Just the usual Boston night (a.k.a. Fuck you Clemmens)
Feb 13, 2017 9:30:34 GMT -5
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Post by TheLaw on Feb 13, 2017 9:30:34 GMT -5
Dominic Lawson is standing in front of one of the many Irish Pub in Southend Boston. The green neon light flickers, tossing a reflection on his face as he stops on the door, leaning against the wall instead of entering the bar.
"Is this what you're expecting me to do Dare? Enter yet another bar, down a couple of whiskies and spit a couple of sentences about how I'm going to beat your ass coming next Sunday because I am oh so desperate, and I have nothing to lose?"
Chuckling, he lowers and shakes his head.
"This is kinda demeaning you know, and not so original. Take no offense, but you sounded like Benny Stevens back there... I honestly don't get why all of you guys are so bothered by the fact that I enjoy a single malt or two here and there. It's not that I ever showed up or cut a promo drunk you know..."
He rubs his chin. thinking.
"Hungover, maybe... But still, I was making more sense than half of the shit you do... But I digress. Let's talk about Executive Action, shall we?"
The bar's door open, loud music and even louder yells burst through the silent Boston night, while a three hundred pounds man wobbles his way out of the pub, visibly hammered. After staggering a few steps in direction of the dock, he stumbles on his own feet, landing face first on the snow-clad sidewalk. Dominic barely glances at him, shrugging and quickly turning his attention back to the camera.
"I lost, and no I am not making up any excuses. To tell you the truth, I don't give a fuck about it. My focus, just like everyone else's, was on the main event, the ladder match. How can it be any different? The company's future on the line, a new champion potentially to be crowned... All eyes were on that match. I was expecting Fantana to retain, or in the worst case scenario, Gale stealing the win. Hell, I also gave that chick a slight chance to walk away with the title... But not you. Not that clown who sent a picture of his dick to Brad Douchebag Stokes, not the kid who thinks it's a smart idea to walk in a gay bar naked."
A young couple walks by, noticing the fat man laying on the street, apparently unconscious. The man grabs his phone and dial 911.
"Nonetheless, you won, kudos to you. You're the champ, your manager's girlfriend is in the control room, calling the shots and pulling strings. Future looks bright for you doesn't it?
No it doesn't.
You see, I hope that, when you got that title, you were told by your agent that all good things come with a price. That yes, you are the champion, but your first duty is to put what you earned so hardly with blood, sweat and tears -and mind you, I'm being sarcastic- against the worst motherfucker in this company.
I hope you didn't have some huge party planned for Massacre #8, because I know how you're all down to have a good time, and how much, for some unexplainable reasons, the fans love you. My bad for underestimating the idiocy of the common man.
I know it's not your style, but you should start taking me seriously. It's just a friendly advice of course, you are free to take it or not. Not that it would change the fact that I am going to take that title away from your shoulder before you can even get used to his weight anyway...
It's nothing personal kid. Blame your bad luck, Saturn in opposition or whatever you may want to believe in... But your fate, the fate of whoever would have won the title back at the PPV actually, was already written in the stars. Your purpose is to keep that title warm for me."
His attention is caught by the sound of a siren approaching. Two paramedics make their way through a small crowd gathered around the fat man laying on the sidewalk. They seem concerned as they roll him on his back, to check his vital signs. Surprisingly, but not too, the dude is snoring. A bit disappointed, they wake him up and watch him as he falters his way down the street. As they are about to jump back into the ambulance, the door opens once again, and a voice calls them.
"You guys might want to check on this bastard here"
The mountain of a man who was talking tosses a lamenting scrawny kid on the sidewalk, nodding at Dom as he notices him. By the bruises on the kid's face, he just went into a fight, and got the worse of it. No questions asking, they load him in the back of the ambulance and drive away.
"Fuck you Clemmens, I'm missing one hell of a night to tell you what you should already know.
Coming this Sunday, your fifteen minutes of glory are over. And it doesn't matter how big in this industry your family's name is.
Yours, will forever be a footnote on the history of the Resilience Championship.
And there's nothing you can do about it. Change is the Law of life."
With that said, he tips his hat to the camera, opening the door and entering the pub, welcomed by a huge roar by the other patrons, who greet him raising their glasses.
"Is this what you're expecting me to do Dare? Enter yet another bar, down a couple of whiskies and spit a couple of sentences about how I'm going to beat your ass coming next Sunday because I am oh so desperate, and I have nothing to lose?"
Chuckling, he lowers and shakes his head.
"This is kinda demeaning you know, and not so original. Take no offense, but you sounded like Benny Stevens back there... I honestly don't get why all of you guys are so bothered by the fact that I enjoy a single malt or two here and there. It's not that I ever showed up or cut a promo drunk you know..."
He rubs his chin. thinking.
"Hungover, maybe... But still, I was making more sense than half of the shit you do... But I digress. Let's talk about Executive Action, shall we?"
The bar's door open, loud music and even louder yells burst through the silent Boston night, while a three hundred pounds man wobbles his way out of the pub, visibly hammered. After staggering a few steps in direction of the dock, he stumbles on his own feet, landing face first on the snow-clad sidewalk. Dominic barely glances at him, shrugging and quickly turning his attention back to the camera.
"I lost, and no I am not making up any excuses. To tell you the truth, I don't give a fuck about it. My focus, just like everyone else's, was on the main event, the ladder match. How can it be any different? The company's future on the line, a new champion potentially to be crowned... All eyes were on that match. I was expecting Fantana to retain, or in the worst case scenario, Gale stealing the win. Hell, I also gave that chick a slight chance to walk away with the title... But not you. Not that clown who sent a picture of his dick to Brad Douchebag Stokes, not the kid who thinks it's a smart idea to walk in a gay bar naked."
A young couple walks by, noticing the fat man laying on the street, apparently unconscious. The man grabs his phone and dial 911.
"Nonetheless, you won, kudos to you. You're the champ, your manager's girlfriend is in the control room, calling the shots and pulling strings. Future looks bright for you doesn't it?
No it doesn't.
You see, I hope that, when you got that title, you were told by your agent that all good things come with a price. That yes, you are the champion, but your first duty is to put what you earned so hardly with blood, sweat and tears -and mind you, I'm being sarcastic- against the worst motherfucker in this company.
I hope you didn't have some huge party planned for Massacre #8, because I know how you're all down to have a good time, and how much, for some unexplainable reasons, the fans love you. My bad for underestimating the idiocy of the common man.
I know it's not your style, but you should start taking me seriously. It's just a friendly advice of course, you are free to take it or not. Not that it would change the fact that I am going to take that title away from your shoulder before you can even get used to his weight anyway...
It's nothing personal kid. Blame your bad luck, Saturn in opposition or whatever you may want to believe in... But your fate, the fate of whoever would have won the title back at the PPV actually, was already written in the stars. Your purpose is to keep that title warm for me."
His attention is caught by the sound of a siren approaching. Two paramedics make their way through a small crowd gathered around the fat man laying on the sidewalk. They seem concerned as they roll him on his back, to check his vital signs. Surprisingly, but not too, the dude is snoring. A bit disappointed, they wake him up and watch him as he falters his way down the street. As they are about to jump back into the ambulance, the door opens once again, and a voice calls them.
"You guys might want to check on this bastard here"
The mountain of a man who was talking tosses a lamenting scrawny kid on the sidewalk, nodding at Dom as he notices him. By the bruises on the kid's face, he just went into a fight, and got the worse of it. No questions asking, they load him in the back of the ambulance and drive away.
"Fuck you Clemmens, I'm missing one hell of a night to tell you what you should already know.
Coming this Sunday, your fifteen minutes of glory are over. And it doesn't matter how big in this industry your family's name is.
Yours, will forever be a footnote on the history of the Resilience Championship.
And there's nothing you can do about it. Change is the Law of life."
With that said, he tips his hat to the camera, opening the door and entering the pub, welcomed by a huge roar by the other patrons, who greet him raising their glasses.