Post by George Duke on Apr 15, 2007 0:50:52 GMT -6
The healing has happened. Duke is a little less sore (no more than usual) when he got up this morning, so he's hit the gym early. When the doors opened at 9 AM, he was outside waiting. It's a few hours later and he hasn't stopped yet. He's hit the weights, the cardio equipment and even had a Greco-roman exhibition with another patron. George came out on top, but lost when he continued wrestling out of the circle. DQ? Nothing new.
After throwing the last few heavy slams to a heavy bag, George takes off his gloves and throws them into the corner. It's time for a break - he's earned it. George downs a bottle of water and then sits down to a cup of coffee in the locker room. This is a nice place, the equipment is in good repair, it's clean. State-of-the-art never hurt anybody, but George longs for the dirty dives of Philadelphia. Training in filth brings out the best in a man, but he has brought the trait to Kansas City with him. He drinks a few sips of the coffee and takes off his sneakers. He dips his swollen feet into a small tub of Epsom's salts and sighs deeply. His eyes roll back into his head and reappear somewhat calmer. His tone is relaxed, though it is never pleasant with it's gravelly quality.
"Shawn, last time the cameras came in, I was deep in concentration. I rambled on about my family history - but there was a point to it. I wanted you to know what you're up against. I come from a fine breeding of tough bastards and powerful people - the title is mine by divine right. I took that day to heal up, and focused on strategy and mental preparation instead. I now feel well enough to continue my vigorous physical training schedule - so now let's talk physical, shall we?"
George finishes up his coffee and tosses the cup into a nearby trashcan. He wipes his face with a damp towel and scratches his mutton chops.
"You're a young man, and that sets us apart in many ways. First of all, you probably got a lot more wind in you than I do. You can jump around and move around faster and quicker than I can. You're relatively new to the sport - so you're body hasn't turned on you yet. You don't have any nagging injuries and you're at the peak of your physical well-being. Now, what I do have is experience and smarts - both of which outweigh you as far as wrestling goes. What this means is - I know how to get around anything. Speed? I slow the match down to a comfortable pace for me. Not only will I be able to function - I'll do it better than you. You're not used to a slower paced match up, so you won't be able to function at your top ability. Also, you might lose your cool and make mistakes - and I can spot mistakes and work them. By controlling the pace of the match up - and knowing how - I have the upper hand. Also - you have a nice list of moves in your arsenal, but I have more. I know your style - I've faced opponents with similar styles before. I've also watched you in the ring. I know how to counter you and I know how to control you. For every problem you throw my way, I have the answer. For every hold - I have the reversal. You're up against a lot when it comes to technique and strategy. It's something your youth robs you of. Your speed and agility don't mean a damn thing if you're up against someone who knows what to do, and trust me - I know what to do. When it comes to technical wrestling, I have you beat. But it won't be just a technical bout, will it? No, no it won't. I'm also going to have to kick your ass."
Duke rolls up his sleeve to expose a few small welts on his arm. His eyes are suddenly filled with rage after the small break of momentary serenity.
"Now... I don't know who the f**k you think you are, but nobody blindsides me with a broom handle. You're not only pissing off someone with more power than you - but you did it to me. Sure, I'm pissed, and you'll feel the fire from that. You don't come in and do that to George Duke - no matter who you are, let alone a snot-nosed brat like you. The real burner was, though - that you used a broom handle. Let me tell you something, Stevens. I'm from South Philadelphia. Everyday, I was in a dozen fights on the street. Broom handles are not an unfamiliar weapon to me. In a street fight, you use whatever you have laying around - I've been hit with a broom handle before. You've awakened a rage within me that you haven't seen before. We could have had a decent and respectable match if it weren't for what you did. If you didn't act like an asshole and stick your nose in my personal business, you might've been able to walk out of the arena by yourself this week. No such luck - you went ahead and pissed me off. Let me tell you what happens when you piss me off. Eihildarr pissed me off. Eihildarr betrayed my trust and violated a contract with me. I spilled a gallon of his blood and sent him back to Oslo. Do you know what he's doing now? He's the largest patient at a mental institution. He doesn't wrestle anymore. He doesn't walk right anymore. I gave him the worst concussion Canada's ever seen. I sent him home and retired him. Vic Regal pissed me off. He fowled up a brilliant plan and got me fired and blacklisted. I never achieved the fame and fortune I deserved because of him. I was rejected and banned from the NWA, McMahon wouldn't touch me - I never worked for a major promotion after that. I broke his legs and went to jail for it. I retired him from all fields of work. Thanks to me, he gets a good parking spot at the supermarket now. Macros pissed me off. He got too proud, so I broke his arm. I sent him packing and ruined his undefeated streak. He'll never be the same again. Now, Shawn Stevens - you've pissed me off. You made this personal when it didn't have to be. You better bet your skinny ass that you'll pay for that. You pissed me off, and you have what is mine by divine right. You can imagine that you're in for a Hell-ride. You're up against a master technician AND the King of the Brawlers - and I can shift between the two seamlessly. I've blended the two into my own unique style. There is nothing you can throw at me that I can't shrug off, but there a million things I can do to you. You know I'm not above breaking the rules. I've hidden brass knuckles in my tights and pencils in my boots - and I don't get caught. I've slipped headlocks into choke-holds and the referee can't even tell - I know what I'm doing. You won't catch the worst of it, because I don't want a DQ. I want that title, I deserve it. I'll be taking it home with me this week, and you'll suffer every second of the way. I'm going to be POW's first double title holder - the first step in gaining all the gold this company has. After I conquer the Midwest, I'll move on to the Northeast. Once I have the POW under my control, there is no stopping me. Like Crom Dubh, I'll hold this company in a terrible grasp that it can never escape, save the help of a saint - and everybody knows there ain't no saints no more."
Duke's eyes glow with intensity as he spits at the camera and takes his feet out of the tub. He wipes his legs down with the towel and replaces his shoes. He exits the locker room and goes back to training. He'll be training extra hard - this match might mean it all...
After throwing the last few heavy slams to a heavy bag, George takes off his gloves and throws them into the corner. It's time for a break - he's earned it. George downs a bottle of water and then sits down to a cup of coffee in the locker room. This is a nice place, the equipment is in good repair, it's clean. State-of-the-art never hurt anybody, but George longs for the dirty dives of Philadelphia. Training in filth brings out the best in a man, but he has brought the trait to Kansas City with him. He drinks a few sips of the coffee and takes off his sneakers. He dips his swollen feet into a small tub of Epsom's salts and sighs deeply. His eyes roll back into his head and reappear somewhat calmer. His tone is relaxed, though it is never pleasant with it's gravelly quality.
"Shawn, last time the cameras came in, I was deep in concentration. I rambled on about my family history - but there was a point to it. I wanted you to know what you're up against. I come from a fine breeding of tough bastards and powerful people - the title is mine by divine right. I took that day to heal up, and focused on strategy and mental preparation instead. I now feel well enough to continue my vigorous physical training schedule - so now let's talk physical, shall we?"
George finishes up his coffee and tosses the cup into a nearby trashcan. He wipes his face with a damp towel and scratches his mutton chops.
"You're a young man, and that sets us apart in many ways. First of all, you probably got a lot more wind in you than I do. You can jump around and move around faster and quicker than I can. You're relatively new to the sport - so you're body hasn't turned on you yet. You don't have any nagging injuries and you're at the peak of your physical well-being. Now, what I do have is experience and smarts - both of which outweigh you as far as wrestling goes. What this means is - I know how to get around anything. Speed? I slow the match down to a comfortable pace for me. Not only will I be able to function - I'll do it better than you. You're not used to a slower paced match up, so you won't be able to function at your top ability. Also, you might lose your cool and make mistakes - and I can spot mistakes and work them. By controlling the pace of the match up - and knowing how - I have the upper hand. Also - you have a nice list of moves in your arsenal, but I have more. I know your style - I've faced opponents with similar styles before. I've also watched you in the ring. I know how to counter you and I know how to control you. For every problem you throw my way, I have the answer. For every hold - I have the reversal. You're up against a lot when it comes to technique and strategy. It's something your youth robs you of. Your speed and agility don't mean a damn thing if you're up against someone who knows what to do, and trust me - I know what to do. When it comes to technical wrestling, I have you beat. But it won't be just a technical bout, will it? No, no it won't. I'm also going to have to kick your ass."
Duke rolls up his sleeve to expose a few small welts on his arm. His eyes are suddenly filled with rage after the small break of momentary serenity.
"Now... I don't know who the f**k you think you are, but nobody blindsides me with a broom handle. You're not only pissing off someone with more power than you - but you did it to me. Sure, I'm pissed, and you'll feel the fire from that. You don't come in and do that to George Duke - no matter who you are, let alone a snot-nosed brat like you. The real burner was, though - that you used a broom handle. Let me tell you something, Stevens. I'm from South Philadelphia. Everyday, I was in a dozen fights on the street. Broom handles are not an unfamiliar weapon to me. In a street fight, you use whatever you have laying around - I've been hit with a broom handle before. You've awakened a rage within me that you haven't seen before. We could have had a decent and respectable match if it weren't for what you did. If you didn't act like an asshole and stick your nose in my personal business, you might've been able to walk out of the arena by yourself this week. No such luck - you went ahead and pissed me off. Let me tell you what happens when you piss me off. Eihildarr pissed me off. Eihildarr betrayed my trust and violated a contract with me. I spilled a gallon of his blood and sent him back to Oslo. Do you know what he's doing now? He's the largest patient at a mental institution. He doesn't wrestle anymore. He doesn't walk right anymore. I gave him the worst concussion Canada's ever seen. I sent him home and retired him. Vic Regal pissed me off. He fowled up a brilliant plan and got me fired and blacklisted. I never achieved the fame and fortune I deserved because of him. I was rejected and banned from the NWA, McMahon wouldn't touch me - I never worked for a major promotion after that. I broke his legs and went to jail for it. I retired him from all fields of work. Thanks to me, he gets a good parking spot at the supermarket now. Macros pissed me off. He got too proud, so I broke his arm. I sent him packing and ruined his undefeated streak. He'll never be the same again. Now, Shawn Stevens - you've pissed me off. You made this personal when it didn't have to be. You better bet your skinny ass that you'll pay for that. You pissed me off, and you have what is mine by divine right. You can imagine that you're in for a Hell-ride. You're up against a master technician AND the King of the Brawlers - and I can shift between the two seamlessly. I've blended the two into my own unique style. There is nothing you can throw at me that I can't shrug off, but there a million things I can do to you. You know I'm not above breaking the rules. I've hidden brass knuckles in my tights and pencils in my boots - and I don't get caught. I've slipped headlocks into choke-holds and the referee can't even tell - I know what I'm doing. You won't catch the worst of it, because I don't want a DQ. I want that title, I deserve it. I'll be taking it home with me this week, and you'll suffer every second of the way. I'm going to be POW's first double title holder - the first step in gaining all the gold this company has. After I conquer the Midwest, I'll move on to the Northeast. Once I have the POW under my control, there is no stopping me. Like Crom Dubh, I'll hold this company in a terrible grasp that it can never escape, save the help of a saint - and everybody knows there ain't no saints no more."
Duke's eyes glow with intensity as he spits at the camera and takes his feet out of the tub. He wipes his legs down with the towel and replaces his shoes. He exits the locker room and goes back to training. He'll be training extra hard - this match might mean it all...
