Post by Lawnmower Jones on Mar 18, 2007 14:03:16 GMT -5
War. It's what everyone calls the most brutal match in the WCF. Undoubtedly, it is. Twenty competitors all trying to take one another's head off just to have a shot, that's right a shot, at the world title. Nothing is guranteed in this sport. One day you're on top, the next you fall victim to a chair shot in the head and are out for months with a concussion. Nothing is the same. Of course, that sudden drop has an opposite. Anyone can take out the best with a vicous chair drop and suddenly be on top-if only to be destroyed.
War. It has the makings for greatness. With more drama than a Spanish soap opera, viewers will tune in and watch these helpless twenty try to show the management what they have. And just like the NCAA tournament, bets are being made on who comes out on top. Will it be the fan favorite, who is on the cusp of earning his shot at greatness? Or will it be the bad guy, sneaking the win and ruining countless's dreams. Could it be the unproven rookie, taking a shortcut and leaping into greatness? Or will it be the wily veteran, looking to regain his once promising form?
War. Whoever comes out on top, he is sure to leave a legend. Twenty men will enter that WCF ring, and only one man will win a title shot. It is, however, certain that twenty men will leave tougher-that is, if they survive.
(The scene opens with Lawnmower Jones wearing his usual overalls and white wife beater. He is walking on a baren and desolate field, the grass brown and lifeless. It's a foggy day in this unknown location, with the fog rising a few inches above the ground and being visible. Jones has his hands in his pockets and is looking up into the sky, obviously pondering something.)
LJ VO: Obviously, there's more important things in me mind than this War match. Obviously, me heart is going out to Lonnie, who is still in the ICU with a leakage in fluids. Obviously, War will be me time and me way of relieving the pain I feel for her. Obviously, I will destroy and...destroy as many of these little pricks I can en route to the win.
(Lawnmower Jones takes out a match book. He holds it up against the sky, against the foggy sky for a moment.)
LJ VO: Throughout this War week, these people are talking out of their arses about what they're going to do, how they're going to win and become the champion, or how they've discovered their true selves. Bull shit. Nobody is ready. Nobody is ready for a war. Not Creeping Death, who seems to be having a war with his brain. Not Danny Vice, who seems to be having a war with his creativity. Not JJ Biggs, who seems to be having a war with his height. Not Skyler Striker, who seems to be having a war with his mind. Not Biohazard, who seems to be having a war with his green ooze and shopkeep. Not Mike Ragnal, who seems to be having a war with his confidence. Not Bobby Cairo, who is having a war with me.
(Lawnmower Jones crouches down and strikes the match, igniting it. He lights the dead grass on fire, and stands back.)
LJ VO: But me, I'm ready for ye war. I don't live the life of luxury. I don't have millions of dollars. I don't have fourty beautiful women waiting for me on call. I don't have a large corporation to call my own. But what I do have is balls, which is a lot more than any of these arses have. I'll walk into War, give 100 percent, give a beating to some helpless pricks. And I'll do it right. It'll be an art. I am to winning as water is to fish. I am to fighting as honey is to bee's. I am to the WCF as words are to Jack of Blades. Without me, the WCF wouldn't have a resident joke. There would be no life. It would be an uptight bunch of pricks in suits fighting for a meaningless plate of gold. But what people can't stand is that I'm supposed to be some jobber, that I'm too goofy to be anything. And when they step into the ring with me, they get a reality check.
(The fire begins to spread across the desolate area. Rain begins to fall as the fire grows larger, making it an unusual scene.)
LJ VO: Me opponents often find themselves searching for words and tongue tied on my appearence and style: they don't balance. But I make them balance. And for the few that do often find the right words to say, it's the same old thing. "You sick lawnmower fucking jerkoff." Come on, gentlemen. I'm sure some of you have more to say than that. Or is that all you can really think of? Regardless, Lawnmower Jones is the most unique person the WCF has to offer, and after tonight, when I win the War match and go on to win the world title, I'll cement my legacy as the best God damn wrestler the WCF has to offer: the total package. Skills. Personality. Achievements. And there's not a damn thing anyone of you can do about it.
(Lawnmower Jones begins walking off of the field and over to a small group of farmers, wearing overalls and straw hats. There can only be five of them, an older couple, two teens and a young boy.
Older Man: So?
LJ: You should've called me sooner. Let it burn and I'll resaud it early next week. Then I'll make the the best damn lawn ever.
(The scene fades to black.)
War. It has the makings for greatness. With more drama than a Spanish soap opera, viewers will tune in and watch these helpless twenty try to show the management what they have. And just like the NCAA tournament, bets are being made on who comes out on top. Will it be the fan favorite, who is on the cusp of earning his shot at greatness? Or will it be the bad guy, sneaking the win and ruining countless's dreams. Could it be the unproven rookie, taking a shortcut and leaping into greatness? Or will it be the wily veteran, looking to regain his once promising form?
War. Whoever comes out on top, he is sure to leave a legend. Twenty men will enter that WCF ring, and only one man will win a title shot. It is, however, certain that twenty men will leave tougher-that is, if they survive.
(The scene opens with Lawnmower Jones wearing his usual overalls and white wife beater. He is walking on a baren and desolate field, the grass brown and lifeless. It's a foggy day in this unknown location, with the fog rising a few inches above the ground and being visible. Jones has his hands in his pockets and is looking up into the sky, obviously pondering something.)
LJ VO: Obviously, there's more important things in me mind than this War match. Obviously, me heart is going out to Lonnie, who is still in the ICU with a leakage in fluids. Obviously, War will be me time and me way of relieving the pain I feel for her. Obviously, I will destroy and...destroy as many of these little pricks I can en route to the win.
(Lawnmower Jones takes out a match book. He holds it up against the sky, against the foggy sky for a moment.)
LJ VO: Throughout this War week, these people are talking out of their arses about what they're going to do, how they're going to win and become the champion, or how they've discovered their true selves. Bull shit. Nobody is ready. Nobody is ready for a war. Not Creeping Death, who seems to be having a war with his brain. Not Danny Vice, who seems to be having a war with his creativity. Not JJ Biggs, who seems to be having a war with his height. Not Skyler Striker, who seems to be having a war with his mind. Not Biohazard, who seems to be having a war with his green ooze and shopkeep. Not Mike Ragnal, who seems to be having a war with his confidence. Not Bobby Cairo, who is having a war with me.
(Lawnmower Jones crouches down and strikes the match, igniting it. He lights the dead grass on fire, and stands back.)
LJ VO: But me, I'm ready for ye war. I don't live the life of luxury. I don't have millions of dollars. I don't have fourty beautiful women waiting for me on call. I don't have a large corporation to call my own. But what I do have is balls, which is a lot more than any of these arses have. I'll walk into War, give 100 percent, give a beating to some helpless pricks. And I'll do it right. It'll be an art. I am to winning as water is to fish. I am to fighting as honey is to bee's. I am to the WCF as words are to Jack of Blades. Without me, the WCF wouldn't have a resident joke. There would be no life. It would be an uptight bunch of pricks in suits fighting for a meaningless plate of gold. But what people can't stand is that I'm supposed to be some jobber, that I'm too goofy to be anything. And when they step into the ring with me, they get a reality check.
(The fire begins to spread across the desolate area. Rain begins to fall as the fire grows larger, making it an unusual scene.)
LJ VO: Me opponents often find themselves searching for words and tongue tied on my appearence and style: they don't balance. But I make them balance. And for the few that do often find the right words to say, it's the same old thing. "You sick lawnmower fucking jerkoff." Come on, gentlemen. I'm sure some of you have more to say than that. Or is that all you can really think of? Regardless, Lawnmower Jones is the most unique person the WCF has to offer, and after tonight, when I win the War match and go on to win the world title, I'll cement my legacy as the best God damn wrestler the WCF has to offer: the total package. Skills. Personality. Achievements. And there's not a damn thing anyone of you can do about it.
(Lawnmower Jones begins walking off of the field and over to a small group of farmers, wearing overalls and straw hats. There can only be five of them, an older couple, two teens and a young boy.
Older Man: So?
LJ: You should've called me sooner. Let it burn and I'll resaud it early next week. Then I'll make the the best damn lawn ever.
(The scene fades to black.)
