Post by Danny Vice on Aug 6, 2006 17:29:55 GMT -5
The scene zooms in to an old abandoned brewery on the outskirts of San Diego, California. There’s an old forklift once used for moving kegs. The machinery that once bottled and distributed alcohol for local liquor stores now seems frozen in time. The rusted chrome makes everything looked bronzed, like a hallowed shrine to alcohol. In one of the dark corners there is a silhouette of a man crouched low. The camera zooms in closer to see the man holds an empty bottle in his left hand, using the bottom of the bottle to draw a figure-eight in the dust on the old cement floor. The man has a long blonde Mohawk and multiple facial piercings, as he stares blankly towards the center of the massive room. He wears white tights with black boots, and a long, worn, dark leather jacket. His chest and arms are covered in colorful tattoos. He rises slowly to his feet and begins to stroll towards the camera. His strides are as methodical as his eyes are cold. He speaks slowly and deliberately, choosing his words with precision and purpose.
For too long, the WCF has allowed itself to become polluted. I look around and see mediocrity and unoriginality. There is no purpose, plan, or direction to anyone’s actions. The competitor’s styles have become more and more generic, repetitive, and trite. I have watched WCF wrestling for sometime now, and the viewing of Aftermath was all I could take. This so-called “World Championship” match was an embarrassment to the term “hardcore”. The WCF lacks extremities, it lacks torment, it lacks the infliction of agony.
He scoffs and shakes his head, remembering the match between Torture and Reckless Jack at last week’s Aftermath. He looks up and gives out a slight chuckle. Suddenly, his mood becomes darker and more serious and he looks back into the camera.
And your alleged hardcore champion, Creeping Death, is an abomination. This federation is soft. This federation is weak. This federation is too concerned with impressing their fans. The World Champion, Torture, is adorned by his fans. He looks to them for love and worship, and has ignored his calling to be a wrestler, and to destroy his opponents.
He squats low and signals for the cameraman to come lower with him.
My time is not now. I know I must play my role and prove myself first. But I will change the attitude of the WCF.
He clears a space of dust on the old concrete floor, then shatters the bottle into his own forehead. An old wound opens ups, and warm blood escapes his cold stare. His presses his two fingers on the open gash and writes on the cold concrete below. Then rises to his feet, and walks away down a dark corridor. The camera slowly pans in on the words on the floor. There, in the center of this old room, is just one simple word: VAGRANT.
For too long, the WCF has allowed itself to become polluted. I look around and see mediocrity and unoriginality. There is no purpose, plan, or direction to anyone’s actions. The competitor’s styles have become more and more generic, repetitive, and trite. I have watched WCF wrestling for sometime now, and the viewing of Aftermath was all I could take. This so-called “World Championship” match was an embarrassment to the term “hardcore”. The WCF lacks extremities, it lacks torment, it lacks the infliction of agony.
He scoffs and shakes his head, remembering the match between Torture and Reckless Jack at last week’s Aftermath. He looks up and gives out a slight chuckle. Suddenly, his mood becomes darker and more serious and he looks back into the camera.
And your alleged hardcore champion, Creeping Death, is an abomination. This federation is soft. This federation is weak. This federation is too concerned with impressing their fans. The World Champion, Torture, is adorned by his fans. He looks to them for love and worship, and has ignored his calling to be a wrestler, and to destroy his opponents.
He squats low and signals for the cameraman to come lower with him.
My time is not now. I know I must play my role and prove myself first. But I will change the attitude of the WCF.
He clears a space of dust on the old concrete floor, then shatters the bottle into his own forehead. An old wound opens ups, and warm blood escapes his cold stare. His presses his two fingers on the open gash and writes on the cold concrete below. Then rises to his feet, and walks away down a dark corridor. The camera slowly pans in on the words on the floor. There, in the center of this old room, is just one simple word: VAGRANT.
