Post by Dangerous K on May 4, 2009 14:23:00 GMT -5
You try your best, you do what you can, you push and you push and you try to win respect, earn it. You can taste it on your tongue when you’re standing in front of twenty thousand screaming, rabid fans. You can see your opponent, you can see him on the mat, he’s dazed, his eyes are glassy and he’s barely moving. You know what’s coming next, and so does the twenty thousand in attendance… and probably the millions watching at home.
I pace around him, my leather boots thumping against the canvas. I feel like a predator, a beast that’s been unleashed. Looking back at the tapes, I get acquainted with the manic stare in my eyes. My hair is blurring my vision, wet and matted against my scalp, it sticks to my face like window dressing, but I don’t care. It’s been a good match, I’ve had a good workout. And now, standing before me is John Cena, and he’s about to get what’s finally coming to him.
John Cena… how long had he been a thorn in my side?
I hadn’t had a problem with him—honest—until he opened his mouth and tried to get a quick shot at the FCW World Heavyweight Championship. I didn’t care about him, and the little runt wasn’t even on my radar—but when he opened his mouth, when he decided that he should be the man to get the first shot at the title—and against a never-was like Christian Cage no less—that’s when I felt something in my brain snap, a switch was flipped, and I had looked at the monitor in that backstage area, and I had muttered allowed the words that brought this match together.
“Fuck that.”
Fast forward two weeks later, and here I am, standing over the fallen Cena, standing over him like a King should. I am the King of Kings, and this piece of crap John Cena was crawling on his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet. I felt his hands grip my ankles, I felt his hands reach up my legs, grabbing a hold of my knee pads, trying to drag himself up to his feet. I felt him using me like so many others had tried to do. I felt him trying to piggy-back off of my success, and myhard work… and once again, something inside of my brain… snapped.
I lifted a heavy leg high, and I punted him right in the skull.
Somewhere in the distance, amidst the thousands of screaming fans who paid to see this match, this battle of Titans… I heard a southern drawl echo throughout my head.
“Good God Almighty! This match is finished! Stop the damn match ref! The Game is a man possessed! He’s trying to hurt Cena! He’s trying to end his damn career!”
It felt good. A trembling sensation that reverberated like a screaming locomotive up and down my leg. Cena’s thick, Neanderthal skull had rang heavy, wobbling like a bobblehead, I felt him collapse onto the canvas. The referee was checking on him, but no. I wouldn’t let it end this way. I wanted Cena to be punished. I wanted Cena to finally feel what it’s like to do everything you can, and still not get what you want. I wanted him to try his damnedest, I wanted him to try his best… and fail.
“What’re you doin’?” The referee screams at me, his own face sweaty just trying to keep up with the match.
“Whatever I feel like,” I hear myself growl. And immediately the referee backs down.
Good.
I stand over Cena once more, I reach down and begin lifting him by his shoulders. He’s dead weight. Two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight… but I get him up easily enough. I tuck him in between my legs, and the fans know what’s coming next. They know what they’re about to see is unnecessary, but they’ll watch. They’ll watch because they know I’m trying to prove a point.
I raise my arms high, I look to the lights, and in one sweeping motion, I bring ‘em down in a crotch-chop. I was unprepared for what the fans gave me in return.
“SUCK IT!”
And that’s when I looked up… and I saw him standing there, a grin spread on his face from ear to ear. I knew what it meant, and I saw the object in his hand. He was going to strike now—and there his friend was, his loveable loser of a friend, Jimmy Gimmick. I knew the score. I knew what was coming. I knew the man standing before me was none other than…
Alexander Parise.
Shit.
The next time I woke up, I was lying in a bed covered in white. The room around me was startling in its vacuous cleanliness. The only thing I could smell was disinfectant.
“Mh,” I muttered. My vision was blurred, I couldn’t see a damn thing aside from the fluorescent lights that blinded me. All I could think of was what happened. I remembered fragments, like shattered glass strewn about my mind, I had knelt down at each piece—careful not to cut myself on the edges—and examined them.
John Cena was down.
I was standing over him.
And here comes the pedigree…
The next piece was the worst, because I knew what happened next, at least, I thought I did.
Alexander Parise, that stupid fool. He smiled at me—grinned. He grinned like I was trapped, a trapped animal in an alleyway. Back against the wall, and nowhere to go.
I closed my eyes, knowing what happened next.
“Motherfu…” I stop myself. No. This wasn’t the answer. I shook my head—which had hurt worse than being leg-dropped by Yokozuna—and my hand fumbled on the table beside my hospital bed, finding a remote control. Yeah sure, maybe Kitchen Nightmares was on, maybe I could take my mind off of what happened.
I turned the television on, the static cutting through the soundless void, and my eyes opened. On the television I could barely make out shapes, but they were there—and then I heard one of them speak.
"Triple H, I want you to remember that you are just a piece of history. I want you to remember that you are the past, and we are the future. After I beat your ass on Friday I want you to remember the feeling of getting beaten by a rookie. I want you to remember just how badly I embarrassed you. Because all the veteran experience in the world can't save you now. You can call yourself the Game, the King of Kings, the Cerebral Assassin, but in the end you'll just be the old broken down piece of meat that isn't cut out to be a part of this business. One time when Alexander 'The Great' went into battle he wore a breastplate with a symbol on the front. They say it stood for strength and courage, his enemies thought he was invincible. Triple H I don't what you've accomplished in WWE, I don't care that you haven't really won a match yet in FCW, but when we meet I'll be the one who is invincible, not you.”
[/i]I pace around him, my leather boots thumping against the canvas. I feel like a predator, a beast that’s been unleashed. Looking back at the tapes, I get acquainted with the manic stare in my eyes. My hair is blurring my vision, wet and matted against my scalp, it sticks to my face like window dressing, but I don’t care. It’s been a good match, I’ve had a good workout. And now, standing before me is John Cena, and he’s about to get what’s finally coming to him.
John Cena… how long had he been a thorn in my side?
I hadn’t had a problem with him—honest—until he opened his mouth and tried to get a quick shot at the FCW World Heavyweight Championship. I didn’t care about him, and the little runt wasn’t even on my radar—but when he opened his mouth, when he decided that he should be the man to get the first shot at the title—and against a never-was like Christian Cage no less—that’s when I felt something in my brain snap, a switch was flipped, and I had looked at the monitor in that backstage area, and I had muttered allowed the words that brought this match together.
“Fuck that.”
Fast forward two weeks later, and here I am, standing over the fallen Cena, standing over him like a King should. I am the King of Kings, and this piece of crap John Cena was crawling on his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet. I felt his hands grip my ankles, I felt his hands reach up my legs, grabbing a hold of my knee pads, trying to drag himself up to his feet. I felt him using me like so many others had tried to do. I felt him trying to piggy-back off of my success, and myhard work… and once again, something inside of my brain… snapped.
I lifted a heavy leg high, and I punted him right in the skull.
Somewhere in the distance, amidst the thousands of screaming fans who paid to see this match, this battle of Titans… I heard a southern drawl echo throughout my head.
“Good God Almighty! This match is finished! Stop the damn match ref! The Game is a man possessed! He’s trying to hurt Cena! He’s trying to end his damn career!”
It felt good. A trembling sensation that reverberated like a screaming locomotive up and down my leg. Cena’s thick, Neanderthal skull had rang heavy, wobbling like a bobblehead, I felt him collapse onto the canvas. The referee was checking on him, but no. I wouldn’t let it end this way. I wanted Cena to be punished. I wanted Cena to finally feel what it’s like to do everything you can, and still not get what you want. I wanted him to try his damnedest, I wanted him to try his best… and fail.
“What’re you doin’?” The referee screams at me, his own face sweaty just trying to keep up with the match.
“Whatever I feel like,” I hear myself growl. And immediately the referee backs down.
Good.
I stand over Cena once more, I reach down and begin lifting him by his shoulders. He’s dead weight. Two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight… but I get him up easily enough. I tuck him in between my legs, and the fans know what’s coming next. They know what they’re about to see is unnecessary, but they’ll watch. They’ll watch because they know I’m trying to prove a point.
I raise my arms high, I look to the lights, and in one sweeping motion, I bring ‘em down in a crotch-chop. I was unprepared for what the fans gave me in return.
“SUCK IT!”
And that’s when I looked up… and I saw him standing there, a grin spread on his face from ear to ear. I knew what it meant, and I saw the object in his hand. He was going to strike now—and there his friend was, his loveable loser of a friend, Jimmy Gimmick. I knew the score. I knew what was coming. I knew the man standing before me was none other than…
Alexander Parise.
Shit.
The next time I woke up, I was lying in a bed covered in white. The room around me was startling in its vacuous cleanliness. The only thing I could smell was disinfectant.
“Mh,” I muttered. My vision was blurred, I couldn’t see a damn thing aside from the fluorescent lights that blinded me. All I could think of was what happened. I remembered fragments, like shattered glass strewn about my mind, I had knelt down at each piece—careful not to cut myself on the edges—and examined them.
John Cena was down.
I was standing over him.
And here comes the pedigree…
The next piece was the worst, because I knew what happened next, at least, I thought I did.
Alexander Parise, that stupid fool. He smiled at me—grinned. He grinned like I was trapped, a trapped animal in an alleyway. Back against the wall, and nowhere to go.
I closed my eyes, knowing what happened next.
“Motherfu…” I stop myself. No. This wasn’t the answer. I shook my head—which had hurt worse than being leg-dropped by Yokozuna—and my hand fumbled on the table beside my hospital bed, finding a remote control. Yeah sure, maybe Kitchen Nightmares was on, maybe I could take my mind off of what happened.
I turned the television on, the static cutting through the soundless void, and my eyes opened. On the television I could barely make out shapes, but they were there—and then I heard one of them speak.
"Triple H, I want you to remember that you are just a piece of history. I want you to remember that you are the past, and we are the future. After I beat your ass on Friday I want you to remember the feeling of getting beaten by a rookie. I want you to remember just how badly I embarrassed you. Because all the veteran experience in the world can't save you now. You can call yourself the Game, the King of Kings, the Cerebral Assassin, but in the end you'll just be the old broken down piece of meat that isn't cut out to be a part of this business. One time when Alexander 'The Great' went into battle he wore a breastplate with a symbol on the front. They say it stood for strength and courage, his enemies thought he was invincible. Triple H I don't what you've accomplished in WWE, I don't care that you haven't really won a match yet in FCW, but when we meet I'll be the one who is invincible, not you.”
Motherfu—
No, this wasn’t the way to do it. This wasn’t the way to go about handling this… distraction.
Jimmy Gimmick hadn’t been happy about being injured, that much was certain. He wasn’t happy about having to play the good guy either, that I knew… but that’s the thing about respect. With respect often comes love, love from the people. They don’t care what you do anymore. They respect you more than they could ever want to, and they will follow you blindly. Watching Jimmy Gimmick throw that respect away tore a knot into my stomach. I didn’t like seeing people act like that, mainly because I craved the respect that a horrible worker like Jimmy Gimmick had gotten free of charge.
But what of this Alexander Parise? What of this man who think’s he’s so special, so fine?
Experienced veteran—yeah. I am. I am experienced, and I am a veteran. I am the Cerebral Assassin, I am the King of Kings, and I am the Game. These aren’t nicknames I gave myself. I earned them. I speak these nicknames as a badge of honour, because I know—and the people know—that I busted my ass to get to my spot, and I busted my ass to earn the names they had given me. What makes Alexander so “great”?
What has he done? What has he done to call himself such a name? I notice that he calls himself “the great”, as if a poor pun on the namesake of Alexander Macedon, and yet he comes across as a second-rate Ozymandias. If he were to rip the gimmick of a comic book super-villain, why couldn’t he pick someone better? Why couldn’t he just… I don’t know… come up with something that the people actually wanted to see?
This business wasn’t so much about wins and losses—that was the personal fuel to the fire that the wrestlers had. This business was more about the people, and like the ancient gladiators of Rome, you could be the best goddamn warrior to ever step into the coliseum, but if they didn’t give a damn about you, you were nothing.
I see the same thing with Alexander Parise.
He’s got ability, he’s an athlete, but nobody cares.
He’s got Jimmy Gimmick in his corner, he has a history fetish… and nobody cares.
He thinks he can beat The Game one-on-one… and yet again, nobody… cares.
I’m sick of these fools thinking they can make a name off of me. I’m sick of people like Gimmick who refuse to go down when they know they won’t ever get back up. I’m sick of it, and when it comes down to it, I’m going to make sure that this time, in this match, Alexander…
… is not going to get back up.[/color]
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