August 18, 2018, 09:42:55 PM

Author Topic: Man on Fire  (Read 162 times)

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Offline Arizona's Most Wanted

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Man on Fire
« on: May 22, 2017, 04:57:07 AM »
The scene opens up on a giant banner hanging above the entryway into a theater that reads "SUPLEXES & SHAKESPEARE - ONE NIGHT ONLY." Its handwritten in light colored markers, almost like a child wrote it. The camera rolls inside, past the concession stand into the theater proper, where we find the show already in full effect. The stage is made up to look like a mish mash of multiple classic Shakespeare plays all smashed together in one go.

The climatic ending to Romeo and Juliet is currently being worked out by the actors on stage. Romeo, having just found Juliet's unconscious form, panics and instead believes her to be dead. He pulls a vial of something out of his pocket and drinks it, and then gets German suplexed to Death by a large bearded man who is suddenly standing behind him.

The crowd gasps in shock. Juliet awakens moments later to find her Beloved laying on the floor in a pool of blood. She sadly mourns her love's demise and pulls a knife out of her own pocket. She can't take life without him! She plunges the (fake) knife into her chest, and is suddenly German suplexed to Death by the same large bearded fellow. Her body lands next to Romeo's, their lifeless hands touching as the curtain falls and the crowd goes silent.

A long moment passes, and the crowd erupts into cheers and a standing ovation. A dozen or so actors take the stage in front of the curtain, led by the large bearded man in the middle. They soak in the cheering and clapping, do the customary final bow and then make their way once more off stage as the crowd starts to file out of the theater.

The camera catches sight of your Hero and mine, Adrian Tanner Junior as he heads out of the exit, Cecil Kennedy following behind him, his right eye (and most of the upper part of the right side of his face) still bandaged up. They get to a free spot outside the auditorium and stop.

Adrian: I can't believe he actually pulled it off.

Cecil: It's Drew, if anyone could've it would be him.

Adrian: True, I suppose. Him or Kilroy.

Brandon Young walks over to them, wearing an oversized "Suplexes and Shakespeare" shirt over his own shirt he wore to the show, and carrying a half-dozen souvenirs available to buy for the show including an almost-lifesize 'Suplex Buddy' blow up doll made to look like Romeo from the show.

Brandon: That. Was the greatest. Thing I've ever seen in my entire life!

Cecil: It was pretty great. Dunno if it was good enough to warrant buying every single thing they had for sale over it, but hey, you do you.

The Arizona Assassin chuckles, shaking his head at his friends.

Adrian: Let him have his fun, Ceece.

Brandon: Speaking of- someone hold these. I got more stuff to buy.

Adrian: Wait-

But the Young Gun does not wait, shoving everything into Cecil's arms as he rushes back to the merch stands. Cecil glares at Adrian in response.

Cecil: "Let him have his fun," huh?

Adrian: Whoa hey look at the time, it's 'You're a sucker-o-clock.'

Adrian grins, quickly backing away from his best friend and former tag team partner. Cecil shouts after him.

Cecil: Oh no you don't, Tanner, get the fuck back here! You do not leave me alone with Brandon's goddamn man crush blow up doll!

Adrian: Sorry, what was that? I can't hear you all the way over here! Chill man, I'll be back in a second, promise!

He shouts across the hallway, waving as he continues walking. He makes his way over to the concessions stand, stepping up into the back of the long line.

Adrian: You know I wanna say I'm surprised by this kinda shit but at this point nothing surprises me anymore.

He pauses, rethinking that statement as he glances around at his current surroundings.

Adrian: Well, when it comes to 4CW at least.

Here I am, giving Amber Ryan props... mostly... and she hits me back with the most inane, cliche drivel possible. Here I go and give her a compliment or two, call her a potential future 4CW champ and in return I get more of the same shitty, lame, overused and just flat out wrong "jokes" about me and/or my tag team partner.


His arms cross as he stares into the camera like he's in The Office, which is kind of hard to do and shuffle forward in the line at the same time, but he does it.

Adrian: I really wish I knew what kind of drugs you people are smoking that makes you think Evil and I are anything other two guys who hate each other but are just really fucking good at tag team wrestling.

If Johnny and I were 'conjoined' in any way shape or form the first thing I'd do is laser his ass off.


He rolls his eyes, turning to face the kid behind the counter as he finally reaches the front of the line.

Adrian: Yeah, can I get a Shamrock Shakespeare?

The cashier nods and rings up the drink, Adrian pulls out his wallet and gives him the 5 dollar bill in exchange. Theater food is fuckin' expensive. He takes his drink and heads out of the line, taking a sip.

Adrian: Mmm, shamrocky.

Two things, Amber, that need to be made perfectly clear here in response to you bringing up my past 'mistakes' and thinking you totally Got Me Dude.

Number 1: I didn't lose to perennial Runner Up Scott Stevens like the current FATE Champ did. I didn't lose to the dumb bitch who's sole purpose in life is to argue endlessly with the former 4CW Champ on twitter like Manny did.

I lost to Bronx. In a match that even HE will and has admitted could've gone either way. I lost to the guy who went all the way to the end and won the entire damn thing, including the 4CW Title we are all fighting for a chance to go after. I lost to the guy who's entire purpose for coming back was to win that fuckin' tournament. He was a man on a mission.

There's no shame in that.  Number two:


He says, holding up two fingers as he takes another sip of his shake.

Adrian: Number two is something that really shouldn't be that hard to grasp but for some reason is the hardest thing in the world for people, especially in this godforsaken place, to understand. But it's real simple.

It doesn't fucking matter that I lost one chance, the first one I've actually had, by the way, at the 4CW Championship. People lose! Shit happens, and sometimes it doesn't work out your way.

What matters, is that you get back up and you keep trying. I could lose 400 title shots but if I hit my mark on number 401 I STILL get to say I'm the 4CW Champion! Most people, they lose that shot and they wallow in their own self-pity. Oh boo-hoo I lost how am I ever going to live with myself?

Fuck that, you think I got to be the amazing megastar of awesome that I am by winning one match!? No, I got this way through hard work and dedication to my craft, and yes, by losing. I lost plenty of big matches in other places before I finally came out on top.

But I did always come out on top.


He smirks.

Adrian: And really, if THIS is the best you got to throw at me: lame 'lolol they suck each others dicks' jokes and 'you lost that one title shot you suck lol,' I've already won. At least from an intellectual standpoint. You try to act all high and mighty and you resort to this shit?

For shame, Amber. I had you pegged as better than that.

But again it's par for the course around here. I could run for fucking President of Earth, win by a landslide and the majority of the 4CW roster would still respond with some form of 'he ain't shit I'm better because dot dot dot question mark' even though if you actually pay attention, if you look past the very few losses I've taken and look at what I'VE DONE, you see my record speaks for itself.

I didn't actually beat Johnny at South Beach? You might wanna go re-watch the match, or pick up a rule book. Yeah he didn't say the words but that's because I choked his ass into unconsciousness. But last I checked 'referee stoppage' is still a win. But again, don't let silly little things like 'facts' get color your world view or anything.


He takes another sip of his shake, walking over to one of the many merchandise tables, this one full of various 'Suplexes and Shakespeare" coloring books. He's pretty sure Brandon already has twelve of them.

Adrian: But when push comes to shove, I don't need to justify shit to you. My win-loss record speaks for me all on its own. I've faced the best this company has to offer and only lost to a handful of 'em, and that's with them having to EARN every single win they've gotten off of me. I've gone toe to toe with the greats in this company and match of the night candidates with every one of 'em.

The best you can say is you beat Lauryn Wolfe.

At Adrenaline my record's gonna speak for itself once more when I leave you laying in a pool of your sweat and tears. I'm gonna drop bombs on you like my name is Bomb Man and bury you under your the rubble of your own inflated ego. There will be no Mega Man comin' to save you from the crushing defeat that's about to come your way courtesy of one of Dr Wily's Wrestling Masters.

Come step to me when you've proven you can beat someone more important than Lauryn Wolfe, then we'll talk. Until then you're just Contestant Number Three in a Two-Person Affair.


His eyes threaten to roll into the back of his head they roll so hard. Then he remembers where he is, and he pulls out his wallet again, walking over to the person running the stand.

Adrian: Hey what's up, I'll take two books and a set of chalk. Thanks!

He pays for his items and takes the offered bag before carrying on. These would make good presents for his nephews he thinks to himself.

Adrian: What's next?

Well, Kas is still a thing I guess. Do I really need to say anything more about him, though? Outside of Days of our Starre he mentioned me for like two seconds, and I already made fun of his I'M NOT A WRESTLEEEEEEER bit.

Hrm.


He pauses, crossing one arm against his chest while he takes a drink from his shake.

Adrian: You talk alot, and you talk big, but it's all just that, Kas- words. You speak in riddles like a prophet- a really, really misogynistic dickfuck of a prophet, but its all just hot fuckin' air.

The only ticket you've cashed is for a one way ride to the loser's gate. The only thing you've won by being granted this match is a direct trip to my boot stomping your face into the mat over and over again. You say a lot of flowery words but you're not actually saying anything at all beyond calling the women in this match 'ho's' and mocking autistic people.

I should punch you in the dick for that last part alone. 


He shakes his head. In the background you can see Brandon with another giant stack of souvenirs wandering around.

Adrian: But I'm gonna punch you in the dick- and everywhere else that I can punch, for the sole basis of its gonna be fun to do so. I LOVE making MMA dudebros go home crying to their mommas. Maybe she'll finally teach you how to talk to about a lady then too.

I may loathe the majority of the women in this company, but that's only because of their terrible personalities. The truth is the majority of the 'little girls' in this company could wreck your shit without even breaking a sweat. That includes the goofy stoner bitch who didn't pin me for my title and Amber Ryan.

And me? Well, you'll see how irrelevant this 'just a wrestler' is when you're crying yourself to sleep later in the night wondering just where it all went wrong, wondering just how you could go and lose to a wrestler, in a wrestling match.


He walks past Cecil, now holding a comical sized amount of stuff in both arms over to the nearby trash can, throwing the cup in.

Adrian: Heh, fitting way to end this. Taking out the trash literally and physically.

He grins.

Adrian: The goofy stoner bitch who didn't pin me for my title thinks she's gonna smash me in this match and... why exactly? You sure as shit didn't do it the first time. The one thing you've got going in your favor is there's two whole additional people in this match you can pin that aren't me this time instead of one!

Hooray for you!


Two thumbs up.

Adrian: Talk about how I wasn't a good champion because I lost it in my first defense but bitch that title was practically screaming to get the fuck away from you. Every match you had for that belt that wasn't clouded in fuckery you LOST. You're a two champion but you're also a two-time loser, and at the end of the day it's the losing that's gonna be your legacy with that belt.

And hey, let's talk about your 'legacy' shall we?


One arm crosses against his chest while the other rests against it, hand rubbing his chin as he glares into the camera with a look that screams 'how sad can you really be honestly?'

Adrian: For someone who made so much talk about your 'legacy' with that belt- you talked so much shit about how you were gonna be the standard bearer, you were gonna make yourself the greatest Extreme Champion in history! Shit, you talked Wallace into changing the damn belt back you were so convinced in yourself and your own bullshit and then...?

You got your ass fuckin' destroyed by Viduu and you just shrugged your shoulders and walked away. The 'Great' Blood Countess's work was done. Lose one match and move on. All the shit you talked about bringing that title back to its true glory and you walk away after one guy wrecks your shop.

Some champion. Some 'legacy.'

What a joke.


He shakes his head. The entirety of the audience inside the concession area shakes their heads. In unison.

Adrian: And we're supposed to believe YOU"RE fit to be 4CW Champ, after that?! We're supposed to buy YOU as a threat to Bronx, or Cashe, or anyone else after THAT?

Nah son.

This ain't your yard no matter how hard you want to think it is. You don't get to make everything about you just because you want it to be and you shout the loudest. This is professional fucking wrestling, and in professional fucking wrestling the best fucking WRESTLER- there's that word again Kas- wins in the end.

And between you and me Sative, that will always, ALWAYS be me. 

Because I'm smarter than you, I'm better than you, and doggone it- people like me.


He smirks.

Adrian: Mostly because they know what the fuck I'm talking about. You not so much.  Your rambling incoherent mess of a brain makes you think you're on my level but at the end of the day you COULDN'T beat me before, and you won't do it this time.

And no matter how many times you try to spin it that's the truth, Sative. You won the last match but you didn't BEAT ME. Because you can't beat me. One on one I smash you every single time. Because you're a fucking coward, and a failure. But I'd think you're used to failing, given the person who trained you was as big a failure as you're turning about to be.


He 'hmph's, rubbing his hands together cracking his knuckles.

Adrian: I said it last promo and I'll say again. This is a two-person match but there's only person who deserves to win it. It ain't the overconfident dark horse who's only relevant win was against a woman who hadn't herself won a match since like November. It ain't the misogynistic fuckstick who's NOT A WRESTLER in a wrestling match.

And it sure as fuck ain't the Extreme failure who ran away from "Her" Belt the instant the goings got too tough for her to handle.

Who does that leave, I wonder... 


Two thumbs pointed directly at himself.

Adrian: Me.

I am the Arizona Assassin, the man with the Golden Gun, the one person in this match who can say they've actually accomplished anything of value for longer than a week at a time. I don't run away at the first sign of trouble like SOME people, I run towards trouble, because the only way to truly make your name in this business is to throw yourself directly into the fire and hope the other assholes burn up quicker than you do.

 I live for the fire. I revel in the fire. I will burn brighter, and burn longer than any single of you because I want it MORE.


He points his hand at the camera like a gun.

Adrian: There is no redemption for you, Sative. There is only pain and burning, and the crushing moment when you realize you lost yet another shot at greatness.

Maybe this time when you run away it'll be out of the fed itself.

There will be no dark horse victories, there will be no MMA Dudebro's making the 'actors' -whatever that even fuckin' means- look bad. There will only be me, standing atop the rest of you, my arms raised in victory.

As it damn well should be, a-fuckin-men.


Bang.