, Tony,” Jay managed, dryly, as he cleared his throat, “I am …”

“… after all,” Peterson interjected, cutting Phoenix off, “it wasn’t too long ago that you were hospitalised, was it?”

A long time ago, long before Jay Phoenix had become the wrestler that he was now known as, his grandfather had taken him hunting. One day, so many years ago that it was almost like remembering someone else’s life, they had found a young buck in the foothills of a mountain and as Phoenix drew a line on it – raising his bow up to his cheek and holding his breath as he took aim with his steel-tipped arrow – it had looked up. As if sensing its own demise at hand the deer had stood stock still, eyes open. So widely open. Fixed and staring. As Peterson’s question echoed in his head Phoenix knew that his own eyes must have looked like mirrors of that deer.

“I … erm .. .that is I mean …” Phoenix stuttered to a stop, trying to form the words that wouldn’t come from his brain to his mouth.

“Hey, don’t worry about it my friend,” Peterson said, his patronising tone barely concealed, “you aren’t the first – and definitely won’t be the last – celebrity to suffer a mental breakdown.”

“I am sorry,” Phoenix said softly, “but I don’t think that that is correct.”

“Well I think that the viewers at home would think that dressing up in a mask for two years, calling yourself by another name and then denying that it was ever you,” Peterson said, folding his arms as he smiled, “before being treated for a ‘psychotic break’ was a mental breakdown. Why, what do you call it?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Phoenix tried to explain, “that wasn’t me …”

“You mean that Ember wasn’t?” Peterson asked, “but when the mask came off Ember it was you underneath, wasn’t it?”

“Well, it was my body …” Phoenix started and then went silent. He had been through this conversation so many times in the past couple of months – to the police, to the doctors and even to his friends – that he knew that it was next to pointless. There were only a handful of people that believed him … that believed IN him … and he knew that Peterson wasn’t going to be one of them.

“… it was your body,” Peterson prompted, “ … but?”

“But nothing, Mr Peterson,” Phoenix said, his tone resigned, “lets just leave it and move on.”

“Moving on seems to be what you are all about at the moment, doesn’t it Jay?” Peterson asked, a twinkle – small but vicious – evident in his eyes. “You have moved on from your mask wearing days…”

“That wasn’t …”

“Sorry, Jay,” Peterson said with mock sincerity, “I forgot, the guy in the Ember mask – the man that won World titles and made it pretty far in two recent GTT tournaments - wasn’t you … despite all of the contrary evidence, that is. Ok, well you have moved on from your wrestling days, is THAT at least right?”

Phoenix visibly bit his lip, his knuckles whitening as he clenched at the arms of the chair as he tried to remain calm.

“Yes,” he said with a deep breath, “that is right. I have decided that I am going to retire from wrestling … actually, I suppose that you could say that I am already retired from wrestling.”

“Really?” Peterson pressed, “… and do your bosses at PRIME know this?”

“That is another ‘fact’ that you have got wrong, Peterson,” Phoenix stated bluntly, his anger rising, “I don’t have any bosses at PRIME – I don’t work for them!”

“That isn’t what their legal department says,” Peterson pointed out, “when my researchers spoke to them only this morning they confirmed that you are still under contract with them …”

“That was Ember,” Phoenix interjected, “not me!”

“… and as you have already said,” Peterson stated as if just remembering it, “Ember wasn’t you, was he?”

“No,” Phoenix sighed, “he wasn’t”

“Weird, though,” Peterson winked directly at the camera, “that you never saw Ember and Jay Phoenix at the same time …”

Seeing that Phoenix was about to say something Peterson held up both hands, placating, and smiled at Phoenix.

“Moving on, my friend,” he continued, “I am just a bit confused about something. If you don’t actually work for PRIME then why is it that you were recently scheduled to take part in a two tournaments for them?”

“I don’t know why PRIME booked me in PTC’s Infinite Gauntlet tournament, Peterson but as you will probably already know I didn’t fulfil that booking as I see no reason to do anything that I am not contracted to do!” Phoenix said shortly, biting of each word through clenched teeth. His eyes widened slightly as the Peterson’s words actually filtered into his head. “Hang on – two tournaments?”

“Yes,” Peterson said with a satisfied smile, “Don’t tell me that you didn’t know that PRIME had accepted an invitation for you to take part in the ‘Tournament of Champions’!”

“…what?” Phoenix spluttered, “no, I didn’t know about it!”

“Well that is interesting, don’t you think?” Peterson said with a chuckle, “I mean why did you think that I wanted to interview you unless you were topical?”

“I don’t know,” Phoenix admitted, sheepishly, “but I thought that you had heard about my retirement and wanted to talk about that.”

“Oh no, my friend,” Peterson said with a grin, “sorry to burst your bubble but that isn’t news at all and we are all about news and ratings here.” The wink that he threw to the camera was as large as the first and as Phoenix looked at him he could feel a coldness in the pit of his stomach almost as if he could feel something starting to go wrong – to go even worse than the interview had been already. As Peterson turned to look at him once more – as he saw the wolf-like … predatory … smile on his face Phoenix knew what was coming.

“… and speaking of news,” Peterson said, his eyes bright and cold, “would you care to comment on some recent rumours …”

Phoenix stared into a small monitor in front of one of the cameras, where a split image of Peterson – still smiling – could be seen alongside that of a shocked and pale person, his face taut and drawn with eyes bright and vacant. It took him a couple of seconds to realise who it was; to recognise his own face. As he did the image changed as one of the cameras panned around to zoom in on Rick James’ own shocked face. Staring at the screen, seeing his face alongside that of Rick’s, Phoenix felt his heart skip a beat as Peterson’s words continued.

“…about your new boyfriend?”

06-24-07, 09:29 PM

A black backdrop is seen. Simple. Elegant. Dark. Resting comfortably in front of the backdrop is a rather simple, white, leather chair. Into the picture walks a man who just casually sits in the chair and looks into the camera. His red eyes pierce straight through the skin and bone of the watchers at home and hit them right in the heart. They grab their hearts from the pain of his eyes and are fixated upon the scar that runs down his left cheek. He doesn’t smile as he sits there. Instead, you can see that he’s all business, and that he is here for a reason.

Dusk: Some of you are watching this right now, unaware as to whom I am. I wrestle in a different set of rings then the rest of you do. I wrestle over in what’s known around here as PTC land, wrestling with those boys over there instead of competing here in FW. The name is Dusk. Some of you though, will know me, and know what I am all about. I’m a serious competitor; someone who shows his emotions through his actions instead of boring the rest of the competitors here with words that just ramble on incessantly. However, research and marketing has told me that to succeed here in this kind of tournament that I need to go about things a little differently. That I need to show a different side of me, one that shows the warmer side of me, and that fits in with the demographic of those who watch here.

Then, a smile creeps across his face. The fans at home are frightened by this sight, as they very well should be.

Dusk: So, I’ve decided to give it a try. Be a little nicer. Be a little warmer. Especially since one of the rules of this tournament was that you had to cut a wrestling promo about your opponents. Why? I don’t know. Don’t ask me, I don’t make the rules around here. So, I’ve decided to conform to their demands, and thus I sit here before you acting completely unlike anything I’ve ever been before in hopes of making some people happy. I doubt that will happen though.

Dusk then reaches over off screen and pulls in a small bag. Out of the bag, he picks up one of the letters.

Dusk: Another thing that research and marketing have determined is that fans love it when a wrestler reads their letters on screen and respond to them that way. Apparently, they feel all warm and fuzzy afterwards like a ****ing teddy bear.

Then, a guy walks into the shot, wearing a headset over his head. He appears to be the Producer or director of this little segment.

Producer:: Excuse me, sir?

Dusk: What the hell are you doing?!

Producer:: You can’t say any profanity.

Dusk: What the hell do you mean? That wasn’t in the contract that I signed.

Producer:: I understand, but you see this is airing at a time when more kids will be watching. You see, marketing and research determi—

Dusk: They determined that I need to be seen by the kids? Are you serious?

Producer:: Exactly. It makes you more marketable this way.

Dusk: Ugh, fine. So, no cussing.

Producer:: No profanity, correct.

Dusk: You going to edit this part out?

Producer:: Of course.

Dusk: Good. Let’s continue then.

The Producer guy just nods his head before walking off camera. Dusk looks into the camera and smiles again before continuing on.

Dusk: Like I said before, they think it would be a great idea for me to read some of your letters. The first one comes from a Ms. QOTR It reads:

“Dear Dusk,

I’m a huge fan of yours. You continually go out and kick major bootie week in and out for PRIME, even having won the Intense Title recently. However, you and Lindsay Troy seemed to be having a friendship and then out of nowhere you guys just stopped talking or even referring to each other when you were on screen. I think you guys would be great together, and I even sensed a little chemistry between you two if you know what I mean. I feel the same way about this guy that I like to call SegWhore. He’s so cute, but he doesn’t know it though I guess he does now. So, do you think you and Troy might end up hooking up, in or out of the ring, in the upcoming weeks?



Dusk: Well, Ms. QOTR that was quite… an odd letter. Troy and I are just mere colleagues though I respect what she does in the ring, even if she is a little off kilter at times. Yet, she is the Universal Champion and that has to be commended. However, I don’t think you’ll be seeing Lindsay or me ever hooking up, in or out of the ring mainly because we run in different circles and have different agendas. Now, pertaining to your relationship to this so called SegWhore, well first off I think you should just stop calling him that. It’s neither nice nor cute. It probably confuses him and wounds him on a daily basis. Instead, you should be nice to him. Give him a little love with your hand, if you know what I mean. Guys love that. Trust me.

Once again, the Producer comes into the picture, and Dusk can only frown at this.

Dusk: What now?

Producer:: You can’t make sexual references like that.

Dusk: What?! I was just telling her to stroke him with her hand!

Producer:: Exactly!

Dusk: When did that become so wrong? I love it when a girl strokes me.

Producer:: I bet you do bu—

Dusk: I mean, I know you don’t have much hair, but don’t you enjoy it when a girl strokes your hair.

Producer:: Wait, what?

Dusk: Stroking your hair, don’t you enjoy it when a girl does that?

Producer:: That’s what you meant?

Dusk: Of course, what did you think I meant?

Producer:: Stroking the male genital.

Dusk: What?! Come on, you told me this was going over the air to little kids! How dare you?

Producer:: Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.

Dusk: You sick pervert. Get behind that camera and let me finish.

Producer:: Yes, yes sir.

The Producer once again goes behind the camera and Dusk rolls his eyes at the silly Producer. He then smiles again and continues on.

Dusk: As I was saying, you should stroke him with your hand. Just go slow at first and build him up rather slowly. Let him get happy about it and then just stop to make sure he really enjoys. Guys love that. Sounds like this guy would love it too. And sometimes, it’s best to use two hands, one to stroke, and the other to massage. It just makes the guy understand that you really care about how he feels.

Producer: (O.S.): Are you still talking about massaging the hair.

Dusk: Yeah, of course.

Dusk then winks at the camera before moving forward.

Dusk: But, that’s what you should do Ms. QOTR. You like this guy, then you should take care of him. Maybe even mount him, or something.

Producer: (O.S.): Dusk!

Dusk: What?! I was just saying that it allows for better access for the stroking and massaging. Trust me!

Producer: (O.S.): Oh, okay!

Dusk then pulls out another letter and starts to read it.

Dusk: This one comes from the moniker, IntergerChris. It reads:

“Dear Dusk,

Huge fan! My God, you manage to kick Shakur’s ass week in and out, and it just rocks my world. But, I come to you today not to talk about how awesome you sincerely are, but to talk to you about an addiction I have; one that I hope you can help me with. See, I have this obsession that I just can’t get enough of. Every week, I get asked to do something that others would find tedious, but that I’m just in love with. However, now it’s starting to scare people that I keep doing this thing. I don’t find anything odd about it because it just feels so natural, but others are thinking I need help before I go too far. I hope you can either give me some insight as to whether or not I have problems, or if it’s just them going too far. I mean, I do love it and all, but if it’s a serious condition then maybe I should stop. There is this one fellow named GBJ, I'm sure you know him, who wrestles without any clothes on. I fancy having him teabag other wrestlers, and everyone else thinks it is comedy ...HA!* See, the other day, when I was taking off my pants I noticed that as I started to think about the task at hand that I started to get ar—“

Dusk stops reading the letter and looks up at the camera before smiling again.

Dusk: Maybe we shouldn’t read this one. Yeah… totally not going to finish this… one.

Dusk then throws the letter to the ground as if it’s contagious or something. Then, he picks up another letter and begins to read it.

Dusk: The final letter I shall read today, since we are running out of time and everything, is from a one Ms. DefLeppard of England. It reads:

“Dear Dusk,

Congrats on your spot in the Tournament of Champions! This is a huge step for you and one that will obviously take you out of your comfort zone. Are there any competitors that are in the tournament that you are actually worried about?


Ms. DefLeppard (WOOT!)”

Dusk then puts the letter on the ground as his face grows more intense as he moves to the edge of his chair.

Dusk: Well, Ms. DefLeppard, I guess there are a couple of competitors here that I should be worried about. So, at this time let me bring to you a very special segment of his wrestling promo…

Then, in big flashy, bright, Face-Eater-rainbow-like colors, it says DUSK’S TOP FIVE!


Then, it cuts back to Dusk who is still sitting there, smiling.

Dusk: Now, there are about 35 wrestlers signed up for this tournament, but honestly I don’t even know who half of these people are. Apparently, even when you win a meaningless championship it means something to somebody. Unfortunately, I don’t think like that. Just because you win a championship for a piece of crap federation that barely makes a blip on the radar doesn’t mean you’re as good as though who compete at the higher levels of competition. I mean hell, let’s take a look at someone like Ashley Scott. I’m sitting at home, enjoying a bowl of Cheerios, and then her pre-tournament promo comes on that amounts to her saying “lick my boots.” What the hell is that? Is that supposed to scare me? I’m more scared of Face-Eater and Nova ****ing –

Producer: (O.S.): Dusk!

Dusk: Oh shut up. ****ing kids is a word that you will use eventually. Whether you **** someone in the ass or in the mouth, you will use it eventually because that’s how the world works. So parents, I’m teaching your kids how to grow the **** up so get over it. Now, I’m more scared of Face-Eater and Nova ****ing each other with bongs then someone telling me to lick their boots. I had to call my agent who had to call another agent who had to call a manager somewhere in ****in’ Istanbul, who found out that Ashley Scott was the UTA Heavyweight Champion. Of course, I had no idea who the hell that was and had to once again call my agent, who called a deli packer in India, who called his Uncle in South Africa who told him that he had diabetes in his right testicle. No idea what that has to do with the story, but it happened and was part of the journey. After unearthing Abraham Lincoln himself, I finally found out, well, better yet, do we have the footage of me digging up Abraham Lincoln’s remains?

Producer: (O.S.): I forgot it.

Dusk: You forgot it?

Producer: (O.S.): Yeah.

Dusk: You’re like the Darth Varga of the producing world! Fine, so, Ol’ Abe told me that UTA is apparently this federation that wrestles and ****. Trust me; it was funnier on the tape. How does a woman who says lick my boots win the top title of a fed, I haven’t the slightest clue, but it happened. Hell, Facey’s been yelling for a title shot for months now. He should go over to UTA and he’ll be a frickin’ God over there.

Dusk then clears his throat before moving on.

Dusk: So, as I was saying, there aren’t many who worry me. Like I said, most of them I don’t even know about so of course you know they’re not going anywhere. Hell, they probably won’t even show up. It’ll feel like GTT6 all over again. However, there are five, yes five, who you should be on the lookout for. Number five goes to the almighty Tchu. Now, let me tell you something about Tchu. He’s good and all, having won a few titles in PRIME, but even David Arquette won a damn World Title so how much prestige do those things actually have? Sure, let’s give credit where credit is due. Tchu has been with PRIME for a while and has made a name for himself while there. Many tell me that Tchu is a real man because he has a tattoo of his name on his throat. Seriously, who the hell does that? I’m not scared of pain or anything, but that’s gotta be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s like he was going to forget his name so instead of putting it inside of his underwear, he thought it would be better to just brand himself like a cow.

I don’t give Tchu a lot of credit for smarts because quite simply, he gets outsmarted by Danny Ferguson on a weekly basis. Now, let’s be honest here, Danny Ferguson isn’t that smart. He’s a Hollywood star, and we’ve seen our fair share of movie stars when it comes to intelligence. Paris Hilton. Jessica Simpson. Tom Cruise. Just not the brightest people in the world, you know? Danny ranks right in there between Pee-Wee Herman and Michael Jackson when it comes to smarts, and for Tchu to get weekly punked by the guy? Come on, just not that bright. Tchu will make some waves in this tournament, but not the kind of waves you’d think he’d make. He’ll be the retard in the pool flailing his arms because he think he can swim, but eventually he’ll just drown.

Dusk then reaches over and pulls out a water glass that was sitting beside the chair. He slowly drinks some of it before putting it back on the ground, out of view of the people watching at home.

Dusk: Now number four would have to go to the likes of Yori Yakamo, Jr. Now, I won’t start spouting how I know so much about him. I barely have time to watch PRIME, much less another federation that is much smaller in comparison with us. However, I can’t ignore someone who used to run with fWo and was involved in the recent GTT6 and made a decent showing out of it. That proves something to me. Yet, the main thing that worries me about this guy is the drug use. I mean, this guy has like robots and **** working for him, right? I mean, this guy must’ve used so many drugs if he can control robots and whatever else he controls. That’s just not normal. I mean, sure Facey had a robot as well, but that **** blew up.

This guy has actual functioning robots! Hell, Nova doesn’t have robots or anything like that, and that man smoked up at his own baptism. That scares me more than anything. This guy is obviously unhinged. This guy could like assemble a dinosaur robot in the middle of the ring and have him eat you before you realized what was going on. I’m not quite sure Yori should even be allowed to live, much less wrestle, but that’s not my call. However, Yori, you come at me with robots and dinosaurs, hallucinogens and bongs, and I’ll make a robot of my own. It’s going to be called the kick-ya-in-the-face robot and that **** will make you think twice about smoking another bong when you don’t have any teeth in your mouth.

Dusk takes a moment and sits back in his chair, gathering his thoughts. He twiddles his thumbs for a minute before sitting back up in the chair.

Dusk: Sorry, I never know how to do the whole breaks in conversation thing. Now, moving on to number three of the whole who should worry Dusk segment. That person would be none other than Jason Snow. This guy holds all of the PTC titles right now, which is unheard of, and he has a guy named Chainz in his corner. Now, if you don’t know anything about Chainz, you should know that he likes to **** dead people. I mean, how weird is that? More so, how weird is it associate yourself with somebody like that. I mean, I have to wonder to myself why Snow would want a corpse ****er hanging around him. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Snow, they say wrestlers have some weird sexual tendencies, but you just might end up taking the cake. But, this isn’t about your weird sexual tendencies; this is about your wrestling ability. Time and time again, we step into that ring, we do our dance, and somehow you keep getting the better of me. In PRIME. In PTC. I just can’t seem to shake you, can I? The first time, everyone knew how close it was. The second time though, it didn’t look good at all. You were on top of your game and I wasn’t. Yet, we could very well be looking at a third time if things go as planned, and you and I will be dancing once again. The question though is if you’re prepared to dance this time? Your mind will be wondering around, thinking about Nova and Troy, Tchu and Sirrajin, and it makes you wonder if you have what it takes. The pressure is starting to mount on your shoulders, aren’t they? The savior of PTC. The self-proclaimed king of PRIME. How long till you break, Jason? How long before someone takes everything you’ve earned and you’re nothing more than a mere peasant like those that you belittle? My guess. Sooner than you think.

Dusk decides to take another sip of his water before continuing again, ignoring the angered faces on the Producer: sitting behind the camera.

Dusk: Now, number two has to go to none other than the former PRIME Universal Champion, Nova. Yes, the pot smoking, tree hugging, backstabbing bastard of PRIME and PTC. I actually have sympathy for Nova after he was stabbed in the back by his own teammates and he realized he was finally alone. For months, years, I’ve been alone and have felt that pain and pressure all rolled into one. Up on that ramp stood Troy and Tchu, people who claimed to still be your friends and wanting you to change your mind, and did they help you? Not one bit. You were the cornerstone of FU and they discarded you like you were yesterday’s news. No longer did you have the Universal Championship around your waist. To them, you were worthless, no longer needed, and honestly it was sickening. But, it should also be a welcome reminder. When that bulls eye is on your back everyone’s eyes are focused upon you, but the minute it goes away no one thinks twice about you. It’s a harsh reality and now you have to climb back up, but what is going to keep you from getting there? Your own ego. You will tell yourself that you’ve done nothing wrong time and time again, and that’s fair because in reality you didn’t. You stuck by your team when it counted the most, but you have to realize something Nova. You were dealing with the villains of the world. You went in to the lion’s den thinking that at the end of the day they wouldn’t eat you if you were your friends. How wrong were you? You, much like Snow, have too much to worry about because of your own mistakes. Just remember Nova, you and I have danced before, and I have defeated you. This week, we will be partners, but when we step into the ring as opponents, it only takes one second before you’re down on the ground. Again.

Dusk now stands up, moving the leather chair out of the way. He clears his throat before the smile returns to his face.

Dusk: Now comes the final person on the top five list of who I fear. Who could that possibly be? Well, look no further as that person is standing right before you. Me. There are few people who were granted guaranteed spots into this tournament. I’ve been back for less than a year and I’ve held a handful of titles already. GLOBAL International Title. I tore through GLOBAL to the point that they had to fire me in fear of protecting their top stars. The PTC Infinite Gauntlet Title. I was the final PTC Extreme Champion, defeating the likes of Jake Hix, who was considered a top star in the previous Tournament of Champions, Karina Wolfenden, and Nova. I won the PRIME Intense Title and kept it over the likes of Killean Sirrajin. No one in this tournament is more qualified than me when it comes to the past year. Sure, some have held the top titles for four or five months at a time or have been undefeated in one of their feds, but when it comes down to it, few have gone and done the damage that I’ve done in so many different places. Now, I’ve come to make my mark on one other place. TEAM. When it’s all said and done, you will see why I’m considered such a force. Now, how’s that for your research?

The Producer then nods his head as he walks over to Dusk, signaling the end of the promo.

Dusk: Well? I guess you’ll have to bleep a few things out.

Producer:: Yeah, I will. God, they’re going to kill me.

Dusk: Yeah, well, you’ll live. How was the promo?

Producer:: It was okay.

Dusk: Just okay?

Producer:: Yeah, just okay. Nothing special.

Dusk: Oh, okay.

Dusk then nails the Producer with his patented superkick, the Lights Out. The Producer just drops to the floor in a heap as Dusk looks back into the camera.

Dusk: I told them I wasn’t cut out for this kind of stuff.

Dusk then walks away, his smile having disappeared, and the fire in his eyes back once again.


*with a line added by IntergerChris himself

5hawn Jackson
06-24-07, 10:18 PM
I find myself pressed against a wall with a brilliant light beaming in my direction nearly blinding me. I could feel the heat radiating off of it, and it was easily noticeable as beads of sweat were slowly trickling down the side of my face. I was under the careless and watchful eye of the media. Okay, a camera. I wasn’t sure of my location, as I hadn’t been here before, but I’d say the set up was pretty nice. My only request was a towel, I mean; my eyes were burning from the perspiration seeping in. This was the first ever press conference I had done so I felt a bit out of place, but as I looked behind me and saw the TEAM logo, it put a smile on my face knowing I was part of a search for this year’s best champion. I looked at all of the reporters who had pen and pad ready, along with voice recorders, and video cameras. I took a deep breath before I decided to begin the session.

"Good afternoon everyone, I want to thank you all for coming. I’m sure you all have plenty of questions for me, so let’s begin, you there in the plaid what is your question?"

"Hello Mr. Jackson first things first, what are your feelings on being invited to the 2007 TEAM Tournament of Champions?"

"I was excited to say the least; I’ve always enjoyed high levels of competition and what better way to find new competition than to compete against the best of the best, not just from WWA, but across the spectrum."

"Are you familiar with any of the talent in this year’s ToC?"

"I actually am, and I’m not just talking about the obvious, you know, all of the WWA guys. I had the opportunity to watch a couple of High Flyer’s matches, it was insane how he was able to dominate on Monday Night Ruahh~!"

"Was that all?"

"Not at all, I’ve also seen JP Severs, actually had a match with him, although it was a cluster match, and we weren’t in at the same time. Aside from him, and the WWA guys, I’d have to put in some extra work in the film room to gain knowledge of them."

"What do you think your chances are in winning this tournament?"

"Well obviously I’m not going to downplay my individual skill between the ropes, but I do feel that I have a chance to excel in this tournament, as my mat skill is undeniable. There are a few entries into this tournament who have gained access strictly on the grounds that they are considered legends in current or previous organizations, and I feel that despite this my skill shall be overlooked which will give me the distinct advantage."

"Of the guys that you are aware of, which do you think will be the biggest threat?"

"You have the last two WWA World Heavyweight Champions that will be involved in this tournament, so I think I’ll start with them. Khalid Jad, the young sensation that rose to power in an impressive and quick fashion, arguably the fastest rising star in the WWA today, he’ll be no pushover. Christian Light, his name gives you a bad impression of him, as he is a huge man, that utilizes every bit of his power to his advantage."

"Are there anymore?"

"Well, I don’t want to go that direction, I’ll just say this, everyone who is in this tournament is here for a reason, no one will be a walk in the park, so I’d be wise to make sure I was prepared for everyone."

"You seem more humbled then anything else, why do you seem so lax about this?"

"I have never been one to downgrade someone, as that seems to fuel the proverbial fire and ignite hell in any given match, which is why I always gave credit where it was due, and kept my focus and concentration for when it was needed. While in UTA, I have only lost once and have tied once, while I have eleven victories under my belt, it speaks for itself."

"Well you certainly have a point, but with so much talent all around you, how do you think you’ll fare in a star filled tournament?"

"Just as I said, I’ll just remain focused, I don’t see myself coming up on the short end of the stick based on my wrestling skills, it would simply be a mistake that I made, that gave the advantage to one of the others."

"Well, congratulations on being a part of this tournament, and we wish you the best of luck."

"Well, thank you that really means a lot."

I step down from the podium, and I make my way to the corridor that places me out of the sight of all the cameras and right into the…


06-24-07, 11:45 PM
Fade in: on a man standing in front of a plain old black backdrop. His golden blonde hair extends to his chin, clean shaven as is the rest of his face. His physique is one of solid toning, but not completely jacked up-- in short, he's well balanced. He being Larry Tact, facing the camera front-and-center, peering at us with a smirk and a relaxed demeanor as he sits on a stool.

LARRY TACT: "It's been a little while since I've had the opportunity to take part in a TEAM event. Typically, I like to jump right back into the fray if I've endured a tough setback. And the short-lived path I walked in the Invitational Tournament not long ago... well, it was certainly that. It was more than just a setback. It was an alarm sounding for me."

"I don't take a defeat in that whole 'it's the end of the world' kind of way. However, I do feel that there is always something that can be drawn from defeat. In this case, it was more than one thing, and for more than one reason. So I took some time to regroup and rethink the way I was going about my business in the ring. Maybe that doesn't sound very competitive, or like the words of someone who is prepared to do real damage here, now, in the Tournament of Champions. Win it, even."

He shrugs.

"But I don't think it's a stretch to say that most people in this sport wouldn't even mumble an admission of a lackluster performance at any event, these days. Not because it doesn't happen; that's ludicrous thinking."

"No, it's just that people are... too afraid. For all the talk of confidence and balls and 'digging deep' that a lot of us speak of... when it comes down to it... the bravest ones are those who can stand up and admit mistakes... failure... and that they just weren't good enough to get the job done. I wasn't."

"And I can say that because I do have confidence, the real kind. The kind you get when you've had a good long swig of this sport long enough to know that, hey... a loss is a loss. A setback is a setback. It can't kill you unless you let it, but it can always make you stronger."

He brings his legs up to the second rung of the stool, leans forward and props his elbows on his knees, chin on clasped hands, smiling.

"Which brings things back to this, the reason why I'm sitting here today: the Tournament of Champions."

"Apparently, enough people understand what I know for myself: that I'm more than just some preliminary out. In fact, they've even donned me the distinction of "Legend" for the circuit I call home."

"Now, those who know me might expect me to take that label and run with it... start speaking about the path I've walked, the legacy I'm still writing, and what that distinction may or may not confirm...."

He grunts.

"The small handful who truly know me, however... know I wouldn't do that. Not with this label, not here. Because what is this but another label, another way for the public to sugarcoat who I am, and what I do. And there's nothing wrong with that; I'll humor myself watching how the peanut gallery reacts to my presence, much less my performance. Because, just like I could talk about titles or previous opponents or whatever might 'prove' I'm a legitimate threat here... I simply don't require using some label slapped on me by some high-brow suits at a table. It means nothing to me."

"But what does mean something, is that I am in this tournament. Because it is a challenge, and a unique one, at that. And that is something I can sink my teeth into."

He lifts his head off his hands, lowers one leg onto the rung below on the stool, and nods.

"If ever there was a prime opportunity to show off your cumulative skills all at once, this is it. Because this tournament is all about two things: bringing all you've got, and letting it all... hang... out."

"There is no past, no future for this. Who you've gone through, what you've done, any accessories you tote into this... they all get checked at the door. They're just your entry ticket, and once you enter, it gets punched, and you're just another guy to be tested in a pit filled with nothing but testers."

"We all have our traits, our specialties, our crafts. No doubt we're bringing a high level of competitiveness into this, and anyone who doesn't understand that is pretty much screwed, going in. To be honest, even what we say here isn't necessarily going to be all that enlightening to our opposition, our competition, when we head to Chicago for the big game."

"But, then, what is it that separates us? That's what I've been thinking about, this week. It would be stupid for anyone to think we don't all train hard, work ourselves to be at a top level for when we step in the ring. This is a Tournament of Champions, for Christ's sake. But then, what will separate us apart? Our words..?"

He pauses, lets out a small laugh, and winks.

"No... not our words, at least not to each other. But within ourselves. What we believe, what we acknowledge. What we can overcome."

"In short, our weaknesses."

He slides off the stool and stands tall, crossing his arms.

"What do we understand about ourselves? Which of us is truly capable of having that inner confidence, that true confidence, I spoke of earlier. It's not a coincidence I took time to give some serious thought to what I had been doing, and where it would take me. I didn't expect to be putting it to use in TEAM, so readily. But that's all the better. I enjoy the opportunity... the challenge."

"But I knew, whether it was this tournament or the next Supershow, or the next show. Before I would obtain another belt, another victory even, I needed to make sure I understood what has changed within me. You have to accept your limits before you can exceed them. But I can assure you all, as I stand here now..."

"I have made my peace with myself. And I am ready."

"Can you all look within yourselves, and say the same?"

"We'll find out soon enough. Whether you like it or not."

He gives one last grin, then turns and walks off camera. We see that, behind him, the backdrop had words written on it in gold cursive, only now revealed as he moved away from them. They read... "Simply Tactilizing."

Fade out.

06-25-07, 12:36 AM
Harley Douglas, the reigning TEAM Free For All Champion, is standing in front of the TEAM Tournament of Champions backdrop. Douglas, title adorning his waist, has only been in the wrestling business for three months, yet in those three months he has participated in TEAM events three times, having won the TEAM FFA~! Championship at Supershow IV, defeating High Flyer, Jesse Ramey, Munson Monsoon, and Jason Payne. Having already defeated such prominent names, Harley looks forward to his first tournament, the highly regarded and famous Tournament of Champions.

"A couple weeks ago, I stepped into the ring to defend my TEAM Free For All tilde bang Championship, and I did so only knowing who one of my opponents was going to be. I did so even though that opponent was one sick freak named Fred Cook. And that's what it takes to be a Free For All Champion, you never know who your opponents are going to be, but you still have to win. Even if you do know who your opponents will be, there's not enough time to prepare for them all. And that's EXACTLY, what I love about being TEAM Free For All Champion!"

Harley paused for a second, letting the thoughts seep in.

"Well no, I lied. That's the worst part about the Free For All Champ, and I don't love it at all. The part I do love about TEAM Free For All (tilde bang) Champion is the paycheck I receive after successfully defending the title.

"But there's a reason I receive the paycheck that I do, because I'm the fightingest champion there is. See, most champions usually have weeks, sometimes more than a month to prepare for their opponent, and it's usually one person, sometimes two, rarely three. But these illustrious champions from across the globe, they know who they are going to be facing. It's not the same with me, sometimes, I don't know who all of my opponents are going to be until they ring the bell.

"That's what gives me an edge, see. I don't know who my opponents will be at the TEAM Tournament of Champions. Maybe I'll know who my first round opponent will be, but after that, it's damn hard to guess. But like I said, I'm used to not having to prepare for a specific opponent. Some of these champions here today, they prepare for their opponent. They scout out their opponent's weaknesses and strenghts, and change their gameplan to minimize the opponent's strengths, and maximize their weaknesses. Me? I don't have time to do that, not 5 seconds before the bell rings. So while all the supposed Champions in this tournament pace frantically in the back, waiting to see who they will face and try to formulate a last minute plan for them, I'll be sitting here in the back, relaxed. Because that's what I do each time I defend my TEAM Free For All Championship. And if it's gotten me this far in the short amount of time, imagine how far it'll take me, in the Tournament of Champions."

Fade to black.

06-25-07, 01:03 AM
Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story:

The Tale of Tournament of Champion's Round 1. (http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2127520749671943797&pr=goog-sl)


Jake Devins
06-25-07, 02:06 AM

What a waste of f*cking time.

I mean honestly, who wants to watch a bunch of borderline retarded ego maniacs rant for a good ten minutes about how they are the ‘best der es, best der was, best der eber will be’?

Not me. In fact if there’s one thing I hate more than watching a promo, it’s being the star of one.

I sighed heavily, shaking my head from side to side as I watched the camera crew scurry about and bump into each other in a mad attempt to make the scene, ‘camera ready’ as the ‘director’ called it.


Why am I even doing this? I wondered to myself.

It’s not like I give a flying f*cking what the rest of the ‘wrestling community’ thinks of me. I don’t have to win a clusterf*ck of a tournament to prove my worth to anybody, after all.

Yet, here I was. All decked out in freshly washed clothes, my hair semi-done, only a days worth of stubble, and a bloody camera sitting in front of me urging me into a staring contest.

Another sigh.

Keiler better be writing me a fat check for this one, boy.

“Can we hurry the f*ck up already?” I shouted in annoyed manner, rubbing the palms of my hands across my eyes until I could see only stars.

“We’re almost ready Mr. Devins!” Came the reply from the ‘director’.

“Damn well better be, I have more important things to do than just sit here, f*cktard.” Came my reply in a harsh tone.

“Alright, alright.” He said in an assuring manner. “What’s our status?”

Suddenly three lights forming a semi-circle around me switched on, making the room bright as day.

“Lights er on a read-eh, captin’!” Shouted the light guy.

“Mics good?” Questioned the ‘director’, scrolling down his clip board and checking each item off the list.

“Testing one, two. One, two… Mics are a’ go!” Replied the sound man.

“Whadda bout our star? Is he ready?” He questioned.

Everyone turned and stared for a second.

“Just roll the f*cking cameras already.” I said with a roll of the eyes.

“Alright Devins when that red light comes on, we’re live so start in on your spiel.” Nodded the ‘director’.

I just blinked..

“Roll.. The f*cking.. Camera.” I said through gritted teeth.

“Alright quiet on the set!”

“Quiet on the set!”


“In three… two.. One..” The director pointed to me, the red light simultaneously switching on as he did so.

There I sat, clad in a black tee shirt with the words ‘The Only <s>Star</s> One Who Matters’ in bold white letters across the chest, a pure ‘F*ck you’ to the legend of Eric Dane, and blue jean shorts. I sat calmly, my arms crossed over my chest, in front of a huge Irish flag with the ‘Wrestling Republic’ logo emblazoned across the middle.

The camera stared at me and I at it with my cold emerald green eyes.

Feeling that the fans had enough time to take in the scene, I started in.

“Hello and a hardy f*ck you to the entire wrestling community involved in this cluster f*ck of a tournament they have dubbed, ‘The Tournament of Champions’. To the majority of people unaware of who I am, my name is ‘The Assassin’ Jake Devins.”

I smirked slightly.

“Just a name, right? Just another face, just another stupid f*ck with the balls to step into the ring with all you, ‘superior athletes’ right?”

I shook my head.

“Wrong. You see, just like all of you, there’s a reason I’m in this tournament and that reason isn’t to just a fill a vacant hole. If I wanted to do that, I’d hit your moms up. For most of you egomaniacs, you’re only in this tournament to make yourselves feel special. To grab attention and recognition from your peers. A few of you are in it purely for the competitive aspect, trying to figure out just who is the better champion.. But me, on the other hand..”

I shrugged.

“I’m in it just to f*ck people up, and really while I could drone on and on about all of my accomplishments and drop the names of every person I’ve beaten up since pre-school like the rest of you c*ck munchers, I won’t. Why, you ask? Because, to quote an old enemy of mine, ‘That’s all you need to know.’ I’m in it, purely to beat the living piss out of you.”

Uncrossing my arms, I rested my elbows on my thighs.

“And while I’m thoroughly curb stomping your decaying teeth in, I’ll happily be representing my home federation, the great and powerful Wrestling Republic.”

I threw a thumb over my shoulder, motioning towards the logo behind me. There’s the mandatory plug for ya, Keiler.

“Now, rumors have been running around faster than crabs on Paris Hilton about David Paige and I pairing up to form ‘Team WR’. I just want to let you guys know that while Paige and I are as opposite as day and night, yeah we will be teaming up for the time being. Well, I guess you could call it more watching each others back than anything else, not that I trust the analytical bastard. Oh, and to f*ck you guys over even more, we’re throwing in the big black giant, John Henry to our team as well. Good stuff, eh?”

I shrugged.

“Not to mention, the cherry on the cake, some of the greatest athletes in this business, all from the WWA of course, are in it as well. So either way you slice it, you’re f*ckied because if I’m not curb stomping you, or the other members of Team WR aren’t shoving their boots up your ass, you can rely heavily on some other WWA guy taking the reigns.”

Thumbs up.

“In conclusion, I look forward to beating the sh*t outta of all of ya. Good luck, my fellow ‘champions’. Heh.”

A slight smirk and a nod to the director, signaling him to cut the camera.

The red light quickly faded..

“Alright, that’s a wrap! Good stuff out there Jake.” Smiled the director, extending his hand for a shake.

I stood up slowly and walked past him, muttering..

“F*ck you..” As I brushed past him

I made my way to the exit as quickly as possible, careful not to trip over all the busy little worker bees as they broke down the equipment.

I pushed my way through the door, shaking my head all the while..

“God I hate promos.”

06-25-07, 07:04 AM
The last three promos are posted past deadline.

HOWEVER, I'm going to count them because I'm a nice guy. That, and because they're close enough to the deadline, and I know that at least Dove posted his before midnight in his time zone.

I may consider a small penalty for posting late though. No more RPs after this though.

06-25-07, 01:19 PM
I've decided since I didn't specify time zone that all RPs in this thread will count without penalty.