Post by Stephen Singh on Jul 30, 2017 1:09:13 GMT -5
^ ^ ^ Responsibility ^ ^ ^
This word itself has heft, multi syllabic and a descending, condescending nature to its pronunciation. RESPONSIBILITY. Realistically, responsibility is all relative. When you’re six or seven maybe it’s just clearing the dinner table. Get a bit older, maybe you’re entrusted with the care of a pet. A little older still and maybe it’s your first job, your first non-domestic responsibility. Capitalism demands a job, an occupation as our greatest responsibility to civilization and to ourselves. Our punishment for failing to live up to that particular responsibility? Oh nothing much. Poverty, homelessness, maybe some mild depression or deep self-loathing and a general shunning by society at large. Though we’re supposed to pity those poor fellows, it was some failure of responsibility that lead them to their destitute status. That’s not to say bad luck or genetics or socio-economic inequality can play no role in their final resting place in the gutters and alleyways but there is always a failure of their own in there somewhere. There is some responsibility that they let slip, even if it was just once. For some, once is enough and that whole house of cards we’ve all built for ourselves comes a-tumbling down. For others, responsibilities can be shirked and shrugged time and time again and still John Q. Opportunity waits patiently at their door. Responsibility can raise one up or burn one down. Pile on the responsibility and men show their true mettle, their true worth. Even a modicum of responsibility can buckle or break lesser men whereas you pile the world on the shoulders of some and their name becomes Atlas.
There are men in Ultimate Showdown who truly know responsibility and embrace it. Men who have carried the WCF’s most prestigious belt with pride and and the air of invincibility that is the responsibility of its holder. Lately, the men who have held the Grand Prize have not met this responsibility. They have not lived up to the responsibility of being WCF’s standard-bearer. The burden crumpled them as it does many men. Joey Flash steadied the boat for a brief period but allowing the title to fall to Jason O’Neal--regardless of circumstance--is a failure of responsibility. O’Neal thought he was ready for that responsibility but a defeat in his first defense and his colors ran. Mr. Venable, the venerable veteran can surely shoulder the responsibility that comes wi--no. The Shark eats him and he disappears, afraid of his obligations. The Shark drowns in responsibility as a gladiator rises to the occasion, to the responsibility of the WCF World Championship. He carries that weight with him into The Ultimate Showdown. Can he be the first man to be truly responsible for the WCF 2017 World Title? We all wanted to believe in his story but a breeze blows through the locker room now and it whispers of another so-called fighter parrying his responsibility.
So now nine men battle for the right to prove themselves willing and capable of fulfilling the responsibility of being World Champion, of donning this apparent albatross. Steven Singh knows himself ready for that responsibility, he’s known himself ready for it since the moment he stepped foot back into a wrestling ring, just under a year ago. Seth Lerch and the ban on Singh competing for the World Title say otherwise. Yet here we are, The Superstar in a match for the Championship. Singh will fulfill his responsibility. His responsibility to the FANS SETH THE LOCKER ROOM EVEREST himself to continue to paint that canvas with his own blood, sweat, and tears every time he steps into it. His responsibility to lie, cheat, and steal his way back to the top of this Golden Goddamned federation. His responsibility as The Brother Who Lived. His responsibility as man. And soon, as a Father.
**************************************************
Back again in the phallic headquarters of the Everest operation and homebase for both the political and extra-judicial activities of Mayor David Sanchez, Steven Singh sits in a high-backed brown leather chair in his liquor cabinet/study waiting; the same place he’d previously asked the benevolent Mayor’s assistance with the Romano problem. The deft handling of that little difficulty gave Singh hope for some semblance of the same patience and thoughtfulness in this room again.That hope being dwarfed by the more realistic notion that Sanchez will be perturbed by this new query, Singh looked to calm his nerves with whatever brown liquid he was able to first stumble upon in the room; the decanter Singh had chosen was a particularly expensive, 20 odd year scotch. He swirled it, sniffed it and recoiled, unaccustomed to and uncharmed by the smell. The T
Sanchez: Not your speed, huh sport?
Singh: I can’t say I understand your predilection for its taste. It’s harsh and it burns you from the inside out.
Sanchez: Yeah it kind of prepares you for the rest of the world, doesn’t it?
Singh: If those are the only feelings this world conjures for you, it’s no surprise you continue to avoid being its champion.
Sanchez shoots Singh a glare followed by a smirk; the Mayor made note of the needling only days in advance of Ultimate Showdown. He snatches the decanter from its resting place on a desk and pours himself a heavy three fingers, neat. Nose in the glass and with a deep inhale and as close to a smile as the Mayor ever lets cross his lips, he cuts short the pleasantries.
Sanchez: So exactly what is so urgent, Steven?
Singh: We--
Sanchez: And I swear to God you’re not going to make it to the Showdown if this is another too-elaborate set up to a Very Big Alliance punchline.
Singh: Fortunately for us, they failed to retain their Internet Strap and instead Gravedummy is left to serenade us with dozens upon dozens of “fucks” every time I open my damn phone. No, this isn’t actually an in-ring concern.
This was a strange bit of information from Singh. As far as Sanchez knew, there wasn’t much to Singh’s life that wasn’t an “in-ring concern.” That was the most obnoxious part about the Tag Champion to his Everest Associates, he generally lacked their own appetite for extra curriculars. Interest piqued, Sanchez sips the scotch and lets it sit on his tongue before swallowing, taking in its notes: oak barrels, subtle cherries, smoke. David sits down across from Steven, crosses his legs and nods for him to continue.
Singh: Did...did you like being a father?
If he hadn’t just gulped his liquor, a 90s sitcom-worthy spit take may’ve taken place. Instead, Sanchez uncrossed his legs and stood up from the chair, heading back to the decanter, adding another three fingers to his not-yet-empty glass.
Sanchez: You’re asking the wrong guy.
Singh: I’m asking--
Sanchez: Maybe you’re asking the wrong question.
Seeing Sanchez take a large pull from his scotch--no time wasted savoring it nor taking in its subtleties this time--Singh attempts to get to the heart of it.
Singh: Do you think I’d be a good father?
Sanchez: What?
Singh: Good is too objective. Adequate. Do you think I’d be an adequate father?
A smaller sip from his scotch this time, as exactly what Singh was talking about came into a bit better focus. It had nothing to do with David or his own family really, Singh was asking about himself and--presumably--Erica. And he just wanted someone to tell him he’d be an “adequate” father? Sanchez wondered if Singh was actually the most fucked up of the three of them, Columbian fighting pits and Starfish prisons be damned.
Sanchez: Did you knock that little vixen up? You’ve got to be careful out there Singh, those young ones are fertile as Napa Valley. Anyways, nip this in the bud. That parasite is going to stretch out her flat little stomach and tight little snatch and drag her tits down to her knees after he gets done sucking them dry.
Singh: Right. But...What if I want it? What if being a father is what I’m supposed to do right now? That type of responsibility could change everything, you know?
David knew it wouldn’t change anything; you are who you are who you are. Adding responsibility onto the shit sandwich of life just makes it harder to digest. Sanchez didn’t even know who he was talking to at the moment but he certainly didn’t like it. Singh was without snark and sarcasm and was instead introspective and...fucking boring. Apparently his hormones were raging thanks to the pregnancy. David thought maybe it’d be useful for Singh to have the kid to keep him from making these unannounced appearances at The Eye but then how many more mopey, tedious conversations like this would there be in the future? Singh is actually trying to connect, trying to look Sanchez in the eye as a man. Sanchez is trying to drown his memories in scotch and maybe see about a dragon to chase, worlds apart standing in the same room.
Sanchez: Jesus man, raise the kid or don’t. I don’t fucking care. But I’m already done having this conversation.
Singh: What was it like when you--
Singh was too deep in his self-important introspection to pick up on Sanchez’ teeth gritting and eyes squinting every time he attempted to bring up Sanchez’ family. At another time, under another circumstance, The Mayor would’ve met this foolhardiness with only low grumbling and swift violence. They both knew, however, that the other would be an asset come Sunday. So David instead hustles to his desk, pushes the intercom to his secretary and cuts off Singh.
Sanchez: Hey! Send in Taylor Wright! Singh wants to talk to him about something.
*******************************
The WCF promo film crew has been called to an empty lecture hall in NYU, usually home to some liberal arts bullshit comparative literature course or gender studies course to be certain. Today though, the lectern stood alone and empty as did all the seats, save for one. In that one seat, sat Byron the most faithful of the Stevenites--truthfully perhaps the only person who would allow himself branded with that title. The silence is broken by the clomping of brown, wing-tipped loafers onto the small stage where upon the lectern is centered. The camera pans over to find that doing the clomping is one Steven Singh, donning a blue suit with a matching high-breasted vest beneath and a neatly pressed, pristinely white button-up beneath. The gold of the full-windsor knotted tie matches the short chain visible that goes from the overlap of his vest to a pocket inside his jacket. Eyes forward, a legal pad tucked under his warm, he strides to the lectern and fips through a few pages of the notepad before pulling out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that were assuredly non-prescription. He pulls a gold watch connected to the end of the chain out from his jacket and confirms his suspicions: it’s time to start class.
Professor Singh: Alright class, now let’s settle down.
Byron: C’mon mayne, let’s get to it.
Professor Singh: Class if you have any queries, please raise your hand. Do not disrupt the lecture for all your fellow students. Thank you.
A forceful throat clear and silence from the one-man “class.”
Professor Singh: Very good. Welcome one and all to Remedial Media Studies 203: The Internet Wrestling Mook Database. Today we will be analyzing the WCF’s Ultimate Showdown match and all eight competitors--
Byron: Nine.
Professor Singh: Raise your fucking hand, shitdick! And this isn’t Jay Price lying about his dick size to impress high school girls, the number matters: it’s eight.
Byron: There are nine competitors.
Professor Singh: Yes if you include me, Byron. Do you think I’m going to analyze myself, Byron? Do you think I’m going to go into all my own flaws and weaknesses, Byron? Do you think that’s a good idea...BYRON?
Sulking, he answers quietly.
Byron: No…
Professor Singh: Okay very good then. Now if you have any further questions class, please--as I previously plead--just raise your hand. First slide please.
Byron clicks a button and a web page is displayed Singh on a large screen, being projected from the back of the room. The page is from IWDMB.com and, in part, includes the following information.
Sidney J. Warwick
Genre: Liberal media morality tale
Storyline Synopsis: None really. Though he’s been successfully defending the Alpha Title against the dregs of humanity offered at the bottom of the WCF barrell, his one-note character and gimmick seems incapable of putting together any meaningful “story.”
Plot keywords: Consensual touching, Safe space, Crusade, Inter-sectional feminism, White Privilege, Cisgender, Pansexual
Trivia: Beat a half-retarded (cognitively disabled, sorry Sid) mongoloid who already had one swollen foot out the door for the Alpha Title. Since then, he hasn’t faced a single opponent able to tie his own shoes.
Goofs: Being included in The Ultimate Showdown with real, actual wrestlers.
Quotes: “It's the twenty-first century, and there is absolutely no reason that one man should feel ashamed to remove an object from another man's pocket...Even if it WERE a sexual act for some reason, there is absolutely no shame in...having a video of your sexual acts released to the public.”
Sidney Warwick’s secret identity has been ascertained: Jayson Price. #FreeRKelly
Mooks who liked this, also liked: Cuckold porn, barber shops that also serve overpriced “craft cocktails” and/or fair trade coffee, holding hands with their mothers in public, breastfeeding until twelve, this video:
Genre: Liberal media morality tale
Storyline Synopsis: None really. Though he’s been successfully defending the Alpha Title against the dregs of humanity offered at the bottom of the WCF barrell, his one-note character and gimmick seems incapable of putting together any meaningful “story.”
Plot keywords: Consensual touching, Safe space, Crusade, Inter-sectional feminism, White Privilege, Cisgender, Pansexual
Trivia: Beat a half-retarded (cognitively disabled, sorry Sid) mongoloid who already had one swollen foot out the door for the Alpha Title. Since then, he hasn’t faced a single opponent able to tie his own shoes.
Goofs: Being included in The Ultimate Showdown with real, actual wrestlers.
Quotes: “It's the twenty-first century, and there is absolutely no reason that one man should feel ashamed to remove an object from another man's pocket...Even if it WERE a sexual act for some reason, there is absolutely no shame in...having a video of your sexual acts released to the public.”
Sidney Warwick’s secret identity has been ascertained: Jayson Price. #FreeRKelly
Mooks who liked this, also liked: Cuckold porn, barber shops that also serve overpriced “craft cocktails” and/or fair trade coffee, holding hands with their mothers in public, breastfeeding until twelve, this video:
Professor Singh: Here we have our first and least important entrant: the self-proclaimed social justice warrior, Sidney J. Warwick.
Class, do you know that friend’s father--or perhaps it’s your father--who always has a “joke” at the ready? He’s got some reductive and embarrassing one-note, usually barely chuckle-worthy, setup and punchline ready to be fired out at a moment’s notice? Something along the god-awful lines of, “A giraffe walks into a bar and says highballs on me!” Maybe you chuckle at it but most of us--those of us with good taste--don’t even give it that. Those dad jokes, those empty, vacuous, dead-headed diatribes are our subject Sidney. Upon first pass, his schtick may seem original or even cute but now that I’ve set through putrid promo after putrid promo, I’ve realized that there’s only so many ways you can play that same boring fucking riff. Do not be mistaken class, it’s an original setup and punchline but it requires no real thought or depth; it goes no deeper than Gravedigger’s glorified career recaps he calls a “shoot.” Once we’ve all taken--or foregone if you’re a bit more refined--our initial snicker at his bowtie and boyish bravado, there’s nothing more; those snickers leave you hungry. Hungry for something resembling depth, something with some bite, some shoot...some fucking skill. Sidney J. lacks all these things. Just like he lacks the ability to see the world as it is instead of how he perceives it. Sidney J sees a world in need of him, in need of his political corrections and intersectional insights. The world--and its title--doesn’t give need his oversight, his opinion or even his presence. Sidney does not understand that the universe, and our spinning little marble in it, is a cruel and fully indifferent place. But he will understand this soon. This will be taught to young Sid not simply with my violent verbosity as I am teaching you all today but with my own two hands as I twist and contort his body in shapes more complicated than him trying to justify cannibalism via cultural relativism.
Sidney, listen. I like you. I think you’ve got some great ideals and probably enjoy a moderately overpriced fair-trade, single-source light roast; these are things I can relate to and get behind. But the problem with you is the same problem with so many in this feeble federation: you’re a fake, a phone, a fraud. Do you hear me you vinyl-searching, oil-pulling, mustache-waxing, euphemism-spewing, entitlement-tossing embarrassment of a wrestler? You’re not even this collection of tropes and stereotypes you claim to be; no you’re just another humorless homunculus hunting to add some (re: any) meaning to your existence. It’s just that you chose to dress like a ventriloquist dummy instead of an ancient warrior or a dangerous latino gang member or a dick-flashing pedophile--to name but a few of our competitors. When anyone with two braincells to rub together gives a good look at you and listens to your wilting words, it becomes painfully clear that you’re just like the rest. Your first promo here where you cheekily took “Aymz at Jaymz”--fucking kill me with that title--you expressed such disgust and disbelief that a member of the WCF roster could have committed homicide! Careful though, they always suspect the butler and you look like you were born to wait hand and foot on men superior to you. I digress. So that your big debut, you introduction to the Dub; you made it clear that murder was just a bridge too far. Now, I won’t take issue with the fact that if you’d done like four minutes of research, you’d know that the only thing placed more oversaturated with murder than the WCF is the southside of Chicago. What I take issue is in your most recent promo where you accuse the participants of the King of the Deathmatch of being cowards because they DON’T kill each other. So which is it, does murder bother you or is it the cowardice of those that don’t go through with it that disgusts you? Full disclosure: I don’t actually give two squirts of my golden goodness which it is. What I do care about is a two-bit hypocritical hack like you waltzing into the WCF with all the entitlement in the world, while decrying that same attitude. Maybe just try to listen when you talk from here on in. I know it’s painful, I’ve sat through all your promos now but this is a two time Tag Team Champion and Trios Cup Winner giving you advice, be open to the criticism. I’m sure Rupi Kuar has some fucking poem about that you can superimpose onto a bird and then frame for your gender neutral bathroom at home.
I’m going to beat you so bad at Ultimate Showdown you’re going to considering going back to being fat, sad, and alone just like you were back in high school. I can take one look at that stupid fucking haircut and know that your self-esteem is lower than American Indian graduation rates (look it up, Sid! You can’t argue stats!). I’m sure your moderately attractive barber (ooo! A female barber! How progressive!) suggested the haircut which you quickly and happily agreed. That way, it might lend some much needed believability to your nightly jackoff sessions to that four...four and a half tops. Anyways, I’m going to punish you for these transgressions, Sidney Cheesedick. Accept your abuse and come to terms with your castigation; consider it reparations for your ancestors’ misdeeds if it makes your bleeding heart feel any better. Before I leave you, I should really let you know that the WCF frowns upon moonlighting.
Or maybe that’s not you--he doesn’t appear to have your trademark stretch marks across the midsection--and there’s just somebody doing you better than you. Either way, maybe after I embarrass you out of the WCF, you can go feud with him next. It would certainly be the most interesting thing you’ve done since arriving here, you unoriginal dime store fuckchop. Next slide please.
Byron clicks again and a new image appears.
Dion Necurat
Genre: Remake of a rote, over-wrought tale erroneously thought to be a “classic”
Storyline Synopsis: From the alley to Allah! From a garbage-dweller to a God! From derelict to divinity! From boxes to Bacchus! This once-homeless, troll-faced human pube hair manages to work his way from a career-threatening bout of Chronic Butthurt and homelessness all the way to the World Title, purple suits spun from the hide of Barney himself, and probably a home, we guess. If you want to know how this saga ends, you’ll have to tune into Ultimate Showdown (HINT: unemployed, homeless, still ugly)
Plot Keywords: Bum, salty, triggered, homeless, charity, wine, cure for insomnia, undeserving shitflank.
Trivia: Has jobbed more times to the now-defunct Zero Tolerance than the rest of The Ultimate Showdown competitors...combined!
Goofs: Thinking he belongs anywhere near a main event, the fucking purple suit, his 19 minute long entrance, that time his mother didn’t get him sucked out of uterus (though this isn’t TECHNICALLY his goof, we’re still counting it against him)
Quotes: “Thank you. I promise to you, I won’t let my search for dad get in the way of my own path. I’ll hold this title and defend it to the best of my ability.”
Also, and I’m paraphrasing here: “Guys, I’m not homeless! Shut up!”
Mooks who liked this, also liked: fencing, re-enacting the Civil War, buffets, motorcycle gangs, secretly smelling their finger after scratching their ass. And this:
Genre: Remake of a rote, over-wrought tale erroneously thought to be a “classic”
Storyline Synopsis: From the alley to Allah! From a garbage-dweller to a God! From derelict to divinity! From boxes to Bacchus! This once-homeless, troll-faced human pube hair manages to work his way from a career-threatening bout of Chronic Butthurt and homelessness all the way to the World Title, purple suits spun from the hide of Barney himself, and probably a home, we guess. If you want to know how this saga ends, you’ll have to tune into Ultimate Showdown (HINT: unemployed, homeless, still ugly)
Plot Keywords: Bum, salty, triggered, homeless, charity, wine, cure for insomnia, undeserving shitflank.
Trivia: Has jobbed more times to the now-defunct Zero Tolerance than the rest of The Ultimate Showdown competitors...combined!
Goofs: Thinking he belongs anywhere near a main event, the fucking purple suit, his 19 minute long entrance, that time his mother didn’t get him sucked out of uterus (though this isn’t TECHNICALLY his goof, we’re still counting it against him)
Quotes: “Thank you. I promise to you, I won’t let my search for dad get in the way of my own path. I’ll hold this title and defend it to the best of my ability.”
SPOILERS!
{Spoiler}
His dad's going to be Dionysus, the lowercase g god, and "to the best of his ability" is to basically get his head caved in at Ultimate Shodown.
{Spoiler}
His dad's going to be Dionysus, the lowercase g god, and "to the best of his ability" is to basically get his head caved in at Ultimate Shodown.
Also, and I’m paraphrasing here: “Guys, I’m not homeless! Shut up!”
Mooks who liked this, also liked: fencing, re-enacting the Civil War, buffets, motorcycle gangs, secretly smelling their finger after scratching their ass. And this:
Professor Singh: Normally here I’d address the class as a whole, explaining why this competitor is inferior to me as a man, a speaker, and a wrestler. Fortunately for all of you, I’m so amazingly annoyed that this pretender to the throne, this FALSE god, this wailing wino has wheezed his way into my wrestling match that this will be shorter though not any sweeter. I’m going to save you, class, the diatribe and just speak directly to the derelict do-gooder himself.
Dion Neverrate, you don’t belong in this match. You don’t belong in the same breath as me and you never have. But here you are, dragging that belt through the mud and into Ultimate Showdown with you. I’m not angry with you, Dion, you did the same thing so many aspiring main eventers have done before you: wait for my associate David to choke his chance away and then take advantage. And lo and behold, he came through again! He’s so dependable! One has to wonder how the Trios finals might’ve been different without the Tag Champs at his side. I digress, back to you. I’m worried you may not understand part of your IWMDB.com entry, specifically the “Mooks who liked this” list. If it’s subtle for you--which I know it is you drunken drizzledick--let me spell it out: T-U-B. That’s you, brother jack! Every so often, Sethington J. Lerch takes a look at sales and ratings and all those cotton-candy eating little parasites in the stands and realizes that they’re not buying Everest or #BeachKrew gear. With the Strap around the waist of men the kids are predisposed to boo, Seffrey is losing cash. So he needs hero. And he’s gotta be strong, and he’s gotta be fast. Or available. Mostly he has to be available, just like you were, mook. I just listed the only bonafides you had that lead to Seth hotshotting you to that title: the kiddies love your Cuntson Gladiator bullshit and--unlike basically every face in the WCF--you were simply there. Nothing feels quite as satisfying about a “Right Place, Right Time” title reign, does it? Just ask O’neal. After he dropped his RPRT Title in his first defense, he ran off to lick his own asshole for a few months (which by the way, I believe he’s back to again). So when you drop your RPRT Title in your first defense--Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!--you can take a few months to go lick your own asshole too. Or his. I really don’t care, just don’t make me sit through any more wine-drinking or shoe-horned “god” allegories. All that is to say this: congrats on being 2017’s Thomas Bates. The talent at the top suddenly thins, Seffrey hunts for a good guy and role model to make some cash on, and there’s the smiling like house honkey that BATES you are. And now that you’re going to be stuck inside that ring getting tossed from pillar to post and back again with real competitors like the Watson of Wrestling....you’ll just fade right back into obscurity and Weight Watchers meetings like that walking cholesterol deposit. You won’t be missed.
Before we move onto the next slide, I must warn the class that he has some rather unsavory predelictions that it is my unfortunate duty to acknowledge and analyze as a member of academia. So for all your Warwick fans out there, this is your trigger warning. Next slide, please.
Ever-ready, Byron clicks and a new page replaces Dion’s on the screen
Jayson Price
Genre: NSFW
Storyline Synopsis: Jayson Price, a multi-time WCF and World Champion makes one more triumphant return alongside other greats to reform Pantheon! He goes to convoluted, dreadfully boring lengths to get a shot at the Alpha Title in order to truly be Mr. Every Title! Then he fails! Then no one from Pantheon calls him and he gets super sad about it so he basically fades back into obscurity and the masses rejoice! Then he gets to the Trios Finals! Then he fails! Then he get backdoored into Ultimate Showdown by Lerchian plot machinations! Now he’s got a shot at the World Title!
Plot Keywords: shrimpdick, once-was, desperation, attention whore, Mr. Every STD,
Trivia: This man ended his Trios promos with a real cliffhanger of a “To be continued…” only to shrug it off and ignore the set up in his next one. Fortunately, nobody really watches his promos so there were no complaints to speak of. There are rumors that he’s going to give us the conclusion that nobody is clamoring for as his Showdown promos! And that too will be aired out into the void to disappear into a the vast sea of nothingness and irrelevance as well hope Price himself does again soon.
Goofs: Wasting all of our time with that awful “Hijo de Price” shit only to job out to Jason fucking O’Neal.
Coming back at all.
Quotes: “Fuck! Why do they make it look so easy...in the movies?”
(Much like your hopes at getting into the Hall of Fame, the movies aren’t real and old irrelevant fuckwits looking for one last shot at relevance just get pummeled back to the sidelines, not World Title reigns.)
“...I'll cut off my own dick and eat it on live television.”
“...with that I <say> we toast to survival and certain victory…”</say>
(He actually said “saw” but I thought I’d correct it for him. Also, this was said in the last promo before being humbled by Everest in the Trios final. Maybe just toast to survival this time)
Mooks who liked this also liked: Secret trips to Russia, roofies, R. Kelly, looking at porn in public libraries, playing second fiddle to dudes name after monster trucks, teardrops in their Vodka, dick pics. This song:
Genre: NSFW
Storyline Synopsis: Jayson Price, a multi-time WCF and World Champion makes one more triumphant return alongside other greats to reform Pantheon! He goes to convoluted, dreadfully boring lengths to get a shot at the Alpha Title in order to truly be Mr. Every Title! Then he fails! Then no one from Pantheon calls him and he gets super sad about it so he basically fades back into obscurity and the masses rejoice! Then he gets to the Trios Finals! Then he fails! Then he get backdoored into Ultimate Showdown by Lerchian plot machinations! Now he’s got a shot at the World Title!
{More Spoilers!}
He's going to fail again!
He's going to fail again!
Plot Keywords: shrimpdick, once-was, desperation, attention whore, Mr. Every STD,
Trivia: This man ended his Trios promos with a real cliffhanger of a “To be continued…” only to shrug it off and ignore the set up in his next one. Fortunately, nobody really watches his promos so there were no complaints to speak of. There are rumors that he’s going to give us the conclusion that nobody is clamoring for as his Showdown promos! And that too will be aired out into the void to disappear into a the vast sea of nothingness and irrelevance as well hope Price himself does again soon.
Goofs: Wasting all of our time with that awful “Hijo de Price” shit only to job out to Jason fucking O’Neal.
Coming back at all.
Quotes: “Fuck! Why do they make it look so easy...in the movies?”
(Much like your hopes at getting into the Hall of Fame, the movies aren’t real and old irrelevant fuckwits looking for one last shot at relevance just get pummeled back to the sidelines, not World Title reigns.)
“...I'll cut off my own dick and eat it on live television.”
“...with that I <say> we toast to survival and certain victory…”</say>
(He actually said “saw” but I thought I’d correct it for him. Also, this was said in the last promo before being humbled by Everest in the Trios final. Maybe just toast to survival this time)
Mooks who liked this also liked: Secret trips to Russia, roofies, R. Kelly, looking at porn in public libraries, playing second fiddle to dudes name after monster trucks, teardrops in their Vodka, dick pics. This song:
Professor Singh: Here class, we have a more recent snapshot of a man who is a WCF Veteran, considered a “classic” by many, and a potential Hall of Famer by probably just himself and his mother. No wait, scratch that his mother was a junkie and is probably dead by now or something. So he’s probably the only one pretending he deserves to be in The Hall of Fame. Here, class, we have a classic example of the intrepid anti-hero whose only apparent cause or purpose to exist is to desperately seek the approval he never got as a chubby, unhugged, likely-mulletted, fully unloved young buck. Just to be clarify, class, he was never a Young Buck; they move merchandise and people care about them. If you get confused about whether or not Jayson Price was ever a Young Buck just think, “Hmmm...Has he done a damn thing that anybody gave two shits about in the recent past?” and when that answer is no, then you can remember that he was not a part of that team.
Anyways, Jayson has a long and storied career in the WCF. A career to be proud of, for certain. What should not be a source of pride, class, is the embarrassing way a should-be legend carries himself. Instead of being a locker room leader, instead of helping show the ropes to any and all rookie beeyotches, instead of even just leading by example and showing up week in and week in to put proper work in, he comes crawling, begging, PLEADING for approval, for recognition, for relevance. His promos all end with that sad laundry list of achievements here in the WCF and a “Put Jayson Price in the HOF” tag. It’s mortifying not just for him but for all of us, this is a man that gets called a legend in the WCF? This is how legends carry themselves? Jayson Price is the thirstiest man in the world to not slide into your DMs, gentleladies. Unless you’re a voter for the Hall of Fame, then I’m sure he’s DMed each and every one of you on the daily. Just block him, he’ll be fine.
If only it were so easy for the rest of us to just make you disappear, MC Pee Pants. That’s all any of us want from you: just dis-a-fucking-ppear. Just like you did right after you jobbed to O’Neal (who I beat). Just like you did after your man-crush-Monday Corey Black didn’t call you. Just like you should’ve after getting humbled at Trios. Leading up to that your fated fall that evening, I remember you having some choice words for me. Something about what a choke artist I am? And denigrating me for failing to capture the World Title in consecutive months? You know, just the same broken-record bullshit every other mook lays at the feet of the Golden God. Did you watch the tape? Did you see the match? Did you notice that until Captain Sackoshit hopped up on the apron, I had the match well in hand? Did you see that I took Joey Flash as close to his limits as anyone here has in a long time? I hate this. I hate making the case that even in a loss, I gained credibility. But that’s where your weak accusations and utter lack of creativity have landed me. Price, you’re not fit for this anymore. You were barely fit for it in the first place. Please, just eat the worm at the bottom of the bottle and die of alcohol poisoning already. There isn’t another World Title reign for you, there isn’t another run at the Main Event, there isn’t ANYTHING for you here any more. Even your paleolithic partner, Gravedigger, has been more active and present than you. This “middle of the road guy” is going to give you one more Fifteen Minutes of Fame at Showdown but after that, just let this whole thing go before it gets any more embarrassing.
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July 24th. Eye of Everest. Cont'd
Taylor Wright enters the room, sunglasses on inside, not sure why he’s been summoned but ever-responsive all the same.
Wright: What’s up, boss?
Sanchez: Ole Stevie Boy here has a question for you.
Singh: Yeah, why the hell are you wearing those sunglasses indoors?
Wright: You called me in here to ask me that?
Singh: Well, no. I mean, how would I possibly have known you were wearing those sunglasses before you got called in here?
Wright: There are cameras in literally every inch of this place.
That much was true. Taylor was a bit more experienced and therefore more keenly aware of being watched by The Mayor than Singh. As he said it, Wright sauntered towards the decanter and coiled his hand around it to pour himself a matching glass to the other two The Mayor slaps his hand away as you would a child’s.
Sanchez: And never forget it, Wright. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have other business that requires my immediate attention. Taylor will be happy to answer any and all questions you might have regarding fatherhood, Steven.
With that, Sanchez made his exit swiftly, willfully ignoring the verbal protestation of his associate.
Singh: Actually Dave, I had a few--
The door slams shut behind him. Taylor Wright was even unhappier than David Sanchez to hear that the topic dujour was “fatherhood” but he lacked the proper resolution and means to escape the situation. Instead, he was trapped in here with a man he considered an acquaintance at best--and an antagonist at worst--to discuss something he’d spent most of his time recently trying to forget. Seeing his cohort’s discontent--and having no more use for it himself since asking Wright the same questions was far less intimidating than Sanchez--Singh passed his glass of scotch across to Wright who took it with a grateful nod.
Singh: You had a kid too?
Wright: Have. Or maybe had. Who the fucks knows.
He takes another sip.
Singh: Well I mean, you. You should probably know. One’s plural, one’s past tense.
Wright: Oh really? Thanks for that. Anyways, I HAD a daughter but I don’t HAVE her any more.
Jesus, did Sanchez do this guy’s family too?
Singh: I’m sorry.
Wright: Don’t be sorry, she’s in a better place.
Singh: You mean like heaven? You’re telling me you’re a street-level heroin dealer slash Eric Clapton “Tears In Heaven” style true believer?
Wright: What? No. Not like that. She’s literally in a better place. Sanchez had a spot for me here in Chicago to get my daughter and I off the streets in Brooklyn.
Singh: Sanchez? You’re talking about Mayor Dave here, right? Because this does not sound like Mayor Dave.
Wright: Well he needed me as a full-time foot soldier.
Singh: A bitch.
Wright: Semantics. Either way, he needed me around the clock so it wasn’t exactly like I could take proper care of the kid and her mom was...out of the picture. So he set her to be adopted by this rich family. But I had to leave her there, with them, and never look back.
Wright gulps the rest of the scotch and stands up to pour himself more. As his hand touches the decanter the voice of Sanchez’ secretary blares over communications system.
Secretary: Mr. Sanchez said you’re not to touch the scotch, Mr. Wright. Mr. Singh, help yourself if you’d like some more.
Wright half-drops the empty highball glass down onto the desk with a thud.
Singh (ummmm, singing): “I must be strong….and carry on…’Cause I know….I don’t belong....here in Brooklyn.”
Wright: Fuck off, you wanted some advice or some empathy or something you’re singing me Eric fucking Clapton?
Singh: Hey man, there’s nothing wrong with ole Slowhand.
Wright: Whatever. So what the fuck do you want?
Singh: Do you regret it? I mean, not just leaving her. But having her? Any of it?
Wright: I can’t regret leaving her. I know it’s what was best for her. And having her? Not on your goddamn life. She might be the only thing worthwhile I’ve done with my entire life. It changes you, man. Don’t let anybody tell you any different. It’s fucking biological; there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect her, to give her what’s best. That’s why I left her. I wasn’t what was best, no matter how hard I tried.
Singh: So...I should have the kid but then leave it? Because that’s the stupidest advice I’ve eve--
Wright: Jesus fucking Christ, guy, I don’t know. None of us know. I just know I loved her….love her. I love her and she made me a better man. And it’s only because I was a better man that I could leave her in that better place and not selfishly keep her with me.
Singh: Tears In Heaven, man.
Wright: Sure, whatever. You’re not me, I’m not you. You seem to have enough cash to take care of the kid and whatever it might need. You’ve got a place to stay and a career and if your wife or whatever has her shit together then maybe the kid will be alright.
Singh: Maybe.
Wright: Maybe.
********************************************
Back to the classroom where Professor Singh sips from a glass of water and Byron has put up the next webpage but class is unexpectedly interrupted by a bell. Professor Professor Singh: Okay class, we'll have a minor intermission and pick this back up shortly.