Post by Stormm on May 22, 2006 1:56:06 GMT -5
When you are famous in any way, shape, or form, you learn really quickly how to ignore people who ask you stupid questions. This is especially true in the wrestling business. You have everyone outside of the business asking you dumb things. You have a room full of reporters in a press conference. Worst of all though, the random people these wrestling federations hire to do backstage interviews these days. Yet, in these situations, we find ourselves answering some of these questions whole-heartedly, and in all seriousness. On top of it all, a lot of those inquiries tend to be one's these people already know the answers to.
Why is our voice so important? Why do people act like vultures, just waiting for our mouths to open to pick apart like their prey? They record, write, and video tape what we have to say in certain situations so they can "report" this news to everyone else in the industry. Through television, radio, magazines, even newspaper articles, they find a way to put the words we’ve said on a different level of truth than just reporting the obvious.
Now, I haven't been apart of any interview as a wrestler in about three years, so who knows what I may do when that time comes? I have no problem being in front of the cameras either, but I just don't want to be in the middle of the dumb question crossfire. PCW has seen it differently.
I've been back in the federation for less than a week, and I've found myself scheduled for a "press conference" before the PPV. This is a show where I return towards the bottom of a card. Though I guess I can't blame them, I did tell them to go screw themselves when I thought I had something big.
It won't be long before they push me back towards the top of the card, though. Why wouldn't they? They can make me miserable with all these stupid press conferences. They can stick me in a clown suit to do fucking birthday parties for little kids. I've done it before, and I'll do it again. Anything it takes!
But for now, I say the hell with obvious questions.
A large room filled with people who like to hear the sound of their own voices... I shudder at the thought. It's almost the scariest thing I could possibly think about right now. I know it's hard to picture, but just think about multiple Johnny Vivaciouses, Ace Andersons, Jason Willards, or even Luis Malaves in the same room, at the same time... Oh wait, that's pushing it! At least these reporters allow each other to go one at a time!
As I stood behind the scenes, the sound emitting from the press room on the other side of the door was all bleeding together. I stood in a little room off the one side to the press room I was about to enter. Though I sure didn't feel like I was about to walk into a press conference, I felt as if I were a piece of meat, getting ready to be tossed to the lions in a den.
I stood with my ear pressed against the door, trying to make out any and all questions I heard these people asking themselves, each other, or the cameramen. I needed a game plan going in there, and I wasn't about to do it unprepared. I was not going to allow myself to be eaten up in there, something I knew those savages in there were just looking forward to doing. They knew I hadn't really had a barrage of questioning be thrown into my face like this in a while, and I know they were all looking forward to seeing me crumble under the pressure. I knew they all wanted to record the "once great wrestler" walk out of there in the middle of this thing, because he couldn't "handle the pressure."
'The Hell if that's going to happen!' I blurted out, not even realizing I did it until the pain from my fist striking a wall finally hit me. I quickly grabbed my right fist into the palm of my left hand and walked away from the door. I shook my head the whole way over to a brown upholstered recliner, in which I planted myself. I continued to shake my head as my left hand rubbed my right fist to ease the pain.
A knock came to the door. 'Is everything alright in there?' A voice questioned from the other side.
A smile came to my face. One thought came to mind. Deja vu! 'I'm fine!' I bellowed so the man on the other side could hear me. My voice echoed slightly inside of the mostly empty room, and there was no reply from the other side of the door this time. I let out a heavy sigh, and looked around the room. My attention first came to the refreshment's table, full of drinks and snacks, mostly things a twelve year old would get wide-eyed to see on one table, at the same time.
Next my attention was brought to the only other thing inside of the room. It was a cheesy, and hardly inspirational, poster that was placed on the wall beside the door. Now I don't think I had ever seen anything quite like it, but it made me laugh at the same time. It was nothing more than an unbuckled belt in front of a light blue background with text that read "Don't Buckle... Under Pressure!" I could only wonder to myself on who gets paid to come up with this shit.
I laughed a little more, and finally decided the pain in my fist was fine. I also noticed the noise from the other room had died down a little, and I wanted to listen in again. I stood up, and walked across the barren cement floor to the conference room door. I held my ear to the door, and it wasn't long before I actually made out the first question coming from one of those blood suckers. 'What had ever happened to that restaurant of his?' The male voice pondered with sincerity.
Was he serious? Stormm's V.I.P. was a hoax I never wanted to go through with. Four or more years ago, the Team USA Federation corpies thought it to be a good money making scheme to open up a restaurant in my hometown in my name. Talk about the worst food I had ever eaten in my life! It was only open a few months, and as soon as *TUF* went under, so did the restaurant.
Where do these guys get their material from? I'd heard one so far, and I could already predict that I was going to have to answer fifty outdated questions. I shook my head, and continued to listen for more questions I was ultimately going to be stuck answering.
My attention this time caught onto a female voice. It sounded as if she was practicing up against a wall or something. You know; something you'd see those high school kids doing at a forensics meet or something. Going off and practicing their piece facing a wall or a mirror. Not only that, but she sounded close. 'Do you still get bothered by people making fun of your name? And if so, why don't you just take off that second m?' She contemplated, followed by a slight sigh.
Now I stood in this room, thinking I was the one to be nervous, but I wasn't even out there yet and this woman, obviously new to the reporter game, was already more than likely sweating bullets out there. Seriously? Why would brain-dead people making fun of how I spell my ring name make a difference to me? It's not like most of those people even know how to wipe their own ass, let alone be able to make fun of me, because I've added a second m to Stormm. I'm not taking off that m, because it's a part of who I am inside that ring. Let these crazy asses make fun of me all they want. It's just a sign that they've got nothing on me. It's like people making fun of Tiger Woods because he acts like a white black man. They only do it because they wish they could be as good as he is. People make fun of my name to feel good about themselves, not because they feel comfortable with getting in the ring with me.
I laughed inside. The dumb questions just kept coming. I was beginning to think PCW informed the dumbest reporters in North America to come to this thing, just to ask me obvious and dumb questions. I may end up walking out of here, but not because these people were pressuring me too much, but because I don't want my IQ to drop eighty points due to being around so many dumbasses!
Even still, I was intrigued about what other questions I may get tossed. Not because I wanted to go out there, but because they were making me feel a little better about myself. I placed my head back up against the door. This time I was met with a loud banging noise to my ear. There was someone on the other side knocking. 'What the hell do you want?' I asked with a sharp pain in my right ear. I squinted my right eye as if to ease the pain.
'In a bad mood tonight, Mr. Michaels?' The voice asked.
I shook my head. 'To be honest, this was the last thing on my mind right now. I didn’t want to be here to answer a bunch of lame questions.' I replied
There was a short silence before the knob on the door turned, and the door opened. The man slipped through the door and closed it again. He held up a key and smiled. 'Thought I'd come talk to you before you go out there.' He said to me as he put the key back into his pocket. 'You know, it's so great of you to be doing this. You are really helping the hotel out a lot this weekend. We've been without vacancy for the last week because people knew you were going to be doing this press conference.' He finished.
I smiled as I made my way back to the comfortable chair, and sat now. 'So nice to know I'm making your ass some money. Good to know people are still hoarding off my presence. Seriously, I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't have to be.' I responded.
He tilted his head to one side with a funny look on his face. 'Isn't this here what you've wrestled for?' He asked me.
I nodded while contemplating. 'No!' I exclaimed. 'I've wrestled because I was good at it, I loved to do it, and so people would like me, not because I lived by the rules, but because I did what needed to be done to get where I've gotten in my life.' I ranted as I stood up from my chair. 'I've wrestled so dumb people like Rodney Phoenix, Mark Brown, and The Byrd can make fun of my name, because it has two m's in it. So people like them can talk themselves up, say they are going to beat me, and try to make me look bad in the process! I've been in this business so I can ultimately make people realize that this sport... This profession... Is more than words, actions, or how many girls you have on your arms at any given time!' I continued to go off, walking towards the man the whole time.
This guy, someone who I didn't even know, was getting my frustration already. Maybe it was best I got it out now. I finally had the guy pinned to the door, though, before he spoke once more. 'I thought you enjoyed having the fans like you?' He asked as if to try and spoil everything I had been saying.
I smiled at him. 'I do enjoy wrestling for the fans. But like I said, I'm not going to restrict myself to a rule book just so everyone in the arena will blow their loads when my music hits. I've wrestled so people with understand why I'm doing it. So people will like me for who I am, and not someone I'm forced to be! Are you not listening here pal?' I asked.
He trembled in fear, more than likely thinking I was going to punch him in the face. 'Don't hit me, Justin, please.' He pleaded. 'I saw what you did to Brian earlier this week!' He said, and I stopped. Forgetting about what had happened inside of Havoc Entertainment, Inc. a few days prior, I reflected on the event. I did this long enough for the man to open the door, and get most of the way out before yelling at me. 'You're on!'
The door to the room was left wide open, and flash bulbs started. I held my left hand up to shade the bright flashes from my eyes, and these crazy asses were already pushing themselves into the room with tape recorders in my face and asking questions.
'Stormm!'
'Justin!'
'Mr. Michaels!'
'Hey Stormm!'
'Oh my God, Justin!'
'Hey you!'
I was ignoring these people as a couple of black-suited men helped me through the crowd towards the small stage where a long table was set up. A PCW backdrop was hanging from fishing wire behind where I would sit, and only one chair was placed at this table. The men began to lead me up the steps when I heard the one thing that was going to make this a rather short press conference.
'Hey faggot! Go home!' Some young sounding man had yelled out. Now for one, being called names never really bothered me much. But when you through "go home" into any phrase, it usually means someone is telling you that you shouldn't be apart of something. I don't agree with that one bit.
I made it to the chair, and sat rather quickly. The crowd continued to question me, everyone trying to be picked first. I leaned to the microphone, to try and shut them all up. 'Why don't you all just shut up?' I asked, with my head leaning up against one of my hands. The hush wasn't instant, but it was quick enough. The entire sea of reporters had their hand held up. I scanned the crowd for the cockiest looking son of a bitch out there, and sure enough, I found him. Some guy in thick rimmed glasses, and a grey plaid fedora had his pen hanging from his mouth, and barely had a big enough notepad to write anything. He had his hand partially up in the air, trying to act like he didn't care. I stood from my chair, smiled, and pointed to him. 'You there! You ready?' I asked him.
'I s'pose.' He answered back nonchalantly. I shook my head at the guy, and I heard a couple snickers in the crowd. 'So... Stooooormm.' He said, making sure to draw out his pronunciation of the name. 'Do you even think you belong in the ring with the like of Lantlas, Ace Anderson, The UnHoly Alliance, or Grimm? Let alone the people in this opening match you somehow managed to be apart of?' He asked with a shit-eating grin on his face. He pulled the pen from his mouth and held it to his little pad of paper. I could see everyone readying themselves as well.
I nodded and rolled my eyes. 'I was hoping someone would ask decent question. But I guess no matter how much credit you try to give you people, there's no "good" question any of you can answer.' I said, watching everyone write down word for word what I said, the rest, letting their tapes roll. 'But for the sake of time wasted already, I'll go ahead and answer your question.' I continued. I cleared my throat, and snapped my head back and forth to pop my neck, and then walked to once side of the stage.
A hush fell to the crowd as they waited for my response. The cocky bastard in the fedora snapped at me, without giving me a real chance. 'Cat got your tongue, Stooooormm?' He said, with the same draw of the name this time.
'Listen her you slimy piece of reporter trash! You can write down everything I say, you can tell the rest of the world I'm a bad person, and you can tell your friends that you tried to make me look like a fool in front of all these people. But it's not going to work. In all honestly, I could care less who I can, can't, or may never be able to beat in a match here in PCW. As I was telling Mr. Greedy Hotel Manager earlier, I'm not back here to carry twenty pounds of gold around my waist. I'm not here to see how many boobs I can get flashed at me every time I stand in the ring. And I'm most certainly not worried about what names I get the little "vs." placed between me and! So you and your little hat can take one answered question, and hit the pavement!' I blurted as the mumbled conversation began amongst those in attendance.
'You really think...' The man in the fedora tried to ask, before I stopped him.
I shook my head, and held up my hand. 'I'm sorry; I forgot to fully answer your question Mr. Hat! No! I don't belong in that ring with anyone in PCW. Nobody belongs in that ring with anyone else. It's just not right. When someone feels like they belong in that ring... Well, I'll leave that to the tag teams! But for me, no, I don't "fit in" or "feel right" with anyone in the ring. And that's why we have matches. To have people in there wrestling against people they don't feel comfortable being in the squared circle with.' And with that, I wasn't allowing for anyone else to ask me a question, I walked off the stage, and headed for the door.
The men in the black suits were pushing people down, helping me through the sea of angry reporters. I shook my head the whole time, wondering why I even bothered to show up. These press conferences fit that old saying... It’s the same old shit, different day. Then again, I better start getting used to it... Again! Though, as I made it out the door, someone tried getting the last word in on me. 'So do you think you are going to win, Mr. High and Mighty?' They asked over the top of the noise the crowd was making.
I turned back around, and faced the crowd, the flash bulbs still going off. 'Who cares? I'm not worried about the gold, I'm just glad to be back in the ring!' With that, some more black suited men closed the doors to the press room, and the two who helped me through the crowd escorted me towards the elevators, which would take me to my top floor suite.
I could do nothing but sit there and think... If I got paid for every dumb question I could have gotten asked in there, I wouldn't need to wrestle. I could live off of that cash. Think about it.
Why is our voice so important? Why do people act like vultures, just waiting for our mouths to open to pick apart like their prey? They record, write, and video tape what we have to say in certain situations so they can "report" this news to everyone else in the industry. Through television, radio, magazines, even newspaper articles, they find a way to put the words we’ve said on a different level of truth than just reporting the obvious.
Now, I haven't been apart of any interview as a wrestler in about three years, so who knows what I may do when that time comes? I have no problem being in front of the cameras either, but I just don't want to be in the middle of the dumb question crossfire. PCW has seen it differently.
I've been back in the federation for less than a week, and I've found myself scheduled for a "press conference" before the PPV. This is a show where I return towards the bottom of a card. Though I guess I can't blame them, I did tell them to go screw themselves when I thought I had something big.
It won't be long before they push me back towards the top of the card, though. Why wouldn't they? They can make me miserable with all these stupid press conferences. They can stick me in a clown suit to do fucking birthday parties for little kids. I've done it before, and I'll do it again. Anything it takes!
But for now, I say the hell with obvious questions.
--------------------------------------
A large room filled with people who like to hear the sound of their own voices... I shudder at the thought. It's almost the scariest thing I could possibly think about right now. I know it's hard to picture, but just think about multiple Johnny Vivaciouses, Ace Andersons, Jason Willards, or even Luis Malaves in the same room, at the same time... Oh wait, that's pushing it! At least these reporters allow each other to go one at a time!
As I stood behind the scenes, the sound emitting from the press room on the other side of the door was all bleeding together. I stood in a little room off the one side to the press room I was about to enter. Though I sure didn't feel like I was about to walk into a press conference, I felt as if I were a piece of meat, getting ready to be tossed to the lions in a den.
I stood with my ear pressed against the door, trying to make out any and all questions I heard these people asking themselves, each other, or the cameramen. I needed a game plan going in there, and I wasn't about to do it unprepared. I was not going to allow myself to be eaten up in there, something I knew those savages in there were just looking forward to doing. They knew I hadn't really had a barrage of questioning be thrown into my face like this in a while, and I know they were all looking forward to seeing me crumble under the pressure. I knew they all wanted to record the "once great wrestler" walk out of there in the middle of this thing, because he couldn't "handle the pressure."
'The Hell if that's going to happen!' I blurted out, not even realizing I did it until the pain from my fist striking a wall finally hit me. I quickly grabbed my right fist into the palm of my left hand and walked away from the door. I shook my head the whole way over to a brown upholstered recliner, in which I planted myself. I continued to shake my head as my left hand rubbed my right fist to ease the pain.
A knock came to the door. 'Is everything alright in there?' A voice questioned from the other side.
A smile came to my face. One thought came to mind. Deja vu! 'I'm fine!' I bellowed so the man on the other side could hear me. My voice echoed slightly inside of the mostly empty room, and there was no reply from the other side of the door this time. I let out a heavy sigh, and looked around the room. My attention first came to the refreshment's table, full of drinks and snacks, mostly things a twelve year old would get wide-eyed to see on one table, at the same time.
Next my attention was brought to the only other thing inside of the room. It was a cheesy, and hardly inspirational, poster that was placed on the wall beside the door. Now I don't think I had ever seen anything quite like it, but it made me laugh at the same time. It was nothing more than an unbuckled belt in front of a light blue background with text that read "Don't Buckle... Under Pressure!" I could only wonder to myself on who gets paid to come up with this shit.
I laughed a little more, and finally decided the pain in my fist was fine. I also noticed the noise from the other room had died down a little, and I wanted to listen in again. I stood up, and walked across the barren cement floor to the conference room door. I held my ear to the door, and it wasn't long before I actually made out the first question coming from one of those blood suckers. 'What had ever happened to that restaurant of his?' The male voice pondered with sincerity.
Was he serious? Stormm's V.I.P. was a hoax I never wanted to go through with. Four or more years ago, the Team USA Federation corpies thought it to be a good money making scheme to open up a restaurant in my hometown in my name. Talk about the worst food I had ever eaten in my life! It was only open a few months, and as soon as *TUF* went under, so did the restaurant.
Where do these guys get their material from? I'd heard one so far, and I could already predict that I was going to have to answer fifty outdated questions. I shook my head, and continued to listen for more questions I was ultimately going to be stuck answering.
My attention this time caught onto a female voice. It sounded as if she was practicing up against a wall or something. You know; something you'd see those high school kids doing at a forensics meet or something. Going off and practicing their piece facing a wall or a mirror. Not only that, but she sounded close. 'Do you still get bothered by people making fun of your name? And if so, why don't you just take off that second m?' She contemplated, followed by a slight sigh.
Now I stood in this room, thinking I was the one to be nervous, but I wasn't even out there yet and this woman, obviously new to the reporter game, was already more than likely sweating bullets out there. Seriously? Why would brain-dead people making fun of how I spell my ring name make a difference to me? It's not like most of those people even know how to wipe their own ass, let alone be able to make fun of me, because I've added a second m to Stormm. I'm not taking off that m, because it's a part of who I am inside that ring. Let these crazy asses make fun of me all they want. It's just a sign that they've got nothing on me. It's like people making fun of Tiger Woods because he acts like a white black man. They only do it because they wish they could be as good as he is. People make fun of my name to feel good about themselves, not because they feel comfortable with getting in the ring with me.
I laughed inside. The dumb questions just kept coming. I was beginning to think PCW informed the dumbest reporters in North America to come to this thing, just to ask me obvious and dumb questions. I may end up walking out of here, but not because these people were pressuring me too much, but because I don't want my IQ to drop eighty points due to being around so many dumbasses!
Even still, I was intrigued about what other questions I may get tossed. Not because I wanted to go out there, but because they were making me feel a little better about myself. I placed my head back up against the door. This time I was met with a loud banging noise to my ear. There was someone on the other side knocking. 'What the hell do you want?' I asked with a sharp pain in my right ear. I squinted my right eye as if to ease the pain.
'In a bad mood tonight, Mr. Michaels?' The voice asked.
I shook my head. 'To be honest, this was the last thing on my mind right now. I didn’t want to be here to answer a bunch of lame questions.' I replied
There was a short silence before the knob on the door turned, and the door opened. The man slipped through the door and closed it again. He held up a key and smiled. 'Thought I'd come talk to you before you go out there.' He said to me as he put the key back into his pocket. 'You know, it's so great of you to be doing this. You are really helping the hotel out a lot this weekend. We've been without vacancy for the last week because people knew you were going to be doing this press conference.' He finished.
I smiled as I made my way back to the comfortable chair, and sat now. 'So nice to know I'm making your ass some money. Good to know people are still hoarding off my presence. Seriously, I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't have to be.' I responded.
He tilted his head to one side with a funny look on his face. 'Isn't this here what you've wrestled for?' He asked me.
I nodded while contemplating. 'No!' I exclaimed. 'I've wrestled because I was good at it, I loved to do it, and so people would like me, not because I lived by the rules, but because I did what needed to be done to get where I've gotten in my life.' I ranted as I stood up from my chair. 'I've wrestled so dumb people like Rodney Phoenix, Mark Brown, and The Byrd can make fun of my name, because it has two m's in it. So people like them can talk themselves up, say they are going to beat me, and try to make me look bad in the process! I've been in this business so I can ultimately make people realize that this sport... This profession... Is more than words, actions, or how many girls you have on your arms at any given time!' I continued to go off, walking towards the man the whole time.
This guy, someone who I didn't even know, was getting my frustration already. Maybe it was best I got it out now. I finally had the guy pinned to the door, though, before he spoke once more. 'I thought you enjoyed having the fans like you?' He asked as if to try and spoil everything I had been saying.
I smiled at him. 'I do enjoy wrestling for the fans. But like I said, I'm not going to restrict myself to a rule book just so everyone in the arena will blow their loads when my music hits. I've wrestled so people with understand why I'm doing it. So people will like me for who I am, and not someone I'm forced to be! Are you not listening here pal?' I asked.
He trembled in fear, more than likely thinking I was going to punch him in the face. 'Don't hit me, Justin, please.' He pleaded. 'I saw what you did to Brian earlier this week!' He said, and I stopped. Forgetting about what had happened inside of Havoc Entertainment, Inc. a few days prior, I reflected on the event. I did this long enough for the man to open the door, and get most of the way out before yelling at me. 'You're on!'
The door to the room was left wide open, and flash bulbs started. I held my left hand up to shade the bright flashes from my eyes, and these crazy asses were already pushing themselves into the room with tape recorders in my face and asking questions.
'Stormm!'
'Justin!'
'Mr. Michaels!'
'Hey Stormm!'
'Oh my God, Justin!'
'Hey you!'
I was ignoring these people as a couple of black-suited men helped me through the crowd towards the small stage where a long table was set up. A PCW backdrop was hanging from fishing wire behind where I would sit, and only one chair was placed at this table. The men began to lead me up the steps when I heard the one thing that was going to make this a rather short press conference.
'Hey faggot! Go home!' Some young sounding man had yelled out. Now for one, being called names never really bothered me much. But when you through "go home" into any phrase, it usually means someone is telling you that you shouldn't be apart of something. I don't agree with that one bit.
I made it to the chair, and sat rather quickly. The crowd continued to question me, everyone trying to be picked first. I leaned to the microphone, to try and shut them all up. 'Why don't you all just shut up?' I asked, with my head leaning up against one of my hands. The hush wasn't instant, but it was quick enough. The entire sea of reporters had their hand held up. I scanned the crowd for the cockiest looking son of a bitch out there, and sure enough, I found him. Some guy in thick rimmed glasses, and a grey plaid fedora had his pen hanging from his mouth, and barely had a big enough notepad to write anything. He had his hand partially up in the air, trying to act like he didn't care. I stood from my chair, smiled, and pointed to him. 'You there! You ready?' I asked him.
'I s'pose.' He answered back nonchalantly. I shook my head at the guy, and I heard a couple snickers in the crowd. 'So... Stooooormm.' He said, making sure to draw out his pronunciation of the name. 'Do you even think you belong in the ring with the like of Lantlas, Ace Anderson, The UnHoly Alliance, or Grimm? Let alone the people in this opening match you somehow managed to be apart of?' He asked with a shit-eating grin on his face. He pulled the pen from his mouth and held it to his little pad of paper. I could see everyone readying themselves as well.
I nodded and rolled my eyes. 'I was hoping someone would ask decent question. But I guess no matter how much credit you try to give you people, there's no "good" question any of you can answer.' I said, watching everyone write down word for word what I said, the rest, letting their tapes roll. 'But for the sake of time wasted already, I'll go ahead and answer your question.' I continued. I cleared my throat, and snapped my head back and forth to pop my neck, and then walked to once side of the stage.
A hush fell to the crowd as they waited for my response. The cocky bastard in the fedora snapped at me, without giving me a real chance. 'Cat got your tongue, Stooooormm?' He said, with the same draw of the name this time.
'Listen her you slimy piece of reporter trash! You can write down everything I say, you can tell the rest of the world I'm a bad person, and you can tell your friends that you tried to make me look like a fool in front of all these people. But it's not going to work. In all honestly, I could care less who I can, can't, or may never be able to beat in a match here in PCW. As I was telling Mr. Greedy Hotel Manager earlier, I'm not back here to carry twenty pounds of gold around my waist. I'm not here to see how many boobs I can get flashed at me every time I stand in the ring. And I'm most certainly not worried about what names I get the little "vs." placed between me and! So you and your little hat can take one answered question, and hit the pavement!' I blurted as the mumbled conversation began amongst those in attendance.
'You really think...' The man in the fedora tried to ask, before I stopped him.
I shook my head, and held up my hand. 'I'm sorry; I forgot to fully answer your question Mr. Hat! No! I don't belong in that ring with anyone in PCW. Nobody belongs in that ring with anyone else. It's just not right. When someone feels like they belong in that ring... Well, I'll leave that to the tag teams! But for me, no, I don't "fit in" or "feel right" with anyone in the ring. And that's why we have matches. To have people in there wrestling against people they don't feel comfortable being in the squared circle with.' And with that, I wasn't allowing for anyone else to ask me a question, I walked off the stage, and headed for the door.
The men in the black suits were pushing people down, helping me through the sea of angry reporters. I shook my head the whole time, wondering why I even bothered to show up. These press conferences fit that old saying... It’s the same old shit, different day. Then again, I better start getting used to it... Again! Though, as I made it out the door, someone tried getting the last word in on me. 'So do you think you are going to win, Mr. High and Mighty?' They asked over the top of the noise the crowd was making.
I turned back around, and faced the crowd, the flash bulbs still going off. 'Who cares? I'm not worried about the gold, I'm just glad to be back in the ring!' With that, some more black suited men closed the doors to the press room, and the two who helped me through the crowd escorted me towards the elevators, which would take me to my top floor suite.
I could do nothing but sit there and think... If I got paid for every dumb question I could have gotten asked in there, I wouldn't need to wrestle. I could live off of that cash. Think about it.
