SteelCitySon
League Member
OORP: I'm bored... it's 3:30 in the morning... need to do something for sh*ts and giggles. Read if you want too... prolly sucks but it's just for fun anyways! HAHA!
CLANG
Cold steel impacts the floor as a set of weights hits the ground. A body slumps to the floor, sweat dripping from every pore. A dirty white muscle shirt shows signs of wear, but is quickly discarded. John Miller leans against the dirty gym wall, tired and worn... his stare distant... but not lifeless.
And here we are... right back where we started.
John pulls a zippo from a nearby set of clothes, grabbing a cigarette with it. He pauses before lighting it up however... deciding to toss the objects to the side. He breathes a long sigh.
Sh*t'll kill me. Christ... I feel like I've aged 10 years since the last time we were here.
Miller runs a hand over the top of his head.
How the hell do I tell if I'm balding... I never keep any hair anyways.
John looks down at his chest, running a hand over the many scars which have accumulated over the years.
Not looking any better... why the hell are you even checkin? Godd*mn... this sh*t isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Miller runs his hand over a long scar that runs the width of his bicep.
Eric Edwards... son of a ***** nearly ripped my f*ckin' arm off. What a prick.
John turns his attention to his other arm, which has a burn scar on it.
Tabu. Insane little sh*t. God that one f*ckin' hurt.
Miller runs his hands over his abdomen, addressing the scars in that region as well.
Inferno... mother f*cker. Where the hell are YOU?
John relaxes a little more, leaning his back up against the wall once more.
You're runnin' out of space, son. I don't think we're going to be able to fit that many more on this old frame of yours.
John looks over to the pile of clothes next to him, lifting up a magazine that sits on top. The cover reads "Fantasy Wrestling Illustrated"... with a smaller caption reading "Top 250" near the bottom. John leafs through the pages...
Maelstrom, huh? Bring that son of a ***** on over... let's sign this guy to Battleground Britain. That's what Chad said, right? All comers? Everyone and anyone can make a bid for my title, right? Well lets bring this guy in and I'll f*ck his day up.
Miller looks down the page a little further before something really catches his attention.
Danny boy... there ya' are. Look at you... climbin' the charts. Keep on keepin' on...
John finally finds his own name on the list.
31? Not bad. Slightly better than the sub-200 level I'm used to from this sort of thing.
John tosses the magazine to the side, a look of indifference on his face.
Just a number... just a f*ckin' number. Nothing I can do about it but prove these bastards wrong. Well.. that tournament IS comin' up. Who'd we sign to the ppv? F*ck... can't remember. Note to self... remember to check message boards at that cyber-cafe I saw down the street.
John looks out the window, the streets of the city are cold and lifeless.
F*ckin' Europe. Weren't we just here? Has it REALLY been a year? How is it I feel 10 years older but it only feels like 10 f*ckin days have passed since I was wrestling Zero and Lehew in Wimbley? Christ... this year's gonna be a clusterf*ck. So many challengers... don't even know how the hell to prepare. Just going to have to adjust like I always do. But we've got Boogie and Sands to deal with right now...
John leans his head against the cold wall. His expression is tired.
Son of ***** Smallz thinks I'm part of the "system". What the hell? I didn't do sh*t. I've been walked over just as many times as he has. Seven f*ckin' years of this... just to get where I'm at. Who the hell does he think he is? No matter... just deal. Can't please all the people all the time. And then there's Sands... good ol' Christian. Turtleneck wearin' fruitcake. Wonder if they picked on him in school? Seems like the type. Kid's a mindf*ck. Gonna' have my hands full at Revolution. Need somethin' to deal with all this sh*t... gotta calm down. Second note to self... swing by Boogie's locker room after the show... he's bound to have some goods.
John laughs out loud... smiling at his own thoughts.
Haven't done that sh*t since high school... no need to start again. Ahhh... sh*t... where has the time gone? What the hell year is it? 2004... 2004... for f*cks sakes it's 2000 and f*cking 4. Things aren't like they used to be. What's goin' on in the wrestling world? I can't even pay attention anymore... sh*t is going so haywire.
John looks back to the magazine he tossed on the floor a few minutes ago. He picks it up and reads some more articles.
Jesus... nobody told me he f*ckin' retired. Codine... you assh*le. How the hell am I supposed to do this by myself? You were one of the last remaining decent guys in this f*ckin' business. What the hell am I supposed to do if sh*t gets rippin'? You were always here to keep things in check... now you're f*ckin' gone. Unreal. Codine... Ryan... Codine vs. Ryan. Now that was a f*ckin' feud. Good matches... great spots. That's what we need now. We need somethin... GXW needs somethin. Danny's got his little thing goin'... what the hell was it called... the Uprising? Somethin' like that. Who the hell else? Cobb? Didn't he and Ryan have a little altercation earlier? Guess they forgot about all that... either that or it's one big conspiracy and this whole thing was a plan all along. Third note to self... watch Conspiracy Theory. Remember why paranoia is bad. World Champions can't be paranoid... can they? God... even I don't know the "rules" anymore. What the hell? What the f*ck is going on anymore? Kin Hiroshi wanted a piece... I took care of him. Boogie and Sands want a piece... I'll take care of them. Who else wants to come and get some? How many people are there? HOW MANY F*CKIN' PEOPLE? How long can I keep this sh*t up? As long as I f*ckin' can... as long as I f*ckin' can.
Miller tosses the magazine aside once more, holding his head in his hands. He reaches back to his bag, again taking out the zippo... this time lighting his cigarette.
CLANG
Cold steel impacts the floor as a set of weights hits the ground. A body slumps to the floor, sweat dripping from every pore. A dirty white muscle shirt shows signs of wear, but is quickly discarded. John Miller leans against the dirty gym wall, tired and worn... his stare distant... but not lifeless.
And here we are... right back where we started.
John pulls a zippo from a nearby set of clothes, grabbing a cigarette with it. He pauses before lighting it up however... deciding to toss the objects to the side. He breathes a long sigh.
Sh*t'll kill me. Christ... I feel like I've aged 10 years since the last time we were here.
Miller runs a hand over the top of his head.
How the hell do I tell if I'm balding... I never keep any hair anyways.
John looks down at his chest, running a hand over the many scars which have accumulated over the years.
Not looking any better... why the hell are you even checkin? Godd*mn... this sh*t isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Miller runs his hand over a long scar that runs the width of his bicep.
Eric Edwards... son of a ***** nearly ripped my f*ckin' arm off. What a prick.
John turns his attention to his other arm, which has a burn scar on it.
Tabu. Insane little sh*t. God that one f*ckin' hurt.
Miller runs his hands over his abdomen, addressing the scars in that region as well.
Inferno... mother f*cker. Where the hell are YOU?
John relaxes a little more, leaning his back up against the wall once more.
You're runnin' out of space, son. I don't think we're going to be able to fit that many more on this old frame of yours.
John looks over to the pile of clothes next to him, lifting up a magazine that sits on top. The cover reads "Fantasy Wrestling Illustrated"... with a smaller caption reading "Top 250" near the bottom. John leafs through the pages...
Maelstrom, huh? Bring that son of a ***** on over... let's sign this guy to Battleground Britain. That's what Chad said, right? All comers? Everyone and anyone can make a bid for my title, right? Well lets bring this guy in and I'll f*ck his day up.
Miller looks down the page a little further before something really catches his attention.
Danny boy... there ya' are. Look at you... climbin' the charts. Keep on keepin' on...
John finally finds his own name on the list.
31? Not bad. Slightly better than the sub-200 level I'm used to from this sort of thing.
John tosses the magazine to the side, a look of indifference on his face.
Just a number... just a f*ckin' number. Nothing I can do about it but prove these bastards wrong. Well.. that tournament IS comin' up. Who'd we sign to the ppv? F*ck... can't remember. Note to self... remember to check message boards at that cyber-cafe I saw down the street.
John looks out the window, the streets of the city are cold and lifeless.
F*ckin' Europe. Weren't we just here? Has it REALLY been a year? How is it I feel 10 years older but it only feels like 10 f*ckin days have passed since I was wrestling Zero and Lehew in Wimbley? Christ... this year's gonna be a clusterf*ck. So many challengers... don't even know how the hell to prepare. Just going to have to adjust like I always do. But we've got Boogie and Sands to deal with right now...
John leans his head against the cold wall. His expression is tired.
Son of ***** Smallz thinks I'm part of the "system". What the hell? I didn't do sh*t. I've been walked over just as many times as he has. Seven f*ckin' years of this... just to get where I'm at. Who the hell does he think he is? No matter... just deal. Can't please all the people all the time. And then there's Sands... good ol' Christian. Turtleneck wearin' fruitcake. Wonder if they picked on him in school? Seems like the type. Kid's a mindf*ck. Gonna' have my hands full at Revolution. Need somethin' to deal with all this sh*t... gotta calm down. Second note to self... swing by Boogie's locker room after the show... he's bound to have some goods.
John laughs out loud... smiling at his own thoughts.
Haven't done that sh*t since high school... no need to start again. Ahhh... sh*t... where has the time gone? What the hell year is it? 2004... 2004... for f*cks sakes it's 2000 and f*cking 4. Things aren't like they used to be. What's goin' on in the wrestling world? I can't even pay attention anymore... sh*t is going so haywire.
John looks back to the magazine he tossed on the floor a few minutes ago. He picks it up and reads some more articles.
Jesus... nobody told me he f*ckin' retired. Codine... you assh*le. How the hell am I supposed to do this by myself? You were one of the last remaining decent guys in this f*ckin' business. What the hell am I supposed to do if sh*t gets rippin'? You were always here to keep things in check... now you're f*ckin' gone. Unreal. Codine... Ryan... Codine vs. Ryan. Now that was a f*ckin' feud. Good matches... great spots. That's what we need now. We need somethin... GXW needs somethin. Danny's got his little thing goin'... what the hell was it called... the Uprising? Somethin' like that. Who the hell else? Cobb? Didn't he and Ryan have a little altercation earlier? Guess they forgot about all that... either that or it's one big conspiracy and this whole thing was a plan all along. Third note to self... watch Conspiracy Theory. Remember why paranoia is bad. World Champions can't be paranoid... can they? God... even I don't know the "rules" anymore. What the hell? What the f*ck is going on anymore? Kin Hiroshi wanted a piece... I took care of him. Boogie and Sands want a piece... I'll take care of them. Who else wants to come and get some? How many people are there? HOW MANY F*CKIN' PEOPLE? How long can I keep this sh*t up? As long as I f*ckin' can... as long as I f*ckin' can.
Miller tosses the magazine aside once more, holding his head in his hands. He reaches back to his bag, again taking out the zippo... this time lighting his cigarette.