Post by Dangerous K on Apr 16, 2009 18:33:28 GMT -5
OOC Note: This is nowhere near what I usually deem as "acceptable" for myself. Truth is, I've got nothing to go on right now and I'm new to this whole fed, so expect something much, much better when I actually have a match.
“You wouldn’t understand, none of you would.”
The scene opens up and we are treated a darkened room where a figure is silhouetted against a flashing green, yellow, and purple backdrop. He is hunched over and unmoving. His long hair curtains to either side of his face, but all we see is the rear view. He is wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a leather jacket with the logo of “hHh” emblazoned on it.
“Where I’ve been, what I’ve done, in order to understand where I’m going, you need to know where I’ve been.”
The figure shakes his head, and a slight chuckle escapes his lips.
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? None of you ever really cared. You never really cared where I was going, or where I had been. All you little marks ever said to me were ‘when’s John coming back?’ or ‘Good match with Flair, I give it three stars.’ You little marks make me sick. You fat, disgusting, pasty-white little boys who dress up in your bathrobes and strut around in the mirror thinking that you’re the Harley Race’s, the Ric Flair’s, the Arn Andersons of professional wrestling…
You ain’t shit, you little mark.”
The man runs a hand through his long hair.
“And yet here I stand, returning from the place I come from, and I’m a new man. You see, I’ve had time to reflect on what’s gone on my life—reflect on how I tried so hard to clamour for the approval of the fans… and you know what? It’s not worth it.
It’s not worth it now, and to be honest… it never really was.
You see, I’ve been busting my ass for a long, long time now. I’ve been working harder and faster than anybody else in this business—and yet for me to get the respect that I deserve, you marks tell me I must beg for it? You tell me that I’ve gotta be a nice guy, you tell me I’ve gotta show respect to my fellow wrestlers… and to this I say,
When have they ever shown me a damn ounce of respect?”
Triple H finally turns around, showing us his full, wide frame. Beneath his leather jacket is a black FCW t-shirt, and he snarls at the camera.
Triple H:
“When have the little marks or the wrestlers show me respect? I’ve accomplished more in this business than most would dare to dream, and yet here I am being relegated to cutting a worthless promo for a match that won’t happen. So you know what? Screw it. This is my time, and I’m Triple H. What I say, goes. What I want, I get. What I desire, I reach out and take from everybody else.
And do you know why?
Because I am tha—“
Triple H lets out another chuckle and runs a hand through his long dirty blonde hair. He then shakes his head and smiles at the camera.
Triple H:
“No… that’s over now. The catchphrases… the parasites leeching off of my merchandise… the lawyers and the bankers and the investors and the realtors and the stooges who run FCW… all of that, it’s… over.”
Triple H’s smile evaporates, and his vapid, blank expression lends an eerie feeling to the scene.
Triple H:
“This is a new day in FCW, this is a new day in my own life. This is a new day for the world of professional wrestling… this is the new Game.”
Triple H’s smirk returns as his eyes narrow and he stares into the camera.
Triple H:
“And when it’s all said and done, when all the smoke has cleared, the only one left standing atop the mountain of bodies that the King of Kings shall leave in his wake will be… me. Triple H. Why?”
He shakes his head again.
Triple H:
“Because I am the single greatest professional wrestler walking the Earth today. Not John Cena, not Christian Cage, not Ric Flair, not Edge, not anybody else quaking in their boots right now… me. The Game, the King of Kings, the Cerebral Assassin… Hunter Hearst Helmsley. On Friday Night Anarchy… I’ll be the one who walks out victorious. I’ll be the one who will have his hand raised high, no matter my opponent… and I will make you all remember just why I’m called The Game.
Choke on it.”
“You wouldn’t understand, none of you would.”
The scene opens up and we are treated a darkened room where a figure is silhouetted against a flashing green, yellow, and purple backdrop. He is hunched over and unmoving. His long hair curtains to either side of his face, but all we see is the rear view. He is wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a leather jacket with the logo of “hHh” emblazoned on it.
“Where I’ve been, what I’ve done, in order to understand where I’m going, you need to know where I’ve been.”
The figure shakes his head, and a slight chuckle escapes his lips.
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? None of you ever really cared. You never really cared where I was going, or where I had been. All you little marks ever said to me were ‘when’s John coming back?’ or ‘Good match with Flair, I give it three stars.’ You little marks make me sick. You fat, disgusting, pasty-white little boys who dress up in your bathrobes and strut around in the mirror thinking that you’re the Harley Race’s, the Ric Flair’s, the Arn Andersons of professional wrestling…
You ain’t shit, you little mark.”
The man runs a hand through his long hair.
“And yet here I stand, returning from the place I come from, and I’m a new man. You see, I’ve had time to reflect on what’s gone on my life—reflect on how I tried so hard to clamour for the approval of the fans… and you know what? It’s not worth it.
It’s not worth it now, and to be honest… it never really was.
You see, I’ve been busting my ass for a long, long time now. I’ve been working harder and faster than anybody else in this business—and yet for me to get the respect that I deserve, you marks tell me I must beg for it? You tell me that I’ve gotta be a nice guy, you tell me I’ve gotta show respect to my fellow wrestlers… and to this I say,
When have they ever shown me a damn ounce of respect?”
Triple H finally turns around, showing us his full, wide frame. Beneath his leather jacket is a black FCW t-shirt, and he snarls at the camera.
Triple H:
“When have the little marks or the wrestlers show me respect? I’ve accomplished more in this business than most would dare to dream, and yet here I am being relegated to cutting a worthless promo for a match that won’t happen. So you know what? Screw it. This is my time, and I’m Triple H. What I say, goes. What I want, I get. What I desire, I reach out and take from everybody else.
And do you know why?
Because I am tha—“
Triple H lets out another chuckle and runs a hand through his long dirty blonde hair. He then shakes his head and smiles at the camera.
Triple H:
“No… that’s over now. The catchphrases… the parasites leeching off of my merchandise… the lawyers and the bankers and the investors and the realtors and the stooges who run FCW… all of that, it’s… over.”
Triple H’s smile evaporates, and his vapid, blank expression lends an eerie feeling to the scene.
Triple H:
“This is a new day in FCW, this is a new day in my own life. This is a new day for the world of professional wrestling… this is the new Game.”
Triple H’s smirk returns as his eyes narrow and he stares into the camera.
Triple H:
“And when it’s all said and done, when all the smoke has cleared, the only one left standing atop the mountain of bodies that the King of Kings shall leave in his wake will be… me. Triple H. Why?”
He shakes his head again.
Triple H:
“Because I am the single greatest professional wrestler walking the Earth today. Not John Cena, not Christian Cage, not Ric Flair, not Edge, not anybody else quaking in their boots right now… me. The Game, the King of Kings, the Cerebral Assassin… Hunter Hearst Helmsley. On Friday Night Anarchy… I’ll be the one who walks out victorious. I’ll be the one who will have his hand raised high, no matter my opponent… and I will make you all remember just why I’m called The Game.
Choke on it.”
