Post by Ace Anderson on Apr 18, 2006 19:03:36 GMT -5
If I was plotting global domination, I’d be able to say phase one has been completed. Defeating Geno was my first chance at drowning HHW like a disease infested rat. I have finished the first scene of my tragedy, which ends in the demise of every Hardcore Hell immigrant loser. Next step, crushing Lantlas’ spirits. The stage is not large enough to destroy him completely, and besides, why not have a little more fun? So far he’s undefeated. He’s even claimed a victory over Ace Anderson. However, there is a side of Ace Anderson he has yet to experience. The Greatness Factor hasn’t been added to the equation. Not yet, not at all.
That’s why I can’t help but let out a cry of excitement when I check the PCW website and see that I’m facing Lantlas. Headline for Trauma 43. Main event, non-title match. Ace Anderson vs. Lantlas. After defeating Geno and basically spitting in the face of Al Laiman, it is suffice to say that Ace Anderson is now one, and HHW is zero. Time to take a two-nothing lead into this series of chaos. The booking Gods have been good to Ace Anderson. Probably because they’re afraid of him.
It’s a good thing I’ve been staying in Greenville. I can head down to Pure Class Arena right now, and I can get a few words in. But first I need to settle this horrid hunger that is pulsing through the depths of my stomach. Do I actually think like that? Maybe I should quit wrestling and take up a career as a writer.
I stand up from the laptop, but before I walk away I check over the rest of the card. Prophet vs. Geno is the only thing that stands out in my mind. Prophet will make quick work of that piece of shit. I’d put any money on it.
I close the top of the laptop and I walk over to the bed. I pick up my jacket, and I put it on, out of habit. Hell, it’s 22 degrees outside, but I feel naked without my jacket. Like how nerds feel naked without their glasses, or teenagers feel naked without their hair gel. Something like that. Either way, my jacket is on, and I’m headed out the door. Once I reach the parking lot, and I’m climbing into my car, I start to wonder if Lantlas is anticipating this match-up as much as I am. If he wants to recreate what happened the first Trauma after Game Over. Only this time, Ace Anderson isn’t going to get bored. He isn’t going to call it quits and level Lantlas with his World Title. He’s going to step in that ring, go toe to toe with the elf-man himself, and come out victorious, just like it says in the books. Whatever book has a story about a huge blue haired elf combating the Supreme Being, I haven’t seen yet. Bet it’s a good story though.
It’s warm in the car, so I roll down my window as I drive down the street. Some Subway would be nice. Get skinny like Jared. I still say he cheated. Anorexia and Subway would make you lose weight pretty fast, 6 grams of fat or less, and your body eating it’s own fat or less. Good combo. I wish I knew my way around this place. I know how to get from the arena, to the hotel, and maybe back to the arena. Thank God–or should I say thank Ace Anderson, the real God-- for corporate America and the fact that there is a Subway on basically every street corner from here to Tibet.
I pull in to Subway, and I get out of the car. I put on a sneer just in case somebody recognizes me as Ace Anderson. Gotta put on a show for the masses. Can’t let ‘em see Ace Anderson as a softie. Fun life I lead, always pretending to hate the people that I see. It’s not a bad racket, but I wouldn’t recommend it for the easily offended. You might end of offending yourself.
I walk into Subway, and I push past some old woman in line. She might be dying, but she can wait an extra five minutes for her sub. It’s not like she has places to be.
She looks up at me with confused eyes. “That was my place in line...” she says, slower than a one legged octopus on land.
“You’re dying. Ace Anderson has places to be. It’s a logical choice.” I tell her, half laughing while I say it.
“You’re going to burn in hell young man.” she says, and then just kind of minds her own business, her mind going off into her own little world.
“Not if Greatness is the guy who runs hell.” I respond, as I step up to the counter to place an order. “Chicken Teriyaki on white. Snappy, mother fucker.”
The guy behind the counter gives me a look, but I know he’s too afraid to say anything. He’s five feet tall with more acne than 85 Russian teenagers. He just gets out the meat, and puts it in the microwave. “Do you want cheese on that sir?” he asks, his voice cracking like puberty is the newest addition to his vocabulary.
“Yeah, sure. Cheese sounds good.” I say, trying to lay off him a little. It’s not always my first instinct to be rude, but hell, it sure is funny.
“What vegetables would you like?” he asks as he takes the meat out of the microwave and puts it on the bun, sliding the sub down the counter.
“Ehh..tomato, lettuce, onion, and salt and pepper. Some of that sauce there too. Yeah, that’s the one.” I say, as I point to a sauce that I don’t even know the name of. Don’t care either. Just know it tastes half decent. That’s the best you can ask for with these restaurants. Half decent. But when you’re not to slick at cooking and you don’t have a maid or a wench or something handy, it’ll have to do.
After putting all of the stuff on it, he wraps it up. “Is this for here or to go?” he asks me.
“To go, for God’s sake, to go.” I tell him, “it smells like you in here.”
“Would you like the combo with that?” he says, and I can’t help but laugh out loud as his voice cracks so bad you could almost feel it in your bones.
“Not after what Mr. Anderson just heard. He doesn’t want much but to get outta here.” I say to him, as I pay him and take my sub. I walk out the doors, and I climb in my car. I don’t usually like to eat while I’m driving, but I’m on the move today. I start up the car and head toward the arena, while I open my sub.
By the time I reach the arena, the sub is gone, and is settled in the pit of my stomach. It was actually rather good for processed meat prepared by hand, and vegetables that have been sitting out all day. Hell, I know it’s gross but it’s not like I care. I sit in the parking lot of Pure Class Arena for a few minutes until I finally get out of my car and walk toward the entrance.
It’s funny. This time, unlike most times, I know exactly what I wanna say to Lantlas. I want to make my message perfectly clear for him. I know his advanced Elven brain will understand. All I gotta do is find a cameraman. I walk to the back area, and I see one. A guy sitting there, I know he can work a camera cause he’s done it for me before.
“Hey beaner. Get up.” I say to him, not bothering to be “Jason nice” and staying in character.
He knows what I want, so he gets up and walks into a room and grabs his camera. He comes back in about a second. This guy moves fast. I like that. Wouldn’t tell him though. “Where do you want to go Mr. Anderson?” he asks me.
“Right here’s fine Julio.” I tell him. So he mounts the camera to his shoulder. I figure we’re about three minutes of talking away from the ring if I keep a steady walking pace. Good enough. He points to tell me it’s rolling, and I jump right into it.
“Lantlas. Elven one. How are you feeling? Must be great after your huge win over Nightmare to Society. A lot of Nightmare to a lot of Society. The only Nightmare is their wrestling ability. You, however, are different. You can wrestle good enough to beat Blade Lionheart, and even pick up a DQ win over Greatness in the Flesh. Can’t forget your victories over Chrissy, Maddog, and S.I.N. You have twelve consecutive wins. That’s all about to come to an end, rest assured.” I’ve been walking slowly now, the cameraman following me. Was it fair for me to call him Julio? I don’t even know his name. No time to think of that now. Get down to business.
“Unfortunately for you, you have stepped into a war that is beyond ogres and battles for a silly ring. Beyond spoofing movies and cutting retarded newbreaks. Quote Greatness like he knows you will, but that doesn’t change the fact that what you’re stepping into is beyond anything a mortal can comprehend. Good thing you’re not human. The elf cracks never stop, now do they? Ace Anderson is just fueling your own fire. Good thing he knows nothing about you, that will help you sleep at night. The only thing that he needs to know, is what you can do in that ring. Ace Anderson has seen it, Lantlas, and while you are more impressive than half of the retarded inbreeds of Pure Class Wrestling, you can’t expect to match up to the Face of the Business, now can you?” I’m nearing the ring now. The punch line. The money shot.
“We’re drawing near, Lantlas. You’ve walked this path before. This is the path that leads to the ring, that leads to the destiny of Ace Anderson. Whenever his music plays, he can hardly hear it over the boos of the crowd. That is what allows him to zone out. Those boos are like music to his ears. Ace Anderson wrestles to make the crowd angry. To make them loathe him more and more. What do you wrestle for? To prove that you are, in fact, not human? To prove something to yourself by defeating others? To claim the World Title?” I walk out from behind the curtain onto the stage. Darkness is all there is. I pull a lighter from my pocket. I don’t even smoke. I open it up, and light it.
“This stage, this ramp. You’ve stood on it, and looked out at the ring. To see your opponent, staring back at something they don’t understand. A blue-haired man with a “metaphor” that makes him superior. Or something along those lines. Ace Anderson knows your style in the ring, as he is sure you know his. The field of battle, right at the end of this path.” I continue to walk down the ramp until I reach the ring. I climb up onto the apron, the lighter still lit, and I go between the middle rope and into the ring, the camera still following. I walk over to the very middle of the ring, and I stop.
“Is this the end of the road, Lantlas? This spot, right here, is all too familiar to Ace Anderson. An Exemplification, maybe A Touch of Greatness, and then the feeling of the warm mat against his arms as he lays across his opponent to pin him. Three quick strikes of the mat by the referee, and everything can change. That’s how it will change for you Lantlas. Just like Geno, you will feel the Touch of Greatness. The Greatness Factor will overtake you and you will have nowhere to go, but downward.” I close the lighter. “Darkness will be all you have left in the end.”
Julio knows that time is up, he always seems to know. He’s great at his job. I hope they pay him extra. I light the lighter again, and I climb out of the ring. “Thanks a lot Julio, you did a great job. Is your name even Julio?”
“The name’s Frank.” he says. Totally un-Mexican. I’m disappointed. Ah well, there will be more beaners to stereotype in Ace Anderson’s lifetime. I walk back up the ramp, slowly this time, though. Trying to take in the memories of the countless pay per views in which I walked out victorious. Thinking back to Deadly Intentions, to Living a Legacy, all the way back to Return to Glory. There hasn’t been a pay per view that I haven’t walked out as a Champion. That won’t change as long as Ace Anderson is around. As long as I stay focused, I won’t walk out of another match as the loser, either.
People tell me arrogance is wrong, and it will be my downfall. Ace’s arrogance is just jacked up confidence. Jacked up confidence that has helped him win twenty matches and a few titles in just under a year. Jacked up confidence that will allow him to overcome his enemies. Help him eliminate HHW from Pure Class Wrestling, and then all he’ll have to worry about, is swatting the flies that try to get a taste of his World Title.
That’s why I can’t help but let out a cry of excitement when I check the PCW website and see that I’m facing Lantlas. Headline for Trauma 43. Main event, non-title match. Ace Anderson vs. Lantlas. After defeating Geno and basically spitting in the face of Al Laiman, it is suffice to say that Ace Anderson is now one, and HHW is zero. Time to take a two-nothing lead into this series of chaos. The booking Gods have been good to Ace Anderson. Probably because they’re afraid of him.
It’s a good thing I’ve been staying in Greenville. I can head down to Pure Class Arena right now, and I can get a few words in. But first I need to settle this horrid hunger that is pulsing through the depths of my stomach. Do I actually think like that? Maybe I should quit wrestling and take up a career as a writer.
I stand up from the laptop, but before I walk away I check over the rest of the card. Prophet vs. Geno is the only thing that stands out in my mind. Prophet will make quick work of that piece of shit. I’d put any money on it.
I close the top of the laptop and I walk over to the bed. I pick up my jacket, and I put it on, out of habit. Hell, it’s 22 degrees outside, but I feel naked without my jacket. Like how nerds feel naked without their glasses, or teenagers feel naked without their hair gel. Something like that. Either way, my jacket is on, and I’m headed out the door. Once I reach the parking lot, and I’m climbing into my car, I start to wonder if Lantlas is anticipating this match-up as much as I am. If he wants to recreate what happened the first Trauma after Game Over. Only this time, Ace Anderson isn’t going to get bored. He isn’t going to call it quits and level Lantlas with his World Title. He’s going to step in that ring, go toe to toe with the elf-man himself, and come out victorious, just like it says in the books. Whatever book has a story about a huge blue haired elf combating the Supreme Being, I haven’t seen yet. Bet it’s a good story though.
It’s warm in the car, so I roll down my window as I drive down the street. Some Subway would be nice. Get skinny like Jared. I still say he cheated. Anorexia and Subway would make you lose weight pretty fast, 6 grams of fat or less, and your body eating it’s own fat or less. Good combo. I wish I knew my way around this place. I know how to get from the arena, to the hotel, and maybe back to the arena. Thank God–or should I say thank Ace Anderson, the real God-- for corporate America and the fact that there is a Subway on basically every street corner from here to Tibet.
I pull in to Subway, and I get out of the car. I put on a sneer just in case somebody recognizes me as Ace Anderson. Gotta put on a show for the masses. Can’t let ‘em see Ace Anderson as a softie. Fun life I lead, always pretending to hate the people that I see. It’s not a bad racket, but I wouldn’t recommend it for the easily offended. You might end of offending yourself.
I walk into Subway, and I push past some old woman in line. She might be dying, but she can wait an extra five minutes for her sub. It’s not like she has places to be.
She looks up at me with confused eyes. “That was my place in line...” she says, slower than a one legged octopus on land.
“You’re dying. Ace Anderson has places to be. It’s a logical choice.” I tell her, half laughing while I say it.
“You’re going to burn in hell young man.” she says, and then just kind of minds her own business, her mind going off into her own little world.
“Not if Greatness is the guy who runs hell.” I respond, as I step up to the counter to place an order. “Chicken Teriyaki on white. Snappy, mother fucker.”
The guy behind the counter gives me a look, but I know he’s too afraid to say anything. He’s five feet tall with more acne than 85 Russian teenagers. He just gets out the meat, and puts it in the microwave. “Do you want cheese on that sir?” he asks, his voice cracking like puberty is the newest addition to his vocabulary.
“Yeah, sure. Cheese sounds good.” I say, trying to lay off him a little. It’s not always my first instinct to be rude, but hell, it sure is funny.
“What vegetables would you like?” he asks as he takes the meat out of the microwave and puts it on the bun, sliding the sub down the counter.
“Ehh..tomato, lettuce, onion, and salt and pepper. Some of that sauce there too. Yeah, that’s the one.” I say, as I point to a sauce that I don’t even know the name of. Don’t care either. Just know it tastes half decent. That’s the best you can ask for with these restaurants. Half decent. But when you’re not to slick at cooking and you don’t have a maid or a wench or something handy, it’ll have to do.
After putting all of the stuff on it, he wraps it up. “Is this for here or to go?” he asks me.
“To go, for God’s sake, to go.” I tell him, “it smells like you in here.”
“Would you like the combo with that?” he says, and I can’t help but laugh out loud as his voice cracks so bad you could almost feel it in your bones.
“Not after what Mr. Anderson just heard. He doesn’t want much but to get outta here.” I say to him, as I pay him and take my sub. I walk out the doors, and I climb in my car. I don’t usually like to eat while I’m driving, but I’m on the move today. I start up the car and head toward the arena, while I open my sub.
By the time I reach the arena, the sub is gone, and is settled in the pit of my stomach. It was actually rather good for processed meat prepared by hand, and vegetables that have been sitting out all day. Hell, I know it’s gross but it’s not like I care. I sit in the parking lot of Pure Class Arena for a few minutes until I finally get out of my car and walk toward the entrance.
It’s funny. This time, unlike most times, I know exactly what I wanna say to Lantlas. I want to make my message perfectly clear for him. I know his advanced Elven brain will understand. All I gotta do is find a cameraman. I walk to the back area, and I see one. A guy sitting there, I know he can work a camera cause he’s done it for me before.
“Hey beaner. Get up.” I say to him, not bothering to be “Jason nice” and staying in character.
He knows what I want, so he gets up and walks into a room and grabs his camera. He comes back in about a second. This guy moves fast. I like that. Wouldn’t tell him though. “Where do you want to go Mr. Anderson?” he asks me.
“Right here’s fine Julio.” I tell him. So he mounts the camera to his shoulder. I figure we’re about three minutes of talking away from the ring if I keep a steady walking pace. Good enough. He points to tell me it’s rolling, and I jump right into it.
“Lantlas. Elven one. How are you feeling? Must be great after your huge win over Nightmare to Society. A lot of Nightmare to a lot of Society. The only Nightmare is their wrestling ability. You, however, are different. You can wrestle good enough to beat Blade Lionheart, and even pick up a DQ win over Greatness in the Flesh. Can’t forget your victories over Chrissy, Maddog, and S.I.N. You have twelve consecutive wins. That’s all about to come to an end, rest assured.” I’ve been walking slowly now, the cameraman following me. Was it fair for me to call him Julio? I don’t even know his name. No time to think of that now. Get down to business.
“Unfortunately for you, you have stepped into a war that is beyond ogres and battles for a silly ring. Beyond spoofing movies and cutting retarded newbreaks. Quote Greatness like he knows you will, but that doesn’t change the fact that what you’re stepping into is beyond anything a mortal can comprehend. Good thing you’re not human. The elf cracks never stop, now do they? Ace Anderson is just fueling your own fire. Good thing he knows nothing about you, that will help you sleep at night. The only thing that he needs to know, is what you can do in that ring. Ace Anderson has seen it, Lantlas, and while you are more impressive than half of the retarded inbreeds of Pure Class Wrestling, you can’t expect to match up to the Face of the Business, now can you?” I’m nearing the ring now. The punch line. The money shot.
“We’re drawing near, Lantlas. You’ve walked this path before. This is the path that leads to the ring, that leads to the destiny of Ace Anderson. Whenever his music plays, he can hardly hear it over the boos of the crowd. That is what allows him to zone out. Those boos are like music to his ears. Ace Anderson wrestles to make the crowd angry. To make them loathe him more and more. What do you wrestle for? To prove that you are, in fact, not human? To prove something to yourself by defeating others? To claim the World Title?” I walk out from behind the curtain onto the stage. Darkness is all there is. I pull a lighter from my pocket. I don’t even smoke. I open it up, and light it.
“This stage, this ramp. You’ve stood on it, and looked out at the ring. To see your opponent, staring back at something they don’t understand. A blue-haired man with a “metaphor” that makes him superior. Or something along those lines. Ace Anderson knows your style in the ring, as he is sure you know his. The field of battle, right at the end of this path.” I continue to walk down the ramp until I reach the ring. I climb up onto the apron, the lighter still lit, and I go between the middle rope and into the ring, the camera still following. I walk over to the very middle of the ring, and I stop.
“Is this the end of the road, Lantlas? This spot, right here, is all too familiar to Ace Anderson. An Exemplification, maybe A Touch of Greatness, and then the feeling of the warm mat against his arms as he lays across his opponent to pin him. Three quick strikes of the mat by the referee, and everything can change. That’s how it will change for you Lantlas. Just like Geno, you will feel the Touch of Greatness. The Greatness Factor will overtake you and you will have nowhere to go, but downward.” I close the lighter. “Darkness will be all you have left in the end.”
Julio knows that time is up, he always seems to know. He’s great at his job. I hope they pay him extra. I light the lighter again, and I climb out of the ring. “Thanks a lot Julio, you did a great job. Is your name even Julio?”
“The name’s Frank.” he says. Totally un-Mexican. I’m disappointed. Ah well, there will be more beaners to stereotype in Ace Anderson’s lifetime. I walk back up the ramp, slowly this time, though. Trying to take in the memories of the countless pay per views in which I walked out victorious. Thinking back to Deadly Intentions, to Living a Legacy, all the way back to Return to Glory. There hasn’t been a pay per view that I haven’t walked out as a Champion. That won’t change as long as Ace Anderson is around. As long as I stay focused, I won’t walk out of another match as the loser, either.
People tell me arrogance is wrong, and it will be my downfall. Ace’s arrogance is just jacked up confidence. Jacked up confidence that has helped him win twenty matches and a few titles in just under a year. Jacked up confidence that will allow him to overcome his enemies. Help him eliminate HHW from Pure Class Wrestling, and then all he’ll have to worry about, is swatting the flies that try to get a taste of his World Title.
