Post by Zevon on Aug 14, 2007 11:29:54 GMT -6
JR Zevon is peacefully resting upon his humble lawn chair in a secluded part of a mid-grade hotel in Des Moines, Iowa. He is clad is full white ring gear, a sombrero perched upon his majestic dome. An ominous cloud shadows Zevon’s smug grin as his face slowly fills with scorn. He slowly removes his sombrero and takes to his feet. Zevon’s eyes are alight with hatred as the silhouette of a beret and walking stick grows on the wall.
Zevon: HABERDASHER!
From off camera, moving ominously closer comes a spine tingling faux French cackle.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Horatio Haberdasher’s gnarled walking stick appears on camera, followed by the fake Frenchman himself, with his red beret and newly grown villainous mustache. He stares Zevon in the eyes and twirls his mustache.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon stares back, not blinking, not moving. Haberdasher taps the wall. Thud… thud… thud. He then raises his free left hand and motions behind.
Haberdasher: Nigel! Bring the pitiful little failure some tea! Earl Grey! Snap snap!
Zevon is abruptly awaken from his hate freeze by a tap on the head from a walking stick.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon: Mustache….
Haberdasher: Do not be jealous facial-hair-deficient failure. Nigel! Tea!
Zevon: Much like God, Fake Frenchman, Nigel does not exist, yet has a strange power over men.
Haberdasher: Lies. Nigel! My slapping glove!
Zevon: What brings you here, Haberdasher?
Haberdasher: I have come to see the pitiful form of failure. After all the hard work it took to pry Gollum-Light from the cellar of the New Alhambra Center, you repay me by yet again falling to the mighty hand of John Anthony!
Zevon: BLASHPEMY! The miscreant cheated. I dominated until he called for his backup, that thug Brine. Your effort was compensated in full.
Haberdasher: Indeed it was… although the payout was lower than expected. It seems that numerous wise people placed their coin on Mr. Anthony. Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon stares down the beret. A violent quiver overcomes him.
Zevon: HABERDASHER!
Haberdasher smiles in return. His mustache twirling gives him the aura of a highly flamboyant super villain. A fake French, yet stunningly British, American crazy villain.
Haberdasher: Bloody hell Nigel! How long does it take? There’s a Snapple machine in the lobby!
Zevon has reengaged his silent scorn. Haberdasher looks into the noble, fiery eyes.
Haberdasher: Downgraded yourself to Television champion I heard. Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon finally notices the camera following this spellbinding occasion. Zevon stares down Haberdasher a few seconds more before bursting into action. Haberdasher’s beret sails down the hall, followed by a gnarled walking stick.
Haberdasher: Touché.
Haberdasher follows after his adornments. Zevon settles back into his lawn chair and beckons the camera to zoom close.
Zevon: One must make the best of opportunity. When a flamboyant fake Frenchman calls, turn it into a hate-fueled rant on Rich Morrison.
*clears throat*
Now that Rich Morrison has finally realized that he will never amount to anything more than a jobber to the stars, he has decided to take his daddy’s money and run.
Rich Morrison enjoys ranting and raving about main-eventing numerous Power On Wrestling events, yet he conveniently fails to note that he has lost nearly all of those matches. “The Undisputed King of Wrestling” headlined First Rights by staring up at the lights as Shawn Stevens was crowned the Midwestern Heavyweight Champion. Rich bullshits, as he is wont to do, that he laid down for Shawn Stevens, took the dive to swerve the fans. A swerve that culminated in the comedic debacle that was the Royal Flush. The truth: Rich Morrison did not have what it took to defeat Shawn Stevens. At Spring Breakage, Rich Morrison battled the one and only friendly neighborhood Flying Diamond Cutter Man, and was soundly defeated. Rich Morrison did not have what it took to defeat Flying Diamond Cutter Man. SuperMania III, Rich Morrison versus Kailus Holmes. The end result: Rich Morrison did not have what it took to defeat Kailus Holmes. Rich Morrison talks of controlling the proverbial glass ceiling like it’s his personal plaything, yet every time he has flirted with greatness he has summarily failed, banged his head against the proverbial sheet of melted and formed sand. Rich Morrison’s only win of note came just a few short days ago when I defeated Kaleb Shadix for the Midwest Television Championship. Rich Morrison prances about proclaiming that he is a world-class professional wrestler; however, the facts prove that Rich Morrison is little more than a world-class bullshit artist.
Deep in the background a loud groan erupts, followed by the voice of Greg Kilgreen and an annoying, poorly executed French laugh.
Zevon: Convenience, let the side characters render each other occupied. Rich Morrison is leaving Power On Wrestling to quote “pursue other business ventures.” Other business ventures. Vile… disgusting…. disrespectful…. Classic Rich Morrison. Much like John Anthony, Rich Morrison is a pretentious jackass who views professional wrestling as a side job, a hobby in which to waste his father’s excess dollars. Rich Morrison is a 23 year old billionaire who thinks professional wrestling is merely a fun way to pass the time between sessions at the night club. Rich Morrison is blight on the face of professional wrestling: a cocky little prick that views this noble art form as a mere amusement, like some sort of cheap Times Square prostitute. Professional wrestling is not flashy designer jeans and posh nights. Professional wrestling is not supermodels and extravagant motor carriages. Professional wrestling is not a sideshow amusement for wealthy, spoiled, depraved cretins. Professional wrestling is an art. Professional wrestling is two beings practicing a fine craft in the confines of a squared circle. Professional wrestling is great men who honor and defend their beloved craft from the treachery of John Anthony and Rich Morrison. Professional wrestling is George Duke and Terry Funk, thirty years of battle and still marching to the ring every night to kick some arrogant prick’s ass. No designer jeans. No limousines rife with syphilitic streetwalkers and thousand dollar bottles of water and champagne. No bullshit. Just a pair of trunks, a mean streak, and a deep respect for the fine art of professional wrestling. Professional wrestling is not depraved, rich assholes flaunting their money and pretending to be great. Professional wrestling is gritty, noble sons-of-bitches walking through the curtain and getting the job done, being great. Professional wrestling is not John Anthony and Rich Morrison. Professional is wrestling is Harley Race, Arn Anderson, George Duke and JR Zevon. Professional wrestling is not a playground for the rich and depraved. Professional wrestling is an art for the brave, noble, dedicated beings of impeccable moral fiber. Rich Morrison is blight; JR Zevon is the cure.
Story essential pause. Zevon wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.
Zevon: Nigel! The list!
A piece of notebook paper flutters on screen right on cue.
Zevon: Modern technology. Remote controlled cooling devices!
Zevon flashes a small remote to the screen and hits the off button.
Zevon: I have shown that Rich Morrison’s claim of being “The Undisputed King of Wrestling” is a clever thread of bullshit. This is but one of Rich’s many flashy titles brewed up by his PR department to cloak his incompetence. I shall now read a list of veils used by the depraved asshole, because I am such a benevolent being, and it pads my word count:
-"The Undisputed King of Wrestling"
-"New Money"
-"The Only Real Superstar"
-"America's Most Hated" …. The best of the lot, yet stolen. Irony…
-"The Show Stealer"
-"The Talk of the Town"
-”The Visionary”
-”The Revolutionary”
-”The 21st Century Wrestler”
-”The Personification of Excellence”
-”The Messiah”
-”The Catalyst of Sports Entertainment”
I shall give you a moment to chuckle inwardly at the asininity.
From the background comes an echo…
Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon: I think it pertinent to end my impromptu yet highly entertaining and informative rant with a few nicknames for Rich Morrison. Accurate little titles devoid of PR department bullshit filled to the brim with the wisdom of a paragon of integrity.
-“Deacon of Douchebaggery”
-“Prime Minister of Pissantitry”
-“Undisputed King of Jackassery”
Three is all that is necessary. How many nicknames does a single entity require anyway?
Zevon freezes for a moment as the camera widens its shot. Zevon peers over his shoulder to find Greg Kilgreen coming down the hall with microphone in hand. A perfect time to flee and end this segment. Behind Kilgreen comes a faint shout.
NIGEL! TEA!
Zevon slowly stands and folds his lawn chair. He secures it under his arm and flashes a quick Nixon victory salute before scurrying off. Kilgreen hastens but is unable to reach Zevon before the noble one has disappeared. Kilgreen stops and turns around to see a walking stick, creepy smile, beret, and twirled mustache coming his way. Kilgreen is overcome by mild panic and runs.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon: HABERDASHER!
From off camera, moving ominously closer comes a spine tingling faux French cackle.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Horatio Haberdasher’s gnarled walking stick appears on camera, followed by the fake Frenchman himself, with his red beret and newly grown villainous mustache. He stares Zevon in the eyes and twirls his mustache.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon stares back, not blinking, not moving. Haberdasher taps the wall. Thud… thud… thud. He then raises his free left hand and motions behind.
Haberdasher: Nigel! Bring the pitiful little failure some tea! Earl Grey! Snap snap!
Zevon is abruptly awaken from his hate freeze by a tap on the head from a walking stick.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon: Mustache….
Haberdasher: Do not be jealous facial-hair-deficient failure. Nigel! Tea!
Zevon: Much like God, Fake Frenchman, Nigel does not exist, yet has a strange power over men.
Haberdasher: Lies. Nigel! My slapping glove!
Zevon: What brings you here, Haberdasher?
Haberdasher: I have come to see the pitiful form of failure. After all the hard work it took to pry Gollum-Light from the cellar of the New Alhambra Center, you repay me by yet again falling to the mighty hand of John Anthony!
Zevon: BLASHPEMY! The miscreant cheated. I dominated until he called for his backup, that thug Brine. Your effort was compensated in full.
Haberdasher: Indeed it was… although the payout was lower than expected. It seems that numerous wise people placed their coin on Mr. Anthony. Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon stares down the beret. A violent quiver overcomes him.
Zevon: HABERDASHER!
Haberdasher smiles in return. His mustache twirling gives him the aura of a highly flamboyant super villain. A fake French, yet stunningly British, American crazy villain.
Haberdasher: Bloody hell Nigel! How long does it take? There’s a Snapple machine in the lobby!
Zevon has reengaged his silent scorn. Haberdasher looks into the noble, fiery eyes.
Haberdasher: Downgraded yourself to Television champion I heard. Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon finally notices the camera following this spellbinding occasion. Zevon stares down Haberdasher a few seconds more before bursting into action. Haberdasher’s beret sails down the hall, followed by a gnarled walking stick.
Haberdasher: Touché.
Haberdasher follows after his adornments. Zevon settles back into his lawn chair and beckons the camera to zoom close.
Zevon: One must make the best of opportunity. When a flamboyant fake Frenchman calls, turn it into a hate-fueled rant on Rich Morrison.
*clears throat*
Now that Rich Morrison has finally realized that he will never amount to anything more than a jobber to the stars, he has decided to take his daddy’s money and run.
Rich Morrison enjoys ranting and raving about main-eventing numerous Power On Wrestling events, yet he conveniently fails to note that he has lost nearly all of those matches. “The Undisputed King of Wrestling” headlined First Rights by staring up at the lights as Shawn Stevens was crowned the Midwestern Heavyweight Champion. Rich bullshits, as he is wont to do, that he laid down for Shawn Stevens, took the dive to swerve the fans. A swerve that culminated in the comedic debacle that was the Royal Flush. The truth: Rich Morrison did not have what it took to defeat Shawn Stevens. At Spring Breakage, Rich Morrison battled the one and only friendly neighborhood Flying Diamond Cutter Man, and was soundly defeated. Rich Morrison did not have what it took to defeat Flying Diamond Cutter Man. SuperMania III, Rich Morrison versus Kailus Holmes. The end result: Rich Morrison did not have what it took to defeat Kailus Holmes. Rich Morrison talks of controlling the proverbial glass ceiling like it’s his personal plaything, yet every time he has flirted with greatness he has summarily failed, banged his head against the proverbial sheet of melted and formed sand. Rich Morrison’s only win of note came just a few short days ago when I defeated Kaleb Shadix for the Midwest Television Championship. Rich Morrison prances about proclaiming that he is a world-class professional wrestler; however, the facts prove that Rich Morrison is little more than a world-class bullshit artist.
Deep in the background a loud groan erupts, followed by the voice of Greg Kilgreen and an annoying, poorly executed French laugh.
Zevon: Convenience, let the side characters render each other occupied. Rich Morrison is leaving Power On Wrestling to quote “pursue other business ventures.” Other business ventures. Vile… disgusting…. disrespectful…. Classic Rich Morrison. Much like John Anthony, Rich Morrison is a pretentious jackass who views professional wrestling as a side job, a hobby in which to waste his father’s excess dollars. Rich Morrison is a 23 year old billionaire who thinks professional wrestling is merely a fun way to pass the time between sessions at the night club. Rich Morrison is blight on the face of professional wrestling: a cocky little prick that views this noble art form as a mere amusement, like some sort of cheap Times Square prostitute. Professional wrestling is not flashy designer jeans and posh nights. Professional wrestling is not supermodels and extravagant motor carriages. Professional wrestling is not a sideshow amusement for wealthy, spoiled, depraved cretins. Professional wrestling is an art. Professional wrestling is two beings practicing a fine craft in the confines of a squared circle. Professional wrestling is great men who honor and defend their beloved craft from the treachery of John Anthony and Rich Morrison. Professional wrestling is George Duke and Terry Funk, thirty years of battle and still marching to the ring every night to kick some arrogant prick’s ass. No designer jeans. No limousines rife with syphilitic streetwalkers and thousand dollar bottles of water and champagne. No bullshit. Just a pair of trunks, a mean streak, and a deep respect for the fine art of professional wrestling. Professional wrestling is not depraved, rich assholes flaunting their money and pretending to be great. Professional wrestling is gritty, noble sons-of-bitches walking through the curtain and getting the job done, being great. Professional wrestling is not John Anthony and Rich Morrison. Professional is wrestling is Harley Race, Arn Anderson, George Duke and JR Zevon. Professional wrestling is not a playground for the rich and depraved. Professional wrestling is an art for the brave, noble, dedicated beings of impeccable moral fiber. Rich Morrison is blight; JR Zevon is the cure.
Story essential pause. Zevon wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.
Zevon: Nigel! The list!
A piece of notebook paper flutters on screen right on cue.
Zevon: Modern technology. Remote controlled cooling devices!
Zevon flashes a small remote to the screen and hits the off button.
Zevon: I have shown that Rich Morrison’s claim of being “The Undisputed King of Wrestling” is a clever thread of bullshit. This is but one of Rich’s many flashy titles brewed up by his PR department to cloak his incompetence. I shall now read a list of veils used by the depraved asshole, because I am such a benevolent being, and it pads my word count:
-"The Undisputed King of Wrestling"
-"New Money"
-"The Only Real Superstar"
-"America's Most Hated" …. The best of the lot, yet stolen. Irony…
-"The Show Stealer"
-"The Talk of the Town"
-”The Visionary”
-”The Revolutionary”
-”The 21st Century Wrestler”
-”The Personification of Excellence”
-”The Messiah”
-”The Catalyst of Sports Entertainment”
I shall give you a moment to chuckle inwardly at the asininity.
From the background comes an echo…
Oh-hon-hon-hon!
Zevon: I think it pertinent to end my impromptu yet highly entertaining and informative rant with a few nicknames for Rich Morrison. Accurate little titles devoid of PR department bullshit filled to the brim with the wisdom of a paragon of integrity.
-“Deacon of Douchebaggery”
-“Prime Minister of Pissantitry”
-“Undisputed King of Jackassery”
Three is all that is necessary. How many nicknames does a single entity require anyway?
Zevon freezes for a moment as the camera widens its shot. Zevon peers over his shoulder to find Greg Kilgreen coming down the hall with microphone in hand. A perfect time to flee and end this segment. Behind Kilgreen comes a faint shout.
NIGEL! TEA!
Zevon slowly stands and folds his lawn chair. He secures it under his arm and flashes a quick Nixon victory salute before scurrying off. Kilgreen hastens but is unable to reach Zevon before the noble one has disappeared. Kilgreen stops and turns around to see a walking stick, creepy smile, beret, and twirled mustache coming his way. Kilgreen is overcome by mild panic and runs.
Haberdasher: Oh-hon-hon-hon!
