[EAST 1st Round] 4. Duke Williams vs. 5. Chris Bagwell

CuseTroy · Apr 13, 2009

Match to be held at the Comcast Center in College Park, Md.

RP Deadline: Sunday, April 19 at 11:59:59 p.m. EST

Duke Williams · Apr 15, 2009

Hello Chris Ballbags I'm Duke Williams.

We have a match.

We are not a match.

I am far better then you and my history backs that up.

So draw ***** it's Malice Time.

doubles69 · Apr 16, 2009

Duke Williams said:
Hello Chris Ballbags I'm Duke Williams.

We have a match.

We are not a match.

I am far better then you and my history backs that up.

So draw ***** it's Malice Time.

Is this serious?

Duke Williams · Apr 17, 2009

Madden retiring…maddening late night madness... the death of the morning paper….and Biff Bagwell wants to know if I’m serious in very serious times…this just in Bagwell dead and nobody cares!!

“Why so serious?"
The Joker “The Dark Night”

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ther; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> Let your freak flag fly man and just let it be maybe for one of the last times as the world becomes more and more sterile. The coach is sending the weird and strange to the showers for a good gassing in a holocaust of creativity so I don’t have a lot of time. None of us really have a lot of time, do we? It was a good ride while it lasted – if I had to do it all again I’d get drunk and dive in. Those of us whom have taken the ride understand the abstract existence and sad ending is worth every damn moment even the bad and painful ones. It’s worth the destruction. It’s worth it all just to one time be completely and utterly free – not just from man or government but most of all from self.
<o></o>
I was out at about 4am in downtown Chicago just walking around for the hell of it. The world is very different at 4am. It’s very calm. It lacks any real emotion. Most of the crime has stopped, trouble goes to sleep, and for about an hour whoever is still up rules the world. It seemed like it was just me and that goofy assed half moon beaming down just enough light to be noticed through the haze of neon storefront windows and white street light. Hell even the wind took the night off, a welcome surprise for me and the rest of the weird walking the neutral time waiting for dawn to find its first breath.
<o></o>
At about twenty minutes past four the first signs of life emerge letting me know that humanity will start another day. Oddly the only activity going on at this ungodly hour are bread and paper trucks rolling freely through the city. No traffic, no hassle, no troubles. To those engaging in the work it’s just a job, to me it’s something deeper. It’s a big city and we eat a **** load of hotdogs. Nobody thinks how complex the simplest of things really are. What were the odds in Vegas all those thousands of years ago when the book makers were setting the odds on which species would evolve to the top? My guess is we were a long shot. But nature evolved the vilest creature in Homo erectus.
<o></o>
Before we become systematic and orderly enough to move thousands of pounds of bread daily, educate our young, and drink four dollar cups of java we spent most of our days tossing rocks around and masturbating vigorously. Some of us haven’t changed much as I just described most of my free time. You know the lions live their lives freely and in paradise. Maybe it’s true what they say about those who write the history books peppering it to their perspective.
<o></o>
The bread makers and deliverers will be fine in these hard times we are approaching; they are in better shape than the American dream; but what about the other army working in the stealth of the darkness? The rusty, old, out dated, bulky, gas guzzling monsters that storm the streets in systematic harmony as they deliver the what’s happening to all the citizens of Chicago just a few hours before they wake up to meet the day. The Newspaper seems almost statistically impossible yet it has been a consistent part of America since its conception.
<o></o>
Now thanks to the internet the paper is on its last leg with a happy man in a suit like a wolf in sheep’s clothing waiting for the order to pull the plug. Under that happy smile and suit of silk slithers a much darker conscience as an inner virus controls the plastic man. The kind of virus that makes you wish for death as vomit ejects itself in such overwhelming capacity that it shoots out of both your mouth and nose. A sickness that makes death a pleasant thought, makes rape as wholesome as chunky noodle soup, and makes logic vanish. When we stop thinking logically we fail as a species.
<o></o>
Logic dictates that the information we call news is best suited unvetted by the hands of government. You can’t trust something that is controlled by the people who are the ones the papers are supposed to be watching. That is why the news is, and always has been a private industry. In countries that it’s not the news is not news its propaganda. The papers have failed us many, many, many times and have even bought into the governments brainwash a time or two. But overall their worth and value to freedom is immeasurable.
<o></o>
Liberals, conservatives, football fans, soccer fans, the rich, the poor, and even homosexual communist Christian NRA members can agree -- our news is one of the checks of government that must be protected, and is protected by the Constitution. That’s where this gets weird. This is the part I’m having a hard time grasping. If private industry is losing money because the masses have shifted their focus to the internet , then we can’t fault them for going out of business or moving their business to the internet.
<o></o>
The numbers are fuzzy and I’ve been drinking heavily (you would too if you were wrestling a dead guy) so I can’t give you exact numbers. But according to most of my research about 73% of Americans have daily access to the internet, with just over half of American homes paying for an internet connection. That means about 30% of the population has little to no access…while only about half of our country has home access. I’m not an educated man but I’m not stupid either. My guess is the majority of those 30% without access are poor.
<o></o>
So with the death of the daily newspaper 30% of our nation, the poorest, will lose their voice and their source of information. The ones who struggle the most will now be given the least. Those we forgot about. Those we ****ed over. Those who choose to be ****ed over. They are all now in the same statistical category of just plain ****ed. How true can representation be, if the ****ing people being represented have no clue as to what’s going on? So is the solution government subsidized news? Yikes. It’d much rather get in the ring with a man who calls me egotistical and questions my strangeness all the while being either dead or faking death. Hypocrisy is a *****. Solutions are few. I’m getting tired.
<o></o>
John Madden is retired. More tradition lost. Love him or hate him he gave his life to the sport and I can relate to that. I’ll die a wrestler and if I make just a fraction of the impact John had on football then I will die achieving a hell of a lot. I’m thinking about creating a game called Duke Williams Pro-Wrestling. I’d make it to my specifications and do the color commentary. The money may roll in yet, and I can then by that island, hookers, cocaine, I’ve always wanted and escape from all this psychosis.
<o></o>
With the birth of a new day is on the way, it’s odd most of my thoughts up until this point have been about death. I guess it’s because as a professional I was doing some research on my opponent in this TEAM tournament. His name is [FONT=&quot]Chris [/FONT][FONT=&quot]Bagwell and by all accounts, except for him asking me if I was serious, he’s dead. <o></o>[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]<o></o>[/FONT]
This match is the biggest news story, possible ever, as I’m facing a dead man. Thankfully for Chris Bagwell the press is too busy with Obama’s new dog to scoop this one up. Some say I have an ego and word around the camp fire is Chris is one of those who say such silly words but what the dead man doesn’t understand is my ego is deserved, and earned. People spend way too much time thinking about other people.
<o></o>
A guess since Chris Bagwell is dead I should eulogize him or at the very least write his obituary. I’m just very still confused as to if he is breathing or not, but what I’m sure of is this guy isn’t very good. He’s from GCW yet has no major titles to speak of. I can and would of my own career, but I don’t want to seem egotistical. He’s bounced around from fed to fed which indicates to me as an old veteran of the sport that he is not very reliable of valuable.
<o></o>
Being known for my due diligence I didn’t stop at looking at a simple bio. While searching through the casual encounters section of Craigslist (a version of a perverse fla market on the internet) I stumbled upon an ad for a man who wants to be treated like a women. It talked of death and rebirth and involved hot candle wax on the nipples, puppy dogs, and egg rolls. I’m sure it was Chris and who has time to investigate these days. I haven’t dealt with such weirdness since my last encounter with the red hat society of Texas.
<o></o>
Chris Bagwell is a man so sinister he faked his own death and posts questionable, sick, sexual fantasies on the internet. This could get interesting that’ fore sure. With a resume like that, one could only assume he’s as crazy as I am, or running for President in 2012. I’m not yet sure which is the case but I will continue my investigation. To answer your question, yes I’m serious. Death is weird. So is life. So am I. But if it wasn’t for the weird and strange where would we be? If you’re really dead Chris fly on free bird, if not, let’s do this Malice Style.
<o></o>

DW

=w=

doubles69 · Apr 19, 2009

Picture this.

The air is brisk and the sun is giving off a glorious glow as it sets in the western skies. You're sitting on a rooftop in the smog encompassed air of Newark, New Jersey and gazing out into the hazy horizon. A can of Coors Light compliments your left hand and would probably rest in the right as well if it weren't for a slice of cold pizza residing there.

The setting is practically the American Dream, is it not?

I mean, forget about the clichéd dream that's always boasted about in the media. The one story ranch with a family of four - the husband, the wife, the son, and the daughter; the perfect jobs and the family puppy prancing around the yard. Nobody really wants any of that - not one bit. And who can blame them, really? The "perfect" job has mediocre pay and the dog sh!ts all over that very same yard he's gallivanting around - then treks it into the house. The son is getting b!tches pregnant by the time he turns sixteen and the daughter, well, she's probably pregnant herself. The wife is constantly nagging about how she thinks the husband is cheating on her and the husband - he really <b>is</b> cheating.

Yeaaah, no. That's definitely not the American Dream. Not in my eyes, anyway. Naahhh..

How often is it that you dream about having a headache? When's the last time you've dreamt about living a mediocre life, earning a mediocre salary, and having a mediocre looking wife? Truth is, the American Dream is something we all only wish we could attain and <i>anybody</i> can attain some mediocre broad to cook them overdone meat for the rest of their life.

So let's jump back to the imagery stuff.

You're sitting on a rooftop in a cloud of smoke in the brisk winds of Newark, New Jersey. You've got beer and you've got cold pizza - the only other thing you could really even want is some dime on her knees in front of you with her head in your lap. You know where I'm going with that. You've got not a worry in the world - no pesky kids, no stinky dog, no nagging wife. It's just you, your beer, and your little touch of Italy.

That was my life. That was the life of Chris Bagwell.

There was once a time when my biggest concern was whether or not the polluted air of Newark, New Jersey would suffocate and kill me before I'd be able to finish my twelve pack. I didn't worry about finding a great job because I knew I'd never be filthy rich. I just wanted to live my life and indulge on all the sweet nothings that the rest of society seemed to look down on.

I mean, who was the prick that decided having a beer with breakfast was considered alcoholism?

If I enjoy an ice cold frosty brew, why shouldn't I be able to have it with my breakfast? It'd be the same as having a glass of apple juice or a cup of orange juice every morning. You don't hear me saying that those people have a severe case of <i>fruityism</i>, do you? I just could never understand the basis for our belief system.

It seemed like everything people loved was, in some way, negative.

Love getting laid? You're a hooker. You're a player, a slut, a pimp, or a slampig - there's a list of terms. Why can't a person just love to get their load off? Love smoking pot? Well guess what - you're a drug addict. Enjoy betting money on various cards or sports game? Oh, you're a gambling degenerate.

What about those pricks that love reading books? Ain't nothing wrong with them, is there?

No, no, no. Of course not. Now I don't have anything against someone reading a classic or even writing of their imaginary adventures, but give a me break. Maybe I'm reading all the wrong sh!t, but I've never had an orgasm to the adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

So when I tell you I used to live the American Dream, I ain't bullsh!tting.

I was doing what every American out there wanted to do - what they loved to do. I was drinking a beer with breakfast and the only time I was getting off from a good story was when it was in a Playboy magazine. And that brings up a very important question...what happened? Why'd I stop living the dream? And that answer's simple...

A gunshot.

That same day, with my beer in one hand and a cold pizza in the other, I heard a gunshot. I looked over the side of the rooftop wall and watched as a little black boy, who couldn't be older than twelve or thirteen, dropped to the ground with a hole in his chest. It wasn't so much the death that really got under my skin. Death was something I could deal with. Hell, with a good buzz, it almost felt like I was watching a movie with really good sound, killer (no pun intended) special effects, and with a rad set of 3D glasses on to make it look all the more life-like.

But I didn't have those cheap cardboard glasses on.

What got to me was the guy who shot that little kid - it was the boy's father. He was on drugs, he bathed in alcohol, and he was pissed off that his son tried to stop him from hitting his wife - the boy's mother. So the scumbag shot his kid to make sure he wouldn't get in the way again.

Talk about tough love.

I grew up in a household where my father used to whip my @ss with a leather belt. Hell, I won't wear a leather belt to this day for fear that it might whip my @ss by itself. But never once was there a moment when my father even came close to pointing a gun at me. Sh!t, there wasn't even a time where he'd even considered hitting my mother.

And that moment touched me.

It touched me so much that I whipped my half full (I'm an optimist, the bottle's never half empty) bottle of Coors Light off the rooftop and right at the sorry sonuvab!tch. I missed, naturally. It was the unfortunate combination of being too intoxicated and being twenty stories up. But even though I missed, I felt like I'd made a statement.

I think I screamed "HOLY FU©K" when he shot a round up at me.

I died that day. Well - not really. The old me died that day; the old Chris Bagwell. But in that very same instant, a new Chris Bagwell was born. It took me an incident like that to realize the way I'd be living my whole life was wrong and I was determined to do <i>something</i> differently.

I just had to figure out what.

People've asked me the question, <i>"Why so serious?"</i>. You really want to know why? It's because I never <b>did</b> take life seriously. I treated it as a joke - one big game. The only problem with this game was there was only one life; no do-over’s and no restarts. I couldn't care less about that boy when his body hit the ground. It was one less person collecting a welfare check from my taxes.

What I did care about was getting the hell out of that neighborhood.

Now let's get one thing straight. Just because I had an epiphany of sorts doesn't mean I suddenly went from a derelict to a white angel - far from. I just became a more pronounced...derelict. I became more vocal and a splash cockier. My intentions were slightly different, though. Instead of sitting on the rooftop only caring about myself, I decided to travel the world and care about myself in new places. I wanted to keep on the move.

I wanted to experience new things.

I got involved in the wrestling business because I had no other alternative. I needed to make money and I'd already gambled away every other possibility that had ever knocked at my door. Wrestling was practically my savior. I still remember my first gig - the day the Bank of Opportunity stopped writing bad checks.

But this isn't about that. I'm not that nostalgic.

What bothered me in the wrestling business; what drove me to do the things I've grown notorious doing - it was the people. The guys who stood on podiums and read down their lists of achievements to their peers - they annoyed me. The guys who galloped around on some high horse like everybody should know their name. You know who I mean - they're similar to that little Chinese guy in that movie Role Models.

The King in the Land of Make-Believe.

But the guys who really irked me the most, and still do, are those who don't recognize your name and thus assume you're another nobody looking for a break. They've been around the 'biz for a little while and think they carry some legacy around, and since they don't know you - you're nothing. Those are the guys that I've build my career around. Those are the guys I've thrived on chewing up.

So Duke Williams, let me introduce myself.

My name's Chris Bagwell. I'm cocky. I'm arrogant. And I'm a worthless, scumbag prick. I've been called every name in the book and I'm damned proud of it. While you're sitting at home on Google "doing research about your opponent," I'm out fu©king you wife. So when I say Chris Bagwell is dead, you can consider it a literary metaphor. That simplistic, naive version of Chris Bagwell is dead...

...but I'm very much alive!

Welcome to FWrestling.com!

[EAST 1st Round] 4. Duke Williams vs. 5. Chris Bagwell

CuseTroy

League Member

Duke Williams

League Member

doubles69

League Member

Duke Williams

League Member

doubles69

League Member

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