Parsons Unleashed. Pure 'ass. Issue 1: 'It Begins.'
May 9, 2016 0:19:15 GMT -5
Nathan Saniti likes this
Post by parsons on May 9, 2016 0:19:15 GMT -5
Through a haze, the blurred edges of reality fade inward toward a tired looking man dressed in worn and faded blue jeans and a plain baggy black t-shirt. He stands in the center of a room seemingly confused. Running his right hand through short brown hair, his green eyes are staring straight ahead; attempting to process exactly what he was supposed to do next.
Everywhere he turned there was another pile of boxes, and another and another. Looking to the left…full. To the right…full. One after the other, they were nothing more than towers of increasingly tedious tasks he'd now have to complete. Brown fibreboard seemed to be the ebb and flow of his day lately, but such was the life of a family man.
Glancing around, the light wooden flooring gave way to white crown moldings before something called an accent wall, he didn't know what that was, just that it was deep purple in colour and that he hated it. Family pictures lined the walls in decorative frames, each blurring to the next before passing a University degree of some sort.
They were pretty much finished moving in, the house warming party would be soon. A chance to gather a number of people together for the purpose of what exactly? He didn’t know half of them, and he only liked half of the other half at most…he was never great at math…but the odds of him having a good time didn't seem great.
Where had things changed? When did he become lame? He had been a professional wrestler, one of the best, the most unique one out there, but those days were gone. Now, he was the top colour commentator in the business and the days of being ‘him’ were over, the nightmare was finally over, the dream had begun.
To live a normal life, to work in a profession where potentially getting your ass kicked wasn’t a daily occurrence…in short, his in-ring retirement.
“Daddy!” His current dilemma was interrupted by the excited voice of a little girl who shrieks with joy as she run into the room. Precious blonde curls bounced in the air as a toddler dressed in a flowing pink sun dress throws herself at the brown haired man in the black t-shirt.
Grunting while catching her, he smiles. “Hey sweetie…it's so good to see you! Pretty soon you won’t be Daddy’s little girl anymore…you’re getting sooo big…where’s Mommy?”
But before ‘Daddy’s little girl’ can be of assistance, a female voice enters the room carrying a distinctly English accent with it. “Right here…Chris you should have seen little Vickie today she was soooo good at the salon getting her hair done…she was an angel, they did her bangs and everything, after that we went shopping for new dresses. Chris...are you listening? Chris do you hear me...Chris?...Chris?...Chris? PARSONS!”
Sure enough, there was Victoria Elspeth, more specifically, a very upset - borderline pissed off, Victoria Elspeth. “Daddy's little...huh? The fuck?” Was all he could muster while mumbling his way towards consciousness.
The brown boxes were gone, as he looked around his palatial 'Vegas penthouse, Victoria glared at him as her arms crossed. Her blonde waves flowed about her shoulders, and though she did her best to look angry, the grey of her pantsuit made her look more the part of a naughty librarian, than a wrestling interviewer. “Excuse me? What was that? 'Daddy's little' 'what' exactly?"
For the first time she could recall, he was silent. She had assumed, as per normal, that he had no excuse for his actions. In reality, Parsons had begun taking a mental inventory.
Hair? Long and awesome…check.
T-shirt? Still black…but a quick glance down ensured it still bore the T.I.B. “Greatness is Taken…” logo, check. Two for two…time for the third check.
“Hey Vic? We fucking after this?” A quick stinging sensation reverberates through the left side of his face. Victoria wasn’t having any of his advances, check. Three for Three. Yup, he was awake, this was definitely the real deal.
“What the bloody hell is your problem? Of course not! I'm not one of your bar tarts you imbecile, I'm here because you hired me to help introduce PCW to your various 'charms'...we'll call them. You’re the last man on earth I’d ever bed…” Parsons shrugs his shoulders, at least now he knew he was, in fact, in the line...even if he was the last guy in it.
“Nevermind, just a nightmare sugartits, nothing to worry about…look...important question, what day is it?” Disgusted, she looks at him like pity is beyond her fragile features. ”Sunday Chris…it’s Sunday…”
A blur of motion erupts her as Parsons jumps up and grasps Victoria by the wrist. He was like the March Hare, he was late. Always late. “Shit! Sunday!? Not much time left! Have the other fuckers said shit yet? How long was I out? Second thought, probably best I don't know...come on I gotta get...where the fuck is that laptop?” Parsons was right…it was probably best he didn't remember being in a constant balance between drunk, hungover and passed out ever since his loss in the battle royal.
On weak legs, he only gets a few steps before Victoria puts on the brakes. “I don’t think so Chris…interview piece? Remember?”
Stopping only a moment he quips, “Not gonna waste this chance to get me alone eh? K Vic'...you got it. Have a seat. The beauty of having a private jet is, it takes off when I fucking say so."
He'd always been arrogant, but since his 'unleashing' this past fall, he'd been even moreso. It was as if he truly believed this 'Matrix Theory' he kept rambling on about. As crazy as it sounded, Parsons truly lived as though he thought his life was scripted and that a few months ago he had flown to the east coast of Canada, killed his 'writer' and took control of the magical laptop that contained his life. And not that he had basically flown to Canada and committed a break and enter with a side of Manslaughter.
Motioning toward a pair of overstuffed black leather recliners, a black stone fireplace was laid into the wall between them, a small flame flickering, struggling to survive. Taking the one on the left for himself, his offer is as gentlemanly as Parsons got, "Have a seat sugartits, let's show 'em the magic." Rattling his zipper in Victoria's general direction his 'offer' is declined in passing.
"Pretending I didn't hear that. And moving on, I don't get it Chris...why PCW? By all accounts you have everything you could ever hope for in Riot Star Wrestling, why come to Pure Class in the first place?"
The reason he had hired her in the first place, juxtaposition. He needed someone to talk to, someone to allow him to unleash the awesome that was his unique view of the world.
"Because this place ain't had class until I got in their ring! I'm here to do two things, kick ass and get paid...and I already got my cheque this week. I'm here to make things...interesting." Pausing, his smirk would make the Cheshire cat green with envy. Notorious for his ability to plan weeks, even months in advance, Parsons' idea of interesting probably spelled bad news for PCW.
"It ain't shit to say that I've been around the world, fought the best I could find, won some, lost some...took titles...shit took bitches too. That's easy shit to say. This ain't about what I've already done...this is more about 'Can I do it again?'
This represents a new challenge for me. Sure on 'The Network'...a shit ton of people know me and know I'm the shit, but here? They don't know shit. They don't even know about Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending) yet. It's a fresh start, A new dawn, a chance to do the things I've always wanted to, but never got around to."
"Let's get into your Trauma match. A four corners match against Razor Blade, Gabriel Hawn, and Dontevious Ellis..."
"I'll take 'Who?' for a thousand Alex...nope never heard of any of those braying assclowns. But I can probably expect that for a while...did you say Razor Blade? Dull name, pardon the pun...no! Don't pardon the pun...the pun stands! Regardless, it's probably some hardcore fanboy douchebag. Nothing to trip out about.
The other one...Gabriel Hawn was it? Almost sounds familiar, is that Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell's kid? Didn't know he was wrestling? I know I haven't seen either of them in anything good in a long ass time, but shit they're so bad off they're making their kid fight? Sure, what the fuck I guess...why not? And what did you say the other fuckbag's name was again?"
"Dontevious Ellis..." The slap of his facepalming interrupts Victoria and derails her train of thought long enough for him to wrestle control of the conversation back into his grasp.
"Worst attempt at a ghetto mama trying to give their kid a halfway respectable name I've heard in a while. 'Gee I know how to sound smart, I'll just put 'tevious' at the end of a boring ass name' I don't need to meet this piece of shit to know he's a piece of shit...fuck me." Pausing only for a moment, his deductive reasoning was a sharp as a knife.
"So, let me get this straight...I've got a likely hardcore reject named after a Gillette Mach III that hasn't realized that that bullshit was over in the late nineties to early two thousands. It's twenty sixteen fuckbag, move on. I know it's hard but it's for the best...
With that trainwreck, I've got the kid of two annoying Hollywood fucks like Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn...and then to top it off, a guy trying to sound smart despite being a horrible black stereotype? Shit, I thought being a fourth wall breaking, self aware fictional character operating within his own reality would make me the oddball around here...maybe I'll fit in just fine after all."
He wasn't even close, but it didn't matter...he was about to truly begin. She'd known him for years and despite his claims of still being twenty six some six plus years later, he wasn't crazy, not completely anyways. Their relationship was complicated to say the least and possibly best described as laying somewhere between courtship, friendship and disgust.
Regardless, her concern for the wellbeing of her...whatever he was, bleeds through. "Chris, can't you take anything seriously? You probably should in this case. With the influx of new talent into PCW, you need to stand out from the crowd and a win in your first actual match would go a long way toward making a successful run at a title..."
Parsons doesn't even let her finish her set up before cutting her words down in an instant, "Look Vic', I'm not here for titles. That shit gets old real fast. I'm not going to come out and promise victory or something stupid like that either...these type of matches are just like that fucking battle royal...it's more about luck and timing than skill. My true debut comes when someone finally gets me one on one...
What I am going to say is that these guys are in for a surprise. I'm going out there to show PCW how to be hard. I'm going to show everyone why they should be paying attention, why it doesn't matter if Mach III, Goldie's kid and ghetto superstar all work together...they're too soft to get the job done one on one and when they hear this, they'll know I'm right. Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending) is the only brand making wrestling hard again.
None of these dipshidiots have the stamina to go to the lengths I will, I've made my name being the guy willing to do whatever it takes...I only need one chance to end all this bullshit and make my climb through the rest of the 'rookie' pack...wrestling went soft, shit it almost got thrown out of the Olympics...Professional wrestling has been even worse. The game needs to be shaken up...and here I am bitches...the answer to problems you didn't know you had yet.
This is step one, I come in...get the lay of the land. Learn my new environment. Like a super predator I acclimate to my new surrounding like a priest in a candy store. I've looked at all three of these guys...I don't fucking quit...I'll pick my spot and do everything I can to be the guy that has the roster buzzing...so when I say it's only a matter of time before you see my name plastered all over this fucking place...you know it isn't just a bold claim, it's an eventuality. Now that I have my foot in the door, the next step is the fun part...putting that foot in people's asses for profit.
Mark my words, this is just the beginning...I'm what you call a catalyst...maybe I rise up at the head of an army of 'new guys', maybe a long time performer wants to shake up their standing...maybe I've already got a Judas or two on the roster? That's the fun part...by the time you figure out if I'm kidding or not, I'll be onto my next step...the new age of PCW is about to begin...a new breed of heel has arrived.
One that doesn't care if you're new or old. To me, you are all equally worthless. One that knows it takes more than a shiny belt to be the best. Mach III, Goldie's boy and Dontvianus they're just the beginning. They're like the first level guys you meet in a game...sure they might get you in a pack, but one on one you take them down...one by one. I'm not just going to be the single largest pain in the ass they've ever had...I'm going to have fun...test my new boundaries...be me. Which reminds me..."
Checking a clock on the wall, Parsons shakes his head. "...time to take the pussy for a walk before I leave. Cringer!"
Parsons' voice practically echoes throughout the penthouse, but is crushed by the rambling of his 'cat'.
An easily twelve hundred pound, green and yellow sabretooth tiger slinks into the room as quietly as a massive beast can. Eyeing Victoria with caution, it seems rather jumpy for such an impressive large cat.
Stretching, the muscled cat was, simply put, a once in a lifetime sight. An anomaly, like its master. A quick lick from the beast to her hand left her unsure of what confused her more, that this animal existed or that Parsons referred to it as his 'pussy'.
"Don't make any sudden moves Vic', it'll just scare him or make him horny...and you don't want either of those. Who's a pretty kitty?! Would you believe some heartless bastard left him at the 'Vegas SPCA? He's awesome...you know, except for the bedwetting...anyways...I'll meet you at the airport in a couple hours...where'd I put that gold leash?"
Retrieving the ridiculous leash for his ridiculous pet, Parsons was out the door and from the crashing coming from the hallway, he was rapidly making his way toward the elevator. The newest phase of his career was about to truly begin and the biggest question Parsons had seemed to be if PCW was ready for him?
Everywhere he turned there was another pile of boxes, and another and another. Looking to the left…full. To the right…full. One after the other, they were nothing more than towers of increasingly tedious tasks he'd now have to complete. Brown fibreboard seemed to be the ebb and flow of his day lately, but such was the life of a family man.
Glancing around, the light wooden flooring gave way to white crown moldings before something called an accent wall, he didn't know what that was, just that it was deep purple in colour and that he hated it. Family pictures lined the walls in decorative frames, each blurring to the next before passing a University degree of some sort.
They were pretty much finished moving in, the house warming party would be soon. A chance to gather a number of people together for the purpose of what exactly? He didn’t know half of them, and he only liked half of the other half at most…he was never great at math…but the odds of him having a good time didn't seem great.
Where had things changed? When did he become lame? He had been a professional wrestler, one of the best, the most unique one out there, but those days were gone. Now, he was the top colour commentator in the business and the days of being ‘him’ were over, the nightmare was finally over, the dream had begun.
To live a normal life, to work in a profession where potentially getting your ass kicked wasn’t a daily occurrence…in short, his in-ring retirement.
“Daddy!” His current dilemma was interrupted by the excited voice of a little girl who shrieks with joy as she run into the room. Precious blonde curls bounced in the air as a toddler dressed in a flowing pink sun dress throws herself at the brown haired man in the black t-shirt.
Grunting while catching her, he smiles. “Hey sweetie…it's so good to see you! Pretty soon you won’t be Daddy’s little girl anymore…you’re getting sooo big…where’s Mommy?”
But before ‘Daddy’s little girl’ can be of assistance, a female voice enters the room carrying a distinctly English accent with it. “Right here…Chris you should have seen little Vickie today she was soooo good at the salon getting her hair done…she was an angel, they did her bangs and everything, after that we went shopping for new dresses. Chris...are you listening? Chris do you hear me...Chris?...Chris?...Chris? PARSONS!”
Sure enough, there was Victoria Elspeth, more specifically, a very upset - borderline pissed off, Victoria Elspeth. “Daddy's little...huh? The fuck?” Was all he could muster while mumbling his way towards consciousness.
The brown boxes were gone, as he looked around his palatial 'Vegas penthouse, Victoria glared at him as her arms crossed. Her blonde waves flowed about her shoulders, and though she did her best to look angry, the grey of her pantsuit made her look more the part of a naughty librarian, than a wrestling interviewer. “Excuse me? What was that? 'Daddy's little' 'what' exactly?"
For the first time she could recall, he was silent. She had assumed, as per normal, that he had no excuse for his actions. In reality, Parsons had begun taking a mental inventory.
Hair? Long and awesome…check.
T-shirt? Still black…but a quick glance down ensured it still bore the T.I.B. “Greatness is Taken…” logo, check. Two for two…time for the third check.
“Hey Vic? We fucking after this?” A quick stinging sensation reverberates through the left side of his face. Victoria wasn’t having any of his advances, check. Three for Three. Yup, he was awake, this was definitely the real deal.
“What the bloody hell is your problem? Of course not! I'm not one of your bar tarts you imbecile, I'm here because you hired me to help introduce PCW to your various 'charms'...we'll call them. You’re the last man on earth I’d ever bed…” Parsons shrugs his shoulders, at least now he knew he was, in fact, in the line...even if he was the last guy in it.
“Nevermind, just a nightmare sugartits, nothing to worry about…look...important question, what day is it?” Disgusted, she looks at him like pity is beyond her fragile features. ”Sunday Chris…it’s Sunday…”
A blur of motion erupts her as Parsons jumps up and grasps Victoria by the wrist. He was like the March Hare, he was late. Always late. “Shit! Sunday!? Not much time left! Have the other fuckers said shit yet? How long was I out? Second thought, probably best I don't know...come on I gotta get...where the fuck is that laptop?” Parsons was right…it was probably best he didn't remember being in a constant balance between drunk, hungover and passed out ever since his loss in the battle royal.
On weak legs, he only gets a few steps before Victoria puts on the brakes. “I don’t think so Chris…interview piece? Remember?”
Stopping only a moment he quips, “Not gonna waste this chance to get me alone eh? K Vic'...you got it. Have a seat. The beauty of having a private jet is, it takes off when I fucking say so."
He'd always been arrogant, but since his 'unleashing' this past fall, he'd been even moreso. It was as if he truly believed this 'Matrix Theory' he kept rambling on about. As crazy as it sounded, Parsons truly lived as though he thought his life was scripted and that a few months ago he had flown to the east coast of Canada, killed his 'writer' and took control of the magical laptop that contained his life. And not that he had basically flown to Canada and committed a break and enter with a side of Manslaughter.
Motioning toward a pair of overstuffed black leather recliners, a black stone fireplace was laid into the wall between them, a small flame flickering, struggling to survive. Taking the one on the left for himself, his offer is as gentlemanly as Parsons got, "Have a seat sugartits, let's show 'em the magic." Rattling his zipper in Victoria's general direction his 'offer' is declined in passing.
"Pretending I didn't hear that. And moving on, I don't get it Chris...why PCW? By all accounts you have everything you could ever hope for in Riot Star Wrestling, why come to Pure Class in the first place?"
The reason he had hired her in the first place, juxtaposition. He needed someone to talk to, someone to allow him to unleash the awesome that was his unique view of the world.
"Because this place ain't had class until I got in their ring! I'm here to do two things, kick ass and get paid...and I already got my cheque this week. I'm here to make things...interesting." Pausing, his smirk would make the Cheshire cat green with envy. Notorious for his ability to plan weeks, even months in advance, Parsons' idea of interesting probably spelled bad news for PCW.
"It ain't shit to say that I've been around the world, fought the best I could find, won some, lost some...took titles...shit took bitches too. That's easy shit to say. This ain't about what I've already done...this is more about 'Can I do it again?'
This represents a new challenge for me. Sure on 'The Network'...a shit ton of people know me and know I'm the shit, but here? They don't know shit. They don't even know about Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending) yet. It's a fresh start, A new dawn, a chance to do the things I've always wanted to, but never got around to."
"Let's get into your Trauma match. A four corners match against Razor Blade, Gabriel Hawn, and Dontevious Ellis..."
"I'll take 'Who?' for a thousand Alex...nope never heard of any of those braying assclowns. But I can probably expect that for a while...did you say Razor Blade? Dull name, pardon the pun...no! Don't pardon the pun...the pun stands! Regardless, it's probably some hardcore fanboy douchebag. Nothing to trip out about.
The other one...Gabriel Hawn was it? Almost sounds familiar, is that Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell's kid? Didn't know he was wrestling? I know I haven't seen either of them in anything good in a long ass time, but shit they're so bad off they're making their kid fight? Sure, what the fuck I guess...why not? And what did you say the other fuckbag's name was again?"
"Dontevious Ellis..." The slap of his facepalming interrupts Victoria and derails her train of thought long enough for him to wrestle control of the conversation back into his grasp.
"Worst attempt at a ghetto mama trying to give their kid a halfway respectable name I've heard in a while. 'Gee I know how to sound smart, I'll just put 'tevious' at the end of a boring ass name' I don't need to meet this piece of shit to know he's a piece of shit...fuck me." Pausing only for a moment, his deductive reasoning was a sharp as a knife.
"So, let me get this straight...I've got a likely hardcore reject named after a Gillette Mach III that hasn't realized that that bullshit was over in the late nineties to early two thousands. It's twenty sixteen fuckbag, move on. I know it's hard but it's for the best...
With that trainwreck, I've got the kid of two annoying Hollywood fucks like Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn...and then to top it off, a guy trying to sound smart despite being a horrible black stereotype? Shit, I thought being a fourth wall breaking, self aware fictional character operating within his own reality would make me the oddball around here...maybe I'll fit in just fine after all."
He wasn't even close, but it didn't matter...he was about to truly begin. She'd known him for years and despite his claims of still being twenty six some six plus years later, he wasn't crazy, not completely anyways. Their relationship was complicated to say the least and possibly best described as laying somewhere between courtship, friendship and disgust.
Regardless, her concern for the wellbeing of her...whatever he was, bleeds through. "Chris, can't you take anything seriously? You probably should in this case. With the influx of new talent into PCW, you need to stand out from the crowd and a win in your first actual match would go a long way toward making a successful run at a title..."
Parsons doesn't even let her finish her set up before cutting her words down in an instant, "Look Vic', I'm not here for titles. That shit gets old real fast. I'm not going to come out and promise victory or something stupid like that either...these type of matches are just like that fucking battle royal...it's more about luck and timing than skill. My true debut comes when someone finally gets me one on one...
What I am going to say is that these guys are in for a surprise. I'm going out there to show PCW how to be hard. I'm going to show everyone why they should be paying attention, why it doesn't matter if Mach III, Goldie's kid and ghetto superstar all work together...they're too soft to get the job done one on one and when they hear this, they'll know I'm right. Wrestling's Viagra (Patent Pending) is the only brand making wrestling hard again.
None of these dipshidiots have the stamina to go to the lengths I will, I've made my name being the guy willing to do whatever it takes...I only need one chance to end all this bullshit and make my climb through the rest of the 'rookie' pack...wrestling went soft, shit it almost got thrown out of the Olympics...Professional wrestling has been even worse. The game needs to be shaken up...and here I am bitches...the answer to problems you didn't know you had yet.
This is step one, I come in...get the lay of the land. Learn my new environment. Like a super predator I acclimate to my new surrounding like a priest in a candy store. I've looked at all three of these guys...I don't fucking quit...I'll pick my spot and do everything I can to be the guy that has the roster buzzing...so when I say it's only a matter of time before you see my name plastered all over this fucking place...you know it isn't just a bold claim, it's an eventuality. Now that I have my foot in the door, the next step is the fun part...putting that foot in people's asses for profit.
Mark my words, this is just the beginning...I'm what you call a catalyst...maybe I rise up at the head of an army of 'new guys', maybe a long time performer wants to shake up their standing...maybe I've already got a Judas or two on the roster? That's the fun part...by the time you figure out if I'm kidding or not, I'll be onto my next step...the new age of PCW is about to begin...a new breed of heel has arrived.
One that doesn't care if you're new or old. To me, you are all equally worthless. One that knows it takes more than a shiny belt to be the best. Mach III, Goldie's boy and Dontvianus they're just the beginning. They're like the first level guys you meet in a game...sure they might get you in a pack, but one on one you take them down...one by one. I'm not just going to be the single largest pain in the ass they've ever had...I'm going to have fun...test my new boundaries...be me. Which reminds me..."
Checking a clock on the wall, Parsons shakes his head. "...time to take the pussy for a walk before I leave. Cringer!"
Parsons' voice practically echoes throughout the penthouse, but is crushed by the rambling of his 'cat'.
An easily twelve hundred pound, green and yellow sabretooth tiger slinks into the room as quietly as a massive beast can. Eyeing Victoria with caution, it seems rather jumpy for such an impressive large cat.
Stretching, the muscled cat was, simply put, a once in a lifetime sight. An anomaly, like its master. A quick lick from the beast to her hand left her unsure of what confused her more, that this animal existed or that Parsons referred to it as his 'pussy'.
"Don't make any sudden moves Vic', it'll just scare him or make him horny...and you don't want either of those. Who's a pretty kitty?! Would you believe some heartless bastard left him at the 'Vegas SPCA? He's awesome...you know, except for the bedwetting...anyways...I'll meet you at the airport in a couple hours...where'd I put that gold leash?"
Retrieving the ridiculous leash for his ridiculous pet, Parsons was out the door and from the crashing coming from the hallway, he was rapidly making his way toward the elevator. The newest phase of his career was about to truly begin and the biggest question Parsons had seemed to be if PCW was ready for him?