SteelCitySon
League Member
World Heavyweight Championship Title Match!
Christian Sands vs. Beast
- Thread starter SteelCitySon
- Start date
JABolich
League Member
The Apex
(FADEIN: An empty room, illuminated only by a bare, slowly swinging bulb overhead; shadows are cast into the corners. A steel chair sits directly beneath the swinging light, occupied by the black-clad CHRISTIAN SANDS. Shadows play across his stony face and his dark trenchcoat and sweater.)
Sands: So it's come down to this.
Before we start tearing chunks out each other, I want to thank you for doing my dirty work for me. Your disposal of Suicide was quite admirable, though I'm sure you'd have preferred to do it without the aid of Cameron Cruise. Me, I opted to take the intelligent road... by sitting back and letting you do the heavy lifting while I paced myself in preparation for the REAL money match. Call it cowardly if you want to. I call it tactical. As long as I'm in there with two hostile opponents in a match where I don't have to be involved in the decisive pinfall to advance, I see no reason to put the opportunity to advance on the line by stepping into the line of fire.
Of course, I don't expect you to take me at my word. If this tournament has taught me anything, it's that you think very much in terms of black and white. You believe only in what you see. From your perspective, I probably do look like an incompetent coward. And that's fine.
You see, Beast, there's a very good reason I've been called an evil genius... and that's because I'm highly skilled at manipulating people's minds without alerting them to the fact that I'm doing it. What you've seen of me thus far has been EXACTLY WHAT I'VE WANTED YOU TO SEE. Any general worth his salt will tell you that there is great strategic value in concealing your true strength from the enemy until the time is right to deploy in earnest. I've adopted this philosophy as my own - and used it to good effect, I think, judging from your callous dismissal of me in the early verbal exchanges before our match on Aggression.
What you fail to realize, Beast, is that what you see... is not always what you get.
In many ways, Beast, you and I are a lot alike. I can see that you share some of the same drive and passion for this sport that I do. I can appreciate that. But what it boils down to is that although both of us claim that it's our time, there's only so much time to go around. At the moment, that time is coming around my way, because I hold all the cards. Think about it. By reason of my intelligence, you're ignorant as to the true nature of my abilities - which says to me that you're not going to expect what I hit you with.
It's over for you, Beast. At Black Dawn I will be revealed as a modern-day Janus. You have seen one face of Christian Sands - the face that I chose to show you. Now, the time has come for you to gaze into the other - the true face.
Hold my gaze if you will.
But inevitably, you must blink.
I've come a long way since my beginnings on GXW's second-tier show. It's been a hard journey, but I've survived and come through it stronger than ever before. Now, my road to glory has reached its apex, and I stand mere inches from raising that belt above my head and going down in history as the first man to wear the Empire Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship. All that stands between myself and the top of the mountain is a Beast.
But you know as well as I do that when man and Beast clash, man ultimately triumphs in the end.
With that, I bid you goodnight.
Kiss Lindsay for me.
(The room drops to blackness as we FADEOUT)
(FADEIN: An empty room, illuminated only by a bare, slowly swinging bulb overhead; shadows are cast into the corners. A steel chair sits directly beneath the swinging light, occupied by the black-clad CHRISTIAN SANDS. Shadows play across his stony face and his dark trenchcoat and sweater.)
Sands: So it's come down to this.
Before we start tearing chunks out each other, I want to thank you for doing my dirty work for me. Your disposal of Suicide was quite admirable, though I'm sure you'd have preferred to do it without the aid of Cameron Cruise. Me, I opted to take the intelligent road... by sitting back and letting you do the heavy lifting while I paced myself in preparation for the REAL money match. Call it cowardly if you want to. I call it tactical. As long as I'm in there with two hostile opponents in a match where I don't have to be involved in the decisive pinfall to advance, I see no reason to put the opportunity to advance on the line by stepping into the line of fire.
Of course, I don't expect you to take me at my word. If this tournament has taught me anything, it's that you think very much in terms of black and white. You believe only in what you see. From your perspective, I probably do look like an incompetent coward. And that's fine.
You see, Beast, there's a very good reason I've been called an evil genius... and that's because I'm highly skilled at manipulating people's minds without alerting them to the fact that I'm doing it. What you've seen of me thus far has been EXACTLY WHAT I'VE WANTED YOU TO SEE. Any general worth his salt will tell you that there is great strategic value in concealing your true strength from the enemy until the time is right to deploy in earnest. I've adopted this philosophy as my own - and used it to good effect, I think, judging from your callous dismissal of me in the early verbal exchanges before our match on Aggression.
What you fail to realize, Beast, is that what you see... is not always what you get.
In many ways, Beast, you and I are a lot alike. I can see that you share some of the same drive and passion for this sport that I do. I can appreciate that. But what it boils down to is that although both of us claim that it's our time, there's only so much time to go around. At the moment, that time is coming around my way, because I hold all the cards. Think about it. By reason of my intelligence, you're ignorant as to the true nature of my abilities - which says to me that you're not going to expect what I hit you with.
It's over for you, Beast. At Black Dawn I will be revealed as a modern-day Janus. You have seen one face of Christian Sands - the face that I chose to show you. Now, the time has come for you to gaze into the other - the true face.
Hold my gaze if you will.
But inevitably, you must blink.
I've come a long way since my beginnings on GXW's second-tier show. It's been a hard journey, but I've survived and come through it stronger than ever before. Now, my road to glory has reached its apex, and I stand mere inches from raising that belt above my head and going down in history as the first man to wear the Empire Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship. All that stands between myself and the top of the mountain is a Beast.
But you know as well as I do that when man and Beast clash, man ultimately triumphs in the end.
With that, I bid you goodnight.
Kiss Lindsay for me.
(The room drops to blackness as we FADEOUT)
MarcusWestcott
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There can be only one
Scene fades in inside the Continental Airlines Arena in East Rutherford, new Jersey. The camera pans over the arena, where EPW crews are moments away from dismantling the Aggression set. However, for now, it still stands, and the arena is empty. The house lights are dimmed to about half strength, the seats are empty, and a bright spotlight illuminates the ring, the EPW logo standing out like a diamond in the rough.
Voice: Amazing, isn't it?
The camera pans around to show Beast sitting in one of the empty seats a dozen rows up from the floor, dressed in his street clothes, leaning back, looking down at the ring.
Beast: As much as I've talked about getting to this point... as much as I've gone on about becoming the first EPW Champion... the fact that I am now on the brink of accomplishing everything that I've talked about, everything that I've wanted and driven myself to do... now that all this has sunken in, I gotta admit that I need a moment to sit back and take it all in.
When I first came to EPW, it was because of the chance to help build a new promotion from the ground up. To be one of the building blocks that EPW stands on, to be one of the names associated with making this "upstart" promotion great. To be the one who picked this company up and put it on his shoulders, proudly displaying it to anyone and everyone who looked at it.
To do this, I would have to prove myself to be the best.
And to be the best, I would have to become the EPW World Heavyweight Champion.
There's nothing that would make me happier than to take that title and hold it up high over my head. It's a huge opportunity for me. It's every athlete's dream to bring home the gold, and this is no exception.
Beast chuckles to himself.
Beast: I can almost hear Jim Ross sitting down at the announce table screaming "Mrs. Foley's little boy is going to Wrestlemania!!"
Except I'm not Mick Foley, and this isn't Wrestlemania.
This is EPW's first-ever PPV event. This is the one that's going to set the stage for all future events in this new comapny's future. People are going to be stepping into steel cages. New Champions are going to be crowned. New contenders to those new Championships will be determined. This single event is going to shape and mold EPW for weeks, months, and perhaps even years to come.
But one single match is going to pave the way more than any other on the card.
The main event. The first ever EPW World Heavyweight Championship title match.
We're going to find out which man out of this entire company can take that final step, and after making it through all the preliminary rounds will be the one to take that title and lay it - and this company - on his shoulder.
They hype for tonight's match was "it all comes down to three."
Now, it all comes down to two.
There's only one small issue though.
There can be only one.
Only one man is going to rise above the rest. Only one man can lay claim to that Championship title.
When it's all said and done... when everything has fallen down around us... when all the dust has settled, and when all the smoke has cleared...
I am going to be that man.
Christian Sands... you are lauded by some as a great ring technician. Others hail you as an evil genuis.
Me?
After last night, I've seen through all the hype. After a week long tirade about how hard you were going to kick my ass, I was extremely disappointed. I thought Christian Sands was supposed to be this great technical wrestler. I thought Christian Sands was supposed to be this physical marvel that was going to toss me around the ring and hand me my ass on a silver platter.
I waited all week for a challenge, and all I got was a stupid t-shirt.
You're welcome, Sands. I was more than happy to do your dirty work, since it was obvious that you weren't going to step up to the plate and get the job done yourself. While you may be right that I'm not extremely happy that Cameron Cruise picked that particular point in time to get invloved, but hey, just like you said, right Sands? Anything to get the win and move on. So while Cameron came in and nailed Suicide, it was still me going down in the record books as getting the pin over Suicide. I still actually stayed conscious and got over and dropped the arm over Suicide to get the pin.
While that might not be the greatest feat ever accomplished in the wrestling industry, one only has to ask the question "Where was Christian Sands?"
I'll tell you where Christian Sands was.
He was lying face down on the mat, oblivious to anything and everything going on around him, that's where.
So maybe some might call you a coward. Some might call you the most intelligent man on earth. You might just call it tactical You might say you were pacing yourself to get ready for the big title match.
I will just call you a non-entity.
You made me look like a fool, Sands.
And not because you beat me in a match either, because we all know that didn't happen.
Or will happen.
No, Sands, I showed up and did a 180. I showed up and ran my mouth to Suicide about how I thought he was a piece of sh*t. How he didn't deserve to be in the same match as you and I, because he wasn't the human being that you and I were.
Man, was I wrong.
This was your favorite kind of match, wasn't it? You didn't need to do anything. You didn't need to win the match to advance, you just needed to survive. You just sat back and picked your spots. You waited until Suicide and I were ripe for the picking, and then you moved in. You hung out on the side of the ring, resting, doing your nails, checking your hair, and looking like a grade A *****, while Suicide and I did all the fighting.
Call it smart on your part. Call it dumb on my part. Whatever.
You just spent the evening showing who the real athletes in EPW are, that's all. You didn't step into the line of fire, because you know that the second you did, you'd get shot down. When you *did* get involved, you looked like an ass. You even got a free shot at me, and couldn't make anything of it. You had me while I dumped Suicide out of the ring. You took me down, and you stomped the sh*t out of my knee. You could have hurt me.
You could have ended my career.
But, no, Sands, you didn't. You don't have the killer instinct. You haven't got what it takes to put the finishing touch on it and make a match your own. Maybe it was because you wanted me around because you didn't want to face Suicide this week, who knows.
Anyway you cut it, you still flaked out.
You couldn't keep me down.
I don't think you're incompetent, Sands.
A coward? Maybe just a little.
But not incompetent. You've got the tools to be a great Champion. It's just a damned shame that you don't know how to use any of them.
And then of course, to explain it all away like it means nothing, like the bottom feeder whore you pulled off the street last night - while I was in my hotel room with a very lovely Lindsay Troy - to explain it all away, you pull out the evil genius shtick.
Bravo, Sands, Bravo.
"I can f*ck with your head without even knowing it." "You don't know the real me, because I haven't allowed you to see it." "You didn't beat me, I allowed you to win just to let you think you're better, and next time, I'm going to fight the way I really do, and I'll kick your ass."
Alright, maybe you didn't say the last one, but it's the same god damned thing every Tom, Dick, and Harry who's ever put on a set of gear and thinks he's some kind of bad ass says when they want you to think that they're some kind of mastermind genuis. BORING, Sands. Just plain boring, and utterly overused. I've spent the last three years fighting airheads like you.
You're no different.
I saw the real you, Sands. Don't try and hide it. I saw the real Christian Sands that was intelligent enough to pick his spot, but wasn't quite intelligent enough to take advantage of it when you had my knee. I saw the annoyed look on your face when you missed that elbow drop that gave away that you weren't fast enough to keep up with me. I saw a Christian Sands bright enough to wipe two men out with an amazing plancha, but didn't have the skills to keep them down. I saw the Christian Sands that ran like a scared little girl when I had that chair in my hands. I saw a man that can dish it out but can't take it. I saw a man that had to use the desperation of yet another low blow because he couldn't cut it, and once you got the advantage, I saw a weakling that didn't have the strength to follow up on it.
Try and hide it all you want, Sands. I know exactly what I'm dealing with. I'm not as ignorant as you think.
Your intelligence is lacking.
However, if by some devine Miracle you're able to pull a few new tricks in our match at Black Dawn, remember that you're dealing with a beast that knows how to adapt in order to survive...
And WIN.
The cardinal rule, Sands. Expect the unexpected.
I went into Aggression against you expecting a seven course meal.
And all I got was a stale, bland piece of bread. There's no passion there. No flavor.
I have the passion, the drive, the heart, the will, and the guts of a Champion.
And obviously the cajones too, since you couldn't take advantage of that, either.
You may be a modern day Janus, Sands. Fine, pick any God you want. If you want Janus, fine. You think you're a two faced man that hides his true identity - I think you're just a two faced bastard. Shame on you for making us all expect something you obviously had no plans - or talent - on being able to deliver. Janus was the God of gates and doorways. He Kept the gate of Heaven, and his temple in Rome had its doors thrown open in War, and closed in times of Peace.
However, Augustus brought peace to the Roman Empire, and closed Janus' doors forever.
Janus, meet Augustus.
The only door work you'll be doing is opening the one for me that leads to the EPW World Heavyweight Championship.
Or maybe you want to get astronomical on me? Janus is the fifth moon of Saturn, always revolving around the bigger planet. Never good enough to stand in the center, and have others revolve around it. After Black Dawn, I shall be EPW's Saturn, and you can take your place Sands, always revolving around me, knowing that you're just not quite good enough.
You've come a long way. Only to be met by a Beast.
You say that a man will always triumph over a Beast?
Perhaps - with guns, and other weapons of destruction.
But in a pure, natural fight, in hand to hand - or even hand to paw - I'm choosing the Beast. Ask the bear who gored the little man. Ask the lion or the tiger who had one for breakfast.
I'll take the Beast anytime.
The marketing department came up with Black Dawn.
Indeed, it's going to be the start of a new era.
The dawn of a new beginning.
The only one it's going to be Black for, is you, Sands.
For I'll be bathed in the light coming from the Gold on the EPW World Heavyweight Championship.
A new era begins.
The era of the Beast.
The camera fades to black.
Scene fades in inside the Continental Airlines Arena in East Rutherford, new Jersey. The camera pans over the arena, where EPW crews are moments away from dismantling the Aggression set. However, for now, it still stands, and the arena is empty. The house lights are dimmed to about half strength, the seats are empty, and a bright spotlight illuminates the ring, the EPW logo standing out like a diamond in the rough.
Voice: Amazing, isn't it?
The camera pans around to show Beast sitting in one of the empty seats a dozen rows up from the floor, dressed in his street clothes, leaning back, looking down at the ring.
Beast: As much as I've talked about getting to this point... as much as I've gone on about becoming the first EPW Champion... the fact that I am now on the brink of accomplishing everything that I've talked about, everything that I've wanted and driven myself to do... now that all this has sunken in, I gotta admit that I need a moment to sit back and take it all in.
When I first came to EPW, it was because of the chance to help build a new promotion from the ground up. To be one of the building blocks that EPW stands on, to be one of the names associated with making this "upstart" promotion great. To be the one who picked this company up and put it on his shoulders, proudly displaying it to anyone and everyone who looked at it.
To do this, I would have to prove myself to be the best.
And to be the best, I would have to become the EPW World Heavyweight Champion.
There's nothing that would make me happier than to take that title and hold it up high over my head. It's a huge opportunity for me. It's every athlete's dream to bring home the gold, and this is no exception.
Beast chuckles to himself.
Beast: I can almost hear Jim Ross sitting down at the announce table screaming "Mrs. Foley's little boy is going to Wrestlemania!!"
Except I'm not Mick Foley, and this isn't Wrestlemania.
This is EPW's first-ever PPV event. This is the one that's going to set the stage for all future events in this new comapny's future. People are going to be stepping into steel cages. New Champions are going to be crowned. New contenders to those new Championships will be determined. This single event is going to shape and mold EPW for weeks, months, and perhaps even years to come.
But one single match is going to pave the way more than any other on the card.
The main event. The first ever EPW World Heavyweight Championship title match.
We're going to find out which man out of this entire company can take that final step, and after making it through all the preliminary rounds will be the one to take that title and lay it - and this company - on his shoulder.
They hype for tonight's match was "it all comes down to three."
Now, it all comes down to two.
There's only one small issue though.
There can be only one.
Only one man is going to rise above the rest. Only one man can lay claim to that Championship title.
When it's all said and done... when everything has fallen down around us... when all the dust has settled, and when all the smoke has cleared...
I am going to be that man.
Christian Sands... you are lauded by some as a great ring technician. Others hail you as an evil genuis.
Me?
After last night, I've seen through all the hype. After a week long tirade about how hard you were going to kick my ass, I was extremely disappointed. I thought Christian Sands was supposed to be this great technical wrestler. I thought Christian Sands was supposed to be this physical marvel that was going to toss me around the ring and hand me my ass on a silver platter.
I waited all week for a challenge, and all I got was a stupid t-shirt.
You're welcome, Sands. I was more than happy to do your dirty work, since it was obvious that you weren't going to step up to the plate and get the job done yourself. While you may be right that I'm not extremely happy that Cameron Cruise picked that particular point in time to get invloved, but hey, just like you said, right Sands? Anything to get the win and move on. So while Cameron came in and nailed Suicide, it was still me going down in the record books as getting the pin over Suicide. I still actually stayed conscious and got over and dropped the arm over Suicide to get the pin.
While that might not be the greatest feat ever accomplished in the wrestling industry, one only has to ask the question "Where was Christian Sands?"
I'll tell you where Christian Sands was.
He was lying face down on the mat, oblivious to anything and everything going on around him, that's where.
So maybe some might call you a coward. Some might call you the most intelligent man on earth. You might just call it tactical You might say you were pacing yourself to get ready for the big title match.
I will just call you a non-entity.
You made me look like a fool, Sands.
And not because you beat me in a match either, because we all know that didn't happen.
Or will happen.
No, Sands, I showed up and did a 180. I showed up and ran my mouth to Suicide about how I thought he was a piece of sh*t. How he didn't deserve to be in the same match as you and I, because he wasn't the human being that you and I were.
Man, was I wrong.
This was your favorite kind of match, wasn't it? You didn't need to do anything. You didn't need to win the match to advance, you just needed to survive. You just sat back and picked your spots. You waited until Suicide and I were ripe for the picking, and then you moved in. You hung out on the side of the ring, resting, doing your nails, checking your hair, and looking like a grade A *****, while Suicide and I did all the fighting.
Call it smart on your part. Call it dumb on my part. Whatever.
You just spent the evening showing who the real athletes in EPW are, that's all. You didn't step into the line of fire, because you know that the second you did, you'd get shot down. When you *did* get involved, you looked like an ass. You even got a free shot at me, and couldn't make anything of it. You had me while I dumped Suicide out of the ring. You took me down, and you stomped the sh*t out of my knee. You could have hurt me.
You could have ended my career.
But, no, Sands, you didn't. You don't have the killer instinct. You haven't got what it takes to put the finishing touch on it and make a match your own. Maybe it was because you wanted me around because you didn't want to face Suicide this week, who knows.
Anyway you cut it, you still flaked out.
You couldn't keep me down.
I don't think you're incompetent, Sands.
A coward? Maybe just a little.
But not incompetent. You've got the tools to be a great Champion. It's just a damned shame that you don't know how to use any of them.
And then of course, to explain it all away like it means nothing, like the bottom feeder whore you pulled off the street last night - while I was in my hotel room with a very lovely Lindsay Troy - to explain it all away, you pull out the evil genius shtick.
Bravo, Sands, Bravo.
"I can f*ck with your head without even knowing it." "You don't know the real me, because I haven't allowed you to see it." "You didn't beat me, I allowed you to win just to let you think you're better, and next time, I'm going to fight the way I really do, and I'll kick your ass."
Alright, maybe you didn't say the last one, but it's the same god damned thing every Tom, Dick, and Harry who's ever put on a set of gear and thinks he's some kind of bad ass says when they want you to think that they're some kind of mastermind genuis. BORING, Sands. Just plain boring, and utterly overused. I've spent the last three years fighting airheads like you.
You're no different.
I saw the real you, Sands. Don't try and hide it. I saw the real Christian Sands that was intelligent enough to pick his spot, but wasn't quite intelligent enough to take advantage of it when you had my knee. I saw the annoyed look on your face when you missed that elbow drop that gave away that you weren't fast enough to keep up with me. I saw a Christian Sands bright enough to wipe two men out with an amazing plancha, but didn't have the skills to keep them down. I saw the Christian Sands that ran like a scared little girl when I had that chair in my hands. I saw a man that can dish it out but can't take it. I saw a man that had to use the desperation of yet another low blow because he couldn't cut it, and once you got the advantage, I saw a weakling that didn't have the strength to follow up on it.
Try and hide it all you want, Sands. I know exactly what I'm dealing with. I'm not as ignorant as you think.
Your intelligence is lacking.
However, if by some devine Miracle you're able to pull a few new tricks in our match at Black Dawn, remember that you're dealing with a beast that knows how to adapt in order to survive...
And WIN.
The cardinal rule, Sands. Expect the unexpected.
I went into Aggression against you expecting a seven course meal.
And all I got was a stale, bland piece of bread. There's no passion there. No flavor.
I have the passion, the drive, the heart, the will, and the guts of a Champion.
And obviously the cajones too, since you couldn't take advantage of that, either.
You may be a modern day Janus, Sands. Fine, pick any God you want. If you want Janus, fine. You think you're a two faced man that hides his true identity - I think you're just a two faced bastard. Shame on you for making us all expect something you obviously had no plans - or talent - on being able to deliver. Janus was the God of gates and doorways. He Kept the gate of Heaven, and his temple in Rome had its doors thrown open in War, and closed in times of Peace.
However, Augustus brought peace to the Roman Empire, and closed Janus' doors forever.
Janus, meet Augustus.
The only door work you'll be doing is opening the one for me that leads to the EPW World Heavyweight Championship.
Or maybe you want to get astronomical on me? Janus is the fifth moon of Saturn, always revolving around the bigger planet. Never good enough to stand in the center, and have others revolve around it. After Black Dawn, I shall be EPW's Saturn, and you can take your place Sands, always revolving around me, knowing that you're just not quite good enough.
You've come a long way. Only to be met by a Beast.
You say that a man will always triumph over a Beast?
Perhaps - with guns, and other weapons of destruction.
But in a pure, natural fight, in hand to hand - or even hand to paw - I'm choosing the Beast. Ask the bear who gored the little man. Ask the lion or the tiger who had one for breakfast.
I'll take the Beast anytime.
The marketing department came up with Black Dawn.
Indeed, it's going to be the start of a new era.
The dawn of a new beginning.
The only one it's going to be Black for, is you, Sands.
For I'll be bathed in the light coming from the Gold on the EPW World Heavyweight Championship.
A new era begins.
The era of the Beast.
The camera fades to black.
JABolich
League Member
Be All You Can Be
(FADEIN: A luxurious hotel somewhere. CHRISTIAN SANDS stands out on the balcony, leaning with both arms crossed against the railing; his back, captured through the door from the inside of the hotel room, is almost to the camera, presenting a 3/4 profile shot in which the side of his face is visible over his right shoulder. The entire scene is shot in black and white, making SANDS appear rather pallid and unhealthy.)
(There is silence for a moment. Finally SANDS closes his eyes, smirks, and shakes his head slowly.)
Sands: It's funny, Beast... I have you scouted, and you don't even know it.
You're a very predictable man, Beast. From the moment I began speaking in my first promo I knew exactly how you would respond - by casting doubt on my abilities again, by throwing the legwork and your little finisher in my face, and by rambling about how this is your time. As expected, you didn't disappoint. Then again, it wasn't difficult to guess, considering that I know how your mind works. As I said... black and white, Beast. There are no shades of grey for you - there is black, and there is white, but nothing else.
In response to your criminally ridiculous twisting of my Janus metaphor, you have more in common with Saturn than you think - that is, you're large and full of hot air. But to extend the metaphor of astronomy, Saturn is a dead world, incapable of supporting life - unable to develop into something greater than a ball of hot air. I am the Earth, Beast - and unlike Saturn, Earth is a lush, verdant world where change and life abound. It's constantly developing, becoming different with each passing aeon. But most importantly, Earth is unique in the solar system in that it plays host to a special trait. INTELLIGENCE. Something Saturn doesn't harbor. Unless, of course, you've discovered smart aliens dancing the Macarena along Saturn's rings.
As for your metaphor regarding Augustus, I suggest you do some research before you dig into ancient Roman history, because Augustus was perhaps more two-faced than Janus. Considering that the man changed his name when he became Princeps, claimed to restore the Roman Republic while secretly weakening the senate and gathering all the power for himself, portrayed himself as eternally youthful even when he was seventy years old, and banished his own daughter for ten years on an excessive sentence over false pretenses, Augustus doesn't seem like such a great alternative to Janus, does he? So what are you telling me, Beast? That you're a megalomaniacal liar hiding behind a false face? I can buy the megalomaniacal part... but really, stealing my two-face shtick is pretty low.
Incidentally, Janus' doors didn't stay closed for very long, considering how many civil wars there were in Rome. Dare I mention the Year of the Four Emperors or the rise of the Severans?
Besides... the only Roman Emperor you really qualify as would be Caligula, in that you're incompetent and delusional. Incompetent because you're incapable of seeing those shades of gray I mentioned, and delusional because you honestly think I'm inferior to you.
And... why exactly is that, big guy? Because I was content to let you separate the chaff from the wheat for me? If you really think I'm not on your level because I'm smart enough to conserve my strength for the match that matters, I suggest you go find whoever trained you and demand your money back, because they obviously didn't teach you the finer points of strategy and psychology.
Apparently you didn't listen when I mentioned to you that I showed you exactly what I wanted you to see. As you said, I could easily have broken your leg at one point in the match - but I didn't. And again, I could've simply put you away near the end... but I didn't. Rather, I took a calculated risk and allowed you to gain the upper hand, because I realize the value of making small concessions in the short-term to gain an advantage in the long-term. Your reaction tells me I've succeeded.
I made you look like a fool, hm? You made yourself look like a fool by vacillating on your stance on me, and you continue to do so by allowing me to lead you around by the nose, so don't try to foist the blame on me for your stupidity. If you don't want to look foolish, develop a brain.
Go ask Jean Rabesque about my passion, Beast. Better yet, go watch the Battleground Britain tape. You'll see sixty-six minutes of passion at work. THAT, Beast, is the real face of Christian Sands - the one I've purposefully concealed from you thus far. It is the face of a man with more passion for this sport than you can possibly conceive. I came back from the brink of death to get to this point - and if that's not passion enough, I don't know what the hell is.
But really, Beast... I may be boring, but deep down you know you're no better. Listening to you sit here and mix metaphors, rambling about how it's your time and your destiny... you're no better than the deliberately bland face I presented before now. What you've said thus far is exactly what everybody else in your position says, simply because you ARE no better than anybody else. What makes you so different? Answer me that.
More to the point... PROVE IT TO ME.
Unfortunately, I see now that you CAN'T PROVE ANYTHING, because you lack the ability to wrestle strategically and learn the psychology of your opponents. As I've said, that's where my decisive advantage lies. You DON'T know how my mind works, and you DON'T realize that you've been the victim of an elaborate deception, because you're not subtle enough to comprehend such things. Thus, I've been able to watch you and learn your modus operandi, while you've seen only what I allowed you to.
But when the first rays of the Black Dawn creep across the horizon, Beast, things will become far clearer.
Far clearer indeed.
And when it's all over and done with, you will indeed ascend to become the best you can be. That's right, you'll achieve your destiny and find your place.
The only problem is... your place...
...is to carry my bags.
The bags of the World Heavyweight Champion.
And the bags of a man who is better than you in every conceivable way.
But don't take my word for it.
You'll find out for yourself soon enough.
(FADEOUT)
(FADEIN: A luxurious hotel somewhere. CHRISTIAN SANDS stands out on the balcony, leaning with both arms crossed against the railing; his back, captured through the door from the inside of the hotel room, is almost to the camera, presenting a 3/4 profile shot in which the side of his face is visible over his right shoulder. The entire scene is shot in black and white, making SANDS appear rather pallid and unhealthy.)
(There is silence for a moment. Finally SANDS closes his eyes, smirks, and shakes his head slowly.)
Sands: It's funny, Beast... I have you scouted, and you don't even know it.
You're a very predictable man, Beast. From the moment I began speaking in my first promo I knew exactly how you would respond - by casting doubt on my abilities again, by throwing the legwork and your little finisher in my face, and by rambling about how this is your time. As expected, you didn't disappoint. Then again, it wasn't difficult to guess, considering that I know how your mind works. As I said... black and white, Beast. There are no shades of grey for you - there is black, and there is white, but nothing else.
In response to your criminally ridiculous twisting of my Janus metaphor, you have more in common with Saturn than you think - that is, you're large and full of hot air. But to extend the metaphor of astronomy, Saturn is a dead world, incapable of supporting life - unable to develop into something greater than a ball of hot air. I am the Earth, Beast - and unlike Saturn, Earth is a lush, verdant world where change and life abound. It's constantly developing, becoming different with each passing aeon. But most importantly, Earth is unique in the solar system in that it plays host to a special trait. INTELLIGENCE. Something Saturn doesn't harbor. Unless, of course, you've discovered smart aliens dancing the Macarena along Saturn's rings.
As for your metaphor regarding Augustus, I suggest you do some research before you dig into ancient Roman history, because Augustus was perhaps more two-faced than Janus. Considering that the man changed his name when he became Princeps, claimed to restore the Roman Republic while secretly weakening the senate and gathering all the power for himself, portrayed himself as eternally youthful even when he was seventy years old, and banished his own daughter for ten years on an excessive sentence over false pretenses, Augustus doesn't seem like such a great alternative to Janus, does he? So what are you telling me, Beast? That you're a megalomaniacal liar hiding behind a false face? I can buy the megalomaniacal part... but really, stealing my two-face shtick is pretty low.
Incidentally, Janus' doors didn't stay closed for very long, considering how many civil wars there were in Rome. Dare I mention the Year of the Four Emperors or the rise of the Severans?
Besides... the only Roman Emperor you really qualify as would be Caligula, in that you're incompetent and delusional. Incompetent because you're incapable of seeing those shades of gray I mentioned, and delusional because you honestly think I'm inferior to you.
And... why exactly is that, big guy? Because I was content to let you separate the chaff from the wheat for me? If you really think I'm not on your level because I'm smart enough to conserve my strength for the match that matters, I suggest you go find whoever trained you and demand your money back, because they obviously didn't teach you the finer points of strategy and psychology.
Apparently you didn't listen when I mentioned to you that I showed you exactly what I wanted you to see. As you said, I could easily have broken your leg at one point in the match - but I didn't. And again, I could've simply put you away near the end... but I didn't. Rather, I took a calculated risk and allowed you to gain the upper hand, because I realize the value of making small concessions in the short-term to gain an advantage in the long-term. Your reaction tells me I've succeeded.
I made you look like a fool, hm? You made yourself look like a fool by vacillating on your stance on me, and you continue to do so by allowing me to lead you around by the nose, so don't try to foist the blame on me for your stupidity. If you don't want to look foolish, develop a brain.
Go ask Jean Rabesque about my passion, Beast. Better yet, go watch the Battleground Britain tape. You'll see sixty-six minutes of passion at work. THAT, Beast, is the real face of Christian Sands - the one I've purposefully concealed from you thus far. It is the face of a man with more passion for this sport than you can possibly conceive. I came back from the brink of death to get to this point - and if that's not passion enough, I don't know what the hell is.
But really, Beast... I may be boring, but deep down you know you're no better. Listening to you sit here and mix metaphors, rambling about how it's your time and your destiny... you're no better than the deliberately bland face I presented before now. What you've said thus far is exactly what everybody else in your position says, simply because you ARE no better than anybody else. What makes you so different? Answer me that.
More to the point... PROVE IT TO ME.
Unfortunately, I see now that you CAN'T PROVE ANYTHING, because you lack the ability to wrestle strategically and learn the psychology of your opponents. As I've said, that's where my decisive advantage lies. You DON'T know how my mind works, and you DON'T realize that you've been the victim of an elaborate deception, because you're not subtle enough to comprehend such things. Thus, I've been able to watch you and learn your modus operandi, while you've seen only what I allowed you to.
But when the first rays of the Black Dawn creep across the horizon, Beast, things will become far clearer.
Far clearer indeed.
And when it's all over and done with, you will indeed ascend to become the best you can be. That's right, you'll achieve your destiny and find your place.
The only problem is... your place...
...is to carry my bags.
The bags of the World Heavyweight Champion.
And the bags of a man who is better than you in every conceivable way.
But don't take my word for it.
You'll find out for yourself soon enough.
(FADEOUT)
Last edited:
MarcusWestcott
League Member
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 501
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 49
- Location
- Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
- Website
- www.a1e.ca
*sigh*
The camera fades in on Beast sitting in his home in Winnipeg, feet up in a big leather recliner chair. The huge widescreen plasma TV that hangs on the wall has wrestling footage from some promotion up and playing, and a paperback novel lies spread over the arm of the chair.
Beast: So Christian Sands has me scouted.
Beast raises his hands and mockingly wiggles his fingers in a farce of an "I'm scared" kind of motion.
Beast: Oooooooooooo.
I would *hope* that you've got me scouted, Sands. Any elite wrestler does his homework before a match. You know, watch their opponent's promos, goes over their matches frontwards, backwards and sideways. It's kind of standard practice in preparation for a match, dontcha think?
So why is there this huge revelation out of the Sands camp that "you know what to expect" from me?
Do you want a trophy or something? Do you want me to bake you a f*cking cake for doing your job?
Sands, you've made your entire case this week thus far based on black, white, and shades of grey. About how I'm the black and white. I'm the predictable one. You can tell what I'm going to say before I say it. You can tell what I'm going to do before I do it. That Beast is just one giant cookie cutter waiting to be picked apart by the apparently more intelligent.
To tell you the honest truth, Sands... I really couldn't give a flying f*ck.
I couldn't care if you've seen every match I've ever been in. I couldn't care if you've gone and memorized every promo I've ever given.
Because when it all comes down to it, Sands... I am exactly what I appear to be. I don't need to hide behind false identities. I don't need to go slinking around with this whole two-faced thing, trying to pretend I'm something I'm not in order to try and get one up on my opponent.
I wear my heart, my mind and my soul on my sleeve, Sands. No false pretenses. Everyone sees me as the real Beast.
I give everyone 110 percent of me all the time. What you get is my uncensored opinion. You get my unchecked emotion.
And when I step into the ring, you get all of my strength. All of my stamina. All of my raw power. All of my skill. Nothing's held back.
And that's the heart of it all, isn't it Sands?
You know that all of me is too much for you to handle.
So while I'm the black and white, Sands, you're the million shades of grey.
You feel the need to run around shooting your mouth off, spending the week talking about how you aren't what you really are. You've only allowed me to see a part of your true self, and that you're going to unleash your true self upon me in a flash of brilliance and use that leverage to defeat me for the EPW Heavyweight Championship.
You've brilliantly hidden your true self from me and anyone else who wants to see it, so that you have this massive advantage over all of us.
Wake up, sunshine.
You haven't done sh*t.
All you've done is proclaim a bunch of garbage, and yet in the same breath, you've given me the key to countering this so-called advantage.
"Go ask Jean Rabesque about my passion, Beast. Better yet, go watch the Battleground Britain tape. You'll see sixty-six minutes of passion at work. THAT, Beast, is the real face of Christian Sands - the one I've purposefully concealed from you thus far."
Beast just claps his hands mockingly, smirking at the camera.
Beast: Congratulations, moron.
You've spent your entire promo period spouting off about the mystique and mystery that is Christian Sands, only to talk, and talk, and talk so much - just to hear yourself talk - that you've unravelled your own mystery.
Looks like you don't hold all the cards at all. That ace up your sleeve turned out to benothing more than a deuce.
You know what you remind me of, Sands? You're like Dr. Evil. Actually, less specifically, you're like every so-called "evil genius" in the movies that hatches this great plan to destroy the hero, and when he finally lures the hero into his trap and is about to feed him to the sharks and make his escape to take over the world, his f*cking ego won't let him leave. No, he has to be a stupid sack of sh*t and spew his plan for everyone to see, just to brag about how god damned brilliant he is.
Only problem, Sands, is that the hero is able to take this information and save the day, triumphant in the end.
Real life mirrors fantasy more than some people would like to admit.
And you know what the real funny thing is, genius?
Just by doing my job, just by being the premiere athlete and fighter that I am, I would have discovered anyway. It's on tape! And like I said at the top of my own time today, any good athlete does wis work. That includes watching tape.
Your whole "mystery", your whole "mystique"... that may have worked on some backyard punk or some idiot with a God complex like Suicidal Killer, but not me, Mr. Intelligence.
How truly pathetic. Your whole gimmick is a moot point.
And not only are you ruining your gimmick with every word you say, you're taking any and all credibility away from yourself. You think you're being smart, but really, you're just firing off excuses.
"Oh, I didn't want to work hard because I wanted to wait for the big money match." "I could easily have broken your leg at one point in the match - but I didn't." "I took a calculated risk and allowed you to gain the upper hand." "I could've simply put you away near the end... but I didn't."
I especially like that last one, Sands. Near the end of the match, you were on the outside with Suicide. The second you came near me, I nailed you with a jawbreaker and put you down. Then, when I grabbed the chair right after that, you put your 160 IQ tail between your legs and ran away like a little *****. What happened next? Right. You attacked me and missed. You nailed the referee. And even with the ref down, and even using yet another low blow, you couldn't keep me down. Wham, BAM, Absolution, and you were sleeping while I pinned Suicide.
Yeah, you really could have taken me out. You were really a threat there, Sandsy.
And even after it was all said and done... even after match was over, you got in another free shot - you hit your little finisher and wiped me out.
But I'm still here, Sands. You couldn't do it. You don't have that killer instinct. You don't have what it takes to get the job done. While you may be a hell of a wrestler, you just can't finish it off.
All you have is excuses.
What kind of crap is "I could have, but I didn't want to."
An excuse. Not a strategy, but an excuse.
All you did was show who the true Sands was.
You didn't take me out because you couldn't. I could've snapped Suicide's neck around the ringpost outside the ring. But I didn't. I could have continued to beat his ass with that steel chair, but I didn't.
That's not who I truly am.
But you, Sands, you definitely showed your true colors.
A rainbow of ineptitude.
Beast sighs.
Beast: But I'm forgetting something. What was it again? Ah yes, the unbridled passion that allowed you to come back from the near-dead. Less than a year ago, was it? Burned to a crisp? All the doctors thought you'd die?
Wow, the human skin is quite an amazing organ. It does have some incredible healing qualities, but to get burned that badly and be the way you are today? I know I'm rehashing some things Suicide said last week, but come on, man. How are you still walking? How do people pound the hell out of you week after week after less than a year of being turned into back bacon and without reopening the wounds? How do you wrestle a 60 minute technical marvel against someone that has the apparent skill of Jean Rabesque, a man who is well admired in these circles for being a great wrestler?
You don't.
You want to bring this crap up again this week, expect it to be thrown back in your face. Just like "the two faces of Sands", this whole thing is nothing more than another elaborate story cooked up by our dear Mr. Sands to stroke his ego and make everyone think that he is more than the sum of his parts.
You conveniently don't remember the whole episode. And it's not irrerlevant, no matter what you say. Hell, I've STILL got scars all over my body from the beatings I've taken over the years, and I've never even come CLOSE to being torched to near death.
No, it's damned relevant, because it shows that all you are is a big f*cking punchline to a pretty awful joke. Drama and mystique and stories, all cooked up to disguise the fact that the man underneath it all is just not good enough.
But hey, at least all is not lost, Sands.
At least you know more about philosophy and ancient Gods than I do.
There's only one problem.
All that stuff is just useless trivia once you step inside the ropes. Knowing the ins and outs of Caligula isn't going to win you the EPW World Title.
Stepping into that ring and beating me is the only way you're going to do that.
And that's something you've already proven you can't do.
I don't NEED to PROVE a damned thing. You've done my work for me in that regard.
But, just for you, Sands...
I WILL.
You want ring psychology? Fine, I'll work over your skull before I drop you on your little head with the Absolution for the 1, 2, 3. I'll be the one working over YOUR knee this time before I wrap you up in Judas' Cradle and make you scream like a girl and make you tap like a little *****.
You see, Sands, I know all about how these things are done. I've fought and beaten the best.
I just don't feel the need to brag about it with every breath I take.
When Black Dawn rolls around, all your self-procalimed "advantages" are out the window.
It's just you and me in a fight, junior.
And that's the last place you want to be, because you know you can't win.
You will not receive a prize for second place.
The only bags I'll be carrying is my luggage, Sands.
And one new, shiny, gold EPW Woprld Heavyweight Championship Title slung over my shoulder.
But don't worry... after the PPV, when I whip your ass and bring home the gold and expose you for the worthless pile of sh*t you truly are, I'll make sure you still have a career in EPW.
I'll need someone to shine my new belt for me.
Think about it, Sands.
Use that amazing intelligence of yours, and just think about it.
Cradles aren't for sleeping any more, Sands.
They're for screaming.
And tapping out.
Camera fades to black.
The camera fades in on Beast sitting in his home in Winnipeg, feet up in a big leather recliner chair. The huge widescreen plasma TV that hangs on the wall has wrestling footage from some promotion up and playing, and a paperback novel lies spread over the arm of the chair.
Beast: So Christian Sands has me scouted.
Beast raises his hands and mockingly wiggles his fingers in a farce of an "I'm scared" kind of motion.
Beast: Oooooooooooo.
I would *hope* that you've got me scouted, Sands. Any elite wrestler does his homework before a match. You know, watch their opponent's promos, goes over their matches frontwards, backwards and sideways. It's kind of standard practice in preparation for a match, dontcha think?
So why is there this huge revelation out of the Sands camp that "you know what to expect" from me?
Do you want a trophy or something? Do you want me to bake you a f*cking cake for doing your job?
Sands, you've made your entire case this week thus far based on black, white, and shades of grey. About how I'm the black and white. I'm the predictable one. You can tell what I'm going to say before I say it. You can tell what I'm going to do before I do it. That Beast is just one giant cookie cutter waiting to be picked apart by the apparently more intelligent.
To tell you the honest truth, Sands... I really couldn't give a flying f*ck.
I couldn't care if you've seen every match I've ever been in. I couldn't care if you've gone and memorized every promo I've ever given.
Because when it all comes down to it, Sands... I am exactly what I appear to be. I don't need to hide behind false identities. I don't need to go slinking around with this whole two-faced thing, trying to pretend I'm something I'm not in order to try and get one up on my opponent.
I wear my heart, my mind and my soul on my sleeve, Sands. No false pretenses. Everyone sees me as the real Beast.
I give everyone 110 percent of me all the time. What you get is my uncensored opinion. You get my unchecked emotion.
And when I step into the ring, you get all of my strength. All of my stamina. All of my raw power. All of my skill. Nothing's held back.
And that's the heart of it all, isn't it Sands?
You know that all of me is too much for you to handle.
So while I'm the black and white, Sands, you're the million shades of grey.
You feel the need to run around shooting your mouth off, spending the week talking about how you aren't what you really are. You've only allowed me to see a part of your true self, and that you're going to unleash your true self upon me in a flash of brilliance and use that leverage to defeat me for the EPW Heavyweight Championship.
You've brilliantly hidden your true self from me and anyone else who wants to see it, so that you have this massive advantage over all of us.
Wake up, sunshine.
You haven't done sh*t.
All you've done is proclaim a bunch of garbage, and yet in the same breath, you've given me the key to countering this so-called advantage.
"Go ask Jean Rabesque about my passion, Beast. Better yet, go watch the Battleground Britain tape. You'll see sixty-six minutes of passion at work. THAT, Beast, is the real face of Christian Sands - the one I've purposefully concealed from you thus far."
Beast just claps his hands mockingly, smirking at the camera.
Beast: Congratulations, moron.
You've spent your entire promo period spouting off about the mystique and mystery that is Christian Sands, only to talk, and talk, and talk so much - just to hear yourself talk - that you've unravelled your own mystery.
Looks like you don't hold all the cards at all. That ace up your sleeve turned out to benothing more than a deuce.
You know what you remind me of, Sands? You're like Dr. Evil. Actually, less specifically, you're like every so-called "evil genius" in the movies that hatches this great plan to destroy the hero, and when he finally lures the hero into his trap and is about to feed him to the sharks and make his escape to take over the world, his f*cking ego won't let him leave. No, he has to be a stupid sack of sh*t and spew his plan for everyone to see, just to brag about how god damned brilliant he is.
Only problem, Sands, is that the hero is able to take this information and save the day, triumphant in the end.
Real life mirrors fantasy more than some people would like to admit.
And you know what the real funny thing is, genius?
Just by doing my job, just by being the premiere athlete and fighter that I am, I would have discovered anyway. It's on tape! And like I said at the top of my own time today, any good athlete does wis work. That includes watching tape.
Your whole "mystery", your whole "mystique"... that may have worked on some backyard punk or some idiot with a God complex like Suicidal Killer, but not me, Mr. Intelligence.
How truly pathetic. Your whole gimmick is a moot point.
And not only are you ruining your gimmick with every word you say, you're taking any and all credibility away from yourself. You think you're being smart, but really, you're just firing off excuses.
"Oh, I didn't want to work hard because I wanted to wait for the big money match." "I could easily have broken your leg at one point in the match - but I didn't." "I took a calculated risk and allowed you to gain the upper hand." "I could've simply put you away near the end... but I didn't."
I especially like that last one, Sands. Near the end of the match, you were on the outside with Suicide. The second you came near me, I nailed you with a jawbreaker and put you down. Then, when I grabbed the chair right after that, you put your 160 IQ tail between your legs and ran away like a little *****. What happened next? Right. You attacked me and missed. You nailed the referee. And even with the ref down, and even using yet another low blow, you couldn't keep me down. Wham, BAM, Absolution, and you were sleeping while I pinned Suicide.
Yeah, you really could have taken me out. You were really a threat there, Sandsy.
And even after it was all said and done... even after match was over, you got in another free shot - you hit your little finisher and wiped me out.
But I'm still here, Sands. You couldn't do it. You don't have that killer instinct. You don't have what it takes to get the job done. While you may be a hell of a wrestler, you just can't finish it off.
All you have is excuses.
What kind of crap is "I could have, but I didn't want to."
An excuse. Not a strategy, but an excuse.
All you did was show who the true Sands was.
You didn't take me out because you couldn't. I could've snapped Suicide's neck around the ringpost outside the ring. But I didn't. I could have continued to beat his ass with that steel chair, but I didn't.
That's not who I truly am.
But you, Sands, you definitely showed your true colors.
A rainbow of ineptitude.
Beast sighs.
Beast: But I'm forgetting something. What was it again? Ah yes, the unbridled passion that allowed you to come back from the near-dead. Less than a year ago, was it? Burned to a crisp? All the doctors thought you'd die?
Wow, the human skin is quite an amazing organ. It does have some incredible healing qualities, but to get burned that badly and be the way you are today? I know I'm rehashing some things Suicide said last week, but come on, man. How are you still walking? How do people pound the hell out of you week after week after less than a year of being turned into back bacon and without reopening the wounds? How do you wrestle a 60 minute technical marvel against someone that has the apparent skill of Jean Rabesque, a man who is well admired in these circles for being a great wrestler?
You don't.
You want to bring this crap up again this week, expect it to be thrown back in your face. Just like "the two faces of Sands", this whole thing is nothing more than another elaborate story cooked up by our dear Mr. Sands to stroke his ego and make everyone think that he is more than the sum of his parts.
You conveniently don't remember the whole episode. And it's not irrerlevant, no matter what you say. Hell, I've STILL got scars all over my body from the beatings I've taken over the years, and I've never even come CLOSE to being torched to near death.
No, it's damned relevant, because it shows that all you are is a big f*cking punchline to a pretty awful joke. Drama and mystique and stories, all cooked up to disguise the fact that the man underneath it all is just not good enough.
But hey, at least all is not lost, Sands.
At least you know more about philosophy and ancient Gods than I do.
There's only one problem.
All that stuff is just useless trivia once you step inside the ropes. Knowing the ins and outs of Caligula isn't going to win you the EPW World Title.
Stepping into that ring and beating me is the only way you're going to do that.
And that's something you've already proven you can't do.
I don't NEED to PROVE a damned thing. You've done my work for me in that regard.
But, just for you, Sands...
I WILL.
You want ring psychology? Fine, I'll work over your skull before I drop you on your little head with the Absolution for the 1, 2, 3. I'll be the one working over YOUR knee this time before I wrap you up in Judas' Cradle and make you scream like a girl and make you tap like a little *****.
You see, Sands, I know all about how these things are done. I've fought and beaten the best.
I just don't feel the need to brag about it with every breath I take.
When Black Dawn rolls around, all your self-procalimed "advantages" are out the window.
It's just you and me in a fight, junior.
And that's the last place you want to be, because you know you can't win.
You will not receive a prize for second place.
The only bags I'll be carrying is my luggage, Sands.
And one new, shiny, gold EPW Woprld Heavyweight Championship Title slung over my shoulder.
But don't worry... after the PPV, when I whip your ass and bring home the gold and expose you for the worthless pile of sh*t you truly are, I'll make sure you still have a career in EPW.
I'll need someone to shine my new belt for me.
Think about it, Sands.
Use that amazing intelligence of yours, and just think about it.
Cradles aren't for sleeping any more, Sands.
They're for screaming.
And tapping out.
Camera fades to black.
JABolich
League Member
(FADEIN: A "BLACK DAWN" backdrop, in front of which sits the trenchcoated CHRISTIAN SANDS, smirking from behind his Oakley shades.)
Sands: My, you've got quite a mouth on you. Did your girlfriend teach you that?
It's sort of funny, really. Your attempts to try and attack my self-image would be almost admirable if they weren't so useless. Let's face it - why should I be concerned when I'm being called weak by a man so pathetic, he had to get his girlfriend to run crying to the front office, begging them to ban his opponent's finisher because he's afraid he's gonna get a boo-boo. So what's the big plan this time, eh Beast? Gonna get Lindsay to ban the Sand Blaster so you don't find yourself down and out in mid-match? Or better yet, let's get Lindsay to ban the punch. That'd be nice.
You're a joke, Beast. You talk big but refuse to acknowledge that anyone besides yourself might have some slight merit. You talk about MY ego, but it seems to me that it's YOUR ego that's raging out of control, big guy. According to the Tao of Beast, nobody is on your level unless they're exactly like you - that is, stupid enough to charge into every match with all guns blazing, even when they SHOULD be saving their strength for when they REALLY need it. Wearing your heart and soul out on your sleeve at all times, as you put it. But there's a problem with that. See, when you wear your heart on your sleeve for all to see, it's exposed and vulnerable to... heartbreak. And trust me... by continuing to view me as someone beneath you, you're just ASKING for a broken heart. You'll deny it now, of course, but think about that when you're sitting on the sidelines as I raise the title above my head in victory.
So you think directing you to the Rabesque match gives away my big secret, hm? News flash, sport. That match was public domain anyway, broadcast across the world on international Pay-Per-View, so it's hardly a secret. The fact that you couldn't dig up the information yourself but rather needed me to point you in the right direction tells me that you don't bother to research your opponents as thoroughly as I do. What're you waiting for? Go watch the tape, idiot. You might learn something that'll help you give me a competitive match... for about three minutes, before I turn around and put the drop on you.
And yes, big guy, I can handle all of you, simply because all of you doesn't amount to much besides a slow-witted, easily-manipulated, oafish hack of a performer. In fact, I've BEEN handling you for the past two months - and as I've said, I've done it by leading you around by the nose and planting false beliefs into your head.
Before you continue to brag about hitting your silly little hip toss finisher - which, by the way, I already mentioned that I LET YOU HIT - let's analyze that situation, shall we? You pinned Suicide. You DIDN'T take the opportunity to pin me before Suicide jumped you. You had the necessary three seconds - but instead you stood around and let Suicide jump you. Hell, from your perspective you could've just picked me up after Cruise made an appearance, then hit another of your little hiptosses and gone for the pin. Hell, you said yourself that you didn't like Cruise's interference, so why not finish off the guy he DIDN'T attack to gain the right to brag about winning cleanly? But you didn't do that. You pinned Suicide instead. Why is that, Beast? Simply put... BECAUSE YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN'T BEAT ME, no matter how many Absolutions you perform or how many Judases you pull from the cradle. Hell, pull out a Cradle for every Apostle if you want to. It still won't be enough. So how will you make up for THAT, big boy? By having your girl ban my trademark holds? Fine; I'll use different ones. I'll do that anyway, because every match I wrestle is different in terms of the holds and strategy I apply. It's called versatility.
But I don't expect a loaf like you to understand that. It's too complex for you to wrap your little mind around.
For now, I'll return to my training and research. I suggest you don't open your mouth again until you can address the Champion of the World in a manner more advanced than a random assortment of self-glorifying grunts and snarls. At the very least, don't open your mouth until you realize that you're not anywhere near as spectacular as you boast of being.
I'll be seeing you, buddy.
Unless Lindsay gets me banned from the company or something.
You never know.
(FADEOUT)
Sands: My, you've got quite a mouth on you. Did your girlfriend teach you that?
It's sort of funny, really. Your attempts to try and attack my self-image would be almost admirable if they weren't so useless. Let's face it - why should I be concerned when I'm being called weak by a man so pathetic, he had to get his girlfriend to run crying to the front office, begging them to ban his opponent's finisher because he's afraid he's gonna get a boo-boo. So what's the big plan this time, eh Beast? Gonna get Lindsay to ban the Sand Blaster so you don't find yourself down and out in mid-match? Or better yet, let's get Lindsay to ban the punch. That'd be nice.
You're a joke, Beast. You talk big but refuse to acknowledge that anyone besides yourself might have some slight merit. You talk about MY ego, but it seems to me that it's YOUR ego that's raging out of control, big guy. According to the Tao of Beast, nobody is on your level unless they're exactly like you - that is, stupid enough to charge into every match with all guns blazing, even when they SHOULD be saving their strength for when they REALLY need it. Wearing your heart and soul out on your sleeve at all times, as you put it. But there's a problem with that. See, when you wear your heart on your sleeve for all to see, it's exposed and vulnerable to... heartbreak. And trust me... by continuing to view me as someone beneath you, you're just ASKING for a broken heart. You'll deny it now, of course, but think about that when you're sitting on the sidelines as I raise the title above my head in victory.
So you think directing you to the Rabesque match gives away my big secret, hm? News flash, sport. That match was public domain anyway, broadcast across the world on international Pay-Per-View, so it's hardly a secret. The fact that you couldn't dig up the information yourself but rather needed me to point you in the right direction tells me that you don't bother to research your opponents as thoroughly as I do. What're you waiting for? Go watch the tape, idiot. You might learn something that'll help you give me a competitive match... for about three minutes, before I turn around and put the drop on you.
And yes, big guy, I can handle all of you, simply because all of you doesn't amount to much besides a slow-witted, easily-manipulated, oafish hack of a performer. In fact, I've BEEN handling you for the past two months - and as I've said, I've done it by leading you around by the nose and planting false beliefs into your head.
Before you continue to brag about hitting your silly little hip toss finisher - which, by the way, I already mentioned that I LET YOU HIT - let's analyze that situation, shall we? You pinned Suicide. You DIDN'T take the opportunity to pin me before Suicide jumped you. You had the necessary three seconds - but instead you stood around and let Suicide jump you. Hell, from your perspective you could've just picked me up after Cruise made an appearance, then hit another of your little hiptosses and gone for the pin. Hell, you said yourself that you didn't like Cruise's interference, so why not finish off the guy he DIDN'T attack to gain the right to brag about winning cleanly? But you didn't do that. You pinned Suicide instead. Why is that, Beast? Simply put... BECAUSE YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN'T BEAT ME, no matter how many Absolutions you perform or how many Judases you pull from the cradle. Hell, pull out a Cradle for every Apostle if you want to. It still won't be enough. So how will you make up for THAT, big boy? By having your girl ban my trademark holds? Fine; I'll use different ones. I'll do that anyway, because every match I wrestle is different in terms of the holds and strategy I apply. It's called versatility.
But I don't expect a loaf like you to understand that. It's too complex for you to wrap your little mind around.
For now, I'll return to my training and research. I suggest you don't open your mouth again until you can address the Champion of the World in a manner more advanced than a random assortment of self-glorifying grunts and snarls. At the very least, don't open your mouth until you realize that you're not anywhere near as spectacular as you boast of being.
I'll be seeing you, buddy.
Unless Lindsay gets me banned from the company or something.
You never know.
(FADEOUT)
MarcusWestcott
League Member
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 501
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 49
- Location
- Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
- Website
- www.a1e.ca
It's getting deep in here!
Fade in to Beast's home gym. A Van Halen CD cranks in the background. The big man has worked up an awful sweat, his entire body seems to be shaking, drenched, tiny rivulets of sweat running all over his body. His face is clenched, and he's grunting his way through a set of bent over shoulder raises with what looks like an obscene amount of weight. Beast powers his way through three more reps, yelling to get them done, barely completing the last rep, before putting the weight down and taking a short walk around the gym, stopping to do some stretches.
When he's finished, he grabs a towel and wipes himself down, and grabs a remote control to shut the music off. He walks around a little more, towels down again, and then turns to face the camera.
Beast: You can feel it, can't you Sands?
It's at the end of your fingertips. It's right there. You can feel its warm, smooth leather, you can just barely touch the cold metal of the decorative plates...
It's within your grasp...
But when you reach out to finally take hold of it, all you've got in your hand is nothing but a handful of straws.
Is that all you've got, Sands?
Mocking me for Lindsay taking some initiative and following her heart and trying to protect me? Hell, she's my girlfriend. I applaud her for that. She was only doing what she thought was right.
However, there's a hole in your research, Sands. One would think that you're too intelligent to make such a simple mistake. But I know better. I know the real Sands, no matter how hard you try to portray that you're this mystical being that can present multiple personalities at will.
With all these faces, Sands, do you actually talk to yourself?
More importantly, do you answer back?
But I digress. If you would have actually used your brain and completed your research, you would have been watching what I had to say last week against you and Suicide. You would have known that Lindsay was acting of her own accord. Your ears would have been open, and you just might have actually heard when I told Suicide to bring on the Burning Hammer. I dared him to. Practically begged him to.
I've been hit with almost every move imaginable, Sands, and I'm here to talk about it. I've been hit with practically every weapon, and had pretty near item imaginable used against me in a match. The freaking Burning Hammer, or your little Sand Blaster are the LEAST of my worries.
I said it to Suicide before he ran out of town like a hooker that's had every Tom Dick and Harry drop a load on her, and I'll say it to you.
Bring it on, slapnuts. I'm not scared. I'm not worried. I'll take your finisher just like I've taken all the others, and I'll get right back up just like I've done after all the others.
The plan, Sands, is to whip your hokey, contrarian ass all over Madison Square Garden and get my hand raised as the new, and first EPW World Heavyweight Champion! You can make any little wisecrack you want about how plans are made to be foiled, but there's no changing the fact that you are going to get beaten like a rented mule, and that belt will continue to be out of your reach.
There's some talented guys here in EPW, Sands - guys with skill, smarts, and real talent. They do have merit, and I'm not afraid to admit that. I have no problem passing on a bit of respect to those that I think deserve it - now it's obvious you weren't listening to anything I said last week. The Tao of Beast says that anyone can be on my level - they just have to prove it first. And, sorry to say, Sands, you just haven't done that yet. I really don't have a lot to say about the other EPW guys - I haven't faced them yet, but I'm sure as Champion that they're all going to be coming up that mountain, trying to knock me off. I'll see them sooner or later, and I'll judge them at that time.
You, however, sh*thead, are an easy case to judge.
And no, Lindsay didn't teach me that one. I learned that one all by my lonesome.
Keep grasping, Sands. Reach out a little farther - it's slipping away more and more.
You must be in some kind of outstanding physical condition that you have to dog it in the ring week in and week out just so you can make it to the next event. For a pretty muscular guy, you need quite a bit of recuperation time. What's the matter, Sands? Too many *cough* supplements *cough* running through that system?
Riiiiiiiiiiiight... you were just saving your energy for the big match.
Remember what I said last time about excuses? And you're calling me the joke.
*Real* athletes go hard from stop to finish. They give it their all each and every moment they're in the ring. I guess we all know you're not a real athlete. While you're sitting there - resting - in your little trench coat getting ready to flash all the kiddies like some sick f*ck, I've been in the gym training my ass off to be in the best possible physical condition I can be for this match. That's what real Champions do, Sands. They continually go hard, attacking each and every thing they do with everything they've got.
But if you just want to half ass it through life, that's your prerrogative.
While you're lying on the mat, sucking wind and looking up at the lights, I'll be standing over top of you, laughing, with that brand spanking new title belt in my hands.
In the hands of the REAL Champion.
And now onto the meat of this week's discussion...
The many faces of Sands...
The big secret... the "hidden" side of Christian Sands, which I've so wonderfully exposed this week as nothing more than a festering ball of dog snot...
Once again, Sands, you didn't listen to a word I said this week. You just talk, and talk, and talk... and then talk some more, just to hear your own own whiny voice prattle on and on. I *do* prepare for each and every match religiously. I watch my opponent's promos, go over their matches frontwards, backwards and sideways until I see how they react to each and every situation. I didn't need you to point me to the Rabesque match, retard. I've got all the EPW tapes. I've got matches from other federations you've been in. I've got the Rabesque match, and like I said, slappy, I'm going to watch them frontwards, backwards and sideways until I learn everything there is to know about you in the ring. I already know what you're like as a human being - a pathetic waste of flesh, and even though I've got to suffer through hours of tape watching your ugly mug, that's what a Champion does - he works hard, gives it his all every minute of every day, and makes sacrifices.
And believe me, sitting through the miles of suck you call high quality wrestling is going to one hell of a sacrifice.
But it'll be all worth it this week, when this slow-witted, easily-manipulated, oafish hack of a performer pummels you through the canvas and brings home the gold.
Are you still on that kick, Sands? Leading me around by the nose and planting false beliefs into my head? Working everyone since EPW's inception that you're someone you're really not? The gig is up, Sands, the myth has been debunked, and the legend will never come to pass. The only thing that has caught my nose for the last two months is the smell of sh*t wafting out of every Christian Sands promo that's ever aired in this federation.
But that's right - you're not what you seem to be, and you LET people win matches and hit their finishers on you. You ENJOY being knocked out for short periods of time.
More excuses, nothing more.
Why did I pin Suicide and not you?
It sure as hell wasn't because I can't beat you, that's for damned sure. I've already proven that I can take you out after I knocked you silly with the Absolution. If you go back and WATCH THE FREAKING TAPE, you'll clearly see that I WAS going to pin you, but Suicide grabbed me before I could.
Or, maybe it was because I'm a real man, and I actually *have* testicles, so I was probably still not quite in the right frame of mind after you used another one of your technical trademarks and punched me in the nuts.
What is it with you and low blows, Sands? You like touching other men's penises or something?
But no... watch the tape. You would have been pinned if good ol Suicide never saved your ass. But of course, with your selective disposition, you *wouldn't* have seen that. Anything that proves you wrong simply doesn't exist. Christian Sands only sees what Christian Sands wants to see. He's in his own little world where he is the king of a population of one.
The rest of us know better.
But try again, Sands. Grasp at another straw. Maybe if you get enough of them, you can put them all together and kiss your own ass.
Newsflash, bucko.
Suicide's not here to save your ass this week.
Come to think of it, he won't be here anymore. Took off.
It's just you and me, junior.
There'll be no banned moves, although I know you're not looking forward to having your lights turned out again any time soon.
Too bad - you don't have a choice, whether you want to LET ME or not.
Rest up, Sands. We wouldn't want you to blow up before you even stepped between the ropes.
I want you at your best when we meet at Black Dawn, and the era of the Beast begins.
The only thing is, you're best isn't quite good enough.
If you're a nice boy, I might even let you touch the World Title afterwards.
Fade to black.
Fade in to Beast's home gym. A Van Halen CD cranks in the background. The big man has worked up an awful sweat, his entire body seems to be shaking, drenched, tiny rivulets of sweat running all over his body. His face is clenched, and he's grunting his way through a set of bent over shoulder raises with what looks like an obscene amount of weight. Beast powers his way through three more reps, yelling to get them done, barely completing the last rep, before putting the weight down and taking a short walk around the gym, stopping to do some stretches.
When he's finished, he grabs a towel and wipes himself down, and grabs a remote control to shut the music off. He walks around a little more, towels down again, and then turns to face the camera.
Beast: You can feel it, can't you Sands?
It's at the end of your fingertips. It's right there. You can feel its warm, smooth leather, you can just barely touch the cold metal of the decorative plates...
It's within your grasp...
But when you reach out to finally take hold of it, all you've got in your hand is nothing but a handful of straws.
Is that all you've got, Sands?
Mocking me for Lindsay taking some initiative and following her heart and trying to protect me? Hell, she's my girlfriend. I applaud her for that. She was only doing what she thought was right.
However, there's a hole in your research, Sands. One would think that you're too intelligent to make such a simple mistake. But I know better. I know the real Sands, no matter how hard you try to portray that you're this mystical being that can present multiple personalities at will.
With all these faces, Sands, do you actually talk to yourself?
More importantly, do you answer back?
But I digress. If you would have actually used your brain and completed your research, you would have been watching what I had to say last week against you and Suicide. You would have known that Lindsay was acting of her own accord. Your ears would have been open, and you just might have actually heard when I told Suicide to bring on the Burning Hammer. I dared him to. Practically begged him to.
I've been hit with almost every move imaginable, Sands, and I'm here to talk about it. I've been hit with practically every weapon, and had pretty near item imaginable used against me in a match. The freaking Burning Hammer, or your little Sand Blaster are the LEAST of my worries.
I said it to Suicide before he ran out of town like a hooker that's had every Tom Dick and Harry drop a load on her, and I'll say it to you.
Bring it on, slapnuts. I'm not scared. I'm not worried. I'll take your finisher just like I've taken all the others, and I'll get right back up just like I've done after all the others.
The plan, Sands, is to whip your hokey, contrarian ass all over Madison Square Garden and get my hand raised as the new, and first EPW World Heavyweight Champion! You can make any little wisecrack you want about how plans are made to be foiled, but there's no changing the fact that you are going to get beaten like a rented mule, and that belt will continue to be out of your reach.
There's some talented guys here in EPW, Sands - guys with skill, smarts, and real talent. They do have merit, and I'm not afraid to admit that. I have no problem passing on a bit of respect to those that I think deserve it - now it's obvious you weren't listening to anything I said last week. The Tao of Beast says that anyone can be on my level - they just have to prove it first. And, sorry to say, Sands, you just haven't done that yet. I really don't have a lot to say about the other EPW guys - I haven't faced them yet, but I'm sure as Champion that they're all going to be coming up that mountain, trying to knock me off. I'll see them sooner or later, and I'll judge them at that time.
You, however, sh*thead, are an easy case to judge.
And no, Lindsay didn't teach me that one. I learned that one all by my lonesome.
Keep grasping, Sands. Reach out a little farther - it's slipping away more and more.
You must be in some kind of outstanding physical condition that you have to dog it in the ring week in and week out just so you can make it to the next event. For a pretty muscular guy, you need quite a bit of recuperation time. What's the matter, Sands? Too many *cough* supplements *cough* running through that system?
Riiiiiiiiiiiight... you were just saving your energy for the big match.
Remember what I said last time about excuses? And you're calling me the joke.
*Real* athletes go hard from stop to finish. They give it their all each and every moment they're in the ring. I guess we all know you're not a real athlete. While you're sitting there - resting - in your little trench coat getting ready to flash all the kiddies like some sick f*ck, I've been in the gym training my ass off to be in the best possible physical condition I can be for this match. That's what real Champions do, Sands. They continually go hard, attacking each and every thing they do with everything they've got.
But if you just want to half ass it through life, that's your prerrogative.
While you're lying on the mat, sucking wind and looking up at the lights, I'll be standing over top of you, laughing, with that brand spanking new title belt in my hands.
In the hands of the REAL Champion.
And now onto the meat of this week's discussion...
The many faces of Sands...
The big secret... the "hidden" side of Christian Sands, which I've so wonderfully exposed this week as nothing more than a festering ball of dog snot...
Once again, Sands, you didn't listen to a word I said this week. You just talk, and talk, and talk... and then talk some more, just to hear your own own whiny voice prattle on and on. I *do* prepare for each and every match religiously. I watch my opponent's promos, go over their matches frontwards, backwards and sideways until I see how they react to each and every situation. I didn't need you to point me to the Rabesque match, retard. I've got all the EPW tapes. I've got matches from other federations you've been in. I've got the Rabesque match, and like I said, slappy, I'm going to watch them frontwards, backwards and sideways until I learn everything there is to know about you in the ring. I already know what you're like as a human being - a pathetic waste of flesh, and even though I've got to suffer through hours of tape watching your ugly mug, that's what a Champion does - he works hard, gives it his all every minute of every day, and makes sacrifices.
And believe me, sitting through the miles of suck you call high quality wrestling is going to one hell of a sacrifice.
But it'll be all worth it this week, when this slow-witted, easily-manipulated, oafish hack of a performer pummels you through the canvas and brings home the gold.
Are you still on that kick, Sands? Leading me around by the nose and planting false beliefs into my head? Working everyone since EPW's inception that you're someone you're really not? The gig is up, Sands, the myth has been debunked, and the legend will never come to pass. The only thing that has caught my nose for the last two months is the smell of sh*t wafting out of every Christian Sands promo that's ever aired in this federation.
But that's right - you're not what you seem to be, and you LET people win matches and hit their finishers on you. You ENJOY being knocked out for short periods of time.
More excuses, nothing more.
Why did I pin Suicide and not you?
It sure as hell wasn't because I can't beat you, that's for damned sure. I've already proven that I can take you out after I knocked you silly with the Absolution. If you go back and WATCH THE FREAKING TAPE, you'll clearly see that I WAS going to pin you, but Suicide grabbed me before I could.
Or, maybe it was because I'm a real man, and I actually *have* testicles, so I was probably still not quite in the right frame of mind after you used another one of your technical trademarks and punched me in the nuts.
What is it with you and low blows, Sands? You like touching other men's penises or something?
But no... watch the tape. You would have been pinned if good ol Suicide never saved your ass. But of course, with your selective disposition, you *wouldn't* have seen that. Anything that proves you wrong simply doesn't exist. Christian Sands only sees what Christian Sands wants to see. He's in his own little world where he is the king of a population of one.
The rest of us know better.
But try again, Sands. Grasp at another straw. Maybe if you get enough of them, you can put them all together and kiss your own ass.
Newsflash, bucko.
Suicide's not here to save your ass this week.
Come to think of it, he won't be here anymore. Took off.
It's just you and me, junior.
There'll be no banned moves, although I know you're not looking forward to having your lights turned out again any time soon.
Too bad - you don't have a choice, whether you want to LET ME or not.
Rest up, Sands. We wouldn't want you to blow up before you even stepped between the ropes.
I want you at your best when we meet at Black Dawn, and the era of the Beast begins.
The only thing is, you're best isn't quite good enough.
If you're a nice boy, I might even let you touch the World Title afterwards.
Fade to black.
JABolich
League Member
(FADEIN: The front porch of the Sands Estate, where CHRISTIAN SANDS sits with his arms folded in his lap as he looks into the camera over the rims of his shades.)
Sands: Oh boy, where do I begin to dissect THIS pile of tripe?
I know. Let's talk Troy.
I'll level with you here, big man. I heard exactly what you said to Suicide regarding Troy's actions. I didn't buy it then, and I don't buy it now. Then again, considering that you don't buy into my claim that I've been hiding my skill to gain an advantage, I'd say we're even. But here's the million-dollar question, Beast... why, why, WHY... why is it that every claim I make is to be treated as false, but every claim YOU make is meant to be taken as gospel? ESPECIALLY considering that the only evidence to support YOUR claim is your word, whereas I can support MY claim with the Rabesque match and any number of other matches in which my skill is plainly evident. But no... because I say it, it must be a lie, but everything you say is the gospel truth. Honestly, the way you act like you're the Second frickin' Coming makes me wonder if I stumbled onto the set of that new movie, "The Passion of the Beast".
Incidentally, the Rabesque match is being praised as one of the best matches ever wrestled, so don't you go knocking down MY abilities as miles of suck. At least not until you develop offense a bit more advanced than the body slam and the ubiqtuous Tiger Driver. You're an oaf, Beast, and on any day of the week I could wrestle many many rings around you should I feel motivated to do so.
But you should know that already, considering that you've sat through soooooo many of my matches and know me back to front. Right?
Or are you just blustering for the sake of blustering?
I talk a lot, huh? Pot, kettle, black. Considering that my promotional spots are half the length of your meandering and redundant speeches, you have no room to talk. Then again, I suppose some of us prefer to get our promos done quickly so we can get back to training and research. Some of us also prefer to throw something a bit different into our promos as opposed to a constant repetition of "Rar, I am Beast, I am strong, you are weak, looking up at the lights, on your back, me win belt, I are good, rar."
Don't give me that crap about how "Ohhhh, I was gonna pin you but Suicide stopped me." Bullsh*t, Beast. You had three seconds. I've watched the tape, and I saw that clearly. Furthermore, as I said, after Cruise's appearance you could've easily just gone over, picked me up, hit another Absolution, and pinned me. I'd have kicked out, of course, since I'm not about to let a punk like you get the drop on me, but you could've done it. Should've done it, actually, considering that you yourself have said that you didn't care for Cruise's appearance. If that was the case, why not go for the clean win by pinning someone Cruise didn't touch? And don't tell me it's because you wanted to capitalize on Cruise doing your dirty work for you, because doing that means that you're doing EXACTLY WHAT I DID and exactly what you've knocked me for - letting someone else do the heavy lifting. Thus, you'd be a hypocrite. So which is it, Beast? Did you pin Suicide because you're a hypocrite, or did you pin him because you knew you'd have an easier time with him than you would with me?
But you know something, big guy... I'm starting to get very sick of listening to you try and convince me that I can't get the job done.
I'm tired of hearing it. It's all I hear anymore. From Dan Ryan in SCW. From Rob Sampson and John Miller in GXW. And now from some PUNK like you who thinks he's better than me because he wastes his energy needlessly and pinned the weakest link in a triple-threat match. Every time I turn around... "You can't do it." "You're not ready." "It's not your time." Who the f*ck are you to decide whether or not I can do it, Beast? Do you know me better than I know myself?
This match isn't just about the glory or the champion's paycheck. This is about ME proving to you and to the rest of the f*cking naysayers out there than you are DEAD WRONG. I've come too far now to let idiots like you tell me I'm not ready to be a champion. The truth is, I've BEEN ready for a long time, but the opportunity has never arisen. I was well on my way to becoming SCW World Champion, but the promotion closed its doors. I was well on my way to becoming GXW World Champion, but I was screwed over by my own brother and later by a damned dirty stoner. I've been waiting for too long to get my hands on a World Title, and I will NOT wait any longer.
I am ready.
I will MAKE this my time.
And I will do it at your expense.
Don't be discouraged, though. Even in defeat you gain the satisfaction of knowing that your crushed dreams were the foundation upon which I built my legacy as a champion. One day you can tell your kids, "That man won his first World Title against me."
Believe me... that's the best you'll be able to do.
(FADEOUT)
Sands: Oh boy, where do I begin to dissect THIS pile of tripe?
I know. Let's talk Troy.
I'll level with you here, big man. I heard exactly what you said to Suicide regarding Troy's actions. I didn't buy it then, and I don't buy it now. Then again, considering that you don't buy into my claim that I've been hiding my skill to gain an advantage, I'd say we're even. But here's the million-dollar question, Beast... why, why, WHY... why is it that every claim I make is to be treated as false, but every claim YOU make is meant to be taken as gospel? ESPECIALLY considering that the only evidence to support YOUR claim is your word, whereas I can support MY claim with the Rabesque match and any number of other matches in which my skill is plainly evident. But no... because I say it, it must be a lie, but everything you say is the gospel truth. Honestly, the way you act like you're the Second frickin' Coming makes me wonder if I stumbled onto the set of that new movie, "The Passion of the Beast".
Incidentally, the Rabesque match is being praised as one of the best matches ever wrestled, so don't you go knocking down MY abilities as miles of suck. At least not until you develop offense a bit more advanced than the body slam and the ubiqtuous Tiger Driver. You're an oaf, Beast, and on any day of the week I could wrestle many many rings around you should I feel motivated to do so.
But you should know that already, considering that you've sat through soooooo many of my matches and know me back to front. Right?
Or are you just blustering for the sake of blustering?
I talk a lot, huh? Pot, kettle, black. Considering that my promotional spots are half the length of your meandering and redundant speeches, you have no room to talk. Then again, I suppose some of us prefer to get our promos done quickly so we can get back to training and research. Some of us also prefer to throw something a bit different into our promos as opposed to a constant repetition of "Rar, I am Beast, I am strong, you are weak, looking up at the lights, on your back, me win belt, I are good, rar."
Don't give me that crap about how "Ohhhh, I was gonna pin you but Suicide stopped me." Bullsh*t, Beast. You had three seconds. I've watched the tape, and I saw that clearly. Furthermore, as I said, after Cruise's appearance you could've easily just gone over, picked me up, hit another Absolution, and pinned me. I'd have kicked out, of course, since I'm not about to let a punk like you get the drop on me, but you could've done it. Should've done it, actually, considering that you yourself have said that you didn't care for Cruise's appearance. If that was the case, why not go for the clean win by pinning someone Cruise didn't touch? And don't tell me it's because you wanted to capitalize on Cruise doing your dirty work for you, because doing that means that you're doing EXACTLY WHAT I DID and exactly what you've knocked me for - letting someone else do the heavy lifting. Thus, you'd be a hypocrite. So which is it, Beast? Did you pin Suicide because you're a hypocrite, or did you pin him because you knew you'd have an easier time with him than you would with me?
But you know something, big guy... I'm starting to get very sick of listening to you try and convince me that I can't get the job done.
I'm tired of hearing it. It's all I hear anymore. From Dan Ryan in SCW. From Rob Sampson and John Miller in GXW. And now from some PUNK like you who thinks he's better than me because he wastes his energy needlessly and pinned the weakest link in a triple-threat match. Every time I turn around... "You can't do it." "You're not ready." "It's not your time." Who the f*ck are you to decide whether or not I can do it, Beast? Do you know me better than I know myself?
This match isn't just about the glory or the champion's paycheck. This is about ME proving to you and to the rest of the f*cking naysayers out there than you are DEAD WRONG. I've come too far now to let idiots like you tell me I'm not ready to be a champion. The truth is, I've BEEN ready for a long time, but the opportunity has never arisen. I was well on my way to becoming SCW World Champion, but the promotion closed its doors. I was well on my way to becoming GXW World Champion, but I was screwed over by my own brother and later by a damned dirty stoner. I've been waiting for too long to get my hands on a World Title, and I will NOT wait any longer.
I am ready.
I will MAKE this my time.
And I will do it at your expense.
Don't be discouraged, though. Even in defeat you gain the satisfaction of knowing that your crushed dreams were the foundation upon which I built my legacy as a champion. One day you can tell your kids, "That man won his first World Title against me."
Believe me... that's the best you'll be able to do.
(FADEOUT)
MarcusWestcott
League Member
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 501
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 49
- Location
- Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
- Website
- www.a1e.ca
Alpha Male
Fade in to Beast's Winnipeg home, the city the A1E and EPW superstar has called his hometown for the last10 years. We catch up with him in his acres of back yard, dressed in track pants and a roomy sweatshirt, which, while loose on him, it still shows off his massively built frame. Beast watches his two siberian huskies race up and down the open space. The two dogs snarl playfully and try to wrest a ball from the other.
Beast: Kinda symbolic, isn't it? Two dogs clashing and fighting over a prize... each one of them attempting to show the other just who the biggest one of them is. Each one trying to show the other just exactly who is Alpha, and who is Beta.
Just like you and me, Sands. Two superstars, each one trying to best the other in a game of wits before besting the other in the ring.
One dog forgets about the ball for a moment, and then tackles the other dog to the ground. The two dogs then roll around in the grass, play fighting, tails wagging.
Beast: Except in our case, Sands, there's nothing about this that can be considered play time.
Two men, one match at the first ever EPW Pay Per View, fighting over the EPW World Heavyweight Championship. One match for all the marbles, to see who gets to wear that brand new shiny belt around their waist and call himself the Alpha Male of EPW.
One dog then suddenly goes after the throat of the other, temporarily forgetting that this is play time, reverting to its
natural instincts. The second dog lets out a slight yelp, and Beast whistles lets out a loud, shrill whistle. Both dogs *immediately* stop and sit at attention.
Beast: Wolfie! Ball! Caesar! Come!
One dog turns and races for the ball the two were fighting over earlier. The other waits for him to return, and then the two dogs race over to Beast. He takes the ball, and bends down to say something to the two dogs. He then straightens up and hold the ball in the air. The two dogs can barely contain their excitement, and then Beast fires the ball across the yard. The dogs turn and race after it, and return to playing nicely.
Beast: Now, back to you, Sands...
I personally don't care whether you *bought* what I said to Suicide about Troy. I meant it then, and I mean it now. I don't back down from any challenges. You may have "heard" what I said to Suicide, but you obviously didn't listen. Most likely the same with what I've said all week, too.
When you look at me, Sands, you get everything at face value. Like I said earlier, you get my uncensored opinions. You get the truth. I have no reason to lie to anyone. I have no reason to slink and slither through the shadows like you do, pretending to be something you aren't. I don't need to put on two or three or ten different faces to attempt to gain some small measure of mental advantage before match time. I am more than confident enough in what I can do that I don't need to try and pull the wool over everyone's eyes. I don't stand in the shadows, Sands, I stand in the light for everyone to see.
And come Black Dawn, that light is going to be a gigantic spotlight as I am crowned the new EPW World Heavyweight Champion.
Before I answer your million dollar question, Sands, let me ask you one...
How is your "hiding your skill to gain an advantage" a FREAKING ADVANTAGE if you keep running your mouth about it? It's like getting into a car race, but a week ahead, you tell your opponent you've installed Nitro in your car. You've given him time to figure it out and come up with a defense. How freaking dumb do you have to be? You've just basically came out and told me all week that you're better than you really are. So what? I just know to expect more than what I've seen, and if you get back to that whole *listening* thing again, I've already said it's the cardinal rule, Sands.
Expect the unexpected.
So you'll have to excuse me as I dismiss that whole thing as a steaming pile of ****.
But, back to the million dollar question...
Why is everything I say taken as gospel, and everything you say taken as being false?
Do I really need to answer that?
Maybe it's the fact that, like I said, I'm an honorable guy. I have no reason to lie to anyone. I have no reason to deceive people into thinking I'm something I'm not. Maybe it's because all you've done since you've opened your mouth in this promotion is contradict yourself at every turn. Maybe it's because all you've done is give excuses for things rather than owning up to who you truly are. Maybe it's because you have the constant need to look at the facts and take them and twist them to your own needs rather than admitting that things happened the way they truly happened.
You talk about this Rabesque match like it's the greatest thing since sliced bread and the birth control pill - is that the only match that you've ever shined in? Is this your only claim to fame? But you mention all these other matches where your skill is plainly evident - yet you say you are hiding your skill to gain an advantage?
That's why I can't taken anything you say seriously. Because you don't take yourself seriously. All you do is continuously throw out line after line of bull**** - "I LET YOU hit that finisher", even though you clearly couldn't even lift me up. You even took the time to play to the crowd, but when it came time to get it done, you couldn't lift me up. I countered it, and dropped you on your head and knocked your lights out. All you've got is bull**** that you're trying to pass off as making you this superior being, when in reality it just makes you look stupid.
Maybe if you cut out the superfluous crap, Sands, maybe, just maybe, I'll respect you for your word rather than
dismissing it so easily. It's **** like "you only have a body slam and a tiger driver", when it's plain to see when you watch the tapes that I can do so much more, and you expect crap like that to actually make people think that you're superior to anyone else. You're picking the wrong fights to waste your energy on Sands, and despite this image of intelligence you like to project, it's not helping. I know you're trying to sound all witty and smart with your little remarks, but it's just digging you a bigger hole.
It's like calling me an "oaf" two spots in a row. Can't you come up with anything different? Right, I forgot about "Rar, I am Beast, I am strong, you are weak, looking up at the lights, on your back, me win belt, I are good, rar."
You forgot the time honored "BEAST SMASH!!"
Give it up.
Nope, you're just the cookie cutter wrestler with a bit of talent, that does anything that anyone else can do, but you have to bury it all underneath a production to hide it from everyone. You're like Madonna having a huge stage production to cover the fact up that she can't sing - you come up with this whole "two faces" line of crap to distract people from the fact that you're just not as good as you say you are. Sure, you may have had a career match with Rabesque, but everyone's entitled to at least one of those in their career. Everyone has a night where they let it all hang out and show what they're really capable of, but when it comes back to the day in and day out grind, they just fade back into mediocrity.
Yes, I have indeed watched your matches. I've watched "the" match. I've always said you've got talent, Sands, but you don't know what to do with it.
Until you do, you're not as good as you can be, although the "miles of suck" comment was probably a little out of line. But at least I'm man enough to admit I went too far. Although if it were you, you'd say you were just saying it and were really meaning something else to throw me off guard.
If you were so bloody sick of people bringing this up about you, and it's coming up in promotion after promotion after promotion, and even a guy like me that's never met you before can spot it - or smell it - a mile away, then maybe don't you think that there's a hint of truth to it? Maybe it's time to change your game, Sands, because what you got is being called on by the best everywhere else - just like I'm doing.
Maybe it's time for you to actually *DO* something about it.
But instead, you just sit here and whine and piss and moan about how everyone thinks it's not your time. How everyone thinks you're not ready. "Waaah, no one respects me!" Whine. Piss. Moan. "WAAAAAAH MY ***** HURTS!!"
That's what you sound like.
Case in point - you bring up this whole me pinning Suicide thing again. I've got the call memorized, Sands. It's a moment I'm not going to forget. At that point, I really didn't know if I was going to do it. I had a pin lying there, ready for me to claim the win, but I was stopped.
"Beast appears to be about to go for the pin when Suicide comes from out of nowhere and attacks Beast."
There's nothing on the tape that says I took my time. There's nothing on the tape that says I stood around and didn't know what to do. Suicide kept me from making hte pin, plain and simple. There's no shame in that. There's no dishonor about having a pin attempt broken up in a three way dance, but again, it's something stupid that you have to keep bringing up and beating into the ground like you in your bathroom with a copy of the latest Hustler magazine.
You keep pressing and pressing these issues, and all you do is end up having it thrown in your face. That's why no one respects you. And of course, without hesitation, you claim "I would have kicked out of it anyway."
Keep on digging, Sleeping Beauty.
If you would have watched the tape, which you said you did, but I highly doubt, seeing as how you keep ****ing things up, you would have noticed that me hitting the Absolution was a desperation maneuver after you punched me in the balls. Hell, I nailed you reflexively on shaky legs, and I still turned your lights out. Then, after being laid out from the Penis Punch of DOOOOM~! Suicide grabbed me, lifted me up, and dropped me on the canvas. All the **** with Cruise went down, and when I first recovered from having my balls sent up into my stomach, the first thing I saw was Suicide lying on the canvas, so I pinned him.
It doesn't make me a hypocrite. I didn't pin him because I couldn't handle you. I pinned him on reflex. And before you spout off about that again, Sands, tell you what. This week in our match, let me punch you in the balls, and then I'll lay down, and we'll see what you do after you recover. We'll see if you can stand up and continue the assault.
No?
Then shut the **** up.
Who am *I* to decide whether or not you can do it?
Listen up, you whiny little *****.
*I'm* the guy you're going to be standing across the ring from at Black Dawn. *I'm* the guy that wants that World Title more than you can ever imagine. *I'm* the guy you have to beat. *I'm* the guy that's calling you out and calling you on your entire being, Sands."
*I'm* the guy that's going to whip your ass and take that title.
The thing is, you know that there's nothing you can do about it. You know that you've talked the best of your game, and I've had a way to shove everything you've ever said right back into your face and make you look like a fool, and that's exactly what I'm going to do in the ring at Black Dawn. Bring all the hidden skill you've got. Bring on your best. Bring on the unexpected, and I'll take it, feed on it, digest it, and throw it back on you with a fury that you've never born witness to.
You're not going to prove anything this week. Well, I take that back. You're going to prove everything I said about you this week. You say you've been ready for a long time? "Well, I would have won the title, but I was screwed over." A real top contender would have been given another shot. You've been waiting forever because every promoter worth his salt knows that you could never carry a company on your shoulders.
I can.
And that's exactly what I'm going to do after I beat your ass all over Madison Square Garden, and honor this legendary wrestling building by becoming the first ever EPW Champion - a real fighting, deserving Champion.
And you, Sands, can go back to being a sulking whiny *****, who I am sure will find SOME way to describe what happened that doesn't involve the truth.
After all, I don't think we can wait to hear the latest "well, I really didn't want to win the title, I was just hiding my true skill."
And I'm sorry if my promos are a little long and drawn out, Sands. I've never had so much **** to wade through before from an opponent.
But we won't have to worry about that after this week after I win that title and move on to someone who has something worth talking about.
Beast whistles again. The dogs stop and turn to look at him, sitting down.
Beast: Heel!
The dogs graciously trot across the yard, each one taking up a sitting position next to their master. Beast kneels down to pat their heads, and the camera slowly fades out.
Beast: Hey, you guys do that well! But after this week, Sands will be trained, just like you are! Yes, he will!
Fade in to Beast's Winnipeg home, the city the A1E and EPW superstar has called his hometown for the last10 years. We catch up with him in his acres of back yard, dressed in track pants and a roomy sweatshirt, which, while loose on him, it still shows off his massively built frame. Beast watches his two siberian huskies race up and down the open space. The two dogs snarl playfully and try to wrest a ball from the other.
Beast: Kinda symbolic, isn't it? Two dogs clashing and fighting over a prize... each one of them attempting to show the other just who the biggest one of them is. Each one trying to show the other just exactly who is Alpha, and who is Beta.
Just like you and me, Sands. Two superstars, each one trying to best the other in a game of wits before besting the other in the ring.
One dog forgets about the ball for a moment, and then tackles the other dog to the ground. The two dogs then roll around in the grass, play fighting, tails wagging.
Beast: Except in our case, Sands, there's nothing about this that can be considered play time.
Two men, one match at the first ever EPW Pay Per View, fighting over the EPW World Heavyweight Championship. One match for all the marbles, to see who gets to wear that brand new shiny belt around their waist and call himself the Alpha Male of EPW.
One dog then suddenly goes after the throat of the other, temporarily forgetting that this is play time, reverting to its
natural instincts. The second dog lets out a slight yelp, and Beast whistles lets out a loud, shrill whistle. Both dogs *immediately* stop and sit at attention.
Beast: Wolfie! Ball! Caesar! Come!
One dog turns and races for the ball the two were fighting over earlier. The other waits for him to return, and then the two dogs race over to Beast. He takes the ball, and bends down to say something to the two dogs. He then straightens up and hold the ball in the air. The two dogs can barely contain their excitement, and then Beast fires the ball across the yard. The dogs turn and race after it, and return to playing nicely.
Beast: Now, back to you, Sands...
I personally don't care whether you *bought* what I said to Suicide about Troy. I meant it then, and I mean it now. I don't back down from any challenges. You may have "heard" what I said to Suicide, but you obviously didn't listen. Most likely the same with what I've said all week, too.
When you look at me, Sands, you get everything at face value. Like I said earlier, you get my uncensored opinions. You get the truth. I have no reason to lie to anyone. I have no reason to slink and slither through the shadows like you do, pretending to be something you aren't. I don't need to put on two or three or ten different faces to attempt to gain some small measure of mental advantage before match time. I am more than confident enough in what I can do that I don't need to try and pull the wool over everyone's eyes. I don't stand in the shadows, Sands, I stand in the light for everyone to see.
And come Black Dawn, that light is going to be a gigantic spotlight as I am crowned the new EPW World Heavyweight Champion.
Before I answer your million dollar question, Sands, let me ask you one...
How is your "hiding your skill to gain an advantage" a FREAKING ADVANTAGE if you keep running your mouth about it? It's like getting into a car race, but a week ahead, you tell your opponent you've installed Nitro in your car. You've given him time to figure it out and come up with a defense. How freaking dumb do you have to be? You've just basically came out and told me all week that you're better than you really are. So what? I just know to expect more than what I've seen, and if you get back to that whole *listening* thing again, I've already said it's the cardinal rule, Sands.
Expect the unexpected.
So you'll have to excuse me as I dismiss that whole thing as a steaming pile of ****.
But, back to the million dollar question...
Why is everything I say taken as gospel, and everything you say taken as being false?
Do I really need to answer that?
Maybe it's the fact that, like I said, I'm an honorable guy. I have no reason to lie to anyone. I have no reason to deceive people into thinking I'm something I'm not. Maybe it's because all you've done since you've opened your mouth in this promotion is contradict yourself at every turn. Maybe it's because all you've done is give excuses for things rather than owning up to who you truly are. Maybe it's because you have the constant need to look at the facts and take them and twist them to your own needs rather than admitting that things happened the way they truly happened.
You talk about this Rabesque match like it's the greatest thing since sliced bread and the birth control pill - is that the only match that you've ever shined in? Is this your only claim to fame? But you mention all these other matches where your skill is plainly evident - yet you say you are hiding your skill to gain an advantage?
That's why I can't taken anything you say seriously. Because you don't take yourself seriously. All you do is continuously throw out line after line of bull**** - "I LET YOU hit that finisher", even though you clearly couldn't even lift me up. You even took the time to play to the crowd, but when it came time to get it done, you couldn't lift me up. I countered it, and dropped you on your head and knocked your lights out. All you've got is bull**** that you're trying to pass off as making you this superior being, when in reality it just makes you look stupid.
Maybe if you cut out the superfluous crap, Sands, maybe, just maybe, I'll respect you for your word rather than
dismissing it so easily. It's **** like "you only have a body slam and a tiger driver", when it's plain to see when you watch the tapes that I can do so much more, and you expect crap like that to actually make people think that you're superior to anyone else. You're picking the wrong fights to waste your energy on Sands, and despite this image of intelligence you like to project, it's not helping. I know you're trying to sound all witty and smart with your little remarks, but it's just digging you a bigger hole.
It's like calling me an "oaf" two spots in a row. Can't you come up with anything different? Right, I forgot about "Rar, I am Beast, I am strong, you are weak, looking up at the lights, on your back, me win belt, I are good, rar."
You forgot the time honored "BEAST SMASH!!"
Give it up.
Nope, you're just the cookie cutter wrestler with a bit of talent, that does anything that anyone else can do, but you have to bury it all underneath a production to hide it from everyone. You're like Madonna having a huge stage production to cover the fact up that she can't sing - you come up with this whole "two faces" line of crap to distract people from the fact that you're just not as good as you say you are. Sure, you may have had a career match with Rabesque, but everyone's entitled to at least one of those in their career. Everyone has a night where they let it all hang out and show what they're really capable of, but when it comes back to the day in and day out grind, they just fade back into mediocrity.
Yes, I have indeed watched your matches. I've watched "the" match. I've always said you've got talent, Sands, but you don't know what to do with it.
Until you do, you're not as good as you can be, although the "miles of suck" comment was probably a little out of line. But at least I'm man enough to admit I went too far. Although if it were you, you'd say you were just saying it and were really meaning something else to throw me off guard.
If you were so bloody sick of people bringing this up about you, and it's coming up in promotion after promotion after promotion, and even a guy like me that's never met you before can spot it - or smell it - a mile away, then maybe don't you think that there's a hint of truth to it? Maybe it's time to change your game, Sands, because what you got is being called on by the best everywhere else - just like I'm doing.
Maybe it's time for you to actually *DO* something about it.
But instead, you just sit here and whine and piss and moan about how everyone thinks it's not your time. How everyone thinks you're not ready. "Waaah, no one respects me!" Whine. Piss. Moan. "WAAAAAAH MY ***** HURTS!!"
That's what you sound like.
Case in point - you bring up this whole me pinning Suicide thing again. I've got the call memorized, Sands. It's a moment I'm not going to forget. At that point, I really didn't know if I was going to do it. I had a pin lying there, ready for me to claim the win, but I was stopped.
"Beast appears to be about to go for the pin when Suicide comes from out of nowhere and attacks Beast."
There's nothing on the tape that says I took my time. There's nothing on the tape that says I stood around and didn't know what to do. Suicide kept me from making hte pin, plain and simple. There's no shame in that. There's no dishonor about having a pin attempt broken up in a three way dance, but again, it's something stupid that you have to keep bringing up and beating into the ground like you in your bathroom with a copy of the latest Hustler magazine.
You keep pressing and pressing these issues, and all you do is end up having it thrown in your face. That's why no one respects you. And of course, without hesitation, you claim "I would have kicked out of it anyway."
Keep on digging, Sleeping Beauty.
If you would have watched the tape, which you said you did, but I highly doubt, seeing as how you keep ****ing things up, you would have noticed that me hitting the Absolution was a desperation maneuver after you punched me in the balls. Hell, I nailed you reflexively on shaky legs, and I still turned your lights out. Then, after being laid out from the Penis Punch of DOOOOM~! Suicide grabbed me, lifted me up, and dropped me on the canvas. All the **** with Cruise went down, and when I first recovered from having my balls sent up into my stomach, the first thing I saw was Suicide lying on the canvas, so I pinned him.
It doesn't make me a hypocrite. I didn't pin him because I couldn't handle you. I pinned him on reflex. And before you spout off about that again, Sands, tell you what. This week in our match, let me punch you in the balls, and then I'll lay down, and we'll see what you do after you recover. We'll see if you can stand up and continue the assault.
No?
Then shut the **** up.
Who am *I* to decide whether or not you can do it?
Listen up, you whiny little *****.
*I'm* the guy you're going to be standing across the ring from at Black Dawn. *I'm* the guy that wants that World Title more than you can ever imagine. *I'm* the guy you have to beat. *I'm* the guy that's calling you out and calling you on your entire being, Sands."
*I'm* the guy that's going to whip your ass and take that title.
The thing is, you know that there's nothing you can do about it. You know that you've talked the best of your game, and I've had a way to shove everything you've ever said right back into your face and make you look like a fool, and that's exactly what I'm going to do in the ring at Black Dawn. Bring all the hidden skill you've got. Bring on your best. Bring on the unexpected, and I'll take it, feed on it, digest it, and throw it back on you with a fury that you've never born witness to.
You're not going to prove anything this week. Well, I take that back. You're going to prove everything I said about you this week. You say you've been ready for a long time? "Well, I would have won the title, but I was screwed over." A real top contender would have been given another shot. You've been waiting forever because every promoter worth his salt knows that you could never carry a company on your shoulders.
I can.
And that's exactly what I'm going to do after I beat your ass all over Madison Square Garden, and honor this legendary wrestling building by becoming the first ever EPW Champion - a real fighting, deserving Champion.
And you, Sands, can go back to being a sulking whiny *****, who I am sure will find SOME way to describe what happened that doesn't involve the truth.
After all, I don't think we can wait to hear the latest "well, I really didn't want to win the title, I was just hiding my true skill."
And I'm sorry if my promos are a little long and drawn out, Sands. I've never had so much **** to wade through before from an opponent.
But we won't have to worry about that after this week after I win that title and move on to someone who has something worth talking about.
Beast whistles again. The dogs stop and turn to look at him, sitting down.
Beast: Heel!
The dogs graciously trot across the yard, each one taking up a sitting position next to their master. Beast kneels down to pat their heads, and the camera slowly fades out.
Beast: Hey, you guys do that well! But after this week, Sands will be trained, just like you are! Yes, he will!
JABolich
League Member
The Ten Commandments Of Beast
(FADEIN: A vast, darkened room. A theatre-sized, wall-mounted screen at the back of the room slowly flickers to life, and soft Gregorian chanting can be heard in the background. On the screen, black smoke swirls until red letters scribed in a flowing font shimmer into existence. A deep voice in the background begins speaking.)
VOICE: BEHOLD. I SAY THIS TO ALL YOU PEOPLE - I HAVE COME TO BRING YOU GUIDANCE AND LAW. THUS DO I TAKE YE AS MY WORSHIPPERS. THUS DO I PRESENT YE... THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF BEAST.
(A spotlight clicks on to the right of the screen, revealing the black-clad Christian Sands sitting on a stool.)
Sands: It amazes me that people like Beast think that I'm the egomaniac around here despite the fact that Beast himself is carrying around an ego the size of Uganda. Here is a man so caught up in his own preconceived notions that he can't bring himself to understand that he's being deceived. Rather, he rambles on about how the sun only shines on Beast and the rest of us can kiss his boots. Yeah, and I'm the egotist. Joker.
(The spotlight darkens, and the words on the screen shift.)
VOICE: 1. I am the Beast, your lord and savior. Thou shalt consider nobody worthy besides me.
(On with the spotlight...)
Sands: I stand by my interpretation of the Tao of Beast - Beast's way is right, and anyone who doesn't stick by his interpretations can suck off. But what interests me is how Beast feels it's his place to pass judgment on the talent of others. So I don't know how to use my talent, eh Beast? If you say so. I guess wrestling a sixty-six minute five-star match against one of the best in the world is not knowing how to use my talent. The more likely scenario, though, is that you're just falling back on your usual tactics: Blustering and talking out your ass to try and make yourself sound big. As usual, you fail.
(Spotlight off. New words shimmer across the screen.)
VOICE: 2. Thou shalt hearken unto the words of none other than me, for I am Beast, and thus all I speak is truth. Thou shalt treat all dissenting opinions as false, for those words not borne of the Beast's mouth are as venom.
(Spotlight back on.)
Sands: So Lindsay was acting of her own accord... So you pinned Suicide on instinct... Bullsh*t, Beast. You talk down to me as if I were lying, but the crap you spout is no better. Not one single person in EPW believes that you didn't tell Lindsay to get the Burning Hammer banned. As for pinning Suicide reflexively, on instinct, you're either covering your ass or you're primitive. DUMB ANIMALS allow their instincts to control their actions - but then again, you ARE a Beast, so I suppose its natural. So you just tell yourself that you can win this match on instinct, because those of us who have opposable thumbs will be fighting with something that Beasts lack. HIGHER INTELLECT.
(Spotlight off. More new words appear.)
VOICE: Thou shalt not take the name of Beast in vain, for Beast is perfect.
(Spotlight back on.)
Sands: What's wrong, buddy? Taking exception to my calling you an oaf? Please. You've sat there and called me incompetent, foolish, a liar, a sneak, and at one point insinuated that I'm gay, but now you pitch a ***** over being called an oaf? First off, you ARE an oaf, oafy. Second, grow a spine and take what you dish out.
(Spotlight off. More words appear.)
VOICE: 4. Thou shalt lie upon thy back when Beast approaches and gaze up at the lights, for we all know Beast is going to pin you anyway. Because he's perfect.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: I'll make you a deal, Beast. If you can go one promo without dropping a trite wrestling cliché, I'll donate five thousand dollars to a special charity in your name. The Marcus Wescott Foundation for the Creatively and Intellectually Challenged. Please. I don't know how you can keep a straight face when you call ME cookie-cutter one moment before going on to drop lines like "You're gonna stare up at the lights" or "you're gonna be on your back" or "You're gonna be down for the one-two... uh... what comes after two?" In this case, kick-outs come after two, because that's about the only count you'll ever get on me - a two count.
What a joke. You calling me cookie-cutter, Beast, is like Michael Jackson bashing R Kelly for sleeping with thirteen-year-olds. You're the stereotypical Intense Big Guy, and we both know it. Get a life.
(Spotlight off. Another set of words appears.)
VOICE: 5. Thou shalt not speak against the word of Beast, for all that Beast decrees is true regardless of what you say.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: You have a highly infantile frame of mind, Beast. Whenever somebody tells you that you're wrong, you immediately respond with, "Am not!" I told you you're wrong about your judgment of me... "Am not!" I told you that your heart-on-your-sleeve philosophy was leaving you vulnerable... "Was not!" Apparently, you can do no wrong. Everything I say bounces off you like a brick wall. But don't worry, because although you're ignorant to my words, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
(Spotlight off. More words shimmer into existence.)
VOICE: 6. Thou shalt not win. It is written that you must lose to Beast.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: Back to the Tao of Beast. According to you, victory is guaranteed, because apparently I'm not on your level. Well, you're right, at least partially. You're WAAAAAY ahead of me when it comes to arrogance, ignorance, and outright stupidity. On the other hand, you're significantly BELOW me when it comes to talent, cunning, and the will to win. When was the last time YOU put on a sixty-six minute match that was praised as one of the greatest classics in wrestling history, hm? But please, continue to sit there guaranteeing victory over a little b*tch like me. Just watch out for karma, because it can bite you in the ass when you least expect it, hombre.
(Spotlight off. Yet another line of words appears.)
VOICE: Thou shalt not deceive. The Beast sees all, so he knows what you did last summer.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: Aw, f*ck me. I guess my little secret's out. ...Or is it? I'll tell you something, Beast. You claim to have knowledge of my abilities, but knowledge isn't worth anything if you can't comprehend it to the fullest degree. I told you exactly where to look in the hopes that you'd come back and give me a competitive match. You did look there, but you didn't find anything, because you're too BLIND and IGNORANT to see that I have more talent in one leg hair than you have in your entire body and know perfectly well how to apply it. You think you know my secret, but thanks to your ignorance you really don't know anything at all. After all, if you DID know you wouldn't be telling me I don't know how to use my talent, because I've proven time and time again that I certainly DO.
But whatever. You're the boss.
(Spotlight off. Here come more words.)
VOICE: 8. Thou shalt not declare Beast generic, for his promos and character are incredibly original and revolutionary. Everyone loves the big intense badass, you know.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: I don't normally stoop to this level, but I've been dying to say this to you since you first opened your mouth. YOU ARE NOTHING SPECIAL, BEAST. You're just some guy who sits there and tries to talk tough. You're Rocko Daymon, Beast, and we all know what happened to HIM when he tried to pull your tough-guy act on me. It boggles the mind that you of all people can seriously sit there and call your opponents cookie-cutter despite the fact that you yourself are so cookie-cutter, Mr. Christie has you working in the Oreo factory. Come back when you get a personality. Otherwise, go over there and sit in the corner until it's time to come out and get your ass schooled.
(Spotlight off. More words follow.)
VOICE: 9. Thou shalt lie upon thy back and gaze up at the lights. Thou shalt also not tell Beast that this is the same commandment as #4, for Beast enjoys repeating this.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: And redundant. Not only are you cookie-cutter, you're redundant! Honestly, it's becoming more and more difficult to distinguish one of your promos from the other, because you say NOTHING NEW. Here's the pattern. You come out, you talk about how I suck, and you drop your trite wrestling clichés and guarantee victory. Listening to you drone on and on is beginning to give me migraines, because not only do you repeat yourself, you do it in the most boring, meandering fashion imaginable. Maybe some people enjoy sitting there watching you rehash your last promo and mean-mug for the camera, but I find it f*cking ridiculous.
In short, you're a redundant, generic, boring little b*tch.
(Spotlight off.)
VOICE: 10. Thou shalt not covet any title that belongs to Beast. Even if he hasn't earned it yet and is just running his mouth like a b*tch.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: Guess I'll have to break THAT commandment. What makes you think that the belt is yours, big guy? Why would that be? Because you're Beast? I'm sorry, but being a bland hack talent with his roots in a promotion that values gimmicky crap over entertainment doesn't qualify you as a real World's Champion. Do you not understand? YOU ARE NOT CHAMPIONSHIP MATERIAL. The World Champion is supposed to be the best and brightest in the federation, NOT some jacked-up cartoon hoss who sits there trying to act tough. In contrast, I am an intelligent, calculating, innately talented WRESTLER, and as such I'm far more deserving of the title than YOU are. And if you seriously think that you can try and deny me what I rightfully deserve, you're even dumber than you look.
(The screen slowly darkens, and the soft chanting peters down to silence as the lights come up.)
Sands: Well, there you have it. Beast came down the mountain, and he brought with him ten commandments. Fortunately, I've never been a very religious person, so I don't feel bound by such rules. Know this, Beast. The time for honoring yourself is over. We've come to the point where the walk takes precedence over the talk. You have indeed talked a big game.
I somehow doubt that you can walk it.
Because I have a commandment of my own.
"Thou shalt not allow a World Title to slip away."
"Not at any cost."
(FADEOUT)
(FADEIN: A vast, darkened room. A theatre-sized, wall-mounted screen at the back of the room slowly flickers to life, and soft Gregorian chanting can be heard in the background. On the screen, black smoke swirls until red letters scribed in a flowing font shimmer into existence. A deep voice in the background begins speaking.)
VOICE: BEHOLD. I SAY THIS TO ALL YOU PEOPLE - I HAVE COME TO BRING YOU GUIDANCE AND LAW. THUS DO I TAKE YE AS MY WORSHIPPERS. THUS DO I PRESENT YE... THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF BEAST.
(A spotlight clicks on to the right of the screen, revealing the black-clad Christian Sands sitting on a stool.)
Sands: It amazes me that people like Beast think that I'm the egomaniac around here despite the fact that Beast himself is carrying around an ego the size of Uganda. Here is a man so caught up in his own preconceived notions that he can't bring himself to understand that he's being deceived. Rather, he rambles on about how the sun only shines on Beast and the rest of us can kiss his boots. Yeah, and I'm the egotist. Joker.
(The spotlight darkens, and the words on the screen shift.)
VOICE: 1. I am the Beast, your lord and savior. Thou shalt consider nobody worthy besides me.
(On with the spotlight...)
Sands: I stand by my interpretation of the Tao of Beast - Beast's way is right, and anyone who doesn't stick by his interpretations can suck off. But what interests me is how Beast feels it's his place to pass judgment on the talent of others. So I don't know how to use my talent, eh Beast? If you say so. I guess wrestling a sixty-six minute five-star match against one of the best in the world is not knowing how to use my talent. The more likely scenario, though, is that you're just falling back on your usual tactics: Blustering and talking out your ass to try and make yourself sound big. As usual, you fail.
(Spotlight off. New words shimmer across the screen.)
VOICE: 2. Thou shalt hearken unto the words of none other than me, for I am Beast, and thus all I speak is truth. Thou shalt treat all dissenting opinions as false, for those words not borne of the Beast's mouth are as venom.
(Spotlight back on.)
Sands: So Lindsay was acting of her own accord... So you pinned Suicide on instinct... Bullsh*t, Beast. You talk down to me as if I were lying, but the crap you spout is no better. Not one single person in EPW believes that you didn't tell Lindsay to get the Burning Hammer banned. As for pinning Suicide reflexively, on instinct, you're either covering your ass or you're primitive. DUMB ANIMALS allow their instincts to control their actions - but then again, you ARE a Beast, so I suppose its natural. So you just tell yourself that you can win this match on instinct, because those of us who have opposable thumbs will be fighting with something that Beasts lack. HIGHER INTELLECT.
(Spotlight off. More new words appear.)
VOICE: Thou shalt not take the name of Beast in vain, for Beast is perfect.
(Spotlight back on.)
Sands: What's wrong, buddy? Taking exception to my calling you an oaf? Please. You've sat there and called me incompetent, foolish, a liar, a sneak, and at one point insinuated that I'm gay, but now you pitch a ***** over being called an oaf? First off, you ARE an oaf, oafy. Second, grow a spine and take what you dish out.
(Spotlight off. More words appear.)
VOICE: 4. Thou shalt lie upon thy back when Beast approaches and gaze up at the lights, for we all know Beast is going to pin you anyway. Because he's perfect.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: I'll make you a deal, Beast. If you can go one promo without dropping a trite wrestling cliché, I'll donate five thousand dollars to a special charity in your name. The Marcus Wescott Foundation for the Creatively and Intellectually Challenged. Please. I don't know how you can keep a straight face when you call ME cookie-cutter one moment before going on to drop lines like "You're gonna stare up at the lights" or "you're gonna be on your back" or "You're gonna be down for the one-two... uh... what comes after two?" In this case, kick-outs come after two, because that's about the only count you'll ever get on me - a two count.
What a joke. You calling me cookie-cutter, Beast, is like Michael Jackson bashing R Kelly for sleeping with thirteen-year-olds. You're the stereotypical Intense Big Guy, and we both know it. Get a life.
(Spotlight off. Another set of words appears.)
VOICE: 5. Thou shalt not speak against the word of Beast, for all that Beast decrees is true regardless of what you say.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: You have a highly infantile frame of mind, Beast. Whenever somebody tells you that you're wrong, you immediately respond with, "Am not!" I told you you're wrong about your judgment of me... "Am not!" I told you that your heart-on-your-sleeve philosophy was leaving you vulnerable... "Was not!" Apparently, you can do no wrong. Everything I say bounces off you like a brick wall. But don't worry, because although you're ignorant to my words, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
(Spotlight off. More words shimmer into existence.)
VOICE: 6. Thou shalt not win. It is written that you must lose to Beast.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: Back to the Tao of Beast. According to you, victory is guaranteed, because apparently I'm not on your level. Well, you're right, at least partially. You're WAAAAAY ahead of me when it comes to arrogance, ignorance, and outright stupidity. On the other hand, you're significantly BELOW me when it comes to talent, cunning, and the will to win. When was the last time YOU put on a sixty-six minute match that was praised as one of the greatest classics in wrestling history, hm? But please, continue to sit there guaranteeing victory over a little b*tch like me. Just watch out for karma, because it can bite you in the ass when you least expect it, hombre.
(Spotlight off. Yet another line of words appears.)
VOICE: Thou shalt not deceive. The Beast sees all, so he knows what you did last summer.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: Aw, f*ck me. I guess my little secret's out. ...Or is it? I'll tell you something, Beast. You claim to have knowledge of my abilities, but knowledge isn't worth anything if you can't comprehend it to the fullest degree. I told you exactly where to look in the hopes that you'd come back and give me a competitive match. You did look there, but you didn't find anything, because you're too BLIND and IGNORANT to see that I have more talent in one leg hair than you have in your entire body and know perfectly well how to apply it. You think you know my secret, but thanks to your ignorance you really don't know anything at all. After all, if you DID know you wouldn't be telling me I don't know how to use my talent, because I've proven time and time again that I certainly DO.
But whatever. You're the boss.
(Spotlight off. Here come more words.)
VOICE: 8. Thou shalt not declare Beast generic, for his promos and character are incredibly original and revolutionary. Everyone loves the big intense badass, you know.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: I don't normally stoop to this level, but I've been dying to say this to you since you first opened your mouth. YOU ARE NOTHING SPECIAL, BEAST. You're just some guy who sits there and tries to talk tough. You're Rocko Daymon, Beast, and we all know what happened to HIM when he tried to pull your tough-guy act on me. It boggles the mind that you of all people can seriously sit there and call your opponents cookie-cutter despite the fact that you yourself are so cookie-cutter, Mr. Christie has you working in the Oreo factory. Come back when you get a personality. Otherwise, go over there and sit in the corner until it's time to come out and get your ass schooled.
(Spotlight off. More words follow.)
VOICE: 9. Thou shalt lie upon thy back and gaze up at the lights. Thou shalt also not tell Beast that this is the same commandment as #4, for Beast enjoys repeating this.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: And redundant. Not only are you cookie-cutter, you're redundant! Honestly, it's becoming more and more difficult to distinguish one of your promos from the other, because you say NOTHING NEW. Here's the pattern. You come out, you talk about how I suck, and you drop your trite wrestling clichés and guarantee victory. Listening to you drone on and on is beginning to give me migraines, because not only do you repeat yourself, you do it in the most boring, meandering fashion imaginable. Maybe some people enjoy sitting there watching you rehash your last promo and mean-mug for the camera, but I find it f*cking ridiculous.
In short, you're a redundant, generic, boring little b*tch.
(Spotlight off.)
VOICE: 10. Thou shalt not covet any title that belongs to Beast. Even if he hasn't earned it yet and is just running his mouth like a b*tch.
(Spotlight on.)
Sands: Guess I'll have to break THAT commandment. What makes you think that the belt is yours, big guy? Why would that be? Because you're Beast? I'm sorry, but being a bland hack talent with his roots in a promotion that values gimmicky crap over entertainment doesn't qualify you as a real World's Champion. Do you not understand? YOU ARE NOT CHAMPIONSHIP MATERIAL. The World Champion is supposed to be the best and brightest in the federation, NOT some jacked-up cartoon hoss who sits there trying to act tough. In contrast, I am an intelligent, calculating, innately talented WRESTLER, and as such I'm far more deserving of the title than YOU are. And if you seriously think that you can try and deny me what I rightfully deserve, you're even dumber than you look.
(The screen slowly darkens, and the soft chanting peters down to silence as the lights come up.)
Sands: Well, there you have it. Beast came down the mountain, and he brought with him ten commandments. Fortunately, I've never been a very religious person, so I don't feel bound by such rules. Know this, Beast. The time for honoring yourself is over. We've come to the point where the walk takes precedence over the talk. You have indeed talked a big game.
I somehow doubt that you can walk it.
Because I have a commandment of my own.
"Thou shalt not allow a World Title to slip away."
"Not at any cost."
(FADEOUT)
JABolich
League Member
(Off-Camera)
Within the confines of the well-equipped training centre deep within the Sands Estate, something stirs.
Hot breath escapes through his clenched teeth in heavy bursts as his hands grip tighter about the bars, his muscles rippling as he pulls himself up again, and again, and again. Fueled by determination, he shows no signs of exhaustion - he seems almost a machine, working without rest.
As he continues to pull himself up, his eyes flare with intensity, focused upward towards the heavens, for pinned to the ceiling is an image: The Empire Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship, resting in its glass case at Empire headquarters, awaiting the moment when one athlete proves himself worthy to lift it in triumph.
His journey to this point has been quicker than most, just slightly over a year and a half, but for him it seems an eternity has gone by since his first professional match. For although the journey has been short from a chronological perspective, the hardships have been no less real - and certainly no less arduous. Even from the beginning his sights were set on the very pinnacle of the mountain, for he realized early on that his talents were more than sufficient to vault him out of obscurity almost immediately and move him into contention to achieve his dream.
As he pulls himself up again, his thoughts drift back to the latter days of Superior Championship Wrestling, where he pushed himself beyond his limits to claim his first professional title. Though the International gold will retain a special place in his heart as his first taste of gold, it still did not satisfy him, and he continued to push himself further and further. Yet before he could earn his shot at greatness, he was denied, as SCW closed its doors and turned him away.
Another pull, and thoughts of GXW arise - fond thoughts, for it was in GXW where his journey began. In the space of five months, he vaulted from obscurity to wrestling headliners - yet again he was denied his dreams, this time thanks to the interference of his own brother, and later by the conspiracy of two self-possessed men and the use of an illegal foreign object.
Fate, it seems, has always chosen to taunt him - to dangle the carrot in front of him, only to jerk it away when he reached for it.
Only now has he learned not to trust in fate, but only in himself - in his own talent, intellect, and willpower.
Only now has he decided to slap fate in the face and laugh.
His eyes do not deviate from the image of the title as he again pulls himself up, for his sole focus in life is to finally claim it, to wrap the leather-and-gold manifestation of his superiority about his waist. He knows that he is ready, despite the taunts of his peers. He knows that he has the tools, despite the doubts cast upon him by his enemies. And he knows that this may be the only opportunity he will get to prove himself as the best.
Slowly, he releases the bars and drops to his feet, gazing up at the title one last time. Though there is no other photograph present, it is as if he can see the leering, blond-bearded face of Beast looming between himself and the gleaming prize.
His gaze, alight with unrelenting fire, burns clean through the apparition.
-----
(OORP: Since this is the end of the RP period, I want to say this. Jarret, this has been one of the best and most engaging RP threads I have participated in in my entire FW career. Regardless of the result of this match, I want to thank you for the experience. Good luck.)
Within the confines of the well-equipped training centre deep within the Sands Estate, something stirs.
Hot breath escapes through his clenched teeth in heavy bursts as his hands grip tighter about the bars, his muscles rippling as he pulls himself up again, and again, and again. Fueled by determination, he shows no signs of exhaustion - he seems almost a machine, working without rest.
As he continues to pull himself up, his eyes flare with intensity, focused upward towards the heavens, for pinned to the ceiling is an image: The Empire Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship, resting in its glass case at Empire headquarters, awaiting the moment when one athlete proves himself worthy to lift it in triumph.
His journey to this point has been quicker than most, just slightly over a year and a half, but for him it seems an eternity has gone by since his first professional match. For although the journey has been short from a chronological perspective, the hardships have been no less real - and certainly no less arduous. Even from the beginning his sights were set on the very pinnacle of the mountain, for he realized early on that his talents were more than sufficient to vault him out of obscurity almost immediately and move him into contention to achieve his dream.
As he pulls himself up again, his thoughts drift back to the latter days of Superior Championship Wrestling, where he pushed himself beyond his limits to claim his first professional title. Though the International gold will retain a special place in his heart as his first taste of gold, it still did not satisfy him, and he continued to push himself further and further. Yet before he could earn his shot at greatness, he was denied, as SCW closed its doors and turned him away.
Another pull, and thoughts of GXW arise - fond thoughts, for it was in GXW where his journey began. In the space of five months, he vaulted from obscurity to wrestling headliners - yet again he was denied his dreams, this time thanks to the interference of his own brother, and later by the conspiracy of two self-possessed men and the use of an illegal foreign object.
Fate, it seems, has always chosen to taunt him - to dangle the carrot in front of him, only to jerk it away when he reached for it.
Only now has he learned not to trust in fate, but only in himself - in his own talent, intellect, and willpower.
Only now has he decided to slap fate in the face and laugh.
His eyes do not deviate from the image of the title as he again pulls himself up, for his sole focus in life is to finally claim it, to wrap the leather-and-gold manifestation of his superiority about his waist. He knows that he is ready, despite the taunts of his peers. He knows that he has the tools, despite the doubts cast upon him by his enemies. And he knows that this may be the only opportunity he will get to prove himself as the best.
Slowly, he releases the bars and drops to his feet, gazing up at the title one last time. Though there is no other photograph present, it is as if he can see the leering, blond-bearded face of Beast looming between himself and the gleaming prize.
His gaze, alight with unrelenting fire, burns clean through the apparition.
-----
(OORP: Since this is the end of the RP period, I want to say this. Jarret, this has been one of the best and most engaging RP threads I have participated in in my entire FW career. Regardless of the result of this match, I want to thank you for the experience. Good luck.)
MarcusWestcott
League Member
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 501
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 49
- Location
- Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
- Website
- www.a1e.ca
[ Fade in to a cold, blustery Winnipeg day. The sky is gray, no hint of sun attempting to shine through the clouds. A light snowfall that would otherwise be a soft, gentle, feathery and pleasant snowfall, is instead a bitter assault of ice particles as the wind whips the snow around, sending chills down to the bone. The camera is positioned outside the Winnipeg Law Courts building, focused on the the building's name etched into the stone of the architechtural wonder.
Cut to a scene inside the building. The court room is packed full to overflowing, people jostling for position on the seats, fighting to get through the door and get a view of the court room. There are no attorneys - no defense council, no Crown attorneys to prosecute the witnesses. Instead, a single table is set up in center of the front of the room, directly across from the judge's seat. At the table sits Beast, dressed impeccably in a black Armani suit. All around the court room is a sea of media pressed up against the walls of the room, each trying to get a picture of the A1E and EPW superstar.
This is obviously an event of some massive proportion.
A low murmuring rifles through the crowd as everyone tries to figure out what's going on. How could a man such as Beast with his good guy image be required in a court room? Why is he being questioned? What has he done? The people's questions are soon to be answered as a bailiff steps towards the center of the room. ]
Bailiff: All rise!
[ The throng of people that were sitting get to their feet. ]
Bailiff: Court is now in session! The People vs. Marcus Westcott, aka Beast is the only case today. The Honorable Richard Farnswirth will preside over this case!
[ The people remain standing as the judge approaches from his room. He is a big man - tall, not overweight. He looks very intimidating. He takes his seat. ]
RF: Thank you, you may be seated. All except for you, Mr. Westcott.
[ The people take their seats, but Beast remains standing, respectfully folding his hands in front of him. ]
RF: Mr. Westcott, you have been brought here today to answer to several charges brought forth against you by one Christian Sands. Have you been made aware of these charges?
Beast: Yes I have, your honor.
RF: Do you understand these charges?
Beast: Yes, sir, I do.
RF: Would you like to enter a plea to all these charges? Should you plead guilty, I have a sentence prepared, and it will be handed down to you today. Should you plead innocent, you will be read each charge, so that the people here in the court may also hear them, and you will be given the opportunity to explain your innocence. Do you understand?
Beast: Yes, sire, I do.
RF: Very well then. How do you plead?
Beast: Innocent, on all charges, sir.
[ The crowd in the court room gasps. ]
RF: As I expected. I will now read the charges as brought forth in the Ten Commandments of Beast, and you will have the chance to state your case. Are you prepared, Mr. Westcott?
Beast: I am, your honor.
RF: Good. Then let's begin. Do you have any opening comments?
Beast: Yes sir, I do.
RF: Please, proceed.
Beast: Your honor, I would like to say that I believe this... "trial"... is a mockery of the justice system. This "trial", and these "charges" are nothing more than one last desperate attempt by Christian Sands to save face, one last act of desperation to hopefully rescue his "image" from exposure as the complete and utter farce that it is. I will prove today that Christian Sands is nothing more than a bold exterior to hide the little child that truly lies within his body, mind, and soul.
RF: Very well. I shall begin. How do you answer the First Charge, that you are lord and savior, that everyone is worthless compared to yourself?
Beast: Innocent, Your Honor. Not once have I ever claimed that I was omnipotent. Not once have I ever claimed that I could never be beaten. Not once have I ever said that people couldn't have their own opinions. Christian Sands can stand by his interpretations all he wants. The fact remains that he's full of ****.
His interpretation is that I have no right to judge people. He can shove his interpretation up his ass. People judge everything all the time. People go to a movie, and they judge whether they like the story, or if it was funny, or if it was violent, either like it or they don't like it. People listen to music, and they judge whether they like the beat or not, whether they like the lyrics or not, or judge what the lyrics mean. People watch sporting events, and judge the performance of the athlete. And even, Your Honor, people might just watch a Christian Sands promo and judge that the guy has lost his marbles and everytime he opens his mouth, something green and sludgey and slimey comes out, or they might watch a Christian Sands match and judge that he couldn't wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag.
People are free to make their own judgements, just as you will today. I just happen to judge that Christian Sands is a washed up attention whore that pitches a loaf every time he's proven wrong.
RF: Very well. The first charge has been dismissed.
[ A cheer goes out through the crowd. ]
RF: How do you answer the second charge, that your own opinions supercede any and all other opinions, and only your words are to be taken as the absolute truth?
Beast: Innocent, Your Honor. This whole charge is simply a case of Christian Sands talking for the sake of talking. The fact that he doesn't believe me when I talk of Lindsay Troy's actions, when even Lindsay said this was her doing. He doesn't believe me about pinning Suicide. As far as I'm concerned, I really don't give a flying **** WHAT Christian Sands believes. The people that know me - which Christian Sands obviously doesn't - know that I am a man of my honor. If Sands needs something to whine about and try and find SOMETHING to show that he's somehow superior to me, then that's his choice. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, no matter who screwed up their logic is about arriving at that opinion.
And as far as this whole instinct, thing goes, then obviously Sands isn't human, and I'm wrestling some cyborg from Mars or something. Instinct is something buried in our souls, something that has been developed within all life forms since they evolved from the primoridial soup that was the beginning of this planet. An animal in the jungle, or in the desert uses its natural instincts when hunting. If attacked, its instinct will be to fight, or to flee. As humans, Your Honor, do we never have a gut feeling about anything? Do we never arrive at a conclusion just because it FEELS right? That is instinct. Does a fighter not sometimes have the ability, when being beaten, to suddenly fight off the attack and use a desperation tactic to stop the assault? All instinct, Your Honor. If Christian Sands doesn't want to admit the fact that instinct does not play a part of human existence, then I would like to formally submit that Christian Sands be formally admitted into psychiatric care, because for all the intelligence the man CLAIMS to have, he has not demonstrated it one iota.
RF: Point taken, Mr. Westcott. The second charge has been dismissed.
[ The crowd cheers again. ]
RF: What of the charge that "thou shalt not take the name of Beast in vain, for Beast is perfect."?
Beast: Your Honor, this is complete and utter bull****. I have never made such a claim. However, I simply attacked Sand's ability to come up with a different insult other than "oaf" for three promos in a row. Surely a man as intelligent as he claims to be could think of something more original and creative other than resorting to the same old rehashed crap every time. He pukes it out, eats it again like a common animal, and then pukes the same thing back out time and time again. It's deplorable. Sir, I have been in this business for a long time, and I have heard it all. I've been called everything in the book. It's never affected me. In fact, I believe Sands has taken offense that I called him on his in ability to be creative. I honestly don't blame him though. If everyone figured out that all I could do was come up with the same three letter word every time, I'd be upset too. No wonder the guy whines so much.
Remember, Your Honor, this is the guy that has been named by all the wrestling journalists as EPW's biggest pansy. This is the guy that has to run around backstage and piss and moan to everyone that will listen that he looks bad. That's his own fault, Your Honor. If doesn't want to look bad, then maybe he should become half the man he says he is. He just knows he can't beat me for the World Title, and he's doing everything in his power to drag me down to his level. I'm not falling for it.
RF: Excellent. This charge is dismissed. And, as I look through the paperwork, charge number 4, stating thou shalt lie on your back is also dismissed. I am throwing this charge out at it has absolutely no merit.
Beast: Thank you, Sir. He wants to call me cookie cutter, even thugh he's the one that goes on and on about how smart he is and calls me an oaf in every promo he cuts. He should take a look in the mirror first.
RF: And on those grounds, I am also dismissing charge number 5. It is obvious that Christian Sands can talk big, but when it gets thrown back in his face, he stomps around like a two year old throwing a temper tantrum.
Beast: If I may be so bold, sir, he says that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. He wants proof? Well, come Black Dawn, we'll see what a size fifteen boot to the kisser tastes like to him. More importantly, it is the taste of defeat that is going to permeate his taste buds the most.
[ The people in the court room let out a massive cheer. ]
RF: Mr. Westcott, things are looking good for you today. I am going to dismiss charge 6, simply because this idiot cannot stop referring to the same match over and over.
Beast: Thank you, Sir. If Christian Sands is going to beat me so badly, he only has to prove it. From the last match we were in, he has proven that he just can't. Unless for some reason he calls getting his lights put out while everyone else in the match was still wrestling a classic pinfall victory.
RF: How do you answer the charge of "Thou Shalt Not Deceive"?
Beast: Sir, will all due respect. how many times do we have to go over this ****? You dismissed charge 4 about being cookie cutter, well this is the same damned thing he's brought up every promo, and really, I can see where I might be called the same, if only for the reason that I continually have to deal with the same line of bull**** from him everytime he opens his mouth.
"I'm smarter than everyone else." "You haven't seen the real Christian Sands because I won't LET you." "I LET you hit that finisher - even though I had you after I punched you in the nuts - because I didn't want you to see what I can really do."
It's piles of utter **** like this that he spews out every promo, and quite frankly, he's been called on it, and his advantage is gone. I've watched all the tape. I've seen what he does in situation after situation. And yet he's STILL fooling everyone because he knows a billion different wrestling holds, he's a 6' 3". almost 300 pound guy that can magically do moonsaults, he knows every submission in the book, he can wrestle for days on end, has the strength of a hundred Greek Gods, and basically every promoter's wet dream, that can survive being torched to near death and having his body burned to a crisp, yet he's back wrestling without a blemish on his body and no pain to show for it.
Every single bit of it is bull**** - and he calls me on trying to say that I'm perfect?!?
Give me a ****ing break!
Sands is HALF the man he says he is, if he's lucky. I'm going to PROVE that it's all hype. I'm going to PROVE that all these little tricks don't mean **** when it comes to competing in the middle of that ring.
And most importantly of all, I'm going PROVE to the entire world that this low life degenerate sack of **** deserves NOTHING if he doesn't earn it. The only way he can earn it is by defeating me, and we all know that's not going to happen.
Sir, throw out the rest of those ****ing charges!
You see, Sir, that's the difference between Sands and I. He thinks he *deserves* the title just by proxy. He thinks that who he *thinks* he is, is enough to get handed a World Title. He doesn't want to have to earn it. That's because he knows he can't. The whole time I've talked, I've talked about fighting my way to the top. I've talked bout going out there and BEATING my opponent to EARN that title.
If Sands thinks he's going to have that belt just handed to him on a silver ****ing platter, then think again! He's going to have to go through ME to get it!
Which of course isn't going to happen.
And, when I WIN that title, and not have it *given* to me, I'm going to stand there with my hands held high. And coveting the title? That's what being a Champion is all about, Sands. Being a Champion means that everyone else wants what you have. All the hungry wolves are going to be there, snapping at your feet, but once again, it all goes back to being the Alpha Male. You've got to PROVE that you belong at the top. Being a Champion means that everyone else is covetous by design, and there's not a damned thing I or anyone else can do about it.
I know Sands is watching this whole farce of a trial, and you know something, Sands, when I stand there over your broken body with the EPW World Championship high over my head, I'm going to WELCOME it. I will ask everyone to covet my belt.. I want them to WANT the belt... I want them to NEED the belt... so when they challenge me for that title, I know they're going to be at their hungriest, at their most dangerous... at their BEST.
But that's something that Sands would never talk about, because he's not a real Champion. He's just a whiny little ***** that thinks everything should be given to him "just because".
RF: This case is thrown out, on the grounds that Christian Sands is nothing more than hot air!
[ A huge pop goes through the crowd. The lights go off in the court room, and Beast is left standing under a spot light. ]
Beast: You know something, Sands?
I'm not Championship material? Those same "everyone's" that you say don't believe my words about Lindsay Troy and Suicide - those are the same "everyone's" who are blasting you for being such a big *****. Those are the same "everyone's" that are predicting that I will indeed defeat you for that title. Those are the same people who think you don't have what it takes. You have your own opinion, but it's funny that everyone else has the same opinion of you that I do.
And I'm the one spouting bull****?
I don't think so. You're the lowest common demoninator.
I'm sure that someone with a brain as developed as yours knows what that means.
I'll remember your own little commandment, Sands. I'll remember it and make it my credo after I've whipped your ass. That can be my mantra when I've defended that title for the umpteenth time.
You want me to walk the walk?
That's exactly what I'll do - I'm going to walk all over you in that ring at Black Dawn, and then I'm going to become the new, and first ever, EPW World Heavyweight Champion.
Funny thing is, Sands, is that to deliver those commandments in your little production - which my own nearly rivaled in it's ridiculousness - I came down the mountain.
Which would have put me at the top of the mountain to begin with.
That's somewhere I'm going at Black Dawn.
And it's a place that you'll never be.
Nice try, Chump.
That carrot you're so desperately reaching for is going to get pulled away from you yet again.
And I'll be gnawing on it's success.
[ Camera fades to black. ]
Cut to a scene inside the building. The court room is packed full to overflowing, people jostling for position on the seats, fighting to get through the door and get a view of the court room. There are no attorneys - no defense council, no Crown attorneys to prosecute the witnesses. Instead, a single table is set up in center of the front of the room, directly across from the judge's seat. At the table sits Beast, dressed impeccably in a black Armani suit. All around the court room is a sea of media pressed up against the walls of the room, each trying to get a picture of the A1E and EPW superstar.
This is obviously an event of some massive proportion.
A low murmuring rifles through the crowd as everyone tries to figure out what's going on. How could a man such as Beast with his good guy image be required in a court room? Why is he being questioned? What has he done? The people's questions are soon to be answered as a bailiff steps towards the center of the room. ]
Bailiff: All rise!
[ The throng of people that were sitting get to their feet. ]
Bailiff: Court is now in session! The People vs. Marcus Westcott, aka Beast is the only case today. The Honorable Richard Farnswirth will preside over this case!
[ The people remain standing as the judge approaches from his room. He is a big man - tall, not overweight. He looks very intimidating. He takes his seat. ]
RF: Thank you, you may be seated. All except for you, Mr. Westcott.
[ The people take their seats, but Beast remains standing, respectfully folding his hands in front of him. ]
RF: Mr. Westcott, you have been brought here today to answer to several charges brought forth against you by one Christian Sands. Have you been made aware of these charges?
Beast: Yes I have, your honor.
RF: Do you understand these charges?
Beast: Yes, sir, I do.
RF: Would you like to enter a plea to all these charges? Should you plead guilty, I have a sentence prepared, and it will be handed down to you today. Should you plead innocent, you will be read each charge, so that the people here in the court may also hear them, and you will be given the opportunity to explain your innocence. Do you understand?
Beast: Yes, sire, I do.
RF: Very well then. How do you plead?
Beast: Innocent, on all charges, sir.
[ The crowd in the court room gasps. ]
RF: As I expected. I will now read the charges as brought forth in the Ten Commandments of Beast, and you will have the chance to state your case. Are you prepared, Mr. Westcott?
Beast: I am, your honor.
RF: Good. Then let's begin. Do you have any opening comments?
Beast: Yes sir, I do.
RF: Please, proceed.
Beast: Your honor, I would like to say that I believe this... "trial"... is a mockery of the justice system. This "trial", and these "charges" are nothing more than one last desperate attempt by Christian Sands to save face, one last act of desperation to hopefully rescue his "image" from exposure as the complete and utter farce that it is. I will prove today that Christian Sands is nothing more than a bold exterior to hide the little child that truly lies within his body, mind, and soul.
RF: Very well. I shall begin. How do you answer the First Charge, that you are lord and savior, that everyone is worthless compared to yourself?
Beast: Innocent, Your Honor. Not once have I ever claimed that I was omnipotent. Not once have I ever claimed that I could never be beaten. Not once have I ever said that people couldn't have their own opinions. Christian Sands can stand by his interpretations all he wants. The fact remains that he's full of ****.
His interpretation is that I have no right to judge people. He can shove his interpretation up his ass. People judge everything all the time. People go to a movie, and they judge whether they like the story, or if it was funny, or if it was violent, either like it or they don't like it. People listen to music, and they judge whether they like the beat or not, whether they like the lyrics or not, or judge what the lyrics mean. People watch sporting events, and judge the performance of the athlete. And even, Your Honor, people might just watch a Christian Sands promo and judge that the guy has lost his marbles and everytime he opens his mouth, something green and sludgey and slimey comes out, or they might watch a Christian Sands match and judge that he couldn't wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag.
People are free to make their own judgements, just as you will today. I just happen to judge that Christian Sands is a washed up attention whore that pitches a loaf every time he's proven wrong.
RF: Very well. The first charge has been dismissed.
[ A cheer goes out through the crowd. ]
RF: How do you answer the second charge, that your own opinions supercede any and all other opinions, and only your words are to be taken as the absolute truth?
Beast: Innocent, Your Honor. This whole charge is simply a case of Christian Sands talking for the sake of talking. The fact that he doesn't believe me when I talk of Lindsay Troy's actions, when even Lindsay said this was her doing. He doesn't believe me about pinning Suicide. As far as I'm concerned, I really don't give a flying **** WHAT Christian Sands believes. The people that know me - which Christian Sands obviously doesn't - know that I am a man of my honor. If Sands needs something to whine about and try and find SOMETHING to show that he's somehow superior to me, then that's his choice. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, no matter who screwed up their logic is about arriving at that opinion.
And as far as this whole instinct, thing goes, then obviously Sands isn't human, and I'm wrestling some cyborg from Mars or something. Instinct is something buried in our souls, something that has been developed within all life forms since they evolved from the primoridial soup that was the beginning of this planet. An animal in the jungle, or in the desert uses its natural instincts when hunting. If attacked, its instinct will be to fight, or to flee. As humans, Your Honor, do we never have a gut feeling about anything? Do we never arrive at a conclusion just because it FEELS right? That is instinct. Does a fighter not sometimes have the ability, when being beaten, to suddenly fight off the attack and use a desperation tactic to stop the assault? All instinct, Your Honor. If Christian Sands doesn't want to admit the fact that instinct does not play a part of human existence, then I would like to formally submit that Christian Sands be formally admitted into psychiatric care, because for all the intelligence the man CLAIMS to have, he has not demonstrated it one iota.
RF: Point taken, Mr. Westcott. The second charge has been dismissed.
[ The crowd cheers again. ]
RF: What of the charge that "thou shalt not take the name of Beast in vain, for Beast is perfect."?
Beast: Your Honor, this is complete and utter bull****. I have never made such a claim. However, I simply attacked Sand's ability to come up with a different insult other than "oaf" for three promos in a row. Surely a man as intelligent as he claims to be could think of something more original and creative other than resorting to the same old rehashed crap every time. He pukes it out, eats it again like a common animal, and then pukes the same thing back out time and time again. It's deplorable. Sir, I have been in this business for a long time, and I have heard it all. I've been called everything in the book. It's never affected me. In fact, I believe Sands has taken offense that I called him on his in ability to be creative. I honestly don't blame him though. If everyone figured out that all I could do was come up with the same three letter word every time, I'd be upset too. No wonder the guy whines so much.
Remember, Your Honor, this is the guy that has been named by all the wrestling journalists as EPW's biggest pansy. This is the guy that has to run around backstage and piss and moan to everyone that will listen that he looks bad. That's his own fault, Your Honor. If doesn't want to look bad, then maybe he should become half the man he says he is. He just knows he can't beat me for the World Title, and he's doing everything in his power to drag me down to his level. I'm not falling for it.
RF: Excellent. This charge is dismissed. And, as I look through the paperwork, charge number 4, stating thou shalt lie on your back is also dismissed. I am throwing this charge out at it has absolutely no merit.
Beast: Thank you, Sir. He wants to call me cookie cutter, even thugh he's the one that goes on and on about how smart he is and calls me an oaf in every promo he cuts. He should take a look in the mirror first.
RF: And on those grounds, I am also dismissing charge number 5. It is obvious that Christian Sands can talk big, but when it gets thrown back in his face, he stomps around like a two year old throwing a temper tantrum.
Beast: If I may be so bold, sir, he says that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. He wants proof? Well, come Black Dawn, we'll see what a size fifteen boot to the kisser tastes like to him. More importantly, it is the taste of defeat that is going to permeate his taste buds the most.
[ The people in the court room let out a massive cheer. ]
RF: Mr. Westcott, things are looking good for you today. I am going to dismiss charge 6, simply because this idiot cannot stop referring to the same match over and over.
Beast: Thank you, Sir. If Christian Sands is going to beat me so badly, he only has to prove it. From the last match we were in, he has proven that he just can't. Unless for some reason he calls getting his lights put out while everyone else in the match was still wrestling a classic pinfall victory.
RF: How do you answer the charge of "Thou Shalt Not Deceive"?
Beast: Sir, will all due respect. how many times do we have to go over this ****? You dismissed charge 4 about being cookie cutter, well this is the same damned thing he's brought up every promo, and really, I can see where I might be called the same, if only for the reason that I continually have to deal with the same line of bull**** from him everytime he opens his mouth.
"I'm smarter than everyone else." "You haven't seen the real Christian Sands because I won't LET you." "I LET you hit that finisher - even though I had you after I punched you in the nuts - because I didn't want you to see what I can really do."
It's piles of utter **** like this that he spews out every promo, and quite frankly, he's been called on it, and his advantage is gone. I've watched all the tape. I've seen what he does in situation after situation. And yet he's STILL fooling everyone because he knows a billion different wrestling holds, he's a 6' 3". almost 300 pound guy that can magically do moonsaults, he knows every submission in the book, he can wrestle for days on end, has the strength of a hundred Greek Gods, and basically every promoter's wet dream, that can survive being torched to near death and having his body burned to a crisp, yet he's back wrestling without a blemish on his body and no pain to show for it.
Every single bit of it is bull**** - and he calls me on trying to say that I'm perfect?!?
Give me a ****ing break!
Sands is HALF the man he says he is, if he's lucky. I'm going to PROVE that it's all hype. I'm going to PROVE that all these little tricks don't mean **** when it comes to competing in the middle of that ring.
And most importantly of all, I'm going PROVE to the entire world that this low life degenerate sack of **** deserves NOTHING if he doesn't earn it. The only way he can earn it is by defeating me, and we all know that's not going to happen.
Sir, throw out the rest of those ****ing charges!
You see, Sir, that's the difference between Sands and I. He thinks he *deserves* the title just by proxy. He thinks that who he *thinks* he is, is enough to get handed a World Title. He doesn't want to have to earn it. That's because he knows he can't. The whole time I've talked, I've talked about fighting my way to the top. I've talked bout going out there and BEATING my opponent to EARN that title.
If Sands thinks he's going to have that belt just handed to him on a silver ****ing platter, then think again! He's going to have to go through ME to get it!
Which of course isn't going to happen.
And, when I WIN that title, and not have it *given* to me, I'm going to stand there with my hands held high. And coveting the title? That's what being a Champion is all about, Sands. Being a Champion means that everyone else wants what you have. All the hungry wolves are going to be there, snapping at your feet, but once again, it all goes back to being the Alpha Male. You've got to PROVE that you belong at the top. Being a Champion means that everyone else is covetous by design, and there's not a damned thing I or anyone else can do about it.
I know Sands is watching this whole farce of a trial, and you know something, Sands, when I stand there over your broken body with the EPW World Championship high over my head, I'm going to WELCOME it. I will ask everyone to covet my belt.. I want them to WANT the belt... I want them to NEED the belt... so when they challenge me for that title, I know they're going to be at their hungriest, at their most dangerous... at their BEST.
But that's something that Sands would never talk about, because he's not a real Champion. He's just a whiny little ***** that thinks everything should be given to him "just because".
RF: This case is thrown out, on the grounds that Christian Sands is nothing more than hot air!
[ A huge pop goes through the crowd. The lights go off in the court room, and Beast is left standing under a spot light. ]
Beast: You know something, Sands?
I'm not Championship material? Those same "everyone's" that you say don't believe my words about Lindsay Troy and Suicide - those are the same "everyone's" who are blasting you for being such a big *****. Those are the same "everyone's" that are predicting that I will indeed defeat you for that title. Those are the same people who think you don't have what it takes. You have your own opinion, but it's funny that everyone else has the same opinion of you that I do.
And I'm the one spouting bull****?
I don't think so. You're the lowest common demoninator.
I'm sure that someone with a brain as developed as yours knows what that means.
I'll remember your own little commandment, Sands. I'll remember it and make it my credo after I've whipped your ass. That can be my mantra when I've defended that title for the umpteenth time.
You want me to walk the walk?
That's exactly what I'll do - I'm going to walk all over you in that ring at Black Dawn, and then I'm going to become the new, and first ever, EPW World Heavyweight Champion.
Funny thing is, Sands, is that to deliver those commandments in your little production - which my own nearly rivaled in it's ridiculousness - I came down the mountain.
Which would have put me at the top of the mountain to begin with.
That's somewhere I'm going at Black Dawn.
And it's a place that you'll never be.
Nice try, Chump.
That carrot you're so desperately reaching for is going to get pulled away from you yet again.
And I'll be gnawing on it's success.
[ Camera fades to black. ]