Post by Raymond Hatcher on Dec 13, 2015 16:27:52 GMT -5
***The scene opens on a close-up of a beautifully adorned Christmas tree. It is decked out in all the furnishings: multicolored bulbs blinking to the beat of “Santa Is Coming To Town”; there’s garland and balls; tinsel and all manner of shaped ornaments. It’s truly a splendid sight topped by a pretty little angel adorned in white. It’s enough to bring out the holiday cheer in even the most cynical of the bunch, bringing back those memories of sitting there with your family as you roast marshmallows over the fire and sing carols. It’s a joyous spectacle, and as the camera pulls back a wondrous mantle is revealed, the stockings hung to it with care over a roaring fire. As our scene stretches out even further it’s becoming apparent where exactly we are. The room is becoming more familiar with each inch of frame adding to the lens, it’s a place that was completely in shambles last time we saw it. The horror of a mad man’s crazed induced frenzy being replaced by winsome glory of festive delight. It’s Raymond Hatcher’s home, or one of them at least. It’s soon revealed the man himself sitting back in a lounge chair with what looks to be eggnog in hand, you better believe it’s more than likely spiked with some fresh brandy. Hatcher is donning a Christmas themed robe: red with some green trim, the ensemble is complete with a nice little red and white Santa hat. Hatcher takes a slow swig from his glass of nog and then carefully wipes his mouth before addressing the camera.***
Hatcher: So in the commemoration of this glorious time of year I thought we’d make a little detour from the story of how I survived the rainforest and became a God amongst men. There’s really no time of year quite as much as this. Eggnog and fruit cake, gingerbread houses and toy soldiers. It’s a time where people are willing to dole out millions of dollars to give others in this first world oasis more garbage they don’t need. It’s quite grand to see people trample over each other in stores in order to get that ‘it’ item so they can further coddle their empty headed children. It’s been a wonderful season this year, even despite the lack of snow pretty much everywhere, I guess I need to go to Alaska to find that shit because most of this country hasn’t seen a lick of it. Actually scratch that whole trip to Alaska, I don’t need to play with the rage of mother nature. They are fixing to be hit by a big storm, it’s rolling through ready to decimate every single thing in its path. This is much like what the Outlaw Gentlemen are fixing to do at One.
This federation’s idea of ringing in the holidays is by shoving four teams into a match that will involve ladders, tables and chairs. Thanks, Seth, what a Christmas treat, I mean that with all sincerity. There’s nothing I could imagine that could bring me more joy than reigning in the holiday season by taking tables, ladders and chairs…o my…to my would-be competition. Seriously this is like coming down on Christmas morning and seeing a Ferrari tucked under the tree, I guess it would have to be a pretty damn big tree, but I digress.
Let’s talk about the nice Christmas present I have all wrapped up with a pretty bow on top just waiting for me at Slam. That pretty present comes with a bit of bad news. A Grinch if you will, a man simply here in the WCF to spread nothing, but ill-will and bad tidings. As if having a Mr. Bad News in the eighties-early nineties and having a present day one running around in that other “universe” wasn’t enough, now we have to deal with one right at home in our very own WCF. Hey, buddy, you’re not clever or original just cheap mockery. What’s new? Not you, buddy. So as the season for the gift giving continues on, I’ve got a little gift for you, Mr. Benson, a word of advice that is. See, lucky for you I get to be your not-so-secretive Santa this year, my friend. That word of advice I have for you it’s…run!
You literally must be out of your mind if you think stepping into a ring with me Sunday is a good idea. Did you see what I did to Spencer Adams last time I graced the squared circled? If you haven’t, please…please, do yourself a favor, go back and watch the tape. I destroyed Spencer Adams, someone who is a better competitor in his little emo-boy dreams than you could ever hope to be even if you were hopped up on the cool refreshing and extreme taste of Powerthirst!
***Hatcher takes a moment to lift up a can of Powerthirst!***
Hatcher: Available at wherever in the Hell you buy drinks.
***Hatcher sits the can down and continues on like he didn’t just pitch us an energy drink.***
Hatcher: What’s your deal here anyway, Mr. Bad News? O’ is it okay if I call you Bad News or would you prefer Mr. Benson? Wait, I don’t give a shit, because the only thing they’ll be calling you after Slam is dead. Yeah, you heard me right, and trust me when I say you’re getting off easy because I’m in such a festive and giving mood. Hell, I could leave you paralyzed being hand-fed by fugly, old ladies in some permanent care facility until the day you eventually croaked. The obituary will say you died of complications due to stepping in the ring with a fucking monster. Yeah, that monster is me, if I can head a hoard of pre-history savages into battle against the might of corporate interest than I can handle some pudgy little tough-guy wannabe.
Bad News, that’s something you’re probably never saying to a waitress as you order every damn thing off the menu. Of course the bad news for her is she’s stuck watching you shove that mountain of dietary excess down your fat face. Some of my detractors might call me out for fat shaming, and good, because you’re damn right I’m fat shaming. I tell ya’ it’s a real shame for me that I have to climb in the thing with that fat tub of lard. When you’re five-ten, two hundred twenty pounds in this business it means you’re lazy and stupid. No wonder you love to brawl, I doubt your body can do much more than stomp and punch, I’m sure even that is pretty taxing in itself.
I’m sure you think you can hit pretty hard, huh, Mr. Benson. I’m sure you think you’re gonna go out there this Sunday and beat me around the ring. Well, your punch might be strong, but my European uppercut is stronger. You probably think that mean old stomp of yours is pretty brutal, well my knee drop is much worse. Not to paraphrase a line from a pretty terrible song, but anything you can do, my boy, I can do better.
Let me ask you something, Mr. Benson, what’s your favorite color? Mine, well, in line with the holiday season, I like red, no scratch that, I love red. The color your face will be when I’m finished dropping you on your damn head with my Brain Buster. The crimson mask I’ll leave you with obscuring your features will be my big holiday gift to everyone around here, the less anyone has to see of your face the better.
I guess because you’re from the ghetto you fancy yourself some sort of tough guy, huh? Simply being from the ghetto doesn’t make you tough, I mean does Flava Flav look tough. Hell no, but I’d still rather have him by my side in a fight, he’s so damn crazy looking it might actually be enough to ward off anyone would-be attacker. The only thing your ugly mug would be good for is scaring off the ladies. I guess that’s a warm thought for the whole world, there’s little to no chance of little Bensons running around in the future. Spweh.
***Hatcher exaggeratingly wipes his brow.***
Hatcher: What a relief. You know Mr. Benson, I really only gave you that advice to run at my own expense, because nothing would bring me more pleasure than to have somebody to knock around that ring this Sunday. Boy, I really hope you show up, I’m marking it down on my list to Santa as an early Christmas present. Bad News, you think this federation is a shithole, you think these fans are quote on quote shit. Let me tell you a little something, Benson, it’s you that’s shit. You want to blame everything and everyone for your failings. Look in a mirror, that is if you can find one big enough to encompass that fat frame of yours, you’re the only person to blame. You’re the reason your career and, from what I can tell, life for that matter are shit. You’re just a big piece of shit. Wake up and smell the eggnog, buddy. You’re your own worst enemy, that is until you meet me.
***A sinister smiles illuminates Hatcher’s face.***
Hatcher: O’ Merry Christmas, my little Bad News Bear. Welcome to the worst holiday you’re going to ever have. The shots ringing out outside your ghetto flat as you sat under a tree looking at the lack of presents your impecunious family left you with won’t compare at all to inner turmoil you’ll feel after I end your career at Slam. You little chubby elf, you better get to the gift making and bring me something really special, that’ll be the only way you’ll escape from that ring in one piece. Ho ho ho, let’s bring in the holiday cheer by making you squeal.
***With that Hatcher takes another sip of his eggnog and gleams off at the roaring fire while the scene fades to black.***
Hatcher: So in the commemoration of this glorious time of year I thought we’d make a little detour from the story of how I survived the rainforest and became a God amongst men. There’s really no time of year quite as much as this. Eggnog and fruit cake, gingerbread houses and toy soldiers. It’s a time where people are willing to dole out millions of dollars to give others in this first world oasis more garbage they don’t need. It’s quite grand to see people trample over each other in stores in order to get that ‘it’ item so they can further coddle their empty headed children. It’s been a wonderful season this year, even despite the lack of snow pretty much everywhere, I guess I need to go to Alaska to find that shit because most of this country hasn’t seen a lick of it. Actually scratch that whole trip to Alaska, I don’t need to play with the rage of mother nature. They are fixing to be hit by a big storm, it’s rolling through ready to decimate every single thing in its path. This is much like what the Outlaw Gentlemen are fixing to do at One.
This federation’s idea of ringing in the holidays is by shoving four teams into a match that will involve ladders, tables and chairs. Thanks, Seth, what a Christmas treat, I mean that with all sincerity. There’s nothing I could imagine that could bring me more joy than reigning in the holiday season by taking tables, ladders and chairs…o my…to my would-be competition. Seriously this is like coming down on Christmas morning and seeing a Ferrari tucked under the tree, I guess it would have to be a pretty damn big tree, but I digress.
Let’s talk about the nice Christmas present I have all wrapped up with a pretty bow on top just waiting for me at Slam. That pretty present comes with a bit of bad news. A Grinch if you will, a man simply here in the WCF to spread nothing, but ill-will and bad tidings. As if having a Mr. Bad News in the eighties-early nineties and having a present day one running around in that other “universe” wasn’t enough, now we have to deal with one right at home in our very own WCF. Hey, buddy, you’re not clever or original just cheap mockery. What’s new? Not you, buddy. So as the season for the gift giving continues on, I’ve got a little gift for you, Mr. Benson, a word of advice that is. See, lucky for you I get to be your not-so-secretive Santa this year, my friend. That word of advice I have for you it’s…run!
You literally must be out of your mind if you think stepping into a ring with me Sunday is a good idea. Did you see what I did to Spencer Adams last time I graced the squared circled? If you haven’t, please…please, do yourself a favor, go back and watch the tape. I destroyed Spencer Adams, someone who is a better competitor in his little emo-boy dreams than you could ever hope to be even if you were hopped up on the cool refreshing and extreme taste of Powerthirst!
***Hatcher takes a moment to lift up a can of Powerthirst!***
Hatcher: Available at wherever in the Hell you buy drinks.
***Hatcher sits the can down and continues on like he didn’t just pitch us an energy drink.***
Hatcher: What’s your deal here anyway, Mr. Bad News? O’ is it okay if I call you Bad News or would you prefer Mr. Benson? Wait, I don’t give a shit, because the only thing they’ll be calling you after Slam is dead. Yeah, you heard me right, and trust me when I say you’re getting off easy because I’m in such a festive and giving mood. Hell, I could leave you paralyzed being hand-fed by fugly, old ladies in some permanent care facility until the day you eventually croaked. The obituary will say you died of complications due to stepping in the ring with a fucking monster. Yeah, that monster is me, if I can head a hoard of pre-history savages into battle against the might of corporate interest than I can handle some pudgy little tough-guy wannabe.
Bad News, that’s something you’re probably never saying to a waitress as you order every damn thing off the menu. Of course the bad news for her is she’s stuck watching you shove that mountain of dietary excess down your fat face. Some of my detractors might call me out for fat shaming, and good, because you’re damn right I’m fat shaming. I tell ya’ it’s a real shame for me that I have to climb in the thing with that fat tub of lard. When you’re five-ten, two hundred twenty pounds in this business it means you’re lazy and stupid. No wonder you love to brawl, I doubt your body can do much more than stomp and punch, I’m sure even that is pretty taxing in itself.
I’m sure you think you can hit pretty hard, huh, Mr. Benson. I’m sure you think you’re gonna go out there this Sunday and beat me around the ring. Well, your punch might be strong, but my European uppercut is stronger. You probably think that mean old stomp of yours is pretty brutal, well my knee drop is much worse. Not to paraphrase a line from a pretty terrible song, but anything you can do, my boy, I can do better.
Let me ask you something, Mr. Benson, what’s your favorite color? Mine, well, in line with the holiday season, I like red, no scratch that, I love red. The color your face will be when I’m finished dropping you on your damn head with my Brain Buster. The crimson mask I’ll leave you with obscuring your features will be my big holiday gift to everyone around here, the less anyone has to see of your face the better.
I guess because you’re from the ghetto you fancy yourself some sort of tough guy, huh? Simply being from the ghetto doesn’t make you tough, I mean does Flava Flav look tough. Hell no, but I’d still rather have him by my side in a fight, he’s so damn crazy looking it might actually be enough to ward off anyone would-be attacker. The only thing your ugly mug would be good for is scaring off the ladies. I guess that’s a warm thought for the whole world, there’s little to no chance of little Bensons running around in the future. Spweh.
***Hatcher exaggeratingly wipes his brow.***
Hatcher: What a relief. You know Mr. Benson, I really only gave you that advice to run at my own expense, because nothing would bring me more pleasure than to have somebody to knock around that ring this Sunday. Boy, I really hope you show up, I’m marking it down on my list to Santa as an early Christmas present. Bad News, you think this federation is a shithole, you think these fans are quote on quote shit. Let me tell you a little something, Benson, it’s you that’s shit. You want to blame everything and everyone for your failings. Look in a mirror, that is if you can find one big enough to encompass that fat frame of yours, you’re the only person to blame. You’re the reason your career and, from what I can tell, life for that matter are shit. You’re just a big piece of shit. Wake up and smell the eggnog, buddy. You’re your own worst enemy, that is until you meet me.
***A sinister smiles illuminates Hatcher’s face.***
Hatcher: O’ Merry Christmas, my little Bad News Bear. Welcome to the worst holiday you’re going to ever have. The shots ringing out outside your ghetto flat as you sat under a tree looking at the lack of presents your impecunious family left you with won’t compare at all to inner turmoil you’ll feel after I end your career at Slam. You little chubby elf, you better get to the gift making and bring me something really special, that’ll be the only way you’ll escape from that ring in one piece. Ho ho ho, let’s bring in the holiday cheer by making you squeal.
***With that Hatcher takes another sip of his eggnog and gleams off at the roaring fire while the scene fades to black.***
