Post by George Duke on Mar 19, 2007 14:43:05 GMT -6
"Well, I'm so glad we're original enough to play the age card. I mean, I played nice and didn't bring up the fact that you're supposed to be an Ancient Roman. I mean, I don't get it - but that's you're choice. I mean, I don't like degos, because they're scum. The thing about them, though - is that they always were scum. Scum breeds scum, and you guineas are scum. So now matter when you want to be from - you're scum, Macros. But... it's not my place to say, right?"
George isn't exactly a racist man. He just doesn't like Italians. It's an irrational hatred to most, but if your an Irish/German son of immigrant parents in Philadelphia, you grow not to like Italians. It's a latent prejudice, but it comes out in strong waves sometimes. It isn't the match with Macros that brings it out today, though. Duke is still fuming from Saturday night. Every year, George gets paid to be a bouncer at Fitz's for St. Patrick's Day. He has a few beers and tosses out the riff-raff. There are a few good natured scraps between friends, but then the others come in. The outsiders, the non-regulars. The Irish-for-a-day suburbanites and 4th Street scumbags that would walk past Fitz's any other day. The big fights break out, and George has to stop them. He tosses an Italian out on the street and he comes back with his friends. Then George and his friends have to fight them. Then the guns come out. Then the cops come. Then everyone goes home and George loses out on free drinks and a nice time. Makes sense, right?
Since then, George has been splitting his time. He gets up early and goes for a run. He comes back home and lifts, uses the bags, excercises and the like. Around noon, he eats lunch. After lunch, he packs up a little for his big move to Kansas City. By two or three, he repeats his training routine in reverse. He exercises, uses the bag, lifts and then goes for a run. Usually by six or seven, he's done. He has a cigar and goes out for the night. Usually nowhere. Sometimes somewhere - but usually nowhere. George usually ends up walking the streets, maybe stopping for dinner somewhere, maybe visiting a friend or stopping at Fitz's. But before and after a visit, he's always just walking.
It's about 11:30 and George is walking down Arch Street, through Chinatown. The back wards area is culture shock to someone who has taken a wrong turn. A lot of signs are only in Chinese, there are golden archways everywhere. Asian food markets and restaurants, odd trinket stores - even a chicken wandering around in the streets. George is bundled up in his long black coat and tweed cap, a gray scarf draped around his neck. As he walks through the ice and snow built up from the weekend, his breath is a mix of steam and cigar smoke. It shouldn't be this cold in the middle of March. Duke stops at the Trocadero and looks at the coming attractions. The Troc has been standing here for over 100 years. It has three floors and two stages. It's still a hot spot. George remembers when it was a burlesque house. Now it's a venue for mostly crummy bands. Although, it was cool to see Motorhead there. As his eyes scan the posters not really seeing anything at all, he speaks in a voice more gravelly and low than usual.
"The age thing gets tossed around a lot, and that's fine because I'm used to it. Am I in my fifties? Damn right I am. Have I been in this sport for around forty years? Damn right I have. Am I an old man? You better wash those words out of your mouth real quick. I ain't no old man. I've kept moving, I've kept going. I never slowed down, I've only gained speed. My body is in better shape than a lot of 25 year olds, my mind is sharper than anyone on the roster. I know more about this sport than you can even imagine, and I'm going to use it all at All In."
Duke spits on the ground before taking another puff of his cigar. He slowly turns away and continues wandering down Arch Street. He curses at the chicken that walks in front of him. He gazes at the pedestrian overpass that stretches from building to building on either side of the street.
"You know, people are still afraid of Terry Funk. As pathetic as he is physically, everyone knows that he'll still knock your dick in the dirt. Everyone knows that he's thick-skinned, tough and crazy. Sound familiar? Except my body isn't falling apart. A good example is music. Look at B.B. King. At 80 years old, the man still plays over 200 dates a year. He has to sit down when he plays now, but he does more in that seat than anyone could do with 2 pairs of legs standin' up. The fact is - he knows his sh*t. He knows what he's doing. He plays like a demon and roars like thunder when he sings - because he's that damn good. Just like me, Macros. But once again, I'm not falling apart."
George turns on 15th Street and heads through the run-down area. A lot of windows are boarded up and some are broken into. The few inhabited homes are in worse shape than the abandoned ones, and it seems more of the locale are sleeping in the empty lot at the end of the street than in the houses. Man, if there's one thing George hates more than Italians, it's homeless people. Not that he doesn't understand hard-times. But handouts? No f*cking way. Not George. That's why he's waited for a title shot. There was a lot of red tape with the higher-ups because of booking conflicts, but George could have pushed the issue. He didn't. He's going to wait.
"I haven't been given the opportunity to get my title shot with Stevens, smart *ss. There are a few kinks in the system in the new POW. After I lay you out at All In, then I'll challenge the NEW Heavyweight champion. You don't have to worry about dirty tricks or foreign objects, Macros. They want a legit match, they'll get a legit match. Be ready for that, Macros. But I warn you - don't you push me over the edge. Don't you dare do it. Do it and you'll regret it to your dying day, if you should live so long."
Duke reflects on his last line. It's too familiar. Where in the hell did it come from? Hmmm...
George passes Wayne street and then suddenly remembers - The Quiet Man. Happy memories of The Duke in one of his finest rolls flood into George's memory. He thinks back to the framed picture of John Wayne in his kitchen. Why the kitchen? Because he's earned it. George snaps out of it after a few more blocks. He crosses Washington Avenue and moves past the Mummers Museum. George has really gotten around the city tonight. He checks his watch and it's past midnight. As he walks by, a potted plant falls from a 2nd story window and barely misses him. He looks up angrily to a response of 'sorry'. He walks away, rather pissed, but then he stops. His eyes light up and he is happy once more.
"In the mean time, fella. I'd watch your step. I mean, accidents do happen. It's be ashame if I stood in an empty ring and won by default. I mean, sure - I'd get to have the night off and get my higher title shot. But what would be the sport in that, huh? Haha!"
Duke whistles his way back home between puffs of another cigar. Tomorrow he'll get up and do it all over again. Tomorrow night, he'll fly out to Kansas City and check into the motel. Wednesday, he'll go house-hunting and train some more. Thursday is All In - and George is betting it all. His title is on the line and he plans on keeping it.
George isn't exactly a racist man. He just doesn't like Italians. It's an irrational hatred to most, but if your an Irish/German son of immigrant parents in Philadelphia, you grow not to like Italians. It's a latent prejudice, but it comes out in strong waves sometimes. It isn't the match with Macros that brings it out today, though. Duke is still fuming from Saturday night. Every year, George gets paid to be a bouncer at Fitz's for St. Patrick's Day. He has a few beers and tosses out the riff-raff. There are a few good natured scraps between friends, but then the others come in. The outsiders, the non-regulars. The Irish-for-a-day suburbanites and 4th Street scumbags that would walk past Fitz's any other day. The big fights break out, and George has to stop them. He tosses an Italian out on the street and he comes back with his friends. Then George and his friends have to fight them. Then the guns come out. Then the cops come. Then everyone goes home and George loses out on free drinks and a nice time. Makes sense, right?
Since then, George has been splitting his time. He gets up early and goes for a run. He comes back home and lifts, uses the bags, excercises and the like. Around noon, he eats lunch. After lunch, he packs up a little for his big move to Kansas City. By two or three, he repeats his training routine in reverse. He exercises, uses the bag, lifts and then goes for a run. Usually by six or seven, he's done. He has a cigar and goes out for the night. Usually nowhere. Sometimes somewhere - but usually nowhere. George usually ends up walking the streets, maybe stopping for dinner somewhere, maybe visiting a friend or stopping at Fitz's. But before and after a visit, he's always just walking.
It's about 11:30 and George is walking down Arch Street, through Chinatown. The back wards area is culture shock to someone who has taken a wrong turn. A lot of signs are only in Chinese, there are golden archways everywhere. Asian food markets and restaurants, odd trinket stores - even a chicken wandering around in the streets. George is bundled up in his long black coat and tweed cap, a gray scarf draped around his neck. As he walks through the ice and snow built up from the weekend, his breath is a mix of steam and cigar smoke. It shouldn't be this cold in the middle of March. Duke stops at the Trocadero and looks at the coming attractions. The Troc has been standing here for over 100 years. It has three floors and two stages. It's still a hot spot. George remembers when it was a burlesque house. Now it's a venue for mostly crummy bands. Although, it was cool to see Motorhead there. As his eyes scan the posters not really seeing anything at all, he speaks in a voice more gravelly and low than usual.
"The age thing gets tossed around a lot, and that's fine because I'm used to it. Am I in my fifties? Damn right I am. Have I been in this sport for around forty years? Damn right I have. Am I an old man? You better wash those words out of your mouth real quick. I ain't no old man. I've kept moving, I've kept going. I never slowed down, I've only gained speed. My body is in better shape than a lot of 25 year olds, my mind is sharper than anyone on the roster. I know more about this sport than you can even imagine, and I'm going to use it all at All In."
Duke spits on the ground before taking another puff of his cigar. He slowly turns away and continues wandering down Arch Street. He curses at the chicken that walks in front of him. He gazes at the pedestrian overpass that stretches from building to building on either side of the street.
"You know, people are still afraid of Terry Funk. As pathetic as he is physically, everyone knows that he'll still knock your dick in the dirt. Everyone knows that he's thick-skinned, tough and crazy. Sound familiar? Except my body isn't falling apart. A good example is music. Look at B.B. King. At 80 years old, the man still plays over 200 dates a year. He has to sit down when he plays now, but he does more in that seat than anyone could do with 2 pairs of legs standin' up. The fact is - he knows his sh*t. He knows what he's doing. He plays like a demon and roars like thunder when he sings - because he's that damn good. Just like me, Macros. But once again, I'm not falling apart."
George turns on 15th Street and heads through the run-down area. A lot of windows are boarded up and some are broken into. The few inhabited homes are in worse shape than the abandoned ones, and it seems more of the locale are sleeping in the empty lot at the end of the street than in the houses. Man, if there's one thing George hates more than Italians, it's homeless people. Not that he doesn't understand hard-times. But handouts? No f*cking way. Not George. That's why he's waited for a title shot. There was a lot of red tape with the higher-ups because of booking conflicts, but George could have pushed the issue. He didn't. He's going to wait.
"I haven't been given the opportunity to get my title shot with Stevens, smart *ss. There are a few kinks in the system in the new POW. After I lay you out at All In, then I'll challenge the NEW Heavyweight champion. You don't have to worry about dirty tricks or foreign objects, Macros. They want a legit match, they'll get a legit match. Be ready for that, Macros. But I warn you - don't you push me over the edge. Don't you dare do it. Do it and you'll regret it to your dying day, if you should live so long."
Duke reflects on his last line. It's too familiar. Where in the hell did it come from? Hmmm...
George passes Wayne street and then suddenly remembers - The Quiet Man. Happy memories of The Duke in one of his finest rolls flood into George's memory. He thinks back to the framed picture of John Wayne in his kitchen. Why the kitchen? Because he's earned it. George snaps out of it after a few more blocks. He crosses Washington Avenue and moves past the Mummers Museum. George has really gotten around the city tonight. He checks his watch and it's past midnight. As he walks by, a potted plant falls from a 2nd story window and barely misses him. He looks up angrily to a response of 'sorry'. He walks away, rather pissed, but then he stops. His eyes light up and he is happy once more.
"In the mean time, fella. I'd watch your step. I mean, accidents do happen. It's be ashame if I stood in an empty ring and won by default. I mean, sure - I'd get to have the night off and get my higher title shot. But what would be the sport in that, huh? Haha!"
Duke whistles his way back home between puffs of another cigar. Tomorrow he'll get up and do it all over again. Tomorrow night, he'll fly out to Kansas City and check into the motel. Wednesday, he'll go house-hunting and train some more. Thursday is All In - and George is betting it all. His title is on the line and he plans on keeping it.
