Post by Dangerous K on May 6, 2009 16:40:42 GMT -5
Every time I think about what that guy said to me, every time I close my eyes and see that toothy, bigoted smile, every time I open my eyes and see his face plastered across a billboard, on a television spot, or even cutting a promo with that other worthless nobody Jimmy Gimmick… I think I die a little inside.
I’m thinking back to a time when paying dues meant something. I’m thinking back to a time when nobody came in and dominated others, when you had to earn your spot, earn your way up the ranks of any wrestling promotion in the world. I’m standing across the ring from Alexander Parise, and I’m looking him dead in the eye, and I’m wondering just where he came from.
All week long I heard about how great he was, all week long I heard about how much better than me he was. All I kept hearing was the same rattle and hum about how Alexander Parise was the future, and The Game was just… played out.
But is that the truth? Is that really what Alexander Parise thinks deep down inside? Did Alexander Parise—the same ass-clown I was now standing in opposing corners against—was he truly that confident?
He said it himself; he’s new to the business. Maybe it’s not his fault, maybe—
I look to the corner, and I see Jimmy Gimmick. He smiles at me from the ringside apron, his face shadowed behind the red ropes of the FCW ring. His eyes tell the entire story, and suddenly, it all becomes very clear for the King of Kings.
Jimmy Gimmick was beaten, and Jimmy Gimmick didn’t like to be beaten. He didn’t like having to look up at me with those hazy, glassy eyes and admit not just to the world, but to himself… that he got beat by The Game. He didn’t want to admit that he was not, on that night we fought, the better man. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that a man like Jimmy Gimmick—a poster child for the FCW—could be beaten by an ‘old, washed up has-been’ like myself.
It all made sense, in that one single eye twitch, that smug little smirk on the face of Jimmy Gimmick—it all made sense. Jimmy Gimmick couldn’t stand the fact that he had been played by The Game. He couldn’t stand the fact that for one night at least, there was a bigger, meaner dog in the yard than him. He couldn’t stand the fact that not only did I beat him down, but the referee knew it, and forced the decision. Referee stoppage is a rare thing in this business. When the referee has to physically interject himself into the match and stop it, that doesn’t mean you just lost a match, that means another man brutalized you. That means another man bent you over and took you for all you had. You were left lying in a pool of your own blood and you were still wondering how the hell you got there in the first place. That’s the fate Jimmy Gimmick suffered at my hands…
… I only wish now, I didn’t go so easy on ‘em.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve slowly but surely learned that mercy is a weakness that a King of my stature cannot afford. I’ve learned that in order to be the very best, to dominate the way only The Game possibly could—you need to sever all ties. You need to be willing to shut yourself down and focus solely on not just winning the match, but beating your opponent into oblivion. You need to be merciless, you need to be a fierce killer. You need to be able to flip a switch inside your own head and prove without a shadow of a doubt that you are the superior athlete, that you are the superior wrestler, that you are the most vicious, vile son of a bitch that is walking the hallowed halls of FCW.
Can I do that?
I look from Jimmy Gimmick back to Alexander Parise. Both of them in one night. I know Gimmick’s not gonna stand idly by while his golden boy—his own personal Virgil—is going to get his ass kicked. I know that the minute things start looking bad for Alexander Parise, he’s going to throw caution to the wind and do what he can to give his golden boy the advantage. It doesn’t matter. I’m ready for it.
I smile at Alexander Parise, and for the first time I see a hint of … what is that?
Concern?
Yeah, that’s it.
I see concern slowly creep across Alexander Parise’s face. My own smile spreading in time with his increased frown, his eyebrows furrow, and he looks more than anything to me like a scared child. A scared child who has done something bad, and knows he’s going to get punished for it. A scared child that can hear the thumping foot steps of his father coming home from a long day’s work, and scurries about furiously to fix whatever it was he had broken.
It’s a look I’ve seen a thousand times. My opponent for the first time since they picked a fight with The Game—trying to dethrone the King of Kings—has finally realized the error they made. They finally realize the problem with their conniving little plans. They finally realize that, no matter how badly they try to mess with my head, no matter how “on the ropes” they think they’ve got me… I’m always at least one step ahead.
That very realization is dawning on the face of Alexander Parise, and it warms my heart. It warms my heart because these two ass-clowns wanted to try me. They wanted to try my throne. They believed that they could walk out to this ring and “expose” The Game as nothing more than a fraud, a nobody who only “slept with the boss’s daughter” to get where he is… oh how wrong they are…
You see, I’m smiling, because I know who’s waiting for my signal. I’m smiling because they don’t know the odds have been evened.
I’m smiling, because I have back-up on the way.
I’m thinking back to a time when paying dues meant something. I’m thinking back to a time when nobody came in and dominated others, when you had to earn your spot, earn your way up the ranks of any wrestling promotion in the world. I’m standing across the ring from Alexander Parise, and I’m looking him dead in the eye, and I’m wondering just where he came from.
All week long I heard about how great he was, all week long I heard about how much better than me he was. All I kept hearing was the same rattle and hum about how Alexander Parise was the future, and The Game was just… played out.
But is that the truth? Is that really what Alexander Parise thinks deep down inside? Did Alexander Parise—the same ass-clown I was now standing in opposing corners against—was he truly that confident?
He said it himself; he’s new to the business. Maybe it’s not his fault, maybe—
I look to the corner, and I see Jimmy Gimmick. He smiles at me from the ringside apron, his face shadowed behind the red ropes of the FCW ring. His eyes tell the entire story, and suddenly, it all becomes very clear for the King of Kings.
Jimmy Gimmick was beaten, and Jimmy Gimmick didn’t like to be beaten. He didn’t like having to look up at me with those hazy, glassy eyes and admit not just to the world, but to himself… that he got beat by The Game. He didn’t want to admit that he was not, on that night we fought, the better man. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that a man like Jimmy Gimmick—a poster child for the FCW—could be beaten by an ‘old, washed up has-been’ like myself.
It all made sense, in that one single eye twitch, that smug little smirk on the face of Jimmy Gimmick—it all made sense. Jimmy Gimmick couldn’t stand the fact that he had been played by The Game. He couldn’t stand the fact that for one night at least, there was a bigger, meaner dog in the yard than him. He couldn’t stand the fact that not only did I beat him down, but the referee knew it, and forced the decision. Referee stoppage is a rare thing in this business. When the referee has to physically interject himself into the match and stop it, that doesn’t mean you just lost a match, that means another man brutalized you. That means another man bent you over and took you for all you had. You were left lying in a pool of your own blood and you were still wondering how the hell you got there in the first place. That’s the fate Jimmy Gimmick suffered at my hands…
… I only wish now, I didn’t go so easy on ‘em.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve slowly but surely learned that mercy is a weakness that a King of my stature cannot afford. I’ve learned that in order to be the very best, to dominate the way only The Game possibly could—you need to sever all ties. You need to be willing to shut yourself down and focus solely on not just winning the match, but beating your opponent into oblivion. You need to be merciless, you need to be a fierce killer. You need to be able to flip a switch inside your own head and prove without a shadow of a doubt that you are the superior athlete, that you are the superior wrestler, that you are the most vicious, vile son of a bitch that is walking the hallowed halls of FCW.
Can I do that?
I look from Jimmy Gimmick back to Alexander Parise. Both of them in one night. I know Gimmick’s not gonna stand idly by while his golden boy—his own personal Virgil—is going to get his ass kicked. I know that the minute things start looking bad for Alexander Parise, he’s going to throw caution to the wind and do what he can to give his golden boy the advantage. It doesn’t matter. I’m ready for it.
I smile at Alexander Parise, and for the first time I see a hint of … what is that?
Concern?
Yeah, that’s it.
I see concern slowly creep across Alexander Parise’s face. My own smile spreading in time with his increased frown, his eyebrows furrow, and he looks more than anything to me like a scared child. A scared child who has done something bad, and knows he’s going to get punished for it. A scared child that can hear the thumping foot steps of his father coming home from a long day’s work, and scurries about furiously to fix whatever it was he had broken.
It’s a look I’ve seen a thousand times. My opponent for the first time since they picked a fight with The Game—trying to dethrone the King of Kings—has finally realized the error they made. They finally realize the problem with their conniving little plans. They finally realize that, no matter how badly they try to mess with my head, no matter how “on the ropes” they think they’ve got me… I’m always at least one step ahead.
That very realization is dawning on the face of Alexander Parise, and it warms my heart. It warms my heart because these two ass-clowns wanted to try me. They wanted to try my throne. They believed that they could walk out to this ring and “expose” The Game as nothing more than a fraud, a nobody who only “slept with the boss’s daughter” to get where he is… oh how wrong they are…
You see, I’m smiling, because I know who’s waiting for my signal. I’m smiling because they don’t know the odds have been evened.
I’m smiling, because I have back-up on the way.
