Shut the fuck up, Deadman.

[Dangerous K]

Shut the Fuck Up, Deadman

Was he serious?

That was the only thought I could really muster in my weird little brain. This guy was fourty-something years old, going bald, wore long, greasy black hair, wrestling tights, a long outback coat, the biggest goddamn leather sombrero I had ever seen, and he was honestly on my television screen calling me out. He and his little hoodlums thought that the FCW Television Champion was going to… what, exactly? Come to the ring because some jabroni thought it was a good idea? Eh-Eh.

I looked at the television for as long as I could, trying to resist the urge to put a shotgun in my mouth and end the misery. Yes, Dangerous K himself was thinking about putting a shotgun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. That’s how bad “Sonictaker” is at promos.

I finally turned the television off, and the FCW Television Championship was loosely hung over one shoulder, something like a boy-scout badge of honour. I won the championship, and now I had this jackass on my television screen telling me he was going to kick my ass with something called Hell’s Gate. Last I checked, it was a Gogo Plata. You know, a Judo submission. Not like I expected the “demon from death valley” to know what the fuck that was anyhow. Sure, he wore MMA gloves to the ring and even tried to throw down like an MMA fighter, but to expect him to know the first thing about Mixed Martial Arts? Yeah, right.

I looked at my watch—ten thirty—and I figured, eh, why not? Might as well start earning those greenbacks “Vince” was going to pay me.

The deal had gone down, and I was now under his employ. Vince was going to pay me handsomely for what I was about to do—and I might piss off the entire locker room while I did it.

I shuffled around my hotel room, and found my cam-corder. It was the same one I had in high school—which means it’s old, beat up, but still works. Go poor-man K.

I set it up easily enough… I just wanted to hurry up and air my feelings, really. I hit the record button and set it down on the coffee table in my rather esteemed hotel room, and then sat on the couch—the championship I had beaten Wizz Kidd and Pyronus for hanging over my shoulder—and smiled. This should be good.

KENTA: “So I’m the FCW World Television Champion… I guess I should be happy, shouldn’t I? I guess I should feel pretty good about that. I mean, it’s not too long ago I was working the indies and winning secondary championships left and right, wasn’t it? Yeah, the only difference I can discern from this belt right here and the other championships that line my trophy room is—well, I won it in front of a bigger audience. That’s… pretty much it.

The thing is, I don’t care about this belt. I didn’t even want it. I got booked in a triple threat in the main event of my first show, and what was I to do? Sit it out? Lose? Was I supposed to go easy on Wizz Kidd and Pyronus because they were established (sorta) and I was new? Was I supposed to just lay down for either of them and let them cheapen what little credibility this belt had to begin with?

Fuck that.

Now, I think I have to address some issues that I’ve been having as of late—you see, my phone has been ringing off the hook since I won this title, and I’ve even got emails about it. I’ve gotten emails from angry Wizzy fans who thought I somehow screwed him out of ‘his’ championship—despite the fact that I beat him just like I beat Pyronus—and now he’s coming after me and my belt. That’s what the Wizzy fans are telling me… but you know what? I find it hard to believe that this Mr. Perfect look-a-like even has fans, because I got a tech friend of mine to look it up—and you know what? All of those emails, all of the supposed ‘enraged fans’ all came from one IP address, from one house, under one ISP. I’m not going to name names or speculate, but I think I have a pretty good idea on who is so pissed off that Wizzy lost the title match—and his name rhymes with Fizz Bid. Wink wink. Nudge.”

I look at the camera, a small smirk creasing my lips. Wizzy, yeah, I knew it was him. I knew it was him who lined my inbox with hate filled rants about how he deserved to win that match, about how I somehow screwed him despite the match being a triple threat and I could pin anyone I desired. That was the jeopardy of such a match and, for some reason, Wizzy seems to think that anyone actually gives a rats ass… but back to the promo…

KENTA: “And now, I guess that brings me to Sonictaker… you know, man, stop kidding around. Stop fooling. You’re not pulling the wool over anybody’s eyes ‘deadman’. You’re not tricking anyone into thinking it’s not you. We all know that the ‘high and powerful’ Sonictaker is just the Undertaker with an even lamer gimmick… and really, honestly, cut it out. Angellus? The X? What the fuck are you trying to prove, man? You’re the Undertaker, you’re a guy who also took too many silly chairshots and decided to beg the office for a match you were destined to lose from the beginning. I mean really, you, a man so horrible and so diluted and so goddamn silly, you REALLY expected to beat Matt Hardy? I don’t like the guy—in fact, I think he’s a douche—but I’d take a million whiner Matt Hardy’s over one of you, any day. And that’s because when he speaks, he doesn’t make my brain hemmorhage from all of the stupidity that flows from your mouth like an infant with the shits.

And make no mistake, Undertaker, you ARE the shits.”

Heh. Poop. Funny.

KENTA: “And I suppose that brings me to this point—what the hell am I doing on Requiem? I mean really, what the hell am I doing here? I walked into this place and I dominated the people I was put against. Not just beat, I dominated. Now I’ve got Wizzy talking smack behind my back, claiming he didn’t lose the match when I beat ‘em—and now I’ve got Sonictaker talking about a Gogo Plata as if it’s some deadly submission hold. Why have I been relegated to the B-Show? Why have I been lumped in with the fuckin’ Anarchy rejects? Did I piss someone off? Does Osborn just NOT like Asians? I mean really. Come on now. Sonictaker? You’ve gotta do better than that, Voglur. Really.

But I suppose he can’t… I mean, he’s got Jimmy Gimmick and Parise headlining this week’s show, and they’re taking on Edge and Christian—a tandem that hasn’t been collectively over since 1999—and yet somehow I’m expected to keep quiet? Meanwhile on Anarchy, you’ve got the likes of D-Bag Orton and his little crew of muppets. Yes, muppets. The ones you shove your hand up and manipulate into talking for you. But I digress.”

I let out a heavy, heartfelt sigh. The state of my business affairs was atrocious. I look at the Television Championship, and then I look back at the cam-corder, knowing the entire world was going to see this moment.

KENTA: “This title belt… it means nothing to me. It really doesn’t. I walked in and claimed it. I didn’t have to fight for it, and the competition I DID face was of little interest to me. All it took was kicks and slaps and Wizzy went crying to his mama because the little Jap hit him too hard. Pyronus hasn’t been seen or heard from since I kicked his ass all over the ring, and now I’ve gotta face Under—oops, I mean Sonictaker—in a match where the worst he could possibly do to me is drool on me because after I kick his dentures out of his face, all he’s going to have left is the option to gnaw on me with his gums. That old fart doesn’t stand a chance, and when he finally sees this promo, when he rewatches Requiem and sees what I can do in the ring, he’s finally going to have a dawning realization, and that realization is quite simple.

Undertaker, don’t fuck with K. You’ll get your face kicked off.”