Post by Jahani al-Reb on Sept 27, 2014 9:09:27 GMT -5
The scene opens on a lavish hotel suite, panning across a disaster of a bedroom. Two women flank a void of bunched-up satin sheets, drowsing in the quiet crepuscule of early morning. Clothes are strewn all over the floor and the furniture in haphazard fashion. With only a towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water clinging still to short, dark hair, Jahani al-Reb stands at the floor-to-ceiling window. He clutches a steaming demitasse in one hand, staring out over the vast Arizona desert.
Affecting to notice the camera for the first time, Jahani shrugs into a silk robe and drops onto a settee, an easy, satisfied smile on his face. For just a moment, there is no hostility, no venom. The shift is subtle. A sip of dark Turkish coffee, and a hardness creeps into his eyes. Another, and his mouth compresses into a tight line. Setting his cup down, al-Reb stares into the camera intently.
Jahani: In twenty-four hours, the day of WAR dawns. This is a first for me. A first for many. Like that sack of camel dung, Douche Murdock. Battles royal may be common enough, but WCF's WAR, they tell me, is different. Even a man well experienced can find himself at an unexpected disadvantage. A time when friends become foes, when a brother can be a bitter enemy. There are reasons not to socialize, not the least of which is that all these others are infidels.
Some of these alleged "competitors" are no more than filler; a few more warm bodies to make the match look more impressive. Persons like this Tyler Walker, who seems to believe himself a ...werewolf? Really? And his former partner, Biohazard. I understand Mr. Hazard was, at one point, less a joke and more a true contender. Is that what happens? A natural regression from potential superstar to washed-up never-was?
Of course not. This WAR is a means of separating the wheat from the chaff -- and there is so much chaff. Ultimate Destroyer being a prime example. I've yet to see him destroy anything, save for his own credibility. And while we're on the subject of chaff... it sounds an awful lot like the word "chav", which is slang in old Blighty for a person -- usually a female -- of low breeding and class. Such description fits that blue-haired harpy Chelsea Armstrong like a glove.
The Baghdadi Mack is obliged to cease his prattling briefly, as one of the ladies rouses from his bed and walks swiftly to the bathroom. In seconds, the sound of running water penetrates the closed door.
Jahani: Ah, but there are much bigger concerns. Armstrong and her little entourage... No, wait. Honestly, how can any of you call yourselves men? Alex Richards is one of the largest human beings I've ever laid eyes on; Chase Michaels is a supposed outlaw-biker-tough guy; and Jay Omega -- the only person as out of touch with reality as he, is that redneck Johnny Reb. And all three of you take your orders from a woman? What sort of man is that? Have you no pride? No masculinity? No.... figs?
To emphasize his meaning, he points to his crotch. Then he scoffs.
Jahani: People like you four are the reason this country is a cultural wasteland.
Another sip from his cup, and Jahani makes a face at the taste of cold coffee. Hastily, he sets it down again.
Jahani: Most of you people ignore me. Cormack MacNeill, for instance, but that might be simply due to the fact that you're too busy stuffing your pig face with haggis. Or Grayson Pierce, the "Livewire" -- that noise you make, boy... you call that music? You have all the personality of a goat's backside and all the wrestling talent of a piece of used bubble gum. Um... Jackal! Or Coyote...which was it? Oh... right. Hyena.
Here, Jahani feigns an exaggerated yawn.
Jahani: Next! Let's see.... Bryan Worthy? Not worthy. Of my time, that is. Daniel Booker... who's that? Justin Cash, Shawn Scholes, Louis Bartkowski... should I recognize any of those names? It hardly matters. Any of you swine get in my way, and you will be eliminated. It is, indeed, just that simple.
Which brings me to our illustrious veterans. I'm fairly certain "veteran" is a euphamism for "should have retired years ago." Bobby Cairo being the prime example of this. Here, we have a man who would be better off as a spokesman for Geritol. Corey Black should be living in a retirement community for aging headbangers, playing golf with Alice Cooper until supper time at four p.m. -- not stepping into the ring with men half his age and in possession of twice his talent. Gravedigger? Should have dug his own long ago.
The Baghdadi Mack gives the camera a smug little smile, obviously pleased with what he takes to be his own cleverness.
Jahani: I'm twice the man of any -- no, all -- of these three, combined. Twice the skill, twice the stamina.... but infinitely more of a man where it truly counts.
Yet none of you infidels will give me the time of day. You all pretend to think so little of me, but not a single man among you -- save for one -- has had the figs to step up to me. Not one of you has had the courage, the fortitude, to find me; to take me up on my challenge. And now?
The smirk cements itself on his face.
Jahani: Now you have no choice. Tomorrow night, when I am called, I will be more than adequately prepared. First in, or last -- anywhere in between -- it won't matter. I am chosen by Allah to make a statement here. To show the world what faith and determination can do. To demonstrate my own prowess, among all these so-called superstars, who lack even the basic self-respect to answer my call.... let alone any respect for me, personally.
But your respect isn't what I need. I couldn't care less for your ignorant opinions. And by the time tomorrow night draws to its close, it won't matter anyway. I will have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am supreme among wrestlers. It is the will of Allah that I leave Sunday night with that title shot secured. And after that, it is only a matter of time before Jahani al-Reb becomes the WCF World Champion.
Allahu ackbar.
Jahani continues smirking as the scene fades out.
Affecting to notice the camera for the first time, Jahani shrugs into a silk robe and drops onto a settee, an easy, satisfied smile on his face. For just a moment, there is no hostility, no venom. The shift is subtle. A sip of dark Turkish coffee, and a hardness creeps into his eyes. Another, and his mouth compresses into a tight line. Setting his cup down, al-Reb stares into the camera intently.
Jahani: In twenty-four hours, the day of WAR dawns. This is a first for me. A first for many. Like that sack of camel dung, Douche Murdock. Battles royal may be common enough, but WCF's WAR, they tell me, is different. Even a man well experienced can find himself at an unexpected disadvantage. A time when friends become foes, when a brother can be a bitter enemy. There are reasons not to socialize, not the least of which is that all these others are infidels.
Some of these alleged "competitors" are no more than filler; a few more warm bodies to make the match look more impressive. Persons like this Tyler Walker, who seems to believe himself a ...werewolf? Really? And his former partner, Biohazard. I understand Mr. Hazard was, at one point, less a joke and more a true contender. Is that what happens? A natural regression from potential superstar to washed-up never-was?
Of course not. This WAR is a means of separating the wheat from the chaff -- and there is so much chaff. Ultimate Destroyer being a prime example. I've yet to see him destroy anything, save for his own credibility. And while we're on the subject of chaff... it sounds an awful lot like the word "chav", which is slang in old Blighty for a person -- usually a female -- of low breeding and class. Such description fits that blue-haired harpy Chelsea Armstrong like a glove.
The Baghdadi Mack is obliged to cease his prattling briefly, as one of the ladies rouses from his bed and walks swiftly to the bathroom. In seconds, the sound of running water penetrates the closed door.
Jahani: Ah, but there are much bigger concerns. Armstrong and her little entourage... No, wait. Honestly, how can any of you call yourselves men? Alex Richards is one of the largest human beings I've ever laid eyes on; Chase Michaels is a supposed outlaw-biker-tough guy; and Jay Omega -- the only person as out of touch with reality as he, is that redneck Johnny Reb. And all three of you take your orders from a woman? What sort of man is that? Have you no pride? No masculinity? No.... figs?
To emphasize his meaning, he points to his crotch. Then he scoffs.
Jahani: People like you four are the reason this country is a cultural wasteland.
Another sip from his cup, and Jahani makes a face at the taste of cold coffee. Hastily, he sets it down again.
Jahani: Most of you people ignore me. Cormack MacNeill, for instance, but that might be simply due to the fact that you're too busy stuffing your pig face with haggis. Or Grayson Pierce, the "Livewire" -- that noise you make, boy... you call that music? You have all the personality of a goat's backside and all the wrestling talent of a piece of used bubble gum. Um... Jackal! Or Coyote...which was it? Oh... right. Hyena.
Here, Jahani feigns an exaggerated yawn.
Jahani: Next! Let's see.... Bryan Worthy? Not worthy. Of my time, that is. Daniel Booker... who's that? Justin Cash, Shawn Scholes, Louis Bartkowski... should I recognize any of those names? It hardly matters. Any of you swine get in my way, and you will be eliminated. It is, indeed, just that simple.
Which brings me to our illustrious veterans. I'm fairly certain "veteran" is a euphamism for "should have retired years ago." Bobby Cairo being the prime example of this. Here, we have a man who would be better off as a spokesman for Geritol. Corey Black should be living in a retirement community for aging headbangers, playing golf with Alice Cooper until supper time at four p.m. -- not stepping into the ring with men half his age and in possession of twice his talent. Gravedigger? Should have dug his own long ago.
The Baghdadi Mack gives the camera a smug little smile, obviously pleased with what he takes to be his own cleverness.
Jahani: I'm twice the man of any -- no, all -- of these three, combined. Twice the skill, twice the stamina.... but infinitely more of a man where it truly counts.
Yet none of you infidels will give me the time of day. You all pretend to think so little of me, but not a single man among you -- save for one -- has had the figs to step up to me. Not one of you has had the courage, the fortitude, to find me; to take me up on my challenge. And now?
The smirk cements itself on his face.
Jahani: Now you have no choice. Tomorrow night, when I am called, I will be more than adequately prepared. First in, or last -- anywhere in between -- it won't matter. I am chosen by Allah to make a statement here. To show the world what faith and determination can do. To demonstrate my own prowess, among all these so-called superstars, who lack even the basic self-respect to answer my call.... let alone any respect for me, personally.
But your respect isn't what I need. I couldn't care less for your ignorant opinions. And by the time tomorrow night draws to its close, it won't matter anyway. I will have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am supreme among wrestlers. It is the will of Allah that I leave Sunday night with that title shot secured. And after that, it is only a matter of time before Jahani al-Reb becomes the WCF World Champion.
Allahu ackbar.
Jahani continues smirking as the scene fades out.
