Post by Dake Ken on May 5, 2009 18:24:19 GMT -5
*Dake is sitting in his hotel room. He is sitting in a over sized chair with a horrible floral pattern on it. The faded green of the chair almost looks Grey in the light coming from the small TV on the other side of the room. It's blueish hue dimly lights the room.
A single bed sits, untouched in a while, along with a night stand with an older looking phone with a large black face and an undersized dial pad. It also has the classic red light sticking out of the lower right hand side of the face and there are a list of extension numbers listed on a sticker that adorns the back of the handset. An lamp sits on the nigh stand as well with a beat up phone book that looks like it is about five or six years old. There is a mini fridge across the small room tucked into the corner. A small table with two wooden chairs sits has a nearby home to the fridge. There is a plate sitting on the table with plastic cups wrapped in plastic, coffee filters and some plastic utensils. A coffee machine that actually looks new sits on the table as well.
Dake has a notepad in his hand and is writing notes. The screen can not be seen but the noise coming from the TV seems to indicate that it is a taping of Slam from Monday. He is looking at the TV with bloodshot eyes, but overall seems to be in good spirits. He is dressed in an old XGWO shirt and basketball shorts.*
Dake: (with a heavy southern accent) Whoooooooooooo wheeeeeeeeeee!
*Dake slaps his knee.*
Dake: (normal voice) I can hear it now. All over the southeast region of the USA there are Johnny Reb fans rejoicing!
(southern accent)
"Our boy did it! The South 1, Dake 0! Whewwwww YEAH boyyy! That's what I'ma talkin' 'bout sum' bitch! Johnny Reb whipped the sheet outta that Canadian muther fuker!"
*Dake rolls his eyes.*
Dake: (normal voice) Now, I have nothing against fans of the WCF who live in the south, but if there is one thing I hate, it's good ol' boys. Good ol' boys who can take a story and embellish it so much that it becomes a totally different story! Where maybe ramping a car off a homemade ramp turns into jumping a car across a lake. Where a simple cattle escape turns into a stampede. Where a simple victory turns into an ass"whoopin." So I'm just going to point something out, because I don't want this little ... tie ... to turn into anything more than what it is. I want Johnny Reb to realize that he pinned my sholders to the mat illegally while I was pinning another man. So, Johnny, don't think that when we come face to face in a one on one match the result will be the same.
*Dake pauses and looks down for a moment. His brow compacting into a "V" in concentration. He looks back up.
Dake: I'm getting ahead of myself here ... let me explain. "Why even bring all of this up Dake?" you ask.
*Dake takes the notebook and pen on his lap and tosses it on the bed. It lands and flips a couple of pages with a ruffle of paper being handled violently. Dake takes the glasses he's wearing off and folds them, he puts his hands on the arms of the chair and pushes himself up. He stands with a bit of a stretch and walks over to the table in the room. He sets the glasses down and grabs the plastic cups. He opens the packaging and removes the cup. He opens the mini fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. He pours a cup and puts the water back in the fridge. He drinks the glass in a few gulps and exhales.*
Dake: The reason I bring this all up is due to a common trait I find about wrestlers looking for their first real shot at success in a promotion. They can take one little fluke, and turn it into this pseudo-momentum. I've seen it many times and I've been guilty of assuming my cheap win was a huge step up in my game. I'll admit it. I've taken cheap victories and gotten a big head, gone back in the ring, and been picked apart by a wise vet. So, Johnny, don't think you're automatically on the same level as me.
*Dake sets the cup on the table and walks back over to the chair. As he passes the bed he grabs the notebook off the bed. He flops back on the chair.*
Dake: I'm not going to sell you short. You're a good wrestler who has made a name for himself in a short time, but you're not on my level. You had a good match with Chris Avery and I, but you are just not on my level. One on one. Man on man. You are just not ... up to my level.
*Dake looks at his notebook and taps it lightly. He chuckles to himself and flips through the pages.*
Dake: I've already started to take you apart Johnny. Not physically. Not mentally. But technically. Breaking down all your ring work. Scouting your moves. Making sure that I'm always one step ahead of you.
*Dake holds up the notebook.*
Dake: It's all here. All in my notes. ... I have a question for you Johnny. ... What are you doing? Are you preparing for our next meeting? Are your going over all the technical flaws you have? Because I have seen them. I'm already making notes on them, and trust me I will capitalize on them all. So are you going over your foot work, or are you kicking back some "R and R" while watching a cheap porno on Cinemax? You watching tape and taking notes of my flaws ... heh ... yeah anyways, are you watching tape of me, searching, for my flaws. Taking note of them. Committing them to memory so when faced with the situation in the ring you can take advantage of it or ... are you down at a local drink hole getting smashed with some good ol' boys going on about how you "whooped my ass?"
*Dake lets a cocky smile creep across his face. The same cocky smirk that he has always given. Dake shakes his head and chuckles.*
Dake: You call yourself a "son of the south." Well I'm a son of the ring. A wrestler with technical skills like none you've ever faced before.
I will admit though, you've frustrated me a little bit. Here we are again. I should already have that number one contender spot. Yet, because you can't beat me clean, I've got to beat you one on one.
*Dake mocks a golf clap.*
A single bed sits, untouched in a while, along with a night stand with an older looking phone with a large black face and an undersized dial pad. It also has the classic red light sticking out of the lower right hand side of the face and there are a list of extension numbers listed on a sticker that adorns the back of the handset. An lamp sits on the nigh stand as well with a beat up phone book that looks like it is about five or six years old. There is a mini fridge across the small room tucked into the corner. A small table with two wooden chairs sits has a nearby home to the fridge. There is a plate sitting on the table with plastic cups wrapped in plastic, coffee filters and some plastic utensils. A coffee machine that actually looks new sits on the table as well.
Dake has a notepad in his hand and is writing notes. The screen can not be seen but the noise coming from the TV seems to indicate that it is a taping of Slam from Monday. He is looking at the TV with bloodshot eyes, but overall seems to be in good spirits. He is dressed in an old XGWO shirt and basketball shorts.*
Dake: (with a heavy southern accent) Whoooooooooooo wheeeeeeeeeee!
*Dake slaps his knee.*
Dake: (normal voice) I can hear it now. All over the southeast region of the USA there are Johnny Reb fans rejoicing!
(southern accent)
"Our boy did it! The South 1, Dake 0! Whewwwww YEAH boyyy! That's what I'ma talkin' 'bout sum' bitch! Johnny Reb whipped the sheet outta that Canadian muther fuker!"
*Dake rolls his eyes.*
Dake: (normal voice) Now, I have nothing against fans of the WCF who live in the south, but if there is one thing I hate, it's good ol' boys. Good ol' boys who can take a story and embellish it so much that it becomes a totally different story! Where maybe ramping a car off a homemade ramp turns into jumping a car across a lake. Where a simple cattle escape turns into a stampede. Where a simple victory turns into an ass"whoopin." So I'm just going to point something out, because I don't want this little ... tie ... to turn into anything more than what it is. I want Johnny Reb to realize that he pinned my sholders to the mat illegally while I was pinning another man. So, Johnny, don't think that when we come face to face in a one on one match the result will be the same.
*Dake pauses and looks down for a moment. His brow compacting into a "V" in concentration. He looks back up.
Dake: I'm getting ahead of myself here ... let me explain. "Why even bring all of this up Dake?" you ask.
*Dake takes the notebook and pen on his lap and tosses it on the bed. It lands and flips a couple of pages with a ruffle of paper being handled violently. Dake takes the glasses he's wearing off and folds them, he puts his hands on the arms of the chair and pushes himself up. He stands with a bit of a stretch and walks over to the table in the room. He sets the glasses down and grabs the plastic cups. He opens the packaging and removes the cup. He opens the mini fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. He pours a cup and puts the water back in the fridge. He drinks the glass in a few gulps and exhales.*
Dake: The reason I bring this all up is due to a common trait I find about wrestlers looking for their first real shot at success in a promotion. They can take one little fluke, and turn it into this pseudo-momentum. I've seen it many times and I've been guilty of assuming my cheap win was a huge step up in my game. I'll admit it. I've taken cheap victories and gotten a big head, gone back in the ring, and been picked apart by a wise vet. So, Johnny, don't think you're automatically on the same level as me.
*Dake sets the cup on the table and walks back over to the chair. As he passes the bed he grabs the notebook off the bed. He flops back on the chair.*
Dake: I'm not going to sell you short. You're a good wrestler who has made a name for himself in a short time, but you're not on my level. You had a good match with Chris Avery and I, but you are just not on my level. One on one. Man on man. You are just not ... up to my level.
*Dake looks at his notebook and taps it lightly. He chuckles to himself and flips through the pages.*
Dake: I've already started to take you apart Johnny. Not physically. Not mentally. But technically. Breaking down all your ring work. Scouting your moves. Making sure that I'm always one step ahead of you.
*Dake holds up the notebook.*
Dake: It's all here. All in my notes. ... I have a question for you Johnny. ... What are you doing? Are you preparing for our next meeting? Are your going over all the technical flaws you have? Because I have seen them. I'm already making notes on them, and trust me I will capitalize on them all. So are you going over your foot work, or are you kicking back some "R and R" while watching a cheap porno on Cinemax? You watching tape and taking notes of my flaws ... heh ... yeah anyways, are you watching tape of me, searching, for my flaws. Taking note of them. Committing them to memory so when faced with the situation in the ring you can take advantage of it or ... are you down at a local drink hole getting smashed with some good ol' boys going on about how you "whooped my ass?"
*Dake lets a cocky smile creep across his face. The same cocky smirk that he has always given. Dake shakes his head and chuckles.*
Dake: You call yourself a "son of the south." Well I'm a son of the ring. A wrestler with technical skills like none you've ever faced before.
I will admit though, you've frustrated me a little bit. Here we are again. I should already have that number one contender spot. Yet, because you can't beat me clean, I've got to beat you one on one.
*Dake mocks a golf clap.*
