Post by Bernard de Montfort on Aug 24, 2013 13:52:15 GMT
Poor Stephen.
His sister has left him.
His best friend has left him.
And now, even his dignity has deserted him.
A few folk have had the balls to tell me that last weekend left a sour taste in their mouths, thankfully their gustatory perception is of little concern to me, but there appears to be a consensus that me and Cyrus were… “wrong” to do what we did.
Really?
Oh my, it is apparent people still undervalue the worth of violence to make a statement. Just look at the morons slapping at their keyboards like obedient seals, pandering to the company’s tricks. Everybody was going mental over Verona laying out Everyman to close the show. Why? Because he made a statement through violence.
I swear some of you guys want this sport to be like ballet.
Nobody is talking about Bushido retaining his title, nobody is talking about Amber Richards walking out with the Ruby Championship, they’re all focused on the slimey Eurotrash and his colonial cohort, Roberto Verona and the two men and a demon baby. Is it fair? Perhaps not.
But violent acts makes the headlines, virtuous stories of humility and success through adversity makes trash like the X-Factor with some sort of uplifting pop track haphazardly slapped on it. Like it or not, there is a perverse fascination in why such atrocities are committed and a greater desire to unearth the motivations.
Me and Cyrus aren’t stupid, we knew precisely what the best way of sending a message to InFamous was.
Here’s a clue, it wasn’t a box of chocolates, a handshake and a bunch of flowers.
The fact that we just so happened to really enjoy ourselves in the process of making our intentions known was a happy coincidence. Beating the crocodile hunter out of a worthless Sheila should be an Australian past time.
In Cyrus I have found a likeminded partner to indulge in my passions; hurting people. You see, everyone is whispering about how we’re the next two men to be on the path to challenging the big boys of the tag team division and how we’re serious contender for the titles.
That isn’t our primary aim.
We want to hurt Rob Diamond and Spike Kane, not because we have to, but because we can do. If we earn some priceless trinkets as a result, even better. They can be our trophies, the precious artefacts of our euphoric chaos which we can always look at to evoke the precious memories of when we took two of the brightest stars in wrestling and left them laying in a heap.
But, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. There’s plenty more victims to go through before we get to everybody’s precious favourites.
Even if Daddy doesn’t want me breaking his toys.
Alpha and Omega, that’s a pretty cute name, how long did it take you boys to think of that one? Did you just flip through a high school science textbook and plump on the first page you landed on? Kudos on that one.
Perhaps I should be intimidated by facing a man the size of JackHammer who looks like a lumberjack who soaks himself in nuclear waste and Ken Davison who professes to possess the qualities of Zeus, Thor and Hades all rolled up into one neat little package. But I know how this business works. Nicknames like “Godly” are just playful little monikers designed to inspire some sort of aura or strike fear in an opponent but rarely do they reflect the man they are applied to.
There is nothing “Godly” about being at the bottom of the ladder in the tag team division. “Messiahs” rarely lead their disciples to the destruction they will face this weekend.
You’re fighting a man who has killed for a profession and another who wallowed in hell and loved every second of it. Cyrus Daniels is a ruthless son of a bitch who doesn’t possess a good bone in his entire body, all he cares about is pulling the metaphorical wings off of the flies which fester around the shit wishing they were butterflies.
We don’t need nicknames to prove a point.
We’re not here to prove our athletic prowess, we’re here to put chumps like you in the hospital. We don’t play fair, we don’t just do enough to win the match and we don’t have any remorse about the lengths we’ll go to prove a point.
We’re going to hurt you.
You’re just another opportunity to make a statement, two more bodies to throw on the fire. We’re not concerned with adding a numeral to our win column, we’re going out there to beat you senseless and give everybody an appetiser before the main course. When we’re through with you nobody will remember Alpha and Omega, they’ll just remember the two guys Cyrus Daniels and Bernard de Montfort put in a hearse just to say to the world…
We’re here.
There won’t be anybody brave enough to save their Messiah or their God.
Watch what happens when two sadists without a care form a union and set a collision course with your heroes.
His sister has left him.
His best friend has left him.
And now, even his dignity has deserted him.
A few folk have had the balls to tell me that last weekend left a sour taste in their mouths, thankfully their gustatory perception is of little concern to me, but there appears to be a consensus that me and Cyrus were… “wrong” to do what we did.
Really?
Oh my, it is apparent people still undervalue the worth of violence to make a statement. Just look at the morons slapping at their keyboards like obedient seals, pandering to the company’s tricks. Everybody was going mental over Verona laying out Everyman to close the show. Why? Because he made a statement through violence.
I swear some of you guys want this sport to be like ballet.
Nobody is talking about Bushido retaining his title, nobody is talking about Amber Richards walking out with the Ruby Championship, they’re all focused on the slimey Eurotrash and his colonial cohort, Roberto Verona and the two men and a demon baby. Is it fair? Perhaps not.
But violent acts makes the headlines, virtuous stories of humility and success through adversity makes trash like the X-Factor with some sort of uplifting pop track haphazardly slapped on it. Like it or not, there is a perverse fascination in why such atrocities are committed and a greater desire to unearth the motivations.
Me and Cyrus aren’t stupid, we knew precisely what the best way of sending a message to InFamous was.
Here’s a clue, it wasn’t a box of chocolates, a handshake and a bunch of flowers.
The fact that we just so happened to really enjoy ourselves in the process of making our intentions known was a happy coincidence. Beating the crocodile hunter out of a worthless Sheila should be an Australian past time.
In Cyrus I have found a likeminded partner to indulge in my passions; hurting people. You see, everyone is whispering about how we’re the next two men to be on the path to challenging the big boys of the tag team division and how we’re serious contender for the titles.
That isn’t our primary aim.
We want to hurt Rob Diamond and Spike Kane, not because we have to, but because we can do. If we earn some priceless trinkets as a result, even better. They can be our trophies, the precious artefacts of our euphoric chaos which we can always look at to evoke the precious memories of when we took two of the brightest stars in wrestling and left them laying in a heap.
But, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. There’s plenty more victims to go through before we get to everybody’s precious favourites.
Even if Daddy doesn’t want me breaking his toys.
Alpha and Omega, that’s a pretty cute name, how long did it take you boys to think of that one? Did you just flip through a high school science textbook and plump on the first page you landed on? Kudos on that one.
Perhaps I should be intimidated by facing a man the size of JackHammer who looks like a lumberjack who soaks himself in nuclear waste and Ken Davison who professes to possess the qualities of Zeus, Thor and Hades all rolled up into one neat little package. But I know how this business works. Nicknames like “Godly” are just playful little monikers designed to inspire some sort of aura or strike fear in an opponent but rarely do they reflect the man they are applied to.
There is nothing “Godly” about being at the bottom of the ladder in the tag team division. “Messiahs” rarely lead their disciples to the destruction they will face this weekend.
You’re fighting a man who has killed for a profession and another who wallowed in hell and loved every second of it. Cyrus Daniels is a ruthless son of a bitch who doesn’t possess a good bone in his entire body, all he cares about is pulling the metaphorical wings off of the flies which fester around the shit wishing they were butterflies.
We don’t need nicknames to prove a point.
We’re not here to prove our athletic prowess, we’re here to put chumps like you in the hospital. We don’t play fair, we don’t just do enough to win the match and we don’t have any remorse about the lengths we’ll go to prove a point.
We’re going to hurt you.
You’re just another opportunity to make a statement, two more bodies to throw on the fire. We’re not concerned with adding a numeral to our win column, we’re going out there to beat you senseless and give everybody an appetiser before the main course. When we’re through with you nobody will remember Alpha and Omega, they’ll just remember the two guys Cyrus Daniels and Bernard de Montfort put in a hearse just to say to the world…
We’re here.
There won’t be anybody brave enough to save their Messiah or their God.
Watch what happens when two sadists without a care form a union and set a collision course with your heroes.
“Did you have fun out there?”
“Whatever do you mean, father?”
“You know exactly what I mean Bernard.”
Bernard turns to walk away.
“Don’t you walk away from me, you’re suspended, what the hell are you doing here!?”
Bernard turns back around, smiling at his dad.
“Just having a little fun.”
“Fun!? You call beating a man senseless fun?”
“Perhaps if your security guards were more efficient then I wouldn’t have made it to the ring.”
“Don’t wise crack me boy.”
“I’m sorry, I must be forgetting myself, after all I need to work on being a role model, right father? My face doesn’t fit on the Coca Cola cups or the charity posters, how could I forget?”
“Are you still hung up on that?”
“Not at all. I mean being a war veteran is obviously not enough to earn the fans respect and get them behind me, I need to be clean shaven and squeaky clean like your last project.”
“That was business.”
“And thank the heavens that business has gone bust. I mean we wouldn’t want a man involved in a car crash under the influence representing us as champion. What would the world have been coming to?”
Simon sighs.
“Bernard, you have to stop making everything into a personal slight.”
“How else am I meant to interpret you pulling me from the company’s premier tournament on the basis that my image would bring the company into disrepute if I became champion?”
“Would you prefer that I lied to you? Would you like me to sugar coat it?”
“No, I want you to show me some God damn respect. I put my life on the line for your little war toys, all for our business and now I take some time away from being shot at by the Taliban to help you with your new venture and you bin me because I am not what you think a champion should be. Well you reap what you sow father, you didn’t want a violent sociopath as a champion and now you’ve got one.”
Simon’s eyebrows furrow as he begin to fill with rage.
“Get out of my building! If I see you around here again I’ll…”
“Ah, ah, ah, father, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”
“You’re suspended.”
“Yeah… about that, a little birdie re-instated me, seems like you forget this isn’t just your rodeo.”
“That bastard…”
“He’s just doing what’s right for business.”
Bernard winks before turning and walking away from Simon who curses under his breath before looking around at the backstage staff who try their best to avoid eye contact, well aware that their boss is looking for a fight.
Well howdy there pardner.