Post by madddogg on Jul 6, 2009 19:32:05 GMT -5
I've lost a lot in my time. Belts. Friends. Family. Sleep. Time. Lots and lots of time. I've even lost a match.
But until recently, the one thing I could say is that I never lost my dignity. Now, that too has been taken from me. By a monosyllabic retard who argues with himself. Subjecting me to humiliations that still boil my blood to think about. Playing Dogg. Getting petted. There's a lot of sin to pay for.
And now, I've even lost my status. Being challenged by some punk who was shitting his Huggies while I was becoming world champion. Another quiet indignity. Facing some no name jamoke. The king of the jobbers I suppose. A little boy who plays with tanks. Fancing himself a hero. A warrior. A soldier.
He's just meat.
I don't blame Seth too much. After all, I have been gone so long. So very long. And I'm not the same now. I never played well with others. And perhaps he is afraid I'll break all his toys, his precious little wrestlers. So he gives me one that doesn't matter. No talent. No intelligence. Nothing special. So that if I break him, it doesn't matter. Dozens more like him on every corner. Easily replaced.
And he's right. I will break him. Badly. Beyond repair. And then another. And then another. And more. And more. Until Logan remains.
So this jamoke thinks he's prepared. His primary qualification? Being able to press play on a VCR. Being able to watch me on video. Having a remote to turn the volume up or down.
I've heard it before and will again. "I know you. I know your moves. I know your strategy." Heard it from dozens of jobbers before. Never saved any of them from the Dogg Pound. Never kept any of them out of the hospital. Never kept a single drop of blood from being spilled. Never kept a man from having to be carried to the back after a beating. Just gave a lot of false bravade. Big heads. Loud words. Stupid promos. Broken bodies.
You want to carry on a legacy D-Day, so here it is. You get to be another broken body in a sea of broken bodies. Another corpse in the pile.
You're prepared? Then you know that you can't be prepared. The only thing you can prepare for, is that I am unpredictible. Like a tornado, all you know is that destruction is coming. Carnage. There are no winners in a tornado. Just survivors. And you hope to lose as little as possible. Get out alive. Hide in a little ball and hope the tornado ignores you, passes over.
Your name is ironic. D-Day. A slaughter. Untold deaths. Massive body count. Screaming. Blood. Carnage. Chaos. For me a play ground. For you, horror. And that's what tonight brings you. Your own D-Day. Like so many men that day, you get to futilly rush the beach, pointlessly sacrificing yourself. And the last thought through your pitiful cranium will be that you are just like those young men:
Expendible chattle. A human shield, a bullet taker for someone else. How ironic that the little boy soldier gets to be a troop tonight. You are the first battle in a new war, son. And, like every war, this one has casualties. You won't make a name for yourself, but you get to be victim one as I start my own war body count. That's your legacy. That's your future.
D-Day, at H-Hour on Slam, you become victim one, a nameless face to start off my bloody war with Logan. And like every other victim one, that's all you'll be remembered for. By the time I am done with you, you'll be praying to some God, any God, begging him to let you feel the bite, so that the pain will stop and you can slip into the sweet embrace of black oblivion.
Hope that you get hit by a bus. A car. A plane. Heart attack. Stroke. Coma. Spontaneously explode. Any of that is better than what I have in store for you tonight. Tonight, you get something unexpected. Tonight, you get the new Madd Dogg. Darker, meaner, eviler, more scary. And hell bent on breaking you. Welcome to Normandy Beach D-Day. Your first real battle will be your last. Don't worry. I'll still remember your name...and least, until I get to victim two.
But until recently, the one thing I could say is that I never lost my dignity. Now, that too has been taken from me. By a monosyllabic retard who argues with himself. Subjecting me to humiliations that still boil my blood to think about. Playing Dogg. Getting petted. There's a lot of sin to pay for.
And now, I've even lost my status. Being challenged by some punk who was shitting his Huggies while I was becoming world champion. Another quiet indignity. Facing some no name jamoke. The king of the jobbers I suppose. A little boy who plays with tanks. Fancing himself a hero. A warrior. A soldier.
He's just meat.
I don't blame Seth too much. After all, I have been gone so long. So very long. And I'm not the same now. I never played well with others. And perhaps he is afraid I'll break all his toys, his precious little wrestlers. So he gives me one that doesn't matter. No talent. No intelligence. Nothing special. So that if I break him, it doesn't matter. Dozens more like him on every corner. Easily replaced.
And he's right. I will break him. Badly. Beyond repair. And then another. And then another. And more. And more. Until Logan remains.
So this jamoke thinks he's prepared. His primary qualification? Being able to press play on a VCR. Being able to watch me on video. Having a remote to turn the volume up or down.
I've heard it before and will again. "I know you. I know your moves. I know your strategy." Heard it from dozens of jobbers before. Never saved any of them from the Dogg Pound. Never kept any of them out of the hospital. Never kept a single drop of blood from being spilled. Never kept a man from having to be carried to the back after a beating. Just gave a lot of false bravade. Big heads. Loud words. Stupid promos. Broken bodies.
You want to carry on a legacy D-Day, so here it is. You get to be another broken body in a sea of broken bodies. Another corpse in the pile.
You're prepared? Then you know that you can't be prepared. The only thing you can prepare for, is that I am unpredictible. Like a tornado, all you know is that destruction is coming. Carnage. There are no winners in a tornado. Just survivors. And you hope to lose as little as possible. Get out alive. Hide in a little ball and hope the tornado ignores you, passes over.
Your name is ironic. D-Day. A slaughter. Untold deaths. Massive body count. Screaming. Blood. Carnage. Chaos. For me a play ground. For you, horror. And that's what tonight brings you. Your own D-Day. Like so many men that day, you get to futilly rush the beach, pointlessly sacrificing yourself. And the last thought through your pitiful cranium will be that you are just like those young men:
Expendible chattle. A human shield, a bullet taker for someone else. How ironic that the little boy soldier gets to be a troop tonight. You are the first battle in a new war, son. And, like every war, this one has casualties. You won't make a name for yourself, but you get to be victim one as I start my own war body count. That's your legacy. That's your future.
D-Day, at H-Hour on Slam, you become victim one, a nameless face to start off my bloody war with Logan. And like every other victim one, that's all you'll be remembered for. By the time I am done with you, you'll be praying to some God, any God, begging him to let you feel the bite, so that the pain will stop and you can slip into the sweet embrace of black oblivion.
Hope that you get hit by a bus. A car. A plane. Heart attack. Stroke. Coma. Spontaneously explode. Any of that is better than what I have in store for you tonight. Tonight, you get something unexpected. Tonight, you get the new Madd Dogg. Darker, meaner, eviler, more scary. And hell bent on breaking you. Welcome to Normandy Beach D-Day. Your first real battle will be your last. Don't worry. I'll still remember your name...and least, until I get to victim two.
