Post by Dangerous K on Apr 30, 2009 13:29:06 GMT -5
The scene opens with The Game, The King of Kings, dressed in a black t-shirt, leather jacket and blue jeans standing near some equipment in the arena. He sits on a large, black crate smoking a cigarette and taping up his fists. His hair hangs low in his face, his eyes focused on the intent of what he’s doing. On his fists, all he sees is the blood of Jimmy Gimmick, the very one that had stained his tape with his crimson fluid.
The Game smirks.
Triple H:
“Was that it?
Was that the best they could offer me?”
He mutters to himself.
Triple H:
“I’ve had a long time to think about it, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that the FCW’s precious Jimmy Gimmick… I know what he did… and I can’t say I blame ‘em. I can’t say I blame Jimmy Gimmick for looking up at me with fear in his eyes, with the realization that crushing defeat was at hand… and forfeiting.”
After the last piece of tape is firmly secured around his wrist, Triple H’s gaze finally rises to meet the camera lens, where his cold eyes twinkle, the smirk barely visible through his long hair.
Triple H:
“You see Jimmy, that’s exactly what you did. You rolled out to the ring, you collapsed on the floor and with the entire arena chanting your name, urging you back to your feet, you took one look at me… and you knew better.
I can’t blame you for that. I can’t blame you for realizing that you never had a chance against The Game, that you never had a chance at beating Triple H… but the way you went about it? The way you thought you could beat the system and cheat me out of my deserved victory? That… that Jimmy, is reprehensible. The way you tried so valiantly to show the world that you could hang with the biggest dog of them all, the way you tried to pelt me with your weak offense, the way you tried to stand toe-to-toe with the GREATEST professional wrestler walking the Earth today… and then… to roll out of the ring, and forfeit the match.
All it did was prove everything I’ve ever said about you, Jimmy Gimmick. All that did was prove that you weren’t worthy of shining my boots. All it did was prove that you weren’t worth the opportunity that had befallen you in going one-on-one with The Game. Another fraud exposed, and now… now I’ve got another one.”
Triple H lets out a heavy sigh, and shakes his head. He leans over the side of the crate and grabs something. He brings it up into view and we see it is the sledgehammer. Triple H’s smile grows sadistic, the twinkle in his eye the first sign of madness. He stares at it longingly.
Triple H:
“John Cena, there’s so much that could be said about you. There’s so much anyone could say. I could say that you’re a crappy wrestler, I could say that you couldn’t work your way out of a paper bag, I could say that you’re the most ‘controversial wrestler’ in FCW, but all of that means one simple thing, John Cena.
You suck.
And it’s not your fault, I suppose. If it weren’t for the head honchos of FCW trying to push you down the throat of every single wrestling fan out there, then you’d still be the cocky young blue-chipper who was still trying to get wins over Barry Hororowitz. You’d still be the smiling fan-favourite who tried to out-wrestle other wrestlers, and fail. You’d still be curtain jerking and so far below the radar of The Game that it would be an insult to my valuable time to even acknowledge you… and yet, here you are.”
A chuckle escapes from Triple H’s throat, another slow shake of his head, he then turns his attention to the camera once more.
Triple H:
“You’re one of the most ‘popular’ wrestlers in FCW, and yet you could ask anyone, all you’ve got is canned heat, Cena. When you go out to that ring, you get the boys in production to pre-recorded cheers over the P.A. speakers, you get people who don’t give a damn about wrestling to pretend they like you, meanwhile the rest of the sheep decide to follow along, because it’s the ‘cool’ thing to do… but not me, Cena. I see right through you. I see right through your childish antics, your mocking of soldiers, I see your ham-handed attempts at gaining popularity from the sheep who pay to see me… and it sickens me.
It sickens me to see that a nobody like you can get so far because you’re ‘one of them’. It sickens me to see that a nobody like you can make it so far into FCW that you’ve actually been given a match with me, The Game. That you’ve actually been given the pretigious honour of going toe-to-toe with the legend himself, the King of Kings, Triple H. And what did you do to earn that right, Cena? What did you do to earn the right to face me one-on-one?
Go ahead, I’ll wait.”
Triple H lets out a sigh and looks around the large backstage area, noticing FCW technicians in black shirts racing around, trying to get ready before the show starts.
Triple H:
“Still nothing? Didn’t think so.
The truth is very simple, John Cena, the truth of the matter is that when it comes time to lace up your silly little pumps and dawn the twenty-thousand Goddamn sweatbands in a feeble attempt to boost merchandise sales… when it comes time for your music to hit and for you to walk your silly ass down to my ring, you’re going to be stricken by a sick feeling, Cena. You’re going to be staring into that ring, you’re going to be looking into my eyes, and you’re going to realize for the first time in your life… that you’ve got no hope. That you’ve got nothing. That you, John Cena, will never beat… a King.
And really, that’s the goal, isn’t it? You’re hoping to make a name off of my sweat and my hard work. You’re trying to make a name off of The Game, and The Game… John Cena… he doesn’t like it when you try to make a name off of him. Ask any of the others who’ve tried, ask Jimmy Gimmick what happens when you try to make a name off of me. What happens is simple, what happens… is that
You.
Get.
Knocked.
The.
[Censored]
Out.
But this is what you want, isn’t it? Fine.”
Triple H hops off of the crate, landing with a thud on the concrete. He places the sledgehammer on his shoulder, and begins to walk at a slow place, probably toward the gorilla position.
Triple H:
“I look forward to seeing you, Cena. I look forward to standing in the middle of my ring, I look forward to your music starting, and you parading down to my ring, when you’re slapping hands with the blind obese bastards who wish they could look half as good as a real man like me, when you’re stepping between the ropes and your knees quake because you’ve never stood that close to greatness before… I want you to know something Cena. I want you to know that no matter how hard you try, no matter what you try to come at me with, I will always… get back up.
And when I’m looking you in the eye, when you’re pissing your pants because you’ve realized you made that one mistake so many others before you have… I want you to reflect on your chosen career. I want you to reflect on your life up until this point, because this, John Cena, this is going to be a wake-up call. This is going to be The Game in his finest hour, and you? You’re going to be remembered as the punk-ass bitch who thought he could step to the King of Kings…
… And choked.”
Triple H cocks one head to side, letting out a nice little laugh, and then walking past the camera frame, the scene fading to black.
The Game smirks.
Triple H:
“Was that it?
Was that the best they could offer me?”
He mutters to himself.
Triple H:
“I’ve had a long time to think about it, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that the FCW’s precious Jimmy Gimmick… I know what he did… and I can’t say I blame ‘em. I can’t say I blame Jimmy Gimmick for looking up at me with fear in his eyes, with the realization that crushing defeat was at hand… and forfeiting.”
After the last piece of tape is firmly secured around his wrist, Triple H’s gaze finally rises to meet the camera lens, where his cold eyes twinkle, the smirk barely visible through his long hair.
Triple H:
“You see Jimmy, that’s exactly what you did. You rolled out to the ring, you collapsed on the floor and with the entire arena chanting your name, urging you back to your feet, you took one look at me… and you knew better.
I can’t blame you for that. I can’t blame you for realizing that you never had a chance against The Game, that you never had a chance at beating Triple H… but the way you went about it? The way you thought you could beat the system and cheat me out of my deserved victory? That… that Jimmy, is reprehensible. The way you tried so valiantly to show the world that you could hang with the biggest dog of them all, the way you tried to pelt me with your weak offense, the way you tried to stand toe-to-toe with the GREATEST professional wrestler walking the Earth today… and then… to roll out of the ring, and forfeit the match.
All it did was prove everything I’ve ever said about you, Jimmy Gimmick. All that did was prove that you weren’t worthy of shining my boots. All it did was prove that you weren’t worth the opportunity that had befallen you in going one-on-one with The Game. Another fraud exposed, and now… now I’ve got another one.”
Triple H lets out a heavy sigh, and shakes his head. He leans over the side of the crate and grabs something. He brings it up into view and we see it is the sledgehammer. Triple H’s smile grows sadistic, the twinkle in his eye the first sign of madness. He stares at it longingly.
Triple H:
“John Cena, there’s so much that could be said about you. There’s so much anyone could say. I could say that you’re a crappy wrestler, I could say that you couldn’t work your way out of a paper bag, I could say that you’re the most ‘controversial wrestler’ in FCW, but all of that means one simple thing, John Cena.
You suck.
And it’s not your fault, I suppose. If it weren’t for the head honchos of FCW trying to push you down the throat of every single wrestling fan out there, then you’d still be the cocky young blue-chipper who was still trying to get wins over Barry Hororowitz. You’d still be the smiling fan-favourite who tried to out-wrestle other wrestlers, and fail. You’d still be curtain jerking and so far below the radar of The Game that it would be an insult to my valuable time to even acknowledge you… and yet, here you are.”
A chuckle escapes from Triple H’s throat, another slow shake of his head, he then turns his attention to the camera once more.
Triple H:
“You’re one of the most ‘popular’ wrestlers in FCW, and yet you could ask anyone, all you’ve got is canned heat, Cena. When you go out to that ring, you get the boys in production to pre-recorded cheers over the P.A. speakers, you get people who don’t give a damn about wrestling to pretend they like you, meanwhile the rest of the sheep decide to follow along, because it’s the ‘cool’ thing to do… but not me, Cena. I see right through you. I see right through your childish antics, your mocking of soldiers, I see your ham-handed attempts at gaining popularity from the sheep who pay to see me… and it sickens me.
It sickens me to see that a nobody like you can get so far because you’re ‘one of them’. It sickens me to see that a nobody like you can make it so far into FCW that you’ve actually been given a match with me, The Game. That you’ve actually been given the pretigious honour of going toe-to-toe with the legend himself, the King of Kings, Triple H. And what did you do to earn that right, Cena? What did you do to earn the right to face me one-on-one?
Go ahead, I’ll wait.”
Triple H lets out a sigh and looks around the large backstage area, noticing FCW technicians in black shirts racing around, trying to get ready before the show starts.
Triple H:
“Still nothing? Didn’t think so.
The truth is very simple, John Cena, the truth of the matter is that when it comes time to lace up your silly little pumps and dawn the twenty-thousand Goddamn sweatbands in a feeble attempt to boost merchandise sales… when it comes time for your music to hit and for you to walk your silly ass down to my ring, you’re going to be stricken by a sick feeling, Cena. You’re going to be staring into that ring, you’re going to be looking into my eyes, and you’re going to realize for the first time in your life… that you’ve got no hope. That you’ve got nothing. That you, John Cena, will never beat… a King.
And really, that’s the goal, isn’t it? You’re hoping to make a name off of my sweat and my hard work. You’re trying to make a name off of The Game, and The Game… John Cena… he doesn’t like it when you try to make a name off of him. Ask any of the others who’ve tried, ask Jimmy Gimmick what happens when you try to make a name off of me. What happens is simple, what happens… is that
You.
Get.
Knocked.
The.
[Censored]
Out.
But this is what you want, isn’t it? Fine.”
Triple H hops off of the crate, landing with a thud on the concrete. He places the sledgehammer on his shoulder, and begins to walk at a slow place, probably toward the gorilla position.
Triple H:
“I look forward to seeing you, Cena. I look forward to standing in the middle of my ring, I look forward to your music starting, and you parading down to my ring, when you’re slapping hands with the blind obese bastards who wish they could look half as good as a real man like me, when you’re stepping between the ropes and your knees quake because you’ve never stood that close to greatness before… I want you to know something Cena. I want you to know that no matter how hard you try, no matter what you try to come at me with, I will always… get back up.
And when I’m looking you in the eye, when you’re pissing your pants because you’ve realized you made that one mistake so many others before you have… I want you to reflect on your chosen career. I want you to reflect on your life up until this point, because this, John Cena, this is going to be a wake-up call. This is going to be The Game in his finest hour, and you? You’re going to be remembered as the punk-ass bitch who thought he could step to the King of Kings…
… And choked.”
Triple H cocks one head to side, letting out a nice little laugh, and then walking past the camera frame, the scene fading to black.
