Post by Eira on May 2, 2016 22:10:32 GMT -5
((This is the Last Chance Battle Royal secret RP entry for parsons))
A deep red accent wall and dark hardwood framing surrounds a large bay window that dominates the background as we join our host. Bringing the bright coloured neon nightlife of the world famous Las Vegas 'strip' front and center; red, green, gold, purple, orange and a sea of other colours, merge to create everything from cowboys to dragons.
It had been years since the bright light enthralled him, yet PCW's newest talent stares out the window, his long brown hair hanging about his face, his jawline is steady, and even at night, his eyes are hidden behind black mirrored RayBans.
Casually dressed in worn and faded blue jeans and black T.I.B. shirt in the tireless effort of self-promotion (Only $19.99 at PCWshop.com, buy 'em now!), he appears lost in thought.
Was he a green rookie? A returning veteran? Was he simply spinning his wheels elsewhere? Long moments pass as he seems resistant to start. Should he go through with this?
Like always, the answer was a resounding 'Fuck yes you should you handsome bastard!' And with that choice made, he could get the awkward part out of the way.
With a wave of his hand, the lavish surroundings of his penthouse begin to fade away through a haze of fog. Tiny wisps slowly build into a thick wall until even the bright lights of Las Vegas can't be seen. Was he a magician like Nathan Santi? Or was he just crazy? Like Nathan Santi.
"Well, here we go. For the first time in years I find myself meeting a new group of wrestlers all at once, each one of them wondering exactly who the fuck I am and why the fuck they should care..."
Turning, he removes his sunglasses to reveal serpentine green eyes that narrow as they adjust to light for what might be the first time in days. His voice is smooth as a slow thin smirk slithers across his face as he continues.
"...the truth is, you shouldn't care, you should be scared to fucking death. I promise you there's nothin' else quite like me out there...so with that in mind. I'd like to welcome you all to what I'm calling 'Parsons 101: Intro to Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending). I'll be your professor, Chris Parsons."
As the fog dissipates, the penthouse is dissolved, lost until he needs another obligatory show of massive wealth to impress and distract his new co-workers from his latest scheme. In it's place, is an odd sight. A classroom auditorium.
Large white boards dominate the background now, row upon row of cheaply upholstered red seats cascade down to Parsons' feet, each appearing to be full. A packed house...granted they were cardboard cut outs, but a packed house none the less.
Why cardboard cutouts? He needed to ensure that his intended audience got the message. Panning the room, all the PCW stars seemed to make an appearance. From established stars like Grimm, Michael Wryght and the aforementioned Santi, to newer arrivals like Camron Creed. It was obvious he'd gone through great trouble to include everyone, and that was the point. Everyone would need to know the game had now changed.
Coming onto the stage from a side door, Parsons is now a different beast entirely. The faded jeans and T.I.B. shirt are gone. Instead, he's taking the center of the dias in a suit so finely tailored to his six foot six frame, it may as well have been sewn around him.
Running a hand back through his brown locks, he removes his sunglasses tossing them to the side with no regard for their cost and begins scanning his 'students'.
"What a fucking group...fuck me, look at this mess. Ok 'class', since most of you are automatically behind by not knowing who I am, I'm just going to have to assume you're not full on retarded and blast through years of awesome in as few words as possible as to not overload your minds with the awesome that has been my journey." Modest at heart, at least in Parsons' mind, he spoke the words with the confidence of a man who didn't just believe his own words, he lived them.
"I've been all over the world. Seen incredible things, done even more incredible things. But you'll see those for yourself as we get to know each other.
I am...many things. A lover...and fuck am I good at that one. I mean I could go on and on, yup pun intended...but I need to get through this...a lover, a fighter, a business man...I'm the man making wrestling hard again. That's right! Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending)!
I've stole matches, shows, titles and wives. Trashed Hall of Fames, and ruined lives. In the ring I take money and glory, but I come through the fourth wall to tell you my story."
Misdirection, the calling card of great magicians and politicians alike was on full display. And though it was getting less and less likely he'd be bringing out a rabbit anytime soon, his charisma was undeniable. He might be insane, or maybe worse, a genius.
"Chill out, I'm not going to rhyme through this...I mean I could, if I wanted to, but I'll save that for a day I'm bored. Like I said, I'm a lot of things. I'm the realest motherfucker in the room...I'm 'that' guy.
I've made a career out of being the guy willing to do whatever it takes to get to the top. I've won a title in a court room, placed champions in their spot just to knock them down when I was ready, adopted He-Man's cat Cringer from my local SPCA, wrestled three times in one night just because I could, retired Rob Riot, rigged an online poll to get into RSW's Hall of Fame...then admitted to it in my acceptance speech.
I started a prostate cancer foundation just to piss off a recently diagnosed wrestler, gave a family two hundred grand to name their kid and pick their God Parents just to get closer to a bitch and to, you know, kill an afternoon.
In short, I'm an asshole's asshole. But above all, I'm what you call an 'anomally'. I'm the man who can do anything...at least since I did the impossible."
Based on the range of things he'd just admitted to already doing, one had to wonder what someone this arrogant could possibly consider impossible. Fortunately, men like Parsons love to hear themselves speak, the answers would come.
"But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with the basics. What if I told you all I figured 'it' out? That I cracked 'it'? What is 'it' you ask?" Holding out his thumb in tribute, "That's right fuckers...the ultimate answer to life, the universe and everything. I've got it, and the answer to that bitch sure as fuck ain't forty two!"
The meaning of life? His first appearance and he claimed to know the meaning of life itself? Perhaps he was insane afterall...
"Think about our lives. We beat the piss out of each other time and time again, people vanish and disappear all the time, reappearing with almost no explanation...if they reappear at all. And what becomes of the ones who don't come back? Spoiler alert...nothing!
Wrestlers go missing from promotions all the fucking time and I've never been interviewed by one cop about it. They've talked to me about some other shit, sure, but never once the missing people, murders, kidnappings and fuck knows what else goes on in our world. So...I submit to you...my theory. I call it The 'Matrix' Theory. Our lives? It's all a 'work'. All of it."
Raising an eyebrow, he winks at the class, pausing only a moment before straightening his tie and diving right back in.
"Don't look at me like that, you know exactly what I'm talking about! Need me to spell it out for you? Fine! We're all nothing more than characters in the shared fantasy world of regular ass people who take time from their regular ass lives where they work regular ass jobs to write wrestling based fantasy 'roleplays' in a competitive forum for God knows what fucking reason. They sometimes call it 'e-fedding'. Let that sink in.
Crazy right? I know, most people think I am, I get it...but think about it. It makes sense doesn't it? If our realm was truly 'real', then how many of us would be dead? How many of us would be in jail by now? Exactly! Pretty much all of us...
Before you roll your eyes at me, give me that little grin where you're thinking 'this guy's fucking crazy'...fuck off twice 'cause I'm not even getting warmed up yet. Think of the benefits!"
His cocky smirk his replaced with a wide toothy grin, was he messing with everyone? Did he honestly expect rational people to believe his nonsense? What benefits could there possibly be to being product the product of the overactive imagination of a comic nerd, gamer and pop culture junkie?
"Since I know I'm a fictional character, there are no limits to what I can do. I get beat up? No problem, fuck a couple whores and I'm go to go like GTA motherfuckers. Try to kill me? Nope. Up up, down down, left right, left right, A, B, select start...infinite lives bitches.
I lose a match? Big fucking deal, a few keystrokes and my penthouse has seven new levels...I literally don't need to win another match for the rest of forever and I'll still have more to show for it than you. Why? I'll come up with a reason, but mostly, because it's funny. I have negative fucks to give about what any of you think about me...welcome to your worst nightmare."
Holding his arms out imploring you to stay just a moment longer, the end was near.
"I'll tell you though, I don't envy you fuckers. Nope, a guy who has nothing left to prove to anyone and even less to lose, just walked out and claimed to be the chosen one. Neo, Goku, Anakin Skywalker, Jesus...the top dog of whatever fucking religion you want to believe in...and now you're left with one giant motherfucker of a question...is this guy for real? Ok...two questions..."
Parsons lets his smirk return a final time. He'd end it with the only thing he could...
"...what are you going to do about it PCW? Who wants some?"
...a challenge. Fading to black, lesson one was complete. Lesson two would come when he shocked the world at Trauma: One Ninety One in the Last Chance Battle Royal.
A deep red accent wall and dark hardwood framing surrounds a large bay window that dominates the background as we join our host. Bringing the bright coloured neon nightlife of the world famous Las Vegas 'strip' front and center; red, green, gold, purple, orange and a sea of other colours, merge to create everything from cowboys to dragons.
It had been years since the bright light enthralled him, yet PCW's newest talent stares out the window, his long brown hair hanging about his face, his jawline is steady, and even at night, his eyes are hidden behind black mirrored RayBans.
Casually dressed in worn and faded blue jeans and black T.I.B. shirt in the tireless effort of self-promotion (Only $19.99 at PCWshop.com, buy 'em now!), he appears lost in thought.
Was he a green rookie? A returning veteran? Was he simply spinning his wheels elsewhere? Long moments pass as he seems resistant to start. Should he go through with this?
Like always, the answer was a resounding 'Fuck yes you should you handsome bastard!' And with that choice made, he could get the awkward part out of the way.
With a wave of his hand, the lavish surroundings of his penthouse begin to fade away through a haze of fog. Tiny wisps slowly build into a thick wall until even the bright lights of Las Vegas can't be seen. Was he a magician like Nathan Santi? Or was he just crazy? Like Nathan Santi.
"Well, here we go. For the first time in years I find myself meeting a new group of wrestlers all at once, each one of them wondering exactly who the fuck I am and why the fuck they should care..."
Turning, he removes his sunglasses to reveal serpentine green eyes that narrow as they adjust to light for what might be the first time in days. His voice is smooth as a slow thin smirk slithers across his face as he continues.
"...the truth is, you shouldn't care, you should be scared to fucking death. I promise you there's nothin' else quite like me out there...so with that in mind. I'd like to welcome you all to what I'm calling 'Parsons 101: Intro to Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending). I'll be your professor, Chris Parsons."
As the fog dissipates, the penthouse is dissolved, lost until he needs another obligatory show of massive wealth to impress and distract his new co-workers from his latest scheme. In it's place, is an odd sight. A classroom auditorium.
Large white boards dominate the background now, row upon row of cheaply upholstered red seats cascade down to Parsons' feet, each appearing to be full. A packed house...granted they were cardboard cut outs, but a packed house none the less.
Why cardboard cutouts? He needed to ensure that his intended audience got the message. Panning the room, all the PCW stars seemed to make an appearance. From established stars like Grimm, Michael Wryght and the aforementioned Santi, to newer arrivals like Camron Creed. It was obvious he'd gone through great trouble to include everyone, and that was the point. Everyone would need to know the game had now changed.
Coming onto the stage from a side door, Parsons is now a different beast entirely. The faded jeans and T.I.B. shirt are gone. Instead, he's taking the center of the dias in a suit so finely tailored to his six foot six frame, it may as well have been sewn around him.
Running a hand back through his brown locks, he removes his sunglasses tossing them to the side with no regard for their cost and begins scanning his 'students'.
"What a fucking group...fuck me, look at this mess. Ok 'class', since most of you are automatically behind by not knowing who I am, I'm just going to have to assume you're not full on retarded and blast through years of awesome in as few words as possible as to not overload your minds with the awesome that has been my journey." Modest at heart, at least in Parsons' mind, he spoke the words with the confidence of a man who didn't just believe his own words, he lived them.
"I've been all over the world. Seen incredible things, done even more incredible things. But you'll see those for yourself as we get to know each other.
I am...many things. A lover...and fuck am I good at that one. I mean I could go on and on, yup pun intended...but I need to get through this...a lover, a fighter, a business man...I'm the man making wrestling hard again. That's right! Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending)!
I've stole matches, shows, titles and wives. Trashed Hall of Fames, and ruined lives. In the ring I take money and glory, but I come through the fourth wall to tell you my story."
Misdirection, the calling card of great magicians and politicians alike was on full display. And though it was getting less and less likely he'd be bringing out a rabbit anytime soon, his charisma was undeniable. He might be insane, or maybe worse, a genius.
"Chill out, I'm not going to rhyme through this...I mean I could, if I wanted to, but I'll save that for a day I'm bored. Like I said, I'm a lot of things. I'm the realest motherfucker in the room...I'm 'that' guy.
I've made a career out of being the guy willing to do whatever it takes to get to the top. I've won a title in a court room, placed champions in their spot just to knock them down when I was ready, adopted He-Man's cat Cringer from my local SPCA, wrestled three times in one night just because I could, retired Rob Riot, rigged an online poll to get into RSW's Hall of Fame...then admitted to it in my acceptance speech.
I started a prostate cancer foundation just to piss off a recently diagnosed wrestler, gave a family two hundred grand to name their kid and pick their God Parents just to get closer to a bitch and to, you know, kill an afternoon.
In short, I'm an asshole's asshole. But above all, I'm what you call an 'anomally'. I'm the man who can do anything...at least since I did the impossible."
Based on the range of things he'd just admitted to already doing, one had to wonder what someone this arrogant could possibly consider impossible. Fortunately, men like Parsons love to hear themselves speak, the answers would come.
"But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with the basics. What if I told you all I figured 'it' out? That I cracked 'it'? What is 'it' you ask?" Holding out his thumb in tribute, "That's right fuckers...the ultimate answer to life, the universe and everything. I've got it, and the answer to that bitch sure as fuck ain't forty two!"
The meaning of life? His first appearance and he claimed to know the meaning of life itself? Perhaps he was insane afterall...
"Think about our lives. We beat the piss out of each other time and time again, people vanish and disappear all the time, reappearing with almost no explanation...if they reappear at all. And what becomes of the ones who don't come back? Spoiler alert...nothing!
Wrestlers go missing from promotions all the fucking time and I've never been interviewed by one cop about it. They've talked to me about some other shit, sure, but never once the missing people, murders, kidnappings and fuck knows what else goes on in our world. So...I submit to you...my theory. I call it The 'Matrix' Theory. Our lives? It's all a 'work'. All of it."
Raising an eyebrow, he winks at the class, pausing only a moment before straightening his tie and diving right back in.
"Don't look at me like that, you know exactly what I'm talking about! Need me to spell it out for you? Fine! We're all nothing more than characters in the shared fantasy world of regular ass people who take time from their regular ass lives where they work regular ass jobs to write wrestling based fantasy 'roleplays' in a competitive forum for God knows what fucking reason. They sometimes call it 'e-fedding'. Let that sink in.
Crazy right? I know, most people think I am, I get it...but think about it. It makes sense doesn't it? If our realm was truly 'real', then how many of us would be dead? How many of us would be in jail by now? Exactly! Pretty much all of us...
Before you roll your eyes at me, give me that little grin where you're thinking 'this guy's fucking crazy'...fuck off twice 'cause I'm not even getting warmed up yet. Think of the benefits!"
His cocky smirk his replaced with a wide toothy grin, was he messing with everyone? Did he honestly expect rational people to believe his nonsense? What benefits could there possibly be to being product the product of the overactive imagination of a comic nerd, gamer and pop culture junkie?
"Since I know I'm a fictional character, there are no limits to what I can do. I get beat up? No problem, fuck a couple whores and I'm go to go like GTA motherfuckers. Try to kill me? Nope. Up up, down down, left right, left right, A, B, select start...infinite lives bitches.
I lose a match? Big fucking deal, a few keystrokes and my penthouse has seven new levels...I literally don't need to win another match for the rest of forever and I'll still have more to show for it than you. Why? I'll come up with a reason, but mostly, because it's funny. I have negative fucks to give about what any of you think about me...welcome to your worst nightmare."
Holding his arms out imploring you to stay just a moment longer, the end was near.
"I'll tell you though, I don't envy you fuckers. Nope, a guy who has nothing left to prove to anyone and even less to lose, just walked out and claimed to be the chosen one. Neo, Goku, Anakin Skywalker, Jesus...the top dog of whatever fucking religion you want to believe in...and now you're left with one giant motherfucker of a question...is this guy for real? Ok...two questions..."
Parsons lets his smirk return a final time. He'd end it with the only thing he could...
"...what are you going to do about it PCW? Who wants some?"
...a challenge. Fading to black, lesson one was complete. Lesson two would come when he shocked the world at Trauma: One Ninety One in the Last Chance Battle Royal.
