Post by "Invincible" Damian Kaine on Jul 16, 2016 18:32:33 GMT -5
The camera pans through a pretty, decorated living area. The walls are lined with gymnastic trophies, picture frames containing Damian Kaine and a little sister, and a picture of Damian holding the ALPHA Southern Star Championship. As it pans closer to a computer sitting on a coffee table, a YouTube video is heard.
“Damian Kaine, come Slam, that will be your ass!”
The voice of the Baron fills the room, this very sentence on loop for 30 seconds before it is paused. The camera is seemingly picked up and turned around, with Damian Kaine, the man handling the device, appearing. With a disappointed look, he shakes his head.
“Barry, Barry, Barry. You know, for somebody who tries to be good, you sure do a piss poor job of it. Beating down an innocent jobber? And I’m just swinging for the fences here, but I’m guessing he was a hire. Wow, Henker, I’d say you’ve lost it, but you never had it in the first place. I’ll tell you this: You’re good at picking up heat. But that’s it. And trust me, buddy boy, that won’t be enough for this Sunday. You’re weak. You couldn’t even beat Abstract, the ten year old, on a good day. Yet, you expect me to believe that I’m going to lose to an amateur such as yourself? You’ve been a never-was nobody since you fucked up stepping to ZMac online. See that’s what the difference between the both of us is: I know what I’m doing. And when I overstep, I find my place real soon. And I’ve come to understand that my place right now, is standing above you this Sunday. I’ll admit. I fucked up, going after ZMac. I’m not there yet. But I will be one day. Right now I’ll settle for whipping your seig-heiling ass all around the slam ring. I-”
At this moment, Damian’s phone buzzes; it’s a phone call. He looks down at it with disgust that whoever called has the nerve to interrupt
“Shit. Hold up, i’ve gotta take this.”
Damian walks away, putting the phone to his ear and speaking softly.
“Hello? Oh, what’s up Adrian?”
His face hardens as he realizes that his friend is calling for official business.
“A, calm down. It's going to happen, just give it time. It's not time yet. I've gotta go bro. I'm actually recording right now..”
A loud voice is heard on the other end. Then Damian hangs up the phone and sits down in front of the camera again.
“Sorry about that guys. Important business matter to take care of. So back to Baron von Dingleberry. Listen asshole. You talk a lot of shit but where do you go? What do you bring to the WCF? You have no flashy moves. Very little personality. You look like shit. The fans fucking hate you. And likewise, might i add. And you can’t wrestle for shit. I mean, for the love of Christ, you spent weeks claiming that you would beat Chambers. Yet at the end of the day, he's still the Hardcore champ and you are nothing. You're the peasant that licks the boots of the guy who licks his boots. You’re a white chocolate covered jumbo bratwurst size dick, with a mouth bigger than Seth’s when he takes your bratwurst.”
Damian chuckles a bit, lightheartedly speaking down to the German ex-military.
“Oh, and I heard you had a little surprise for me, Barry? What? You finally coming out the bunker closet? I mean damn, with the way you keep calling me Donkey Dick, i’m convinced that you’ve snuck a bit more than a peek at me in the shower. Trust me, Bud. There’s nothing wrong with it. Hey, maybe that’s why you hide behind the Nazi gimmick. But that’s called denial, Barry. And is frowned upon in most societies.”
“Now let’s talk a bit about some of your *quote unquote* insults. I’ll start with this: You say, and I quote:
“Just because you attempted a moonsault off your garage, and onto a plywood board at age 13, doesn't mean you can call yourself a wrestler.”
“Okay, first off It was my roof. Onto a mattress. And it wasn’t a moonsault at 13, it was my 450. The moonsault was at 8. Second: Who! The Hell! Are You! To be talking about what makes a wrestler. Especially when I hold more talent in my left pinky’s cuticle than you have in your entire body. Now, i don’t get along with a lot of wrestlers yet. Not here, anyway. But I think a lot of the roster would agree that I am ten times the athlete you could even dream of being.”
“I will give you credit with one thing though, because God almighty are you right. The match will only last 4 seconds. Because as soon as that bell rings, and my foot hits your chin, with a little move that I now call the GT, your skull is hitting that canvas and I’m picking up the win. So come on ahead. Don’t be shy. Bring Barby, bring Janice, bring Klinge. Hell, go down to the Walking Dead studio and grab Lucille. But I guaren-damn-tee you that you’re not walking out of Phillie with a win. You won’t even be walking out. Because after all the shit you talked, I’m coming down on you like a plague. Literally. See you Sunday, you useless piece of scheiße”
Damian’s straight face turns into a sly grin. He blows a kiss to the camera and clicks it off.
“Damian Kaine, come Slam, that will be your ass!”
The voice of the Baron fills the room, this very sentence on loop for 30 seconds before it is paused. The camera is seemingly picked up and turned around, with Damian Kaine, the man handling the device, appearing. With a disappointed look, he shakes his head.
“Barry, Barry, Barry. You know, for somebody who tries to be good, you sure do a piss poor job of it. Beating down an innocent jobber? And I’m just swinging for the fences here, but I’m guessing he was a hire. Wow, Henker, I’d say you’ve lost it, but you never had it in the first place. I’ll tell you this: You’re good at picking up heat. But that’s it. And trust me, buddy boy, that won’t be enough for this Sunday. You’re weak. You couldn’t even beat Abstract, the ten year old, on a good day. Yet, you expect me to believe that I’m going to lose to an amateur such as yourself? You’ve been a never-was nobody since you fucked up stepping to ZMac online. See that’s what the difference between the both of us is: I know what I’m doing. And when I overstep, I find my place real soon. And I’ve come to understand that my place right now, is standing above you this Sunday. I’ll admit. I fucked up, going after ZMac. I’m not there yet. But I will be one day. Right now I’ll settle for whipping your seig-heiling ass all around the slam ring. I-”
At this moment, Damian’s phone buzzes; it’s a phone call. He looks down at it with disgust that whoever called has the nerve to interrupt
“Shit. Hold up, i’ve gotta take this.”
Damian walks away, putting the phone to his ear and speaking softly.
“Hello? Oh, what’s up Adrian?”
His face hardens as he realizes that his friend is calling for official business.
“A, calm down. It's going to happen, just give it time. It's not time yet. I've gotta go bro. I'm actually recording right now..”
A loud voice is heard on the other end. Then Damian hangs up the phone and sits down in front of the camera again.
“Sorry about that guys. Important business matter to take care of. So back to Baron von Dingleberry. Listen asshole. You talk a lot of shit but where do you go? What do you bring to the WCF? You have no flashy moves. Very little personality. You look like shit. The fans fucking hate you. And likewise, might i add. And you can’t wrestle for shit. I mean, for the love of Christ, you spent weeks claiming that you would beat Chambers. Yet at the end of the day, he's still the Hardcore champ and you are nothing. You're the peasant that licks the boots of the guy who licks his boots. You’re a white chocolate covered jumbo bratwurst size dick, with a mouth bigger than Seth’s when he takes your bratwurst.”
Damian chuckles a bit, lightheartedly speaking down to the German ex-military.
“Oh, and I heard you had a little surprise for me, Barry? What? You finally coming out the bunker closet? I mean damn, with the way you keep calling me Donkey Dick, i’m convinced that you’ve snuck a bit more than a peek at me in the shower. Trust me, Bud. There’s nothing wrong with it. Hey, maybe that’s why you hide behind the Nazi gimmick. But that’s called denial, Barry. And is frowned upon in most societies.”
“Now let’s talk a bit about some of your *quote unquote* insults. I’ll start with this: You say, and I quote:
“Just because you attempted a moonsault off your garage, and onto a plywood board at age 13, doesn't mean you can call yourself a wrestler.”
“Okay, first off It was my roof. Onto a mattress. And it wasn’t a moonsault at 13, it was my 450. The moonsault was at 8. Second: Who! The Hell! Are You! To be talking about what makes a wrestler. Especially when I hold more talent in my left pinky’s cuticle than you have in your entire body. Now, i don’t get along with a lot of wrestlers yet. Not here, anyway. But I think a lot of the roster would agree that I am ten times the athlete you could even dream of being.”
“I will give you credit with one thing though, because God almighty are you right. The match will only last 4 seconds. Because as soon as that bell rings, and my foot hits your chin, with a little move that I now call the GT, your skull is hitting that canvas and I’m picking up the win. So come on ahead. Don’t be shy. Bring Barby, bring Janice, bring Klinge. Hell, go down to the Walking Dead studio and grab Lucille. But I guaren-damn-tee you that you’re not walking out of Phillie with a win. You won’t even be walking out. Because after all the shit you talked, I’m coming down on you like a plague. Literally. See you Sunday, you useless piece of scheiße”
Damian’s straight face turns into a sly grin. He blows a kiss to the camera and clicks it off.
