Post by Derek Brooks on Aug 14, 2017 4:26:19 GMT
It’s time for that moment in life where you read, or hear words and you can’t help but stick that hand down your pants and massage your nether region because you simply can’t contain your excitement. It’s a moment where you realize that James Gilmore was run against in a political fashion, then slapped about inside the IWF Ring, and each and every one of you, yes, including that fat hermy over there, loved every bit of it. Again...that whole body shaming thing...I’ll get a handle on that at some point...I promise...maybe.
That said, the “Man Destined for Greatness” is at it again. He’s again behind a podium, and if last week was any sort of indication, we’re in for some fireworks.
Ladies and gentlemen of the free press, and yes, in this great nation I do mean free.
He’s cut off by a reporter.
”Sir, you are in Russia.”
Shit...I mean...in this nation where everything you say is censored by a dictative piece of Siberian Trash, I don’t give a monkey’s left or right testicle, I will say and do whatever the hell I damn well please, and if Putin has a problem with it, I’ll take a missile from North Korea and stick it so far up his ass, his breath will be nuclear.
That said, let’s get to it shall we?
Last week, I ran against James Gilmore in both a political and ass-whipping fashion and I loved smacking the Republican Prick right out of him. I love the fact that I allegedly had some relations with his advocate, and I can confirm that NO I did not contract a sexually transmitted disease.
There’s a bit of laughter in the room.
What I didn’t appreciate was some big, dumb bastard attacking me in the middle of my Gilmore ass kicking. So listen to me you cross between the dumbass from Rocky who killed Apollo Creed and a Yeti, you get in my business again, and I’ll make sure Gilmore’s teeth have to be removed from your ass, and your testicles removed from your mouth. You get involved in my business and I’ll treat you like in the same manner I’ll treat Putin.
He slams his hands on the podium in front of him.
But God damn it, all that bullshit aside, we’re here to talk about my match this week against a guy who can’t bother to talk about his opponents, or to them, or anyone in the organization for that matter, the man who does his best Kyrie Irving during the NBA Playoffs imitation of silence, Dre Cutler, and some superior football Mom haircut having wannabe revolutionary in the form of a punk ass bitch who got crucified by Spike Kane, Xavier Cross.
As a matter of fact, that’s who I’m going to start with, because at least he had the balls to open his mouth this week.
He shrugs his shoulders.
Granted he did so for a transvestite Russian hooker in a leather skirt to teabag him, but nonetheless, Xavier Cross opened his mouth and out came so much crap, you’d think we’re on the farm out in the middle of nowhere in Russia with a bunch of fucking cows, who oddly enough resemble James Gilmore.
He focuses on the task at hand.
Yes, Xavier Cross, you and your goons took down the Mount Rushmore of Wrestling at Lineage. You went out there and you went toe to toe with the best this company had to offer and when it came time to show you were big bad men, when it came time to show that your revolution had a purpose, you got bailed out by Roberto Verona.
He nods.
Now a win is a win is a win in the damn record books, but everyone who watched that broadcast knows that you’re nothing more than a group of fraudulent pieces of shit. So in essence, you fit well here in Russia with their leader, Sir SucksALot. You spread your bullshit. You beat your chest, and you sing your songs praising yourselves no matter what city, country, or continent we’re on and you expect the world to buy every single word of it...and they say Gilmore’s the politician?
Listen Cross, you can talk all you want. You can tell the world what you think they want to hear, but the message you’re delivering and the one the people of this world are receiving are two entirely different things.
You think they’re buying you merchandise to support the cause...they’re actually using it to wipe their asses.
You think they’re cheering you on in that deluded little mind of yours. What they’re really doing is hoping that somewhere along the line here, you get punched in the mouth so hard that your jaw needs to be wired shut and they don’t have to hear from you for the next six months if they’re lucky.
You preach anarchy, you praise chaos, and you pretend to be the representative of both. Instead, you should preach wearing your seatbelt, you should praise anti-bullying campaigns, and pretend to be the representative of your nearest elementary school PTA. You can drive a mini-van and carpool with the neighbors and all of that other crap. You can drop little Sandman off at daycare and hope that maybe they teach him some lessons of self-control. You can even shove Little Prick Kaos in too, maybe get a two for one special. You can send Ulf into a high school Sex-Ed Class and teach him how to act around women...even if they are big, ripped amazons like Astrid, or cheap contact wearing whores like Rowan...dude needs to know how to act around those who possess lady parts.
Then you can drag Rowan, kicking and screaming to the local AA Meeting so she can learn some self-control over her drunken rage, because let’s face it, to think you’re demonically possessed and blame all the problems in your life on that crap pretty much makes you appear to the rest of the world as a belligerent drunk fool.
Basically, what I’m saying is, leave the kids behind, bring your bitch ass to the ring, and maybe I’ll smack some style and sense into your head, because as of late...that just seems to be what I do. This is the true revolution Xavier, not against peace and order, but against the severe amount of ignorance that plagues this planet from one corner of the globe to another. It’s a disease of which only I can rid you of, and one that you and your group are heavily infected with. Let me save you Xavier. Let me lead you to the promised land, and I promise you...you’ll be all the better for it.
He goes to walk away but jumps back behind the podium.
I almost forgot...we should have a moment of silence for the career of Dre Cutler...because let’s face it...he has one for himself each week. Dre, you had skill, you had it all, and you were rising to the top of the ranks here in the IWF faster than Gilmore or his hoodrat could say the words “Great Again”, and then just like that, it all went away. You disappeared, and when you came back, you thought you were going to be all the rage. You thought you were going to waltz back in here and take up right where you left off, only to find out things have changed. Things in this line of work have gotten a bit harder, and now you truly have found yourself starting all over again in the Heir to the Throne, just like last year.
Last year, you made something of yourself. You proved to the masses that you could have been the next big things.
This year, much like your career, has gone to shit.
I’ll see you and the superior football mom at Sacrifice, and I can’t wait to kick both of your asses all the way to Siberia.
The flashbulbs go off, and your ribs finally stop hurting from all the laughter as Derek leaves the podium and the scene as a whole fades to dark.
THINGS JUST GOT SERIOUS: PART 8 - I CARE NOT FOR THE MESSENGER
Last you saw, the crew and I were devising a plan for the sabotage of one of Shane’s shakedown schemes. The next target was a construction yard/scrapyard. After some persuasion of the non-physical variety, and a bit of convincing, along with my all too charming smile, we managed to get them on board with our plan. They allowed us to scout the yard and find the best places to hide, and also only allowed one way in or out of the compound. This was the beginning of a revolution against one of the biggest, and baddest dudes in the city of New York. It was time to show him what “The Hard Way” really was, and it all started with some mind games.
The group had met in front of the compound, and we had a lookout in the building across the street, staring down at the sidewalk. The rest of us hid in groups of two at certain points of the compound, and we waited for the signal from our lookout. We waited patiently and then got the radio call. ”A couple of SUV’s just pulled up to the front gate.”
I gave some hand signals and the group followed suit before I radioed out further instruction. ”Alright, you know what to do. Get down here once they enter the compound and close the gate. I don’t want them to have anywhere to go once they’re inside. The rest of you, slowly move in behind them the further in they get. I want them surrounded.”
I got the good old “10-4” from the group as we heard the doors of the SUV shut. We went to radio silence and the plan was a go, full steam ahead. I watched from my vantage point in the crane operating station with a set of binoculars as eight men entered the compound. I waited for them to get far enough in before moving toward the first group of my guys. They too moved in, as did another group, hiding behind mounds of scrapped metal as Shane’s group continued toward the trailer where the construction owners were waiting for them. One by one we all moved in as they got to the trailer and walked inside, two men standing guard outside the door while the other six went in. ”Two guys at the door. Groups five and six, rush around the trailer and take them out as quick as possible.”
The rest of us watched as two groups of three appeared around the side’s of the trailer, bum rushing the two at the door and taking them out with relative ease. They dragged their limp bodies toward a storage container and locked them inside. ”Good! Now everyone approach the trailer, ready to go. We’re going to rush in and take out the rest.”
We all headed toward the trailer. The owner of the construction yard pulled his shades down prior, allowing us the element of surprise. We all got to the front door and I stood behind it. I gave the signals and pulled the door open, our group of thirteen easily overcoming the six in the trailer. A fight ensued and it ended with me throwing one of the men out the front door, landing hard on the gravel below. I turned toward the rest of my group. ”Bret...with me. The rest...lock them up with the other two.”
Everyone did as told, and I jumped from the steps and planted a kick into the side of the guy’s ribs causing him extreme pain, and yet, I couldn’t care. I lifted him up and slammed him into the side of the trailer. ”Listen to me you sum bitch. I’m going to give you a message. You’re going to send that message to Shane, and you’re going to do it empty handed.”
”I can’t. If I show up empty handed he’ll…”
”Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t care. Tell him that THIS is “The Hard Way”. We’ll screw up every single one of his operations, he won’t get any protection money, and he knows as well as I do...no money, is bad for business. Tell him that if he has a problem with that, he can call this number.”
I shove a piece of paper in the guy’s pocket before punching him right across the face, knocking him out cold. I had a few of my guys carry him to the car, placing him across the backseat. They were to drive the SUV’s back to Shane’s club, leave the message and messenger in the back alley, with the SUV’s and return to my place for further instructions. They placed him in the car and I gave the signal for disbandment. Everyone went on their way, and Bret and I were left in a car alone, driving away from the scene.”I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
I nodded and with a smile said, ”Believe it brother. We aren’t taking this crap anymore. It’s time that someone struck back...why not us?”
We drove from the scene and that’s where we leave off this time around.
That said, the “Man Destined for Greatness” is at it again. He’s again behind a podium, and if last week was any sort of indication, we’re in for some fireworks.
Ladies and gentlemen of the free press, and yes, in this great nation I do mean free.
He’s cut off by a reporter.
”Sir, you are in Russia.”
Shit...I mean...in this nation where everything you say is censored by a dictative piece of Siberian Trash, I don’t give a monkey’s left or right testicle, I will say and do whatever the hell I damn well please, and if Putin has a problem with it, I’ll take a missile from North Korea and stick it so far up his ass, his breath will be nuclear.
That said, let’s get to it shall we?
Last week, I ran against James Gilmore in both a political and ass-whipping fashion and I loved smacking the Republican Prick right out of him. I love the fact that I allegedly had some relations with his advocate, and I can confirm that NO I did not contract a sexually transmitted disease.
There’s a bit of laughter in the room.
What I didn’t appreciate was some big, dumb bastard attacking me in the middle of my Gilmore ass kicking. So listen to me you cross between the dumbass from Rocky who killed Apollo Creed and a Yeti, you get in my business again, and I’ll make sure Gilmore’s teeth have to be removed from your ass, and your testicles removed from your mouth. You get involved in my business and I’ll treat you like in the same manner I’ll treat Putin.
He slams his hands on the podium in front of him.
But God damn it, all that bullshit aside, we’re here to talk about my match this week against a guy who can’t bother to talk about his opponents, or to them, or anyone in the organization for that matter, the man who does his best Kyrie Irving during the NBA Playoffs imitation of silence, Dre Cutler, and some superior football Mom haircut having wannabe revolutionary in the form of a punk ass bitch who got crucified by Spike Kane, Xavier Cross.
As a matter of fact, that’s who I’m going to start with, because at least he had the balls to open his mouth this week.
He shrugs his shoulders.
Granted he did so for a transvestite Russian hooker in a leather skirt to teabag him, but nonetheless, Xavier Cross opened his mouth and out came so much crap, you’d think we’re on the farm out in the middle of nowhere in Russia with a bunch of fucking cows, who oddly enough resemble James Gilmore.
He focuses on the task at hand.
Yes, Xavier Cross, you and your goons took down the Mount Rushmore of Wrestling at Lineage. You went out there and you went toe to toe with the best this company had to offer and when it came time to show you were big bad men, when it came time to show that your revolution had a purpose, you got bailed out by Roberto Verona.
He nods.
Now a win is a win is a win in the damn record books, but everyone who watched that broadcast knows that you’re nothing more than a group of fraudulent pieces of shit. So in essence, you fit well here in Russia with their leader, Sir SucksALot. You spread your bullshit. You beat your chest, and you sing your songs praising yourselves no matter what city, country, or continent we’re on and you expect the world to buy every single word of it...and they say Gilmore’s the politician?
Listen Cross, you can talk all you want. You can tell the world what you think they want to hear, but the message you’re delivering and the one the people of this world are receiving are two entirely different things.
You think they’re buying you merchandise to support the cause...they’re actually using it to wipe their asses.
You think they’re cheering you on in that deluded little mind of yours. What they’re really doing is hoping that somewhere along the line here, you get punched in the mouth so hard that your jaw needs to be wired shut and they don’t have to hear from you for the next six months if they’re lucky.
You preach anarchy, you praise chaos, and you pretend to be the representative of both. Instead, you should preach wearing your seatbelt, you should praise anti-bullying campaigns, and pretend to be the representative of your nearest elementary school PTA. You can drive a mini-van and carpool with the neighbors and all of that other crap. You can drop little Sandman off at daycare and hope that maybe they teach him some lessons of self-control. You can even shove Little Prick Kaos in too, maybe get a two for one special. You can send Ulf into a high school Sex-Ed Class and teach him how to act around women...even if they are big, ripped amazons like Astrid, or cheap contact wearing whores like Rowan...dude needs to know how to act around those who possess lady parts.
Then you can drag Rowan, kicking and screaming to the local AA Meeting so she can learn some self-control over her drunken rage, because let’s face it, to think you’re demonically possessed and blame all the problems in your life on that crap pretty much makes you appear to the rest of the world as a belligerent drunk fool.
Basically, what I’m saying is, leave the kids behind, bring your bitch ass to the ring, and maybe I’ll smack some style and sense into your head, because as of late...that just seems to be what I do. This is the true revolution Xavier, not against peace and order, but against the severe amount of ignorance that plagues this planet from one corner of the globe to another. It’s a disease of which only I can rid you of, and one that you and your group are heavily infected with. Let me save you Xavier. Let me lead you to the promised land, and I promise you...you’ll be all the better for it.
He goes to walk away but jumps back behind the podium.
I almost forgot...we should have a moment of silence for the career of Dre Cutler...because let’s face it...he has one for himself each week. Dre, you had skill, you had it all, and you were rising to the top of the ranks here in the IWF faster than Gilmore or his hoodrat could say the words “Great Again”, and then just like that, it all went away. You disappeared, and when you came back, you thought you were going to be all the rage. You thought you were going to waltz back in here and take up right where you left off, only to find out things have changed. Things in this line of work have gotten a bit harder, and now you truly have found yourself starting all over again in the Heir to the Throne, just like last year.
Last year, you made something of yourself. You proved to the masses that you could have been the next big things.
This year, much like your career, has gone to shit.
I’ll see you and the superior football mom at Sacrifice, and I can’t wait to kick both of your asses all the way to Siberia.
The flashbulbs go off, and your ribs finally stop hurting from all the laughter as Derek leaves the podium and the scene as a whole fades to dark.
THINGS JUST GOT SERIOUS: PART 8 - I CARE NOT FOR THE MESSENGER
Last you saw, the crew and I were devising a plan for the sabotage of one of Shane’s shakedown schemes. The next target was a construction yard/scrapyard. After some persuasion of the non-physical variety, and a bit of convincing, along with my all too charming smile, we managed to get them on board with our plan. They allowed us to scout the yard and find the best places to hide, and also only allowed one way in or out of the compound. This was the beginning of a revolution against one of the biggest, and baddest dudes in the city of New York. It was time to show him what “The Hard Way” really was, and it all started with some mind games.
The group had met in front of the compound, and we had a lookout in the building across the street, staring down at the sidewalk. The rest of us hid in groups of two at certain points of the compound, and we waited for the signal from our lookout. We waited patiently and then got the radio call. ”A couple of SUV’s just pulled up to the front gate.”
I gave some hand signals and the group followed suit before I radioed out further instruction. ”Alright, you know what to do. Get down here once they enter the compound and close the gate. I don’t want them to have anywhere to go once they’re inside. The rest of you, slowly move in behind them the further in they get. I want them surrounded.”
I got the good old “10-4” from the group as we heard the doors of the SUV shut. We went to radio silence and the plan was a go, full steam ahead. I watched from my vantage point in the crane operating station with a set of binoculars as eight men entered the compound. I waited for them to get far enough in before moving toward the first group of my guys. They too moved in, as did another group, hiding behind mounds of scrapped metal as Shane’s group continued toward the trailer where the construction owners were waiting for them. One by one we all moved in as they got to the trailer and walked inside, two men standing guard outside the door while the other six went in. ”Two guys at the door. Groups five and six, rush around the trailer and take them out as quick as possible.”
The rest of us watched as two groups of three appeared around the side’s of the trailer, bum rushing the two at the door and taking them out with relative ease. They dragged their limp bodies toward a storage container and locked them inside. ”Good! Now everyone approach the trailer, ready to go. We’re going to rush in and take out the rest.”
We all headed toward the trailer. The owner of the construction yard pulled his shades down prior, allowing us the element of surprise. We all got to the front door and I stood behind it. I gave the signals and pulled the door open, our group of thirteen easily overcoming the six in the trailer. A fight ensued and it ended with me throwing one of the men out the front door, landing hard on the gravel below. I turned toward the rest of my group. ”Bret...with me. The rest...lock them up with the other two.”
Everyone did as told, and I jumped from the steps and planted a kick into the side of the guy’s ribs causing him extreme pain, and yet, I couldn’t care. I lifted him up and slammed him into the side of the trailer. ”Listen to me you sum bitch. I’m going to give you a message. You’re going to send that message to Shane, and you’re going to do it empty handed.”
”I can’t. If I show up empty handed he’ll…”
”Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t care. Tell him that THIS is “The Hard Way”. We’ll screw up every single one of his operations, he won’t get any protection money, and he knows as well as I do...no money, is bad for business. Tell him that if he has a problem with that, he can call this number.”
I shove a piece of paper in the guy’s pocket before punching him right across the face, knocking him out cold. I had a few of my guys carry him to the car, placing him across the backseat. They were to drive the SUV’s back to Shane’s club, leave the message and messenger in the back alley, with the SUV’s and return to my place for further instructions. They placed him in the car and I gave the signal for disbandment. Everyone went on their way, and Bret and I were left in a car alone, driving away from the scene.”I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
I nodded and with a smile said, ”Believe it brother. We aren’t taking this crap anymore. It’s time that someone struck back...why not us?”
We drove from the scene and that’s where we leave off this time around.
Well howdy there pardner.