Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Sept 25, 2017 18:44:11 GMT -5
The PCW Arena was mostly dark, with only the first few rows of chairs available from the ring, which was illuminated by the overhead lights. The air seemed dusty, as if the ring hadn't been maintained in quite some time. The apron appeared tattered and torn, and the ropes sagged a bit out of code. Inside that holy squared circle stood a lone figure, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head. The figure threw a few shadow punches, ducking underneath an invisible strike and hitting the ropes, only to roll into a counter, springing to his feet away from where he once was. So continued the exercises, the stoic and determined silouette displayed expert skill in the art of professional wrestling. Following a springboard backflip that had him landing neatly in the middle of the ring, for the first time that night the figure paused, holding his hands to his hips and taking a deep breath. There was a lot in the aura he emitted, soaring out into the dim lighting of the PCW arena. Courage. Pride. Drive. Determination.
Honor.
The quick breather was all the mysterious shadow needed, and he built himself slowly into the steady rhythm of shadow boxing again, dipping and weaving as he countered imaginary blows. One of those dodges saved him from being knocked unconcious, albeit unintentionally. A beer bottles crashed against one of the turnbuckles, smashing into pieces as it landed outside the ring. The figure jumped in fright, not expecting that sort of reaction from the absent crowd. He turned towards the decided source of the bottle, scanning the arena for who was watching him. It could be anybody; a rival wrestler, a drunk fan...hell, even some roving bottle kids.
"Oh, get the fuck out of here. That's been done a hundred times before." Or it could be Whitey Ford. The World Champ sat in the last row of chairs visible in the dim lighting. An opened case of beer was propped up in the chair next to him with a few empties strewn about his feet, which is also where the World Title lay. The figure in the ring lowered his hood, only to reveal himself to be a nobody, a dark match wrestler to start of PCW shows. Looking more than a little chagrined about the bottle being thrown his way, the unknown wrestler clenched his fist, and stared a hole straight through the World Champion.
Whitey had been taking a long haul of a fresh bottle, but as he lowered his gaze back to the ring and noted the amateur's insolence, he launched another bottle at the ring. This time the target intentionally sidestepped, but not by a very wide margin. "What, are you fucking sad? Did someone steal from you? Did you lose a match against Johnny Nobody and you want to train, brooding by yourself like the fucking loser you are" Whitey was only silent for a moment, then lashed out again with fury. "I didn't lose my fucking match, and I'm not brooding!"
"I...I didn't..." The unknown stammered a response, confused by the explosion of anger from the World Champion. "I never said that!"
"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" Whitey shot to his feet, the case of beer brought behind his shoulder with both hands, and launched like a shotput if a shotput was a box with glass bottles inside. The box didn't make it all the way into the ring, instead crashing and burning against the ring apron in an eruption of beer and glass. That was all the unknown needed to get his ass in gear, though, and he quickly slid under the bottom rope and escaped up the entrance ramp.
"I never said you did," Whitey said sullenly, returning to his seat and instantly regretting throwing the rest of his refreshments. I guess I am brooding, but I didn't lose. I won. By all rights I'm the North American and technically Underground Champion. "Except I won by DQ..."
Ford had sat there for many hours that night, slowing drinking himself into alternating waves of seething rage, explosive rage, and the sort of rage you get when you know that someone just got the better of you. There might be an actual word for it, but Whitey couldn't think of it. He had started to call it "Gabriel Rage," but nixed the idea when he couldn't stop picturing Gabriel destroying buildings like in that video game, 'Rampage.' A ten story tall Gabriel would be dangerous, but way more annoying than the real Gabriel.
For all of Whitey's success recently, he still had a hard time with failure. While he didn't lose the match, he didn't win it either; Gabriel took that from him by cheating, by doing something that a few years ago Whitey would still be doing; hitting people over the head with a chair when it seemed like he couldn't defeat them. Gabriel stole the glory of another monumental win from him, and for that he couldn't be forgiven. Even if Loki, ever the god of mischief, put them on the same team in a tag match against Grimm and Kyle Shane, two people that Ford knew would always be a threat.
Kyle Shane? A threat? He might have been a threat before he REALLY pissed me off. I know he only took the North American shot over the World Title shot to kick dirt on my title reign, to make it seem as though he was better than me; better than The World Title. Speaking of robberies, Whitey was so slighted over the fact that he wasn't chosen to have a title shot cashed in on that it made his head hurt more than any steel chair could. Deep down he understood, and actually held a little respect for Kyle Shane. The kid wanted to climb from the bottom. Underground Champion. North American Champion. And then...Fuck that. Shane MIGHT have been able to beat me at last Trauma but I have my doubts. I'm a resilient motherfucker and that wet behind the gears upstart little shit still hasn't had a taste of what a real champion can do. But come this match...this clusterfuck of a match...I'm going to remind him who I am, and that the biggest mistake of his career was not cashing in his title shot when I was weakened. "I'll show them." Whitey barked out, to no one and anyone who might be listening.
Ford picked up the World Title from by his feet, and slung it over his shoulder as he stood to take his leave. "This isn't a tag match; this is a 'Whitey makes a statement' match."
Honor.
The quick breather was all the mysterious shadow needed, and he built himself slowly into the steady rhythm of shadow boxing again, dipping and weaving as he countered imaginary blows. One of those dodges saved him from being knocked unconcious, albeit unintentionally. A beer bottles crashed against one of the turnbuckles, smashing into pieces as it landed outside the ring. The figure jumped in fright, not expecting that sort of reaction from the absent crowd. He turned towards the decided source of the bottle, scanning the arena for who was watching him. It could be anybody; a rival wrestler, a drunk fan...hell, even some roving bottle kids.
"Oh, get the fuck out of here. That's been done a hundred times before." Or it could be Whitey Ford. The World Champ sat in the last row of chairs visible in the dim lighting. An opened case of beer was propped up in the chair next to him with a few empties strewn about his feet, which is also where the World Title lay. The figure in the ring lowered his hood, only to reveal himself to be a nobody, a dark match wrestler to start of PCW shows. Looking more than a little chagrined about the bottle being thrown his way, the unknown wrestler clenched his fist, and stared a hole straight through the World Champion.
Whitey had been taking a long haul of a fresh bottle, but as he lowered his gaze back to the ring and noted the amateur's insolence, he launched another bottle at the ring. This time the target intentionally sidestepped, but not by a very wide margin. "What, are you fucking sad? Did someone steal from you? Did you lose a match against Johnny Nobody and you want to train, brooding by yourself like the fucking loser you are" Whitey was only silent for a moment, then lashed out again with fury. "I didn't lose my fucking match, and I'm not brooding!"
"I...I didn't..." The unknown stammered a response, confused by the explosion of anger from the World Champion. "I never said that!"
"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" Whitey shot to his feet, the case of beer brought behind his shoulder with both hands, and launched like a shotput if a shotput was a box with glass bottles inside. The box didn't make it all the way into the ring, instead crashing and burning against the ring apron in an eruption of beer and glass. That was all the unknown needed to get his ass in gear, though, and he quickly slid under the bottom rope and escaped up the entrance ramp.
"I never said you did," Whitey said sullenly, returning to his seat and instantly regretting throwing the rest of his refreshments. I guess I am brooding, but I didn't lose. I won. By all rights I'm the North American and technically Underground Champion. "Except I won by DQ..."
Ford had sat there for many hours that night, slowing drinking himself into alternating waves of seething rage, explosive rage, and the sort of rage you get when you know that someone just got the better of you. There might be an actual word for it, but Whitey couldn't think of it. He had started to call it "Gabriel Rage," but nixed the idea when he couldn't stop picturing Gabriel destroying buildings like in that video game, 'Rampage.' A ten story tall Gabriel would be dangerous, but way more annoying than the real Gabriel.
For all of Whitey's success recently, he still had a hard time with failure. While he didn't lose the match, he didn't win it either; Gabriel took that from him by cheating, by doing something that a few years ago Whitey would still be doing; hitting people over the head with a chair when it seemed like he couldn't defeat them. Gabriel stole the glory of another monumental win from him, and for that he couldn't be forgiven. Even if Loki, ever the god of mischief, put them on the same team in a tag match against Grimm and Kyle Shane, two people that Ford knew would always be a threat.
Kyle Shane? A threat? He might have been a threat before he REALLY pissed me off. I know he only took the North American shot over the World Title shot to kick dirt on my title reign, to make it seem as though he was better than me; better than The World Title. Speaking of robberies, Whitey was so slighted over the fact that he wasn't chosen to have a title shot cashed in on that it made his head hurt more than any steel chair could. Deep down he understood, and actually held a little respect for Kyle Shane. The kid wanted to climb from the bottom. Underground Champion. North American Champion. And then...Fuck that. Shane MIGHT have been able to beat me at last Trauma but I have my doubts. I'm a resilient motherfucker and that wet behind the gears upstart little shit still hasn't had a taste of what a real champion can do. But come this match...this clusterfuck of a match...I'm going to remind him who I am, and that the biggest mistake of his career was not cashing in his title shot when I was weakened. "I'll show them." Whitey barked out, to no one and anyone who might be listening.
Ford picked up the World Title from by his feet, and slung it over his shoulder as he stood to take his leave. "This isn't a tag match; this is a 'Whitey makes a statement' match."
