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| The Worst Job in the World; Krew RP | |
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| Topic Started: Sep 3 2010, 03:22 AM (118 Views) | |
| Waylon Krew | Sep 3 2010, 03:22 AM Post #1 |
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United States Champ
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![]() ________________________________________________ The camera pans on a door, which is just slightly opened. The lens peer through the crack in-between the door and the entryway. Visible is “Father Hardcore”, Weed Wackin’ Waylon Krew, and who seems to be a doctor. The doctor jots something down on the medical papers on his clipboard, nods to Krew, and exits the room. As he creaks the door open, he gives the camera a strange look, whispering, “What the fuck?” under his breath. The door remains open as Krew gets up from the patient bed, fiddling with the bothersome paper that’s supposed to keep patients from getting ill. Or tries to, anyways. He struggles to get off and to his feet, grabbing his shirt which is off of him and alongside the bed. He looks up and sees, the camera, and suddenly jolts back, almost falling to the floor and cracking his skull open. His eyes display genuine fear and his facial expression is just that of embarrassment. Then he just stares with a combined look of confusion and instability. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} What………the……….FUCK!? Krew looks at the wall, back at the camera, and back at the wall. He grins and shakes his head, snorting in laughter. He grabs his shirt and begins to speak. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} Alright, so you just set up in front of the arena every time I arrive just to tape me WALKING IN, and now you somehow found out who my doctor was, the location of my doctor’s office, and what time my appointment was? Don’t you have a life, man!? Krew shakes his head, the grin still remaining but the laughter gone. The cameraman attempts to make it painfully palpable as he zooms in on the abdomen of Krew, where there is a long line of stitches. Krew looks down at the injury and slightly chuckles. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} Well, as you can see the aftermath of Hatewave is taking effect. And I can safely say that I was proud of my performance. I didn’t win, unfortunately, but you have to admit, I put my mark on it. My bronze ladder, setting everything on fire, the power saw…I created moments that would be remembered in CZW forever. And if I can’t win the match, well, hell, that’s just the next best thing. To leave a lasting impression on this company…before my time is up. Krew pulls his shirt over his head (which he seems to struggle doing, as if his arms could barely be moved). He cracks his neck a little, groaning. Then he suddenly goes back to being cheerful and full of life…kind of. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} You know, a lot of people have asked me how I’m still standing after that ladder match. And I say…well, I didn’t say anything, I was in a mini-coma at the time. BUT…if someone asked me at this moment, I’d tell them that this is my job…no, my career…NO! My LIFE! And I’ve been doing it for years and years and I’ve been through so much more painful and hellacious things that could not even be accurately described in words! Now I’m not trying to boast, but I’d consider that match child’s play. Minus Brad Dourif. Krew limps out of the room, the camera following him out into the hallway. He turns left (as does the cameraman) and walks to the front desk. He struggles as he reaches into his pocket and rips out a tarnished wallet. He looks back into the camera as he fulfils the payment to the doctor’s office. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} A lot of people think it’s easy to be a hardcore wrestler. You don’t need to be athletic, just pick up a steel chair and start swinging. I’d like to call those people naïve, ignorant bastards. It is very difficult to live life every day with at least one part of your body in excruciating pain. Hundreds of doctor visits every year, a few visits to the ER. A hole burnt in your wallet. It’s stressful, and extremely agonizing. You really have to love it; you really have to be dedicated to it, to survive. Because if you don’t love it, if you’re not dedicated to it, if your heart and soul doesn’t crave the blood, sweat, and tears that come with this job, then you don’t belong in this business! PERIOD! ......thanks Sally, see you soon. Krew shoves his now empty wallet back in his pants and begins to walk out. A little kid in the waiting room sees the camera and waves at it. As Krew walks into the lobby of the entire building, the cameraman quickly runs in front of Krew as he walks and talks. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} And that all makes me wonder about CZW’s new acquisition…Sledge. So this guy is supposedly one tough sonuva bitch. He’s got to be to be friends with Buzzsaw and not be dead by now. I don’t know much about this guy. I don’t know, maybe he was big in another country, but I’ve never heard his name before now. And to be honest with you, there’s a percentage of fear inside of me, just because I don’t know what to expect from him. He could be the greatest hardcore wrestler the world has ever seen…or he could be just a dud, a wannabe. Unfortunately I’ll only be able to find out when the bell rings. And to be honest with you, the percentage of my emotions that are NOT fear…is anticipation. Like a…an excited feeling of anxiety. It’s really hard to explain, but I just can’t wait to get in that ring with the newbie. It should be a great experience, for both me and him. Krew grins as he slams the exit door open. A few steps into the parking lot he snags his car keys out of the opposite pocket that of which carries his wallet. He clicks the button, and his piece of crap car, the 1990 Chrysler Le Baron, gives out a faint beeping noise, as if it was reluctant to generate the sound. He walks, a little bit faster, to the car door. He tries to open it, but it’s stuck. Suddenly in a fit or complete rage, he jolts the door, not just open, but completely OFF of the car itself. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME!!? Krew rapidly kicks the car with as much force as humanly possible before the energy is drained out of him and his body realizes its own injuries. He falls on his ass right there in the half empty lot, groaning. He clutches his abdomen with great concern, his eyes squinted in pain. He then sighs rather stridently, and makes eye contact with the camera. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} Sledge…let me just give you some advice, advice that you will use for the rest of your life. Do…not…become…a…hardcore…wrestler! You’re about to make your big break, you can turn back now, before it’s too late! Become something normal, something that won’t make you desperate for cash every other hour, something that won’t make you limp and moan for the rest of your life, something that gives your family satisfaction…something that doesn’t bring you closer and closer to death every week. I hope, I pray, that I’ll be able to end your career this Overdrive. Then you’ll be able to rethink your priorities in life. Then you’ll be able to make something of yourself. Krew screams in both anger and mind-boggling pain, using his aching arms to help himself up. He collapses on his knees when he gets the chance, then works his way up to his feet, almost falling back to the ground. He examines the damage he did to his shit automobile and slightly grins, chuckling. He says something under his breath that cannot be heard by the camera’s mic. He rips an equally crappy cell phone out of the pocket that encases his car keys, dials a number, and lays it upon his ear. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} Yes. My car door is completely ripped off of its hinges, or whatever the hell holds it to the car itself. No…I would…no not on the spot, I have nothing on me…my credit cards are no good…I…just let me pay next…no…no you dipshit don’t hang up…no…NO! Krew’s eyes glow in fury as he looks at his phone closely, seeing that whoever was on the other line has hung up. He looks as if he’s about to crack the phone in quarters, but quickly grabs control of himself, breathing deeply in and out. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} Well, it looks like Triple A won’t be a fucking help whatsoever. I guess I’ll just have to hope that nobody crashes into me from the driver’s side. It should be a very joyous adventure. Very… Krew limps over to where the car door landed. He uses everything in his power to lift it up and chucks it next to the trunk of the car. He then proceeds to limp over back to the car, a grunt with every step, popping open the trunk with his car keys. He lifts up the trunk all the way, picks up the door (barely being able to) and drops it like a brick in the trunk. It obviously doesn’t fit as one side is completely sticking out. He begins to shove the door in as hard and as much as possible, but nothing seems to work. He begins to breathe in and out extremely deeply and severely, in an almost frightening fashion. He begins to punch the door over and over…and over…and over…until various huge dents are completely visible. Krew swears under his breath as he clutches his fist, which is currently covered in blood from punching so hard. He sighs once more, and rests his forehead on the bloody, dented, car door. The cameraman walks right next to Krew, Krew’s face taking up the entire shot. Krew looks at him weird, shaking his head in anger. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} You know, I know you’re the cameraman and all and they pay you to videotape my daily routine of torture, but you could have helped, just a little. Jackass. The cameraman tries to choke out an apology, but seems to be frightened of Krew. He turns around and rests his back against the edge of the trunk, the dented and bloody door still sticking out. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} Well, ladies and gentlemen, that right there is the exact reason you have to love being a hardcore wrestler. The aftermath of your actions in the ring…sucks, for lack of a better word. That’s the real reason I’m looking forward to Overdrive, dammit. Just to escape from all of this shit and enter the only universe I feel comfortable – the squared circle, or more importantly…the squared circle with various weapons separating me and my opponent. Krew scratches his head, using a lot of effort to even use his arm. He then puts it back down in an unfashionable way, groaning. With one last sigh, he puts his index finger up to the camera, remaining perfectly still. Suddenly, his body and head lurch forward and a projectile of vomit is sent spewing out of his mouth. He screams as he wipes it off of his lips. He looks into the camera, with a look as if he’s drunk. {-Father Hardcore | "Weed Wackin" Waylon Krew-} Sledge…don’t… Krew lurches forward again, but this time nothing comes out. He stays bent down for a good minute, then gingerly rises up. He coughs repulsively, flem shooting from out of his mouth from the back of his throat. He rests against his piece of crap automobile once again. He looks into the camera, begins to speak, but stops himself. He turns around, examines the bloody, dented, car door, then conjures up enough energy to lift the door, and chuck it at least one hundred feet across the parking lot. He coughs once more and walks to the driver side of his car, carefully sits in the seat, starts the car, pulls out of the parking spot, and drives out of the lot. The camera gets one last shot of the 1990 Chrysler Le Baron, without a side door, make a right turn out of the lot, with Krew sticking his middle finger out of the empty side of the car, honking the entire time. ________________________________ END RP |
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