Post by Awesome Stick Labor on May 15, 2017 2:55:39 GMT
Chapter 1
"YOU KNOW MY NAME"
If you take a life do you know what you'll give?
Odds are, you won't like what it is
When the storm arrives, would you be seen with me?
By the merciless eyes of deceit?
I've seen angels fall from blinding heights
But you yourself are nothing so divine
Just next in line
Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you
The odds will betray you
And I will replace you
You can't deny the prize it may never fulfill you
It longs to kill you
Are you willing to die?
The coldest blood runs through my veins
You know my name..."
-"You Know My Name," Chris Cornell (from Casino Royale)
~TWO MONTHS LATER, AFTER MEETING 'ROCKIN' RICKY GRAWN...~
"YOU KNOW MY NAME"
If you take a life do you know what you'll give?
Odds are, you won't like what it is
When the storm arrives, would you be seen with me?
By the merciless eyes of deceit?
I've seen angels fall from blinding heights
But you yourself are nothing so divine
Just next in line
Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you
The odds will betray you
And I will replace you
You can't deny the prize it may never fulfill you
It longs to kill you
Are you willing to die?
The coldest blood runs through my veins
You know my name..."
-"You Know My Name," Chris Cornell (from Casino Royale)
~TWO MONTHS LATER, AFTER MEETING 'ROCKIN' RICKY GRAWN...~
May 8, 2017 - 5:30 PM
We find ourselves tucked away inside a lavish, palatial gymnasium and athletic club located along Shoreline Boulevard, the ritziest section of Corpus Christi, Texas, where expensive beachfront villas line the street for blocks on end. Within the club's boundaries, a group of Hispanic males are seen working out in a ring surrounded by gold posts with green, white, and red ropes on all six sides. As peppy Tejano music plays from a set of overhead speakers, we hear footsteps pattering about on the marble-tiled flooring as we see the group's leader, sporting a black muscleshirt that says "Coach Diablo" on the front along with greasy, slicked-back hair straight out of a bad 1950s comedy flick.
The coach stared down at his visitor as three other men, each wearing white shirts that say "trainee" on them, stood beside him in the hexagonal ring.
"'Ey vato, can I help you?" Welcome to the Los Locos Club.
"Yeah...I wanna have a l'il chat with ALL youse people."
"Yeah...I wanna have a l'il chat with ALL youse people."
The gym leader's eyes widened in shock, awe, and horror, for he had not heard that erse, confident voice in quite a long time.
"Wait a sec now...do I remember you from somewhere?"
"Yeah...ten years ago, I came to a place lookin' to get a good workout. Rest, as they say, was history..."
"Yeah...ten years ago, I came to a place lookin' to get a good workout. Rest, as they say, was history..."
With a cocky smirk on his face, "El Diablo" stood tall inside his ring, flanked by his cronies.
"Yeahhhh...I remember you chico! The blind dude who wanted to wrestle!"
"That's right...but youse didn't want me to 'cuz I only had one good eye. Or don't ya remember?!"
"That's right...but youse didn't want me to 'cuz I only had one good eye. Or don't ya remember?!"
The teacher and his students all chuckled in unison as the footsteps on the tile became more pronounced.
"You were never gonna make it anyway, so why waste your time?! And besides...you ain't gonna succeed wearin' that stupid bitch-ass fake gold lapel pin ya got on that tuxedo."
"Oh really? C'mon down here and prove it then!"
The coach stuck out his tongue, wagging his finger with contempt as we hear the sound of the bottom of a cowboy boot stomping hard onto one of the ring's sets of entrance steps.
"PFFFFFFT! If you say so...boys?"
The trainees, each of average athletic height and build, stood firm as they began to yell out their athletic club's slogan.
We then see a hand grabbing the first trainee, a bald-headed gentlemen sporting a pointy-looking beard, by the front of his shirt before he's unceremoniously chucked to the outside. We only hear the sounds of fists flying, making contact with the hapless trainee as he's hurled into a set of barbells, which land onto the floor with a crash. The other two trainees--an African-American sporting dreadlocks and a Asian American with longer, curly brown hair, scatter for their very lives as the mysterious figure stepped into the ring...
...leaving their head trainer scared shitless as he took the full brunt of the visitor's fury.
"GAHHHH!!!! I...I-I-I swear to God, maing...I'm sorry! I didn't mean to--"
The attacker fires off a right hand to the coach's face, reeling him back to the corner.
"No! N-n-n-no...please! I didn't--"
The gym leader is immediately kicked in the ribs before he's slammed down to the deck; we then see the assailant choking the life out of his victim as the latter tries to beg for mercy.
"Wh-wh-wh-who...are...you? I'll do anything ya want, hear that maing? Anything!"
The man lets go of the trainer, leaving the latter to lick his wounds on the mat. He looks down upon his fallen prey, and when we get a closer inspection, we see that the "guest" in question had been wearing a black business suit, with black cowboy boots and red, white, and blue tie. On the front left side of his jacket, we see a gold lapel pin that reds "#MAGA"--"Make America Great Again."
The one formerly known as "Johnny Gillmen" looked down upon "El Diablo," smiling from ear to ear with just a tinge of glee and satisfaction.
JAMES GILMORE: The names Gilmore. James Gilmore...dude.
~TO BE CONTINUED~
**********
'Sup?!
That was, like, totally cool...wasn't it? I mean, shoot...watchin' all that garbage bein' thrown at me by a bunch of spoiled crybaby Cleveland fans who STILL couldn't get over the fact that their team blew the World Series?! That was priceless...made me feel like the lone conservative surrounded by a bunch of miffed liberal goons at a protest rally somewheres in America.
And that's EXACTLY the way I want it to be like!
What's even cooler? Hearin' the potential sob story that the iceman of wrestlin' himself, Nighthawk, is gonna tell the peanut galleries after bustin' his kneecap up pretty darn good. Shoot, for a guy who claims he's "best in the world,""the man of a thousand holds," and all that jazz...he's a do-nothin'. Always has been, and always will be. He'll take his ball and run back home to Chicago, where can train his cronies in Socialist thinkin', PC culture, some crummy ground-based wrestlin' science that won't make sense in the REAL world...all without tellin' 'em the absolute, God's-honest-truth about his time in the IWF.
That he was never Imperial champ. That he'll never be in the Hall of Fame.
That he'll never tolerate anyone who's different fron him...includin' ME!
That's the problem with the American liberal community. They talk about tolerance for those who're different for them, yet they are the biggest bunch of santimonious liars on the planet. They don't want people like me, who are different from them yet have FRESH and EXCITIN' ideas. To them, their methods and words are the supreme law of the land, and if someone like me doesn't wanna comply with 'em...people like me get shunned and basically told to go and eff ourselves up the bunghole! Yet they CLAIM to be "men and women of the people," blah-blah-blah-blah-blahhhhhhhh...
...yet I see through that BS like Mr. Trump saw through James Comey.
Translate that into wrestlin'...
Our esteemed "heroes" of the biz claim that, 'cuz they trained all their lives, they're the best in the land. Their words and actions are law of the Imperial world, and if someone doesn't follow their desires and wishes...welp, they get shut down at every turn. Right? They only care about themselves and their OWN accolades, yet go out on the Twits feed and play traffic cops or somethin' like that against people who have every RIGHT to be angry...like me.
Think about it...long and hard.
Thing is, I'm self-trained, yet our "good guys" don't like that. I've had to build myself from the ground up, usin' ROOMMATES as sparrin' partners 'cuz nobody else wanted to work with me, yet the people refuse to get behind it. I wanna be just as much of a Champion as they are, in spite of the fact that I ain't got but one good eye...but they just simply don't know how to close their eyes and reflect upon what it TRULY takes to be a hero.
Face it dudes...*I* am the hero of Imperial Wrestling! This is MY story!
I'm gonna make Imperial great again...yet the Ringling Brothers in the suits stick me with a darn MEXICAN as a tag-team partner...
...or fake Mexican? Take your pick, Malo!
Fact of the matter is REAL simple bubba...I don't care if ya truly come from the hometown of Johnny Carson's sidekick and "Star Search" host Ed McMahon or not. In 'Murrika...we DON'T "habla espanol...comprende?" We speak good ol'-fashioned English, the language of peace, love, and butt-whuppin's! We don't run around the whole darn country, embarrassin' ourselves while wearin' ugly masks to hide our faces! Yet you're my partner for this here shindig, so I only got one thing to say to ya...
...Don't! Effing! Screw! This! Up!!
Otherwise...we won't beat the dude Will Fernell, who makes a certain actor that shares his first name look...stupid in a ring. That's right dude...for a guy that's trained all his lifetime through high school and college, he surely ain't the smartest tool in the shed. Heck, that could explain that "D" he got in American History...or so it was rumored. The point bein', he should be spendin' his time pokin' fun at his opponents instead of actually gettin' down to the bidiz of actually PROVIN' that he can win a championship and step outta JFK's shadows. He is the direct manifestation of what is WRONG with American kids today who play athletics for our colleges and universities--they're always "one and done," not goin' the full four years so ya can get that degree and MAKE IT USEFUL in life; instead they return to the basement of their parents' home, in debt with only a sliver's chance of winnin' the state lottery!
Guess what, Malo...I'm better than that!
Or what about Sam Braxton...oh wait, he's anti-American! He's an Aussie lookin' for redemption after losin' his best buddy. Sound familiar? Riiiiight...pffft, that's ME! Ain't that somethin', dude? We have a guy who shares a l'il common ground with yours truly--outspoken, brash--except there's one l'il thing. He ain't got his usual partner Dean Coulter taggin' with him! And without Dean...Braxton is nothin'. Braxton's taggin' with Will this go-'round, and just like Republicans and Democrats on the Senate floor...KIWA and the Lost Boys will never get along. It's just a case of simple mathematics, what it all boils down to.
End of story, Malo. Now ya got a choice...either you're with me. Or you're against me.
The ball's in your court. All ya gotta do...is make the right choice...
...and remember the name--Gilmore. James Gilmore.
#MIGA
'Sup?!
That was, like, totally cool...wasn't it? I mean, shoot...watchin' all that garbage bein' thrown at me by a bunch of spoiled crybaby Cleveland fans who STILL couldn't get over the fact that their team blew the World Series?! That was priceless...made me feel like the lone conservative surrounded by a bunch of miffed liberal goons at a protest rally somewheres in America.
And that's EXACTLY the way I want it to be like!
What's even cooler? Hearin' the potential sob story that the iceman of wrestlin' himself, Nighthawk, is gonna tell the peanut galleries after bustin' his kneecap up pretty darn good. Shoot, for a guy who claims he's "best in the world,""the man of a thousand holds," and all that jazz...he's a do-nothin'. Always has been, and always will be. He'll take his ball and run back home to Chicago, where can train his cronies in Socialist thinkin', PC culture, some crummy ground-based wrestlin' science that won't make sense in the REAL world...all without tellin' 'em the absolute, God's-honest-truth about his time in the IWF.
That he was never Imperial champ. That he'll never be in the Hall of Fame.
That he'll never tolerate anyone who's different fron him...includin' ME!
That's the problem with the American liberal community. They talk about tolerance for those who're different for them, yet they are the biggest bunch of santimonious liars on the planet. They don't want people like me, who are different from them yet have FRESH and EXCITIN' ideas. To them, their methods and words are the supreme law of the land, and if someone like me doesn't wanna comply with 'em...people like me get shunned and basically told to go and eff ourselves up the bunghole! Yet they CLAIM to be "men and women of the people," blah-blah-blah-blah-blahhhhhhhh...
...yet I see through that BS like Mr. Trump saw through James Comey.
Translate that into wrestlin'...
Our esteemed "heroes" of the biz claim that, 'cuz they trained all their lives, they're the best in the land. Their words and actions are law of the Imperial world, and if someone doesn't follow their desires and wishes...welp, they get shut down at every turn. Right? They only care about themselves and their OWN accolades, yet go out on the Twits feed and play traffic cops or somethin' like that against people who have every RIGHT to be angry...like me.
Think about it...long and hard.
Thing is, I'm self-trained, yet our "good guys" don't like that. I've had to build myself from the ground up, usin' ROOMMATES as sparrin' partners 'cuz nobody else wanted to work with me, yet the people refuse to get behind it. I wanna be just as much of a Champion as they are, in spite of the fact that I ain't got but one good eye...but they just simply don't know how to close their eyes and reflect upon what it TRULY takes to be a hero.
Face it dudes...*I* am the hero of Imperial Wrestling! This is MY story!
I'm gonna make Imperial great again...yet the Ringling Brothers in the suits stick me with a darn MEXICAN as a tag-team partner...
...or fake Mexican? Take your pick, Malo!
Fact of the matter is REAL simple bubba...I don't care if ya truly come from the hometown of Johnny Carson's sidekick and "Star Search" host Ed McMahon or not. In 'Murrika...we DON'T "habla espanol...comprende?" We speak good ol'-fashioned English, the language of peace, love, and butt-whuppin's! We don't run around the whole darn country, embarrassin' ourselves while wearin' ugly masks to hide our faces! Yet you're my partner for this here shindig, so I only got one thing to say to ya...
...Don't! Effing! Screw! This! Up!!
Otherwise...we won't beat the dude Will Fernell, who makes a certain actor that shares his first name look...stupid in a ring. That's right dude...for a guy that's trained all his lifetime through high school and college, he surely ain't the smartest tool in the shed. Heck, that could explain that "D" he got in American History...or so it was rumored. The point bein', he should be spendin' his time pokin' fun at his opponents instead of actually gettin' down to the bidiz of actually PROVIN' that he can win a championship and step outta JFK's shadows. He is the direct manifestation of what is WRONG with American kids today who play athletics for our colleges and universities--they're always "one and done," not goin' the full four years so ya can get that degree and MAKE IT USEFUL in life; instead they return to the basement of their parents' home, in debt with only a sliver's chance of winnin' the state lottery!
Guess what, Malo...I'm better than that!
Or what about Sam Braxton...oh wait, he's anti-American! He's an Aussie lookin' for redemption after losin' his best buddy. Sound familiar? Riiiiight...pffft, that's ME! Ain't that somethin', dude? We have a guy who shares a l'il common ground with yours truly--outspoken, brash--except there's one l'il thing. He ain't got his usual partner Dean Coulter taggin' with him! And without Dean...Braxton is nothin'. Braxton's taggin' with Will this go-'round, and just like Republicans and Democrats on the Senate floor...KIWA and the Lost Boys will never get along. It's just a case of simple mathematics, what it all boils down to.
End of story, Malo. Now ya got a choice...either you're with me. Or you're against me.
The ball's in your court. All ya gotta do...is make the right choice...
...and remember the name--Gilmore. James Gilmore.
#MIGA
Well howdy there pardner.