Wait, This Isn't Canon, Is It?
Apr 16, 2016 16:59:58 GMT -5
The Polar Phantasm, Bonnie Blue, and 2 more like this
Post by Scathe on Apr 16, 2016 16:59:58 GMT -5
-/-Video playback begins with a cold open on the glowering, bearded face of the Darkitecht, Scathe. Contempt curls his upper lip into a sneer as the camera pulls back, revealing... nothing. Clad in motorcycle boots, leather pants, and bare-chested save for his leather trench coat, Scathe stands in a small pool of dim light, illuminating nothing more than the bare patch of dusty concrete on which he stands. His eyes practically glow with a sinister internal light, and he opens his mouth to--
We interrupt this roleplay to bring you these words from our sponsors!
The fuck? Who... You?!? How did you even get in here?
It wasn't easy, I'll tell ya that much. Now, if you don't mind, I just gotta--
Hey! You cannot just come in here and mess around with the-- Get the fuck off me!
OW! Ooh, you're feisty! OW! Hold up, I'll only be a few minutes!
*The video continues to play; Scathe's jaw moves up and down, and he clenches a fist at chest level, then uses it to gesticulate at the screen. However, there is no audio to accompany the action onscreen.*
No! There will be none of these shenanigans here! Use your own damned--
It's more fun this way! Come on, just let me do it! Oh shit.
*The visual feed before us suddenly freezes, leaving Scathe mid-word with a hilariously retarded expression on his face. The frame skips a few times, then a hole melts through our field of view and we hear a snapping sound, followed by the fluttering noise of an old-school film projector at the end of the reel. All goes silent for a moment, leaving our screens with a view of pure white void.*
Oh, great. Nice job breaking it, hero.
That was totally not my fault.
Well it certainly was not mine.
Jay Omega: C'mon now guys, there's no need to fight.
I disagree; there is always a reason to fight. But there is nothing to be gained from fighting this battle, and you will have your way in the end regardless. Fine, have your "fun". You've already made a disaster of this anyway. But know that there will be recompense for this intrusion and insult.
Sure, whatever. Glad that's cleared up. Now, do you mind?
I hope you die in a fire.
*Been there, done that, bigger and badder than anyone else. Hey there, True Believers! Sure has been a while, hasn't it? There's no easy way to say this, but we've developed some performance anxiety issues, so forgive us if we forgo our (un)conventional methods. Normally we'd do the whole fade in intro thing, but we've kinda hijacked somebody else's shit today, haven't we? Let's just jump right into it. By now you should have Jay Omega standing front and center in that blank space(that's a T. Swift reference) before ya. You know what that scarred-up-but-still-handsome sumbitch looks like, and he's wearin' some faded jeans with a FireForce band shirt. If I could use only one word to describe him, it would be Pratt-tastic. Maybe Star-Lordian. Anyway, he's standing in a white void because fuck setting a proper scene, amirite? Shit's hard.*
Jay Omega: Word. Did ya miss me? I know, I know, I really shouldn't be here, but kayfabe means nothing around ZeeMAC, so I figured why the fuck not. And, since I was feeling lazy and uninspired, I thought I'd do a ZeeMAC promo. What up, ZeeMAC? Pronounced Zombitch McBore-us. Pronounced Perpetual Midcarder. First off, I gotta start out by saying that you have to be a special kind of stupid to antagonize the one guy in this clusterfuck that you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, would abso-fucking-lutely destroy you in this match type if he had a mind to. That ain't boasting, exaggeration, or hyperbole; it's a cold, hard fact, etched in the stone of history. You know what I'm saying. And that's not counting all the other times I've smacked ya around like a redheaded stepchild. Of course, maybe I should've gone easier on ya; I seem to have caused some brain damage that can't be attributed to all that Fun Dip you pack your face with.
I'd congratulate on making the connection between Scathe and I, but the Main Man upstairs hasn't exactly been subtle, y'know? Besides which, you got that all-seeing eye what gives you a special kind of sight, let's you see who's really who. A rare ability shared only by a few other singular individuals. Sorry if I'm being too subtle; I'm trying to find a roundabout way to talk about your Admin privileges on the boards. Way to abuse them, by the way. Who knows, maybe Arcanum Industries wanted to try a fresh start with a subsidiary, without the drama associated with previous projects? Well, too bad, cat's outta the bag now. ZeeMAC done fucked that up. Shia clap dot GIF, man. Whether or not that connection was meant to be known is irrelevant, though. Wasn't your place, homie. Of course, we all know your place has been firmly established as a solid midcarder, without much hope of advancement beyond the rank and file.
And that eats at you, despite your nonchalant attitude, doesn't it? Take away the Internet Championship, which I'll get to in a moment, and what's ol' Zee Macklemorris best known for? Doing the job for up-and-comers. The most recent success you've had in my memory was piggybacking off names like Steve Orbit, and ICE Beckman. Well, other than that Eye Tee title I mentioned. Speaking of, must be nice to have a whole division created for you, just so you can stay relevant. Xor knows you can barely do shit outside the Internet Championship format. Heh, I remember when I actually saw you as a credible threat. Now I just see you as a joke, and not a funny one, either. You're like something out of a Carlos Mencia bit; you're only any good when you're working off somebody else. And when you are "original", my body gets the same "why am I subjecting myself to this bullshit" feeling it does when I'm forced to watch his "comedy".
Now I know you like to think you're still King Shit, despite the veritable mountain of evidence to the contrary. But sooner or later you've got to understand that you're such a washed up mockery of what you once were, even Ric Flair is wondering when you're gonna pack it in. This here might as well serve as your last hurrah; go out with a bang as a double champion, don't fall flat like Imperium all over again. You can enjoy the perks of being retired; chill out in a castle made of blow and eat some chocolate cake which is also made of cocaine. Aw, who am I trying to kid? You'll be here long after you've been relegated to Adam Young status, and much like him, you'll still think you're worth two squirts of llama piss. I don't think I can adequately explain how wrong you'd be. Not just because I have neither the time nor inclination, but also because the words to properly explain it don't exist.
Besides which, even if I could explain, you wouldn't listen. Self-assured, arrogant fuckwads never do. Fuck, you're such a pathetic dudebro, you'd fit right in with them douchecanoes in Beach Crew. The fact that I may have once been awed by you turns my stomach. But now? Well now, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Hashtag oh. Hashtag wait. That ain't a horse makin' them clippity-clop sounds, that's just you banging yourself some sandy coconutz, ain't it? A cheap-ass trick for some cheap-ass special effects. And that's the story of your career lately; nothing but turning one cheap trick after another. Y'all oughtta change your entrance theme to "I Want You to Want Me". To me, all you sound like is a fourteen year old kid spouting racial slurs in a Call of Duty lobby. No, come to think of it, even that's giving you too much credit.
You're more like a third grader spouting off all the dirty words he hears coming out of his whore mother's bedroom at five in the afternoon, or "Two-for-One Happy Hour", as it's known on Wednesdays. Sure, it can be shocking and offensive, but there's no meaning behind any of it. It's vulgarity for vulgarity's sake, and to be honest, Vulgar does it better. I'd rather sit through a thousand hours of Dan Severn homo-snuff-rape, than five minutes of whatever hot garbage you spew. It would be horrifying, to be sure, but at least the production values of the film crew would make the shit watchable, ya feel me, my nig? All you do is try to be offensive, then go "Ell oh ell, das sum gud heal werk" like that shit's something to be proud of. My nig, you wouldn't know good heel work if Achilles himself gave you a fucking spinning heel kick. Freddie Blassie turns over in his grave every time you open your mouth.
All right, I gotta wrap this up and go back to being dead for now. Shit, did I say "for now"? Oops. Spoiler alert, I guess. Anyway, one last thing to think on before I go: Knowing what you do about Scathe, being aware of exactly what kind of output we could have seen, you may be asking yourself "why just this one promo?". Well, that in particular is for me and a select few to know, but I will tell you that whosoever wins this match, and subsequently that Hardcore Championship I loved so much, only does so - and I do mean only does so - because I allow it. Whether Scathe, Jay Omega, or John Michaels, you know damn well who would have taken this match by storm, and there ain't shit anybody could've done to stop it. Again, not exaggeration, boasting, or hyperbole. Cold. Hard. Fact.
I'm sure you're familiar with the phrase "There but for the grace of God go I?" Well, allow me to paraphrase when I say that there but for the grace of Omega goes a new Hardcore Champion. Because I'm a fuck of a lot closer to being a deity than you ever will be, brodin. This might've been your house once, but I kicked the door in, burned that sumbitch to the ground, and pissed on the ashes. Don't ever forget that this match might as well end with yours truly presenting a gift wrapped title belt to the winner, because that's basically what's happening. Peace; I'm out until the next time I'm resurrected.
*Jay extends his arm at shoulder level, his clenched fist aimed toward us. Omega splays his fingers, pantomiming a mic drop, then turns to his left, and walks out of view. We, uh, we'd normally fade to black here, but... Well, we seem to be experiencing some metaphysical difficulties. Shit's kinda broken up in this joint.*
Give me a few more seconds, I think I've got this working again. I just need to connect the--
5
4
3
2
1
Scathe: ...ould possibly hope to understand my goals. You would all do well to stay out of my way, for all who oppose me shall be ground to dust beneath my heel.
...
...
Um... dude? You gonna finish narrating your vignette?
Oh, do I have your permission for that?
You once told me that sarcasm is the recourse of a weak mind.
I hate you so much.
Whatevs. You gonna finish that?
-/-Scathe, now back onscreen, snaps his fingers, coinciding with the overhead illumination going dark. We hear his heavy footfalls fade as he walks across the dusty concrete, until the silence is complete.-\-
We interrupt this roleplay to bring you these words from our sponsors!
The fuck? Who... You?!? How did you even get in here?
It wasn't easy, I'll tell ya that much. Now, if you don't mind, I just gotta--
Hey! You cannot just come in here and mess around with the-- Get the fuck off me!
OW! Ooh, you're feisty! OW! Hold up, I'll only be a few minutes!
*The video continues to play; Scathe's jaw moves up and down, and he clenches a fist at chest level, then uses it to gesticulate at the screen. However, there is no audio to accompany the action onscreen.*
No! There will be none of these shenanigans here! Use your own damned--
It's more fun this way! Come on, just let me do it! Oh shit.
*The visual feed before us suddenly freezes, leaving Scathe mid-word with a hilariously retarded expression on his face. The frame skips a few times, then a hole melts through our field of view and we hear a snapping sound, followed by the fluttering noise of an old-school film projector at the end of the reel. All goes silent for a moment, leaving our screens with a view of pure white void.*
Oh, great. Nice job breaking it, hero.
That was totally not my fault.
Well it certainly was not mine.
Jay Omega: C'mon now guys, there's no need to fight.
I disagree; there is always a reason to fight. But there is nothing to be gained from fighting this battle, and you will have your way in the end regardless. Fine, have your "fun". You've already made a disaster of this anyway. But know that there will be recompense for this intrusion and insult.
Sure, whatever. Glad that's cleared up. Now, do you mind?
I hope you die in a fire.
*Been there, done that, bigger and badder than anyone else. Hey there, True Believers! Sure has been a while, hasn't it? There's no easy way to say this, but we've developed some performance anxiety issues, so forgive us if we forgo our (un)conventional methods. Normally we'd do the whole fade in intro thing, but we've kinda hijacked somebody else's shit today, haven't we? Let's just jump right into it. By now you should have Jay Omega standing front and center in that blank space(that's a T. Swift reference) before ya. You know what that scarred-up-but-still-handsome sumbitch looks like, and he's wearin' some faded jeans with a FireForce band shirt. If I could use only one word to describe him, it would be Pratt-tastic. Maybe Star-Lordian. Anyway, he's standing in a white void because fuck setting a proper scene, amirite? Shit's hard.*
Jay Omega: Word. Did ya miss me? I know, I know, I really shouldn't be here, but kayfabe means nothing around ZeeMAC, so I figured why the fuck not. And, since I was feeling lazy and uninspired, I thought I'd do a ZeeMAC promo. What up, ZeeMAC? Pronounced Zombitch McBore-us. Pronounced Perpetual Midcarder. First off, I gotta start out by saying that you have to be a special kind of stupid to antagonize the one guy in this clusterfuck that you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, would abso-fucking-lutely destroy you in this match type if he had a mind to. That ain't boasting, exaggeration, or hyperbole; it's a cold, hard fact, etched in the stone of history. You know what I'm saying. And that's not counting all the other times I've smacked ya around like a redheaded stepchild. Of course, maybe I should've gone easier on ya; I seem to have caused some brain damage that can't be attributed to all that Fun Dip you pack your face with.
I'd congratulate on making the connection between Scathe and I, but the Main Man upstairs hasn't exactly been subtle, y'know? Besides which, you got that all-seeing eye what gives you a special kind of sight, let's you see who's really who. A rare ability shared only by a few other singular individuals. Sorry if I'm being too subtle; I'm trying to find a roundabout way to talk about your Admin privileges on the boards. Way to abuse them, by the way. Who knows, maybe Arcanum Industries wanted to try a fresh start with a subsidiary, without the drama associated with previous projects? Well, too bad, cat's outta the bag now. ZeeMAC done fucked that up. Shia clap dot GIF, man. Whether or not that connection was meant to be known is irrelevant, though. Wasn't your place, homie. Of course, we all know your place has been firmly established as a solid midcarder, without much hope of advancement beyond the rank and file.
And that eats at you, despite your nonchalant attitude, doesn't it? Take away the Internet Championship, which I'll get to in a moment, and what's ol' Zee Macklemorris best known for? Doing the job for up-and-comers. The most recent success you've had in my memory was piggybacking off names like Steve Orbit, and ICE Beckman. Well, other than that Eye Tee title I mentioned. Speaking of, must be nice to have a whole division created for you, just so you can stay relevant. Xor knows you can barely do shit outside the Internet Championship format. Heh, I remember when I actually saw you as a credible threat. Now I just see you as a joke, and not a funny one, either. You're like something out of a Carlos Mencia bit; you're only any good when you're working off somebody else. And when you are "original", my body gets the same "why am I subjecting myself to this bullshit" feeling it does when I'm forced to watch his "comedy".
Now I know you like to think you're still King Shit, despite the veritable mountain of evidence to the contrary. But sooner or later you've got to understand that you're such a washed up mockery of what you once were, even Ric Flair is wondering when you're gonna pack it in. This here might as well serve as your last hurrah; go out with a bang as a double champion, don't fall flat like Imperium all over again. You can enjoy the perks of being retired; chill out in a castle made of blow and eat some chocolate cake which is also made of cocaine. Aw, who am I trying to kid? You'll be here long after you've been relegated to Adam Young status, and much like him, you'll still think you're worth two squirts of llama piss. I don't think I can adequately explain how wrong you'd be. Not just because I have neither the time nor inclination, but also because the words to properly explain it don't exist.
Besides which, even if I could explain, you wouldn't listen. Self-assured, arrogant fuckwads never do. Fuck, you're such a pathetic dudebro, you'd fit right in with them douchecanoes in Beach Crew. The fact that I may have once been awed by you turns my stomach. But now? Well now, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Hashtag oh. Hashtag wait. That ain't a horse makin' them clippity-clop sounds, that's just you banging yourself some sandy coconutz, ain't it? A cheap-ass trick for some cheap-ass special effects. And that's the story of your career lately; nothing but turning one cheap trick after another. Y'all oughtta change your entrance theme to "I Want You to Want Me". To me, all you sound like is a fourteen year old kid spouting racial slurs in a Call of Duty lobby. No, come to think of it, even that's giving you too much credit.
You're more like a third grader spouting off all the dirty words he hears coming out of his whore mother's bedroom at five in the afternoon, or "Two-for-One Happy Hour", as it's known on Wednesdays. Sure, it can be shocking and offensive, but there's no meaning behind any of it. It's vulgarity for vulgarity's sake, and to be honest, Vulgar does it better. I'd rather sit through a thousand hours of Dan Severn homo-snuff-rape, than five minutes of whatever hot garbage you spew. It would be horrifying, to be sure, but at least the production values of the film crew would make the shit watchable, ya feel me, my nig? All you do is try to be offensive, then go "Ell oh ell, das sum gud heal werk" like that shit's something to be proud of. My nig, you wouldn't know good heel work if Achilles himself gave you a fucking spinning heel kick. Freddie Blassie turns over in his grave every time you open your mouth.
All right, I gotta wrap this up and go back to being dead for now. Shit, did I say "for now"? Oops. Spoiler alert, I guess. Anyway, one last thing to think on before I go: Knowing what you do about Scathe, being aware of exactly what kind of output we could have seen, you may be asking yourself "why just this one promo?". Well, that in particular is for me and a select few to know, but I will tell you that whosoever wins this match, and subsequently that Hardcore Championship I loved so much, only does so - and I do mean only does so - because I allow it. Whether Scathe, Jay Omega, or John Michaels, you know damn well who would have taken this match by storm, and there ain't shit anybody could've done to stop it. Again, not exaggeration, boasting, or hyperbole. Cold. Hard. Fact.
I'm sure you're familiar with the phrase "There but for the grace of God go I?" Well, allow me to paraphrase when I say that there but for the grace of Omega goes a new Hardcore Champion. Because I'm a fuck of a lot closer to being a deity than you ever will be, brodin. This might've been your house once, but I kicked the door in, burned that sumbitch to the ground, and pissed on the ashes. Don't ever forget that this match might as well end with yours truly presenting a gift wrapped title belt to the winner, because that's basically what's happening. Peace; I'm out until the next time I'm resurrected.
*Jay extends his arm at shoulder level, his clenched fist aimed toward us. Omega splays his fingers, pantomiming a mic drop, then turns to his left, and walks out of view. We, uh, we'd normally fade to black here, but... Well, we seem to be experiencing some metaphysical difficulties. Shit's kinda broken up in this joint.*
Give me a few more seconds, I think I've got this working again. I just need to connect the--
5
4
3
2
1
Scathe: ...ould possibly hope to understand my goals. You would all do well to stay out of my way, for all who oppose me shall be ground to dust beneath my heel.
...
...
Um... dude? You gonna finish narrating your vignette?
Oh, do I have your permission for that?
You once told me that sarcasm is the recourse of a weak mind.
I hate you so much.
Whatevs. You gonna finish that?
-/-Scathe, now back onscreen, snaps his fingers, coinciding with the overhead illumination going dark. We hear his heavy footfalls fade as he walks across the dusty concrete, until the silence is complete.-\-
