Post by David Alastair on Jan 19, 2007 17:34:30 GMT -5
"Strike first, strike hard, and show no mercy..."
The focus goes from complete darkness to reveal a thinking David Alastair, seated in front of a WCF logo. His eyebrows are hung slightly above his violet eyes as a hand covers his mouth. He blinks a few times, before letting his hand drop and begins to speak.
"I know for sure that Mr. Howell uses that as his signature quote. However, he didn't quite show that on last weeks' Sunday Slam. Otherwise, he would've won his team the match. And that petty stunt he pulled off last week? Wah-wah, David Alastair, you're a quiter, wah-wah. Is that all you can say?"
David rolls his eyes and continues.
"And even worse, do you know how to talk in any language other than caveman? Sorry, the only person that can pull the ole "X-box broke, me friend fix" gimmick is a friend of mine. And he occasionally have seizures. So are you like my friend, and in dire need of some medication for your speech impediment...be sure to contact your physician. Like, right now."
David chuckles a bit at his own comment. He then shakes it off and smirks.
"Also, you like to run your mouth. You like to guarantee yourself a win at WCF One and a shot at the Television title against either Biggs or that rich piece of shit, Thunder. I hate to rain on your parade, pal, but that isn't happening. Because you're talentless. You may be powerful and pull off superkicks left and right, but you're nowhere near my level nor Mr. Jones' level. When you really think about it, it will come down to the Lawnmower Love Machine and yours truly at One."
Alastair's eyes shift to a respective corner, pondering a bit. He then shrugs his shoulders and centers his eyes back to where they were.
"But wait a minute, if David Alastair..."
He points to himself and nods.
"Moi, now if I get that title shot at One... that means that I stay, right? Possibly. Not truly concrete, but it's not impossible either. Far from impossible. Far from inprobable. Pretty damn close to actualization, if you're asking me."
The New Messiah then narrows his eyes, seemingly piercing a hole through the screen.
"And when I get that win at One, I'll have no choice but to stay because of the number one contendership. That's ironic, isn't it? A promotion that you're dying to get out of that wants to keep you around for its own amusement...by slapping you in a contendership match. For me, however, it makes me feel like I'm their puppet to play around with."
David lets out a breath and shakes his head.
"Whatever. And contrary to what all of you are thinking... WCF is a tool. A pretty shitty tool. Next week, I'll get blindsided by a million questions asking why I'm turning into this asshole. My answer: I don't give a shit anymore. I truly don't. Which makes me a lone wolf of sort with the boys in the back, but like I said just a half-minute ago...whatever. Now, get the hell away from me...I'm done with you."
With this demand, the camera shuts off.
The focus goes from complete darkness to reveal a thinking David Alastair, seated in front of a WCF logo. His eyebrows are hung slightly above his violet eyes as a hand covers his mouth. He blinks a few times, before letting his hand drop and begins to speak.
"I know for sure that Mr. Howell uses that as his signature quote. However, he didn't quite show that on last weeks' Sunday Slam. Otherwise, he would've won his team the match. And that petty stunt he pulled off last week? Wah-wah, David Alastair, you're a quiter, wah-wah. Is that all you can say?"
David rolls his eyes and continues.
"And even worse, do you know how to talk in any language other than caveman? Sorry, the only person that can pull the ole "X-box broke, me friend fix" gimmick is a friend of mine. And he occasionally have seizures. So are you like my friend, and in dire need of some medication for your speech impediment...be sure to contact your physician. Like, right now."
David chuckles a bit at his own comment. He then shakes it off and smirks.
"Also, you like to run your mouth. You like to guarantee yourself a win at WCF One and a shot at the Television title against either Biggs or that rich piece of shit, Thunder. I hate to rain on your parade, pal, but that isn't happening. Because you're talentless. You may be powerful and pull off superkicks left and right, but you're nowhere near my level nor Mr. Jones' level. When you really think about it, it will come down to the Lawnmower Love Machine and yours truly at One."
Alastair's eyes shift to a respective corner, pondering a bit. He then shrugs his shoulders and centers his eyes back to where they were.
"But wait a minute, if David Alastair..."
He points to himself and nods.
"Moi, now if I get that title shot at One... that means that I stay, right? Possibly. Not truly concrete, but it's not impossible either. Far from impossible. Far from inprobable. Pretty damn close to actualization, if you're asking me."
The New Messiah then narrows his eyes, seemingly piercing a hole through the screen.
"And when I get that win at One, I'll have no choice but to stay because of the number one contendership. That's ironic, isn't it? A promotion that you're dying to get out of that wants to keep you around for its own amusement...by slapping you in a contendership match. For me, however, it makes me feel like I'm their puppet to play around with."
David lets out a breath and shakes his head.
"Whatever. And contrary to what all of you are thinking... WCF is a tool. A pretty shitty tool. Next week, I'll get blindsided by a million questions asking why I'm turning into this asshole. My answer: I don't give a shit anymore. I truly don't. Which makes me a lone wolf of sort with the boys in the back, but like I said just a half-minute ago...whatever. Now, get the hell away from me...I'm done with you."
With this demand, the camera shuts off.
