| They Wanna See Blood...; I of II vs Ray Willmott: I Quit Match | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 18 2016, 03:49 PM (16 Views) | |
| Lunatikk Crippler | Jun 18 2016, 03:49 PM Post #1 |
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-The room is cold. Dark. There is no peace here. Just a dark, eerie foreboding presence, that may or may not have anything to do with the man sitting dead center of the room, the lone, dim light shining down upon one of the Three Pillars of HATE: The Voice. Lunatikk Crippler’s mask hides his emotions, but the rest of his face tells the tale. The smile lines high on his cheeks. The slight crease in his forehead. He is elated. We are within two weeks of Path of the Warrior. Two weeks before two titans of the industry clash one more time. Perhaps for the final time. Lunatikk Crippler. Ray Willmott. The Whole Fucked Up Show vs Pure Sickness. I Quit Match. The match itself is very dangerous. Many seem to feel this match is implied as a Submission Match, and it may very well come down to that. But, as Lunatikk Crippler shall tell us, it could be so much more. It could be….- Violence. Brutality. Pure, unadulterated pain. I’ve spent my entire adult life learning the craft of simply hurting people, Ray. It began in my very first year, with a poor soul named Harold Jenkins. Harold had a big mouth, and given his poor physical condition, it might have been the only part of him that liked to run. He ran into a brick wall half his size in the form of Lunatikk Crippler. AWT Crusierweight Champion. AWT Tag Team Champion. Horseman of the Apocalypse. He ran his mouth to the wrong man, and I took that giant and wrapped his face in barbed wire. That was my first taste of what would be called “hardcore”. Making that fat son of a bitch look like Pinhead shouldn’t have excited me. But it did. Hell, I’m starting to get a little bit of a semi just thinking about it now. That was my first taste of pain, early in my long career. I was hooked for life. It was a heat of the moment type of thing, that instance, Ray. It just happened. Wasn’t planned. Wasn’t premeditated. But I scarred him. Physically. Emotionally. Permanently. We met once more, after he resurfaced in Beach Side Pro. I was Television Champion, undefeated, and he wanted his shot at my slice of heaven. So I gave him his chance. And I treated him to a taste of what the poor souls that suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder have to live with every day. I wrapped his thick fucking skull in barbed wire again. This time? Man, I salivated at the chance to put him in the barbed wire mask once again. I wanted to celebrate our anniversary the best way I know how. By creating tradition. Harold Jenkins was never seen again. I actually got my job in the NYSWF because of my time in BSPW. Corey Collins liked what he saw. A six foot one, two hundred thirty pound sack of blood and bone, ready to bleed, ready to shed blood all across the world. I was young. Eager to please the boss. Eager to wrap my thick fingers around any man’s windpipe that was placed in my path. And Corey did. Not. Disappoint. He put me in a hell of a brawl to start me off. It was hard to top. There were eight of us. Maybe more. Maybe less. The match was something like an obstacle course designed by John Kramer himself. Barbed wire. Broken glass. Burning coals. I had snuck behind a very young, very green Michael Draven and blugeoned him into oblivion. I doubt he remembers. I barely do. What is memorable about this evening is a man that is not very memorable otherwise. The Real Deal, Tyson Steele, and his very last night in the professional wrestling industry,. I dragged him across broken glass. Battered him into a bed of thumbtacks. Chased him across a bed of burning coals. Through the embers, the ashes, there was his blood, coating my body, Staining the canvas. Me. Standing victorious over the corpse of yet another career. Tyson was an athlete. He hadn’t signed his name on the dotted line to fight like a stuntman. He came to wrestle. He never wrestled again after he met Lunatikk Crippler. His body healed, but his mind was just fucking gone. This wasn’t personal. This was just business. This was me, quick to impress my blood thirsty boss, and all of the rabid fans who paid their hard earned cheddar to watch someone get fucking hurt. I didn’t mind. I loved it, Ray. I loved hurting people. Crippling them. Ending their careers. Shawn Hunter was NEVER the same after he met me. Sure, his career continued on, but what kind of career was it? Third banana behind Andy Ryan and Chris Kage to Alex Haven’s Youth Movement. Guinea pig to my own brand of violence that I was cultivating, serving fresh on the reg. He was the very first man to enter MY Asylum. Fifteen foot high steel cage. Roofed. Loaded with weapons. Charged with enough C-4 that when that fucker blew, the ring nearly caved in. Shawn Hunter never. Fucked. With me. Again. Are you seeing a fucking PATTERN yet, Ray? Should I continue? The list is long and extensive. Let’s give you some more recent examples, yeah? Jack Reed? I put him into a coma. Whatever shell of his former broken self that showed up in the early stage of the EWA’s resurgence was what was left of him when I was through. Dave Marz? Ol’ Die Hard Dave? That was a challenge. I mean, this was a guy who was this tough nut, supposedly impossible to crack. I shattered him. I broke him. I ended his fucking career, Ray. The fool was froggy enough to put out an open challenge for the Rule of Surrender championship, and I was in the right place, at the right time. And when he submitted, Ray, oh yes, I did force him to submit, it gave me a new trophy for my collection, and new name to the list of men who never wrestled again. I broke the unbreakable. I destroyed the mighty, and I eradicated the already broken. And all of that was merely my JOB. All of that was simply because I was paid to go out there and hurt people. At Path of the Warrior, Ray, I don’t need the Draven’s paycheck. To be honest, I haven’t actually NEEDED to work for a long time. I don’t need the paycheck, Ray, because I would end you for free. Your betrayals are many, while mine are few. You are the man who claimed the cheap victory in the beginning of the Asylum qualifiers over me, when Martin Robertson decided he was going to end my run thirty seconds into our match. And the stand up guy you are, Ray? Didn’t even offer me a chance to redeem myself. Which is why Duane Gates stepped in and gave me the opportunity I deserved. He gave me my real qualifier, and you stole it yet again. A cheap victory from a cheaper human being. I don’t think anyone but you could blame me for doing what I did next. I was tired of being screwed over. By Haywood and Smirt. Martin. Your buddy X. And then by my friend? By my “good buddy” Ray? I won’t lie. I wouldn’t be able to recall what happened next, had I not had my subscription to the EWA Network. All I saw was red. After you finished wrapping your greasy, scummy arms around me, as if I would be happy to have a friend of mine steal my opportunities once again, I guess I waited for you to turn your back. Maximize the shock value, you know. And I introduced you face first into the canvas, and failed to snap your neck right then and there. But the weekend was still young. Turns out, the boss was mightily impressed with my post match performance, and he gave me Hank’s spot in the Asylum, since he wasn’t gonna be needing it anymore. You can keep your screwjob victory and your fluke win and claim it all to high heaven for all I care, Ray. Fucking fact is when it mattered most, inside that Asylum, YOU were the man who got the shower at MY HANDS with the same BITCH MOVE that you use to justify that I didn’t belong in the Asylum. I proved, Ray, that I DID belong, and you DID NOT when I ELIMINATED you. That’s kind of how that shit works. But you still couldn’t let things go, and let’s face facts: I didn’t want to, either. I came out to bait you into a fight in front of your little girl. And it worked….all too well. The broken nose was worth it, Ray. Sure. It put a target right in the center of my face. The mask did what it needed to do, but I still felt the pressure every single time someone aimed a shot right at it. But I met my goal. I caused trials and tribulations in your life, Ray, even if it wasn’t the way I expected it. You don’t have your wife to support you. You don’t have your kids to kiss good night. You are all alone. Left to stew in your own misery and anger and all that hodge podge of emotions you’re feeling. But I can’t take full credit for that. It wasn’t what I did that destroyed your life, Ray. It was you. Man, you played your part BEAUTIFULLY. I couldn’t have written it myself. You socked me in the nose right in front of your little girl. Bet the wife LOVED that. Bet the straw that broke the camel’s back was when you jumped me backstage. When you drove your lovely little sledge into the bridge of my nose. How you kicked poor, defenseless Lunatikk Crippler right in the face when he was down. How you stood over me. A crazed look in your eyes. You were there, Ray. The deep end. You went past it. You were treading water right then in a sea of HATE. HATE for me. HATE for what YOUR ACTIONS caused in your personal life, when your professional life bled into it. That was all you, Ray. All I did was tip that first domino, but you’re the man who made them all fall down. Sure. You hurt me. Badly. I’ve had to wear this gift of a mask for a long time. -Crippler reaches behind his head and undoes the mask. He pulls it from his head, revealing a sick grin laying behind the sick grin.- But no longer. I am one hundred percent, Ray. I didn’t mind you attacking me. I didn’t mind the pain. Because in the end, I knew-I KNEW- that I would be able to return the favor a tenfold. And Miss Vandevort was so very KIND enough to add that sexy stipulation. An I Quit Match. Winner is the man who gets his opponent to utter those two magic words. You know what this means, Ray? No pinfalls. No count outs. No disqualification. I get to do whatever I please to your fragile flesh. Your frail mind. Your shattered emotions. I get to hurt you in ways you can only dream of doing to me. I can string you up like holiday decorations if I damn well please. I can bludgeon you. Berate you while I’m doing so. I can bruise you. Bloody you. Destroy you. I don’t even NEED you to say I Quit. You, laying at my feet, bleeding internally. Externally. Broken. Beaten. You don’t even need to say it, Ray. I know you won’t quit. You have a whole lot of heart to just quit. A very enormous heart. When I’m done with you, I think I’ll keep it as a trophy. Maybe I’ll bring some toys for us to play with, Ray. After all, I’m sure you can’t wait to get me reacquainted with your little hammer. I have so many toys, Ray. So many instruments of your own demise, that it’s very difficult to choose which to use. Perhaps I’ll just use them all. Have you ever been whipped with barbed wire while your head is wedged between the bars of the steel guardrail surround the ring? Have you ever been dropped through a flaming table only to cushion your fall with a bed of thumbtacks? Have you ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight? There’s a first time for everything, Ray. That’s why no matter how convinced you will not give up, will not concede defeat to me, I am going to have so much damn fun in trying to change your tune. You didn’t even need to sweeten the pot by putting your Atlantic Coast Championship on the line. Just the blank canvas of flesh to carve into was sweet enough. You just think I’m going to fall into my old trap of greed, aren’t you? That I’m going to focus on the gold, and only the gold, and forget exactly what the task at hand truly is. Ray, I am going to take your title. But not because I want it. Not because I need it. But because, like your buddy X-Calibur, that’s going to hurt you more than anything I can do to you physically. You stake a lot in your own sense of deadly pride, that your own hubris is going to be your downfall. Your mortal weakness. Your ego will be harmed more than the bones I plan to break, the blood I plan to spill. Because I will do anything to prove to you that you’re not the fucking unbreakable wall of man you think you are. I will tear down this wall. And wreak havoc on everything on the other side. You, and your Hierarchy buddies think you are Gods among Man. Your buddy Deacon, quite literally. Gods are immortal. You are not. You’re no God. But if you give me a cross? I’ll make you Jesus. -The light flickers and dies. All that can be heard now is the soft chuckle of The Voice of HATE trickling through the darkness. |
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10:51 AM Jul 11