Post by Holden Ross on Apr 15, 2018 23:20:41 GMT -5
"Easy win for Michaels...." is what most are sayin.
"Might as well give Stormm a bye this week..." is what everyone else is sayin. Everyone but me and mine. Stormm is an epic opponent, for sure, but he is mortal just like anyone else. And just like anyone else he has off nights, blind spots, and weaknesses. This tournament means dick to me. Securing the Underground strap.....that's the driving force behind me. What is stoking my fire.
Stormm? He's just another stop on my journey to secure what is rightfully mine...no matter who or what Mountain holds it. I scale mountains. I destroy monsters. And I weather the Stormms better than anybody.
*Braddock is shown sitting in his trusty recliner with a Mickey's tall-boy on the table top next to said chair. His face is free of the white grease paint but a red smear, as though he covered his hand in red paint and drug it across his face. His eyes are bloodshot and a film of stubble covered his cheeks, chin, and neck. His greasy hair dangles down over his face, slightly obscuring his view.
His shirt, an old "Korn" concert shirt, has holes from the many washes and years of use. His jeans have seen better days as well, holes in the knees and paint stains on the thighs, as well as what could be oil stains.*
All my life I've done what everyone said I couldn't. Been making liars of doubters all my life. And while my opponent is heavily favored due to his experience in this company and his fan base, I have something on my side that is immeasurable....nothing. I got nothing to lose.
Should I get beat, everyone will nod and say 'Yup, I knew Stormm was gonna win....derrr...' and the World will keep spinning, the sun will rise, and things in P.C.W. will go on as per the norm. I am anything but the norm.
Because, should I win, and beat the great and powerful Oz...erm...Stormm...the world may spin off of its axis. The sun might never rise. And the P.C.W. will drop it's collective jaw and stand in dumbfounded confusion. Much like the local hillbillies in these parts.
The Psycho Circus...a collection of freaks, bullies, and the forgotten. Being guided to the promised land by a Siren of Misery. Much to the chagrin of the suits and those who feel they are a station above us, the trash. We are going to tear your hearts from your chests and do the Watusi on your graves.
*His lips curl into a grin as he stands and does a quick jig in place.*
Justin, I can't say anything you haven't heard before. Can't make a threat you haven't already heard. You're the North American champ for a reason. I am blessed to be in a ring with the likes of you....Too bad I never put much stock into blessings...
*Braddock retakes his seat and throws his head back, laughter rumbling from his gullet. The de-evolution, de-humanizing began long ago. That seed of poisonous hatred of his fellow man was buried deep within him long ago. Its roots have dug their fingers deep and festered there like an infection. Alexa knows how to tend such gardens and her prodding has lead to a stable of unhinged men and women. All riding with a skeletal grin into the apocalypse.
The clip ends in static and its subject tosses the camera over to a teenager whose hair looks like he uses thirty weight rather than mousse. The young man tucks a loch behind his right ear and connects the camera to a waiting laptop. Braddock takes his leave out the door.
He strolls from his room, number 7, at the "Sleep Well! Motor Lodge" just outside of town across the street to a run down watering hole, "Jerry's Pub." However, it reads "Jer y Pu ." as the seemingly ancient green neon has burnt out in places. Entering through the door is no "Cheers" moment; nobody here really cares what your name is.
Except Janice. Janice knows every guys name who spends more than a few minutes in Jerry's. And has known nearly every guy to walk through the door, including Braddock, whom they all know as Tyson, his birth name. She slinks up next to Tyson and gives his ass a squeeze.
He turns his head and grins at the "lady;" noticing her sagging breasts under her shirt and the muffin top protruding from jeans about two sizes too small. She grins. He smirks and takes a shot that has been set before him on the bar top. As the bartender tops it off, Janice drops to her knees and unzips his fly. He tosses back the shot as she begins her task, eagerly, and now a true smile crawls across his face.*
I got this shit.....
"Might as well give Stormm a bye this week..." is what everyone else is sayin. Everyone but me and mine. Stormm is an epic opponent, for sure, but he is mortal just like anyone else. And just like anyone else he has off nights, blind spots, and weaknesses. This tournament means dick to me. Securing the Underground strap.....that's the driving force behind me. What is stoking my fire.
Stormm? He's just another stop on my journey to secure what is rightfully mine...no matter who or what Mountain holds it. I scale mountains. I destroy monsters. And I weather the Stormms better than anybody.
*Braddock is shown sitting in his trusty recliner with a Mickey's tall-boy on the table top next to said chair. His face is free of the white grease paint but a red smear, as though he covered his hand in red paint and drug it across his face. His eyes are bloodshot and a film of stubble covered his cheeks, chin, and neck. His greasy hair dangles down over his face, slightly obscuring his view.
His shirt, an old "Korn" concert shirt, has holes from the many washes and years of use. His jeans have seen better days as well, holes in the knees and paint stains on the thighs, as well as what could be oil stains.*
All my life I've done what everyone said I couldn't. Been making liars of doubters all my life. And while my opponent is heavily favored due to his experience in this company and his fan base, I have something on my side that is immeasurable....nothing. I got nothing to lose.
Should I get beat, everyone will nod and say 'Yup, I knew Stormm was gonna win....derrr...' and the World will keep spinning, the sun will rise, and things in P.C.W. will go on as per the norm. I am anything but the norm.
Because, should I win, and beat the great and powerful Oz...erm...Stormm...the world may spin off of its axis. The sun might never rise. And the P.C.W. will drop it's collective jaw and stand in dumbfounded confusion. Much like the local hillbillies in these parts.
The Psycho Circus...a collection of freaks, bullies, and the forgotten. Being guided to the promised land by a Siren of Misery. Much to the chagrin of the suits and those who feel they are a station above us, the trash. We are going to tear your hearts from your chests and do the Watusi on your graves.
*His lips curl into a grin as he stands and does a quick jig in place.*
Justin, I can't say anything you haven't heard before. Can't make a threat you haven't already heard. You're the North American champ for a reason. I am blessed to be in a ring with the likes of you....Too bad I never put much stock into blessings...
*Braddock retakes his seat and throws his head back, laughter rumbling from his gullet. The de-evolution, de-humanizing began long ago. That seed of poisonous hatred of his fellow man was buried deep within him long ago. Its roots have dug their fingers deep and festered there like an infection. Alexa knows how to tend such gardens and her prodding has lead to a stable of unhinged men and women. All riding with a skeletal grin into the apocalypse.
The clip ends in static and its subject tosses the camera over to a teenager whose hair looks like he uses thirty weight rather than mousse. The young man tucks a loch behind his right ear and connects the camera to a waiting laptop. Braddock takes his leave out the door.
He strolls from his room, number 7, at the "Sleep Well! Motor Lodge" just outside of town across the street to a run down watering hole, "Jerry's Pub." However, it reads "Jer y Pu ." as the seemingly ancient green neon has burnt out in places. Entering through the door is no "Cheers" moment; nobody here really cares what your name is.
Except Janice. Janice knows every guys name who spends more than a few minutes in Jerry's. And has known nearly every guy to walk through the door, including Braddock, whom they all know as Tyson, his birth name. She slinks up next to Tyson and gives his ass a squeeze.
He turns his head and grins at the "lady;" noticing her sagging breasts under her shirt and the muffin top protruding from jeans about two sizes too small. She grins. He smirks and takes a shot that has been set before him on the bar top. As the bartender tops it off, Janice drops to her knees and unzips his fly. He tosses back the shot as she begins her task, eagerly, and now a true smile crawls across his face.*
I got this shit.....