Post by MasterEvil on Nov 27, 2011 16:05:42 GMT
Here I sit, on top of this slide in some play area next this school. The reasons for me being will be explained sooner then later…but that isn’t what is import at the moment. What is important is that on the right hand side of the slide’s end is a camera recording me. Should I start with something nutty or something intelligent? What should I do to start this promo? And why does my head still hurts? Almost en tire week as pasted and still I feel hurt in the head…whatever, its not like anybody would care is a nobody like me feels anything like pain. After a few more moments of silence I finally began to speak.
TBS: Here the joys of childhood takes place. They can’t wait to get out here after lessons just to be picked on and bullied. Can’t wait to be picked last to every game that is played. Can’t wait to be ignored by many….here the joys of childhood takes place.
Okay, I spoke about a play area instead of my upcoming Battle Royale against fourteen others. But at the end of the day why should I care? Management might already have picked their winner before booking the show since my coach has told me of places like that but either way continuing to speak to what I did.
TBS: But tomorrow my joy of childhood will take place against thirteen other men in a simple over the top rope duel for a shot at Sophia Gabriella’s World Championship at a time of the challenger’s own choosing. You can bring thirteen you can a thousand, it won’t matter. Its not bout pining your opponent or making them submit, no it doesn’t, the only thing that matters is throwing your opponent over the top rope with both of their feet touching the floor. So no millions and millions would ever matter in this war zone that is called a “Traditional Thanksgiving Battle Royal.”
Now I’ve spoken about this match, what should I speak about next? Maybe one of my unfortunate victims? But which one should I speak of? The nincompoop from Leeds? Nah, he’s not even worth wasting the tiniest piece of air. I mean, when has the fool ever stayed at a company for more then a month…let alone win a damn match? Maybe he is solely here to just be a jobber, since the words “Marvellous One” sounds so jobber like even the Brooklyn Brawler would get cleanly pin this retard. But like I thought he’s “not even worth wasting the tiniest piece of air.” Hell, I could safely bet everything I have in life on him being eliminated first since he is that useless…maybe that is what its like to be a Leeds native. But anyway, I remain sitting on top of this slide as I finally decide to speak about one of my upcoming opponents.
TBS: One child in this match tried and failed to prove to me that Wales will not lose to England. All he proved is that the English will always outdo the Welsh and outdo them in style. I don’t want to sound fully mean but truth of the matter is, Justin Blade, that I have beaten you once I can beat you again and easily throw you over the top rope. I don’t mean to sound confident but if I’ve done it once, I can easily do it again. But hey…I have nothing against you, like I have nothing against everyone else in this match, but after what happened last week…I need this victory in a big, big way. I don’t care if I never become a Champion but for now Justin, I will beat you and I will not hesitate to do whatever it takes to have my hand raised in victory.
My face stayed blank, calm and relaxed all at the same time while I spoke each of these words. After speaking them though I decided to go down this slide and when I reached the bottom I grabbed the cam recorder. Now it is recording my face…my, what Laura calls, cute face…but that doesn’t matter nor does it faze me as I glared my expressionless eyes into the lens of the recorder. Maybe I am naturally blank about things or maybe that only a certain few could actually bring out my feelings…but anyway, I began to speak without giving the camera a moment to record silence.
TBS: Baneful…painful…destructive…mastodonic…are these the words you choose to call your mister “Alistar Bane?” What is so baneful about your existence since you are a somebody, a common somebody. A somebody that wants to be great, to be famous and to be the best. I know little about being baneful but what I do know is how life is my bane. Life is my pain. Life is my suffering. Life is my rage. Life is the existence I do not have. Life is my fuel, my adrenaline and my motivation to beat you Alistar Bane. I live a life of shadows. A life of misery. A life of disheartening and blue while all my eyes can see is a world of grey, not black or white. So at this “Thanksgiving Battle Royale” I’ll give you some gifts. My right hand, my left hand and my feet. Tomorrow these shall be your gifts of Bane’s bane as I defeat you in this Battle Royale.
While I spoke my body moved from left to right and right to left, in a direction of its own choosing. My eyes were focused, blank, purposeless…but with a hint of sadness, almost like a drunk who lost a bet. What the cam recorder could see behind me was the slide I am walking away from. Other then that nothing could be seen behind me. But what else the recorder couldn’t see is the destination I am walking towards, a roundabout that children sit on and spin about in. the only time the recorder could see the object was when I sat on the edge of it. It was when I crossed my legs on the roundabout I began to speak.
TBS: “Dear Diary,” it has been at lease three years since I’ve been punished for “Breaking The Law” but I can still remember those days in prison so clearly. I perform various kicks and various punches on those walls to amuse myself. I got forced to have a single cell for doing various submission holds on my first cellmate, a couple different piledrivers to my second and a simple DDT to the third. Sometimes I wished I could suplex those guards watching, just like I wish I could of powerslammed the patrol officers…but throughout every night I dreamed about either splashing like a frog or being a shooting star. Yet every morning I ask…“Whose Life” did I ruin to be in here…that life I ruined is my own. So dear “Dear Dairy,” at lease three years has pasted and tomorrow I’ll be battling and eliminating this “Rocky J” from the Battle Royale…so until then, rest my “Dear Diary.” Broken Saint, X…
While speaking my words I slowly began to straighten my legs and use one of them to make the roundabout spin about at a slow-ish pace. But there is one thing in my mind that I was barely able to not show in this promo so far…who is this “Paxus?” I’ve never heard nor seen this person…is this guy suppose to be a joke? A newly contracted superstar? A local jobber? An international jobber? An international sensation that’s here is lose over and over again? Or maybe “Paxus” is basically somebody returning to World Elite Wrestling under a masked persona, like a few others have done in other companies? But whatever, he’ll probably don’t stand hardly much of a chance in defeating me. So now that I’ve finished speaking the momentum I continuously gave the object is causing this roundabout to spin at a medium to high speed. So I decided to slowly stand up on this spinning wheel of childish joys and once I fully stood up I gave air to my words once again.
TBS: Spinning around again and again, that is what earth does around the sun every twenty-four hours. But in the past there has been conflict between lifestyles and opinions. Shortly after World War Two, none have been stronger when the old hatred that Russia and America holds against each other…and to a point their hatred is still going. I don’t know why but then again, why should I care? Even if I don’t, I could easily use this blood old hatred for an advantage since there is one Alex Koslov, an extremely proud Russian, and there is also Sam Knight…a man aiming to annihilate anybody who aims against his annihilating ways. The tiny Russian, the huge American. Do I honestly care? No I don’t. But there has been a question in my head for a while…who is better, Russia or America? Could the Soviet Spike rid the landscape of the almost seven footer? Or will the poor little “Russian Hooligan” be taken down with the Annihilator? I don’t know the answer but I do know that it shall be quite amusing to watch this non-nuclear explosion in the middle of the ring tomorrow…
As I spoke the roundabout began to slow down. My Anglo-Scottish accent seem to have pierced the spinning disk since the object was slowing down at its own pace while it became obvious that I securely placed the cam recorder on the ground, before going on the roundabout, since it remained perfectly still throughout my speech. Ever since meeting sweet Laura in that gym a part of me felt open to voice itself…something it hasn’t done since at lease three years ago. But anyway, the thing would eventually have to stop since the friction produced by the mechanisms holding it up would grind this roundabout to a halt…yet eve though it was clearly slowing down, it hasn’t stopped yet, so yet again I speak with air that shouldn’t have been mine.
TBS: The sunny day is amazing isn’t it, “Mister Amazing Bill Liden?” The sun is shining, the chicks are tweeting while momma birdie delivers breakfast. The sky is clear and the nature is free. That might be what you see Mister Amazing…in your life of light and darkness. But I do not see that. What I see is the sun bleeding itself so we get to abuse the life we possess day after day after day. I see the baby worm getting ripped away from its home, taken far away and then mutilated just for the future slaughterers to feel the thrill of bloodshed. I see the illusion that the sky is, instead of being just a simple sky…it is hiding the stars and the planets far, far away from the eyes of would be astronauts in their nappies with dummies in their mouths.
I can also see that in this little play area the grass looks green but beyond the fence to our right the grass is grey, flat, cold and remorseless to klutzes. I don’t see the amazement of light and dark before I can’t. instead I see a world of grey in what other might call twilight…so you can say that I am not Mister Amazing, instead you can class me as just an unremarkable nobody. So instead of an “Amazing Knockout” I’ll give you an “Unremarkable Euthanasia” by eliminating your self, and your “Amazing” chance, from tomorrow’s Battle Royale.
Finally the roundabout stopped spinning and now, as I step off the spinning disk with wheels, the recorder is directly in front of me. So I picked it up and began to wander in my own direction. What is the destination? I do not know but what I do know is that a combatant in the Battle Royale tomorrow is Deadpool, the fictional Marvel character that I pinned in my very first wrestling match two weeks ago. I defeated him already so I shouldn’t ready consider him as a massive threat…but maybe he’ll eliminate me when it matters most. Nah, I won’t ever let myself be caught off guard by anyone, not even the same Canadian that I ended the heartache of. But what if he hits me with his “Combo Breaker?” What if he nails me with the “WTF Boom” or even the “Gooma Stomp?”
I would be vulnerable to defeat and people would continue to consider me as a jobber, since they weren’t amused by my performance at last week’s main event. But wait a second…what I am thinking is just utter bullshit. I took on Deadpool in that Fatal Four Way and pinned him cleanly. So why the fuck should I worry about him? I defeated him once, I’ll easily defeat him once again…hell, maybe I should put him on my shortlist on who to specifically eliminate, just after the hobo from Leeds. But back to what is going on. My legs seem to be leading me towards some swings, but at my pace I had enough time to speak again before reaching over to them.
TBS: Britannia, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves…I think that is how a certain little song goes. It is kind of amusing though that out of fourteen men, only four are British…and out of the four, only three are worth mentioning. Myself, Justin Blade and this “British Invader” Aiden Thompson. But Aiden I have a question for you…what needs invading? America is practically the parallel version of Great Britain. The UK are in a war alliance with France and America while in a trading alliance with the rest of Europe. So I’ll repeat myself, what needs invading? The company known as World Elite Wrestling? Why does it need invading? Its already in chaos and anarchy, or in other terms…the inmates are running the asylum. Does the Battle Royale needs invading? Maybe but you what? There is one thing in your way Aiden Thompson and that is a two-hundred-and-eighteen pound nobody from Gretna Green that aims to become the one who wins WEW’s very first “Thanksgiving Battle Royale.” So mister invader sir, act tough and be tougher because I don’t aim to lost, I aim to the bane of those invincible.
When I finished speaking I finally made it over to the swings that my legs want me go over to. I won’t lie to anybody, part of my mind was thinking about this “Michael Moretti.” No, its not because I think he could easily win this match…it was because his last name sounds like some kind of brandy while altogether his name remains me of a cocktail. Damn, I use to like cocktails and brandies and beer and all that other alcoholic substances until they fucking ruined my life and robbed stripped the title “daddy” from me. But I don’t feel remotely worried about this guy. I hold nothing against him but I can’t remember what he might or might not have done so far in this company. A shining light for the future, maybe, but for tomorrow he’ll just be an equation that I need to, and will, solve. I wish I knew something more about him but other then being a predictable submission based powerhouse, I got nout to say for or against this guy…but whatever. Now that I’ve reached the swings I placed the cam recorder down on one of those seats that you swing in before going down to my knees, so that me and the camera lens were looking eyes to, well, lens. Without giving the object any second of blankness I continued to speak.
TBS: Welcome to a basic school in Gretna Green. Its probably about a hundredth of Las Vegas, isn’t it Pattrick Evans? But then again, I prefer the peaceful town of marrying without parental consent over a zombie filled gamble city any day. I mean, what anyone does there is sit in front of a slot machine until they use up their entire mortgage then become to moan instead of speak, just like zombies. But what about you isn’t making people bored to death? Your voice sounds like the same as half the people backstage. You act like the basic “I’ll announce myself when I want to” heel, like a badly done spoof of one Ken Anderson.
Hell, you even got the haircut fob, the stupid smug look and even the whole silly “I’ll make the fans boo by simply pointing at them” act sorted. But what Ken Anderson has that you don’t is actual in-ring talent. And it is that lack of talent that will make you become a victim tomorrow Pattrick. I wish you luck,, like I wish everyone else in the match the best of luck, because you all are going to need it since…I enjoy dangerous behaviours, environments and chances.
My eyes remain fixed on the lens and never blinked, not even once, while I spoke every word that just escaped my lips. Now I have spoken about all my opponents tomorrow, what should I do? Switch the recorder off and walk away? I think that would be a smart move since I need to take a plane back to the USA before sunset, just to make it back in time for the match. So here I go, airing my last few words before switching off the recorder.
TBS: Tomorrow night you’ll all feel the joys of my childhood come alive. Break me…I don’t care.
Once I switched off the cam recorder I simply picked it up, put it in my pocket and wandered off towards the fence. Instead of suing the door I jumped over the fence, since this promo was taking place in a simple primary school, which are normally for children under the age of ten. I honestly don’t give a damn which direction I went because in the end I just called a local taxi company, with my mobile, to give me a list to the nearest airport.