Post by George Duke on May 20, 2007 14:53:17 GMT -6
George likes the corner bar a lot. He has found friends and respect there. He has decided to allow them in on a message to Big Ci. The bar patrons are all regulars at POW events, and they’ll all be watching Supermania and holding a big party. George is at the bar, waving off people who want to sign his cast. He looks around and proclaims.
“I want to keep it clean. If there’s gonna be anything on it, it better be Big Ci’s blood.”
Everyone claps as George basks in the limelight. He’s treated like royalty here, and everyone hangs on his every word. The bar is packed beyond legal capacity, due to the knowledge that POW cameras would be rolling. George steps up onto the bar, cigar in hand, to a thunderous applause. He stands stiff and tall, clutching his lapels like Taft. He struts across the bar, offering hellos and handshakes before shushing the crowd. The camera gets a nice low angle that makes George look like a King.
“I am not tied to England, Ci. True, I have roots in England – but they banished us, they forced us out. They disowned my half of the Dukenfields. Maybe we were bad people, maybe we were rapscallions – and maybe we were bad seeds. As I said, the other half had a son who came to Philadelphia and birthed W.C. Fields. It must be hereditary. I have limey roots, but I am tied to Philadelphia. Saying I am tied is like saying that Washington was tied. The English Empire reared it’s “holier-than-thou”, snobby head and pushed out the ‘undesirable’ Dukenfields. Our own cousins helped then push us away. We were hung, we were jailed and we were fined. They turned in their cousins for grave-robbing, for petty theft. Our own family turned us in for a pie – what does that say about the English?”
The rowdy bar crowd shouts encouragement to George and mumbles salty words about the crown.
“This has managed to turn into another big bout, hasn’t it? The first time we met, it was just a chance of booking. The second time we met, it was for the title – but it turned personal, didn’t it? This time, it is again about titles and booking – and again, it is turning personal. Just like last time, this is going to be the real main event. People will be watching. There is drama, there is pride and there is genuine competition. We’re skilled at many type of wrestling, you and I. We both were schooled in rich institutions of wrestling. You were trained in the U.K., where the rich tradition and sportsmanship have made it high and holy. I got my hard knocks in a traveling carnival, where I learned how to break bones and cheat to win. Maybe my genetics helped me excel in it. That’s the difference between us, despite the fact that we are both sound technicians in that ring. But we have different approaches, and I think that that’s what makes all the difference.”
The crowd nods, offering shouts of “Here here!” and even a sparse “halleluiah” or two. George takes a long puff of his cigar before continuing.
“You see, you’re almost all that is right about wrestling. You’re pure – because you’re here for all the right reasons. You love this sport, and you’re here for the sport. You’re not here for fame and glamour. You’re not here to get rich. In that respect, we’re the same, Ci. But like I said, you’re pure. You play by the rules – you still believe in good guys. I got news for you, Englishman. - all the good guys are dead. You’re the last one around here. Sure, we have fan favorites, but they’re hardly good guys. They’re ninjas and retards that are here to mock the sport. They are pretty boys who looking for fame and women. You’re the last of a dying breed around here, Ci. You and I might be the only purists around here, but I ain’t no good guy either. I like to break the rules – that’s what makes it exciting. That’s why it is a thinking man’s sport.”
The bar patrons are captivated as George goes on, ten times more intense than a Baptist on a mission.
“It’s going to be a helluva showdown, Ci. Two purists, the only two real wrestlers left in Kansas City. One is the ‘good’, the other ‘bad’. This is everything this sport has always been about. I know that you and I are going to tear each other apart out there. We’re gonna bleed and holler – and the whole world will be watching. When it is all over and the titles are united – I know that The Great George Duke will be the victor – and I’ll extend my hand to the loser, as a gesture of respect for our shared love of this sport. This is not only for us, but this is for the sport we love – the sport we eat, sleep and breathe. This is for wrestling.”
The capacity crowd at the bar cheers in unison, applauding George for his strong words and conviction. Duke steps down off the bar and out the door, with the crowd still cheering and chanting for him as he walks through the night.
“I want to keep it clean. If there’s gonna be anything on it, it better be Big Ci’s blood.”
Everyone claps as George basks in the limelight. He’s treated like royalty here, and everyone hangs on his every word. The bar is packed beyond legal capacity, due to the knowledge that POW cameras would be rolling. George steps up onto the bar, cigar in hand, to a thunderous applause. He stands stiff and tall, clutching his lapels like Taft. He struts across the bar, offering hellos and handshakes before shushing the crowd. The camera gets a nice low angle that makes George look like a King.
“I am not tied to England, Ci. True, I have roots in England – but they banished us, they forced us out. They disowned my half of the Dukenfields. Maybe we were bad people, maybe we were rapscallions – and maybe we were bad seeds. As I said, the other half had a son who came to Philadelphia and birthed W.C. Fields. It must be hereditary. I have limey roots, but I am tied to Philadelphia. Saying I am tied is like saying that Washington was tied. The English Empire reared it’s “holier-than-thou”, snobby head and pushed out the ‘undesirable’ Dukenfields. Our own cousins helped then push us away. We were hung, we were jailed and we were fined. They turned in their cousins for grave-robbing, for petty theft. Our own family turned us in for a pie – what does that say about the English?”
The rowdy bar crowd shouts encouragement to George and mumbles salty words about the crown.
“This has managed to turn into another big bout, hasn’t it? The first time we met, it was just a chance of booking. The second time we met, it was for the title – but it turned personal, didn’t it? This time, it is again about titles and booking – and again, it is turning personal. Just like last time, this is going to be the real main event. People will be watching. There is drama, there is pride and there is genuine competition. We’re skilled at many type of wrestling, you and I. We both were schooled in rich institutions of wrestling. You were trained in the U.K., where the rich tradition and sportsmanship have made it high and holy. I got my hard knocks in a traveling carnival, where I learned how to break bones and cheat to win. Maybe my genetics helped me excel in it. That’s the difference between us, despite the fact that we are both sound technicians in that ring. But we have different approaches, and I think that that’s what makes all the difference.”
The crowd nods, offering shouts of “Here here!” and even a sparse “halleluiah” or two. George takes a long puff of his cigar before continuing.
“You see, you’re almost all that is right about wrestling. You’re pure – because you’re here for all the right reasons. You love this sport, and you’re here for the sport. You’re not here for fame and glamour. You’re not here to get rich. In that respect, we’re the same, Ci. But like I said, you’re pure. You play by the rules – you still believe in good guys. I got news for you, Englishman. - all the good guys are dead. You’re the last one around here. Sure, we have fan favorites, but they’re hardly good guys. They’re ninjas and retards that are here to mock the sport. They are pretty boys who looking for fame and women. You’re the last of a dying breed around here, Ci. You and I might be the only purists around here, but I ain’t no good guy either. I like to break the rules – that’s what makes it exciting. That’s why it is a thinking man’s sport.”
The bar patrons are captivated as George goes on, ten times more intense than a Baptist on a mission.
“It’s going to be a helluva showdown, Ci. Two purists, the only two real wrestlers left in Kansas City. One is the ‘good’, the other ‘bad’. This is everything this sport has always been about. I know that you and I are going to tear each other apart out there. We’re gonna bleed and holler – and the whole world will be watching. When it is all over and the titles are united – I know that The Great George Duke will be the victor – and I’ll extend my hand to the loser, as a gesture of respect for our shared love of this sport. This is not only for us, but this is for the sport we love – the sport we eat, sleep and breathe. This is for wrestling.”
The capacity crowd at the bar cheers in unison, applauding George for his strong words and conviction. Duke steps down off the bar and out the door, with the crowd still cheering and chanting for him as he walks through the night.
