Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2011 7:16:34 GMT -5
The bright lights of Hartford, Connecticut's Crimson House Dojo cast an illuminating glow in the summer night. WCF Hardcore Champion Phillip Baines and his buxom girlfriend/training partner Gina De Carlo emerge from the entrance of the massive complex, each dressed in casual attire and carrying duffel bags. They've just completed a grueling training session at the state of the art Crimson House facility with "trainer of champions" Bolts Quackenbush and his elite team of coaches. In the morning Phil and Gina will fly to Salt Lake City, Utah, A.K.A. Mormon City, U.S.A, the home of WCF's Blast pay-per-view extravaganza, where Phil will defend his Hardcore Championship against Oblivion and Reckless Jack in triple threat competition.
This Sunday evening session was the last of the two-a-day training sessions that Phil has participated in this week to prepare for that all-important match. The hard work is sure to increase Phil's chances of victory, however there is a price to be paid for such dedication to one's craft. The toll of training is written in the veins that presently bulge from Phil's forehead. The sweat has been washed away, as has the stink that goes with it, replaced by Axe deodorant and an ever so subtle hint of cologne, but those veins tell the story. Much like the veins that bulge in a man's penis when he is doing work with the special lady in his life, the veins in Phil's forehead are a sign of brute physical exertion. They serve as evidence that this young man, this young lion, will settle for nothing less than absolute victory in the total war that awaits him at SLC's Delta Center.
Gina looks at Phil with an adoring expression on her face as the couple walks to their car.
Gina De Carlo: I'm so proud of you, Phil. You were great in there tonight. You put it all on the line and showed what you're made of. The focus, the determination, the drive... the willingness to sacrifice your body to achieve a singular goal. The mental strength and endurance to overcome any obstacle. You were incredible, like a machine more than a man!
Gina slaps Phil hard on his bum. Phil absorbs the blow and remains stoic as he strides along the paved walkway. He doesn't let it show, but he enjoys the feeling of Gina's hard slap against his clothed asscheek.
Gina: This entire week has been a real showcase for you, babe. Heck, I haven't seen you this focused on a match since you were training to face that lunatic Greenfever in the Flatliner match at XIII.
Phil's eyes stare straight ahead in unwavering focus, the sign of a man who is blind to all but the task in front of him.
Phillip Baines: You know me, Gina. When I have a goal in mind, nothing short of death or paralysis can stop me from achieving it. Of course even if I were dead or paralyzed I would find a way to work through it.
Gina: That's my man. Quitting is never an option. Defeat? It's not in your vocabulary!
Phil: No way! Not a chance. I don't care how sore my body feels. I don't care how many bumps I take or how many abrasions form about my skin. I don't care if I break a bone or tear a ligament. I don't care how much blood I spill. I will not be broken! I will not be beaten! I will not relent! I will march onward to unconditional triumph!
Gina smiles coyly.
Gina: Someone has earned himself a reward.
Gina pulls her body close to Phil's and grabs his crotch with her hand. She gives Phil's junk a firm but calculated tweak. He closes his eyes and lets out a slight moan, conceding to the pleasure. Even the most hardened man cannot resist the charms of skillful female hands.
Phil: Oh Jihad... I can't believe that those same hands that pulverize my face and body every day in training can bring so much joy to my cock and balls.
Gina: Such is the benefit of having a training partner for a girlfriend.
Gina winks at Phil and releases his junk in an instant. Phil lets out a sigh, thankful for the pleasure he was given while longing for more.
Gina: If you think that my hands are gifted, you should get a load of my feet.
Gina feints a kick to Phil's groin, which Phil astutely blocks with his shin.
Phil: Oh no, you're not catching me with that move again. Once in training and twice on my birthday was enough, thank you very much!
Gina: Don't lie. You loved every moment of it!
Gina teases Phil both verbally and with a gentle nudge of his ribs with her elbow. Her mellifluous laughter fills the air like music. Lighthearted chatter accompanies the remainder of their journey through the parking compound adjacent to the Dojo. After a short jaunt, Phil and Gina arrive at a totally bad-ass Cobra Shelby Mustang. It's metallic blue in color, with a white racing stripe down the middle, and decked out with chrome wheels. Phil pulls a keychain that's shaped like the New York Yankees logo out of his pants pocket and pops the trunk open. He and Gina load their bags into the trunk and then Phil taps Gina on the shoulder. Gina looks at Phil, a quizzical gleam in her eye, no doubt wondering if he wants to spread her ass wide and do her right there in the parking lot.
Gina: Don't you want to wait until we get into a more secluded area, Phil?
Phil: No, no, babe. Don't get the wrong impression. This isn't about that. Not yet anyway. I got something that I need to do. Something that I need to get off my chest.
Gina: Do you want to cut a promo, Phil?
Phil: I have to, babe. It's how I pay the bills. That, and killing men inside of a wrestling ring. You understand this, my peach?
Gina nods her head.
Gina: This is what you have worked for, Phil. The opportunity to not only thwart men in physical combat, but to attack their very psyche, to defeat them before you even step into the ring with them. Go for it, my honey buns.
Gina lands another firm slap on Phil's posterior.
Phil: Thank you, darling. This will not take long. Oblivion has only a primitive command of the English language. Responding to his nonsense should take me only a few minutes. Many chuckles will be had by all. As for Bradley Kane, for all of the fanfare and hype that was strewn about upon his supposed return to the ways of Reckless Jack, he has not uttered a word this week. So typical of that lazy, Irish bastard.
Phil shakes his head, obviously frustrated by this development.
Gina: Perhaps he's laying low and plans on letting his actions do the talking?
Phil: If so then good luck to him with that strategy. WCF superstars who fail to promo before a match have an untarnished record... of getting their fucking lazy jobber asses kicked!
Phil flexes his arms emphatically for Gina and any other ladies who happen by.
Gina: Ooh, I wanna get me a piece of that when you're done with your promo, hehe!
Phil: You will get more than a piece, woman. You will get the whole shebang, in living color.
Phil flicks his tongue like a python with a flair for the hedonistic.
Gina: Oh my, I do believe I'm feeling a certain... perspiration down below. Well, uh, have fun, babe. I'm gonna go play with my, you know what, inside the car.
Phil waits with baited breath.
Gina: My iPhone, you perv! I have the new Oh Land album on here and it's the tits, haha.
Phil: Is that the one that we listened to last night during sex?
Gina nods her head, a naughty smile on her face.
Phil: That really was pretty good.
Gina: Wasn't it though?
Gina fidgets with her iPhone and turns to walk away. Phil seizes the moment by spanking Gina's ass, both to make up for the two that he received earlier, and because he likes spanking her ass. Gina pays Phil no mind as she goes about her business. Phil turns his attention from his girlfriend's ass to the promo business at hand.
Phil: Clever words coming from an imbecile's mouth are little more than incoherent rants. You're an expert in this field, Oblivion, seeing as you are the imbecile in question. The more that you give me to work with, the more foolish I make you look. I appreciate your passion and enthusiasm, those are great assets to bring to the table. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for you, you possess neither the wit nor the acumen to match the spit that I shit. The fire that burns ever so brightly in my eyes is matched only by the fire that spews from my mouth. Ok... fair enough, there's also the fire that burns in my loins, but we're not here to talk about that. Get your mind out of the gutter, Oblivion. It's obvious to me that you're either jealous of me OR you're in love with me. Why else would you be stripping your shirt off during a promo to show me your quote/unquote "extremely well-built physique". Why else would you strike a bicep pose for the man who you're scheduled to face in less than twenty-four hours at Blast in a Hardcore Championship match?
Baines visibly shudders as he thinks back to the unpleasantness that unfolded before his eyes in Oblivion's last promo.
Phil: Do you think that I want to see that shit? Keep your shirt on, you crazy mofo. NOBODY wants to see that shit except for big, fat, hairy, gay dudes who congregate on clandestine internet forums. I'm not interested in your fake tan or your painted-on abs that come from a spray can. I'm not interested in the dudes who spray their spunk on your abs either. If that's your idea of psychological warfare then I have to hand it to you, Oblivion. You got me. You got me good. You mind-fucked me with that shit. Oblivion, one. Baines, zero. That's the score on that one. I'll even take it a step further. You have fat man strength, Obi. I'll give you that, but these right here...
Phil pounds his chest with a clenched fist.
Phil: These are real muscles, muscles that hurt when they strike you in the form of a powerful punch or kick. Muscles that hurt when they trap you in a painful submission hold such as a guillotine choke and squeeze the life out of you. Muscles that hurt when they hoist you up for the Halcyon Daze and direct your body through a twisted wreckage of flaming table, courtesy of a seven-twenty powerbomb from Hell. Of course I also possess the most important muscle of all.
Phil gestures flagrantly toward his groin.
Phil: Don't fight it, Obi. You know where I'm going with this and you know that you want it. There's a reason why you were taking your shirt off, flaunting your pseudo-muscular fat guy physique, and prattling on about my devilishly handsome looks, and it's not because your sexual interests lie with the Vixen. You want what's in these pants. You want the ten inches that I'm packing between my legs, but you do not have the courage to admit it. Sure you drop these little hints, but in doing so you reveal a weakness. Where's the beef, Oblivion? Why didn't you take those pants down and REALLY show me something? I've done it many times before. Jason Kash has done it in his promos. Why not Oblivion? You packing a Milk Dud down there, Obi? Maybe a shriveled up little raisin? An ol' fashioned shrimp dick? Do you have a mangina, Obi? Whatever it is that you're hiding, you're going to get a taste of the good stuff at Blast. I promised to skull-fuck you in my last promo, and I'm a man of my word. Of course, when I made that promise I did not realize that you were the type of man who enjoys a penis in the eye socket, but at least we'll both get something that we want. One hand washes the other, right? Or in this case, one cock splooges the skull. It's all relative. I'm gonna hump the shit out of that big, juicy skull of yours.
Phil adjusts his equipment, which is beginning to stir amid all of this bawdy talk.
Phil: You seem to be under the impression that I'm trying to get inside of your head, Obi, that I'm trying to play mind games with you. Why would you believe that? Do you believe it because that's what I told you? Well then hot damn it's working! You believe what I tell you to believe! I really am inside of your head! But don't you see though, Oblivion? You're only getting half the picture. I'm not trying to get inside of your head, just to play mind games. I'm trying to get inside of your head, because I want the motherfucker. Not the whole thing though, just the skull. You can keep the rest. That's what friends are for, a little give and take, but oh wait... you don't want to be friends. You think that I'm going out of my way to make this match personal, isn't that right? You think that I'm acting bullyish, talking a brand of smack that crosses the line. I thought you were a tough guy, Oblivion. I thought you were a big, bad serial killer, like your dead friend Greenfever. I guess I was wrong, because you clearly cannot handle it when a grown man talks shit to you. Too bad. You say that I'm making this personal, but what you fail to remember is that you made this shit personal when you attacked me on Slam, you inbred mental patient.
Baines scowls as a flood of anger washes over him.
Phil: Remember that, Obi? Think back, dumb fuck. You can do it. Do you remember that night in Cincinnati? You struck me in the head with a chair. You tied me up in barbed wire. You ran a cheese grater over my face, bloodied me to fuck-all. You performed hateful, nasty, spiteful deeds that night. You did the Devil's work and you did it in the name of your God, the Omega Greenfever, but you miscalculated. You unwittingly ignited a powder keg, Oblivion. You started a blood feud and I, I am going to end it by defeating you at Blast, taking your skull, breaking your spirit and condemning you to the padded room at the psych ward where you belong. Do you think that you frighten me, Oblivion? Do you think that you're the first crazy man with a barbed-wire baseball bat to taunt me with idle threats? Wigga, please. You're just a watered-down version of the last nutcase that I faced. That man tried to inject me with a syringe full of killing fluid at XIII. You're a parody of him. You're a cartoon character. You're a bad joke, Oblivion. Yeah, that's right, you're a joke.
Phil sneers for emphasis as the words leave his mouth.
Phil: Speaking of which, you say that you don't like my jokes. Here's another joke that you might not like. It's called "Oblivion, the fat retard who wears a stupid looking mask and speaks in ooga booga nursery rhymes." The punchline is going to come on Monday night when I'm punching you in the face and ripping your skull from its flesh encasement. See, this joke is deathly serious. It's no laughing matter. Quite the contrary. It's a matter of life and death. You've been playing the role of horror movie villain for so long that you've forgotten that you're merely an actor playing a role, fucked in the head though you may be. Baines is the real deal, the genuine article, the man who has run roughshod over the Hardcore division in 2011, the man who won the WCF Classic, and the man who killed Greenfever. Speak your words, Oblivion. Play your childish mind games. Smash a camera with a baseball bat, torch an imposter and pretend that it's Baines. Chop a Baines voodoo doll to pieces with a hatchet for all I care, because that's the closest that you'll ever come to separating the flesh from my bones.
Phil runs his hand through his long, black hair, a look of sheer focus and determination on his face.
Phil: Come Monday night in Salt Lake City, you will feel the horror of an unwanted reality. The panic will set in and the fear will overwhelm you when you stand toe-to-toe with Baines and look into these eyes, the fiery, unflinching eyes of the man who will end your life.
For the next several moments Baines' eyes burn a hole into all who are unfortunate enough to find themselves in his line of sight. Suddenly though Phil's eyes do flinch as a familiar hand gropes his groin from behind.
Gina: Are you almost done, babe? I thought you said you were only going to be a few minutes. I just finished listening to that entire album in the car!
Phil moans in the affirmative.
Phil: Yeah, babe, I'm all done. Let's hit the road, ok? I want you to drive.
Gina: Oh really? Why's that?
Phil: I want you to put your foot down on that accelerator as if it were a grown man's testicles, a bad man with heinous intentions. It will give you good practice for what you're going to do when we get home.
Gina smiles and eagerly complies with Phil's instructions. They hop into the Cobra, Gina in the driver's side and Phil in the passenger's side. Gina burns rubber as she pulls the car out of the parking lot and speeds off into the night.
This Sunday evening session was the last of the two-a-day training sessions that Phil has participated in this week to prepare for that all-important match. The hard work is sure to increase Phil's chances of victory, however there is a price to be paid for such dedication to one's craft. The toll of training is written in the veins that presently bulge from Phil's forehead. The sweat has been washed away, as has the stink that goes with it, replaced by Axe deodorant and an ever so subtle hint of cologne, but those veins tell the story. Much like the veins that bulge in a man's penis when he is doing work with the special lady in his life, the veins in Phil's forehead are a sign of brute physical exertion. They serve as evidence that this young man, this young lion, will settle for nothing less than absolute victory in the total war that awaits him at SLC's Delta Center.
Gina looks at Phil with an adoring expression on her face as the couple walks to their car.
Gina De Carlo: I'm so proud of you, Phil. You were great in there tonight. You put it all on the line and showed what you're made of. The focus, the determination, the drive... the willingness to sacrifice your body to achieve a singular goal. The mental strength and endurance to overcome any obstacle. You were incredible, like a machine more than a man!
Gina slaps Phil hard on his bum. Phil absorbs the blow and remains stoic as he strides along the paved walkway. He doesn't let it show, but he enjoys the feeling of Gina's hard slap against his clothed asscheek.
Gina: This entire week has been a real showcase for you, babe. Heck, I haven't seen you this focused on a match since you were training to face that lunatic Greenfever in the Flatliner match at XIII.
Phil's eyes stare straight ahead in unwavering focus, the sign of a man who is blind to all but the task in front of him.
Phillip Baines: You know me, Gina. When I have a goal in mind, nothing short of death or paralysis can stop me from achieving it. Of course even if I were dead or paralyzed I would find a way to work through it.
Gina: That's my man. Quitting is never an option. Defeat? It's not in your vocabulary!
Phil: No way! Not a chance. I don't care how sore my body feels. I don't care how many bumps I take or how many abrasions form about my skin. I don't care if I break a bone or tear a ligament. I don't care how much blood I spill. I will not be broken! I will not be beaten! I will not relent! I will march onward to unconditional triumph!
Gina smiles coyly.
Gina: Someone has earned himself a reward.
Gina pulls her body close to Phil's and grabs his crotch with her hand. She gives Phil's junk a firm but calculated tweak. He closes his eyes and lets out a slight moan, conceding to the pleasure. Even the most hardened man cannot resist the charms of skillful female hands.
Phil: Oh Jihad... I can't believe that those same hands that pulverize my face and body every day in training can bring so much joy to my cock and balls.
Gina: Such is the benefit of having a training partner for a girlfriend.
Gina winks at Phil and releases his junk in an instant. Phil lets out a sigh, thankful for the pleasure he was given while longing for more.
Gina: If you think that my hands are gifted, you should get a load of my feet.
Gina feints a kick to Phil's groin, which Phil astutely blocks with his shin.
Phil: Oh no, you're not catching me with that move again. Once in training and twice on my birthday was enough, thank you very much!
Gina: Don't lie. You loved every moment of it!
Gina teases Phil both verbally and with a gentle nudge of his ribs with her elbow. Her mellifluous laughter fills the air like music. Lighthearted chatter accompanies the remainder of their journey through the parking compound adjacent to the Dojo. After a short jaunt, Phil and Gina arrive at a totally bad-ass Cobra Shelby Mustang. It's metallic blue in color, with a white racing stripe down the middle, and decked out with chrome wheels. Phil pulls a keychain that's shaped like the New York Yankees logo out of his pants pocket and pops the trunk open. He and Gina load their bags into the trunk and then Phil taps Gina on the shoulder. Gina looks at Phil, a quizzical gleam in her eye, no doubt wondering if he wants to spread her ass wide and do her right there in the parking lot.
Gina: Don't you want to wait until we get into a more secluded area, Phil?
Phil: No, no, babe. Don't get the wrong impression. This isn't about that. Not yet anyway. I got something that I need to do. Something that I need to get off my chest.
Gina: Do you want to cut a promo, Phil?
Phil: I have to, babe. It's how I pay the bills. That, and killing men inside of a wrestling ring. You understand this, my peach?
Gina nods her head.
Gina: This is what you have worked for, Phil. The opportunity to not only thwart men in physical combat, but to attack their very psyche, to defeat them before you even step into the ring with them. Go for it, my honey buns.
Gina lands another firm slap on Phil's posterior.
Phil: Thank you, darling. This will not take long. Oblivion has only a primitive command of the English language. Responding to his nonsense should take me only a few minutes. Many chuckles will be had by all. As for Bradley Kane, for all of the fanfare and hype that was strewn about upon his supposed return to the ways of Reckless Jack, he has not uttered a word this week. So typical of that lazy, Irish bastard.
Phil shakes his head, obviously frustrated by this development.
Gina: Perhaps he's laying low and plans on letting his actions do the talking?
Phil: If so then good luck to him with that strategy. WCF superstars who fail to promo before a match have an untarnished record... of getting their fucking lazy jobber asses kicked!
Phil flexes his arms emphatically for Gina and any other ladies who happen by.
Gina: Ooh, I wanna get me a piece of that when you're done with your promo, hehe!
Phil: You will get more than a piece, woman. You will get the whole shebang, in living color.
Phil flicks his tongue like a python with a flair for the hedonistic.
Gina: Oh my, I do believe I'm feeling a certain... perspiration down below. Well, uh, have fun, babe. I'm gonna go play with my, you know what, inside the car.
Phil waits with baited breath.
Gina: My iPhone, you perv! I have the new Oh Land album on here and it's the tits, haha.
Phil: Is that the one that we listened to last night during sex?
Gina nods her head, a naughty smile on her face.
Phil: That really was pretty good.
Gina: Wasn't it though?
Gina fidgets with her iPhone and turns to walk away. Phil seizes the moment by spanking Gina's ass, both to make up for the two that he received earlier, and because he likes spanking her ass. Gina pays Phil no mind as she goes about her business. Phil turns his attention from his girlfriend's ass to the promo business at hand.
Phil: Clever words coming from an imbecile's mouth are little more than incoherent rants. You're an expert in this field, Oblivion, seeing as you are the imbecile in question. The more that you give me to work with, the more foolish I make you look. I appreciate your passion and enthusiasm, those are great assets to bring to the table. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for you, you possess neither the wit nor the acumen to match the spit that I shit. The fire that burns ever so brightly in my eyes is matched only by the fire that spews from my mouth. Ok... fair enough, there's also the fire that burns in my loins, but we're not here to talk about that. Get your mind out of the gutter, Oblivion. It's obvious to me that you're either jealous of me OR you're in love with me. Why else would you be stripping your shirt off during a promo to show me your quote/unquote "extremely well-built physique". Why else would you strike a bicep pose for the man who you're scheduled to face in less than twenty-four hours at Blast in a Hardcore Championship match?
Baines visibly shudders as he thinks back to the unpleasantness that unfolded before his eyes in Oblivion's last promo.
Phil: Do you think that I want to see that shit? Keep your shirt on, you crazy mofo. NOBODY wants to see that shit except for big, fat, hairy, gay dudes who congregate on clandestine internet forums. I'm not interested in your fake tan or your painted-on abs that come from a spray can. I'm not interested in the dudes who spray their spunk on your abs either. If that's your idea of psychological warfare then I have to hand it to you, Oblivion. You got me. You got me good. You mind-fucked me with that shit. Oblivion, one. Baines, zero. That's the score on that one. I'll even take it a step further. You have fat man strength, Obi. I'll give you that, but these right here...
Phil pounds his chest with a clenched fist.
Phil: These are real muscles, muscles that hurt when they strike you in the form of a powerful punch or kick. Muscles that hurt when they trap you in a painful submission hold such as a guillotine choke and squeeze the life out of you. Muscles that hurt when they hoist you up for the Halcyon Daze and direct your body through a twisted wreckage of flaming table, courtesy of a seven-twenty powerbomb from Hell. Of course I also possess the most important muscle of all.
Phil gestures flagrantly toward his groin.
Phil: Don't fight it, Obi. You know where I'm going with this and you know that you want it. There's a reason why you were taking your shirt off, flaunting your pseudo-muscular fat guy physique, and prattling on about my devilishly handsome looks, and it's not because your sexual interests lie with the Vixen. You want what's in these pants. You want the ten inches that I'm packing between my legs, but you do not have the courage to admit it. Sure you drop these little hints, but in doing so you reveal a weakness. Where's the beef, Oblivion? Why didn't you take those pants down and REALLY show me something? I've done it many times before. Jason Kash has done it in his promos. Why not Oblivion? You packing a Milk Dud down there, Obi? Maybe a shriveled up little raisin? An ol' fashioned shrimp dick? Do you have a mangina, Obi? Whatever it is that you're hiding, you're going to get a taste of the good stuff at Blast. I promised to skull-fuck you in my last promo, and I'm a man of my word. Of course, when I made that promise I did not realize that you were the type of man who enjoys a penis in the eye socket, but at least we'll both get something that we want. One hand washes the other, right? Or in this case, one cock splooges the skull. It's all relative. I'm gonna hump the shit out of that big, juicy skull of yours.
Phil adjusts his equipment, which is beginning to stir amid all of this bawdy talk.
Phil: You seem to be under the impression that I'm trying to get inside of your head, Obi, that I'm trying to play mind games with you. Why would you believe that? Do you believe it because that's what I told you? Well then hot damn it's working! You believe what I tell you to believe! I really am inside of your head! But don't you see though, Oblivion? You're only getting half the picture. I'm not trying to get inside of your head, just to play mind games. I'm trying to get inside of your head, because I want the motherfucker. Not the whole thing though, just the skull. You can keep the rest. That's what friends are for, a little give and take, but oh wait... you don't want to be friends. You think that I'm going out of my way to make this match personal, isn't that right? You think that I'm acting bullyish, talking a brand of smack that crosses the line. I thought you were a tough guy, Oblivion. I thought you were a big, bad serial killer, like your dead friend Greenfever. I guess I was wrong, because you clearly cannot handle it when a grown man talks shit to you. Too bad. You say that I'm making this personal, but what you fail to remember is that you made this shit personal when you attacked me on Slam, you inbred mental patient.
Baines scowls as a flood of anger washes over him.
Phil: Remember that, Obi? Think back, dumb fuck. You can do it. Do you remember that night in Cincinnati? You struck me in the head with a chair. You tied me up in barbed wire. You ran a cheese grater over my face, bloodied me to fuck-all. You performed hateful, nasty, spiteful deeds that night. You did the Devil's work and you did it in the name of your God, the Omega Greenfever, but you miscalculated. You unwittingly ignited a powder keg, Oblivion. You started a blood feud and I, I am going to end it by defeating you at Blast, taking your skull, breaking your spirit and condemning you to the padded room at the psych ward where you belong. Do you think that you frighten me, Oblivion? Do you think that you're the first crazy man with a barbed-wire baseball bat to taunt me with idle threats? Wigga, please. You're just a watered-down version of the last nutcase that I faced. That man tried to inject me with a syringe full of killing fluid at XIII. You're a parody of him. You're a cartoon character. You're a bad joke, Oblivion. Yeah, that's right, you're a joke.
Phil sneers for emphasis as the words leave his mouth.
Phil: Speaking of which, you say that you don't like my jokes. Here's another joke that you might not like. It's called "Oblivion, the fat retard who wears a stupid looking mask and speaks in ooga booga nursery rhymes." The punchline is going to come on Monday night when I'm punching you in the face and ripping your skull from its flesh encasement. See, this joke is deathly serious. It's no laughing matter. Quite the contrary. It's a matter of life and death. You've been playing the role of horror movie villain for so long that you've forgotten that you're merely an actor playing a role, fucked in the head though you may be. Baines is the real deal, the genuine article, the man who has run roughshod over the Hardcore division in 2011, the man who won the WCF Classic, and the man who killed Greenfever. Speak your words, Oblivion. Play your childish mind games. Smash a camera with a baseball bat, torch an imposter and pretend that it's Baines. Chop a Baines voodoo doll to pieces with a hatchet for all I care, because that's the closest that you'll ever come to separating the flesh from my bones.
Phil runs his hand through his long, black hair, a look of sheer focus and determination on his face.
Phil: Come Monday night in Salt Lake City, you will feel the horror of an unwanted reality. The panic will set in and the fear will overwhelm you when you stand toe-to-toe with Baines and look into these eyes, the fiery, unflinching eyes of the man who will end your life.
For the next several moments Baines' eyes burn a hole into all who are unfortunate enough to find themselves in his line of sight. Suddenly though Phil's eyes do flinch as a familiar hand gropes his groin from behind.
Gina: Are you almost done, babe? I thought you said you were only going to be a few minutes. I just finished listening to that entire album in the car!
Phil moans in the affirmative.
Phil: Yeah, babe, I'm all done. Let's hit the road, ok? I want you to drive.
Gina: Oh really? Why's that?
Phil: I want you to put your foot down on that accelerator as if it were a grown man's testicles, a bad man with heinous intentions. It will give you good practice for what you're going to do when we get home.
Gina smiles and eagerly complies with Phil's instructions. They hop into the Cobra, Gina in the driver's side and Phil in the passenger's side. Gina burns rubber as she pulls the car out of the parking lot and speeds off into the night.
