Post by Notorious B.O.B. on Feb 23, 2014 1:53:21 GMT
He’d had a week to think about things, seven days to either ‘get over it’ or ‘completely lose it’. If you asked him, he still wasn’t sure which of them he ended up choosing. The fact was, though, that he’d spent nearly every waking moment going over the whole scene in his head again; maybe there’d been something he’d missed – something that would make this whole pain in the ass situation make sense.
He’d left for the airport some three hours after the phone call, and arrived in Las Vegas about six hours before the start of the show. In his mind that was plenty of time; not for match preparations – but for getting some answers from Spike. They’d been on separate flights, Kane telling him to grab a cab at the airport and he’d meet him at the hotel. Pooler couldn’t believe how nervous he was as he rubbed his palms on the legs of his jeans.
It wasn’t a quick ride by any stretch of the imagination, but after tossing a fistful of bills to the cabbie, Pooler was breezing through the automatic doors of the hotel and making an immediate line for the bar. He’d gotten Spike to agree to meet him there, probably under the guise of planning.
At four o’clock in the afternoon there were only a handful of patrons, but his mark the most obvious. Spike was sitting alone at a table near the back, a half full glass of water in front of him and an extremely sour expression on his face. Pooler tried to contain the torrent of questions he wanted answered as he slid into a chair opposite his partner.
“Mike” he said with a nod. Kane said nothing but gave Pooler a curt nod in return before taking a sip from his glass. Pooler smoothed his hands back over his head before interlocking his fingers and turning his palms outward, cracking all eight in unison. Spike raised an eyebrow before stealing a glance at his watch. Obviously the time for small talk was over; now it was time for business.
“Listen dude, I gotta ask you a few questions …” he paused, as though expecting Spike to object, before continuing, “… about Lance.”
Either Spike Kane had a great poker face, or legitimately knew nothing. Pooler pressed on, undeterred. “Few weeks ago when you brought me in, there were four members of the Empire; now, there’s three.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but the understanding was there. Spike folded his hands together in front of himself and leaned forward.
“Is that it?” he asked with an even tone.
“You’re worried that you’ll be the ‘next Lance Ryan’? Come on Bob, you’ve more than proven yourself here. Guys like Ryan, like Gjen; they’re expendable and not worth the time and effort we put into them.”
Kane could tell from the expression on Pooler’s face that this, in fact, was not what he was worried about. Spike opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. His eyebrows furrowed as his expression became befuddled.
“So if that’s not what you’re worried about, what’s your deal?”
Pooler took a deep breath, “What can I get you sweetheart?”
Spike lifted up his nearly empty glass with a quick half-smile as Pooler slowly turned his head.
“Nothing, thank you”, he said with as much politeness as he could muster. The waitress took Kane’s glass and walked away, leaving Pooler to shake his head.
“Mike,” he began, “I really wanted to know …”
“did you want ice in this hun?” asked the returning waitress, the still unfilled glass in her hand. Spike shook his head and off she went again. Kane was doing his best to stifle the smile, seeing how annoyed this was making Pooler.
“Dude, out with it; you better hurry before she comes back too” he added with a smirk.
Pooler shook his head once more, his expression growing angrier. He made to slam his right hand on the table, instead driving his index finger into the thickly coated wax tabletop. “All I want to know is whether Ryan’s leaving had anything to do with me.”
Spike chuckled, “I guess it did in a way. I mean, you signing with IWF was probably the sign that I needed to cut the dead weight, ya know?”
“No, no, no …” Pooler stammered, “I mean, Ryan … was he … was …”
The question was on his lips, poised there and waiting to be asked. He opened his mouth, neither taking in or letting out any air. Spike leaned forward in his seat, his head cocked to the side and waiting for the question that seemed never to come.
“Never mind.”
Pooler rose quickly from the table, his chair skidding backwards into the empty table behind him. He brushed passed the waitress on her way back to the table with a full glass of water, which was now spilling out over the sides and down her apron. Without so much of a ‘sorry’, Pooler was making his way to the entryway to the bar when he heard Kane calling from behind him,
“Hey, get your head in the game man. I don’t want you focused on anything but this match tonight.”
And as Pooler stormed through the doorless entryway, one final thing caught his ear.
“Ortega and Laszlo are tonight – worry about this tomorrow!”
Tomorrow; sure, he’d just worry about this …
Silence, emptiness … nothingness; the feed is active but the screen is completely black. Whether stationary or moving, it’s impossible to tell, but then comes his voice. Soothing and smooth, the words are almost purred as he breaks through the stillness with a single phrase: ”In the beginning, there was darkness.”
The video is suddenly flushed with light, obscuring the image completely with the white-out. As the levels adjust, the lens focuses in on the smiling face staring down at it. ”And then God said, ‘where the hell is that light?’” he says with a snicker, raising the camera to a more level position with himself. ”Genesis, one … paraphrased a bit of course; but you understand what I’m getting at here, right?” The corners of his mouth turn down at the question, his eyes flicking from the camera lens to just beyond as he travels to a more familiar location that viewers have all come to know. The comfort of his home notwithstanding, this area of the dwelling doesn’t hold the same inviting feeling as the rest. The wooden table scarred and dotted with pockmarks from a lifetime of use, sits in the foreground as Pooler takes his usual seat at the head of the table. Behind him, the faded brick wall that stands silent and stoic, its weathered façade giving it the personality of a grizzled veteran who’s ‘been in the shit’.
With his fingers interlaced in front of him on the table, he leans forward with a smile on his face. ”This past week I stood alongside a man who many accuse of having a God complex.” He can’t contain the snicker that escapes, ”Spike Kane is many things; arrogant, spiteful, violent, single-minded, and definitely moody. Many would see these as detriments to his character, but many would also consider these examples … nay” he says, waving a finger in the air, ”proof of a God complex; but I see them simply as the endearing qualities that make him who he is.” It’s subtle and sly, but Pooler ends his statement with a small wink before quickly moving on.
”Last week was a moment that many have been waiting years to see; the night when Shinigami rode again; two of the apocalypses favorite horsemen doing battle against a sad excuse for a champion … and Davey Ortega to boot.” Pooler begins tracing along the grain in the table, watching his finger as it dances along the dark wood. ”I’ve got a bone to pick with the boys in the production truck about that match too. I watched the playback, I saw the way that you shot Spike and me; cute. You tried to put Laszlo over, tried to make it look like he was the one controlling that match; but we all know that it takes more than a few editing tricks to get over on us” he snorts, with a shake of his head. ”No, and you and our illustrious Imperial Champion got off easy, and Gib got himself in way over his big, bald head.”
Pooler reaches up, tussling his own hair and sending the wavy tendrils dancing backwards and behind his ears. ”The four of us are going to meet again Laszlo, bank on it. For now, though, my dance card is rather filled – alas, would you expect anything less from the man carrying this?” He reaches below the view of the table, extracting something and laying it on the table in front of himself. It’s large, silver faceplate reflected the overhead light fixture. ”Beautiful isn’t it?” Unable to take his eyes off the belt, Pooler runs a single finger along the leather that runs just behind the front plate. ”The Imperial Wrestling Federation’s Cruiserweight Championship title, the pinnacle of achievement for many of the biggest names in this company; take a gander at the list of men who have stood poised to hold the title but failed to ever do so:
Our reigning savior, Davey Ortega …”
Pooler begins counting them out tapping the fingers of his left hand as he goes
”former Man-of-Steel Champion, Killian Creed …
Rob Diamond, one of the best to walk these halls …
and …” he continues, a smile slowly spreading across his face as does, ”Roberto Verona.”
He leans back in his chair, adjusting himself as he leans on his right elbow, stroking his chin and almost giggling. ”Part of me should probably feel a little pissed off to see the man co-signing the paychecks vying for titles, but what would you expect from a guy who spent the better part of the last year of nCw’s existence trying to destroy the Fox family, only to turn around and kowtow to that little bitch.”
The expression on his face drops; his jaw clenching and unclenching, his eyebrows slowly knitting themselves. ”Roberto, dear Roberto; it’s been a long time for the both of us. Always at opposite ends of the spectrum, but always on a collision course for … “ he shrugs, ”for this” he says, indicating the Cruiserweight title, still laying on the table. ”While it might not be this exact title, it’s more the idea that you want, eh. This company, everything that you’ve built from the ground up to be everything that nCw wasn’t, in order to give it what Fox’s and Knite’s never could you had to give up control.” Smiling, his hand finds its way back to the title belt.
”It was your job, your single responsibility, to provide an environment for men and women to flourish. Instead, Roberto, you created an environment of corruption which bred nothing but contempt and half-truths. You cut corners, ‘berto … and this match is just a pathetic attempt at covering up the mess you’ve made.”
Clucking his tongue, he rolls his eyes at the camera, ”And what a bloody mess it’s become. A division that could have stood shoulders above the Heavyweight and Man-of-Steel divisions on sheer talent alone has become a joke. Two months ago I unseated the reigning King of Fools and have been fighting to bring legitimacy to this once proud division once more. I’ve had sixty days to undo the stigma that Gjenrei left on the title; a stench of complacency and failure.”
His index finger traces a course along the top of the title, memorizing every stitch, every bit of the character etched along the belt. ”Unlike past champions who looked at this title as little more than a means to another end. This title isn’t my ticket to a shot at the Man-of-Steel title; I’ve already shown I’m Laszlo’s superior. I have no interest in making a play for Ortega and the Imperial Championship. His tenure with that belt will be short indeed, but his departure won’t be at my hands.”
His fingernail picks, absentmindedly, at one of the decorative embellishments on the Championship. ”If more men held my view, we wouldn’t be in the predicament we’re in this week; surrounded by competitors who see this title as an inconsequential piece of a greater puzzle.”
”Gjen, you’ve already said on more than one occasion that this title means nothing to you. That was always apparent from your shoddy defense of it and apparent disregard for its history. This,” he taps the title, before resting his hand upon it, ”might be unimportant to you, but to me it means everything; which is exactly how I view each defense of it …
every
single
one.”
He pulls the belt a little closer to himself, his thumb stroking the nameplate. ”To the three of you, this belt is little more than a carrot to dangle in the faces of your enemies. Where’s the honor befitting a championship title in that?” He smirks, ”Honor …” he says with a gentle shake of his head, ”I thought about trying to do this thing without mentioning that again. Seems like that’s one of the only words that you seem to understand though Gjen; so let’s do this, eh?
A month ago we faced off, the pair of us talking about honor this, and justice that. In the end, it was all meaningless lip service and I heard it, read it and lived it for the past thirty days. There hasn’t been a week that’s gone by where I haven’t had to think about my words, the truth behind them, no matter if they were incorrect.
You aren’t a man without honor, but you stand to gain no more of it by degrading the honor of this title.
Keep your platitudes, keep your meaningless words spoken with a silver tongue; masked man, I’m done listening. At the end of the day … at the end of the night, the only thing that’ll matter will be this,” he renews stroking the championship, ”hanging there, lonely, above the ring. While the three of your fight over which of you deserve it more, I’ll be ascending that ladder knowing full well that it isn’t me who deserves the belt, it’s the belt that deserves me.
You know this most of all, Angel. Since the beginning of this long game I’ve been your chosen one; plucked out of obscurity and thrown into the fire. Did you know,” he asks, cocking his head to the side, ”back then … that I was the one who would bring the glory back to this title?
Years ago, a lifetime by our standards, you held a title similar to this … no, you did more than hold it” he smiles. ”You LIVED it. The X-Division title was synonymous the name Angel. It only made sense for you to be the man to oversee this division then, eh. But you couldn’t just oversee could you, Angel? No, because you saw what you had to work with. No matter how you tried, the defective clay in your hands refused to take shape the way you’d envisioned.
They were a motley crew with men like Bushido, Jones and Gjenrei being the ones that rose to the top but never truly fit your vision of what a Cruiserweight Champion should be.
Not until now.
While the others have been playacting, I’ve been living this. My career hasn’t always been pigeonholed into ‘divisions’ and ‘weight-classes’. I’ve held World titles and I’ve held Hardcore titles; my style is complex, it’s mish-mosh, hodge-podge and ever changing; but the one aspect that never changes … ever …
the possibilities that I bring to that ring.”
He looks up from the title, his eyes shaded behind the tendrils of hair as he peers out, a smile on his face. ”I bring endless possibilities, and with the title around my waist … the sky is the limit.
You’ve painted me into a corner this week, Angel; given me pieces to work with, but no instructions for how they fit together.
I have an owner who’d like nothing better than to win this title if only to lord it over you and the rest of us; a former champion who cares little for the title, and even less for its current holder. The how’s and why’s of his involvement in this match allude me, but the distraction that he brings is only exacerbated by … you.”
Staring straight into the lens, unblinking, Pooler’s tone lowers to nearly a whisper. ”The man who seeks to create a division in his likeness; to act as God. Your displeasure with the men in your division have placed you in a place where you’re able to act like a great flood, wiping the land clean of all those who didn’t fit the mold you created.
Except for me …
You’re own, hand picked Moses.
I’ll survive the flood; survive and prosper. This week, I’m not simply facing off against three competitors vying for my title; I’m fighting for the existence of the Cruiserweight belt within this company.
After this match, this title will no longer be looked at as a second string championship; I’m no ‘poor man’s Heavyweight champion’.
I’m willing to stand in the face of a God, a false idol and the unworthy, but the question remains …
When the Big Bad Wolf comes knocking, which of you will answer the door?”
He’d left for the airport some three hours after the phone call, and arrived in Las Vegas about six hours before the start of the show. In his mind that was plenty of time; not for match preparations – but for getting some answers from Spike. They’d been on separate flights, Kane telling him to grab a cab at the airport and he’d meet him at the hotel. Pooler couldn’t believe how nervous he was as he rubbed his palms on the legs of his jeans.
It wasn’t a quick ride by any stretch of the imagination, but after tossing a fistful of bills to the cabbie, Pooler was breezing through the automatic doors of the hotel and making an immediate line for the bar. He’d gotten Spike to agree to meet him there, probably under the guise of planning.
At four o’clock in the afternoon there were only a handful of patrons, but his mark the most obvious. Spike was sitting alone at a table near the back, a half full glass of water in front of him and an extremely sour expression on his face. Pooler tried to contain the torrent of questions he wanted answered as he slid into a chair opposite his partner.
“Mike” he said with a nod. Kane said nothing but gave Pooler a curt nod in return before taking a sip from his glass. Pooler smoothed his hands back over his head before interlocking his fingers and turning his palms outward, cracking all eight in unison. Spike raised an eyebrow before stealing a glance at his watch. Obviously the time for small talk was over; now it was time for business.
“Listen dude, I gotta ask you a few questions …” he paused, as though expecting Spike to object, before continuing, “… about Lance.”
Either Spike Kane had a great poker face, or legitimately knew nothing. Pooler pressed on, undeterred. “Few weeks ago when you brought me in, there were four members of the Empire; now, there’s three.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but the understanding was there. Spike folded his hands together in front of himself and leaned forward.
“Is that it?” he asked with an even tone.
“You’re worried that you’ll be the ‘next Lance Ryan’? Come on Bob, you’ve more than proven yourself here. Guys like Ryan, like Gjen; they’re expendable and not worth the time and effort we put into them.”
Kane could tell from the expression on Pooler’s face that this, in fact, was not what he was worried about. Spike opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. His eyebrows furrowed as his expression became befuddled.
“So if that’s not what you’re worried about, what’s your deal?”
Pooler took a deep breath, “What can I get you sweetheart?”
Spike lifted up his nearly empty glass with a quick half-smile as Pooler slowly turned his head.
“Nothing, thank you”, he said with as much politeness as he could muster. The waitress took Kane’s glass and walked away, leaving Pooler to shake his head.
“Mike,” he began, “I really wanted to know …”
“did you want ice in this hun?” asked the returning waitress, the still unfilled glass in her hand. Spike shook his head and off she went again. Kane was doing his best to stifle the smile, seeing how annoyed this was making Pooler.
“Dude, out with it; you better hurry before she comes back too” he added with a smirk.
Pooler shook his head once more, his expression growing angrier. He made to slam his right hand on the table, instead driving his index finger into the thickly coated wax tabletop. “All I want to know is whether Ryan’s leaving had anything to do with me.”
Spike chuckled, “I guess it did in a way. I mean, you signing with IWF was probably the sign that I needed to cut the dead weight, ya know?”
“No, no, no …” Pooler stammered, “I mean, Ryan … was he … was …”
The question was on his lips, poised there and waiting to be asked. He opened his mouth, neither taking in or letting out any air. Spike leaned forward in his seat, his head cocked to the side and waiting for the question that seemed never to come.
“Never mind.”
Pooler rose quickly from the table, his chair skidding backwards into the empty table behind him. He brushed passed the waitress on her way back to the table with a full glass of water, which was now spilling out over the sides and down her apron. Without so much of a ‘sorry’, Pooler was making his way to the entryway to the bar when he heard Kane calling from behind him,
“Hey, get your head in the game man. I don’t want you focused on anything but this match tonight.”
And as Pooler stormed through the doorless entryway, one final thing caught his ear.
“Ortega and Laszlo are tonight – worry about this tomorrow!”
Tomorrow; sure, he’d just worry about this …
tomorrow.
~~╅~~
Silence, emptiness … nothingness; the feed is active but the screen is completely black. Whether stationary or moving, it’s impossible to tell, but then comes his voice. Soothing and smooth, the words are almost purred as he breaks through the stillness with a single phrase: ”In the beginning, there was darkness.”
The video is suddenly flushed with light, obscuring the image completely with the white-out. As the levels adjust, the lens focuses in on the smiling face staring down at it. ”And then God said, ‘where the hell is that light?’” he says with a snicker, raising the camera to a more level position with himself. ”Genesis, one … paraphrased a bit of course; but you understand what I’m getting at here, right?” The corners of his mouth turn down at the question, his eyes flicking from the camera lens to just beyond as he travels to a more familiar location that viewers have all come to know. The comfort of his home notwithstanding, this area of the dwelling doesn’t hold the same inviting feeling as the rest. The wooden table scarred and dotted with pockmarks from a lifetime of use, sits in the foreground as Pooler takes his usual seat at the head of the table. Behind him, the faded brick wall that stands silent and stoic, its weathered façade giving it the personality of a grizzled veteran who’s ‘been in the shit’.
With his fingers interlaced in front of him on the table, he leans forward with a smile on his face. ”This past week I stood alongside a man who many accuse of having a God complex.” He can’t contain the snicker that escapes, ”Spike Kane is many things; arrogant, spiteful, violent, single-minded, and definitely moody. Many would see these as detriments to his character, but many would also consider these examples … nay” he says, waving a finger in the air, ”proof of a God complex; but I see them simply as the endearing qualities that make him who he is.” It’s subtle and sly, but Pooler ends his statement with a small wink before quickly moving on.
”Last week was a moment that many have been waiting years to see; the night when Shinigami rode again; two of the apocalypses favorite horsemen doing battle against a sad excuse for a champion … and Davey Ortega to boot.” Pooler begins tracing along the grain in the table, watching his finger as it dances along the dark wood. ”I’ve got a bone to pick with the boys in the production truck about that match too. I watched the playback, I saw the way that you shot Spike and me; cute. You tried to put Laszlo over, tried to make it look like he was the one controlling that match; but we all know that it takes more than a few editing tricks to get over on us” he snorts, with a shake of his head. ”No, and you and our illustrious Imperial Champion got off easy, and Gib got himself in way over his big, bald head.”
Pooler reaches up, tussling his own hair and sending the wavy tendrils dancing backwards and behind his ears. ”The four of us are going to meet again Laszlo, bank on it. For now, though, my dance card is rather filled – alas, would you expect anything less from the man carrying this?” He reaches below the view of the table, extracting something and laying it on the table in front of himself. It’s large, silver faceplate reflected the overhead light fixture. ”Beautiful isn’t it?” Unable to take his eyes off the belt, Pooler runs a single finger along the leather that runs just behind the front plate. ”The Imperial Wrestling Federation’s Cruiserweight Championship title, the pinnacle of achievement for many of the biggest names in this company; take a gander at the list of men who have stood poised to hold the title but failed to ever do so:
Our reigning savior, Davey Ortega …”
Pooler begins counting them out tapping the fingers of his left hand as he goes
”former Man-of-Steel Champion, Killian Creed …
Rob Diamond, one of the best to walk these halls …
and …” he continues, a smile slowly spreading across his face as does, ”Roberto Verona.”
He leans back in his chair, adjusting himself as he leans on his right elbow, stroking his chin and almost giggling. ”Part of me should probably feel a little pissed off to see the man co-signing the paychecks vying for titles, but what would you expect from a guy who spent the better part of the last year of nCw’s existence trying to destroy the Fox family, only to turn around and kowtow to that little bitch.”
The expression on his face drops; his jaw clenching and unclenching, his eyebrows slowly knitting themselves. ”Roberto, dear Roberto; it’s been a long time for the both of us. Always at opposite ends of the spectrum, but always on a collision course for … “ he shrugs, ”for this” he says, indicating the Cruiserweight title, still laying on the table. ”While it might not be this exact title, it’s more the idea that you want, eh. This company, everything that you’ve built from the ground up to be everything that nCw wasn’t, in order to give it what Fox’s and Knite’s never could you had to give up control.” Smiling, his hand finds its way back to the title belt.
”It was your job, your single responsibility, to provide an environment for men and women to flourish. Instead, Roberto, you created an environment of corruption which bred nothing but contempt and half-truths. You cut corners, ‘berto … and this match is just a pathetic attempt at covering up the mess you’ve made.”
Clucking his tongue, he rolls his eyes at the camera, ”And what a bloody mess it’s become. A division that could have stood shoulders above the Heavyweight and Man-of-Steel divisions on sheer talent alone has become a joke. Two months ago I unseated the reigning King of Fools and have been fighting to bring legitimacy to this once proud division once more. I’ve had sixty days to undo the stigma that Gjenrei left on the title; a stench of complacency and failure.”
His index finger traces a course along the top of the title, memorizing every stitch, every bit of the character etched along the belt. ”Unlike past champions who looked at this title as little more than a means to another end. This title isn’t my ticket to a shot at the Man-of-Steel title; I’ve already shown I’m Laszlo’s superior. I have no interest in making a play for Ortega and the Imperial Championship. His tenure with that belt will be short indeed, but his departure won’t be at my hands.”
His fingernail picks, absentmindedly, at one of the decorative embellishments on the Championship. ”If more men held my view, we wouldn’t be in the predicament we’re in this week; surrounded by competitors who see this title as an inconsequential piece of a greater puzzle.”
”Gjen, you’ve already said on more than one occasion that this title means nothing to you. That was always apparent from your shoddy defense of it and apparent disregard for its history. This,” he taps the title, before resting his hand upon it, ”might be unimportant to you, but to me it means everything; which is exactly how I view each defense of it …
every
single
one.”
He pulls the belt a little closer to himself, his thumb stroking the nameplate. ”To the three of you, this belt is little more than a carrot to dangle in the faces of your enemies. Where’s the honor befitting a championship title in that?” He smirks, ”Honor …” he says with a gentle shake of his head, ”I thought about trying to do this thing without mentioning that again. Seems like that’s one of the only words that you seem to understand though Gjen; so let’s do this, eh?
A month ago we faced off, the pair of us talking about honor this, and justice that. In the end, it was all meaningless lip service and I heard it, read it and lived it for the past thirty days. There hasn’t been a week that’s gone by where I haven’t had to think about my words, the truth behind them, no matter if they were incorrect.
You aren’t a man without honor, but you stand to gain no more of it by degrading the honor of this title.
Keep your platitudes, keep your meaningless words spoken with a silver tongue; masked man, I’m done listening. At the end of the day … at the end of the night, the only thing that’ll matter will be this,” he renews stroking the championship, ”hanging there, lonely, above the ring. While the three of your fight over which of you deserve it more, I’ll be ascending that ladder knowing full well that it isn’t me who deserves the belt, it’s the belt that deserves me.
You know this most of all, Angel. Since the beginning of this long game I’ve been your chosen one; plucked out of obscurity and thrown into the fire. Did you know,” he asks, cocking his head to the side, ”back then … that I was the one who would bring the glory back to this title?
Years ago, a lifetime by our standards, you held a title similar to this … no, you did more than hold it” he smiles. ”You LIVED it. The X-Division title was synonymous the name Angel. It only made sense for you to be the man to oversee this division then, eh. But you couldn’t just oversee could you, Angel? No, because you saw what you had to work with. No matter how you tried, the defective clay in your hands refused to take shape the way you’d envisioned.
They were a motley crew with men like Bushido, Jones and Gjenrei being the ones that rose to the top but never truly fit your vision of what a Cruiserweight Champion should be.
Not until now.
While the others have been playacting, I’ve been living this. My career hasn’t always been pigeonholed into ‘divisions’ and ‘weight-classes’. I’ve held World titles and I’ve held Hardcore titles; my style is complex, it’s mish-mosh, hodge-podge and ever changing; but the one aspect that never changes … ever …
the possibilities that I bring to that ring.”
He looks up from the title, his eyes shaded behind the tendrils of hair as he peers out, a smile on his face. ”I bring endless possibilities, and with the title around my waist … the sky is the limit.
You’ve painted me into a corner this week, Angel; given me pieces to work with, but no instructions for how they fit together.
I have an owner who’d like nothing better than to win this title if only to lord it over you and the rest of us; a former champion who cares little for the title, and even less for its current holder. The how’s and why’s of his involvement in this match allude me, but the distraction that he brings is only exacerbated by … you.”
Staring straight into the lens, unblinking, Pooler’s tone lowers to nearly a whisper. ”The man who seeks to create a division in his likeness; to act as God. Your displeasure with the men in your division have placed you in a place where you’re able to act like a great flood, wiping the land clean of all those who didn’t fit the mold you created.
Except for me …
You’re own, hand picked Moses.
I’ll survive the flood; survive and prosper. This week, I’m not simply facing off against three competitors vying for my title; I’m fighting for the existence of the Cruiserweight belt within this company.
After this match, this title will no longer be looked at as a second string championship; I’m no ‘poor man’s Heavyweight champion’.
I’m willing to stand in the face of a God, a false idol and the unworthy, but the question remains …
When the Big Bad Wolf comes knocking, which of you will answer the door?”
Well howdy there pardner.