Post by Derek Brooks on Jul 10, 2017 3:33:16 GMT
There comes a time in everyone’s life where it’s time to put up, or shut up, and I guaran-damn-tee each and every one of you that the time is now…
There’s a flash of light, and just like that, you’re eyes are fixated on the forehead, and then as he picks his head up, the gaze of the man known as Derek Brooks. He finishes his thought with a single name.
...for James Gilmore.
The camera widens out and we see Derek standing on a busy sidewalk, the building behind him being the Palace of Madrid, the home of this week’s Open Fight Night Sacrifice where he challenge James Gilmore to a match, only to have Mr. Happy join the party, and having a stipulation added onto it that called for a man to climb up the turnbuckle, and then grab a barbed wire wrapped baseball bat, enabling him to use it on the other participants.
James Gilmore, the main character in a comedic western that crosses the plots of Happy Gilmore and a Clint Eastwood movie. Let me guess…”Putters Corale”? Please, James Gilmore, Mr. PED user, turned political rambler, for the love of God, and the ear drums of the MILLIONS of people who tune into IWF programming, or the thousands in the arena, would you please, take your shoe off of your foot and insert it in your Goddamn mouth!?
There’s not a single person with a set of ears or eyes who gives two shakes of that hooker who walks around with you’s ass what you think about ANY topic whatsoever. They don’t care if you took PEDs, and I’ll tell your punk ass why right now...where as the drugs are supposed to be performance ENHANCING...you still suck...both in the ring...and in bed, and it only took me ten dollars to get that news right from the whore...I mean horse’s mouth.
He points to the bead of sweat trailing downward from the top of his head.
Do you see that!? Do you James!?
People give more shits about that bead of sweat on my perfectly bald head than they do about you, and as much as you talk, and as much as you’ve gone on and on, that’s really, truly sad.
You see James, your problem is real simple, and I’m going to spell it out for you as clearly as I can so even a dunce like you, that’s jackass for your pee brain, can understand the situation at hand.
You walked into this world as someone who was carefree, someone the crowd could at least get behind, and then, when they didn’t, you flipped personas, dated a one tit wonder and just like that, in the snap of a set of fingers, you’re a wannabe politician who I wouldn’t vote to wipe my ass, let alone run a damn thing.
Speaking of which, I have to ask...if you can’t run your own career, your own life; what in the bluest of blue hells makes your stupid ass think you have a chance of running a town; or more importantly, winning the Heir to the Throne?
He smacks his head as if he were Gilmor trying to come up with an intelligent thought.
Let me clear things up right now you pompous self-serving ass. You’re not fit to run a town. You’re not fit to run your life. That walking two dollar slut, probably isn’t fit to guide your career…
AND YOU’RE NOT WINNING THE HEIR TO THE THRONE!
Nobody cares about the rest of those things, but when it comes down to the Heir to the Throne, you’re looking at the man who is going to talk his way into every situation he can that’s beneficial, and walk out with said benefits until the final damn bell rings, and there’s only one man standing as the new Heir to the Throne and his name is DEREK FUCKING BROOKS!
He takes a breath, realizing things aren’t done, there’s one more man to go, and he’s a damn clown, and there’s nothing more on the planet that the man hates more than clowns...except maybe Gilmore.
And then there’s Mr. Happy, a man who couldn’t satisfy a woman so he went with painting his face and traveling from city to city doing birthday parties for the children of the world because he’s nothing more than a SICK FREEEEAK!
He shutters at the mere thought of Mr. Happy being anywhere near children.
I mean, you call yourself Mr. Happy. That sounds like a nickname for a man’s penis, let alone the name of a cross between Bozo the Clown and the Blair Witch. Tell me, does beating people up make you Happy?
He stops, a thought to be entertained just dawned on him.
Wait...Happy? Are you in the damn movie with Gilmore? Are you the one who calls him yellow and then gets in a fight in the street with him?
He holds his hands out.
Wait...that’s an actual movie plot somewhere...don’t take that. How about you two sick fucks go to Vegas, jump in a bed at a hotel and film a pornographic film that should be kept in the deepest of back rooms. You can call it Gilmore’s Happy Face...or something twisted. Then you can make millions...or pay them in lawsuits after the two of you scar people who watch for the rest of their lives.
He points into the camera.
You’re almost as bad as Gilmore, and I’ll tell you why here and now. You’re a fraud. You can’t live with the man you are so you paint a couple of symbols on your face, and make like you’re this violent loveable clown because you know...that hasn’t been done before.
He can’t help but seem exhausted, fed up with the notions of both of his competitors in the match and so that’s what he decides to focus on...the match.
At Open Fight Night, there’s going to be a fight, there’s not a single doubt about it. There’s going to be a war, and no matter how twisted you two are in your heads, I’m not naive to think any other way. HOWEVER! I’m climbing that turnbuckle and I’m grabbing the damn bat and I’m going to do two things that will help this world out immensely. I’m going to beat Gilmore’s face in so he can’t utter another bit of bullshit, and I’m going to shove the bat so far up Mr. Happy’s ass that when he walks around, he’ll have a bulge in the front and the back and will always seem...happy.
I’m going to Open Fight Night with one purpose in mind, and that’s to win; and not a freaky clown, or a wannabe political ass are going to stop me.
Things Just Got Serious - Part 4: Make It Quick...or Else
Last you saw I was being taken from my mother’s home in Bakersfield, California. I had a conversation with my abductor, and now we were back in NYC. It was time to supposedly face the music, despite the fact that I didn’t have a clue what the might enstore. I was dragged from the van of which I had slept in for the past couple days as we drove across the country. I was dragged down the alley I had walked up and down so many times before in the middle of the night, and was pushed through the back entrance, nearly stumbling down the stairs. ”Move punk.”
I continued down the hall until he stepped in front of me. ”It’s rude to not knock first.”
He knocked on the door a few times. ”Come in!”
The voice sent a cringe up my spine. I wasn’t necessarily afraid of Shane himself, after all, I did throw him through the window out into the club. I knew what he was mentally capable of though. I’ve seen him fuck with the minds of hundreds of people just to get back the money they owed him. I did worse. I physically put my hands on the man to the point where it seemed he wanted me dead. He turned and saw me being shoved into the room and in an instant, a toothy grin crossed his face. ”Well look who we have here. MR. BROOKS!”
He points in my direction. ”You know, I’ve been trying long and hard to try and find you. You’re a tough track, I will say that much.”
I sneered. ”I learned from the best, didn’t I?”
The smile quickly disappeared. ”You may have learned from the best, but you didn’t learn everything from me, and that’s why you're standing before me wondering what the hell I’m going to do to you.”
We all know me, and that’s why I had to keep up the cocky demeanor. ”That’s not exactly what I was thinking.”
”Oh? Do tell...what’s on your mind son.”
I looked over his shoulder at the repaired window. ”Well, I was thinking of the last time we were in this situation, and the last time you thought you had the upper hand...and how I broke that window with your body.”
He was infuriated to say the least. ”DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT’S ABOUT TO HAPPEN TO YOU!? I COULD HAVE YOU KILLED RIGHT HERE AND NOW!
”But you won’t. Because if you wanted me dead Shane...I wouldn’t be here and you and I both know that. So tell me, is it a trip to the box? Am I going to be tortured for my betrayal of the powerful kingpin? How about tying me up in an abandoned warehouse and beating the shit out of me because you’re too chicken shit to fight me like a man.”
He stomped forward grabbing me by the jaw. ”You punk piece of shit! You keep giving ideas, and perhaps we’ll just have to use them all...starting with you being left alone in the warehouse without a single damn idea what day it is, what’s going to happen next, or perhaps, we’ll have to bring your mother in for questioning.”
My eyes went wide and I wanted to throw him through that fucking window again. ”Touch her, and I’ll make sure you don’t survive.”
”Tough talk for a dumbass who’s about to be strung up.” He looked up at the men who escorted me in. ”Take him to the warehouse...I’ll deal with him when I see fit.”
They pulled at me, and though I tried to fight it, they dragged me to the door. We hit the threshold and I said something to get his attention. ”Shane?”
”Turn him around.”
They did as instructed, a smile back on my face. ”Make it fast...or you’ll regret it.”
”TAKE HIS ASS OUT OF HERE!”
They pulled me out of the room and threw me back into the SUV, pulling away as the scene fades.
There’s a flash of light, and just like that, you’re eyes are fixated on the forehead, and then as he picks his head up, the gaze of the man known as Derek Brooks. He finishes his thought with a single name.
...for James Gilmore.
The camera widens out and we see Derek standing on a busy sidewalk, the building behind him being the Palace of Madrid, the home of this week’s Open Fight Night Sacrifice where he challenge James Gilmore to a match, only to have Mr. Happy join the party, and having a stipulation added onto it that called for a man to climb up the turnbuckle, and then grab a barbed wire wrapped baseball bat, enabling him to use it on the other participants.
James Gilmore, the main character in a comedic western that crosses the plots of Happy Gilmore and a Clint Eastwood movie. Let me guess…”Putters Corale”? Please, James Gilmore, Mr. PED user, turned political rambler, for the love of God, and the ear drums of the MILLIONS of people who tune into IWF programming, or the thousands in the arena, would you please, take your shoe off of your foot and insert it in your Goddamn mouth!?
There’s not a single person with a set of ears or eyes who gives two shakes of that hooker who walks around with you’s ass what you think about ANY topic whatsoever. They don’t care if you took PEDs, and I’ll tell your punk ass why right now...where as the drugs are supposed to be performance ENHANCING...you still suck...both in the ring...and in bed, and it only took me ten dollars to get that news right from the whore...I mean horse’s mouth.
He points to the bead of sweat trailing downward from the top of his head.
Do you see that!? Do you James!?
People give more shits about that bead of sweat on my perfectly bald head than they do about you, and as much as you talk, and as much as you’ve gone on and on, that’s really, truly sad.
You see James, your problem is real simple, and I’m going to spell it out for you as clearly as I can so even a dunce like you, that’s jackass for your pee brain, can understand the situation at hand.
You walked into this world as someone who was carefree, someone the crowd could at least get behind, and then, when they didn’t, you flipped personas, dated a one tit wonder and just like that, in the snap of a set of fingers, you’re a wannabe politician who I wouldn’t vote to wipe my ass, let alone run a damn thing.
Speaking of which, I have to ask...if you can’t run your own career, your own life; what in the bluest of blue hells makes your stupid ass think you have a chance of running a town; or more importantly, winning the Heir to the Throne?
He smacks his head as if he were Gilmor trying to come up with an intelligent thought.
Let me clear things up right now you pompous self-serving ass. You’re not fit to run a town. You’re not fit to run your life. That walking two dollar slut, probably isn’t fit to guide your career…
AND YOU’RE NOT WINNING THE HEIR TO THE THRONE!
Nobody cares about the rest of those things, but when it comes down to the Heir to the Throne, you’re looking at the man who is going to talk his way into every situation he can that’s beneficial, and walk out with said benefits until the final damn bell rings, and there’s only one man standing as the new Heir to the Throne and his name is DEREK FUCKING BROOKS!
He takes a breath, realizing things aren’t done, there’s one more man to go, and he’s a damn clown, and there’s nothing more on the planet that the man hates more than clowns...except maybe Gilmore.
And then there’s Mr. Happy, a man who couldn’t satisfy a woman so he went with painting his face and traveling from city to city doing birthday parties for the children of the world because he’s nothing more than a SICK FREEEEAK!
He shutters at the mere thought of Mr. Happy being anywhere near children.
I mean, you call yourself Mr. Happy. That sounds like a nickname for a man’s penis, let alone the name of a cross between Bozo the Clown and the Blair Witch. Tell me, does beating people up make you Happy?
He stops, a thought to be entertained just dawned on him.
Wait...Happy? Are you in the damn movie with Gilmore? Are you the one who calls him yellow and then gets in a fight in the street with him?
He holds his hands out.
Wait...that’s an actual movie plot somewhere...don’t take that. How about you two sick fucks go to Vegas, jump in a bed at a hotel and film a pornographic film that should be kept in the deepest of back rooms. You can call it Gilmore’s Happy Face...or something twisted. Then you can make millions...or pay them in lawsuits after the two of you scar people who watch for the rest of their lives.
He points into the camera.
You’re almost as bad as Gilmore, and I’ll tell you why here and now. You’re a fraud. You can’t live with the man you are so you paint a couple of symbols on your face, and make like you’re this violent loveable clown because you know...that hasn’t been done before.
He can’t help but seem exhausted, fed up with the notions of both of his competitors in the match and so that’s what he decides to focus on...the match.
At Open Fight Night, there’s going to be a fight, there’s not a single doubt about it. There’s going to be a war, and no matter how twisted you two are in your heads, I’m not naive to think any other way. HOWEVER! I’m climbing that turnbuckle and I’m grabbing the damn bat and I’m going to do two things that will help this world out immensely. I’m going to beat Gilmore’s face in so he can’t utter another bit of bullshit, and I’m going to shove the bat so far up Mr. Happy’s ass that when he walks around, he’ll have a bulge in the front and the back and will always seem...happy.
I’m going to Open Fight Night with one purpose in mind, and that’s to win; and not a freaky clown, or a wannabe political ass are going to stop me.
Things Just Got Serious - Part 4: Make It Quick...or Else
Last you saw I was being taken from my mother’s home in Bakersfield, California. I had a conversation with my abductor, and now we were back in NYC. It was time to supposedly face the music, despite the fact that I didn’t have a clue what the might enstore. I was dragged from the van of which I had slept in for the past couple days as we drove across the country. I was dragged down the alley I had walked up and down so many times before in the middle of the night, and was pushed through the back entrance, nearly stumbling down the stairs. ”Move punk.”
I continued down the hall until he stepped in front of me. ”It’s rude to not knock first.”
He knocked on the door a few times. ”Come in!”
The voice sent a cringe up my spine. I wasn’t necessarily afraid of Shane himself, after all, I did throw him through the window out into the club. I knew what he was mentally capable of though. I’ve seen him fuck with the minds of hundreds of people just to get back the money they owed him. I did worse. I physically put my hands on the man to the point where it seemed he wanted me dead. He turned and saw me being shoved into the room and in an instant, a toothy grin crossed his face. ”Well look who we have here. MR. BROOKS!”
He points in my direction. ”You know, I’ve been trying long and hard to try and find you. You’re a tough track, I will say that much.”
I sneered. ”I learned from the best, didn’t I?”
The smile quickly disappeared. ”You may have learned from the best, but you didn’t learn everything from me, and that’s why you're standing before me wondering what the hell I’m going to do to you.”
We all know me, and that’s why I had to keep up the cocky demeanor. ”That’s not exactly what I was thinking.”
”Oh? Do tell...what’s on your mind son.”
I looked over his shoulder at the repaired window. ”Well, I was thinking of the last time we were in this situation, and the last time you thought you had the upper hand...and how I broke that window with your body.”
He was infuriated to say the least. ”DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT’S ABOUT TO HAPPEN TO YOU!? I COULD HAVE YOU KILLED RIGHT HERE AND NOW!
”But you won’t. Because if you wanted me dead Shane...I wouldn’t be here and you and I both know that. So tell me, is it a trip to the box? Am I going to be tortured for my betrayal of the powerful kingpin? How about tying me up in an abandoned warehouse and beating the shit out of me because you’re too chicken shit to fight me like a man.”
He stomped forward grabbing me by the jaw. ”You punk piece of shit! You keep giving ideas, and perhaps we’ll just have to use them all...starting with you being left alone in the warehouse without a single damn idea what day it is, what’s going to happen next, or perhaps, we’ll have to bring your mother in for questioning.”
My eyes went wide and I wanted to throw him through that fucking window again. ”Touch her, and I’ll make sure you don’t survive.”
”Tough talk for a dumbass who’s about to be strung up.” He looked up at the men who escorted me in. ”Take him to the warehouse...I’ll deal with him when I see fit.”
They pulled at me, and though I tried to fight it, they dragged me to the door. We hit the threshold and I said something to get his attention. ”Shane?”
”Turn him around.”
They did as instructed, a smile back on my face. ”Make it fast...or you’ll regret it.”
”TAKE HIS ASS OUT OF HERE!”
They pulled me out of the room and threw me back into the SUV, pulling away as the scene fades.
Well howdy there pardner.