Post by Holden Ross on Oct 22, 2018 1:19:10 GMT -5
Woman: Nevermind what he said, he is an insignificant runt, who's claim to fame is a backwoods organization in Georgia! He is trying to get under your skin is all. Don’t let him. The Underground Championship is YOURS and you showed the World at Deadly Intentions just how deadly your intentions are! You decimated Razor! I wouldn’t be surprised if his skull isnt fractured….
*She curls her hand around the back of his head where he is seated in front of her, and pulls his face against her belly. After watching Hunter's promotion for their upcoming match, Holden's anger overwhelmed him and he smashed his bottle of Modelo against the wall of her condo's living room. She rubs his back and whispers “Shh-shh-shh” rhythmically in attempt to calm the beast within. She hasn’t known Holden all that long but there was an instant connection with him, beyond the squared circle.
They met just over a month ago, both training at the P.C.W. performance center, and she caught his eye immediately. Granted, they both sport Mohawks and both like to have a good time, at all times, when not in the ring. And in the ring, they both have similar styles, brute force and good ol' fashion brawling. She grew up idolizing brawlers like Brody, Foley, and Funk.
Here we are now, the week of his next title defense, and his greenness is showing. He is letting his emotions get the best of him and is flying off the handle. Alcohol doesn’t help. But Tessa is pretty sure she could handle her own in the event he decides to try and turn her into a heavy bag. She hasn’t been around him enough to know if he would actually do such a thing, but she is willing to bet all of her meager possessions that he wouldn’t. She does manage to calm him and quell the storm raging within him and eventually takes him to bed, helping him to burn off some of that fierce rage that turns everything within him to a cinder.*
Two days later in the P.C.W. aaren
*The scene opens on Holden, sitting in a throne in the center of an empty ring, in a darkened arena. He is clad in a pair of baggy jeans, a wife beater, and an unzipped black hoodie. The Underground Championship hang by the strap from the knob on the left arm rest, the other strap coiled at the foot of the chair standing on his left is the unknown female, Tessa, in a cut-off “Mr. T Experience” t-shirt, a pair of jeans that look painted on, and black Converse All-Stars high tops. Her Mohawk, like is, is ramrod straight and unmoving.*
I nearly murdered Razor at Deadly Intentions with that shot from my axe handle.*She brings the handle into view from behind the chair and holds it up like a game show model displaying the “wonderful” or “amazing” prize the contestant is playing for.*Truth be told, I was trying to kill that son-of-a-bitch but, by the looks of it, somehow didn’t finish that job. Well, I get a second crack at it this week, no pun intended. Razor, you call yourself the “Big Dog” when in reality you’re more like a cat, with nine fuckin lives. I'm pretty sure I took a handful of those lives over the course of the past month or so. I gotta hand it to ya, you don't give up….you're like a case of the herpes…always poppin up when you least expect it or at the most inopportune moment. I'd end your ass this week, put you down for good, if I didn’t have to contend with three others.
Tyler, my fellow brother, Disciples of Seromine, and as such, he will aid me. Romans 12:10; “Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor.” Stand, fight by my side, and help me defend this strap against these unworthy parasites, brother.
*She has already placed the axe handle back behind the throne and now bends forward at the waist and kisses him atop his head before disappearing off camera.*
The few others I have to contend with are a veritable who's-who of do nothings and nobodies. Tyrone Smith and I have faced each other before, in the not so distant past. I decimated him then and I was nowhere near as ring savvy as I am now. I'm not foolish enough to believe I have learned everything there is to know about wrestling, in ring psychology, or a half a dozen other things I need to learn more about. But if I beat your ass then, just imagine, the places of exquisite pain I could lead you to now!
Muscles Malone is a new face around here, almost as new as mine, but his physique is nowhere near as defined as mine. He wants to claim to be one of the strongest in this company, nay, in the World, but couldn’t carry my bags. A perennial curtain jerker. A lifelong stepping stone. With my boot prints on his back…
*Holden's demeanor, as relaxed as it can get, changes visibly in an instant. He rises from the throne and whips the belt across his right shoulder so that the “face” of the belt is aimed at the camera. He slaps it with his left hand a couple time while looking at it before addressing the camera.*
Hunter. David Hunter. You wanted my attention, David? You got it. One Samuel seventeen twenty-three; “As he was talking with them, behold, the champion, the Philistine from Gath named Goliath, was coming up from the army of the Philistines, and he spoke these same words; and David heard them.” The key difference between the fable of “David versus Goliath,” is that this time….David is getting his fucking head ripped off….
You had a lot to say in your promotion for this match. I caught it. Last night to put me to sleep. I’ve been dealing with a small bout of insomnia as of late. That shit-show of a promo did wonders though. From what I took away from it, before nodding off like I had just shot a fat rig of “Blue Magic,” was that you seem to believe this belt means more to me than anything else in this World. This belt is a stepping stone, much like you and Tyrone, to bigger and better things. The Underground strap doesn’t define me or my career. While this may seem like my wheelhouse, as I do love to beat the ever loving piss outta people, this belt is just a means to an end. A somewhat bigger payday while I carry it. It doesn’t define me like it sounds like it will for you.
I split Razor's wig last week like a pumpkin on Halloween night. This week, I am goin to show you, in particular, Dave, just how brutal I can be. I hope you got your Aflac policy up to date, you’re gonna need it. Spewing a lot of words and blustering like a crooked politician won’t help you a damn bit when you get in that ring with me. You will discover, first hand, how destructive, how deadly my intentions can be.
A big fish from a small pond, in Georgia is all you are. Transplanted into a shark tank with the Megaladon roaming those waters. That Megaladon will destroy and consume anything that gets in its path. You, the guppy that you are, have swam directly into my path, with blinking lights and flashing beacons, and I'm coming to swallow you whole. Something your momma should have done all those years ago, in the back seat, with whatever John it was that impregnated her disease ridden, filthy womb. Nine months later she shat you out…..sinful…
*The woman returns to the scene, sidling up next to Holden, rubbing his chest with her hand. The lights begin to brighten around the ringside only, revealing people, previously unseen, surrounding the ring. They are all dressed in dark blue or black coveralls, with featureless white masks covering their faces. Holden, the Underground King, grins like the Cheshire Cat, and raises both his arms, and his face, towards the heavens.*
The suffering of strangers, the agony of friends. There is a secret song at the center of the world and its sound is like razors through flesh. Listen, you can hear its faint echo right now. I'm here to turn up the volume. To press the stinking face of humanity into the dark blood of its own secret Hell. David, you will be the next offering I lay at the feet of my King, Lord Seromine. The End is nigh for you, Mister Hunter. Beg your forgiveness from whatever God you have and get square with him. Your End comes when you climb into this ring with me. I am War and I ride atop a red horse….looking down upon the four of you, slain at my feet. Tyler, you and I shall show the World how great Seromine is!
*The lights suddenly plunge the arena in darkness, save for a glowing green skull in the center of the back of the throne.*
*She curls her hand around the back of his head where he is seated in front of her, and pulls his face against her belly. After watching Hunter's promotion for their upcoming match, Holden's anger overwhelmed him and he smashed his bottle of Modelo against the wall of her condo's living room. She rubs his back and whispers “Shh-shh-shh” rhythmically in attempt to calm the beast within. She hasn’t known Holden all that long but there was an instant connection with him, beyond the squared circle.
They met just over a month ago, both training at the P.C.W. performance center, and she caught his eye immediately. Granted, they both sport Mohawks and both like to have a good time, at all times, when not in the ring. And in the ring, they both have similar styles, brute force and good ol' fashion brawling. She grew up idolizing brawlers like Brody, Foley, and Funk.
Here we are now, the week of his next title defense, and his greenness is showing. He is letting his emotions get the best of him and is flying off the handle. Alcohol doesn’t help. But Tessa is pretty sure she could handle her own in the event he decides to try and turn her into a heavy bag. She hasn’t been around him enough to know if he would actually do such a thing, but she is willing to bet all of her meager possessions that he wouldn’t. She does manage to calm him and quell the storm raging within him and eventually takes him to bed, helping him to burn off some of that fierce rage that turns everything within him to a cinder.*
Two days later in the P.C.W. aaren
*The scene opens on Holden, sitting in a throne in the center of an empty ring, in a darkened arena. He is clad in a pair of baggy jeans, a wife beater, and an unzipped black hoodie. The Underground Championship hang by the strap from the knob on the left arm rest, the other strap coiled at the foot of the chair standing on his left is the unknown female, Tessa, in a cut-off “Mr. T Experience” t-shirt, a pair of jeans that look painted on, and black Converse All-Stars high tops. Her Mohawk, like is, is ramrod straight and unmoving.*
I nearly murdered Razor at Deadly Intentions with that shot from my axe handle.*She brings the handle into view from behind the chair and holds it up like a game show model displaying the “wonderful” or “amazing” prize the contestant is playing for.*Truth be told, I was trying to kill that son-of-a-bitch but, by the looks of it, somehow didn’t finish that job. Well, I get a second crack at it this week, no pun intended. Razor, you call yourself the “Big Dog” when in reality you’re more like a cat, with nine fuckin lives. I'm pretty sure I took a handful of those lives over the course of the past month or so. I gotta hand it to ya, you don't give up….you're like a case of the herpes…always poppin up when you least expect it or at the most inopportune moment. I'd end your ass this week, put you down for good, if I didn’t have to contend with three others.
Tyler, my fellow brother, Disciples of Seromine, and as such, he will aid me. Romans 12:10; “Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor.” Stand, fight by my side, and help me defend this strap against these unworthy parasites, brother.
*She has already placed the axe handle back behind the throne and now bends forward at the waist and kisses him atop his head before disappearing off camera.*
The few others I have to contend with are a veritable who's-who of do nothings and nobodies. Tyrone Smith and I have faced each other before, in the not so distant past. I decimated him then and I was nowhere near as ring savvy as I am now. I'm not foolish enough to believe I have learned everything there is to know about wrestling, in ring psychology, or a half a dozen other things I need to learn more about. But if I beat your ass then, just imagine, the places of exquisite pain I could lead you to now!
Muscles Malone is a new face around here, almost as new as mine, but his physique is nowhere near as defined as mine. He wants to claim to be one of the strongest in this company, nay, in the World, but couldn’t carry my bags. A perennial curtain jerker. A lifelong stepping stone. With my boot prints on his back…
*Holden's demeanor, as relaxed as it can get, changes visibly in an instant. He rises from the throne and whips the belt across his right shoulder so that the “face” of the belt is aimed at the camera. He slaps it with his left hand a couple time while looking at it before addressing the camera.*
Hunter. David Hunter. You wanted my attention, David? You got it. One Samuel seventeen twenty-three; “As he was talking with them, behold, the champion, the Philistine from Gath named Goliath, was coming up from the army of the Philistines, and he spoke these same words; and David heard them.” The key difference between the fable of “David versus Goliath,” is that this time….David is getting his fucking head ripped off….
You had a lot to say in your promotion for this match. I caught it. Last night to put me to sleep. I’ve been dealing with a small bout of insomnia as of late. That shit-show of a promo did wonders though. From what I took away from it, before nodding off like I had just shot a fat rig of “Blue Magic,” was that you seem to believe this belt means more to me than anything else in this World. This belt is a stepping stone, much like you and Tyrone, to bigger and better things. The Underground strap doesn’t define me or my career. While this may seem like my wheelhouse, as I do love to beat the ever loving piss outta people, this belt is just a means to an end. A somewhat bigger payday while I carry it. It doesn’t define me like it sounds like it will for you.
I split Razor's wig last week like a pumpkin on Halloween night. This week, I am goin to show you, in particular, Dave, just how brutal I can be. I hope you got your Aflac policy up to date, you’re gonna need it. Spewing a lot of words and blustering like a crooked politician won’t help you a damn bit when you get in that ring with me. You will discover, first hand, how destructive, how deadly my intentions can be.
A big fish from a small pond, in Georgia is all you are. Transplanted into a shark tank with the Megaladon roaming those waters. That Megaladon will destroy and consume anything that gets in its path. You, the guppy that you are, have swam directly into my path, with blinking lights and flashing beacons, and I'm coming to swallow you whole. Something your momma should have done all those years ago, in the back seat, with whatever John it was that impregnated her disease ridden, filthy womb. Nine months later she shat you out…..sinful…
*The woman returns to the scene, sidling up next to Holden, rubbing his chest with her hand. The lights begin to brighten around the ringside only, revealing people, previously unseen, surrounding the ring. They are all dressed in dark blue or black coveralls, with featureless white masks covering their faces. Holden, the Underground King, grins like the Cheshire Cat, and raises both his arms, and his face, towards the heavens.*
The suffering of strangers, the agony of friends. There is a secret song at the center of the world and its sound is like razors through flesh. Listen, you can hear its faint echo right now. I'm here to turn up the volume. To press the stinking face of humanity into the dark blood of its own secret Hell. David, you will be the next offering I lay at the feet of my King, Lord Seromine. The End is nigh for you, Mister Hunter. Beg your forgiveness from whatever God you have and get square with him. Your End comes when you climb into this ring with me. I am War and I ride atop a red horse….looking down upon the four of you, slain at my feet. Tyler, you and I shall show the World how great Seromine is!
*The lights suddenly plunge the arena in darkness, save for a glowing green skull in the center of the back of the throne.*