Post by Deleted on Jun 10, 2011 4:28:30 GMT -5
A black leather chair. A glass of Kentucky bourbon. Phillip Baines sits in one while grasping the other as if it were a bosom or an ass cheek. This is Baines the Leisurely, sitting upon his throne while dressed in a crushed velvet robe and enjoying a fine American beverage. This is how a man caps off another long day at the office, or the "Dojo" as it were.
Phillip Baines: It is early Friday morning, June the tenth of two-thousand and eleven. Once again I find myself on the verge of locking horns with an absolute psychopath in the name of quote/unquote "sports entertainment". Should I cackle? Should I chuckle? Should I fret or frown? Should I crack my knuckles and then crack a few skulls, American skulls, Oblivion and Reckless Jack skulls? Oh, their time will come. Obi and Jack will walk with Baines in Hell and they will perish as their minds, bodies and souls are flame-broiled by the hottest of hellfire. Of this I have no doubt. I do however have a couple of questions regarding a related matter. What the hell is wrong with Mark Markman? What the hell is wrong with WCF management? Let's look at their pattern of behavior in recent times. It's bad enough that they let sociopaths like Oblivion and his now-deceased friend Greenfever into this company in the first place, but they're letting these men compete in the hardcore environment against a man who quite simply... does not give a fuck. You have to understand something about me. You ALL have to understand something about me. This goes for Oblivion, Reckless Jack, Logan, Jason Kash, the guy who collects tickets in the fourteenth row, Jay Williams... yeah, the ticket taker is higher than Jay Williams in my book. Fuck you, Williams, you video game playing jerkoff.
Baines facewipes himself with his non-drink-holding hand and a calm immediately washes over him.
Phil: My point, the point, the point...
Phil's unflinching and almighty, New England-flavored voice turns to a whisper.
Phil: I have no fear when I set foot inside of the wrestling ring.
No smirk. No smile. Just pure, unadulterated Baines, and Baines means business.
Phil: I have no fear when I set foot into a dark alley in the heart of Hartford, murder capital of the Northeast, at three-thirty in the morning. I do that shit because I think it's funny. That's right. I think it's funny to bait these motherfuckers who think they're hard and then beat their fucking face in until there is no alternative, there is no escape, only my victorious fists raining their unflinching fury upon your bloodied, pussy-ass, little faces. I want you to think about it, Oblivion. Get it clear in your brain, son. They gave me a license to kill against Greenfever and what did I do? I loaded both barrels of my American-made killing piece and I went to work. I delivered the goods in Des Moines, Iowa. You talk about wrath, chaos, heresy and bloodshed. You talk about wreaking havoc upon us meatsacks and bringing an empire to its knees, leveling it to the point of utter ruin. You speak of gods, nomads, children of the underworld, a congregation flocking to hear you speak and hanging on your every word. It is a pure comedy scene, Oblivion. You speak in incoherent riddles and arithmetic. You speak nonsense. You speak the words of a buffoon, an idiot, a fat fuck who escaped from a mental institution but thinks he's hot shit all the same. I dealt with a more eloquent version of you last month at XIII and guess what? He's buried in the ground under my feet. That's right. I had Greenfever buried beneath the oaken panels that constitute the floor of my den.
Baines takes a swizzle of bourbon, enough to get that smooth, Kentucky warmth nestled deep inside of his heart and soul.
Phil: It brings me peace of mind to have a vanquished enemy so close to me during my time of leisure. I'm not always a confrontational man. I have the ability to throw down a few cold ones and relax every now and again. I have the ability to unwind. I think that's important. I'm not a cartoon character like some, like Oblivion, like Reckless Jack, like Greenfever. I am Baines at all times. I am aggressive when I need to be aggressive, when I am threatened, when I need to be threatened to prove that I have my wits about me. When I am with my girlfriend Gina I am of course tender and loving. It's not just about the sex. There is a companionship component that goes along with it. I have no sympathy for Oblivion and the horrors of a troubled mind that I must unleash upon him, but I do have sympathy for Stephan Johnson. The man's wife was murdered and obviously that made him crack. It's understandable. The problem for Stephan is that his body and his actions are controlled by Oblivion. What Stephan really needs is professional help. He will not find that in the ring in Salt Lake City on Monday night. The only thing that Stephan-slash-Oblivion will find is the cold, hard steel of a rock-hard magnate named Baines. You need the cushy comfort of a psychiatrist's couch, Stephan. You need a mental health expert who will listen to your problems and advise you on the proper course of action for a full recovery.
Philly boy shakes his head because it's a goddamn shame, the fate that has befallen Stephan Johnson.
Phil: Stepping into the ring with Baines in a hardcore environment that I have mastered against the best of the best is no way to get better. It's a great way to have your life and career ended. No one can argue against that. Just ask Greenfever.
Phil casts a stare down to the floorboards beneath his feet. Suddenly his eyes grow wide and his ears perk up.
Phil: Can you hear that, Oblivion? Greenie is calling out to you. He's whispering your name, like the wind in the willows. He's telling you to run. Run hard, run fast, run deep... just run! Save yourself! You don't want none of Baines!
Phil nods his head and smiles at the floor.
Phil: Thank you, Greenie! You do know how to flatter a young man! Oblivion, your dead friend speaks the truth. He died for your sins, like Jesus. That's what Greenfever did for you. He sacrificed himself to save you. Don't you realize that? Don't you understand it, Aceblivion? Greenfever set the example of what not to do against Baines, namely stepping into the ring to compete against him. That's what not to do, Obi. DO... NOT... do what? Do not cross me. Oops, too late. You already signed the contract. It's ironclad. There is no escape. If you run now then Markman will sue you for every penny that you've managed to accumulate in your career of the absurd and grotesque. It's a lose-lose situation for you, Oblivion. You can run away and die penniless or you can compete on Monday night and die famous in the middle of the glorified slaughterhouse known as the WCF ring. That's a bitch of a decision, Oblivion. A motherfucking bitch of a decision. I don't envy you, boy. Your cock is so small you can piss on your balls, but more than that you're a dead man. Although... wait... wait... GAAAAAH!
Baines strains at the brain as a violent transmission passes through him.
Phil: Chemicals say? There is an alternative. One need not physically perish. One may... return to the Facility. What say you, Oblivion Johnson? Yeah, that's it. Go back to P.H.A.S.E. Get the help that you obviously need. You're maladjusted, Oblivion. You're fucked in the head, but that's not the saddest part. The saddest part, for what it's worth, is that you cannot defeat a sane man named Baines at your own twisted little game. You're a sick fuck, a psychopath, yet when Baines meets 'blivion it will be like... hydrochloric acid melting an already jacked-up face. Do you know what I mean? I'm the acid. You're the ugly ass, jacked-up, honky mofo. That's right. I called you a honky. Don't like it? Do something about it, inbred. Why do I bring race into the equation? Because I can, Oblivion. I do it because this is WCF and if one isn't playing the race card then they're not really trying. You are a white man who deserves to die. I am the white man who will kill you. What would Chris Avery say about it? Chris Avery is a virgin so it doesn't matter what he says about anything.
Baines glugs down another drink of bourbon.
Phil: I'm unwinding now, oh sure, but don't let that fool you. I've been busting my ass to prepare for you, Oblivion. You and your little buddy Reckless Jack. Connecticut has been hotter than hell this week, yet I've been cracking my bones, breaking my ass, spilling my blood and sweat, and pounding the discs inside my neck and back until they bulge. Why do I do it? It's what a champion does. This is the work that the great ones commit themselves to in order to become even greater. You accused me, Oblivion, of looking past this match, looking past the Hardcore Championship to focus upon quote/unquote "bigger and better things". Bullshit, Oblivion. Pure, unadulterated bullshit. You obviously know nothing about me as a man or a competitor. Let me make something perfectly clear to you and all other imbeciles who are confused on this issue: I, Phillip Baines, am committed to being the WCF Hardcore Champion. Someday, yes someday, I will wear the WCF World Championship. I will have a great and awesome reign as the top dog here in WCF. All of the women will adore me, and all of the men will fear me. But oh wait... that's already true. Anyway, someday I will be World Champion, but that day is long upon the horizon. Push that shit back in your calendar until after D-Day has had a nice, long World Title reign of his own. What is Baines focused on?
Baines combats the uproarious laughter that is swelling inside of him with a clearing of his throat.
Phil: I am focused on only one goal: Defeating all who challenge me for the WCF Hardcore Championship. I take pride in wearing this championship. I take pride in being the most feared man in professional wrestling. Greenfever used to hold that unofficial title but I took it from him, along with the very official gold and leather championship belt. You won't see that belt here in my promo. I keep it protected in a place deep within the fiber of my soul. Imagine my soul as a loaf of bread. Imagine that the Hardcore Championship belt is baked deep within that loaf of bread, hearty whole wheat bread. Are you imagining it? If so, then you are now beginning to understand some things about Baines. Understand this, Oblivion asshole: I am not a failure and a choke artist like you. You step up to the plate, time and time again you do this, but that alone does not earn you any respect in my book. You step up to the plate only to strike out when you face the big guns.
Baines slugs back the remnants of a once-full glass of bourbon and then pours himself another. Of course he takes a nice, long swig from this fresh glass. Baines ponders, as if Obama trying to remember how many states are in the US, before continuing.
Phil: Let's see... You lost to Johnny Reb, who was an embarrassment and a disgrace to this company in his own right. How the fuck could you lose to Johnny Reb, Oblivion? You're eight-feet-tall. You weigh more than five-hundred-pounds. Johnny Reb is built all thin and wiry, like a girl. He moves like a chick inside of the ring. You allowed that man to pin your shoulders for the three count? Disgusting. Purely fucking disgusting, like a pizza that's been prepared by Puerto Rican hands. The more that I think about it, Oblivion, you dying at my hands will be a relief... for you. Sure it will be painful, but I won't drag it out for too long. Greenfever's death was as simple as me injecting a syringe filled with bleach into his brain. Got any syringes, Obi?
Baines grins like a Cheshire cat or a male cast member from Jersey Shore, but then it's gone. Phillip is pissed again.
Phil: I'm not even going to acknowledge your loss to Jay Williams. Words cannot express how pathetic that is... and how pathetic you are for allowing it to happen. You can spout all of the psychobabble that you want, Oblivion. You can spit your shit until your mouth turns into a clit, but none of that erases the putrid stench of failure from your record. Your accomplishments are bullshit and are easily overshadowed by your losses to every Tom, Dick and Harry who has stumbled through the doorways of this company. How many bitches have held your shoulders down for the three, Oblivion bro? You spend more time on your back than Ana Valentine in the men's locker room. That's right. Baines is going off. I'm calling out all bitches, hoes and tramps, whether they have a cock and balls or a pussy. You're all pussies in my eyes. I will speak your name and you won't say shit to me because I'm Baines, goddamn it. I will bury you in shit and you will drop to your knees and praise my name.
Baines cackles like a madman in between chugs of bourbon.
Phil: The rest will have to wait their turn. Oblivion is next. Technically, Oblivion and Reckless Jack are next... but who gives a shit about Reckless Jack? The man is washed up. He's irrelevant. If he speaks then I will acknowledge him with extreme force and even more extreme prejudice, but right now he's MIA. Perhaps Reckless Jack will no-show on Monday night at Blast. Perhaps he will disappear back into the abyss of old retired assholes, where he belongs. The idea that Reckless Jack was going to be the man to restore honor and respect to WCF was a fucking joke. The idea that Reckless Jack even exists at this point is a fucking joke. Bradley Kane is all that remains of the former Reckless Jack, and Bradley Kane needs to go fuck his big-tittied wife and leave the real superstars in this company to do their work. Donnie Deruty is a superstar. Doc Henry is a superstar. Phil "Flyboy" Baines is a superstar. Bradley Kane is rhinoceros pizzle. Pack up your shit and take a walk out the door, Reckless Jackoff, and take your little bitch friend Creeping Death with you. Both of you assholes can fuck off to Iowa because, let me tell you something, if I see you in Salt Lake City.
Phil leaps to his feet and onto the chair where he was previously seated.
Phil: If I see you in Salt Lake motherfucking City I will TAKE YOU OUTTTTT!!!!!!!
Phil bellows at the top of his lungs before goddamn near slipping and falling from that smooth, Corinthian leather chair. Phil is obviously unsteady on his feet, so he pays extra careful attention as he steps down and returns to his seat.
Phil: I don't care if I see you at IHOP. I don't care if I see you at the Mormon Tabernacle Church. I don't care if I see you at the XXX theater. If I see you, you will hurt, you will break, you will bleed, I will not relent, you will bleed some more, and you will die. I'm tired of the games. I'm tired of the bullshit. I'm tired of the same old faces trying to hold down the young guns in WCF. Brad Kane couldn't stop his own career from sliding down the shitter so now he wants to destroy the careers of any and all aspiring superstars in WCF? That's fucked. It's fucked like a duck, a duck that's been roasted and placed onto my dinner plate. I get the distinct impression that Brad Kane, like Oblivion, does not appreciate the gravity of the situation in which he finds himself.
Phil sighs a deep, heavy, burdensome sigh. This is obviously a young man with a lot on his mind.
Phil: I am an emperor in these new Roman times, Brad. That's the best way that I can describe it. It's the only way that you can understand. When I want something, I get it. I make it happen with the crack of my tyrant's whip. I lower my wrath upon your cranium and there is no further debate, there is no further discourse. I eviscerate your mind, body and soul and leave you with only the empty shell. This is why your approach to Baines is not pragmatic. There is no course of action, reasonable or otherwise, that can prepare you for my decadent orgasm of violence. One cannot compete inside of a wrestling ring when their heart cannot beat, when their lungs cannot breathe. It is like a fish attempting to swim on a dried-out basin... wholly impossible. You are indeed a fish out of water, Brad Kane. Your former persona accomplished many great things in WCF. For one thing, he was a pioneer of the hardcore environment that I now dominate, proving that his name was more than just cannon fodder for the WCF marketing division. Kudos to Reckless Jack for that. Unfortunately...
Phil, very dramatically, motions with his hands as if "brushing the dirt" from them.
Phil: That mofo was put out to pasture a long time ago. Dead and buried, like Greenfever. Phil Baines is a very different story. What did they say on the WCF website? "Phillip Baines IS the Hardcore Champion and has raised the bar and set the metaphorical attitude of that Championship." Do you understand what that means? I'm not just the Hardcore Champion. I DEFINE what it means to be the Hardcore Champion. You cannot say that about any other holder of any other championship in this company. I don't think that you even remember what it means to be hardcore, Brad. I'm hardcore on the attitudinal tip. Even Oblivion, choke artist though he is, has some grasp of what it means to be hardcore. You, Kane... you think that beating Roy Speede is hot shit. How can I...
Phil massages his brain with his fingertips as if trying to allow this information to be digested more easily.
Phil: How can I take that seriously? How can I take you seriously? Hall of Fame plaque, you say? So what? So nothing. Sew buttons. Metallica is in the Hall of Fame and they haven't released a decent album in twenty years. All of that shit is political. The truth is that you've been coddled in the World Title division for too many years, Brad. You forgot what it means to wear these colors and rep WCF, hardcore-style. The hardcore division is an altogether different animal from what you've grown accustomed to. You won't find any glitz and glamour in the ranks of the hardcore. This is thankless, grueling labor. Hell, I didn't even choose to be here. I was cast here by a conspiracy of fate. But now... now I am the very definition of hardcore.
Phil grimaces, though through that grimace he looks almost proud.
Phil: I tell ya, it's both a blessing and a curse. I have been able to escape abject poverty thanks to my success here in WCF, but the atrocities that I have been forced to commit and will commit again in the very near future *cough*MondaynightinUtah*cough* haunt me. They hinder my ability to enjoy so much as a peaceful night's rest while nestled in the generous bosom of my lovely and doting girlfriend Gina. These pills...
Baines reaches into the left pocket of his robe and pulls out a green plastic pill bottle. He holds the bottle up with the label displayed prominently. It reads "Nature's Bounty Melatonin. 3 mg. Promotes sleep."
Phil: These are Phil's little white pills, the only thing in this world that can have a stone cold killer with murder on his mind like me sleeping like a baby within minutes. Yeah, that's Melatonin, wigga. The good shit.
Phil pops the top on the bottle and then pops a couple of the "little white pills" into his mouth. He washes them down with a glass of bourbon. It's not long before Baines becomes affected, thrown into the Melatonin trance. Phil whips his hurr back and forth, then leans back in the comfy leather chair.
Phil: Yo, DJ! Pump some McLachlan on that stereo system and crank it, son!
Without hesitation, the tranquil and lilting melodies of Sarah McLachlan's "Into The Fire" blare over an extensive maze of stereo speakers. Baines closes his eyes and drifts away to a world of magic and wonderment. A short time passes before Gina, adorned in a blue nightie, finds Baines asleep here in the den. Gina shakes her head, scoops Baines up in her dainty though apparently very powerful arms, and carries him to their bedroom while McLachlan plays them off.
Phillip Baines: It is early Friday morning, June the tenth of two-thousand and eleven. Once again I find myself on the verge of locking horns with an absolute psychopath in the name of quote/unquote "sports entertainment". Should I cackle? Should I chuckle? Should I fret or frown? Should I crack my knuckles and then crack a few skulls, American skulls, Oblivion and Reckless Jack skulls? Oh, their time will come. Obi and Jack will walk with Baines in Hell and they will perish as their minds, bodies and souls are flame-broiled by the hottest of hellfire. Of this I have no doubt. I do however have a couple of questions regarding a related matter. What the hell is wrong with Mark Markman? What the hell is wrong with WCF management? Let's look at their pattern of behavior in recent times. It's bad enough that they let sociopaths like Oblivion and his now-deceased friend Greenfever into this company in the first place, but they're letting these men compete in the hardcore environment against a man who quite simply... does not give a fuck. You have to understand something about me. You ALL have to understand something about me. This goes for Oblivion, Reckless Jack, Logan, Jason Kash, the guy who collects tickets in the fourteenth row, Jay Williams... yeah, the ticket taker is higher than Jay Williams in my book. Fuck you, Williams, you video game playing jerkoff.
Baines facewipes himself with his non-drink-holding hand and a calm immediately washes over him.
Phil: My point, the point, the point...
Phil's unflinching and almighty, New England-flavored voice turns to a whisper.
Phil: I have no fear when I set foot inside of the wrestling ring.
No smirk. No smile. Just pure, unadulterated Baines, and Baines means business.
Phil: I have no fear when I set foot into a dark alley in the heart of Hartford, murder capital of the Northeast, at three-thirty in the morning. I do that shit because I think it's funny. That's right. I think it's funny to bait these motherfuckers who think they're hard and then beat their fucking face in until there is no alternative, there is no escape, only my victorious fists raining their unflinching fury upon your bloodied, pussy-ass, little faces. I want you to think about it, Oblivion. Get it clear in your brain, son. They gave me a license to kill against Greenfever and what did I do? I loaded both barrels of my American-made killing piece and I went to work. I delivered the goods in Des Moines, Iowa. You talk about wrath, chaos, heresy and bloodshed. You talk about wreaking havoc upon us meatsacks and bringing an empire to its knees, leveling it to the point of utter ruin. You speak of gods, nomads, children of the underworld, a congregation flocking to hear you speak and hanging on your every word. It is a pure comedy scene, Oblivion. You speak in incoherent riddles and arithmetic. You speak nonsense. You speak the words of a buffoon, an idiot, a fat fuck who escaped from a mental institution but thinks he's hot shit all the same. I dealt with a more eloquent version of you last month at XIII and guess what? He's buried in the ground under my feet. That's right. I had Greenfever buried beneath the oaken panels that constitute the floor of my den.
Baines takes a swizzle of bourbon, enough to get that smooth, Kentucky warmth nestled deep inside of his heart and soul.
Phil: It brings me peace of mind to have a vanquished enemy so close to me during my time of leisure. I'm not always a confrontational man. I have the ability to throw down a few cold ones and relax every now and again. I have the ability to unwind. I think that's important. I'm not a cartoon character like some, like Oblivion, like Reckless Jack, like Greenfever. I am Baines at all times. I am aggressive when I need to be aggressive, when I am threatened, when I need to be threatened to prove that I have my wits about me. When I am with my girlfriend Gina I am of course tender and loving. It's not just about the sex. There is a companionship component that goes along with it. I have no sympathy for Oblivion and the horrors of a troubled mind that I must unleash upon him, but I do have sympathy for Stephan Johnson. The man's wife was murdered and obviously that made him crack. It's understandable. The problem for Stephan is that his body and his actions are controlled by Oblivion. What Stephan really needs is professional help. He will not find that in the ring in Salt Lake City on Monday night. The only thing that Stephan-slash-Oblivion will find is the cold, hard steel of a rock-hard magnate named Baines. You need the cushy comfort of a psychiatrist's couch, Stephan. You need a mental health expert who will listen to your problems and advise you on the proper course of action for a full recovery.
Philly boy shakes his head because it's a goddamn shame, the fate that has befallen Stephan Johnson.
Phil: Stepping into the ring with Baines in a hardcore environment that I have mastered against the best of the best is no way to get better. It's a great way to have your life and career ended. No one can argue against that. Just ask Greenfever.
Phil casts a stare down to the floorboards beneath his feet. Suddenly his eyes grow wide and his ears perk up.
Phil: Can you hear that, Oblivion? Greenie is calling out to you. He's whispering your name, like the wind in the willows. He's telling you to run. Run hard, run fast, run deep... just run! Save yourself! You don't want none of Baines!
Phil nods his head and smiles at the floor.
Phil: Thank you, Greenie! You do know how to flatter a young man! Oblivion, your dead friend speaks the truth. He died for your sins, like Jesus. That's what Greenfever did for you. He sacrificed himself to save you. Don't you realize that? Don't you understand it, Aceblivion? Greenfever set the example of what not to do against Baines, namely stepping into the ring to compete against him. That's what not to do, Obi. DO... NOT... do what? Do not cross me. Oops, too late. You already signed the contract. It's ironclad. There is no escape. If you run now then Markman will sue you for every penny that you've managed to accumulate in your career of the absurd and grotesque. It's a lose-lose situation for you, Oblivion. You can run away and die penniless or you can compete on Monday night and die famous in the middle of the glorified slaughterhouse known as the WCF ring. That's a bitch of a decision, Oblivion. A motherfucking bitch of a decision. I don't envy you, boy. Your cock is so small you can piss on your balls, but more than that you're a dead man. Although... wait... wait... GAAAAAH!
Baines strains at the brain as a violent transmission passes through him.
Phil: Chemicals say? There is an alternative. One need not physically perish. One may... return to the Facility. What say you, Oblivion Johnson? Yeah, that's it. Go back to P.H.A.S.E. Get the help that you obviously need. You're maladjusted, Oblivion. You're fucked in the head, but that's not the saddest part. The saddest part, for what it's worth, is that you cannot defeat a sane man named Baines at your own twisted little game. You're a sick fuck, a psychopath, yet when Baines meets 'blivion it will be like... hydrochloric acid melting an already jacked-up face. Do you know what I mean? I'm the acid. You're the ugly ass, jacked-up, honky mofo. That's right. I called you a honky. Don't like it? Do something about it, inbred. Why do I bring race into the equation? Because I can, Oblivion. I do it because this is WCF and if one isn't playing the race card then they're not really trying. You are a white man who deserves to die. I am the white man who will kill you. What would Chris Avery say about it? Chris Avery is a virgin so it doesn't matter what he says about anything.
Baines glugs down another drink of bourbon.
Phil: I'm unwinding now, oh sure, but don't let that fool you. I've been busting my ass to prepare for you, Oblivion. You and your little buddy Reckless Jack. Connecticut has been hotter than hell this week, yet I've been cracking my bones, breaking my ass, spilling my blood and sweat, and pounding the discs inside my neck and back until they bulge. Why do I do it? It's what a champion does. This is the work that the great ones commit themselves to in order to become even greater. You accused me, Oblivion, of looking past this match, looking past the Hardcore Championship to focus upon quote/unquote "bigger and better things". Bullshit, Oblivion. Pure, unadulterated bullshit. You obviously know nothing about me as a man or a competitor. Let me make something perfectly clear to you and all other imbeciles who are confused on this issue: I, Phillip Baines, am committed to being the WCF Hardcore Champion. Someday, yes someday, I will wear the WCF World Championship. I will have a great and awesome reign as the top dog here in WCF. All of the women will adore me, and all of the men will fear me. But oh wait... that's already true. Anyway, someday I will be World Champion, but that day is long upon the horizon. Push that shit back in your calendar until after D-Day has had a nice, long World Title reign of his own. What is Baines focused on?
Baines combats the uproarious laughter that is swelling inside of him with a clearing of his throat.
Phil: I am focused on only one goal: Defeating all who challenge me for the WCF Hardcore Championship. I take pride in wearing this championship. I take pride in being the most feared man in professional wrestling. Greenfever used to hold that unofficial title but I took it from him, along with the very official gold and leather championship belt. You won't see that belt here in my promo. I keep it protected in a place deep within the fiber of my soul. Imagine my soul as a loaf of bread. Imagine that the Hardcore Championship belt is baked deep within that loaf of bread, hearty whole wheat bread. Are you imagining it? If so, then you are now beginning to understand some things about Baines. Understand this, Oblivion asshole: I am not a failure and a choke artist like you. You step up to the plate, time and time again you do this, but that alone does not earn you any respect in my book. You step up to the plate only to strike out when you face the big guns.
Baines slugs back the remnants of a once-full glass of bourbon and then pours himself another. Of course he takes a nice, long swig from this fresh glass. Baines ponders, as if Obama trying to remember how many states are in the US, before continuing.
Phil: Let's see... You lost to Johnny Reb, who was an embarrassment and a disgrace to this company in his own right. How the fuck could you lose to Johnny Reb, Oblivion? You're eight-feet-tall. You weigh more than five-hundred-pounds. Johnny Reb is built all thin and wiry, like a girl. He moves like a chick inside of the ring. You allowed that man to pin your shoulders for the three count? Disgusting. Purely fucking disgusting, like a pizza that's been prepared by Puerto Rican hands. The more that I think about it, Oblivion, you dying at my hands will be a relief... for you. Sure it will be painful, but I won't drag it out for too long. Greenfever's death was as simple as me injecting a syringe filled with bleach into his brain. Got any syringes, Obi?
Baines grins like a Cheshire cat or a male cast member from Jersey Shore, but then it's gone. Phillip is pissed again.
Phil: I'm not even going to acknowledge your loss to Jay Williams. Words cannot express how pathetic that is... and how pathetic you are for allowing it to happen. You can spout all of the psychobabble that you want, Oblivion. You can spit your shit until your mouth turns into a clit, but none of that erases the putrid stench of failure from your record. Your accomplishments are bullshit and are easily overshadowed by your losses to every Tom, Dick and Harry who has stumbled through the doorways of this company. How many bitches have held your shoulders down for the three, Oblivion bro? You spend more time on your back than Ana Valentine in the men's locker room. That's right. Baines is going off. I'm calling out all bitches, hoes and tramps, whether they have a cock and balls or a pussy. You're all pussies in my eyes. I will speak your name and you won't say shit to me because I'm Baines, goddamn it. I will bury you in shit and you will drop to your knees and praise my name.
Baines cackles like a madman in between chugs of bourbon.
Phil: The rest will have to wait their turn. Oblivion is next. Technically, Oblivion and Reckless Jack are next... but who gives a shit about Reckless Jack? The man is washed up. He's irrelevant. If he speaks then I will acknowledge him with extreme force and even more extreme prejudice, but right now he's MIA. Perhaps Reckless Jack will no-show on Monday night at Blast. Perhaps he will disappear back into the abyss of old retired assholes, where he belongs. The idea that Reckless Jack was going to be the man to restore honor and respect to WCF was a fucking joke. The idea that Reckless Jack even exists at this point is a fucking joke. Bradley Kane is all that remains of the former Reckless Jack, and Bradley Kane needs to go fuck his big-tittied wife and leave the real superstars in this company to do their work. Donnie Deruty is a superstar. Doc Henry is a superstar. Phil "Flyboy" Baines is a superstar. Bradley Kane is rhinoceros pizzle. Pack up your shit and take a walk out the door, Reckless Jackoff, and take your little bitch friend Creeping Death with you. Both of you assholes can fuck off to Iowa because, let me tell you something, if I see you in Salt Lake City.
Phil leaps to his feet and onto the chair where he was previously seated.
Phil: If I see you in Salt Lake motherfucking City I will TAKE YOU OUTTTTT!!!!!!!
Phil bellows at the top of his lungs before goddamn near slipping and falling from that smooth, Corinthian leather chair. Phil is obviously unsteady on his feet, so he pays extra careful attention as he steps down and returns to his seat.
Phil: I don't care if I see you at IHOP. I don't care if I see you at the Mormon Tabernacle Church. I don't care if I see you at the XXX theater. If I see you, you will hurt, you will break, you will bleed, I will not relent, you will bleed some more, and you will die. I'm tired of the games. I'm tired of the bullshit. I'm tired of the same old faces trying to hold down the young guns in WCF. Brad Kane couldn't stop his own career from sliding down the shitter so now he wants to destroy the careers of any and all aspiring superstars in WCF? That's fucked. It's fucked like a duck, a duck that's been roasted and placed onto my dinner plate. I get the distinct impression that Brad Kane, like Oblivion, does not appreciate the gravity of the situation in which he finds himself.
Phil sighs a deep, heavy, burdensome sigh. This is obviously a young man with a lot on his mind.
Phil: I am an emperor in these new Roman times, Brad. That's the best way that I can describe it. It's the only way that you can understand. When I want something, I get it. I make it happen with the crack of my tyrant's whip. I lower my wrath upon your cranium and there is no further debate, there is no further discourse. I eviscerate your mind, body and soul and leave you with only the empty shell. This is why your approach to Baines is not pragmatic. There is no course of action, reasonable or otherwise, that can prepare you for my decadent orgasm of violence. One cannot compete inside of a wrestling ring when their heart cannot beat, when their lungs cannot breathe. It is like a fish attempting to swim on a dried-out basin... wholly impossible. You are indeed a fish out of water, Brad Kane. Your former persona accomplished many great things in WCF. For one thing, he was a pioneer of the hardcore environment that I now dominate, proving that his name was more than just cannon fodder for the WCF marketing division. Kudos to Reckless Jack for that. Unfortunately...
Phil, very dramatically, motions with his hands as if "brushing the dirt" from them.
Phil: That mofo was put out to pasture a long time ago. Dead and buried, like Greenfever. Phil Baines is a very different story. What did they say on the WCF website? "Phillip Baines IS the Hardcore Champion and has raised the bar and set the metaphorical attitude of that Championship." Do you understand what that means? I'm not just the Hardcore Champion. I DEFINE what it means to be the Hardcore Champion. You cannot say that about any other holder of any other championship in this company. I don't think that you even remember what it means to be hardcore, Brad. I'm hardcore on the attitudinal tip. Even Oblivion, choke artist though he is, has some grasp of what it means to be hardcore. You, Kane... you think that beating Roy Speede is hot shit. How can I...
Phil massages his brain with his fingertips as if trying to allow this information to be digested more easily.
Phil: How can I take that seriously? How can I take you seriously? Hall of Fame plaque, you say? So what? So nothing. Sew buttons. Metallica is in the Hall of Fame and they haven't released a decent album in twenty years. All of that shit is political. The truth is that you've been coddled in the World Title division for too many years, Brad. You forgot what it means to wear these colors and rep WCF, hardcore-style. The hardcore division is an altogether different animal from what you've grown accustomed to. You won't find any glitz and glamour in the ranks of the hardcore. This is thankless, grueling labor. Hell, I didn't even choose to be here. I was cast here by a conspiracy of fate. But now... now I am the very definition of hardcore.
Phil grimaces, though through that grimace he looks almost proud.
Phil: I tell ya, it's both a blessing and a curse. I have been able to escape abject poverty thanks to my success here in WCF, but the atrocities that I have been forced to commit and will commit again in the very near future *cough*MondaynightinUtah*cough* haunt me. They hinder my ability to enjoy so much as a peaceful night's rest while nestled in the generous bosom of my lovely and doting girlfriend Gina. These pills...
Baines reaches into the left pocket of his robe and pulls out a green plastic pill bottle. He holds the bottle up with the label displayed prominently. It reads "Nature's Bounty Melatonin. 3 mg. Promotes sleep."
Phil: These are Phil's little white pills, the only thing in this world that can have a stone cold killer with murder on his mind like me sleeping like a baby within minutes. Yeah, that's Melatonin, wigga. The good shit.
Phil pops the top on the bottle and then pops a couple of the "little white pills" into his mouth. He washes them down with a glass of bourbon. It's not long before Baines becomes affected, thrown into the Melatonin trance. Phil whips his hurr back and forth, then leans back in the comfy leather chair.
Phil: Yo, DJ! Pump some McLachlan on that stereo system and crank it, son!
Without hesitation, the tranquil and lilting melodies of Sarah McLachlan's "Into The Fire" blare over an extensive maze of stereo speakers. Baines closes his eyes and drifts away to a world of magic and wonderment. A short time passes before Gina, adorned in a blue nightie, finds Baines asleep here in the den. Gina shakes her head, scoops Baines up in her dainty though apparently very powerful arms, and carries him to their bedroom while McLachlan plays them off.
