The Battle Of New Orleans: Part II
Mar 26, 2017 15:47:52 GMT -5
Doc Henry, Rumpke, and 1 more like this
Post by FPV on Mar 26, 2017 15:47:52 GMT -5
Paper champion
A weak or easily beaten champion, usually awarded the title by dubious means
A weak or easily beaten champion, usually awarded the title by dubious means
Lucien Hicks' lived in a fucking shithole. But then again, so did a lot of people here in NOLA. I never understood how people could put up with shotgun houses like this smack dab in the middle of the city, but I didn't really care to findo ut why. Still, Hicks was the only man with the proper connections in the city, surely he must've found some scoop on O'Neal during his time as Renegade Reporter. I was hoping he'd be willing to share that info with me.
I knocked twice on his door, waiting for a reply. Was he even going to answer? Did he even still live here? It had been a long time since Hicks' and I were in each other's company, was it possible that he could've forgotten me? Did he still talk with Polar? There were so many unanswered questions, and I was beginning to lose hope that he'd answer. I tried knocking twice again, and this time I actually got a response.
I knocked twice on his door, waiting for a reply. Was he even going to answer? Did he even still live here? It had been a long time since Hicks' and I were in each other's company, was it possible that he could've forgotten me? Did he still talk with Polar? There were so many unanswered questions, and I was beginning to lose hope that he'd answer. I tried knocking twice again, and this time I actually got a response.
Lucien Hicks: I'm comin, I'm comin. Chill out, Jesus Christ.
What followed can only be described as the sounds of a man tumbling off his couch, furiously putting on whatever clothes must've been lying around, and then cracking his bones to wake them up after a long sleep. When the door opened, I could see in that world weary face of his he was expecting someone else, judging by how annoyed he looked.
Lucien Hicks: For the last time Barbra, I'm sorry I can't buy your choc...OH. Oh. It's you.
FPV: Lucien. It's been a while.
Lucien Hicks: Ain't that the truth. Come in, come in, before Barbra REALLY finds out I'm inside.
I nodded in appreciation, and stepped inside the Hicks Compound. The place looked almost exactly as it did the last time I was here with Polar. Like last time, there were three notable things within this front room: a sprawled out sofa bed Lucien had no doubt just woken up from, a SHITTON of pictures hanging on the wall with Lucien posing with such notable celebs such as Danny Bonaduce, Coby Bell, Jonny Fairplay, celebs of that caliber...as well as a couple of pics of Lucien with girls of...questionable age, and last but not least, a desk almost COVERED in newspaper clippings and writings. Lucien walked on over to where he always kept his stash, but I stopped him mid-way.
FPV: Not this time Lucien. I'm just here for business.
He looked at me curiously, I think he viewed me as a guy who would never turn the opportunity to get lit, but he recognized my request and didn't press on.
Lucien Hicks: I see. Then let's get to business. What seems to ailing you, old friendo?
FPV: I need information on a certain guy in the city, and I'm thinking you're the man to go to.
Lucien Hicks: You've certainly come to the right guy. I know most everyone in this shit hole. So who's your target?
FPV: Man by the name of Jason O'Neal.
He raised a veritable People's Eyebrow at me, shocked at O'Neal's name coming out of my mouth.
Lucien Hicks: Jason...O'Neal? Why are you concerning yourself with that thug?
FPV: WCF, hehe. World Title on the line.
He let out a long sigh.
Lucien Hicks: Of course, I should've known O'Neal would join that circus. Okay, okay...give me a sec, and I'll give you everything I have on the guy. Till then, have a seat.
He turned 'round to the door adjacent to his desk, no doubt going into his "archives." The idea of sitting on...that couch was an uncomfortable idea. Who knows what has happened on that god-forsaken piece of furniture. I debated whether or not I'd actually have a seat, cause while I didn't want to sit there, my legs were fucking SHOT from that fight with the goon at Cafe Du Monde. Slowly, very slowly, I walked towards the couch, and juuuuuuuuuuuuust as I was about to have a seat, Hicks burst through the door, a stack of papers in his hand.
Lucien Hicks: These are copies, so don't bother giving any of these back to me. There's a good bit of info in these docs, you should find everything you're looking for.
FPV: Much obliged. This'll no doubt help me out with my shit, man.
Lucien Hicks: Not a problem amigo. Just...be careful what you see there. Some of that info I got on Jason is...kinda confidential.
FPV: I'd expect nothing less from The Renegade Reporter of NOLA. You're doing God's work.
I started my way out the door, but as I heard rustling behind me, I turned back quickly and saw Lucien holding an already lit joint.
Lucien Hicks: You sure you don't want anything? You're a guest in my house, youm ight as well accept my hospitality.
I thought about for a brief moment, shrugged, then walked back to Lucien, who graciously put the joint between my lips as I took a single hit. It was good shit, Hicks always got the best stuff. A single cough escaped me, but nothing more.
FPV: Gracias amigo.
Lucien Hicks: Hehe...just like the old days, ain't it?
FPV: I suppose so.
Lucien Hicks: You ever think about that night? The night you and Polar sat at the river over there, high as a kite on acid?
FPV: Sometimes. I'm sure even if I tried the ghosts wouldn't let me forget it.
Lucien Hicks: Ghosts?
I chuckled, as an image of a smiling, laughing Switches the Clown flashed briefly before my eyes.
FPV: Don't worry about it. Thank you for the info.
Lucien Hicks: Don't mention it. Stay safe out there, it's like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under.
I nodded, before heading back outside with my newfound intel on the criminal scum that is Jason O'Neal.
FPV PROMO #20 - The Battle Of New Orleans
Part II
Back at the Marriott on Canal Street, I had decided to take a brief moment, calm myself down after the rather...exciting morning I had today. I had sprawled myself out on the soft, soft bed, completely relaxed, with Iceberg-Six by my side. At the current moment, I had Eye-Six streaming a couple of matches from the WCF Network. Nothing really in particular, just something to take my mind of the beating I gave that goon. They were good matches, a couple of my own, a couple of others, just an all around fun mix. And it felt good, knowing that there was no way in hell this feed was gonna get hijacked Max Headroom-style by one Real Deal O-Fucking-Neal.
FPV: It's just like I said yesterday Jason, first impressions are everything. And boy, did you try to make a grand entrance and get your first impression right. Hijacking the WCF Network and shit talking the owner of the company into giving you a contract. Definitely a bold gesture, very bold indeed. But it's not what a rational, normal person would do at all.
I mean yeah, it's always fun to poke fun at the boss for all of his flaws, his alcoholism, his nonsensical booking decisions, his megalomania. But the thing is Jason, first of all you've got to earn the right to do shit like, you've first gotta actually interact with Lerch to say those things, otherwise you're just makin yourself look stupid. Second, once you HAVE actually interacted with the man for as long as I have, you start to look past those issues and realize "shit son, this man's paying my wages and giving me so many opportunities, I really shouldn't be trashin him like this." That's why I haven't talked all that shit on him, sure he probably hates me but he still gives me a job.
But this all leads to the the greater issue at hand: the fact that you're a childish manchild gangster power fantasy. The establishing moment of your career here in the WCF is you complaining that you can't get a contract the "proper" way, despite your APPARENT huge indy cred. So you whined and whined and whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiined. Whined until the cows came HOME, for weeks until you finally got a little bit of attention. That attention consisted of Seth Lerch (quite rightfully I might add) banning you from the arena Slam was taking place in. I honestly can't see why you would be so surprised that you, who Seth has only seen thus far as a digital terrorist making demands, aren't allowed in the building. Do you just not realize how not wanted you were? You honestly thought you could sexually harass and bribe your way in? You stupid idiot.
Speakin of which, that way that you treat almost every single woman you've ever met in your life. Fucking DEPLORABLE. Absolutely deplorable. I really hate to be this guy, but for fuck's sake it's 2017 mate, how are you still talking to women like that unironically? Did your mother not raise you properly...actually considering your upbringing I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. That's probably one of the big reasons I just can't stand watching any promo you put out, along with the horrible trash talk, the delusions of grandeur, everything about you really, but especially the downright MISOGYNY you represent. And you know what? I don't usually delve this deep into people's personal lives, but you know what?
Stephanie Daniels was right to leave your sorry ass.
Literally the BIGGEST match of your sorry life, forget the Hardcore Wrestling Federation, the Elite Wreslting, no this WCF World title shit is by far the BIGGEST match of your fucking sorry broken life, your girl is trying REALLY hard to get you to take this shit seriously, and what do you do?
You focus all your attention on a fucking Mardi Gras parade.
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK you*.
*Author's note: Imagine that "fuck you" read in the style of the OSW crew whenever they do it, lol.
[/div]FPV: This is the first World Title match I've had in years, you sonofabitch. You think I've got random bullshit on my mind like a Mardi Gras parade? Fuck no, everything is focused on either the match or you. You're the World Champion. get your shit together.
But you wanna know some real Stockholm Syndrome shit? Somehow even though y'all have separated...y'all are still going on dates together, calling each other "Bonnie and Clyde", WHILE YOU'RE SUBTLY FLIRTING WITH THE FEMALE SERVER. Fuck you, you manipulative piece of shit. That woman deserves much more then you, and it sickens me that you're keeping her under your spell. Call me a white knight all you want, I'm just looking out for the good of fuckin humanity.
But the way you treat women is just a byproduct of that gangster culture that you've spent your whole life living in, isn't it? That dirty south, sippin' sizzurp, blaring Tha Carter II out the stereo of your ride lifestyle. That's the way you are, isn't it? That's your ultimate excuse.
The streets told me to do it.
There's gotta come a point in your life where you have to grow out of this whole gangster nonsense. You're not asserting your dominance over these geeks, you're risking your whole life one bullet at a time. And before you come at me sayin "you have no idea what you're talking about, you're just a nerd who likes Spider-Man," fuck you, I had to deal with my brother spending most of his adult life in jail for the crimes he's committed in a gang. You may have found success out on the streets, but if Tupac and Biggie have taught me anything, those same streets are gonna catch up to you sooner rather than later, and they're gonna eat you alive, you overgrown child.
Now excuse me while I watch some tape and prepare for Sunday.
And with that, I stopped my little angry monologue and began searching for Jason O'Neal matches on the Network.
The intel led me to Storyville of all places. How oddly fitting.
For those of you not in the know, Storyville was a section squared off from the rest of New Orleans during the Bourbon Period, which lasted from the 1897 to 1917, and it laid claim to fame as the single biggest red-light district in United States history. The Bourbons, sugar planters who held all the REAL power in the state of Louisiana, let this whole operation slide as a part of their general corruptness. Named after alderman Sidney Story, this area of the city had all the prostitution in all of the city, as well as dealing with drugs. It also was the birthplace of a lot of the great early Jazz musicians, interestingly enough. Only three original buildings from the Storyville area still stand to this day, Lulu White's Saloon, Tark Musa's Store, and the establishment I found myself today, Joe Victor's Saloon.
The intel stated that there was suspicions that O'Neal had some prostitutes operating in this area, though there had been no confirmation of anything of the sort. Though I did see some scantily clad women in the area, they seemed less like hookers and more like drunk tourists. I was beginning to lose hope that I'd find anything of note here, but as I walked about, just about to quit, a dirty female voice made it's way into my ears.
For those of you not in the know, Storyville was a section squared off from the rest of New Orleans during the Bourbon Period, which lasted from the 1897 to 1917, and it laid claim to fame as the single biggest red-light district in United States history. The Bourbons, sugar planters who held all the REAL power in the state of Louisiana, let this whole operation slide as a part of their general corruptness. Named after alderman Sidney Story, this area of the city had all the prostitution in all of the city, as well as dealing with drugs. It also was the birthplace of a lot of the great early Jazz musicians, interestingly enough. Only three original buildings from the Storyville area still stand to this day, Lulu White's Saloon, Tark Musa's Store, and the establishment I found myself today, Joe Victor's Saloon.
The intel stated that there was suspicions that O'Neal had some prostitutes operating in this area, though there had been no confirmation of anything of the sort. Though I did see some scantily clad women in the area, they seemed less like hookers and more like drunk tourists. I was beginning to lose hope that I'd find anything of note here, but as I walked about, just about to quit, a dirty female voice made it's way into my ears.
Voice: You lookin for dirt of Jason, aren't you?
I did an about face, and stared face to face with a woman. A woman who looked...vaguely familiar? I could've sworn I had seen her at some point. She was fairly attractive, or at least she would be if she didn't seem so broken. Her skin looked absolutely revolting, her hair was a mess...shit, EVERYTHING about her looked like a mess. Needless to say, I was intrigued.
FPV: Have I seen you before?
Woman: You might've seen me at the gates to the arenas, I was a WCF employee.
FPV: Was?
Woman: Was. Till that asshole Jason O'Neal ruined me.
And that's when it hit me. This was Stacy, the poor woman Jason O'Neal convinced to leave her post when it became obvious he wasn't going to be able to buy his way into the arena before he had his contract written. My god. This is what being with O'Neal does to you? I was horrified.
FPV: I think we need to have a chat.
In direct contrast to the shabby Joe Victor's, B.B King's House of Blues on Decatur Street was downright luxurious, despite being nothing more then casual dining. The blues band on stage gave a decent soundtrack to Stacy and I's meal, our waiter was very friendly, and the food and drink came out right on time. I was paying for everything, of course. Stacy had nary a penny on her, and judging by how voraciously she was devouring her BBQ ribs, she probably hadn't eaten in a few days.
FPV: Enjoying your meal, I see.
Stacy: Your goddamned right I am. This is the best meal I've had all month.
FPV: Well, I hate to stop you in your tracks, but I have a coouple questions about Jason I'd like to ask, if you don't mind.
She wiped her lips with a napkin, really she should have napkin-ed her whole face but that was neither here nor there.
Stacy: Whaddya want to know?
FPV: Everything. How he treated you, how you ended up like this, everything.
She stared off in the distance, as if she was trying to formulate the proper words...or rather, maybe trying to bring back potentially painful memories.
Stacy: I met him that night where he tried to get into the building. I knew he was trouble, and I tried to stay my ground, but...he was just so charming. And he was so rich. I had never seen so much money coming out of a guy's pocket in my life. I just couldn't help myself, I had to see what this guy was about. I dunno why I said the things I said to him. I told him I partied like a NOLA girl. For fuck's sake I've only been to Lafayette, I had never set foot here till I met that scumbag. He brought me over to his hotel room, and we...we did things.
FPV: I understand.
Stacey: That motherfucker...I gave myself up to him, and then he went and insulted me on camera! Said I fell flat like a bitch out of Sheffield. The fucking NERVE of this fucking BOY...
FPV: Please, you're causing a scene.
She stopped to notice how many people were staring at her in the restaurant, and then backed off.
Stacy: Sorry. I got a little heated there.
FPV: It's quite alright. So what came after that.
Stacy: He called me, said he wanted me by his side at his home in NOLA. I tried to say no, but he put that pressure on me. Said he had a job for me. I figured he'd pay me well, I had no idea what business it WOULD be, but I took it nontheless. I got there...I got there...
Her bottom lip began to quiver. She digging deep into those repressed memories, but she soldiered on.
Stacy: He gave me skimpy clothes and told me to get my ass on the streets. I tried, I tried really hard to leave, but the guards to his place stopped me from running away. I had no choice. But he knew, he knew he had to keep he by his side some way. So he gave me a sample of some of his...
FPV: ...product?
Stacy: Product, yes. He fuckin hooked me. He eventually stopped paying me in money, and just paid me in blow. I lost all control of my life. I stooped trying. What was the point, I'd just come crawling back to him anyway.
FPV: My god.
Stacy: If he found out I was talking to you know, I don't know what he would do to me. He'd probably find some new way to make my life hell. But fuck it. I need to stop living like this. I want my old life back. For fuck's sake, I'd rather be back selling tickets then dealing with this shit!
FPV: Don't worry. I can get you out of here. I can get you the help you need. I just have one more question. Where can I find O'Neal at this very moment?
Stacy: I dunno, I think he said something about a place called Ole Smokey's, I guess?
My jaw almost hit the fucking floor.
FPV: OLE' SMOKEYS?!
Stacy: Yeah, he said something about buying it out.
FPV: Oh my fucking god...
My mind began racing. What the fuck was he doing at Ole' Smokeys?! I quickly got my phone out, got her an Uber, and handed her my key card to my hotel.
FPV: I got you a ride, here's the key to my room, lock yourself in there and don't come out till I get there. I have business to settle. Thank you, you've been an amazing help, but I need to find this motherfucker. Please stay safe.
And without nary another word, I ran outside.
The wind chilled my face as I sprinted towards Bourbon Street. It wouldn't take long for me to get to Bourbon, but it felt like the longest run of my life. Multiple horrifying scenarios played out in my mind. Did he kill the owner? Did he shoot the whole place up? Just WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE DOING THERE?!?!
Finally, I stopped my feet, the bottoms of my shoes almost creating skid marks as they stop in their tracks. What I saw, terrified me. Completely surrounding the outside of the restaurant were multiple Goons, almost identical in build to the one I fought at Cafe Du Monde, dressed in suits with guns in their hands, and looking intimidating as FUCK.
Finally, I stopped my feet, the bottoms of my shoes almost creating skid marks as they stop in their tracks. What I saw, terrified me. Completely surrounding the outside of the restaurant were multiple Goons, almost identical in build to the one I fought at Cafe Du Monde, dressed in suits with guns in their hands, and looking intimidating as FUCK.
FPV: Mother of god. What are you people doing here?
Goon #1: This place is undah new management, Misstahh V.
Goon #2: Yeah, ah guess you could say itwasa'
Goon #3: REAL DEAL!
Son.
Of.
A.
BITCH..
I could see them draw their weapons. Combat was unavoidable. My fists and my wits were my only weapons on me at the time.
They were the only ones I needed.
The first goon charged me and aimed his gun. Stupid cunt got right into range for a Headshot...or rather, a HANDSHOT, as I summarily disarmed him of his piece with my foot. I leaped to make sure I had a good shot of his face, then lunged at him with a hard jab right to the teeth, dazing him momentarily. At the same time, third one grabbed a hold of me, trying to get the second one to land some easy shots, but i sent my leg back, hoping the goon's legs were spread apart wide enough. Spoiler alert: they were, and the man's nuts stood no match, as he immediately released the hold and fell to the ground in agony. The only one left standing pulled up the first, shook him a bit to get his grounding back, and attempted to tag team on me. Both grabbed a hold of my neck, and lifted me up for a double chokeslam, but I wiggled my legs to regain a bit of control, managed to get one on the seconds goon's shoulder, and hit what ended up becoming an assisted-enzugiri kick. And wile I was still in the air from said enzugiri kick, I kept my trajectory and landed one more kick to the first goon, sending HIM falling as well.
All three goons had been taken out in a matter of seconds. There are times in my life where I take my training from hell in Japan for granted. This time was not one of them. They never stood a chance. I walked over to the nearest one and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket.
All three goons had been taken out in a matter of seconds. There are times in my life where I take my training from hell in Japan for granted. This time was not one of them. They never stood a chance. I walked over to the nearest one and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket.
FPV: Where's the owner?
No response except for guttural laughter.
FPV: WHERE IS HE?!
Just then, out the corner of my eye, I saw within the restaurant the previous owner of Ole Smokey's Pub and Grill, Daniel. His mouth was covered with ductape, and he being manhandled by another one of O'Neal's goons, possibly using him as a human shield. Rage flared within me. This was going too far.
FPV: DANIEL!!
A muffled welp was all I could hear. The goon tossed Daniel aside and, like all the other stupid goons before him, charged towards me. I began charging as well. As the distance between us got shorter and shorter, the only thing separating us was a window. Son of a bitch, he was gonna go flying through that thing. Sure enough, he crashed right through the window using his momentum, and no sold the glass as he came closer and closer towards wrecking my shit. At least...he was until I side stepped out of the way. A grand look of confusion came over him as he descended outside the restaurant, and that ended being the last face he ever made as he failed to stop his momentum in time before involuntarily getting into traffic and...well, lemme just say there was a big "goon"-shaped dent in some poor bastards pickup truck.
I rushed inside through the broken mirror, trying to make it to my friend Daniel. I found him in the corner, rough housed but all in all okay.
I rushed inside through the broken mirror, trying to make it to my friend Daniel. I found him in the corner, rough housed but all in all okay.
FPV: Daniel, are you awake?
He began to slowly nod his head. Good, he wasn't out cold.
FPV: I'm sorry bruh, but I'm gonna have to do this.
I got a hold of a tiny bit of unattached tape, and in one motion ripped the rest of the tape off of Daniel'ss mouth. His response was not fun, as you would expect.
Daniel: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH FUCK.
FPV: Sorry. What the fuck happened over here man?
Daniel spent some time rubbing his face, breathing heavily from the goon's handling of him.
Daniel: Eight...million...
FPV: What? "Eight million?"
Daniel: He paid me...EIGHT MILLION to sell this place to him.
FPV: You did WHAT!?!
Daniel: I'm so sorry. He pressured me into it. I told him no, but he kept raising the prices over and over again, until I just couldn't say no. If I had known this would've been the outcome I would've stood my ground, even if it meant I'd get whacked.
That motherfucker. This was it. This was the final straw. I no longer wanted to just beat Jason O'Neal. I wanted to fucking DESTROY him for this. The destruction of Stacey's life, the murder of that poor Uber driver, and ESPECIALLY fucking with someone I consider kin. He did. Jason O'Neal had finally awoken the beast. He should've considered himself lucky that he already left this scene ages ago, lest he feel my anger.
I looked back down at Daniel, the poor guy, and tried to consul him.
FPV: It's okay, you did nothing wrong. It's better you walk out of this whole situation with your life then anything else. Just...try to get some rest somewhere. I'll try to get this situation sorted out. Just watch out for yourself.
Compared to everything that had happened in the past few days, the plane ride to Nevada was refreshingly uneventful. I had Seth Lerch pull some strings and get me a private flight over to Las Vegas, so that I could be alone with my thoughts for a little bit. After I got back to the Marriott, I got Stacey a separate plane ticket and told her to meet with Dr. Joe. All of her medical expenses were going to come out of my pocket. I couldn't save the Uber driver, but I could still save her. She was going to be in good hands.
I laid back in my seat, fully reclined and half asleep. Inside my ears were my favorite pair of headphones, plugged into my phone, as "Going Mobile" by The Who played.
I laid back in my seat, fully reclined and half asleep. Inside my ears were my favorite pair of headphones, plugged into my phone, as "Going Mobile" by The Who played.
This song always put me in a good mood when I was on the road (or in this case, in the air.) It really helped to take the edge off my rather violent trip to the Crescent City. Suddenly a buzz from my phone. It was a text from my buddy Dion.
"Did you have fun in NOLA?"
My response was quick and simple.
"No."
And that was that. With my mind now back in that headspace, I figured I should probably get a few final words out in regards to Jason O'Neal. I opened up Facebook live on my phone, and just let loose.
FPV: June 24th, 2012. A date that will live with me for the rest of my life. On that day all those years ago, I steeped into the ring with three of the greatest men to ever compete in the WCF. Oblivion. Gravedigger. Jonny. Fuckin. Fly. I stepped into that ring as the dark horse, no one truly thought I could pull it off. They thought I would just become another Flyjobber. Three headshots later, I proved all of those people wrong, and I became WCF Heavyweight Champion of the World for the first time in my career.
My first reign was, admittedly, not the best. I've come to terms with that. I'm okay with it, it doesn't keep me up at night like it used to. I can't do anything to change it, I can't convince Seth to CGI me not losing the belt to Waylon like he did for Torture and Price. Three weeks, all things considered. Three weeks I held that strap.
So tell me Jason, how do you think it's gonna feel when you're stripped of that belt after only TWO weeks?
Cause as much as that date is going to stick with me Jason, so too will the date March 26th, 2017. The day I right perhaps the biggest wrong set forth in WCF history and take that belt off your waist. Four years, nine months and three whole days. Oh how much can change in that amount of time. I'm no longer the fresh rookie looking to make his name, I'm the confident veteran who knows what the fuck he's doing, who's already paid his dues and earned his way to the top.
That's just another one of the multitude of difference between us, Jason. I spent years wallowing in the death spiral that is the indy circuit before I came here, and even then I had to work opener matches, I had to prove myself before I could even earn a simple TAG TITLE match with ole' Roy Boy. You? You just literally bought your way into this promotion with scare tactics and potshots at Seth. You didn't earn your place in this fed, but whatever, you're here and you aren't leaving anytime soon.
Jason, it took me 462 days in this company before I was able to get my first world title reign. And that reign lasted three weeks. People said I wasn't ready at the time, that I was given my shot too early and all that. Now let's look at you. It took you only 218 days to win it. And you think YOU'RE ready for that responsibility of holding that World title? Get the fuck outta here.
You know, before the events of this past week, I probably would've gone into our match thinking you would be the easiest possible opponent I could possibly beat for the World Title. I would've gone way too easy on you, maybe a couple Headshots, maybe a Boudledriver and that would've been it. But after what you've done, I can't just let it rest at that. I swear before the night is over on Sunday I will have hit you with EVERY. FUCKING. MOVE IN MY ARSENAL. Headshots, Boudledrivers, Goomba Stomps, Fus Roh Duhs, Dusters, Pearly Gates, Limit Breaks, THE WHOLE FUCKING KIT N KABOODLE. And you know what? I might even throw in a couple of moves from my buddies while I'm at it, JUST FORR GOOD MEASURE. You ever taken the Ice Cap? Or how about a Silver Lining so damn shiny I'd make Roy Boy proud. How about I let my inner black man out? How bout I summon the spirit of The Fuckin Mack himself, Pimp Slap the shit out of you then send you into outer space with an Orbital-DDT?
Better yet?
How about I give you the honor, the prestiiiiiiiiiiigious honor of being the first man in WCF history that gets hit with HOLY DIVER. I know I've been hyping that move for ages, but unlike the man you stole that belt from, when I promote new finishers, I FUCKING DELIVER. I'm sure you'd love a Tiger Driver '91 from the top rope, won't you Jason? It'll be your just deserts after the shit you pulled at Ole' Smokeys, that young man you destroyed, that POOR woman Stacy. You've held a grip on the people of New Orleans for a while, and they never noticed. How long until you do the same here in the WCF? I just can't allow you to do that. I may not have the money you'd want to buy back my friend's restaurant, but I know when I'm in that ring, beating the everloving SHIT out of you, I know Daniel will be watching, his fist in the air cheering me on.
And after I hit all of those moves on you, what will you have to counter me with?
The Sensation. Money Maker. And Lagniappe.
HA.
HAHAHA.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
How pathetic.
I must ask, do you even have the technical prowess to even properly put on a Sharp Shooter? If Bret Hart was dead he'd be rolling around in his grave watching you disrespect the move he perfected.
Now The Sensation, that's a good move. I should know, cause it's MY OWN FUCKIN' MOVE. You think you can beat me with one of those? Lemme ask you one more question Jason, have you won a World title with The Sensation? Answer: fuck no you didn't. You didn't even hit ANY finisher in your match against Joey Flash, you got beat the fuck up by Everest and had them plop your ass on top of Flash for the pin. I know I've touched on that but it's something that MUST be said once again, because it is THE thing that delegitimizes everything you have to say about me. You had to have three people help you out in a one on one match and you didn't even hit your finisher. I BEAT three other people in a our way match and hit my finisher THREE times to get the win.
Suck.
My.
Fucking.
DICK.
Oh, and that last move of yours, Lagniappe? What a cute little name for a move. For anyone watching that doesn't understand what Lagniappe means, it's basically a Cajun tradition of throwing in "a little something extra" along with whatever they're selling. Now let's compare Jason O'Neal to the other wrestlers here in the WCF, your Johnny Rabids, your David Sanchezs, your JAred holmes, your Teddy Blazes, your Dion Necurats, and most importantly, your Frank PAtrick Venables.
Compared to them, that's all you are Jason. A little something extra.
See you Sunday. Au revoir.
Author's Note: The character of Lucien Hicks appears with permission of Brian "Polar Phantasm" Bonhagen.