Post by fdcm on Apr 9, 2007 14:36:12 GMT -6
"Adios Motherf**ker." He had always thought it had a nice ring to it.
Equal parts Absolut, gin, rum, tequila, curacao and Sprite. AKA Code Blue, AKA James Tea Kirk, AKA You Might As Well Start My Second and Third Ones Right Now.
Technical bullshit and ingredients lists aside, there was only a single, irrefutable truth at this very moment.
The Champ was hammered.
And why shouldn't he be? Things weren't exactly going the way they were supposed to. He'd had dreams and aspirations of coming into POW and picking up right where he left off in the UWL...as champion. The limousines, the first class plane tickets, the adoration of the fans, and most importantly, ending each and every show with his hand raised in victory and his opponent lying in the shadow of defeat.
But it hadn't been that way at all. Sure, he'd beaten Danny Danielson. There had never been any doubt about that. And given time, he'd have beaten Rich Morrison as well. But it just wasn't going down like that.
Every time he turned around, someone was taking a cheap shot. Ambushing him after his matches. Tearing the red carpet out from under him. And even now, where was he? Resting in his personal spa, recuperating for his upcoming match? No. He was sitting in...
...where the hell was he...?
Oh, yeah. He was in some dump of a watering hole in the middle of You've Never f**king Heard of It Anyway, Maryland. Sure. Because that's where he wanted to be. He'd worked his ass off for twenty years...so that he could come back home again. Totally. What a joy.
But at least he was going to be in the marquee match of the evening against a well-known opponent. An adversary worthy of facing the man called "champion."
..well, actually, no he wasn't. Who the hell was he kidding? He was facing Big Ci, a lumbering, stuttering, belching excuse for a circus clown. A poor man's Paul Wight. And Paul Wight wasn't exactly a f**king diamond in the rough to begin with.
Great. So he'll spend the evening dodging clumsy bear-paw swipes from a guy that weighs almost as much as the rented Malibu he drove to the arena, and has about as much wrestling talent as that stubborn little strand of nosehair he could never seem to pluck out. Great. Fantastic. IDEAL.
Had it occured to any of the POW brass that FDCM never even said he WANTED to wrestle in the New England territory? Christ. He'd come out of retirement to be a champion among champions, not the big fish in the small pond. And kick-starting infant promotions in the nation's armpit wasn't exactly his idea of a good career move.
But what else can he do? Like an idiot, he'd signed a contract. They'd given him everything he asked for. Even the monkey, for God's sake. And now they could make him go where they wished.
He sighs and downs the last of his third cocktail. He's really starting to feel it now.
So, he'll go out and do what he always do. He'll electrify the DOZENS of Marylanders packing the dump of an arena they've booked for the evening, like only he can. He'll annihilate the sorry excuse for what POW calls his competition, like he always does. And then he'll ride out in style.
With a self-righteous little laugh, he stands waveringly from his barstool. He makes it an estimated three steps towards the door before falling flat on his Real World Champion face.
Grumbling under their collective breath, a crack unit of four Flying Diamond Cutter Girls lifts him onto what appears to be a gold-plated gurney, and uses it to transport him to the car. Just another day's work.
The backside of fame and fortune isn't always pretty.
Equal parts Absolut, gin, rum, tequila, curacao and Sprite. AKA Code Blue, AKA James Tea Kirk, AKA You Might As Well Start My Second and Third Ones Right Now.
Technical bullshit and ingredients lists aside, there was only a single, irrefutable truth at this very moment.
The Champ was hammered.
And why shouldn't he be? Things weren't exactly going the way they were supposed to. He'd had dreams and aspirations of coming into POW and picking up right where he left off in the UWL...as champion. The limousines, the first class plane tickets, the adoration of the fans, and most importantly, ending each and every show with his hand raised in victory and his opponent lying in the shadow of defeat.
But it hadn't been that way at all. Sure, he'd beaten Danny Danielson. There had never been any doubt about that. And given time, he'd have beaten Rich Morrison as well. But it just wasn't going down like that.
Every time he turned around, someone was taking a cheap shot. Ambushing him after his matches. Tearing the red carpet out from under him. And even now, where was he? Resting in his personal spa, recuperating for his upcoming match? No. He was sitting in...
...where the hell was he...?
Oh, yeah. He was in some dump of a watering hole in the middle of You've Never f**king Heard of It Anyway, Maryland. Sure. Because that's where he wanted to be. He'd worked his ass off for twenty years...so that he could come back home again. Totally. What a joy.
But at least he was going to be in the marquee match of the evening against a well-known opponent. An adversary worthy of facing the man called "champion."
..well, actually, no he wasn't. Who the hell was he kidding? He was facing Big Ci, a lumbering, stuttering, belching excuse for a circus clown. A poor man's Paul Wight. And Paul Wight wasn't exactly a f**king diamond in the rough to begin with.
Great. So he'll spend the evening dodging clumsy bear-paw swipes from a guy that weighs almost as much as the rented Malibu he drove to the arena, and has about as much wrestling talent as that stubborn little strand of nosehair he could never seem to pluck out. Great. Fantastic. IDEAL.
Had it occured to any of the POW brass that FDCM never even said he WANTED to wrestle in the New England territory? Christ. He'd come out of retirement to be a champion among champions, not the big fish in the small pond. And kick-starting infant promotions in the nation's armpit wasn't exactly his idea of a good career move.
But what else can he do? Like an idiot, he'd signed a contract. They'd given him everything he asked for. Even the monkey, for God's sake. And now they could make him go where they wished.
He sighs and downs the last of his third cocktail. He's really starting to feel it now.
So, he'll go out and do what he always do. He'll electrify the DOZENS of Marylanders packing the dump of an arena they've booked for the evening, like only he can. He'll annihilate the sorry excuse for what POW calls his competition, like he always does. And then he'll ride out in style.
With a self-righteous little laugh, he stands waveringly from his barstool. He makes it an estimated three steps towards the door before falling flat on his Real World Champion face.
Grumbling under their collective breath, a crack unit of four Flying Diamond Cutter Girls lifts him onto what appears to be a gold-plated gurney, and uses it to transport him to the car. Just another day's work.
The backside of fame and fortune isn't always pretty.