Post by Awesome Stick Labor on Oct 25, 2015 22:35:46 GMT
Well, well...lookie what we have here.
It seems to me that IWF loves to let me thrive in cluster matches in which there ain't a way to predict a winner. God, I love their style—it's like ridin' a roller coaster under blindfold without knowin' what's gonna be ahead of you 'til it's too late to react. Only the problem is real simple: on one end, you got the current Invictus champ who thinks he's God's greatest gift to his own family, and then you got a self-servin' sumbitch who treats his own profession like it's a frog just waitin' to be dissected.
And I ain't plannin' on capitulatin' to NO ONE.
'Hawk, if there's ONE THING that ya still haven't figured out yet, it's this: I'm not the desperate “bad guy” who you so claim me to be.
Son your words about “honor” and “humility” have absolutely no merit if ya keep repeatin' the same damn things over and over again 'til my ears start to bleed. I've had to life my ENTIRE life hearin' about those same tenets of yours, and yeah...yeah I'll admit I had my own faults and differences of opinion, but when it all boils down to it, how far can honor and humility take ya before you start to find yourself in situations ya can't control.
Like this match, for instance.
This ain't an old-school tilt like you're used to—those one-on-one battles in which you get to take liberal pleasure in rippin' someone's shoulders out of its socket. Nah dude, this is a LADDER MATCH—a whole different animal—and contrary to what you might try and spin, these types of matches are my specialty. There's no honor and integrity in a ladder match—everything and anything goes—and quite frankly, despite your years of experience you ain't got the balls to handle such a contest of skill.
So leave the honor and humility bullshit at home.
Show me some nuts out there.
Bubba I've said this once, but I'll say it once more so ya can get it through your thick skull: you are NOT a “wrestling machine.” You are a self-righteous mere mortal who hasn't changed his schtick since the very beginnin'--since the first night I took your ass head-on. And even after all these years, it STILL terrifies ya every time ya wind up seein' me across from you.
Why?!
It's real simple: I've got your number. Even with all that Wolverine pedigree you STILL ain't got my number. Sure the series might be just a tad bit even...but that's just a false front that you've always seemed to lean on. Now—much like that punter from yoru alma mater—you'll be fallin' off that mountain when I pick you apart much like I have done in the past, and unlike all the times we've been goin' at it one-on-one, you AIN'T gonna be able to pick out that left arm o' mine and try and tear it shreds.
Not with Warren Kane to keep ya company.
***********
It seems to me that IWF loves to let me thrive in cluster matches in which there ain't a way to predict a winner. God, I love their style—it's like ridin' a roller coaster under blindfold without knowin' what's gonna be ahead of you 'til it's too late to react. Only the problem is real simple: on one end, you got the current Invictus champ who thinks he's God's greatest gift to his own family, and then you got a self-servin' sumbitch who treats his own profession like it's a frog just waitin' to be dissected.
And I ain't plannin' on capitulatin' to NO ONE.
'Hawk, if there's ONE THING that ya still haven't figured out yet, it's this: I'm not the desperate “bad guy” who you so claim me to be.
Son your words about “honor” and “humility” have absolutely no merit if ya keep repeatin' the same damn things over and over again 'til my ears start to bleed. I've had to life my ENTIRE life hearin' about those same tenets of yours, and yeah...yeah I'll admit I had my own faults and differences of opinion, but when it all boils down to it, how far can honor and humility take ya before you start to find yourself in situations ya can't control.
Like this match, for instance.
This ain't an old-school tilt like you're used to—those one-on-one battles in which you get to take liberal pleasure in rippin' someone's shoulders out of its socket. Nah dude, this is a LADDER MATCH—a whole different animal—and contrary to what you might try and spin, these types of matches are my specialty. There's no honor and integrity in a ladder match—everything and anything goes—and quite frankly, despite your years of experience you ain't got the balls to handle such a contest of skill.
So leave the honor and humility bullshit at home.
Show me some nuts out there.
Bubba I've said this once, but I'll say it once more so ya can get it through your thick skull: you are NOT a “wrestling machine.” You are a self-righteous mere mortal who hasn't changed his schtick since the very beginnin'--since the first night I took your ass head-on. And even after all these years, it STILL terrifies ya every time ya wind up seein' me across from you.
Why?!
It's real simple: I've got your number. Even with all that Wolverine pedigree you STILL ain't got my number. Sure the series might be just a tad bit even...but that's just a false front that you've always seemed to lean on. Now—much like that punter from yoru alma mater—you'll be fallin' off that mountain when I pick you apart much like I have done in the past, and unlike all the times we've been goin' at it one-on-one, you AIN'T gonna be able to pick out that left arm o' mine and try and tear it shreds.
Not with Warren Kane to keep ya company.
***********
Episode IV
“THE VOYAGE HOME”
“THE VOYAGE HOME”
October 25, 2015 - 4:10 PM (CST)
It felt great for me to be back on the Boeing 707 that my friends christened the HMS Bounty.
After bein' grounded in Northern Ireland for a little over a month, I'm flying the friendly skies and heading toward my Arlington, Texas home--the one place that always made me feel happy. Yet as I look out the starboard-side window, Fiona--who sits in the front lounge area of the old jetliner along with my Cruiser friend "Mack"--relaxed in her first class-style seat as I began to whisper a poem that made no sense to the older bassist.
JACK GAITHER: “I must down to the seas again...to the lonely sea and to the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship...and a star to steer her by.
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song...and the white sail's shaking,
And the grey mist on the sea's face...and a grey dawn breaking...”
Mack confidently nodded, assuming that he did his homework on poetry...
TERRY “MACK” MCNAMARA: Herman Melville.
...but Fifi quickly corrected him.
FIONA MCFLY: No—John Masefield, “Sea-Fever.”
Mack chuckled, shaking his head as he sipped on a bottle of ginger ale.
MACK: Are ya sure about that?!
FIONA: Mr. McNamara...I am quite well-versed in classic literature including English poetry.
MACK: Yet I find it “highly illogical” that ya don't know “Row, Row, Row Your Boat...”
We chuckle warmly before Mack heads off to check on my other two friends--Livia and Blade--who are slumbering together in the makeshift suite in the back of the plane.
JACK: Mack...he's quite the character, ain't he?
I sighed to myself, watching as Fiona perked up right brow up.
FIONA: I find him...rather odd for a man his stature.
JACK: Whaddaya mean?
FIONA: Poking fun at other people is not logical.
JACK: Who says that havin' a good time and bein' yourself is, huh?
Fiona gave me her usual "quizzical" look--for she didn't understand what I was trying to say.
JACK: Ya see Fiona, Mack was singin' in bands while I was in diapers—yet no one in the music world ever gave him credit for nothin' he ever did. He was the real workhorse of the Cruisers—I just sang songs about livin' a sinner's life, treadin' on the open road...and he razzed me about my voice all the time.
FIONA: To do that, though—
JACK: It's his way of showin' that he cares about ya—that's all. He just wants to bring out the personality within the human soul.
We gazed at each other's eyes as the plane began making its final descent toward its destination.
FIONA: Then will going back home...bring out that cheerful mannerism you used to share?
JACK: I dunno...I just dunno. All I can say is that if I can change from what I was back in Northern Ireland...
FIONA: You'll never have to hide anything anymore--that everything will be alright...
I warmly nodded my head as I turned towards the window. The old jet descended below a thick cloudbase, eventually dropping slightly toward a sight that was quite familiar to me. The plane's tires hit the asphalt runway, and we lurched forward slightly as the brakes kicked into high gear. Slowing to a crawl, I watched as we taxied towards the end of the runway, eventually coming to a stop. The engines shut off, creating an atmosphere of silence as I peered my vision towards a red and white sigh that hung upon a metal hangar.
It read "LOGAN AIRFIELD -- CORSICANA, TEXAS."
With a smile on my face, I could only say one thing towards the lady who's been my conscience for so many years.
JACK: Fifi...we're home.
**********
Speakin' of the devil...I warned ya, didn't I?!
I warned ya that I'd be back before ya know it, right Warren? Well guess what bubba-bear, ya get to deal with me in that ring all over again. It's the proud son of a legendary Hall of Famer versus the dude whom you THINK is nothin' more than a fuckin' motormouth disguised as a grappler. Call me what ya will though, 'cause as far as you oughta be concerned, I accept your kudos for a hard-fought match the last go-'round despite a certain prick wearin' stripes.
But I did what I had to do that week 'cause I wanted to prove to you—and the rest of those who think my original Invictus win was a goddamn fluke—that I had the balls to be a “fighting champion.”
Just like certain members of your lineage, who were champs in their own right.
Despite your bouts with bein' brainwashed by Judas or tryin' to rediscover yourself by way of a sabbatical, you've managed to make yourself into God's greatest gift to the Training Grounds division. But guess what? Now that ya had your l'il fall from grace, ya just proved to me one thing: you AIN'T God's greatest gift to IWF. In fact, you ain't NOWHERE near the likes of your old man Spike or even your Uncle Brad, whose penchant for makin' undesirable sex tapes only adds to how fucked up your family name is. Then again, what ain't so screwed up is the fact that Spike and Brad had their own ways with weaponry the likes of which I haven't seen--that was, 'til I faced them eons ago.
And as far as playin' with toys in the ring goes, you might've done it once before against me, but this AIN'T Sacrifice. This is October Revolution, and in a three-way match where everything and anything can happen, you ain't gonna turn the trick and fool me again.
'Cause I've got your number.
Sure the gig is in your family's blood, but you are NOWHERE near the ballsiness that Spike or Brad used to show against me over the years. You've got a LONG ways to go before you can even all yourself IWF's biggest Christmas present. You can blabber about on and on about how you can be better than those folks who came before yourself, but the simple fact of the matter is this:
I want it more than you.
And I'm gonna take back what's mine.
While you and 'Hawk have so much to live up to, the pressure is on you two to show me some grapefruits out there and have fun playin' with the toys I'm gonna bring to the holler. I ain't got nothin' to lose, for I've spilt blood and nearly DIED in that ring so that people like y'all can have a job and put food on the table. I've got more balls than the two of you combined, and I will commit SUICIDE to bring that Invictus title back home to Texas where it truly belongs.
And that is the honorable thing for me to do.
So you two can yap all y'all want to about things like family and honor, but where are those things gonna take ya when I get a hold of y'all and expose y'all for the self-absorbent dudes. I want that Invictus trophy back, and I'm gonna GET that sumbitch by any means necessary...
...and there ain't a goddamn thing you're gonna do to stop me--simply 'cause I was MEANER and BIGGER than you'll ever be.
Have a peachy day gentlemen.
Speakin' of the devil...I warned ya, didn't I?!
I warned ya that I'd be back before ya know it, right Warren? Well guess what bubba-bear, ya get to deal with me in that ring all over again. It's the proud son of a legendary Hall of Famer versus the dude whom you THINK is nothin' more than a fuckin' motormouth disguised as a grappler. Call me what ya will though, 'cause as far as you oughta be concerned, I accept your kudos for a hard-fought match the last go-'round despite a certain prick wearin' stripes.
But I did what I had to do that week 'cause I wanted to prove to you—and the rest of those who think my original Invictus win was a goddamn fluke—that I had the balls to be a “fighting champion.”
Just like certain members of your lineage, who were champs in their own right.
Despite your bouts with bein' brainwashed by Judas or tryin' to rediscover yourself by way of a sabbatical, you've managed to make yourself into God's greatest gift to the Training Grounds division. But guess what? Now that ya had your l'il fall from grace, ya just proved to me one thing: you AIN'T God's greatest gift to IWF. In fact, you ain't NOWHERE near the likes of your old man Spike or even your Uncle Brad, whose penchant for makin' undesirable sex tapes only adds to how fucked up your family name is. Then again, what ain't so screwed up is the fact that Spike and Brad had their own ways with weaponry the likes of which I haven't seen--that was, 'til I faced them eons ago.
And as far as playin' with toys in the ring goes, you might've done it once before against me, but this AIN'T Sacrifice. This is October Revolution, and in a three-way match where everything and anything can happen, you ain't gonna turn the trick and fool me again.
'Cause I've got your number.
Sure the gig is in your family's blood, but you are NOWHERE near the ballsiness that Spike or Brad used to show against me over the years. You've got a LONG ways to go before you can even all yourself IWF's biggest Christmas present. You can blabber about on and on about how you can be better than those folks who came before yourself, but the simple fact of the matter is this:
I want it more than you.
And I'm gonna take back what's mine.
While you and 'Hawk have so much to live up to, the pressure is on you two to show me some grapefruits out there and have fun playin' with the toys I'm gonna bring to the holler. I ain't got nothin' to lose, for I've spilt blood and nearly DIED in that ring so that people like y'all can have a job and put food on the table. I've got more balls than the two of you combined, and I will commit SUICIDE to bring that Invictus title back home to Texas where it truly belongs.
And that is the honorable thing for me to do.
So you two can yap all y'all want to about things like family and honor, but where are those things gonna take ya when I get a hold of y'all and expose y'all for the self-absorbent dudes. I want that Invictus trophy back, and I'm gonna GET that sumbitch by any means necessary...
...and there ain't a goddamn thing you're gonna do to stop me--simply 'cause I was MEANER and BIGGER than you'll ever be.
Have a peachy day gentlemen.
Well howdy there pardner.