Post by Holden Ross on Oct 8, 2018 21:23:14 GMT -5
*The beat to Raggaeton music thumps as the party is in full swing. A Chicano woman, dressed in a melon colored bikini top and hot pants, slithers, shakes, bounces, shimmies, and twirls to the music along with several other women all dressed similarly and positioned at various points in the crowd. Not that these women were hired, completely opposite in fact; they asked and begged to be here. They aren’t the only women at the party but most eyes were on these ladies.
The party is centered in the backyard of a home in San Luis Obispo. A fire burns in a hand dug pit in the center of the good sized yard and a handful of people hangout near it, drinking their beers from red Solo cups. At the back of the yard, along the decaying fence that separates this property from the next, sits Holden in a battered vinyl recliner. The vinyl is cracked and worn from its time spent under the glaring sun and the occasional rain spurts. He is in a pair of cut-off black Dickies, a grey wife beater, and an unbuttoned grey and black checkered shirt. His Underground strap nowhere in sight. Positioned on his left, in a plastic lawn chair, is a woman with a foot tall Mohawk, dyed green and black, clad in khaki Dickies pants and a white wifebeater over a black bra cupping her ample bosom. On the ground, between the two chairs, is an open, unlabeled bottle about half full of gold colored liquid.
A dozen or so people linger near Holden, ignoring the camera completely. He lifts the bottle and tilts his head back and guzzles nearly half od what was left, sucking the air in through his teeth and the letting in out in one big “Ahhhh!” and mugs for the camera. He is handed what looks to be a half smoked blunt and takes a long pull from it before handing it to the woman sitting next to him. She takes a long pull from it as well.*
So I caught your promo earlier this week and all I can say is…what the Hell are YOU taking? Xanex? Oxy's? Your rambling, incoherent mumbling made my head hurt so damn bad I thought my brain was trying to crawl out my ear… Hell, I'd call ya a retard but I don’t want to disparage the mentally handicapped. Pretty sure they’d be more than a little offended.
*He nods to someone off camera and a fat midget with a head shaved clean as a babies ass walks into the shot with the Underground Championship cradled in his arms. He hands it to Holden before disappearing off camera again.*
That’s my lil buddy, Shane, no pun intended… just worked out that way didn’t it?*He chuckles at his own bad joke while his companions smirks and rolls her eyes. She has already sparked a fresh blunt and hands it off to Holden, who takes a long pull from it*You'll be seeing more of him in the future…he's part of the little entourage that has started to accompany me when I go here-and-there. Same goes with the new apple-of-my-eye here…
*They share a quick kiss and as they break, she nibbles on his lip. The song has changed to another Raggaeton beat, a little faster with more bass, and it, along with the hooch and grass, brings the men and women together. The camera pans around the crowd and focuses on a handful of different couples, writhing and grinding together in rhythm with the beat. On the roof of the home, a Chicano woman wearing only black Yoga workout tights and a neon green bikini top. Hispanic style tats cover her skin and sweat drips down her body. When the camera cuts back to Holden, his companion is setting the bottle back on the ground and the cherry of the blunt is glowing a bright orange-red in franks lips. He hands it off to her and exhales a large plume of smoke into the air.*
I find it ironic you call yourself the quote-unquote, Big Dog. See, growing up I had a few dogs over the years. Some big, like a Pitt or a Rott. Some were small like the Beagle and that Terrier piece of shit my mom loved and called “Pookie.” One dog in particular was this big ol German shepherd. “Hans” my mom called him and, at the age of seven, I didn’t get the lame joke. But that’s neither here nor there.
See, where im going with this story is one day, Hans up and bit my sister outta nowhere. No need or call for it. She was eleven and we got the dog as a puppy several years before. It’s not like my sister was a stranger. She wasn’t threatening him or doing anything other than running around the yard. Maybe she got too close and spooked him? Regardless, I watched my Dad drag Hans by the collar across our backyard towards the alley…..*He takes a long swig from the bottle near his feet.*…and next to the dumpster is where my dogs head disappeared with a boom from his shotty, leaving a pink mist in the air and painting the ground with its blood, skull, and brain matter.
You get where I'm goin with this dipshit? I'm gonna put you down once and for all like my Dad did Hans; only I'm going to finish you in the torture rack. Your screams will be like a symphony of pain! From the good book; two Samuel twenty-two thirty-five, “He trains his hands for battle, So that my arms may bend a bow of bronze.” I am always training and I am always ready for battle. At Deadly Intentions Nine, Razor, I will be leaving with this strap still in my possession, much to your dismay.
Proverbs eighteen-six; “A fools lips bring strife, And his mouth calls for blows.” Couldn’t have said it better myself. Your mouth stuttered a check your ass couldn’t possibly cash. Deadly Intentions is your Swan Song….and I plan on cutting it short. This strap is mine and I’ll be damned if I lose it to Brooklyn Brawler two point-oh….
*He gives the families trademark smirk as the camera pans back across the crowd which is showing the obvious effects of the booze; more dancing, less inhibitions, raucous laughter. The shot the switches the one of the fine Mexican women dancing in rhythm to the Raggaeton beat. As the camera fades out, she gives a mischievous grin as well as the finger.*
The party is centered in the backyard of a home in San Luis Obispo. A fire burns in a hand dug pit in the center of the good sized yard and a handful of people hangout near it, drinking their beers from red Solo cups. At the back of the yard, along the decaying fence that separates this property from the next, sits Holden in a battered vinyl recliner. The vinyl is cracked and worn from its time spent under the glaring sun and the occasional rain spurts. He is in a pair of cut-off black Dickies, a grey wife beater, and an unbuttoned grey and black checkered shirt. His Underground strap nowhere in sight. Positioned on his left, in a plastic lawn chair, is a woman with a foot tall Mohawk, dyed green and black, clad in khaki Dickies pants and a white wifebeater over a black bra cupping her ample bosom. On the ground, between the two chairs, is an open, unlabeled bottle about half full of gold colored liquid.
A dozen or so people linger near Holden, ignoring the camera completely. He lifts the bottle and tilts his head back and guzzles nearly half od what was left, sucking the air in through his teeth and the letting in out in one big “Ahhhh!” and mugs for the camera. He is handed what looks to be a half smoked blunt and takes a long pull from it before handing it to the woman sitting next to him. She takes a long pull from it as well.*
So I caught your promo earlier this week and all I can say is…what the Hell are YOU taking? Xanex? Oxy's? Your rambling, incoherent mumbling made my head hurt so damn bad I thought my brain was trying to crawl out my ear… Hell, I'd call ya a retard but I don’t want to disparage the mentally handicapped. Pretty sure they’d be more than a little offended.
*He nods to someone off camera and a fat midget with a head shaved clean as a babies ass walks into the shot with the Underground Championship cradled in his arms. He hands it to Holden before disappearing off camera again.*
That’s my lil buddy, Shane, no pun intended… just worked out that way didn’t it?*He chuckles at his own bad joke while his companions smirks and rolls her eyes. She has already sparked a fresh blunt and hands it off to Holden, who takes a long pull from it*You'll be seeing more of him in the future…he's part of the little entourage that has started to accompany me when I go here-and-there. Same goes with the new apple-of-my-eye here…
*They share a quick kiss and as they break, she nibbles on his lip. The song has changed to another Raggaeton beat, a little faster with more bass, and it, along with the hooch and grass, brings the men and women together. The camera pans around the crowd and focuses on a handful of different couples, writhing and grinding together in rhythm with the beat. On the roof of the home, a Chicano woman wearing only black Yoga workout tights and a neon green bikini top. Hispanic style tats cover her skin and sweat drips down her body. When the camera cuts back to Holden, his companion is setting the bottle back on the ground and the cherry of the blunt is glowing a bright orange-red in franks lips. He hands it off to her and exhales a large plume of smoke into the air.*
I find it ironic you call yourself the quote-unquote, Big Dog. See, growing up I had a few dogs over the years. Some big, like a Pitt or a Rott. Some were small like the Beagle and that Terrier piece of shit my mom loved and called “Pookie.” One dog in particular was this big ol German shepherd. “Hans” my mom called him and, at the age of seven, I didn’t get the lame joke. But that’s neither here nor there.
See, where im going with this story is one day, Hans up and bit my sister outta nowhere. No need or call for it. She was eleven and we got the dog as a puppy several years before. It’s not like my sister was a stranger. She wasn’t threatening him or doing anything other than running around the yard. Maybe she got too close and spooked him? Regardless, I watched my Dad drag Hans by the collar across our backyard towards the alley…..*He takes a long swig from the bottle near his feet.*…and next to the dumpster is where my dogs head disappeared with a boom from his shotty, leaving a pink mist in the air and painting the ground with its blood, skull, and brain matter.
You get where I'm goin with this dipshit? I'm gonna put you down once and for all like my Dad did Hans; only I'm going to finish you in the torture rack. Your screams will be like a symphony of pain! From the good book; two Samuel twenty-two thirty-five, “He trains his hands for battle, So that my arms may bend a bow of bronze.” I am always training and I am always ready for battle. At Deadly Intentions Nine, Razor, I will be leaving with this strap still in my possession, much to your dismay.
Proverbs eighteen-six; “A fools lips bring strife, And his mouth calls for blows.” Couldn’t have said it better myself. Your mouth stuttered a check your ass couldn’t possibly cash. Deadly Intentions is your Swan Song….and I plan on cutting it short. This strap is mine and I’ll be damned if I lose it to Brooklyn Brawler two point-oh….
*He gives the families trademark smirk as the camera pans back across the crowd which is showing the obvious effects of the booze; more dancing, less inhibitions, raucous laughter. The shot the switches the one of the fine Mexican women dancing in rhythm to the Raggaeton beat. As the camera fades out, she gives a mischievous grin as well as the finger.*