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| Crude Intentions, Part One: Fairytales & Fucktards; Dark Match :: RP | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 6 2010, 04:57 AM (163 Views) | |
| Jack Abraham | Aug 6 2010, 04:57 AM Post #1 |
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NARRATOR: Hello, and welcome to Crude Intentions: The Story of Jack Abraham. Throughout Mr. Abraham’s life, he has had to overcome such adversities as abusive siblings, ruthless bosses, and the constant overhanging cloud of financial woe. As a result of the accumulation of all his past experiences, Jack has developed a nasty mean streak, refusing to believe that there are people out there who want to help him. Instead, he feels as though everybody looks down their nose at him because of his past employment working on oil rigs. After almost twenty tears of working his hands to the bone day in and day out, Jack has decided to abandon the life an oil worker and pursue his dream of being a pro wrestler, for which he has been training on and off for approximately fifteen years. It’s been a long wait for Jack, but now he will finally get his chance on the big stage, having signed with Combat Zone Wrestling. Throughout this series, we will delve into Jack’s personal life, sharing interviews and quotes from those bearing a connection to Mr. Abraham; siblings, bosses, trainers, coworkers, financial workers, even his deceased parents. In addition, Mr. Abraham has reluctantly agreed to allow a cameraman to follow him in his travels around CZW, sharing his views from a first-person perspective. With that in mind, I hope you enjoy what you’re about to see, although it might not always be for the faint of heart. “Jack Abraham... Where do I even begin? I saw something in the guy as soon as I met him, it’s hard to describe. There was this unbelievably pure rage that was brooding within him; I don’t know what the cause of it was, but it had the potential to be destructive. So, in addition to educating him on in-ring techniques, I tried to get him to channel that unbridled rage into his wrestling as opposed to exerting it all on those around him. Abraham’s one of the few people I’ve had come through here that’s had to tread a fine line. If he’s focused, he’s got a world of talent in the ring and he’ll be able to go like nobody’s business. If you get him on a night where he’s NOT focused, though... To put it bluntly, the guy could kill somebody if he’s not careful.” - Jason Manning (Jack Abraham’s trainer), 1998 Crude Intentions, Part One: Fairytales And Fucktards Being here in Grand Rapids, getting ready to wrestle... the feeling is a far cry from those morbid oil fields of Fort McMurray, or the equally depressing oil rigs down in the Gulf of Mexico. However, this city itself mirrors those images quite well. The economy took a pretty good bite out of this city, by the looks of things; everything’s desolate and decrepit here. The people don’t seem to have that bounce in their step that residents of a proud city would have; in fact, their heads are mostly down as they walk through the Michigan streets. Most of these people are ashamed to call this place home, and I can’t say that I blame them. Once I step out of the ring on this coming Overdrive, Grand Rapids is going to look like the Taj Mahal when compared to Lex Lo Duca. I walk through the Van Andel Arena, site of the aforementioned Overdrive. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the ring, and this is the first full-time wrestling gig I’ve had, but I’m not about to let that stop me. At this point, I’m not worried about whether or not I can hold the gig down or not; I’m just worried about inflicting pain upon The Lion this Monday night. Anybody with another thought is obviously a little bit crooked and in need of a little straightening out; I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to provide such a service. I walk through the hallways of the arena, making a beeline for the gorilla position. I can feel the eyes of everyone I pass falling on me; I’m not exactly a ‘people person’, and I’m guessing that’s reflected in my facial complexion. My teeth are ground together, a snarl curling properly into form in my upper lip. My eyes narrow as I continue to walk, never once acknowledging what these ingrates think of me. It wouldn’t matter if they were all clones of Derek Damage or Theresa Baines, I’d treat them all the same regardless. I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with bosses over my working life, so I don’t fear them at all, regardless of how well-liked they might be by all others. “Hand me a microphone,” I grunt as I approach one of the stagehands, “and clear out the timesheets. This is MY time, and nobody’s stopping me.” “But sir, we’re on a very tight schedule here,” the stagehand nervously says, cowering in fear as I tower over him, “we can’t have any deviations from the flow of the-” Before he can finish his sentence, I grab him by the scruff of the neck and pin himself against a nearby wall. I look him dead in the eyes, my grip tightening. “Would you like to reconsider your answer, punk?” I snarl at him, teeth bared, “or would you like me to give you a sampling of what Lex is going to feel this Monday night before the lights come up?” The stagehand looks around frantically; he sees that he’s got no way out. Reluctantly, he answers “y-yes,” and I hold him aloft for a few more seconds before letting him drop to the ground in a weak heap. Such gutless fools shouldn’t be allowed to exist, they really shouldn’t. You know the type; the ones who left their ball sacks at home so that they can cater to what their superior apparently wants. I have no use for those types, and neither should anybody else. Unfortunately, I think I’m going to have to deal with quite a few more of them in just a few short minutes. Hastily, another of the cowardly stagehands tosses me a microphone, almost as if he doesn’t want anything to do with me. He keeps his distance after chucking the microphone; he must have thought he was playing hot potato with a ghost or something. Stupid prick, only way he’d ever get laid is if he were a rug. As I step into the gorilla position... “GODDAMN SON OF A BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!” The slow, churning guitar riffs to the Kyuss song of the same name play, and blue and orange spotlights circle the arena before focusing on the entrance ramp. Wasting no time whatsoever, I walk onto the stage with a purpose, towel around my neck and already garnering boos from all corners of the arena. Clearly, these people have already made a predisposition when it comes to me, although I shouldn’t be surprised; a lot of people are like that nowadays. They’re cut from the same cloth as the stagehands; they’re just useless white collar empty suits who thumb their noses at the blue collar workers like me. I walk down to the ring slowly, the words ‘GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH!’ repeating over and over; it’s a fitting tune, considering I’m not the type to take any prisoners. I pop up the ring steps slowly before climbing into the ring between the top and middle ropes, largely ignoring the people in the stands. To be frank, they don’t really deserve to hear me talk, but I have a point to get across, so they’re just going to have to either deal with it or shut up. My music fades out, and I slowly raise the microphone to my mouth; the booing of the fans is almost therapeutic to me in a twisted way. “You people make me sick, let’s just get that out of the way right now.” I say, drawing a nice round of boos from the fans. In writing and wrestling, you have to hook your audience on something to make them take notice; that’s my trick. “Yeah, I said it! You’re all miscreants, and you all make me sick because you’re so very judgmental,” I explain to the thousands of peons in attendance, “I mean, I haven’t even done anything, and you’re already booing the hell out of me. I can’t wait to hear what you subordinates have to say when I decimate Lex Lo Duca on this upcoming Overdrive.” The crowd is quite fiery with their booing, already prompting a few ‘YOU SUCK!’ chants from them. “So, I suggest you people shut your white-collar mouths for just a minute so that you can listen to what Jack Abraham has to say,” I growl, teeth clenched, “because I’m tired of all you hypocritical, white-collar pussy businessmen looking at people like me, the REAL blue collar workers in this country on oil rigs and the like, the people who WORK THEIR HANDS TO THE BONE ON A DAILY BASIS WITH LITTLE TO NO REWARD... I’m tired of you people looking at me and thumbing your nose at me as if I’m a goddamn third-class citizen.” At this, the crowd begins to get REALLY pissed; they obviously don’t like hearing the truth. However, who am I to really deny them? “You people look at someone like me, and you automatically dismiss us as scum,” I scowl, prompting an increasingly hating reaction, “but I am here to show you that we CAN make something of ourselves, and that we DON’T need chickenshit empty suits like all of you to tell us what to do and who we’re supposed to be.” (Description) “The first step in showing you people that we’re NOT all pandering fuck-wads like your previous blue collar representative in J.A. Sawyer will be taken this Monday night,” I say with another low roar, drawing even more hatred from the idiotic masses. I simply roll my eyes at them before continuing; they’re not really worth my time anyway, so I don’t need their acceptance. “For those who are too busy with their office files and photocopiers to notice those below, one of the main strengths of a blue collar worker is that we’re among the most courageous people on this goddamn planet,” I begin, my nostrils flaring and my lip curling, “because we risk our lives EVERY GODDAMN DAY to make sure things are alright for you pissants. You people might not be able to see that over your greed-driven noses, but it’s just a simple fact of life that you people have to deal with.” As one might expect, the sheep out there don’t take too kindly to that remark; to paraphrase Jack Nicholson, they simply can’t handle the truth. “The first person that’s going to feel the pain is Lex Lo Duca, who apparently refers to himself as being ‘The Lion’,” I say with air quotation marks, the fans getting restless again, “and while the modernized drones out there would think that it’s a cute little alter ego, I find it pathetic, and I can actually refer you to one of the stories you jerk-offs consider sacred as being the very evidence I need to support my claims.” “You see, there was this one story about a girl who clicks her heels and says some stupid bullshit like ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore’ or something like that,” I explain, the ‘YOU SUCK!’ chants getting louder by the second, “ANYWAY, she meets up with this cast of fucking miscreants who are ALMOST as retarded as you inbreds. By chance, one of them happens to be a lion! Now, you’d think the girl would be over the moon about meeting the big old brave lion, right? Anyway, it turns out that Mr. Lion had the unfortunate issue of SHITTING HIS PANTS ANY TIME THE FIRST SIGN OF DANGER CAME ABOUT!!!” Again, the crowd gives me a hard time, serenading me with boos as if it’s the only thing they know how to do. Although, if I stop and think about it for a minute, it probably is the only thing they know how to do. “This Monday night, the only thing that’s going to be real about that story I just told is the part about The Lion shitting his pants, only it’ll be at the sight of ME as opposed to a wicked witch or any of that bullshit,” I exclaim to a chorus of boos, “because Lex Lo Duca will cower in fear at the very sight of me, and he will fall. He’ll also be the first to see that, unlike the cookie cutter cast of characters you see on a weekly basis, I’m not the type to conform to anybody’s beliefs. I march to the beat of my own drummer, and I don’t take no for an answer.” The audience is venomous in their response; even the slightly unkempt in attendance (Which, I suppose, consists of about 75% of the people here) are booing. Maybe they think I’m giving them a bad rap, but if I can be honest here, they do a pretty good job of that on their own. “In short, I am a Renegade,” I sneer, my lip again curling, “and when the bell rings, Lex Lo Duca will find that this is the darkest dark match he’s ever been in. EVEN IF IT HAS TO HAPPEN IN A PLACE AS WORN DOWN AND DISGUSTING AS THE FUCKING FURNITURE CITY...” At this, the ever-so-predictable crowd boos HEAVILY. It’s almost disgusting how supportive they are of this ridiculously awful place, so I have to feed them a dose of reality somehow. I mean, there’s only so many ways you can polish a piece of shit, right? “...Even if it has to happen in this shithole known as the Furniture City, Lo Duca’s visions will all be black,” I say in an acidic tone, “and to those who are already underestimating me for Hatewave’s Money In The Bank match, consider this to be your only chance to watch greatness. When I’m in the ring with you clowns... Each and every one of you will be dragged down to the gallows courtesy of me, Jack... Abraham.” ‘Son Of A Bitch’ blasts through Grand Rapids once more, and I just look out at the degenerate monkeys paying to see me, a cold expression on my face. Lex Lo Duca has NO IDEA what he’s in for, and I’m going to make sure he never remembers it either. Edited by Jack Abraham, Aug 6 2010, 04:59 AM.
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6:50 PM Jul 11