| - THE FALLOUT: A Final Act to a Sad Show; II Vs Lunatikk Crippler; Path of the Warrior 2nd Round; Tapout Championship | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 28 2016, 04:04 PM (32 Views) | |
| X-Calibur | May 28 2016, 04:04 PM Post #1 |
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A voice called out from the beyond. Or at least, from behind a camera in some unknown location in the beyond. “It’s like this. If I had a Championship for every time someone came at me with venomous envy and rampant pretense like you just did, William… well, I’d have EXACTLY as many as I do right now. Hehe.” The beyond opened into a wide-angled shot of Lake Erie; right on the edges of Cleveland. Medium-sized Cutters raced down the crystal-like waters with two headsails pulling them along the Great Lake’s blustery surface at rip-roaring speeds. Soon, our shot zoomed out as if we were looking upon a bird’s eye view of Cleveland and its surrounding areas on Google Maps. The geotracking then zoomed in again, this time on a couple arguing outside of their apartments. “I WANT FUCKIN’ MEXICAN!” “YOU’RE GETTIN’ FUCKIN’ PORK CHOPS!” “BUT I’M FUCKIN’ JEWISH!” “FUCK YOU!” Obviously, neither of these voices belonged to the person who called out to us at the top of the promo. So naturally, our view returned up above and a circular scanner began attempting to triangulate the source. “Which is more than you could ever dream of having, honestly now William. And make no mistake about it. Titles, like it or not, are the driving force behind this business of ours. And success, like it or not, is based on how you win them… and like I’m going to do with you at Battlelines XIII… how you defend them.” The scanner beeped furiously as it began closing in on a location a couple miles off of the Cuyahoga River. “I mean, could you imagine a sport without a trophy? A game without a prize? A fight… without bragging rights? It’d be… boring. Wouldn’t it? It’d also be filled with the perpetual runner-ups who never did have that tangible “it factor” to forge a career in gold for themselves.” Once again, we find ourselves zoomed in on a location. This time, however, we’re zoomed in on one Eryk Van Warren. Walking down a large sidewalk, he passed by various shops and restaurants in central Cleveland. He was clad in a pair of sandals, a brand new muscle tee that had an “EWA Entertainment” graphic on the front and the “Excellence Rises” mantra on the back, as well as pair of steel-rimmed Oakleys. Our current reigning and defending EWA Tapout Champion continued to speak now that the camera could capture the words coming out of his actual mouth. “See… you’re the one who brought my success into the picture here, William. You’re the one that brought my past into the build-up of this match we’re having at Battlelines XIII. And you know what they say. The past? It comes back to haunt you.” He chuckled for a moment, looking into the camera. Darting his eyes towards the sounds of sirens running down Carnegie Avenue, X-Calibur moved a bit closer towards a sports shop that stood out with neon lights and lifesize standups of Cleveland’s restored idol, Lebron James. As the ambulance traveled at high speed with its trauma lights flashing, it screeched its warning siren at cars who weren’t quite pulled all the way over. Don’t you hate those pieces of shit? X-Calibur ignored the drama happening behind him and stared straight ahead at Lebron. Suddenly the phrase, “It takes a King to know a King.”, never seemed more appropriate. “You know why you really want to shake the hand of the man who made it to the finals of the King of the Ring, William? Because… he lost. You know why you really want to shake the hand of the man who won the World Heavyweight Title in SHOOT Project? Because… he lost. You know why you want so badly to rehash the past with me instead of looking into my cold, dead eyes and accepting the fact that you’re facing X-Calibur in the here and now, circa 2016? Because the man who stands before you now is a Champion, and the man who stands behind me, years in the past, is nothing but a loser. Because… that’s who you are William. Not the Whole Fucked Up Show. Not a lunatic. Not a crippler. And certainly not a puppet of some relic lost in the sands of time, itching to find his way back to the top of that historic hourglass. Well, maybe that last one you are. Ultimately, you’re just a fucking LOSER, William. How’s that saying go? Always a “bridesmaid”? Yeah. Only in your case, you would be so lucky to get an invite to the fucking wedding itself. So… I understand where all of this is coming from, William. I expected it. I… counted on it. Just like I said nearly two whole weeks ago when I patiently waited for you to stop shaking and pop your damaged head up from the underground to say something to me.” Moseying down along the sidewalk, he came to an intersection. There was a giant crosswalk light hanging above the normal traffic lights, with the universal light green “figure” signifying that it was safe to cross. But as soon as he stepped out onto the corner of Carnegie Avenue and East 9th Street, he saw the Quicken Loans Arena in the distance. The haze of the hot atmosphere hung down like a low-hanging fruit for a man who was absolutely sick of the cold rain from the past few weeks. Cars passed him by with mere inches to spare on boths sides of him in the middle of the street. They honked their horns at this seemingly suicidal pedestrian as he locked his eyes on the arena he would finally vanquish William West in. “You want to redirect your self-loathing at me because of your own pathetic failures in the days of wrestling’s past? Then fucking do it, man. You want to treat being too fucking STUPID to let go of a submission hold during an important World Title match as an “accolade” when going against me? Fill your empty walls with those righteous trophies then. It doesn’t really matter to me any. Nor does it matter to any of the people you continuously let down by making poor, POOR career choices. Because it’s like what everyone knows out in that audience but no one in the back wants to admit: it’s not just a moniker I give myself. I, Eryk Van Warren, X-Calibur, AM the greatest of all fucking time. And if you, or anyone else in the back, wishes to challenge me of my name? Then it’s like I’ve been saying all along: Be careful what you wish for. Because while I may be an asshole for the majority of a given day, I’m an asshole who happens to be a 7-Time World Heavyweight Champion with more than 20-goddamn-years in this business fighting off phonies like you. I’m also an asshole who has more championships on his mantle at home than you have teeth in your goddamn gingivitis ridden gums. So there’s that, too.” Shaking his head, he continued forward. His trance nearly leaving him a grease-spot on the blacktop, X-Calibur made his way across the street. Onlookers stared at him inquisitively and cautiously. Afterall, it would take an absolute lunatic to stop dead like that in the middle of Carnegie and East 9th. “One on one, I’m an unstoppable force. With my acumen in that ring and a penchant for victory at all costs, I am the soul crushing bane of everyone’s existence here in the EWA… they just don’t know it yet. It’s the sole reason why I haven’t been allowed to face Chris Kage, Alexander Haven, Laura Seton, or even Sinnocence in a wrestling match. Everyone knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would slaughter them. ALL of them. And so could any one of my brothers… Azrael Goeren… Ray Willmott… even Deacon Summers. Now it makes sense, doesn’t it? We’re the only ones standing in the way of EWA’s corrosive, bleak future. When the Hierarchy entered this war, we set out to defend the the foundations of this place. And the moment that happened, I was fed rookies like Tyler Morris to keep me busy while the Youth were allowed to parade around the main event scene. And Azrael Goeren? My brother and co-tag team champion? Every time the man wins the title fair and square, there’s some kind of fake-out “gotcha!” waiting to ruin his moment and stifle our victory. We were kept at bay, and because of that, the foundations have begun to crumble. And born into this ideology are the three of you idiots. Prudence. Indrid. And you. Once it was because of Duane Gates manipulating the laws of the land. But now? Unequivocally, it’s because of Stacy Vanderfort. That fucking bitch.” Several moments passed by as X-Calibur got closer and closer to “The Q”; the nickname that the locals had dubbed the Quicken Loans Arena after it replaced the Gund Arena nearly eleven years ago. A lot of memories went hand-in-hand with this one. He had quite a war with Diamond Del Carver in his youth here in a match that legitimized his top rope elbow drop, known as the “Hang Time Elbow”, as one of the best in the entire world. He still remembered the look on Del’s face when he crushed his heart with the point of his elbow and the referee counted to three. Soon, he found himself directly in front of the entrance to The Q. He slowly dropped down to the cement flooring of the commons area, crossing his legs Indian style. Leaning back with his palms pointed inwards on the grainy hardened cement, he sighed a breath of fresh air on this unseasonably hot day. “If the shoe was on the other foot, William? YOU would be the one sitting here “crying” about the injustices of phantom justice. But you’re not, because… well… you don’t have what it takes to be a real champion and earn your way into that type of situation. Nevermind capable of being a double champion. So as far as saying fuck all about shit that doesn’t even concern you? You can stop grinding your noodle dick against me in some pitiful attempt to try and live vicariously through someone ACTUALLY accomplished here in the EWA, and leave the fallout from a bad situation up to the professionals, William. But don’t think for one second that my calling out Stacy’s complete and utter ineptitude is anything “new”, “shameful”, or something that any other motherfucker on this roster wouldn’t have done had they been in my position. Because a “woman” -- and I use that term loosely with that walking, talking, cunt hemorrhage -- who wields that kind of power and abuses it, is anything BUT poor and defenseless. They are a danger to a promotion. They are… a cancer. Like The Youth itself, in fact. He paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Birds of a feather flock together, so will pigs and swine. Rats and mice will have their choice… and so will I have mine.” A laugh escaped his lips once he finished reciting the famous nursery rhyme that had never made more sense than it did at that very moment. “A woman who sticks her nose in the business of a Warrior like me, on a Warrior’s Battlefield like Battlelines XII, can no longer hide under the de facto protection of being a woman. That woman just entered a war, and last I checked, triggers and bayonets were dispassionate towards gender. So yes. Stacy? She’s now on the business end of a knee to the face come Battlelines XIII… and I don’t fucking care HOW uncomfortable that makes pussies like you feel, William. You interfere with my business? I interfere with the features of your face. It’s as simple as that.” He leaned forward, looking up at the Q. He could hear the countless echoes of endless ring announcers proclaiming his victory against faceless opponents. They weren’t always faceless, however. There were the ones who mattered quite a bit. Every now and again an OutKast or Trey Willett or Loco Martinez would appear in his mind’s eye like a spectre bracing itself against the façade of The Q. “You had to have seen this coming, didn’t you? I know you did. I mean, let’s be honest here… that’s why you really didn’t say much all week and decided to take a page from the Philip Donovan playbook. You know… the whole last minute, unimaginative, half-assed “let me throw something up on the EWA Network so people will believe I care!” routine? Well you nailed it, William. Kudos. From the get go, before either of us had a match in this Path of the Warrior tournament, you saw where you would wind up. You saw the way the brackets lined up and realized the most logical path saw yourself coming to blows with yours truly -- and the epic failure you would have to endure yet again led you to the feet of a man you have made a conscientious effort in ducking for YEARS. Oh yeah. That’s EXACTLY what you’ve been doing this whole time. Ducking me like a set of tunnel roof-lights coming at you on top of a subway train while you wrestle with Keanu Reeves. Well there’s no more ducking to be done with me, moterfucker. ‘Cause I got you by the neck, I’m pushing up, and well… we all saw what happened to Dennis Hopper in Speed, God rest his soul. Spoiler Alert… Spoiler: click to toggle So there’s no more running and there’s no more hiding from the inevitable truth that is me destroying you in the middle of the ring. But I’ll tell you what, William. In your lame-duck, force-fed attempt to say something worthwhile to the EWA… you gave me a GREAT idea. When I put you in the Bite of the Dragon? I’m not letting go. Even long after you tap out and scream to the world what it already knows, I’m going to keep you in that shit. I'm gonna listen to those screams for mercy and ignore them outright. I'm going to listen to the panicked dry-heaving trying to escape from your throat but become blocked by my shin. God… mmm. I can TASTE your pain. Your agony. Your... desperation. And like the freshly picked grapes that go into a delicious bottle of cabernet sauvignon… I’m drinking it the fuck IN. The poetic justice of it all? I can’t even be disqualified for it. Hahahahaha. I can be fined. I can be stripped of the title by Stacy, as I’m SURE she would love a reason to do that. Though, I'll probably just win it back again by making some other placeholder tap the fuck out. I digress, though. I can have a lot of things happen to me for putting you in a coma with the most dangerous submission move in all of wrestling. But here’s the difference between you and me: none of them involve a decision being reversed. None of them involve a stupid, impulsive decision being made by an imprudent, incompetent jackass like you. Not on my watch. Not on the throne of TAPOUT in the House of Motherfucking Van Warren. The end result remains the same in our situation. Regardless of the fallout. You’re eliminated… … and you’re still not a champion. Ask your buddy Calder how that goes. He's no... wait for it.... stranger... to that scenario. We’ll see, though. Maybe it won’t even come to that. For all I know, it may only take a fuckin’ stump puller to end this sad and final act of The Whole Fucked Up Show. I mean shit, it took way less than that to put an end to Cats The Musical, and that show had so much more depth and insight to it than yours.” Closing his eyes, he smiled. “Don’t you just HATE it when shit makes sense at your expense?” X-Calibur leaned back into the camera with an upside down face. He grinned from ear to ear. “See you soon… bitch.” As he blew a kiss into the direction of the camera from the upside down view he had on us all, the shot zoomed in on his lips making the sarcastic gesture. From there, the plug was pulled on our feed and we simply faded to the accompanying white noise. ![]() |
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EWA Tapout Champion(2) -4.18.16-Till I Die, Bitch. -10.30.15-12.30.15 EWA World Tag Team Champion(w/ Azrael Goeren) 3.31.16-Forever EWA Television Champion 10.31.01-EWA Closed | |
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10:51 AM Jul 11