Post by Xtreme on Feb 28, 2016 16:46:07 GMT -5
The scene cuts in on Lucious Starr, walking backstage after Slam. He's winded, understandably distraught. But at the same time, there seems to be an air of gladness about him. He turns a corner, running into our resident pain in the ass interviewer, Freddy Whoa.
Lucy! Hey, buddy. Tough break tonight. I mean, we're a week away from Timebomb and you... Well, you can't seem to get a win for your life. That kinda sucks. How are you feeling?
Most people would have started running. Most people would realize that you don't ask a guy like Lucious a question like that. But Freddy does. And the weird thing is, after stroking his chin, Starr actually SMILES.
The odd thing, Fred, is that I actually feel good. I mean, think about it. Okay, so I lost a match to BeechNut. But I was fighting a handicap match. And at the end of the night, it took the combined might of Hashtag Bitch Crew and Adam Young- my own partner- to bring me down.
Did you hear that crowd, Freddy? I got something far more important than a win tonight. I got the WCF fans on my side. And I may very well be in the heads of the Beast Cunts. That's all I need for now.
It's #BeachKr...
He doesn't bother to finish. Lucious is already halfway gone to his trailer outside. Freddy shrugs, walking towards the locker rooms to find someone else to interview.
You Know What It Is
The scene opens up on a buzzing phone. The words "WCF Mismanagement" are read on the ID, a hand swiping the call right. The phone is picked up and we watch as it is brought near a ball of hair. There's a grunt.
Nyerah?
A voice is heard on the other end, though we can't quite make out the words. The hairball shoots up, another hand drawing the bangs away from Lucious' face as he focuses.
Wait, slow down. I have a what?
At Timebomb.
For... Really?
Shit...
No, no, that's amazing. Thank you.
Lucious puts the phone back on his nightstand, brushing his hair back with a hand. He seems shocked, but then jumps up on his bed and laughs. He pumps an arm, talking to himself about #BeachKrew and punkass Young and 'what now'. He drops, looking to the ceiling for a moment as he calms down, passing back out. The camera pans over to his alarm clock...
It's noon.
Look, If You Read My Promos, You Know How This Goes. If Not, Fuck You. Go Back And Read Some Of My Other Promos. Assholes.
The scene opens up on a darkened room. There are figures in the shadows, arranged in a semi-circle. There's a figure seated in the center, and one can see a worn stool beneath him as the glow of a light comes up. Lucious looks the camera, a grin.
Hashtag. Birchbox.
Last week, three former champions threw everything they had at me. Wade Moor, the former WCF Heavyweight Champion. Johnny Rabid and Kyle Kemp, the former Tag Team Champs. Working as a cohesive unit, the three of them just barely managed to bring me down.
Yes, me. One man. Because last week was one of the most disgusting setups I have ever witnessed in wrestling history. I got teamed up with a self-righteous hack and a goddamn drunkard against a weary, but highly resilient tandem of partners. If this wasn't a ruse to make #ButtSex look good, I don't know what is.
Lucious motions to his right- camera left- and a light comes up, illuminating a trio of mannequins with Moor, Kemp and Rabid's faces etched into them.
Hashtag BadSoup. Y'all seem to think you're all that, don't ya? You beat up a drunk, kicked the crap out of a readied veteran, and watched as a coward did his best to betray the team he should have been helping.
Yeah, you feel REALLY good about that right now, huh? I mean, nevermind that I was seconds from making the former World Champion tapout. Nevermind that Adam Young never stepped foot in the ring and I spent 80 percent of the match as the legal man for my team. You go ahead and celebrate your hollow victory, because you need it. You need the ego boost more than I do.
I mean, come on, fellas. The most dominant faction in recent history, the former World and Tag Team Champions... And it took THREE of you to conquer ONE of me. How the mighty have fallen. And had Adam Young or Raymond Hatcher been any help at all, I would have made the former World Champion submit.
Lucious shakes his head, a chuckle. He motions, a fourth mannequin revealed. This one bares the face of Adam Young. Lucious focuses back on the camera.
And then there's THIS brainless fucktard. Adam, you useless piece of monkey shit. You have the most dominating man in the world on your team, and you choose to pussy out at the announce table with Gold Digger and the rest of the crew. Because what, you don't like being shown up?
Look, Lil Bitch. When the time comes, I'm gonna beat your pansy ass into Oblivion and you can soak up your tears with one of your tampons. Until then, either grow a fucking pair or hit the bricks. There's no place on the roster for a coward when we want to showcase TALENT. You're a pathetic waste of space and I'm ashamed to be associated with your little bitch ass. Go fuck yourself, goddamn piece of monkey shit.
Lucious scoffs, spitting at the ground. He motions, a light revealing a tipped over mannequin with Raymond Hatcher's face on it. Lucy sighs, unsure, but proceeds.
Ray. Dude. What happened to you, man? I mean, at one time, you were a talented athlete with some real promise. Okay, so you hitched your star to a hollow anchor in Young, but geez, man.
I appreciate you being there, I do. You gave me a chance to take a breather and come back fighting. But god...
Ray, I hope your match at Timebomb gives you the kick to get back in gear. I really do. Because you have all the potential in the world, and it would be a DAMN shame to see it squandered away over one worthless dime-a-dozen bitch like Adam Young. You're better than that. At least, I would hope so...
Starr seems almost saddened, hanging his head as he presses three fingers to his forehead. He takes a moment to regain his composure, waving a hand. The lights over the mannequins go out, a white screen falling in front of them. Clips of various TV Title matches play behind him as Starr continues.
This week, the #BeachKiller has a chance to redeem himself. This Sunday, at Timebomb, I've been given a Television Championship opportunity. To gain a place amongst WCF's elite, I need only to bypass CJ Phoenix and the champion Stuart Slane to take my position as a WCF Champion.
I don't take either of these men lightly; Slane proved at Fifteen that he was more than a formidable champion. And Phoenix, in recent weeks, has shown great resolve and a fighting spirit. It will take a true warrior to overcome these two men.
Lucious takes a moment, the screen changing to reflect CJ Phoenix. A deep breath, Starr focuses.
Now, I know what you're thinking, CJ. You won a Number One Contendership match against Slane, and you got robbed last week. And I sympathize with your plight, I truly do. You're a talented individual, you're resilient and innovative.
But you're a small fish in a big sea. While you're swimming around with no-name rookies trying to make a name for yourself, Stuart and I are playing ball with the top brass in the company. Anyone can look amazing when they're playing in the indies, kid. But when you reach the big leagues, all the potential in the world won't help you topple the sharks swimming around the winner's circle.
You have one shot, Phoenix. A single opportunity to prove yourself against the cream of the crop. I've already given you my approval; I see you have a world of potential. The question, CJ, is if YOU know how much you possess and whether you can access it in time for our match at Timebomb. I know it's possible... But I highly, HIGHLY doubt it's actually going to happen.
Lucious shrugs, a sigh. The screen flashes to the image of Stuart Slane, holding high the WCF Television Championship. A brief moment to fully gather his thoughts, Lucious focuses back on the camera.
It's been 13 years since I first stepped into the major leagues of this profession, Slane. I've seen countless one-hit wonders. Dozens upon dozens of washouts. I've seen more people come and go, reaching the heights of the business with all the heart in the world... Only to burn out the moment they reach a plateau.
You're a talented man, Stuart. I've watched your matches, I've seen what you can do. The thing is, Slane, with all your ability and bravado, there's not a single thing in your arsenal I haven't seen and beaten before. There's nothing you have that can stop a freight train like Lucious Starr from plowing through you and taking the Television Title.
You're a great champ, Stu. You've done that belt and its legacy proud. And when I take the gold this weekend, I look forward to adding to the prestige you have already placed on it. But the time has come, Slane, to pass the proverbial torch. It's time for you to realize that there IS a force in the WCF you aren't prepared to deal with, and that man is coming straight for you at Timebomb. And when all is said and done, I truly, truly hope that new champ and former champ can shake hands in respect to each other.
Lucious takes a breath, the image now a split screen of Stuart, Phoenix and himself, the WCF Television Championship strewn across all three. A moment, Lucious speaks.
This Sunday, three men enter the ring. Two will leave with nothing to show for it. And one... One will leave as the new WCF Television Champion. I wish both of you all the luck in the world. At the end of the night, I will emerge as champion; while you two...
Well, you two won't.
Lucious stands, walking into the darkness. The screen stays on the triple threat 'banner', the camera fades to black.
