Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
Welcome to Hardcore Championship Wrestling. We hope you enjoy your visit.


You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free.


Join our community!


If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features:

Username:   Password:
Locked Topic
Vittori vs Kara; No DQ Match
Topic Started: Mar 17 2008, 07:29 PM (117 Views)
Yours Truly Lance Mikes
HcW Co-Owner 'Yours Truly' Lance Mikes
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
2 RP LIMIT
[align=center]Posted Image
Posted Image[/align]
Offline Profile Goto Top
 
Kara
Member Avatar
HcW Pure Wrestling Champion-SexyThug
[ *  * ]
((OCC Note: Not my best work. I kind of rushed this roleplay because I have been getting ready for Easter. There is so much crap going on, so I'll try and get a second one done before the deadline.))

Enough Is Never Enough.
Posted Image
Posted Image

W/L/D
2-2-0

Posted Image
Offline Profile Goto Top
 
Vittori
Member Avatar
75% chance my post will be shorter than my sig.
[ *  * ]
[align=center]OOC: This one used up a lot of my brainpower. I promise not to go all O Philosopher Thou on you every week.

Playlist of the Week.




my pilot light has flickered out
you've knocked me off the hook
the person you are trying to reach is no longer here



The sun was high and bright, cheery and yellow. It was a warm seventy degrees farenheit here. When he got off the plane a little over two hours later, it would be thirty six degrees farenheit there and possibly snowing. The thought made his joints ache already.

He was going for a week but his only bag was small and carry-on. It had exactly two pairs of clean clothes in it, some socks, some other junk you were supposed to take with you in times like this. He figured on bringing more things back with him, and he was packing light to accord for more luggage the other way. That and he just... didn't want to bother. Everyone heard of the rich musicians on long tours who didn't bother with laundry, just purchased as they went and threw it away when it got dirty. It sounded fucking pretentious, but he'd gotten to the point where he understood it. He'd been wrestling for that long now.

Packing. Unpacking. Going through shit to find an article of each that you needed. Putting it on. Going wherever. Taking it off and putting performance gear on. Performing. Taking a shower, taking performance gear off and putting the street clothes back on. Going to bed. Getting up. Taking street clothes back off, changing into new street clothes, then seeking a washing machine because you can't bring a whole lot of clothes on the road with you. Spending an hour of your life you'll never get back waiting on it. Putting it back in the suitcase and...

No really fuck it. Fuck changing back and forth, fuck the laundry, and sometimes fuck the damn shower. Throw it out every few days. Take a bath before you put the new on.

Fuck washing socks, you're just going to lose half the pair mystically somehow anyway. Just get a new pair. It's just fucking clothes.

It was touring mindset anyway. And as he climbed back on that plane, he felt like he was touring again. Go to Michigan now go to Ohio now go to New York now go to Mass now go to Florida now go to Canada now go overseas to wherever.

He got jittery in the airport waiting for his flight, but as soon as he got up and walked the thing would've gotten there, so he tried his best to sit still. It felt like he'd gotten a bad flu and taken daytime sinus shit for it, but neither were true. His bags felt like they each weighed a couple hundred pounds, the stewardess stared at the black eye and the scabs on his face, and he just glared back at her.

She looked like Satan had just stepped on her flight, and it was strangely satisfying.

There was something telling him that he shouldn't be doing this, but what the hell was he supposed to be doing anyway?






People don't just need mirrors, they need kids and pets to inflict their personal problems on and then watch as those issues are reflected back at them as their kids start stealing or the puppy chews on the couch. The ultimate social mirror of our time is the shrink or the animal behaviorist who is hired to look at your misled offspring or study your psychotic dachshund and then tell you what is wrong with you.

Hi. This is BLOOD. This is beyond your preachy bullshit and your 'let’s be friends' mantras and this is REAL. This is BLOOD. This is SWEAT.

You wake up in the bathroom and your eyes feel like shells with sandy-crabs lurking inside them, hiding from the world outside.

You remember when you woke up in the parking lot and wonder how you haven't got the shit beat out of you-- oh wait you have. That's broken car window glass on you.

Hello sunshine.

You wake up and suddenly you’re in your locker room and it's been a millisecond and there's this guy and he's talking to a FUCKING STUFFED BEAR and he says that war's imminent and you need backup except the only thing worse than having no backup is having undependable backup.

You wake up in the bathroom again looking in the mirror at the guy you're supposed to be and he gives you a look that could cause a gas station to explode, Venus di Milo to try to protect what little modesty she had in the first place, and it makes you look away for a minute. From YOURSELF.

You are ZEN. You do not know this now, but you are ZEN. Whatever was important is gone, gone, gone, vanished like a star that explodes billions of miles away and blinks out of existence but you are ZEN and calm and decide that you cannot control what you thought you could so you might as well not worry about it.

You wake up to the phone ringing, ringing, ringing, and you didn't even know that the thing was still in service and you pick up to hear a light, feminine voice on the other side.

She says, "Hello, is Mister Vittori there?"

And you tell her, "Mister Vittori died years ago," and you say to yourself yes I meant the Old Man with that really.

She laughs, a tinkling noise of shattering glass and chimes dropping to the ground.

"I’m so sorry."

And the line is dead.






There's a knock at the hotel door. If he'd been in his right mind, he'd have ignored it. Instead he opened it and then there was a gun. This is what you get for being a dumbshit and not using the peephole.

But instincts... instincts are a good thing.

Donovan grabbed the hand, but the hand was prepared for that. The butt of the gun connected with his eye and he blinked but didn't pause, slammed it wrist-first into the doorframe, knocked the gun aside, went for the throat. Missed. Right hand. He's slammed into the door and caught by his own throat.

Donovan would ignore him for a second but that doesn’t last long because he’s choking Donovan, hand wrapped around his neck like a vise as he's slammed up against the doorframe.

"This is no joke," he says. "Do not fuck with me, because I am not in the mood."

This is something called irony.

"No," Donovan says, obsidian eyes and bruised skin. He will not do that.

Position's reversed quickly, the man's pushed into the doorframe and his arm's wrenched behind his back. He doesn't know how he does these things anymore, he just does. "Why're you here."

"You are."

"Who am I?"

"That's why I'm here."

"Make sense."

"Who are you?"

This ought to be confusing and urgent but in his head, it's just dull. He twists the man's arm behind his back. The man screams at the crack. It's not a very masculine scream, probably not experienced at fighting. He could leave it at that but he's not content, and slams his face into the doorframe until the man's nose is bloody before throwing him in the hall.

The man keeps going down the stairs. Donovan already can't remember what he looks like, but he'd bet that it won't be the last he sees of him.

It’s strange living by yourself. When you come in from outside and slam the door there’s no one shouting at you to cut it the hell out.






"L'enfer, c'est les autres. La lutte elle-même vers les sommets suffit à remplir un coeur d'homme; il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux."

The face in the screen blinks dully at it, as if he's just woken up. Our lighting isn't good and there's no interviewer, but this is already becoming regular habit for this man.

"Two different statements by two different Frenchmen. One an existentialist philosopher, the other an absurdist philosopher.

"Now, before two third of you go on with your lives and forget I ever spoke gibberish and one third of you go butcher that in Babelfish, I'll go ahead and translate for you.

"The first and shorter sentence was by a man named Sarte. Our existentialist philosopher. It means, in simple terms, 'Hell is other people'. Real optimist that Sarte, hmm? More a point to ponder. Figure out the points and you'll start to get an idea of who you're dealing with here.

"The other, longer, is maybe something Kara would take something from. It's from our absurdist philosopher, Albert Camus. 'The fight itself towards the summits suffices to fill a heart of man; it is necessary to imagine Sisyphus happy.'

"Sisyphus. You know. That guy doomed to an eternity of rolling a giant rock up a hill. Ever had that feeling? Sure you have. What you're doing seems unaccomplishable, or perhaps it just seems useless. Put in a circumstances by those with far more power of one kind or another than you have. What's the point in continuing? How could anyone really make Sisyphus keep pushing that rock?

"Maybe it's not coming down to that. Any activity is better than being still. The man got in his position by repeated defiance of the gods. Continuing to push that rock's still defiance. In not letting the insurmountable task break his will, Sisyphus finds his happiness. In standing in between Natural Selection and Defiance, I... defy both of them. Maybe I have the side I'd nod to quicker, but it's still not my side. At Insanity, I'm still facing Tyke Index, and it doesn't matter a bit that they're the wiser heads in this feud.

"I think our Kara likes to put herself over as someone who's had a hard life. Hard lives are something that you don't ever get to the end of the tunnel on. Even if you're rich and famous and living all the little kids' dreams, you were still there and those experiences continually shade what you see in the present. But Kara's rock isn't her life right now. Kara's rock isn't even Echo at Insanity, who she cannot be sure if she'd beat solo since Echo lost due to the tragedy of subpar backup. Kara's rock, in this moment... is me.

"We're walking into No Disqualification. I am walking into No Disqualification with a pretty blonde. I feel a little like the Marquis de Sade. Don't get me wrong, the gender wouldn't matter if the person possessing it had some real threat in her. But here we have a girl running around calling herself 'Sexy Thug' Kara. It sounds like some new kinda model of Barbie. I see that on a marquee and I'm thinking, you know, Surfer Ken, Nurse Barbie, Palm Beach Skipper, Sexy Thug Kara. That's what I think when I see that name. And hot damn I'll never run out of material on that. Sexy Thug Kara-- complete with a leather bikini she took off of Xena.

"But really, coming on the heels of Matthew Heart, who was about as much of a threat to me as a handicap match against Dashboard Confessional? You can't look any worse than he did. No disqualification. There'll be blood. And if the feel I'm getting off you is right, we'll both enjoy that blood. Maybe there's nothing wrong with that. Aside from sex, extreme pain's the most intimate experience two people can share.

"Show me what you're made of, Kara. No disqualification means you could have your backup come beat me down for you legally. So this is your opportunity, right here, to prove that statement you gave that you're the person to watch out for. Are you, or do you need them? Prove your statement, that's more important than who wins. Come to the dance alone. Bleed for me. It brings us closer than dying and cancer and crying."



Finis.[/align]
[align=center]Posted Image

Posted Image[/align]
Offline Profile Goto Top
 
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Free Forums with no limits on posts or members.
« Previous Topic · Monday Night Hell Roleplay Archives · Next Topic »
Locked Topic