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Round 3: Sean Edmunds vs. The Phantom Republican

Chad

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Roleplay begins Sunday and ends next Sunday. 3 RP maximum.

You may submit a card segment for use on the card by private messaging it to the following usernames: Chad; Ford; User Poets Not all segments may be used (i.e. we might only include winners, just depends on the amount of craziness).
 

TH

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Prelude to an ULTRATITLE, Episode 2: Attack of the Drones

Trans-Pacific flights are a killer; well, they are if you don't sleep the whole time. I'm not sure anyone was going to blame Gordon Powell for sitting restlessly during each leg of the trip home. Hong Kong to Sydney. Sydney to Honolulu. Honolulu to Los Angeles. Los Angeles to Chicago. Chicago to Washington, DC. In total, he and Jeffords were in transit for over 24 hours, and he probably only slept for a grand total of an hour, maybe two tops. It wasn't just the nerves of competing in the biggest wrestling tournament in the world, either...
Dateline: November 4, 2008, about 10 PM Eastern Time

FIRE headquarters had a far more somber mood than it did just 24 hours prior. Then again, it was to be expected. The past four years were an exercise in keeping the White House in firm, Republican control through indoctrination in all forms of entertainment. This wasn't always a problem. Television and theater used to be more wholesome, more family-oriented, more conducive to keeping conservative values at the forefront of American culture. Those days were long past, and slowly, the Grand Ol' Party felt the pinch of the liberal Democrats taking over the popular culture to the point where now people were starting to feel sorry for homosexuals and immigrants and non-Christians.

And thus, the Federal Initiative for Republican Entertainment was born, trying to place operatives in media and pop culture all over the country. No one would admit it, but their results started out mixed at best. Mel Gibson's insanity undid most of the good he did with Passion of the Christ, and Ted Nugent's hair-brained gonzo frontiersman oeuvre made his music grow more and more irrelevant with every proclamation that squirrel jerky and venison rump roasts were the only way to eat. Sure, most non-Dixie Chick country music artists were doing their work for them, but they were preaching to the choir so to speak. The only real success for the campaign-through-entertainment seemed to be their professional wrestler, a man they dubbed The Phantom Republican.

And that's why when John McCain made his concession speech, Director Jameson McQuiddick was so quick to pour his frustrations out on the only target who had done any bit of good for the initiative.

"Thanks a lot, Gordon," he sneered in a voice that would have melted a glacier had its burning tone been manifest into real energy. Powell, in his mask, turned around, scrunching his face up in a perplexed grin that was even visible under the mask.

"Wait, what?"

"Thanks a lot for all the work you did undoing the campaign from within. You saboteur."

Staffers were quick to chatter in confusion as to why the target of Director McQuiddick's rage was the only person who didn't give FIRE a black eye at some point during its run.

"Oh, shut up you marks and sycophants. You spend all your time sucking up to him when it's me you should've been worried about. I'm the boss around here, yet, you treat him, the traitor to our cause, like he's the god."

Powell gave the "cut it out" sign to the chatter. "Okay, okay, so what makes me a traitor to the cause? I went out there, campaigned at every arena, won Championships, made it to the semifinals of the GTT..."

The Director was quick to interrupt. "Yeah, on the back of pandering to the fags."

Powell shook his head and sighged, but McQuiddick wasn't finished.

"You know that we're in a culture war with these heathens who would love to see the institution of marriage rent asunder, and you of weak character decided you wanted to campaign on BEHALF of these homewreckers? You're the reason why the party is not united..."

"Okay Captain Hyperbole, settle down. Firstly, if you want a reason why the party might be divided, which I don't think is true, look at the ditz McCain chose as his running mate. Everyone knew she'd be a liability because of where she served and how much executive experience she had but no, you were okay with that because you wanted to pork her."

"How dare you talk about a married wom..."

"I'm not done. Secondly, just because there's a disagreement between the majority of religious leaders in the party and those who, by the way, are just as Republican as you or I but just happen to like their own gender, doesn't mean the party is divided. If lockstep agreement were a condition for joining, this wouldn't be a political party, it would be a cult."

Seeing an opening to pause with the Director momentarily stunned, Powell sipped his water before continuing.

"Third, if you want to blame me for not doing enough, that's fine, but if I haven't done enough, then what the hell have you done? I mean, the people you did get to sign up for our little club here either melted down in public or they ended up not being able to get their shit even made. Meanwhile, I'm in arenas all over stumping and showing my results, and I'm the reason McCain lost? That's not even taking into account how frigging popular Barack..."

"HUSSEIN."

"...sigh, Hussein Obama is with the people that we're actively disenfranchising. The whole thing's a mess. I can only do so much..."

"Well, you have done enough. You're done being associated with us."

Powell's jaw dropped, mouth agape at the explication of his termination with FIRE.

"Hand over your mask, and get the hell out of here."

Powell was still as a statue, not moving except to breathe. The chatter from the people at HQ rose up again with most people directing their frustrations at the Director. He removed his mask, dropped it on the ground and proceeded to walk out of the headquarters at a snail's pace.

The next morning, Powell sat in the lobby of the hotel where he was staying, looking dejected over a cup of coffee and a croissant.

"Sup, buddy," a familiar voice greeted. It was Jeffords. Powell's face didn't move.

"You know, I thought it was a bush league thing for the Director to do too. I mean, sure, the whole gay thing..."

"It's not a 'thing', Jeff. I mean, I've read studies. It's genetic, or at least a lot of smart people think it is. I don't know what their beef with science is sometimes."

Jeffords just sighed.

"It just stinks."

"I know, Gordon. I know. But you gotta get back on your horse. You can't let him..."

"That's where I have to stop you. It's not letting him do anything. FIRE has the rights to the Phantom Republican character. He dismissed me. I can't use the mask anymore. It's over, at least here it is."

Jeffords expression went from exasperated to upset.

"You're quitting wrestling?"

"No, not at all. I'm just quitting wrestling in America. I mean, I heard Japan always likes a good American to come over and terrorize. Australia's burgeoning. I heard good things about England and Europe."

"So that's it? You're just going to let him win?"

"It's not letting him win if he already has. I mean, why should I want to work for a guy who hates me? I already went through this BS in college and swore I'd never do it again. I don't need to prove anything to anyone anymore."

"If that's the case then... I guess I can't stop you."

Powell nodded and shrugged. He shook hands with Jeffords, and that was the last time either one saw each other for nearly four years.
"Hey, remember last time we were here?"

Jeffords chuckled. At least Gordon was in good spirits again. He jokingly wondered to himself whether he'd gotten some herbal remedies when he was in China, but thought better of voicing them.

"I still don't know how you're so full of energy. You barely slept since we left Hong Kong."

"Caffeine overload. Besides, if I want to be able to get into the ULTRATITLE, I think it's better to get the ball rolling now rather than later."

Jeffords nodded as they entered FIRE HQ. Not much had changed. The televisions were all flatscreen plasma models, and most people had iPads instead of laptops, but everything else looked the same. They approached the Director's office, encountering a comely blond lass working at the receptionist's desk.

"Excuse me, do you have an appointment with the Director?"

"Nope. Can I see him anyway?"

"May I ask who this is and what your purpose is?"

Powell smirked.

"Yep. I'm Gordon Oliver Powell, and I've come to get my mask back."
 

TheOriginalSE

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Re: Prelude to an ULTRATITLE, Episode 2: Attack of the Drones

“Oh no, the polls aren’t looking too good, Sean.”

Miss Karla stared at the computer screen, her middle finger slowly rolling the middle mouse wheel down. Edmunds walked out from the bathroom in a towel, his damp hair sticking to his forehead.

“Meh, the election is five months away. Who cares.” He grabbed a Q-Tip and jammed it in his ear.

“No,” she turned around and looked at him, “I mean for the Ultratitle. 95% of those polled have chosen you to lose this round.”

He stopped mid-spin. His hand dropped to his side as he pursed his lips. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he fumed, a Q-Tip sticking out each ear. “Fuck it.” He grabbed the Q-Tips and slammed them into the trash… well, I mean, as much as you can slam Q-Tips.

“It’s ok, we’ll just do what we always do, Sean.”

She popped out of the chair and tried to cheer him up. He ignored her.

“I’m just going to do it, I swear,” he ranted. “Round 3 we’re just going to go ahead and debut a new shtick.” He disappeared into the walk-in closet, his rant becoming garbled.

Karla tried to appease him. “I know, I know, but it isn’t like this is the first time in this tournament we’ve had to prove people wrong.”

Edmunds walked out of the closet, wearing shorts now, but still going on. “Call up the tournament people. Tell them that “Simply Sensational” is gone. Round 3 will be Phantom Republican taking on “Not To Take Anything Away From” Sean Edmunds.” He tossed his hands in the air. “I mean, honestly, the pundits say it so much already that might as well be my new intro. Coming to the ring, weighing 228 pounds… “Not To Take Anything Away From” SEAN EDMUNDS!”

Karla cupped her mouth and made faux cheers. Edmunds rolled his eyes at her.

“Aw, c’mon Sean.” She walked up to him and playfully jabbed him in the jaw. “They said the same thing before you stepped into the ring last round, too.”

Edmunds plopped onto the bed, his ego obviously badly bruised.

Karla sat next to him and tussled his wet hair. “C’mon, let’s get dressed and get you to the salon. Your roots are beginning to show.”

And they were. Edmunds had been so busy with the Ultratitle and promotional duties for the VWF that his normally perfect hair had started to become “Cruise-y.” He shuttered as he thought the words “Cruise-y.”

“Ok,” he looked over at her, with his best puppy-dog look.

“Ok, ok!” she laughed, “afterwards we’ll come back and finish Battlestar Galactica.”

He hopped the bed and tossed on a shirt with vigor. “Alllll-right!”

Karla checked herself in the full-length mirror and exited the room. But Edmunds lingered behind to take one last glance at his growing roots.

“Ugh,” he lamented.

“LET’s GO!” Karla called from somewhere.

Edmunds slicked his hair down as best he could and started to head to the door. He paused as he came across the computer. “95%.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Time to fuck up ALL yo’ brackets,” he hissed. He “X’ed” out the browser and headed out of the room.

His temper tantrum finished, now he could get down to business.


|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|​


He stood in front of the Ultratitle banner, cropped and prim and looking … simply … sensational. Sean Edmunds. The longest reigning VWF Pan-Pacific Champion. The SOLE SURVIVOR for Team VWF at the Experts: Rivals Factions against Team SIMCOE.

A nondescript producer stepped into the shot. “We’ll be going in just a few,” he chirped before disappearing.

“How are you feeling?” Karla asked as she held her arms up so an intern could help fix her gown.

Edmunds smiled at her. “I’m feeling great.”

And he did. He felt fucking fantastic. His earlier mood swing a distant memory, the usual confidence returned ten-fold.

A bell rang off-camera. That’s the cue. The intern checked Karla’s makeup, squirted some water on Edmunds’ chest, and slunk off to the side.

FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO. RED LIGHT.

Cue the cocky grin.

“It turns out that being ‘COOL’ isn’t enough.” Edmunds winked at the camera. “No, no, my friends. Actual TALENT is needed to advance in the Ultratitle Tournament. And it just so happens that I ooze talent.”

He wrapped his arm around Karla. That’s HER cue.

“We’ve said it once. We’ve said it twice. There’s no denying...” she paused for dramatic effect and looked up at Edmunds, “We’re SENSATIONAL.”

Edmunds smiled back at her. “So here we are .. ROUND THREE .. and, wouldn’t you know it, the cat dropped another writhing carcass at my foot. The Phantom Republican.” Edmunds sneered behind his smile. “I’ve read somewhere that people think you have what it takes to go all the way.”

Karla rolled her eyes. “I guess when you’re practically handed a spot in the “Thexy” Thirty-Two people exaggerate your chances.”

Edmunds jumped on her comment with ease. “I’m sure the Phantom Republican trained incredibly, incredibly hard for his match against… Henderson Bramble,” he shook his head in disbelief, “and I’m sure he struggled with the unknown against Shane Rothenstein. I mean, considering Rothenstein hadn’t wrestled since 2004 .. the Phantom Republican must have had to prepare for everything and anything!”

Karla pondered. “I guess I stand corrected. Phantom Republican is entirely deserving of the heaps of praise being thrown at him.”

The two looked at each other and then at the camera, their eyebrows arched in unison.

Edmunds planted his hands on his hips and seethed into the camera. “Listen up and listen up good,” he snarled. “I couldn’t care less that you’ve played this tournament like some sketchy 503(c) organization with Citizens United. I couldn’t care less that you’re as qualified to be standing across that ring from me as Christine O’Donnell is to be the United States Senator from Delaware. I get it, GOP. You are not a witch. But you’re also not a WINNER.”

Karla huffed, “It’s almost as if it is a sick joke .. Phantom Republican getting the welfare entrance to the third round.”

“Either way, Karla, his free ride ends here. It ends with me.” Edmunds pointed at himself. “I’ve already ended Jackson’s hopes and dreams. Last round, hell, people thought that Cancer Jiles was Jesus himself.”

“And you put his tournament dreams six feet under,” Karla quipped.

“Three days later he was back in that hellhole DEFIANCE.. with no chance for a resurrection.” He ran his tongue over his top lip and smiled again. “I’ve already proven myself to be the BRACKET BUSTER, GOP. I tamed Jackson. I …. cured Cancer. And now .. now it is time for me to send the Phantom Republican packing in a LANDSLIDE.”

Karla chuckled. “Time to close the Big Tent.”

Edmunds winked. “Change His Course!”

Karla squinted her eyes, clearly preparing for battle. “Put an End to his Mediocre Party…”

Edmunds squinted back. “Put the elephant down.”

Karla squinted more … and finally balled her fist. “Dammit.”

Edmunds tossed his head back and laughed. “I win!” He quickly regained himself and looked dead on into the camera. “I always win.” The sneer returned. “I hope you’ve had your fun, GOP. Because I’m coming in red-hot. I’m going to prove ONCE MORE that determination, dedication, and most importantly, PURE ATHLETICISM is what sets me apart from everyone else. There’ll be no mistake. There’ll be no excuses. There’ll be nothing more to take away from me. I will win.”

He wraps his arm around Karla’s waist and pulls her in tight. The both of them smirk.

“Don’t adjust your television sets,” they say together, “we ARE this Sensational!”


|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|-|​


“Wait, have you ever been here before?” her eyes squinted at Edmunds as they walked through the newly refurbished CSWA Headquarters’ doorway. The scene seems … familiar.

He shrugged. “I don’t remember. My career has been a whirlwind.” No, Edmunds was never in the CSWA. Despite it being the granddaddy of them all, and despite his illustrious career, the call never came from Greensboro. “Maybe the new management will rip their heads from their asses unlike Merritt.”

“Welcome to CS Towers,” drawled a frumpy woman with thick-rimmed glasses. “May I help you?”

Sean Edmunds smiled.

“I would like to talk with the new management,” he paused. Glancing at Karla, he continued, “Tell them the future Ultratitle Tournament winner is here.”

The woman frowned, pushed her glasses back up her nose with a single finger, and folded her hands. “Do you have an appointment?”

Edmunds was waiting for that question. He propped his elbows on the count and placed his chin in his hands. He grinned sheepishly. “Nope.”

She wasn’t falling for it. “Then, no, I’m sorry.” She cut him off before he could protest further. “We are on a strict schedule, as I’m sure you could guess.” She grabbed a business card from beside her phone and slid it underneath his elbow. “Please call and make an appointment.”

Karla pulled gently on Edmunds and slid in front of him. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is important.”

The woman mumbled something under her breath before looking at Karla. “When you call you can have them make a note of that. Thank you.”

The woman, obviously drunk with power (at least Edmunds thought so!) pushed back from the desk, quickly gathered papers in her arms, and turned to head through the door. As she backed into the next room, she looked at the two standing dumbfounded. “Have a good day.”

Edmunds and Karla stared as the door slowly shut, leaving them in silence.

“What the hell just happened?” Edmunds huffed.

Karla grabbed the business card off the counter. “Here. Call now.”

The VWF superstar fumbled around in his pant pocket, his eyes still locked on the golden door. Finally he freed his cell phone and punched in the number. After a few seconds, a muffled voice.

“Yes,” he replied shortly. “This is Sean Edmunds. VWF Superstar. Future Ultratitle Tournament Victor. I would like to make an appointment.”

More muffled sounds as the person on the other end asked what the appointment would be in reference to.

“To get the respect I deserve.”

Edmunds took the phone from his ear and ended the call.

“And god damn it, if I have to rip through the Phantom Republican like I’ve ripped through everyone else in this tournament to get some respect, then that’s EXACTLY what I’ll do.”

Edmunds tore the business card in half and tossed the pieces in the air before turning and walking out. As the camera followed the two pieces fluttering through the air, it slowly Faded. To. Black.
 

TH

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There Is No Such Thing as a Handout

The scene is the Phantom Republican's headquarters somewhere in the bustling District of Columbia. He sits on a desk, tie undone, top button of his dress shirt unbuttoned, sweat dripping out of his mask, as people behind him are busy tending to business, whether at their computers editing video or looking up the latest nutritional trends or overseeing people in the ring. He looks up at the camera with an exasperated look in his eyes.

GOP: Campaign season and professional wrestling have many differences, but in a way, they are of kindred spirit. Much in the same way that campaigning looks easy when all it is seems to consist of shaking hands, kissing babies and throwing up attack ads on television while it requires hours upon hours of hard work raising money and doing legwork, wrestling can seem to look anyone can do it, especially when done by a master against the chaff of the wrestling world. Unbeknownst to people such as yourself, Sean Edmunds, it takes hours of training, promotional videos and other things. Then again, Edmunds, you're a wrestler yourself, so why should it seem to you like I've been favored, like I haven't done my share? Like I'm no better than the common street trash who live off the government teat by churning out baby after baby seemingly only for increases in their Welfare checks?

I'd say the one taking the easy way out here is you, Edmunds. Not doing your homework and comparing someone like me to someone like your average crack addict... Sean, I thought you'd be better than that? Maybe all the lumps you've taken on your head have given you advanced CTE in your old age. Or maybe you're just feeling entitled like all the other veterans in this tournament. You see, all you regulars around here all thought that this tournament was just another coronation for them, like they were Thomas Dewey going up against Harry Truman. It still stings having to reference one of the most stinging defeats in party history, but back then, we were haughty. We were like Dan Ryan or Kevin Powers going up against Cobra or Henry Dylan. They were the ones who skated. They were the ones who thought they were getting handouts. And what did they get? Bounced.

Hell, if anyone here is a handout recipient, look at Sean Stevens. He struggles with a rookie, some punk kid whose girlfriend was clearly pulling his strings, then he loses. And of course, because he's sleeping with an important CS Enterprises employee and has major pull, he gets to come back to fill a void rather than allowing the tournament to go on with a hard-earned bye that should have been there? There's your vitriol target, Sean.

But no, you blame me, the shining conservative beacon of truth, honor, values and wrestling. Sean, let me let you in on a little secret. I didn't get this far because of a handout from CS Enterprises. I didn't get this far so easily because I was the beneficiary of good fortune. Henderson Bramble capitulated like Grenada at the might of the United States because I dominated him. Shane Rothenstein put up a much better fight, but even he wasn't able to put up more than token resistance against my offense because I was superior in every way. No, I didn't make it look easy because I had luck of the draw. I made it look easy because I'm good enough to make it look easy.

So, while you fall into the same trap that your brethren have fallen into, realize this. They got stung in the first round against relatively unknown talent, men who wouldn't win their second round matches. They were felled by men who maybe have a future around these parts with some seasoning, but by men who don't have the combination of talent and experience to have produced results and to be able to produce more results. Me, however, well, I have already won World Championships. I have wrestled at bigtime pay-per-view events. I have gone far in tournaments such as these before, and I still have enough gas left in the tank that by the time the people in charge stop *****footing and start drilling here in America, that I'll be able to fill up for much cheaper than I can now.

That is to say, Sean, you are in deep trouble. Your arrogance will be your downfall, and your destiny will be precluded by the ever burgeoning expansion of the Phantom Republic, expansion that will be long, arduous work, but will be successful. I may break a sweat when I break you, Sean Edmunds, but make no mistake...

...I will break you.

GOP gets up, holds open his mask and wipes the sweat from his brow before turning and going back to one of his aides at a computer as the screen fades to his campaign logo.

This message has been approved by the Phantom Republican for ULTRATITLE Champion Campaign '12.
 

TheOriginalSE

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Re: There Is No Such Thing as a Handout

The familiar VWF logo embroidered on the promo banner hung in the background as “Simply Sensational” Sean Edmunds and his main squeeze, Karla, readied themselves for their latest Ultratitle vignette. This time, with the VWF back running on all cylinders, the banner was pristine. Karla glanced back at it, happy to know that her role in this spot would be more than just “background maintenance.”

The lights in room dim as the cameraman’s fingers are thrown up. FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO.

Go.

His body tight, tan, and oiled, “Simply Sensational” Sean Edmunds glared coldly into the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, in case you did not know…” he paused and pretended to look all around the room before turning back to the camera, “campaign season and professional wrestling have their differences!”

The former CWC Superstar-of-the-Month tossed his hands in the air as Miss Karla ran her hand across his glistening pecs. “But Sean,” she cooed, “you can’t blame him, he’s a REPUBLICAN.”

The taping almost had to be stopped as Edmunds’ eyes rolled out his head and down the hallway. “I suppose you’re right, Karla. GOP thinks that the more he talks about absolute nonsense, the more people will forget how much of a FRAUD he is.” Edmunds mimicked Phantom Republican’s voice, “Wrestling is HARD work! There’s training and promotional work. But you already knew this, Sean, because you’re a wrestler!” Edmunds shook his head as his mimickry ended. “Yes, GOP, I know EXACTLY what it takes to be a wrestler. Thank you for wasting approximately 20% of my time by telling me wrestling and politics are different .. and that being a wrestler isn’t just fun and games. I am SO enlightened now.”

Karla began to interject, but Edmunds put a finger up. She nodded briefly as Edmunds began again. “Not ONLY do you have the audacity to try to confuse all the REAL Americans out there..”

Karla can’t help but interject. “Uneducated.”

Edmunds glanced at her swiftly and shot a side-smile. “But then, like I expected you would, you attempted to denigrate the runs of other people in this tournament to try and make your pathetic little run mean something .. MORE.”

Edmunds put his thumb out as if he was counting.

“And you see, this is where your entire argument CRUMBLES like House Speaker Boehner whenever the Tea Party Republicans rise up against him… Sean Stevens. Dan Ryan. Kevin Powers. They all had COMPETITION in this tournament. Their opponents didn’t just roll over and die like FIFTY-YEAR-OLD Henderson Bramble. Their opponents weren’t M.I.A. in a drug rehab for the last 8 years like Shane Rothenstein… Ryan, Stevens, Powers… they BATTLED. They fought a WAR. They weren’t shoveled into Round 3 on the backs of the elderly and the abused like you. But then again, you’re used to walking all over the elderly and drug abusers… you’re REPUBLICAN.”

Karla stepped forward, her eye grilled the camera. “This isn’t Iowa. This isn’t South Carolina. This is your Super Tuesday reckoning, GOP. And just like so many before you … this round … this round will be your wake-up call.”

She stepped back to Edmunds’ side as he looked off into the distance. “You seem to have everyone wrapped around your little finger, GOP. Even though you’ve had your spot in the top thirty-two handed to you, the people out there on the “internet boards” seem to think that you’re something special. That’s great, Gordon… that’s real great.” He paused to smile. “For me.” Edmunds jammed his finger into his chest as he emphasized. “I’M the one who ran rampant over Jackson in round one. I’M the one that ripped the veil off of everyone’s eyes to prove that Cancer Jiles was nothing but a SECOND-RATE HACK who may turn heads and cause tongues to wag in that BUSH LEAGUE he runs in .. but in MY tournament .. in MY ring .. he was nothing.”

Edmunds went from pointing at himself to pointing at the camera. “But you,” he continued, “you want to accuse me of being overconfident … of expecting too much?” He laughed. “I find it ironic that you would accuse me of not doing my homework when it looks like your political researchers failed you. I left this circuit YEARS ago, GOP. I haven’t called this circuit my home in god knows how long. I’ve been cutting my teeth against unknown talents for a long, long time now. I don’t fear the unknown, GOP. I CONQUER IT. Don’t believe me? I’m a two-time JUST Wrestling Champion. I retired TWO VWF championships UNDEFEATED. I held the WARPED Evolution championship for six months. I was the SOLE SURVIVOR for Team VWF at the Experts Rival Factions. So don’t you DARE think that I am going to fall to the wayside like the likes of Dan Ryan or Kevin Powers.”

Karla smirked as she leaned forward, “Can you see the fear … the look of exasperation in the Phantom Republican’s eyes? He knows that his free ride is over. He knows that he is stepping into the ring with the one man who will OUTWIT .. OUTPLAY and OUTLAST himself.”

Edmunds shrugged his shoulders. “GOP wants to campaign on his ability… he wants to rest on his laurels..” A mischievous look crossed Edmunds’ face, “let him. Because when the ballots come flooding in… when the votes are tallied.. it’ll be a SENSATIONAL day for the Ultratitle tournament. Sean Edmunds will have once again slain Goliath.. and saved this tournament from pure and utter banality.”

Edmunds paused, his contempt permeating the air.

“Don’t adjust your television sets,” he reveled, “I AM this Sensational!”

With a broad, bright smile, the camerashot zoomed in on the two. Their beaming faces the last thing you see as the camera fades out.
 

TheOriginalSE

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EDMUNDS FOR BRACKET 3!

“In these trying times,” the strong, reassuring voice/over began, “you need someone proven… someone battle-tested and battle-ready… someone …. Sensational.”

Sean Edmunds appears briefly in the lower right hand corner and smiles at the camera. “I’m Sean Edmunds, and I approve this message.” Then he’s gone.

“This Ultratitle Round .. Bracket 3’s future in the tournament rests with your choice,” the voice pauses for dramatic effect, “in this match.” Another pause. “Will you select a proponent of elder abuse?”

An image of the Phantom Republican with a short-arm clothesline that sent Henderson Bramble head-over-heels in Round 1.

“Or a guardian of our loved ones? Who understands that we should take care of those who once took care of us?”

Video of Edmunds sitting behind the wheel of his car laying on the horn as an elderly couple crosses in front of him (at 2 mph). Edmunds turns and sees the camera and immediately smiles and pretends as if he stopped to let them cross.

“Are you going to throw your support behind someone whose idea of the War on Drugs is to assault and batter those who need rehabilitation and our support?”

An image of The Phantom Republican nailing the MOAB on the formerly coked-out Rothenstein.

“Or a savior and role model for the youth of tomorrow?”

Video of Edmunds exiting a 7-11 and tossing a group of high school kids a pack of Marlboro Lights. Edmunds stops as he sees the camera and pivots to the group of kids … grabbing the pack of cigarettes, wagging his finger at them, and then tossing the pack in the trash. The kids looked confused as all hell, but Edmunds nods at the camera, giving a wink and a smile.

An image of the Phantom Republican comes on screen.

“You may find yourself fooled by all his talk, but the fact of the matter is, the Phantom Republican is not the man to represent our bracket in the Ultratitle Tournament… Bracket 3 doesn’t need an ideologue … they need a brave soul who will represent ALL of Bracket 3 .. not just the religious zealots getting blowjobs from their parishioners’ sons on the side.”

The image of the Phantom Republican gets a BIG FAT X over it…

“The ONLY man brave enough to be Bracket 3’s CHAMPION…”

Sean Edmunds image comes back on screen.

“Is Simply Sensational, Sean Edmunds.”

The scene goes black before a grainy video of Harry S. Truman standing before a rowdy crowd cues up. Truman holds his hand high in the air and pumped his fist as he talked.*

“The smart boys say we can’t win. They tried to bluff us with a propaganda blitz, but we called their bluff, we told the people the truth.” The crowd roared as Truman continued, “And the people are with us. The tide is rolling. All over the country. I have seen it in the people’s faces. The people are going to win this election.”

With the cheering crowd still erupting (most likely on loop), the picture goes black … the cheering continued … as the final image shows on screen.


VOTE SEAN EDMUNDS

Amercia.jpg**

ULTRATITLE TOURNAMENT 2012!

Fade. To. Black.


*Actual Truman speech, 1948.
**If you don’t get the joke, google “Mitt Romney Amercia.”
 

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