Post by Caleb Lockwood on Mar 25, 2019 2:06:51 GMT
The camera isn't being held by Caleb this time. Instead, it sits on a tripod at the front of a room, probably a storage room based on the shelving. Caleb, for his part, is pacing in front of the camera, his now-characteristic deranged smile on his face. "Oh, the Roulette. I made so many precious memories in this match last year. I got to be one of the last people to stomp on Spike Kane's head. I won my first championship on a national stage. I made the Blood God choke on his own hubris. Sure, I didn't win the match, but I won something far more precious." He shakes his head, looking up again. "But this year, this year we've got a completely different goal, don't we?"
He gestures with his hands as he talks, animated and slightly manic. "Because this year, it's not about kicking the Age of Gods in their collective dicks, because no matter what Handsy MacHypocrite and his face-painted hatrack might tell ya, the Age of Gods are DEAD! I watched it happen with my own two eyes! Don't try to tell me otherwise, motherfuckers! God is dead, and I held the camera that watched it all happen! Nah nah, this year isn't just about taking from people that don't deserve nice things in life. This year is about making sure the Pack holds onto the biggest prize in the company, and that means taking advantage of numbers."
"But Caleb, I hear you say," Caleb says to no one, who are saying nothing, "there are twenty-seven non-Pack participants in the Roulette! How, HOW is that taking advantage of numbers?!" Caleb shakes his head, chuckling. "BeCAUSE, you addled morons—speaking of, Adel Travent, I'm looking forward to taking your smug waxed-mustache face off once Warren's done with you—none of THEM can keep their shit together long enough to bring any of those numbers to bear. Oh, sure, there's Infamous. There's Team Diversity Hire. But Nate Harris is starting this shindig off, and Rob Diamond's right behind him, probably leering like the pent-up closet case we all know he is. They'll never last until Pax and Jimmy get involved. We've got the numbers on our side here. Father Time is undefeated, boys, and Father Time bows to the Abyss."
Caleb walks over to one of the shelves, picking up a rusted screwdriver, and begins spinning it in one of his hands, watching it flip between digits with an almost enraptured expression as he continues to speak. "It's my job to make you chucklefucks bleed for every inch you get. I make no bones about it, I'm the smallest man in this match. Odds are, someone's going to put me on my ass at some point. But I will make you believe you've been in there with a man twice my size. Cyrus Daniels? Oh, I hope, I HOPE that big bogan bastard is still in it when I get there. I love breaking giants, and he's just begging to be broken, ridden hard, and put away wet. Does that line belong in one of Dean's promos more than one of mine?" Caleb shrugs, cackling. "My promo, my words, who's gonna stop me?" He points the screwdriver at the camera, shifting it slightly with each word. "You? You? Maybe you? How about you in the back, eating a French dip and making an absolute slob of yourself? You gonna be the one to tell me how to live my life? You can't even live your own life, you human catastrophe. Have some pride."
He throws the screwdriver up in the air, catching it with a smile. "I mean, I could go anywhere from the idea of human catastrophes. There's the Infamous nostalgia tour, here to get Steve Awesome money for the inevitable alimony checks and to keep Jimmy Gilmore's Make-a-Wish going. There's the fact that Todd goddamn Williams—TODD MOTHERFUCKING WILLIAMS IN THE YEAR OF DEAN HARPER TWO THOUSAND AND NINETEEN—is getting a chance to MAIN-EVENT THE BIGGEST SHOW OF THE CALENDAR YEAR! How is that even possible?! I thought he was dead!" Caleb throws his hands up, shaking as he paces in a circle. "I just...I don't get it. Even in a world as capricious and confusing as ours, some things have to make sense, and that, THAT makes zero goddamn sense. It's like feeding someone a veggie burger and expecting it to taste the same as a proper damn burger. You can offer the alternative, but don't tell me it's my first fucking choice."
Caleb paces back to the wall, drumming the screwdriver against the concrete. "My brothers have my back, and I have theirs. Together, we're stronger than any of you bastards. Uriel Black, you wanna come for Dean again? You wanna start a riot? You'd better pray that King gets to you before I do, because I still owe you that receipt for all the hell you put him through last year. I mean, I look at some of these names, and I'm just amazed by the charity of IWF. Well, that and the fact that once again, Rob Diamond has blown his way into two entries in the Roulette. What happens if, by some miracle, he's still in the match and number 26 rolls around? Does he need to eliminate himself to come in as Lord Dominicus? Do we need to eliminate him twice for it to count? I'm really curious, this opens up a lot of rules questions that I think the IWF Rules Committee haven't really addressed." Caleb sighs, shaking his head. "Really makes you long for the days of James Michael Nash, doesn't it?"
He chuckles, standing up and tossing the screwdriver in the air again only to slap it to the side, where it hurtles into one of the shelves with a loud clang. "Crucible time, boys. The Roulette chews you up and spits you out. What're you going to be at the end? Tougher? Stronger? Or are you just going to be a pile of dried-out gristle, wrung of all the flavor and left to mold? Looking at this field...God, I'm pretty sure I know the answer. But I'm looking forward to watching you all prove it for me, like the pile of babbling morons you are." He sighs, shaking his head. "Well, and Pax. No matter how much that kid hates me, I can't hate him. Good on ya, Pax. Keep on keepin' on. And, well..." Caleb takes on a serious expression, tapping his chest with his fist twice before flashing a peace sign. "I'm sorry for your loss. Losing your only family...let's just say I've been there. See ya soon, kids." We fade out on Caleb's unusually somber expression.
He gestures with his hands as he talks, animated and slightly manic. "Because this year, it's not about kicking the Age of Gods in their collective dicks, because no matter what Handsy MacHypocrite and his face-painted hatrack might tell ya, the Age of Gods are DEAD! I watched it happen with my own two eyes! Don't try to tell me otherwise, motherfuckers! God is dead, and I held the camera that watched it all happen! Nah nah, this year isn't just about taking from people that don't deserve nice things in life. This year is about making sure the Pack holds onto the biggest prize in the company, and that means taking advantage of numbers."
"But Caleb, I hear you say," Caleb says to no one, who are saying nothing, "there are twenty-seven non-Pack participants in the Roulette! How, HOW is that taking advantage of numbers?!" Caleb shakes his head, chuckling. "BeCAUSE, you addled morons—speaking of, Adel Travent, I'm looking forward to taking your smug waxed-mustache face off once Warren's done with you—none of THEM can keep their shit together long enough to bring any of those numbers to bear. Oh, sure, there's Infamous. There's Team Diversity Hire. But Nate Harris is starting this shindig off, and Rob Diamond's right behind him, probably leering like the pent-up closet case we all know he is. They'll never last until Pax and Jimmy get involved. We've got the numbers on our side here. Father Time is undefeated, boys, and Father Time bows to the Abyss."
Caleb walks over to one of the shelves, picking up a rusted screwdriver, and begins spinning it in one of his hands, watching it flip between digits with an almost enraptured expression as he continues to speak. "It's my job to make you chucklefucks bleed for every inch you get. I make no bones about it, I'm the smallest man in this match. Odds are, someone's going to put me on my ass at some point. But I will make you believe you've been in there with a man twice my size. Cyrus Daniels? Oh, I hope, I HOPE that big bogan bastard is still in it when I get there. I love breaking giants, and he's just begging to be broken, ridden hard, and put away wet. Does that line belong in one of Dean's promos more than one of mine?" Caleb shrugs, cackling. "My promo, my words, who's gonna stop me?" He points the screwdriver at the camera, shifting it slightly with each word. "You? You? Maybe you? How about you in the back, eating a French dip and making an absolute slob of yourself? You gonna be the one to tell me how to live my life? You can't even live your own life, you human catastrophe. Have some pride."
He throws the screwdriver up in the air, catching it with a smile. "I mean, I could go anywhere from the idea of human catastrophes. There's the Infamous nostalgia tour, here to get Steve Awesome money for the inevitable alimony checks and to keep Jimmy Gilmore's Make-a-Wish going. There's the fact that Todd goddamn Williams—TODD MOTHERFUCKING WILLIAMS IN THE YEAR OF DEAN HARPER TWO THOUSAND AND NINETEEN—is getting a chance to MAIN-EVENT THE BIGGEST SHOW OF THE CALENDAR YEAR! How is that even possible?! I thought he was dead!" Caleb throws his hands up, shaking as he paces in a circle. "I just...I don't get it. Even in a world as capricious and confusing as ours, some things have to make sense, and that, THAT makes zero goddamn sense. It's like feeding someone a veggie burger and expecting it to taste the same as a proper damn burger. You can offer the alternative, but don't tell me it's my first fucking choice."
Caleb paces back to the wall, drumming the screwdriver against the concrete. "My brothers have my back, and I have theirs. Together, we're stronger than any of you bastards. Uriel Black, you wanna come for Dean again? You wanna start a riot? You'd better pray that King gets to you before I do, because I still owe you that receipt for all the hell you put him through last year. I mean, I look at some of these names, and I'm just amazed by the charity of IWF. Well, that and the fact that once again, Rob Diamond has blown his way into two entries in the Roulette. What happens if, by some miracle, he's still in the match and number 26 rolls around? Does he need to eliminate himself to come in as Lord Dominicus? Do we need to eliminate him twice for it to count? I'm really curious, this opens up a lot of rules questions that I think the IWF Rules Committee haven't really addressed." Caleb sighs, shaking his head. "Really makes you long for the days of James Michael Nash, doesn't it?"
He chuckles, standing up and tossing the screwdriver in the air again only to slap it to the side, where it hurtles into one of the shelves with a loud clang. "Crucible time, boys. The Roulette chews you up and spits you out. What're you going to be at the end? Tougher? Stronger? Or are you just going to be a pile of dried-out gristle, wrung of all the flavor and left to mold? Looking at this field...God, I'm pretty sure I know the answer. But I'm looking forward to watching you all prove it for me, like the pile of babbling morons you are." He sighs, shaking his head. "Well, and Pax. No matter how much that kid hates me, I can't hate him. Good on ya, Pax. Keep on keepin' on. And, well..." Caleb takes on a serious expression, tapping his chest with his fist twice before flashing a peace sign. "I'm sorry for your loss. Losing your only family...let's just say I've been there. See ya soon, kids." We fade out on Caleb's unusually somber expression.
Well howdy there pardner.