(OOC Note: I think it's funny that this match is billed The Anglo Luchador vs. the masked man, seeing that JA is masked too )
The scene this time is Fisherman's Wharf. JA, this time wearing a Drexel University sweatshirt, is walking side by side with his valet Lollipop.
JA: So, the brackets are finally set. For all that huffing and puffing and blowing down of the house I've done about Hornet, it looks like I won't get him until the second round, if at all. It's okay. I'm patient.
Instead, my first round draw is Anger-bot, the hot new model with the sooooo-angry voice modulation feature. The man who claims to be the GREATEST LUCHADOR EVAIR!!!1 The bigot who's trying to destroy the See-Ess-Dub from the inside.
Well, it's not Hornet or Mike Randalls or Joey Melton... hell, it's not even Adrian Evans, but everyone's gotta start somewhere.
And why not start with Anger-bot, the little cyborg that's pissed off at the world because, I'm guessing, someone from Greensboro peed in his cornflakes, or kicked his dog, or perhaps served him dog cornflakes while urinating... you know, I think I've taken that analogy as far as it can go.
And speaking of taking things as far as they can go, Mr. Anger-bot, this whole 'two-luchadors-in-the-tournament-thing' has gone about as far as it can go too. The way I see it, there isn't room enough in this tournament for the both of us. There isn't room in this shindig for two luchadors. One of us is going to have to go.
And thankfully, we get to have that early. The problem is, which one of us is gonna get the boot? Well, it's not going to be me. I mean, for one, I think I clearly have the speed advantage here. I figure that anyone who has to use one of those voice thingies is probably a cripple. Now, I know you like to refer to yourself as a luchador here, but I'm thinking you're one of those backyard "luchadors" who fell off a roof. And it makes sense, trying to mention Stephen Hawking to throw us off. Of course, you're obviously not as smart as Steve-o the Wheelchair Bound Genius but that's a given. And what else is a given is that I'm not just quick, I'm sudden.
And that's what kind of exit you'll be making from this tournament... a sudden one. Like I said, there's not enough room for two luchadors in this tournament.
And once you're out, you can go take your anger out on something else, buckeroo.
JA and Lolli walk off camera as the scene fades to the CSWA logo.
Voice lines. This time in a nice shade of grey. Same booming deep voice. Static fading...black background.
I would like to pose a rhetorical question and perhaps in this sea of unwashed asses I can get something close to a logical answer.
Does anybody have a clue what in the holy name of Mil Mascaras this kid is babbling about?
You seem to have got a tremendous case of Shakespeare: a bunch of sound and fury signifying nothing. You seem perplexed as to why I hide behind these largely unneccessary props and since you don't know who I am you see fit to ridicule me as your attitude sees fit.
You're wondering who I am because I want you to wonder who I am; because if you knew who I was you would get down on your knees, kiss my feet, and book the first place for somewhere safe like Afghanistan. I've held more championships than you've had pieces of ass, boyo. I have been the figurehead of the largest professional wrestling organizations in the world. And I, in my little way, helped to revolutionize lucha libre as the States know it.
No one ever really thought about it too deeply, and this shows. It shows with your ignorance. It shows with your disrespect.
I'm not killing the CSWA. Bad business decisions? Hornet's ego? Merritt? Thomas? Those things have killed the CSWA. This shell now is nothing. It's Smoky Mountain Wrestling with a deeper history. But everyone outside of Sammy Benson seems to be determined not to let this place die. It's nothing special. It's another wrestling group that had its day in the sun and now is drifting towards Byzantium.
You all need to be woken up from your delusional slumbers. This place is going to die. No matter the virtuous heros who really just want one last suckle at the old golden teat, this place will die.
I'm not angry in the least towards this place. I just feel everyone is living a lie. And the truth is always better than a lie.
Just like this truth: you are severly overmatched. We will step into that ring and you are going to die under a tsunami of offense from myself. I didn't win World Championships and end careers by finding these attributes on eBay: I did it by being one of the best.
You need a name to call me from now until then, whitebread, I think you'll find Your Daddy is going to have to suffice.
You managed this one sole beam of light in your propoganda of darkness: there's only room for one luchador in this tournament.
The scene this time is in front of a CSWA backdrop at the arena. JA and Lollipop are standing at equal footing this time, JA in his ring attire and a JA logo t-shirt from his 'other' place of employment, the company's logo blurred out. Lollipop is dressed in a sexy skirt-suit, with the skirt hiked way up, 3/4 of the way up her thighs. She's also wearing glasses and has a clipboard, looking Stacy Kiebler-esque from her early WCW days.
JA: Oh, Anger-bot, Anger-bot, wherefore art thou betwixt with such ye olde anger?
Wherefore art thou so bitter and jaded? Hast thou been wronged by the world in some way? Dost thou bytcheth about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortunes tossed at you by the See-Ess-Double-Yoo-Aye on ye olde Live Journal?
JA shakes his head.
JA: Man, I do see your point about Shakespeare though... I can see how you'd think it was sound and fury and other bull-dookie like that. Although it would probably sound better in iambic pentameter... but I can't be assed to remember how that [bleep] goes anyway.
Still though, the question begs to be asked, why are you so freakin' angry, Anger-bot? To answer that, I've got my lovely and talented girlfriend, Lollipop, to give you some psycho-analysis, you know, to show how much of a psycho you really are. And before you start questioning her credentials, she took a class once on psychology at Orange County Community College.
Lolli: I like got an A in it too or something.
JA: See? She's got brains to go with the boobs.
JA: Anyway, Ms. Pop, could you tell me what the deepest seeded roots of Anger-bot's rage are?
Lolli: Well, like, I kinda think it's cuz he just doesn't get laid and stuff. Like, my statistics say that like, a lot of people who are angry are like angry cuz they like, don't get any play or something like that.
JA: And it makes perfect sense, seeing that I don't even think the lady cyborgs want a piece of this Speak 'n Say reject. Anyway, you have more?
Lolli: Yeah, like, another thing I noticed was like, he's really insecure, cuz he's always projecting stuff about superiority 'n stuff like that on himself. Like him calling himself Your Daddy.
JA: Yeah, I mean, what's up with that? I know it's an expression, but my real daddy, the esteemed Flairaholic Anonymous, didn't quite appreciate that.
Lolli: And what's, like, more is that he's all up in your grill like projecting inferiorities 'n stuff on you. Like calling you a pretender.
JA: Pretender... interesting. I think we have all we need, Ms. Pop. Thanks for your insight.
Lolli: Like, anytime babe.
JA smiles at his lady and turns towards the camera.
JA: You know, Anger-bot, you aren't making that strong of a case for yourself here. A bigot, a Napoleonic nihilist, and now a insecure little twit. That's okay though, seeing that the totally insecure don't know it. Well, that's what we're here for, to let you know. The first step to recovery is always admitting you have a problem.
And that problem is not following your own little rules. Pretenders not allowed. Shouldn't you have taken the cue a long time ago? If you were any bigger a pretender, you'd be Chrissy Hynde without the sex appeal.
Now, don't get me wrong here. I know there are some people who really deserve to harbor emotions of hate and desponency, but honestly, what beef could you have with us folks here working for CS Enterprises that warrants the condemnation of those pretty towers down there in Greensboro? Unless your name is Chad Merritt or Eddie Mayfield, I can't even begin to fathom any kind of justification.
You can stop pretending that you have some earth-shattering reason for hastening the death of this company. I mean, nothing lasts forever, but there are a corps of dedicated people here who will keep this thing alive for as long as it takes to put out a new legacy, a final chapter. Any reason other than Big Stevie Fool killing your mom and raping your dog Ted Turner-style is just bologna.
You can also stop pretending that you're some god to lucha. Unless you are Mil Mascaras under all those circuit boards and voice modulation, then you aren't. Hell, I know Mil Mascaras. And you, sir, are no Mil Mascaras.
I'd venture to say you're not even Juventud Guerrera.
So you can drop the charade. You can just drop everything, the pretenses, the masking, the everything. If you really have this big, big, hyooge, oh-em-gee EX-BOX SIZED grievance, why not let it all out?
Because you're insecure. Because you know that when you let it all out, the world will be utterly underwhelmed by what they see. And that's why you have to destroy this place before it can get rolling again. Because if you don't, then with each passing second, you stand a bigger chance of getting embarrassed.
And you can't stand that.
Because not even your World Championships can mask the fact that you're inadequate for the task. Right about now, there are thirteen men left in this tournament with an equal shot at that Unified World Heavyweight Championship, at least a theoretical equal shot.
You, my bitter little sailor, are just a pretender trying to tell himself and everyone else that he's just as good as everyone else, and with all that fancy technology and promises of being the GREATEST LUCHADOR EVAIR!!!1, you may fool John Q. Public, but not me.
I'm far smarter than you give me credit for.
And I'm smart enough to know, that, like I've said all along...
...there's only room for one luchador in this tournament.
JA looks intently into the camera as Lollipop looks at her clipboard. The scene fades to the CSWA logo.
Black interrupted by light blue voice modulation lines.
It's our friend, The Voice.
Once upon a time, a man worked here, and his calling catchphrase was FAITH...IS THE EVIDENCE.
And the problem that plagues him even now that he's left this cesspool is simple and eloquent: how do you make a non-believer believe? How do you convince someone there's more than their eyes can see, or their ears hear, or their mind think?
These are questions I face now, as I stand with only the poncho of logical thought draped on my person over the Abercrombie Luchador's tsunami of bull**** and lies.
So tonight's message will be short, sweet, and probably going to be ignored so he can put himself and that leech whore of his over in another nonsencial promo. Nevertheless, it is better I try to get through and fail then to not try at all.
I cannot make you believe I'm a much better luchador than you are. And I cannot make you believe I'm a much bigger name under this mask than the Randalls and Hornets of this world. I cannot make you believe I cut my teeth doing naught but tornillos and ranas. I cannot make you believe I am an elite cruiserweigh. I cannot make you believe not only am I a World Championship caliber athlete, but that I have held several of them.
All I can do is get in the ring Monday and kick the **** out of your Troy Windham-lite ass.
And I will.
The floor is yours. Please, continue to entertain the sheep by putting yourself over.
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