Post by Dre Cutler on Feb 22, 2015 7:59:34 GMT
Here we go again -- The Brothers Black versus Scars and Stripes. The winners leave with the IWF Tag Team championships. The losers leave with faltered spirits and broken bones via the horrendous fall from the scaffolding. It's easy to say there is clearly a lot on the line going into this contest, isn't there?
Eddie, Frank, first of all, you're welcome. You both needed us to give you this match. It had to happen, or the two of you would be out on your asses quicker than either one of you can learn what comes after "A" in the alphabet. You know I'm right, Angel embarrassed the two of you, he made an example out of you both. And if we refused to give you this chance, he'd of taken everything away.
That, gentlemen, is what happens when you sell your soul to the devil.
So, in frantic panic, you guys resorted to the only thing either of you know: violence. You tried to prod us like cattle, poking and irritating us to the point where we would want revenge. See, we're men of honor, instead of attacking the two of you like you guys did to us, we'd want to settle things in the confines of a match. Surprisingly, you two were smart enough to realize that.
Kudos to you both.
Well, here it is. Your last chance. Your last opportunity.
Quite frankly, I think there are much more deserving individuals than the two of you. You two are the biggest cowards I have ever come across in my entire life. You only run your mouths when you find yourself at a distance. You only move in for the attacks when your opponent's have their backs turned. You ran into Scars and Stripes head on at Metamorphosis and you two were unable to get the job done.
What makes you think this time is going to be any different?
Your time in the IWF is near its end, fellas. Whether it's because Angel finally rids himself of the deadweight, or the powers that be in this company finally come to their senses and terminate your contracts.
You're both just a waste of payroll anyway.
You two think you're players in this company. You believe that sense Angel allows you to wipe his ass for him, that you two are actually relevant. No one fears you. No one respects you. The tag team division didn't die because the two of you dismantled all of the competition, it deteriorated because no one wanted the face the two of you due to your tendency to drool and forget how to alternate between your left and right legs when trying to walk.
I hope you two understand what you're getting in to this week. See, the attack a couple of weeks ago got the end result you both desired. But now you're walking into unchartered territory. You're going to be high above the wing, where coordination and smarts come into play. Strategy is a must for this match; and unfortunately for the two of you, there aren't really an opportunities to attack someone from behind.
You're going to have to stare us in the eyes, boys. You're going to have to acknowledge us, and prove to the entire world you can actually get the advantage when everything is even.
Scars and Stripes are done with The Brothers Black; we have more important business to tend to. But don't worry, Angel, we will leave enough of them left for you to do whatever you wish to them. It's important for you to have your fun now, because we haven't forgot about you.
It's time for the chatting to stop, Blacks. The match is near, and the threat is real. You two sound prepared to walk into war; the only thing is -- are you ready to fight when the opposition is ready for you?
This week, we're going to see if the two of you have wings.
-----------
"Stairway to Heaven" plays softly; the music dances throughout the air, injecting itself directly into people's brains as it wanders close enough. It's soothing, and fits beautifully for an establishment such as this one. A small tavern, curiously located in the middle of no where, far enough outside of Las Vegas that it is never visited by tourists; this place runs on the few pennies it collects from the regulars. There are a couple of older gentlemen sitting at the bar, sipping their drinks as they chat with the bartender.
Other than those individuals, the only other person inside is Killian Creed. Painting a picture of today's anti-social culture as if he should have a piece in the Louvre, he sits by his lonesome in the corner, as far away from the others as possible. There are three bottles of Budweiser in front of him -- two are empty, and the third isn't far from joining them. An ashtray sits next to the bottles, filled with at least half a pack of Camel cigarettes.
A fresh Camel rests comfortably between his lips. His eyes are closed as he listens to the song; he's off in a world of his own, but a familiar voice forces him back to reality.
Ethan Creed: Classic, isn't it? This song's never going to go out of style.
Ethan's voice startles Killian a little as he jumps slightly in his chair and opens his eyes quickly. He focuses on his deceased brother, whom has taken residence in the seat across from him. Ethan's tapping his fingers softly on the tabletop to the rhythm of the song. Killian takes the biggest drag possible off his Camel before resting it in the ashtray -- he slowly exhales the smoke from his nostrils as he adjusts himself in his seat.
Killian Creed: The owner of this place seems to agree with you; this is the fifth time in a row this song has played.
Ethan Creed: The man has good taste!
Killian Creed: I guess, but as everyone knows, too much of a good thing can, in fact, be a bad thing.
Ethan offers a slight shrug in response, neither agreeing or disagreeing with Killian's point. Killian nods his head, as if agreeing with his own statement, before grabbing his beer and taking a swig. He places it back on the table, but keeps it clutched in his hand.
Ethan Creed: Went for something different this week, eh? The last few shows have all been in Las Vegas; and after each one, you took a flight back to South Carolina. You're not a fan of change, so why alter something right before such a big match?
Killian Creed: I -- eh, I just need to clear my head, you know? There's some things going on at home, issues with Sam -- and I -- you said it, this week's important, I can't afford to be distracted. I'm staying in town; focusing all of my attention on the match and blocking out the rest.
Ethan Creed: And that's why you're sitting in a shitty bar, drinking and smoking nonstop -- because you want to clear your head?
Killian looks at his brother; he cannot help but feel slightly annoyed by the barrage of questions flowing his way. But Ethan's right; Killian's plan to remain in Las Vegas to clear his head and focus on his job blew up in his face. And instead of sitting in his living room, ignoring Sam and stressing over the mess that is the current state of their affairs, he's doing it inside a nameless tavern that has clearly seen better days.
Killian chuckles softly before releasing his death grip on his beer and removing his cigarette from the ashtray. He takes a quick drag, exhaling slowly as he keeps hold of it in his right hand and returns his attention to his brother; who is still staring at Killian as intently as he was when he finished his questioning.
Killian Creed: (sighing) I -- I fucking hate that guy, Ethan. He's a cancer; a living-breathing-piece of shit...
He pauses for a moment, anger filling his body and rage taking over his thought process. He sticks his cigarette between his lips, allowing it to rest there as he takes a long drag. He exhales, looking at Ethan through a cloud of smoke.
Killian Creed: ... and I should have killed him when I had the chance.
Ethan doesn't need any names, he knows James Warren is the "guy" in question. While Killian may, deep down inside him somewhere, know that Sam still feels for James, he'll never understand the situation fully. Ethan knows; he knows that he's worse than heroin for Sam. He knows that they were able to get her off the junk, but there's no cure for James Warren.
He knows, but he can't let his words be the force that removes the pin from the grenade that is Killian Creed. He sniffles softly, looking through the cloud of smoke and focusing on Killian's eyes, studying all of the fire and anger that is built up behind them.
Ethan Creed: You're focusing your rage in the wrong place, Killian. You're mad at Sam because James has come back, but you and I both know she is just as clueless as everyone else in the equation. You can't alienate her -- James is a piece of shit, I agree with you -- but don't let that fact cause you to push her away.
He pauses, letting his words penetrate Killian's thick skull. The Camel still rests between Killian's lips, he takes another drag, exhales, and immediately fills his lungs with another one. He removes it and puts it out in the ashtray, before providing his attention back to his brother.
Ethan Creed: Make it right, Killian. Call her, let her know that you love her; you know Sam, she needs the affection, she needs to know you're not mad at her.
Killian inhales slowly, allowing his adoration and appreciation for Sam overtake his disdain for James inside his head. It is as if his brother knew exactly which buttons to press as a lot of the harsh feelings inside of Killian dissipate, and he's left with an empty feeling; annoyed at himself for choosing to be in Las Vegas when he can be spending time with her. He exhales, and locks eyes on his cell phone, which sets next to the beer bottles and the graveyard of cigarettes. He grabs it, clutching it in his hand as he looks back at his brother.
Killian Creed: You're right, man. I'm -- I'm a fucking idiot, you're absolutely right.
He unlocks his screen and proceeds to call Sam's cell phone. It rings for a couple of seconds; and Killian nearly gives up hope, until the line is finally answered...
James Warren: Killian! How's it going, man?
The fire is uncontrollable; lava is pouring from Killian's sweat pores as the sound of the arrogant son of a bitch's voice echoes throughout his skull. His mind is racing a mile a minute; so many questions, absolutely no answers. He wants nothing more than to jump through the phone and rip James' head clean off his shoulders.
Killian Creed: You mot--
James Warren: (cutting him off) Hey, not to be an asshole, but can we call you back? We're kind of in the middle of something here, okay? Thanks for understanding.
Killian Creed: I'm going to fu--
Click.
Killian Creed: (yelling) JAMES?! JAMES?!
He lowers the phone from his ear and stares at the screen; the call has been disconnected. He searches for assistance, anything to pull him back from the ledge as he looks for his brother, but he's gone. The seat across the table is empty. The other three people inside the tavern are all staring at Killian.
He doesn't care, fuck them. He's lost it. He slams his cell phone off the table multiple times before sliding to his feet and throwing it with everything he has off the tile flooring, shattering it into multiple pieces. The bartender begins to open his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it with Killian in this current state. Besides, Killian is operating on a tab, so damages are on him!
Killian Creed: (whispering) You're a dead man, James...
Killian says this to himself through gritted teeth as he moves his way through the bar and towards the exit. He steps outside, slamming the door closed behind him -- leaving the men inside in the same boat as he -- with many questions, and no answers...
Eddie, Frank, first of all, you're welcome. You both needed us to give you this match. It had to happen, or the two of you would be out on your asses quicker than either one of you can learn what comes after "A" in the alphabet. You know I'm right, Angel embarrassed the two of you, he made an example out of you both. And if we refused to give you this chance, he'd of taken everything away.
That, gentlemen, is what happens when you sell your soul to the devil.
So, in frantic panic, you guys resorted to the only thing either of you know: violence. You tried to prod us like cattle, poking and irritating us to the point where we would want revenge. See, we're men of honor, instead of attacking the two of you like you guys did to us, we'd want to settle things in the confines of a match. Surprisingly, you two were smart enough to realize that.
Kudos to you both.
Well, here it is. Your last chance. Your last opportunity.
Quite frankly, I think there are much more deserving individuals than the two of you. You two are the biggest cowards I have ever come across in my entire life. You only run your mouths when you find yourself at a distance. You only move in for the attacks when your opponent's have their backs turned. You ran into Scars and Stripes head on at Metamorphosis and you two were unable to get the job done.
What makes you think this time is going to be any different?
Your time in the IWF is near its end, fellas. Whether it's because Angel finally rids himself of the deadweight, or the powers that be in this company finally come to their senses and terminate your contracts.
You're both just a waste of payroll anyway.
You two think you're players in this company. You believe that sense Angel allows you to wipe his ass for him, that you two are actually relevant. No one fears you. No one respects you. The tag team division didn't die because the two of you dismantled all of the competition, it deteriorated because no one wanted the face the two of you due to your tendency to drool and forget how to alternate between your left and right legs when trying to walk.
I hope you two understand what you're getting in to this week. See, the attack a couple of weeks ago got the end result you both desired. But now you're walking into unchartered territory. You're going to be high above the wing, where coordination and smarts come into play. Strategy is a must for this match; and unfortunately for the two of you, there aren't really an opportunities to attack someone from behind.
You're going to have to stare us in the eyes, boys. You're going to have to acknowledge us, and prove to the entire world you can actually get the advantage when everything is even.
Scars and Stripes are done with The Brothers Black; we have more important business to tend to. But don't worry, Angel, we will leave enough of them left for you to do whatever you wish to them. It's important for you to have your fun now, because we haven't forgot about you.
It's time for the chatting to stop, Blacks. The match is near, and the threat is real. You two sound prepared to walk into war; the only thing is -- are you ready to fight when the opposition is ready for you?
This week, we're going to see if the two of you have wings.
-----------
"Stairway to Heaven" plays softly; the music dances throughout the air, injecting itself directly into people's brains as it wanders close enough. It's soothing, and fits beautifully for an establishment such as this one. A small tavern, curiously located in the middle of no where, far enough outside of Las Vegas that it is never visited by tourists; this place runs on the few pennies it collects from the regulars. There are a couple of older gentlemen sitting at the bar, sipping their drinks as they chat with the bartender.
Other than those individuals, the only other person inside is Killian Creed. Painting a picture of today's anti-social culture as if he should have a piece in the Louvre, he sits by his lonesome in the corner, as far away from the others as possible. There are three bottles of Budweiser in front of him -- two are empty, and the third isn't far from joining them. An ashtray sits next to the bottles, filled with at least half a pack of Camel cigarettes.
A fresh Camel rests comfortably between his lips. His eyes are closed as he listens to the song; he's off in a world of his own, but a familiar voice forces him back to reality.
Ethan Creed: Classic, isn't it? This song's never going to go out of style.
Ethan's voice startles Killian a little as he jumps slightly in his chair and opens his eyes quickly. He focuses on his deceased brother, whom has taken residence in the seat across from him. Ethan's tapping his fingers softly on the tabletop to the rhythm of the song. Killian takes the biggest drag possible off his Camel before resting it in the ashtray -- he slowly exhales the smoke from his nostrils as he adjusts himself in his seat.
Killian Creed: The owner of this place seems to agree with you; this is the fifth time in a row this song has played.
Ethan Creed: The man has good taste!
Killian Creed: I guess, but as everyone knows, too much of a good thing can, in fact, be a bad thing.
Ethan offers a slight shrug in response, neither agreeing or disagreeing with Killian's point. Killian nods his head, as if agreeing with his own statement, before grabbing his beer and taking a swig. He places it back on the table, but keeps it clutched in his hand.
Ethan Creed: Went for something different this week, eh? The last few shows have all been in Las Vegas; and after each one, you took a flight back to South Carolina. You're not a fan of change, so why alter something right before such a big match?
Killian Creed: I -- eh, I just need to clear my head, you know? There's some things going on at home, issues with Sam -- and I -- you said it, this week's important, I can't afford to be distracted. I'm staying in town; focusing all of my attention on the match and blocking out the rest.
Ethan Creed: And that's why you're sitting in a shitty bar, drinking and smoking nonstop -- because you want to clear your head?
Killian looks at his brother; he cannot help but feel slightly annoyed by the barrage of questions flowing his way. But Ethan's right; Killian's plan to remain in Las Vegas to clear his head and focus on his job blew up in his face. And instead of sitting in his living room, ignoring Sam and stressing over the mess that is the current state of their affairs, he's doing it inside a nameless tavern that has clearly seen better days.
Killian chuckles softly before releasing his death grip on his beer and removing his cigarette from the ashtray. He takes a quick drag, exhaling slowly as he keeps hold of it in his right hand and returns his attention to his brother; who is still staring at Killian as intently as he was when he finished his questioning.
Killian Creed: (sighing) I -- I fucking hate that guy, Ethan. He's a cancer; a living-breathing-piece of shit...
He pauses for a moment, anger filling his body and rage taking over his thought process. He sticks his cigarette between his lips, allowing it to rest there as he takes a long drag. He exhales, looking at Ethan through a cloud of smoke.
Killian Creed: ... and I should have killed him when I had the chance.
Ethan doesn't need any names, he knows James Warren is the "guy" in question. While Killian may, deep down inside him somewhere, know that Sam still feels for James, he'll never understand the situation fully. Ethan knows; he knows that he's worse than heroin for Sam. He knows that they were able to get her off the junk, but there's no cure for James Warren.
He knows, but he can't let his words be the force that removes the pin from the grenade that is Killian Creed. He sniffles softly, looking through the cloud of smoke and focusing on Killian's eyes, studying all of the fire and anger that is built up behind them.
Ethan Creed: You're focusing your rage in the wrong place, Killian. You're mad at Sam because James has come back, but you and I both know she is just as clueless as everyone else in the equation. You can't alienate her -- James is a piece of shit, I agree with you -- but don't let that fact cause you to push her away.
He pauses, letting his words penetrate Killian's thick skull. The Camel still rests between Killian's lips, he takes another drag, exhales, and immediately fills his lungs with another one. He removes it and puts it out in the ashtray, before providing his attention back to his brother.
Ethan Creed: Make it right, Killian. Call her, let her know that you love her; you know Sam, she needs the affection, she needs to know you're not mad at her.
Killian inhales slowly, allowing his adoration and appreciation for Sam overtake his disdain for James inside his head. It is as if his brother knew exactly which buttons to press as a lot of the harsh feelings inside of Killian dissipate, and he's left with an empty feeling; annoyed at himself for choosing to be in Las Vegas when he can be spending time with her. He exhales, and locks eyes on his cell phone, which sets next to the beer bottles and the graveyard of cigarettes. He grabs it, clutching it in his hand as he looks back at his brother.
Killian Creed: You're right, man. I'm -- I'm a fucking idiot, you're absolutely right.
He unlocks his screen and proceeds to call Sam's cell phone. It rings for a couple of seconds; and Killian nearly gives up hope, until the line is finally answered...
James Warren: Killian! How's it going, man?
The fire is uncontrollable; lava is pouring from Killian's sweat pores as the sound of the arrogant son of a bitch's voice echoes throughout his skull. His mind is racing a mile a minute; so many questions, absolutely no answers. He wants nothing more than to jump through the phone and rip James' head clean off his shoulders.
Killian Creed: You mot--
James Warren: (cutting him off) Hey, not to be an asshole, but can we call you back? We're kind of in the middle of something here, okay? Thanks for understanding.
Killian Creed: I'm going to fu--
Click.
Killian Creed: (yelling) JAMES?! JAMES?!
He lowers the phone from his ear and stares at the screen; the call has been disconnected. He searches for assistance, anything to pull him back from the ledge as he looks for his brother, but he's gone. The seat across the table is empty. The other three people inside the tavern are all staring at Killian.
He doesn't care, fuck them. He's lost it. He slams his cell phone off the table multiple times before sliding to his feet and throwing it with everything he has off the tile flooring, shattering it into multiple pieces. The bartender begins to open his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it with Killian in this current state. Besides, Killian is operating on a tab, so damages are on him!
Killian Creed: (whispering) You're a dead man, James...
Killian says this to himself through gritted teeth as he moves his way through the bar and towards the exit. He steps outside, slamming the door closed behind him -- leaving the men inside in the same boat as he -- with many questions, and no answers...
Well howdy there pardner.