Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2010 1:29:44 GMT -5
What makes a man turn into a degenerate redneck freak show like Dog Henry? Could it be the result of a birth defect or deep-seeded childhood trauma? Perhaps Dog simply wasn’t raised with any kinda sense? Regardless of the exact reason for Dog’s misfortune and his shortcomings in life it’s quite obvious that Dog’s parents have failed him. Chad Evans has no regard for such a sad, sorry, little puppy dog. Chad is more than happy to kick that dog while he’s down. Chad has no qualms about exposing trash and vermin for what it rightfully is. Chad has a major entrée on his plate, the WCF WORLD Tag Team titles, but Chad is willing to spend some time on the appetizer that is Dogboy Henry. Dog’s been barking like the mutt that he is, chirpin’ and burpin’ like a sad redneck clown about all that could have been and all that will be. Is Chad Evans amused? Not particularly. Does Chad care? He doesn’t really give a fuck. To be honest, Chad thinks that Henry’s dog and pony show is rather pathetic.
Right now Chad has positioned himself inside of an olden style phone booth, located inside of his favorite pub, “Zeke’s Tavern on the Green” in Hartford, Connecticut. Zeke’s is a popular establishment among hardworking New Englanders, people with good values and strong work ethics... people who aren’t from the South. Chad is sitting on a stool in the phone booth with one foot propped up on the side of the booth. Chad appears relaxed and comfortable. He’s wearing a pair of blue jeans, white kicks, and a long-sleeve shirt with a tasteful, black and white, checkerboard design. There is no jewelry adorning Chad’s body, he’s not a wealthy man, nor does he desire such aimless material goals. A simple, black Seiko watch is all that Chad requires for his daily activities. Chad prides himself on being a man of the people, for the people, by the people. Chad is convinced that he will lead an anarchist revolution to overthrow the corrupt WCF hierarchy and bring equality and opportunity to all of the workers. All of that is fresh in Chad’s brain and it’s vital to Chad’s story as a man, but it’s a different story for a different time. Right now Chad is talking to one of his bitches on the phone. Chad doesn’t like to use his cell during these conversations because he doesn’t want the phone calls being traced and such. It makes sense if you think about it.
There is no WCF camera crew shooting footage of Chad’s actions. Chad wouldn’t let those fruits hang out with him if they paid cold, hard cash. Chad revels in hanging with his flesh and blood. They might not be millionaires or celebrities who warrant media envoys, but they’re Chad’s people. Chad’s people are the united workers of the greater Hartford area. They are the united workers of a proud New England heritage. They are the united workers who support this man’s efforts to purge WCF nay America of all inequity. These workers drink their hearty alcoholic beverages and eat their hearty beefy meals while wearing their hearty boots, jeans, and flannel shirts, or their work uniforms with their nametags, whichever it might be. Among these workers are assembly persons, plumbers, electricians, construction workers and the like. These workers speak of many great things. They speak of the promise that tomorrow brings. They speak of the ambitions of a great leader. Somebody puts a dime into the jukebox and a song begins to play.
The great leader known as Chad is getting his rocks off with a bitch on the phone. Words are exchanged between Chad and the bitch regarding whose tongue will be placed into whose orifice on whose body. It’s all very mature and adult, things you are unlikely to ever experience. Chad is talking dirty with this young lady while scheduling a rendezvous with her. The young lady shall remain nameless to protect her from the unwashed perverts who would bring harm to her person. Chad finishes his call with an emphatic wham, bam, thank you ma’am before turning his attention to other matters. Chad rises from his stool, his entire body following him in unison as he stretches into a yoga pose, stretching all of those ligaments and tendons. Chad is now limber and ready to address his subject in a calm, rational nay sardonic tone of voice. The other patrons of the pub remain conversing and laughing amongst themselves. Their lips are moving but you can’t hear what they’re saying as Chad spits his shit.
Chad Evans: “Oh Dog, oh Henry. You croaked before you spoke. You should have ridden the Confederate Railroad straight home to Dixie. Why have you stoked this fire inside of me? Why have you agreed to appear at the Izod Center in East Rutherford, New Jersey? Your ego has betrayed you, you simple-minded fiend. I see a catalyst in your presence and it’s dragging you down. Oh you didn’t realize that your greatest asset is also your greatest burden? Please, allow me to explain. Your tag team partner has carried you to those title belts, Dogboy. Johnny Reb, while completely delusional with regard to his in-ring abilities, does admittedly possess some impressive accomplishments on his resume. Above all else the man is a former WCF World champion. Do you know what that means, Dog? Do you know what it means to accomplish something on your own, without another man watching your back? Without a partner to grab you by your collar and pull you above the rising tide? I don’t think you have a clue what that’s like.”
Chad licks his lips, like a man craving pork chops, but it’s not pork chops that this man is craving. The memories are now raging inside of Chad’s brain like a rock band raging against the machine.
Chad Evans: “Hey Dogboy, have you ever slept on a bed of nails in Curitiba? You ever had the Triad hot on your ass in Yokohama for transgressions that you believed were justified? You ever have a T-girl hold a switchblade to your throat in Bangkok while he/she was jacking your shit? I’ve experienced all of that and more and I’ve persevered. I’ve persevered because I am a warrior and a survivor. You don’t know the first thing about what it takes to survive. You’re an insolent child with an inflated ego. Why do you possess this new found confidence? You’ve suddenly been elevated. You’ve suddenly started achieving things in your WCF career, or so you believe. The reality is far more draconian. You’re riding your tag team partner’s coattails!”
Chad cackles maniacally while thinking about the absurdity of this revelation. He tries to compose himself and gently massages his face with his fingertips.
Chad Evans: “It’s a sad state of affairs, Dogboy. Let me ask you: are you as stunned as I was when I came to that revelation? I’m sure that you’re not. I’m sure that it’s something you’ve known for quite some time now, and to be brutally honest so have I. You are being carried by your tag partner Johnny Reb. You know it, I know it, the world knows it, and soon your partner will come to grips with that reality. What will you do then, Dogboy Henry? What will you do when Johnny Reb kicks you to the curb like so much rubbish? Will you dig through dumpsters and search alleyways for discarded scraps? Will you bite the bullet and concede that Dog Henry just doesn’t have what it takes to survive in the real world? Will you swallow your pride, along with the business end of a 45-caliber magnum? No, you won’t do any of those things, and do you know why? You’ll be content to be the same scum-sucking, bottom-feeding parasite that you’ve always been. You’re just a mutt, Henry. You’re a mutt with a sour temperament and I’ll put you out of your misery like Old Yeller.”
Chad walks over to the counter and orders a simple glass of water from the bartender. Chad doesn’t require booze at this time; he doesn’t want it or need it. Booze affects the equilibrium and Chad doesn’t want to interrupt his train of thought in this moment. Chad takes a sip of water to soothe his parched throat and returns to his monologue.
Chad Evans: “Dogboy, am I drunk and high or did you call me, and I quote, a Bobby Cairo wannabe? I should punch a hole in your abdomen for that statement alone. Do you want to hear a secret, Henry? Do you want me to toss you a bone? Here goes: Bobby Cairo is a manipulative, conniving, backstabbing thief. He stole twelve months from my career, twelve months that I will never get back. Do you know what I will do to Bobby Cairo to pay him back? I will kill him when the time comes. Cairo will die in my arms and I will laugh like a king from high upon my throne. I am a far greater presence in WCF than Cairo ever was. I am a far greater threat to the establishment than Cairo ever was. Cairo lacked focus and discipline. Cairo was whacked out on conspiracy theories that distracted him from the real issues. I know precisely who my enemies are and I will assassinate them, one by one. They will fall like dominoes. Cairo? Don’t mention his name in my presence, Henry. He’s far beneath me. Cairo was WCF champion at a time when NOBODY relevant was even involved in the WCF main event scene. None of the opponents that Cairo beat are even in the company anymore. Chad Evans on the other hand? I hold victories over a litany of talents.”
Chad taps his fingers on the countertop as he rattles off the names in his brain.
Chad Evans: “I’ve beaten the current WCF co-commissioner Brad Kane. I’ve beaten my fellow Big Dick Superstar, His Royal Majesty Prince Jimmy Dean. Of course my most famous match was a match that I didn’t even win, a match against Torture. I pushed Torture to his limit and I came closer to defeating Torture than any man in WCF history. Slickie T, you say? Fuck Slickie T. Slickie is best known for being a loser. When I lost to Torture I still came out ahead. It was my second wrestling match ever. There was no hype or pretense. Everybody assumed that it would be a total mismatch in Torture’s favor, but I fought Torture with every fiber of my being and I had him on his knees begging for mercy. So what’s the shame in losing a match? There is no shame on my head. There are no skeletons in my closet. Everything that I am is everything that you see, and soon you will see, Dogboy Henry, that I am more than you can ever be. I am a miracle. I reign down from the heavens with my scepter of the gods, but there is no god. Did you know that, Henry? There is no god, just a dyslexic dog.”
Chad takes another sip of water, while collecting his thoughts and pondering the material in his brain.
Chad Evans: “Greenfever you say? I laugh at Greenfever. He’s no god, just a mental patient run amok. My only beef with Greenfever is that he does Seth Lerch’s bidding instead of carving open Seth’s skull casing and delighting in a feast of brains, but I’m sure that will come in due time. Am I rambling, Henry? I do apologize, it’s just that I have a massive intellect and your most recent verbal transmission has given me much to think about. I’m one of these Bob Dylanesque, stream of consciousness kind of brothers. I get to thinking about one thing and then I get to thinking about another thing, and before you know it I’m exerting my will over you with fists and feet o’ fury. It’s OK, Henry. Don’t worry. You won’t die yet. If you die on Monday then how will The Royal Family get their title shot at Ten? Believe me, that title shot is all that I’m really thinking about. It’s all that’s really on my mind. I’m going to take my pants down on a Monday night in New Jersey and give you a taste of the Chad Dogg. That’s a pit bull not a poodle. I want you to taste my raw, just a sample, and tell me what you think.”
Chad chuckles as he pictures Dog Henry’s lips wrapped around his considerable manhood, sucking and swallowing like a good bitch, or female dog.
Chad Evans: “I want you to know what it’s like to have my Johnson in your mouth, Dog Henry. Why would I do such a thing? It’s quite simple, Henry. You’re going to have a long, hard night at Ten in Reading, Pennsylvania, and I don’t want you to be shell-shocked when that moment finally arrives. I want to make your skin crawl, but I don’t want you to be shell-shocked, not yet anyway. That will come in due time when I end your career. As far as Slam is concerned? This isn’t Vietnam that we’re talking about, Dogboy. It’s wrestling. I want you to bring your good shit. Come hard; in fact come harder than you’ve ever come before. Let’s do this like young men should and give the WCF fans a match they can be proud of. Do you think you can do that without fucking up, Dog? I hope that you can. Now if you’ll excuse me one of my other bitches needs tending to. Arrivederci, amigo!”
Chad salutes Dog Henry like a soldier in the Army and then dismisses him with a flick of the wrist. Chad Evans has bigger fish to fry on this evening than a silly Dogfish named Henry.
Right now Chad has positioned himself inside of an olden style phone booth, located inside of his favorite pub, “Zeke’s Tavern on the Green” in Hartford, Connecticut. Zeke’s is a popular establishment among hardworking New Englanders, people with good values and strong work ethics... people who aren’t from the South. Chad is sitting on a stool in the phone booth with one foot propped up on the side of the booth. Chad appears relaxed and comfortable. He’s wearing a pair of blue jeans, white kicks, and a long-sleeve shirt with a tasteful, black and white, checkerboard design. There is no jewelry adorning Chad’s body, he’s not a wealthy man, nor does he desire such aimless material goals. A simple, black Seiko watch is all that Chad requires for his daily activities. Chad prides himself on being a man of the people, for the people, by the people. Chad is convinced that he will lead an anarchist revolution to overthrow the corrupt WCF hierarchy and bring equality and opportunity to all of the workers. All of that is fresh in Chad’s brain and it’s vital to Chad’s story as a man, but it’s a different story for a different time. Right now Chad is talking to one of his bitches on the phone. Chad doesn’t like to use his cell during these conversations because he doesn’t want the phone calls being traced and such. It makes sense if you think about it.
There is no WCF camera crew shooting footage of Chad’s actions. Chad wouldn’t let those fruits hang out with him if they paid cold, hard cash. Chad revels in hanging with his flesh and blood. They might not be millionaires or celebrities who warrant media envoys, but they’re Chad’s people. Chad’s people are the united workers of the greater Hartford area. They are the united workers of a proud New England heritage. They are the united workers who support this man’s efforts to purge WCF nay America of all inequity. These workers drink their hearty alcoholic beverages and eat their hearty beefy meals while wearing their hearty boots, jeans, and flannel shirts, or their work uniforms with their nametags, whichever it might be. Among these workers are assembly persons, plumbers, electricians, construction workers and the like. These workers speak of many great things. They speak of the promise that tomorrow brings. They speak of the ambitions of a great leader. Somebody puts a dime into the jukebox and a song begins to play.
The great leader known as Chad is getting his rocks off with a bitch on the phone. Words are exchanged between Chad and the bitch regarding whose tongue will be placed into whose orifice on whose body. It’s all very mature and adult, things you are unlikely to ever experience. Chad is talking dirty with this young lady while scheduling a rendezvous with her. The young lady shall remain nameless to protect her from the unwashed perverts who would bring harm to her person. Chad finishes his call with an emphatic wham, bam, thank you ma’am before turning his attention to other matters. Chad rises from his stool, his entire body following him in unison as he stretches into a yoga pose, stretching all of those ligaments and tendons. Chad is now limber and ready to address his subject in a calm, rational nay sardonic tone of voice. The other patrons of the pub remain conversing and laughing amongst themselves. Their lips are moving but you can’t hear what they’re saying as Chad spits his shit.
Chad Evans: “Oh Dog, oh Henry. You croaked before you spoke. You should have ridden the Confederate Railroad straight home to Dixie. Why have you stoked this fire inside of me? Why have you agreed to appear at the Izod Center in East Rutherford, New Jersey? Your ego has betrayed you, you simple-minded fiend. I see a catalyst in your presence and it’s dragging you down. Oh you didn’t realize that your greatest asset is also your greatest burden? Please, allow me to explain. Your tag team partner has carried you to those title belts, Dogboy. Johnny Reb, while completely delusional with regard to his in-ring abilities, does admittedly possess some impressive accomplishments on his resume. Above all else the man is a former WCF World champion. Do you know what that means, Dog? Do you know what it means to accomplish something on your own, without another man watching your back? Without a partner to grab you by your collar and pull you above the rising tide? I don’t think you have a clue what that’s like.”
Chad licks his lips, like a man craving pork chops, but it’s not pork chops that this man is craving. The memories are now raging inside of Chad’s brain like a rock band raging against the machine.
Chad Evans: “Hey Dogboy, have you ever slept on a bed of nails in Curitiba? You ever had the Triad hot on your ass in Yokohama for transgressions that you believed were justified? You ever have a T-girl hold a switchblade to your throat in Bangkok while he/she was jacking your shit? I’ve experienced all of that and more and I’ve persevered. I’ve persevered because I am a warrior and a survivor. You don’t know the first thing about what it takes to survive. You’re an insolent child with an inflated ego. Why do you possess this new found confidence? You’ve suddenly been elevated. You’ve suddenly started achieving things in your WCF career, or so you believe. The reality is far more draconian. You’re riding your tag team partner’s coattails!”
Chad cackles maniacally while thinking about the absurdity of this revelation. He tries to compose himself and gently massages his face with his fingertips.
Chad Evans: “It’s a sad state of affairs, Dogboy. Let me ask you: are you as stunned as I was when I came to that revelation? I’m sure that you’re not. I’m sure that it’s something you’ve known for quite some time now, and to be brutally honest so have I. You are being carried by your tag partner Johnny Reb. You know it, I know it, the world knows it, and soon your partner will come to grips with that reality. What will you do then, Dogboy Henry? What will you do when Johnny Reb kicks you to the curb like so much rubbish? Will you dig through dumpsters and search alleyways for discarded scraps? Will you bite the bullet and concede that Dog Henry just doesn’t have what it takes to survive in the real world? Will you swallow your pride, along with the business end of a 45-caliber magnum? No, you won’t do any of those things, and do you know why? You’ll be content to be the same scum-sucking, bottom-feeding parasite that you’ve always been. You’re just a mutt, Henry. You’re a mutt with a sour temperament and I’ll put you out of your misery like Old Yeller.”
Chad walks over to the counter and orders a simple glass of water from the bartender. Chad doesn’t require booze at this time; he doesn’t want it or need it. Booze affects the equilibrium and Chad doesn’t want to interrupt his train of thought in this moment. Chad takes a sip of water to soothe his parched throat and returns to his monologue.
Chad Evans: “Dogboy, am I drunk and high or did you call me, and I quote, a Bobby Cairo wannabe? I should punch a hole in your abdomen for that statement alone. Do you want to hear a secret, Henry? Do you want me to toss you a bone? Here goes: Bobby Cairo is a manipulative, conniving, backstabbing thief. He stole twelve months from my career, twelve months that I will never get back. Do you know what I will do to Bobby Cairo to pay him back? I will kill him when the time comes. Cairo will die in my arms and I will laugh like a king from high upon my throne. I am a far greater presence in WCF than Cairo ever was. I am a far greater threat to the establishment than Cairo ever was. Cairo lacked focus and discipline. Cairo was whacked out on conspiracy theories that distracted him from the real issues. I know precisely who my enemies are and I will assassinate them, one by one. They will fall like dominoes. Cairo? Don’t mention his name in my presence, Henry. He’s far beneath me. Cairo was WCF champion at a time when NOBODY relevant was even involved in the WCF main event scene. None of the opponents that Cairo beat are even in the company anymore. Chad Evans on the other hand? I hold victories over a litany of talents.”
Chad taps his fingers on the countertop as he rattles off the names in his brain.
Chad Evans: “I’ve beaten the current WCF co-commissioner Brad Kane. I’ve beaten my fellow Big Dick Superstar, His Royal Majesty Prince Jimmy Dean. Of course my most famous match was a match that I didn’t even win, a match against Torture. I pushed Torture to his limit and I came closer to defeating Torture than any man in WCF history. Slickie T, you say? Fuck Slickie T. Slickie is best known for being a loser. When I lost to Torture I still came out ahead. It was my second wrestling match ever. There was no hype or pretense. Everybody assumed that it would be a total mismatch in Torture’s favor, but I fought Torture with every fiber of my being and I had him on his knees begging for mercy. So what’s the shame in losing a match? There is no shame on my head. There are no skeletons in my closet. Everything that I am is everything that you see, and soon you will see, Dogboy Henry, that I am more than you can ever be. I am a miracle. I reign down from the heavens with my scepter of the gods, but there is no god. Did you know that, Henry? There is no god, just a dyslexic dog.”
Chad takes another sip of water, while collecting his thoughts and pondering the material in his brain.
Chad Evans: “Greenfever you say? I laugh at Greenfever. He’s no god, just a mental patient run amok. My only beef with Greenfever is that he does Seth Lerch’s bidding instead of carving open Seth’s skull casing and delighting in a feast of brains, but I’m sure that will come in due time. Am I rambling, Henry? I do apologize, it’s just that I have a massive intellect and your most recent verbal transmission has given me much to think about. I’m one of these Bob Dylanesque, stream of consciousness kind of brothers. I get to thinking about one thing and then I get to thinking about another thing, and before you know it I’m exerting my will over you with fists and feet o’ fury. It’s OK, Henry. Don’t worry. You won’t die yet. If you die on Monday then how will The Royal Family get their title shot at Ten? Believe me, that title shot is all that I’m really thinking about. It’s all that’s really on my mind. I’m going to take my pants down on a Monday night in New Jersey and give you a taste of the Chad Dogg. That’s a pit bull not a poodle. I want you to taste my raw, just a sample, and tell me what you think.”
Chad chuckles as he pictures Dog Henry’s lips wrapped around his considerable manhood, sucking and swallowing like a good bitch, or female dog.
Chad Evans: “I want you to know what it’s like to have my Johnson in your mouth, Dog Henry. Why would I do such a thing? It’s quite simple, Henry. You’re going to have a long, hard night at Ten in Reading, Pennsylvania, and I don’t want you to be shell-shocked when that moment finally arrives. I want to make your skin crawl, but I don’t want you to be shell-shocked, not yet anyway. That will come in due time when I end your career. As far as Slam is concerned? This isn’t Vietnam that we’re talking about, Dogboy. It’s wrestling. I want you to bring your good shit. Come hard; in fact come harder than you’ve ever come before. Let’s do this like young men should and give the WCF fans a match they can be proud of. Do you think you can do that without fucking up, Dog? I hope that you can. Now if you’ll excuse me one of my other bitches needs tending to. Arrivederci, amigo!”
Chad salutes Dog Henry like a soldier in the Army and then dismisses him with a flick of the wrist. Chad Evans has bigger fish to fry on this evening than a silly Dogfish named Henry.