Post by Notorious B.O.B. on Nov 29, 2016 0:57:11 GMT
“Well,” he grinned as the livestream went, well, live, “I hope this makes everybody happy.” He leaned back from the keyboard for a moment to stretch, allowing the webcam and chat room to get a good look at him. An old Rob Diamond, ‘Suck It’, t-shirt beneath a solid Imperial red zip up covers his chest while a black knitted toque with his, #WWIDN, adorns his head. While normally scruffy, his beard has grown out considerably over the course of the month. “So if you guys didn’t already see the new sponsorship ad somewhere over here,” he says, pointing into an area of his overlay, “I’m now being sponsored by Dollar Shave Club.”
He smiles for a moment, letting the irony of it sink in. “In a few days I might be able to actually give them a try, but,” he grins, stroking his chestnut colored beard, “I kind of like this look; b’sides, I really have to thank you guys for helping me raise so much money this month for No-Shave November. It’s been a real honor to team up with the folks at the Movember Foundation to help raise money and awareness for men’s health issues.
You guys all know that I’ve lost some pretty important men in my life to cancer; my uncle to prostate cancer and my close friend Trent to testicular cancer late last fall. It’s really in their memory that I’m doing this, but it’s also for all of the men out there that stand a chance at kicking cancer in the ass.
Now, that said,” he shrugs, trying to shake the, obvious, emotional state he’s gotten himself into, “I think it’s time we play a few games and talk a little smack, eh?”
He drops his full screen picture into a smaller box, the image of his Battlefield 1 loading screen taking up the majority of the screen. “So I was thinking that instead of me turning this into another bitch fest,” he smirks, “’cause I fully admit that’s what my streams have been the last few weeks; instead of that, why don’t I take a few questions from you guys and we’ll see where we go.”
He pauses, entering the game and begins playing a round. This allows the chat room to continue to issue forth question after question. Every so often, he turns to glance at the second monitor beside the one with his game to read a few of them. After turning a corner and immediately being taken down by an enemy, he scrolls back up the chat and begins reading off questions as he goes.
“Alright,” he starts, his eyes scanning left and right, “Marcus wants to know what’s up with Gillman.” He laughs and shakes his head, “He’s a case of someone who should probably stay off Twitter. I mean,” he chuckles, “I’ve known a few hotheads who’ve stuck their feet in their mouth before – but Gillman …” he laughs, “that guy just has a taste for Nike’s I guess.”
He pops off three more headshot kills before being taken down himself, allowing him a short breather to answer the chat room.
“You guys love Gillman, huh?” he asks with a small shake of his head. “It’s not that I have anything against him, it’s just …” he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words, “it’s just that the guy is a fan – and as green as they come. He’s scored a handful of pretty impressive victories, but otherwise seems to enjoy flapping his gums and talking politics – and he’s actually a proud Trump supporter …” he pauses, watching as the chat room suddenly fills with expletives. He chuckles and continues, “I know, I know – but we’re all pretty much fucked for the next four years so we might as well move on and make the best of it, eh?
Okay, looks like Krystal wins the prize for asking the question of the hour; she just writes, ‘Nighthawk?’ like I’m not going to notice that shit,” he says, laughing out loud.
“It’s no big surprise that this week I’ve been lined up to take on the man of a thousand holds, only problem being that my attention has been hold he’s been unable to learn all these years.
See,” he smiles, running his hands up and under the toque and through his hair – the hat falling to the floor behind him, “me and Nighthawk go back a ways, and most people don’t even realize it. God,” he continues, looking off camera while trying to remember, “I think it must have been at least five … maybe six years ago?”
The question hangs there for a second as he and a small squadron move into a flanking position, sweeping through the opposing group of players and ending the round without a single death on their side.
“PWX was the place to be for a hot minute that summer – they were in between owners, I don’t even think that Brian Hollywood was running the place yet,” he said wistfully, “but like I said, it was the place to be. Pariah, Nighthawk, Aries, Hollywood, and some goofy Canadian that they decided to let wrestling in their little tournament for their Hybrid title.
Three guesses who won, kids” he grins.
“So there I was, riding high and holding one of their prestigious titles right off the bat while Nighthawk did his weird little thing,” he waves his hands around, “I don’t know where, but it probably involved him reminding everyone that he was a wrestling machine – the machine part was the most believable considering his broken record status.
But that’s something that I love about ‘Hawk – he’s never shy about reminding you of his abilities, of his pedigree, about how much he knows … but, hell, knowing and executing are two different beasts aren’t they, bubba?
All that tough talk about outlasting and outthinking ol’ JFK didn’t work out exactly how you’d thought it’d work, eh?
Though,” he chuckles, “guess I can’t say that I’m in much better shape after letting the Falcon McSilentPants put my shoulders down for the three count either. But here’s the thing,” he shakes his head, his left shoulder rising into a kind of half-shrug, “I learned a long time ago that sometimes you just gotta cut your losses.
I mean, look at you, bro – you went and stuck your nose into shit that you didn’t need to. Got yourself ‘noticed’ for all the wrong reasons by all the wrong people. I’m pretty sure you remember that night up in White Plains, eh?
Since then you’ve been working to break the House of Howlett; but it ain't working, ‘Hawk, so its time to face facts – you can’t … beat … the house.
Seriously,” he laughs, eyes wild for a moment at the gravity of his words, “look who’s talking here! I came at Spike harder than anybody around here has for a long time and look where that got me … nowhere.
So I stopped.
I could have kept going after losing out on winning the Man-of-Steel title from him …
But I didn’t.
I could have kept coming at him night after night, week after week, taken beating after beating …
But I didn’t.
I had nothing to prove – I’d made my point. I proved to myself, to Spike, to my peers and the fans that the Bob Pooler standing in the ring these days is a different man …
A changed man.
I’ve changed enough to see through the sanctimonious higher than thou dignity bullshit that you still wear around like a badge of fucking honor.
You want to fight the good fight?
Go for it, dude.
Me? I’m going to keep my damn head down and remember that this isn’t all about what I want … it isn’t all about me.
Well,” he smiles a wicked smile, “some things are about me – like this match. See, you pride yourself on your knowledge of holds from across the globe.
Well Mr. Wrestling Thesaurus, get ready to sit down for your test, ‘cause I’m about to prove that you may be smarter than a fifth grader – but you sure as hell ain’t smarter than me.”
A quick glance back at his screen shows that he’s been kicked due to being afk.
“Shit … see this?” he asks, pointing at the screen with a grin, “this is why I don’t do Q and A, folks – I got going again, eh. Ah well,” he says with a sniff, “you guy’s know I won’t be afk when it matters this weekend – ‘cause THAT is what I’m going to do next!”
He smiles for a moment, letting the irony of it sink in. “In a few days I might be able to actually give them a try, but,” he grins, stroking his chestnut colored beard, “I kind of like this look; b’sides, I really have to thank you guys for helping me raise so much money this month for No-Shave November. It’s been a real honor to team up with the folks at the Movember Foundation to help raise money and awareness for men’s health issues.
You guys all know that I’ve lost some pretty important men in my life to cancer; my uncle to prostate cancer and my close friend Trent to testicular cancer late last fall. It’s really in their memory that I’m doing this, but it’s also for all of the men out there that stand a chance at kicking cancer in the ass.
Now, that said,” he shrugs, trying to shake the, obvious, emotional state he’s gotten himself into, “I think it’s time we play a few games and talk a little smack, eh?”
He drops his full screen picture into a smaller box, the image of his Battlefield 1 loading screen taking up the majority of the screen. “So I was thinking that instead of me turning this into another bitch fest,” he smirks, “’cause I fully admit that’s what my streams have been the last few weeks; instead of that, why don’t I take a few questions from you guys and we’ll see where we go.”
He pauses, entering the game and begins playing a round. This allows the chat room to continue to issue forth question after question. Every so often, he turns to glance at the second monitor beside the one with his game to read a few of them. After turning a corner and immediately being taken down by an enemy, he scrolls back up the chat and begins reading off questions as he goes.
“Alright,” he starts, his eyes scanning left and right, “Marcus wants to know what’s up with Gillman.” He laughs and shakes his head, “He’s a case of someone who should probably stay off Twitter. I mean,” he chuckles, “I’ve known a few hotheads who’ve stuck their feet in their mouth before – but Gillman …” he laughs, “that guy just has a taste for Nike’s I guess.”
He pops off three more headshot kills before being taken down himself, allowing him a short breather to answer the chat room.
“You guys love Gillman, huh?” he asks with a small shake of his head. “It’s not that I have anything against him, it’s just …” he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words, “it’s just that the guy is a fan – and as green as they come. He’s scored a handful of pretty impressive victories, but otherwise seems to enjoy flapping his gums and talking politics – and he’s actually a proud Trump supporter …” he pauses, watching as the chat room suddenly fills with expletives. He chuckles and continues, “I know, I know – but we’re all pretty much fucked for the next four years so we might as well move on and make the best of it, eh?
Okay, looks like Krystal wins the prize for asking the question of the hour; she just writes, ‘Nighthawk?’ like I’m not going to notice that shit,” he says, laughing out loud.
“It’s no big surprise that this week I’ve been lined up to take on the man of a thousand holds, only problem being that my attention has been hold he’s been unable to learn all these years.
See,” he smiles, running his hands up and under the toque and through his hair – the hat falling to the floor behind him, “me and Nighthawk go back a ways, and most people don’t even realize it. God,” he continues, looking off camera while trying to remember, “I think it must have been at least five … maybe six years ago?”
The question hangs there for a second as he and a small squadron move into a flanking position, sweeping through the opposing group of players and ending the round without a single death on their side.
“PWX was the place to be for a hot minute that summer – they were in between owners, I don’t even think that Brian Hollywood was running the place yet,” he said wistfully, “but like I said, it was the place to be. Pariah, Nighthawk, Aries, Hollywood, and some goofy Canadian that they decided to let wrestling in their little tournament for their Hybrid title.
Three guesses who won, kids” he grins.
“So there I was, riding high and holding one of their prestigious titles right off the bat while Nighthawk did his weird little thing,” he waves his hands around, “I don’t know where, but it probably involved him reminding everyone that he was a wrestling machine – the machine part was the most believable considering his broken record status.
But that’s something that I love about ‘Hawk – he’s never shy about reminding you of his abilities, of his pedigree, about how much he knows … but, hell, knowing and executing are two different beasts aren’t they, bubba?
All that tough talk about outlasting and outthinking ol’ JFK didn’t work out exactly how you’d thought it’d work, eh?
Though,” he chuckles, “guess I can’t say that I’m in much better shape after letting the Falcon McSilentPants put my shoulders down for the three count either. But here’s the thing,” he shakes his head, his left shoulder rising into a kind of half-shrug, “I learned a long time ago that sometimes you just gotta cut your losses.
I mean, look at you, bro – you went and stuck your nose into shit that you didn’t need to. Got yourself ‘noticed’ for all the wrong reasons by all the wrong people. I’m pretty sure you remember that night up in White Plains, eh?
Since then you’ve been working to break the House of Howlett; but it ain't working, ‘Hawk, so its time to face facts – you can’t … beat … the house.
Seriously,” he laughs, eyes wild for a moment at the gravity of his words, “look who’s talking here! I came at Spike harder than anybody around here has for a long time and look where that got me … nowhere.
So I stopped.
I could have kept going after losing out on winning the Man-of-Steel title from him …
But I didn’t.
I could have kept coming at him night after night, week after week, taken beating after beating …
But I didn’t.
I had nothing to prove – I’d made my point. I proved to myself, to Spike, to my peers and the fans that the Bob Pooler standing in the ring these days is a different man …
A changed man.
I’ve changed enough to see through the sanctimonious higher than thou dignity bullshit that you still wear around like a badge of fucking honor.
You want to fight the good fight?
Go for it, dude.
Me? I’m going to keep my damn head down and remember that this isn’t all about what I want … it isn’t all about me.
Well,” he smiles a wicked smile, “some things are about me – like this match. See, you pride yourself on your knowledge of holds from across the globe.
Well Mr. Wrestling Thesaurus, get ready to sit down for your test, ‘cause I’m about to prove that you may be smarter than a fifth grader – but you sure as hell ain’t smarter than me.”
A quick glance back at his screen shows that he’s been kicked due to being afk.
“Shit … see this?” he asks, pointing at the screen with a grin, “this is why I don’t do Q and A, folks – I got going again, eh. Ah well,” he says with a sniff, “you guy’s know I won’t be afk when it matters this weekend – ‘cause THAT is what I’m going to do next!”
Well howdy there pardner.