#Prey4Wade Night 2: Psychopomp
Jul 18, 2017 12:35:11 GMT -5
The Very Big Śpainards and Bonnie Blue like this
Post by Wade Moor on Jul 18, 2017 12:35:11 GMT -5
King of the Deathmatch
Night Two (aka Night Won Too aka Two More Points)
Wade Moor vs Psychopomp (aka what the fuck Is a Psychopomp?)
The Aqua Match was over, the Block A main event of the evening, and Oblivion still lay drowning in a pool of salt water and his own dehydrated urine. Wade Moor proved what he had known all along; Jakob Lister was still just a man. A very hollow, fragile man, projecting ultra violence and anger into a mediocre wrestling career...but Wade, man? Wade is a God. A Mad God. THE God who would walk away as King of the Deathmatch. No ifs, and, or Birds about it, my children. None indeed, and as his mind set forth to night two, he felt rejuvenated, washed in the effluence of the sea and the blood of his enemies.
And oh, how he had enemies. They followed him from town to town, port to port as it were, and they crawled like cockroaches from the woodwork to try and take him down. Running like rats to escape from the water coursing violently through the sinking ships hulls. Take him out, they would try, defeating him was a different story entirely. The Pied Piper to the bugs, the rats, the psychos, and the pomps. The annihilator of all things Good, and Brotherhood, and squishy punk ass plebeians. Circumstances called for such things, Psychopomp was nothing more than a victim of circumstance.
Wade stood amidst a KotDM graphic in his ring gear, still bloody, still beaten, soaking wet from his previous encounter with The Man Oblivion. He shook his head and placed his straw trilby atop his mopped dreads, smiling from ear to ear. He popped his knuckles and his neck, imitating the sound of a machine gun firing in the dead night air.
Wade Moor: Night one, won and done, and it went exactly how I said it would, Oblivion face down in the muck of his career, begging to come up from the water and see Katherine Pheonix staring back at him, somebody he might have a shot in hell of beating...but, it wasn't to be. He saw Godnilla towering above him, glistening gold as a King in the waters of rebirth. This is exactly the shot in the arm I needed, this tournament. You see, when you're a man of my stature, of my pedigree, you begin to grow bored with drudgery of the day to day, the doldrums of Slam, going through the motions of another PPV, listening to Everest verbally jack themselves off as if they're the first ever people to win the Trios and Tag Team Championships...its, Godnilla damn it, enough to make a normal person bite down on the tip of a shotgun...
But I'm not normal, not in any sense of the word. I wait in the wings (of a Crow), I watch, I listen...and I find my prey. Psychopomp, you're nothing but #Prey4Wade. You're nothing but a Brotherhood straggler, waiting to be picked off by somebody more indomitable, by somebody far stronger than you. You proved that by essentially shitting the bed in your first tournament match against the fourth worst guy named Damien in the WCF. If Oblivion is the running joke, then you're the limping one, never knowing when to just snap your own neck and hit the ground.
That's why I'm here. I have a way of showing those who refuse to see the truth, and you've been burying yours since the day you stepped foot into this company. An amnesia angle? Originality abound. I may as well call you Logan or Marc Mayhem and say it's a fucking day. That's the way she goes for you Pomp, you pile of refuse. You fucking lingerer, this 2nd round match is going to show you that you should have just stayed home, whatever dumpster you decide to hang your hat at night, keep seeing that therapist that lets you pay him in cookies you loser.
This shit is dumb. You're a grown fucking man that acts like a twelve year old. You have zero flavor for this business, and even less respect for it, and you want to step into a barbed wire ropes match with me? I'll make you see Godnilla, and then I'll fucking blind you, and that would be doing you a kindness. I will no longer allow you to make a mockery of something I hold dear. I've allowed it from your kind for far too long, but now it's time for me to enact my vengeance. It's time to grease the wheels of this #WrestlingGenocide and clean the rust from the cogs.
And Crow McMorris? If you want to step to Godnilla, I'll see you in the finals...if you make it. Leave it to Bobby Cairo to fuck something as simple as killing you up...but I won't allow the same mistake to be made twice. You're a literal dead fuck, but I'll eviscerate you, tear you limb from limb, and if you come back again? Well, I'll just have to enjoy myself and do it all over again.
Night Two (aka Night Won Too aka Two More Points)
Wade Moor vs Psychopomp (aka what the fuck Is a Psychopomp?)
The Aqua Match was over, the Block A main event of the evening, and Oblivion still lay drowning in a pool of salt water and his own dehydrated urine. Wade Moor proved what he had known all along; Jakob Lister was still just a man. A very hollow, fragile man, projecting ultra violence and anger into a mediocre wrestling career...but Wade, man? Wade is a God. A Mad God. THE God who would walk away as King of the Deathmatch. No ifs, and, or Birds about it, my children. None indeed, and as his mind set forth to night two, he felt rejuvenated, washed in the effluence of the sea and the blood of his enemies.
And oh, how he had enemies. They followed him from town to town, port to port as it were, and they crawled like cockroaches from the woodwork to try and take him down. Running like rats to escape from the water coursing violently through the sinking ships hulls. Take him out, they would try, defeating him was a different story entirely. The Pied Piper to the bugs, the rats, the psychos, and the pomps. The annihilator of all things Good, and Brotherhood, and squishy punk ass plebeians. Circumstances called for such things, Psychopomp was nothing more than a victim of circumstance.
Wade stood amidst a KotDM graphic in his ring gear, still bloody, still beaten, soaking wet from his previous encounter with The Man Oblivion. He shook his head and placed his straw trilby atop his mopped dreads, smiling from ear to ear. He popped his knuckles and his neck, imitating the sound of a machine gun firing in the dead night air.
Wade Moor: Night one, won and done, and it went exactly how I said it would, Oblivion face down in the muck of his career, begging to come up from the water and see Katherine Pheonix staring back at him, somebody he might have a shot in hell of beating...but, it wasn't to be. He saw Godnilla towering above him, glistening gold as a King in the waters of rebirth. This is exactly the shot in the arm I needed, this tournament. You see, when you're a man of my stature, of my pedigree, you begin to grow bored with drudgery of the day to day, the doldrums of Slam, going through the motions of another PPV, listening to Everest verbally jack themselves off as if they're the first ever people to win the Trios and Tag Team Championships...its, Godnilla damn it, enough to make a normal person bite down on the tip of a shotgun...
But I'm not normal, not in any sense of the word. I wait in the wings (of a Crow), I watch, I listen...and I find my prey. Psychopomp, you're nothing but #Prey4Wade. You're nothing but a Brotherhood straggler, waiting to be picked off by somebody more indomitable, by somebody far stronger than you. You proved that by essentially shitting the bed in your first tournament match against the fourth worst guy named Damien in the WCF. If Oblivion is the running joke, then you're the limping one, never knowing when to just snap your own neck and hit the ground.
That's why I'm here. I have a way of showing those who refuse to see the truth, and you've been burying yours since the day you stepped foot into this company. An amnesia angle? Originality abound. I may as well call you Logan or Marc Mayhem and say it's a fucking day. That's the way she goes for you Pomp, you pile of refuse. You fucking lingerer, this 2nd round match is going to show you that you should have just stayed home, whatever dumpster you decide to hang your hat at night, keep seeing that therapist that lets you pay him in cookies you loser.
This shit is dumb. You're a grown fucking man that acts like a twelve year old. You have zero flavor for this business, and even less respect for it, and you want to step into a barbed wire ropes match with me? I'll make you see Godnilla, and then I'll fucking blind you, and that would be doing you a kindness. I will no longer allow you to make a mockery of something I hold dear. I've allowed it from your kind for far too long, but now it's time for me to enact my vengeance. It's time to grease the wheels of this #WrestlingGenocide and clean the rust from the cogs.
And Crow McMorris? If you want to step to Godnilla, I'll see you in the finals...if you make it. Leave it to Bobby Cairo to fuck something as simple as killing you up...but I won't allow the same mistake to be made twice. You're a literal dead fuck, but I'll eviscerate you, tear you limb from limb, and if you come back again? Well, I'll just have to enjoy myself and do it all over again.
