Post by Danny Vice on Jun 22, 2007 11:04:53 GMT -5
It's not what's happening to you now or what has happened in your past that determines who you become. Rather, it's your decisions about what to focus on, what things mean to you, and what you're going to do about them that will determine your ultimate destiny.
-Anthony Robbins
He is Creeping Fucking Death. There’s no denying it. He’s a former WCF World Champion. Fuck, he’s the fucking measuring stick. He’s a legend. A living. Breathing. Fucking. Legend. And you? Who are you supposed to be? Former tag champ who finally got his hands on singles gold and its was gone in a flash like an overhyped American Idol winner. Now. Now you’re nothing. You are an afterthought. A has been. Hell, a never was. You’ve been around long enough to see legends and idols come and go. Careers fade in and out like stars in with the rise and set of the sun. You went months of being Skyler Striker’s whipping post. The man he continually beat when anything and everything was on the line. Now, what are you doing? You’re his fucking first mate. You’ve let the man who once was your fiercest rival dictate the path and decisions you make. You’re better than that. Aren’t you?
Danny Vice lies awake in bed just days before Timebomb. Doubts still fill his mind of his upcoming match. Doubts he has no reason to truly yield to. He has proven himself with the squared circle multiple times. He’s beaten some of the most elite the WCF has seen in recent memory. Outcast. Thunder. Skyler Striker. Bobby Cairo. Lawnmower Jones. In one capacity or another, they’ve all fell victim to the Outkast, the Rejection, the Vicelock, and the Halo. They’ve all heard the tapping of the mat. Either by referee or self-induced. He’s done things and accomplished things he could have ever imagined as a young boy raising his brother and sister in San Diego. Things he’d never imagined while spending countless days in the gym. Hours upon hours of lifting, running, training. Pushing himself further and further each time, he’s been to the high mountaintops and to the depths of the valley. What truly does he have to doubt?
Creeping Fucking Death. The Hardcore Champion Johnny Craven. These names do indeed strike fear into the hearts of men. He was right, he always is. This isn’t training inside of a gym. This isn’t sparring with Jimmy. This is about championships. This is about ascending the ladder. How have ladder matches gone so far for you Danny? Not so well, huh? I didn’t think so. How have you done against Johnny Craven or Creeping Death in the past? Winless you say? Not surprising. You don’t have it in you. Do you?
Danny Vice: God Dammit!
Danny sits up in bed. He’s been restless all night. There’s just no way he’s sleeping calmly tonight. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep with all these random thoughts rushing his head. Doubts. Strategies. Second guesses. Second chances. He has to focus. He needs to focus. He must focus. He climbs out of bed and heads down the stairs to the den. On the printer is the transcript from Creeping Death and Johnny Craven’s latest promos. He asked Jimmy to print them so he could read over them in the morning. Maybe within their words he could find their own doubts, their own inadequacies, their own weaknesses. Anything. Something.
Danny Vice: Well let’s see here. Johnny Craven. Hmm…the guy doesn’t even make a mention of me. Nothing. I mean he drops my name at the end but this is all about Creeping Death beating the holy hell out of that Boone guy. Let’s check some of his older stuff.
Danny types quickly on the computer and begins scanning old Craven promos.
Danny Vice: This guy is the champ? How the fuck did I let him pin me? The Shadow Riders? This is like a bad Nic Cage movie. Doesn’t he ever worry about his opponents? And wow, look at this. He says he’s starting to crack. Crack? From what? Words? I’d be more worried about bones cracking from tables and ladders and chairs than words. I thought I had a lack of focus, but none of this guys stuff even talks about what’s going on inside of the ring. Well except for that sweet chair with two-by-fours and barbed wire that I am pretty sure would be damn near scientifically impossible to construct, let alone swing. If those are possible in real life, I am sooooo getting one. Ok, where’s that Creeping Death one.
Danny finds the printout of CD’s sitdown interview with THE Hank Brown.
Danny Vice: Hushamusha blah blah blah. I love Tort. I love Tort. I love Tort. Yeah, he is right. He is Creeping Fucking Death. Boy oh boy does he ever like to remind us about that. I don’t even think it’s possible to forget it with how often he’s shoved down our throats. He is pretty comparable to Paris Hilton. Everywhere you look and go, you see them. Their constantly in the news, it’s all about them, and they are the ones trying to tell us what to do and what to think. And then after, your balls itch. Weird. But what’s all this stuff he’s running on and on about? XII? Isn’t that next month? Doesn’t he have bigger things to worry about right now than XII? And why is he still complaining about Skyler? This guy is even less focused than Craven! Jesus Christ, I can’t even read about this shit anymore. I probably won’t even be on XIII!
With that Vice turns his monitor off and tosses the printouts aside. He heads back up the stairs and crawls into bed. Looking over at the clock, he sees the time flash.
[glow=red,2,300]3:13[/glow]
You will never be able to succeed against them Danny. They are superi…
Danny Vice: Shut the fuck up!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue
-John Keats
-Anthony Robbins
He is Creeping Fucking Death. There’s no denying it. He’s a former WCF World Champion. Fuck, he’s the fucking measuring stick. He’s a legend. A living. Breathing. Fucking. Legend. And you? Who are you supposed to be? Former tag champ who finally got his hands on singles gold and its was gone in a flash like an overhyped American Idol winner. Now. Now you’re nothing. You are an afterthought. A has been. Hell, a never was. You’ve been around long enough to see legends and idols come and go. Careers fade in and out like stars in with the rise and set of the sun. You went months of being Skyler Striker’s whipping post. The man he continually beat when anything and everything was on the line. Now, what are you doing? You’re his fucking first mate. You’ve let the man who once was your fiercest rival dictate the path and decisions you make. You’re better than that. Aren’t you?
Danny Vice lies awake in bed just days before Timebomb. Doubts still fill his mind of his upcoming match. Doubts he has no reason to truly yield to. He has proven himself with the squared circle multiple times. He’s beaten some of the most elite the WCF has seen in recent memory. Outcast. Thunder. Skyler Striker. Bobby Cairo. Lawnmower Jones. In one capacity or another, they’ve all fell victim to the Outkast, the Rejection, the Vicelock, and the Halo. They’ve all heard the tapping of the mat. Either by referee or self-induced. He’s done things and accomplished things he could have ever imagined as a young boy raising his brother and sister in San Diego. Things he’d never imagined while spending countless days in the gym. Hours upon hours of lifting, running, training. Pushing himself further and further each time, he’s been to the high mountaintops and to the depths of the valley. What truly does he have to doubt?
Creeping Fucking Death. The Hardcore Champion Johnny Craven. These names do indeed strike fear into the hearts of men. He was right, he always is. This isn’t training inside of a gym. This isn’t sparring with Jimmy. This is about championships. This is about ascending the ladder. How have ladder matches gone so far for you Danny? Not so well, huh? I didn’t think so. How have you done against Johnny Craven or Creeping Death in the past? Winless you say? Not surprising. You don’t have it in you. Do you?
Danny Vice: God Dammit!
Danny sits up in bed. He’s been restless all night. There’s just no way he’s sleeping calmly tonight. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep with all these random thoughts rushing his head. Doubts. Strategies. Second guesses. Second chances. He has to focus. He needs to focus. He must focus. He climbs out of bed and heads down the stairs to the den. On the printer is the transcript from Creeping Death and Johnny Craven’s latest promos. He asked Jimmy to print them so he could read over them in the morning. Maybe within their words he could find their own doubts, their own inadequacies, their own weaknesses. Anything. Something.
Danny Vice: Well let’s see here. Johnny Craven. Hmm…the guy doesn’t even make a mention of me. Nothing. I mean he drops my name at the end but this is all about Creeping Death beating the holy hell out of that Boone guy. Let’s check some of his older stuff.
Danny types quickly on the computer and begins scanning old Craven promos.
Danny Vice: This guy is the champ? How the fuck did I let him pin me? The Shadow Riders? This is like a bad Nic Cage movie. Doesn’t he ever worry about his opponents? And wow, look at this. He says he’s starting to crack. Crack? From what? Words? I’d be more worried about bones cracking from tables and ladders and chairs than words. I thought I had a lack of focus, but none of this guys stuff even talks about what’s going on inside of the ring. Well except for that sweet chair with two-by-fours and barbed wire that I am pretty sure would be damn near scientifically impossible to construct, let alone swing. If those are possible in real life, I am sooooo getting one. Ok, where’s that Creeping Death one.
Danny finds the printout of CD’s sitdown interview with THE Hank Brown.
Danny Vice: Hushamusha blah blah blah. I love Tort. I love Tort. I love Tort. Yeah, he is right. He is Creeping Fucking Death. Boy oh boy does he ever like to remind us about that. I don’t even think it’s possible to forget it with how often he’s shoved down our throats. He is pretty comparable to Paris Hilton. Everywhere you look and go, you see them. Their constantly in the news, it’s all about them, and they are the ones trying to tell us what to do and what to think. And then after, your balls itch. Weird. But what’s all this stuff he’s running on and on about? XII? Isn’t that next month? Doesn’t he have bigger things to worry about right now than XII? And why is he still complaining about Skyler? This guy is even less focused than Craven! Jesus Christ, I can’t even read about this shit anymore. I probably won’t even be on XIII!
With that Vice turns his monitor off and tosses the printouts aside. He heads back up the stairs and crawls into bed. Looking over at the clock, he sees the time flash.
[glow=red,2,300]3:13[/glow]
You will never be able to succeed against them Danny. They are superi…
Danny Vice: Shut the fuck up!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue
-John Keats
